Red Flags (8 page)

"No chance he'd cut the kid some slack?"

"Not a prayer. The colonel delights in any American screwup. He isn't a guy to bargain with. I set a precedent like that with him and I'm done."

"How did he get the job?" I said.

"Chinh?" Bennett looked straight at me. "The usual way. Bought it. Five months ago. For about sixteen thousand dollars, U.S."

A high price for a post in the sticks.

Colonel Bennett elected to drive the short distance. We were immediately delayed by a column of ARVN troops ambling in the direction of the airfield. The soldiers flopped by in shower clogs, carrying their rifles on their shoulders or holding them by the barrels or slung muzzle-down, some cradling them like infants. A few wore their metal helmets; most hung them off their packs. A live duck dangled upside down from one soldier's belt. Pots and canteens clanked as they herded past. A number of them held hands, the custom among friends and comrades.

"What's their actual head count," I said, "when you subtract the no-shows and the phantoms and deserters?"

"Chinh's battalion? He claims seven hundred on the payroll, but it's four hundred, tops."

"Is it hard to get through to this outfit, sir?"

"Like tying knots in spaghetti." He glanced over at me. "What's your experience been with our Vietnamese allies?"

"The ranger battalion I advised my first tour was good. The regular army units left a lot to be desired. One time several of us went out with a platoon that tripped a firefight. The next thing we knew, it was just us and our radio. They slipped away and left us to face a company of NVA by our lonesome."

"You almost can't blame them," Bennett said, "given how they're treated. And they're drafted to serve until they're fifty-five. It's like a life sentence. How can morale be anything but miserable?"

"Do any of your advisers get along with them, sir?"

"Divivo. They love Sergeant Divivo."

"Why is that?"

"He's easygoing. Seems genuinely interested in their welfare. Got a second Silver Star from Westmoreland for risking his ass saving some of their wounded."

"Sounds like a good man."

"The best."

"So they listen to him."

"No. But they like him. He was a mason in civilian life. Divivo risked his life making an overland run to the coast for bricks and cement for them to build their families better quarters. He scrounged the materials and made it back in one piece. Took some fire coming back. The ARVNs thanked him profusely but never fixed their quarters. Sold every last blessed brick and bag of cement."

"How did he take it?"

"The sergeant is a saint. He's nonjudgmental, no matter what they do."

The column finally cleared the road, and we rolled past the ARVN gate sentry unacknowledged.

The provincial seat was also the sector headquarters, located in a barn of a place in the Viet garrison, surrounded by a bare parade ground, deserted and quiet. In front of the building, a barbed-wire cage the size of a doghouse was staked to the ground. A Vietnamese man lay inside, naked to the waist, arm bent over his eyes to block the sun. There wasn't enough headroom in the cage for him to sit up, hardly enough to turn over. Sweat dripped off my chin and temples; the captive had stopped sweating.

We climbed the tall set of steps. The building was closed up and dank. Bennett led the way. The floor creaked, and our footfalls echoed. We encountered a lone, unarmed soldier seated at an old-fashioned switchboard, mouth open, asleep. No clerk or typewriter visible anywhere. No papers, no files. No calls. A weak light bulb burned high up by the ceiling. The vast space and the dim light gave the illusion that the still air was vaguely cool. But there was no breeze.

Bennett said, "Chinh's English is much better than he claims, by the way. So be careful what you say around him. He understands far more than he lets on."

The province chief's office was in the rear, dark and huge. A pool table stood lost in one corner; facing it, a couch and the kind of straight-back armchairs you might expect in a law office. Behind a table flanked by two shuttered windows sat the province chief, smoking and looking minuscule in the gloom. A covered birdcage hung nearby. The floor complained as we crossed, stood before him, and saluted.

Colonel Chinh returned our salutes. He wore the insignia of a full ARVN colonel pinned to his shirt front: three flower buds above a gold bar engraved with a flowering branch. In addition to being the highest-ranking officer in the province, he was also its civilian head.

"Colonel Chinh," Bennett said, "I'd like you to meet Captain Rider. He's come to look after our communications and act as your battalion's intelligence adviser."

We took our seats on the other side of the table that served as his desk. Its surface was naked: no paper, not so much as a pen.

Chinh Doa Cao was thin and delicate, his khaki shirt and trousers immaculate, like his manicured nails. His only unattractive feature was a wart on his chin with two long hairs dangling from it. Letting them grow was an Asian thing: it warded off bad luck. At least he wasn't sucking on them or twirling them, like some Vietnamese I'd done business with. Still, it was hard not to stare.

The ARVN interpreter slipped into the room, looking nervous, and quietly took up his station, standing beside the seated Chinh. Bennett reiterated his apologies about the gate guard's effrontery, brought the colonel up to speed on the latest intelligence reports, recounted some information passed along by Saigon about larger actions around the country, and reminded him of the upcoming elections. A complaint had been lodged that the government's candidates were all on red ballots, the color of luck, and the opponents' on unlucky green.

The colonel grunted and said he would look into it. Not that elections mattered. Every important post, his included, were bought appointments. Province chief, district chief, village chief—all appointed, all military officers. That left the voters only village councils to elect. And even so, police often went right into the voting booths with people to facilitate the proper outcome.

Lieutenant Colonel Bennett asked about the deployment of the three companies that were currently in the field. The province chief gave only a vague description of their whereabouts and mission.

"But why you inquire? Your Sergeant Divivo is with Second Company," the interpreter translated. "I am sure he inform you."

"Of course," Bennett said. "Colonel Chinh, forgive me for bringing it up, but I am wondering why yesterday the battalion's companies marched south when we advised your officers of NVA activity to the north."

Chinh cut him off.

"My commanders, they reluctant to follow suggestion of adviser when they disagree. But they polite. No say ... at this time."

"Colonel, it makes your units seem unwilling to seek out and engage their enemy, unwilling to fight the invaders."

"They not want fight, at this time." Chinh seemed amused. "These soldier from seacoast—low country. Buddhist. No loyal this place we ask they defend, no loyal to Catholic people of our Phu Bon Province. Soldier heart ill. Miss home. No like food in mountain, want creature from sea."

"They no like Montagnard," the interpreter translated, though Chinh had used the Vietnamese word for savages—
moi.
Wild men.

Chinh went on through the translator: "My soldier not want Highlands very much and not wish fight. Casualties no can. Wounded officer have ration payment cut"—he made a slicing motion. "Forty cent a day. Wounded soldier man get eighteen cent. Not much paid. Many less piaster than mercenary savages of you. Vietnamese soldier family here, with soldier. Soldier know wife and childs in danger if they don't protect. VC come. Kill son, daughter, wife."

Chinh leaned to one side. "What can do?" he said in English, arms open in a magnanimous Western gesture.

Chinh reverted to his own language. The nervous interpreter wet his lips, listening. He turned back to us.

"The army men no care what fall down upon Saigon or foreigner who tell government do this and that. They want aborigine to patrol mountain place."

"The Montagnards would like nothing better," Bennett said, but stopped when he saw how perplexed the interpreter looked.

The man blinked rapidly. "Say, please."

"The Montagnards want to defend their Highlands but need better weapons—mortars, machine guns, grenade launchers. Saigon will not stand for that. But your government opposes giving them heavier arms."

"Army of savage? No, no. Cannot."

"Didn't think so," Bennett said under his breath. "Sir, we are also concerned that your men keep setting up their ambushes in the same locations time and time again. It's ..." Bennett groped for an inoffensive word.

"Silly," Chinh suggested in English, and resumed speaking to the interpreter in Vietnamese.

"Yes—ridiculous if you wish pounce on enemy," the translator said. "They no wish. They happy make understanding with VC."

Chinh spoke to us directly: "Alive and permit to alive, yes?"

"It's your conflict to win or lose, sir," Bennett said. "You are at war."

"Correct," said Chinh. "But we battle for very much time. It not excite my mens or call them to fight like tiger. They think you, Colonel, and other American, you alien government. Give too many advise. Make them
n guy.
" He looked to the interpreter, who was stymied and pantomimed the word, lifting his hand with an invisible wire.

"Puppets," I said.

The interpreter beamed, relieved. "Puppet! Yes, yes."

Speaking quickly, Chinh continued. The interpreter nodded as he translated.

"They feel to be on Washington string. They bored of it. Many desert. We so need, we welcome runaway mens if they return and give them all old pay. You fly to home in less than year. My men and myself, we go no place. Last eleven month in Highland, six thousand seven hundred Vietnamese soldier
fini.
Deads. Yes? Much war left. Too few us."

Chinh rose. "Thank you for views ... at this time."

Bennett and I stood. Bennett congratulated the province chief on his latest medal and invited him to a celebratory dinner. The province chief declined: duties called him away. Or maybe he didn't like all-white food.

"Perhaps another time," Bennett said.

"Perhaps. Yes, yes." Chinh came from around his desk.

We took our leave and went back through the echoing hall. The colonel's door shut behind us.

The prisoner was still in the cage outside, the sun steadily baking his brains. He didn't look too good. Lips cracked, tongue dark and starting to protrude. It would take days to restore him, if he didn't dehydrate and die today. The man mopped his face slowly and tried to lick the sweat from his fingertips. There was none. A last sign before heatstroke.

"You think they worry about the Geneva Convention, sir?" I said, wishing I had carried a canteen.

Bennett got into our jeep on the passenger side. "Doesn't actually apply."

"I should have guessed. He's not a prisoner of war, is he?"

"No," Bennett said, "he's one of their own."

"What will happen to him?"

"They'll broil him for two days, allow him one cup of water every eight hours, one bowl of rice every twenty-four." The colonel pulled on his cap. "If only they were as hard on the enemy."

 

"You met the Chinny Chin Chinh." Ruchevsky chortled. "Whaddya think?"

"A charm boat. He has an answer for everything ... at this time."

"You definitely get to play with my guns," he said, pulling a wooden ammo crate from under his bunk. I noticed a heavy strongbox shoved in the back. Out of the crate came rifles: a Schmeisser, a Swedish K, an AK-47 in three pieces, and two banana clips.

"My arsenal," he said. "Part of it, anyway."

I inspected his weapons. Each was perfectly serviced: clean, oiled, ready to do its work. Though nothing in his physique or his bearing was ex-military, the man knew his guns. They weren't just well-maintained tools. They'd been looked after, cared for, and were uncomfortably reassuring to hold, their power alive in the inert metal. The feeling was enhanced by the devotion he'd shown to their well-being. They were appreciated. I worked the mechanisms and dry-fired the Kalashnikov at a gecko stalking an insect on the wall.

"C'mon," Ruchevsky said. "Time to chat up Major Gidding."

We went to his room. The major came to the screen door in his undershirt and fatigue pants, dog tags taped together. He held the screen door open for us.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Ruchevsky?"

"I'm here to complain about the gas siphoning."

"Again?"

"It's getting more serious."

"How so?" Gidding said, walking back to half-sit on his desk. Ruchevsky leaned against the wall, arms folded across his chest.

"The missing quantities are escalating. The daily tally of gas your depot sergeant dispenses legitimately and the supply the next morning used to jibe at least some of the time. Not anymore. Not even close."

"That's classified information, Ruchevsky. How the hell—?"

"Gas goes missing in the night every night. How does your depot sergeant account for the difference?"

Gidding shrugged. "Leaks?"

"You're telling me that's the official explanation? That's what you put in your reports?"

"Seepage, actually."

"
Thousands
of gallons of seepage?"

"Yeah," Gidding said. "Slow but steady." He pointed his clasped hands toward Ruchevsky. "Look. The POL sergeant is just covering his ass. He's got no way of securing the bladders. You and who else is going to spend the night outside the perimeter guarding a bunch of fuel and oil and aviation gas? The ARVN guards on duty see nothing and say nothing about what goes on there after sundown. If I underscore the discrepancy, the sergeant gets burned. What would you have me do?" he said, exasperated. "Close down the supply point entirely to stop the siphoning? Not fuel our vehicles or the aircraft that land here? If you haven't noticed, half of all our supplies coming into Viet Nam go missing. A lot goes missing before it even reaches a dock. More disappears
from
the docks and supply depots onshore and the trucks hauling them away."