Nui Dat [the place where I was], chieu hoi [a Vietnamese phrase which means essentially "open arms"] at the stag films. Former political officer of large crack Viet Cong unit now watching the Aussies' Sunday night stag films, all four hours of them. Communist intense prudishness: punish people for having a pinup; what does he think of this? I talk to him later. He is very intelligent. A VC adjutant went to hills because he hated the wasteful, inefficient, corrupt government, and also because one day his wife and child were standing in a doorway and an ARVN [Army of the Republic of Vietnam; that is, South Vietnamese] soldier gunned them down. Went to the hills. Finally decided that the war would never end this way, returned and
became bushman scout for the Aussies, took them to base camp after base camp. Names, stats on dozens of VCI [Viet Cong infrastructure, the shadow government people]. Driving through village, saw woman, just lower half of face, identified her as VCI. He met her only once six weeks ago. It took him four days to find the ARVN soldier before he went to the hills. The chieu hoi was a platoon leader of Sapper Recon Platoon. Went to COSVN, which is the North Vietnamese Army headquarters that nobody ever found. Went to Cambodia, a month's march. There he learned sapper techniques. One day I was watching Vietnamese television. He came in and smiled and he sat down with me. He asked if I spoke Vietnamese. He asked if I was an American. We talked and watched television together. I told him what I thought of the Vietnamese people, their warmth and kindness to me in spite of the bitterness they should have after all these years of the war. He said they'd had hundreds of years of war already — the Chinese, the French, and so forth — and it is part of life. He said they all want peace very badly, both those who speak against the war and those who make the war, but when the Americans and Australians pull out the Communists will take over. He says the Communists don't allow people to be anything but poor, don't allow people to print newspapers or speak against the government. The people who are against the war don't understand this; he says when you have a choice between a bad Communist government and a bad democratic government, you must choose the
bad democratic government because you can change it eventually.
That's what was in this little notebook I carried around. About six months after that event, I wrote the first short story I ever wrote as an adult. I had finally decided that I wasn't going to write plays; my future was in fiction. Luckily I didn't know how far-off that future was. The story is called "The Chieu Hoi," and — I take a deep breath — here it is:
"Hey, Yank! You sure you want to stay around? We've got some bloody hot stag films coming up." The warrant officer they called Wally laughed and began moving wicker chairs at the back of the club.
I hesitated a moment at the half seriousness of his jibe and thought of the tiny, sweet-smelling, whining girls lingering in the dark of our company street at Long Binh.
"Think I'll chance it," I said.
The snap of canvas in the twilight and I looked out the big tent at the blowing trees. I'd trade the Aussies some of our real sex for a few of their trees.
"You don't get anything like these at your camp."
"No."
I heard the crunching of the gravel floor as he struggled with the chairs. One more look at the trees going purple outside.
"Want some help?"
"You just relax yourself. I can handle these."
I got up. "I insist."
I went back to him and helped put the chairs in line facing the raised platform at the far end of the club.
"You going to be the projectionist?"
"Yes indeed. It won't be anything fancy, mind you. But the machine's good and we use a nice fresh bedsheet for the screen. Appropriate."
As we laughed, Thanh came in. I had seen him around the camp. One of the very few Vietnamese on the post. He smiled the eager, head-bobbing smile used for foreigners who don't speak Vietnamese and he sat down in a chair near the platform.
"That's Thanh."
"I've seen him around," I said.
"He's a chieu hoi. He was the leader of a VC sapper platoon." The Australian paused for effect. I looked at the slim young man quietly smoking a cigarette. There is always a silent moment of shared respect when two allied fighting men talk about sappers. They are the combat engineers who penetrate perimeters and are the toughest, gutsiest VC of all. "If all their blokes were like Thanh, the VC would have kicked our asses into the sea years ago. He's a bushman scout for us now. That little bastard has led us to base camp after base camp. He sat down and wrote out biographies on dozens of VC infrastructure people all over Phuc Tuy province. Incredible mind, that bloke."
Thanh continued smoking, seemingly unaware of our talk. He looked very small, sitting motionless in the large wicker chair.
"Why did he join the VC?"
"In '67 his wife and child were standing in the door of his house. A government soldier gunned them down. Killed them. It took Thanh four days to find the soldier. Then he went to the hills."
I left the Australian and walked forward to where Thanh was sitting. He looked up as I approached and he smiled and nodded again.
"How are you?" he asked slowly in articulated English.
"Toi manh gioi. Con ong thi sao," I said. It was the standard Vietnamese reply.
Thanh laughed loud and long and thrust his hand to me. "You speak Vietnamese very well," he said in his own language.
I sat beside him as I shook his hand. "Don't put me on a paper airplane," I said, using the Vietnamese saying that amiably rejects flattery. Thanh laughed loud again.
"Very good. Very good. You are an American, aren't you?"
"Yes. I'm just working with the Australians for a couple of weeks. We exchange people sometimes."
"How long have you been in Vietnam?"
"About three months," I replied.
"And you speak so well? That is amazing."
"I studied for a year in America before I came to Vietnam."
"I see. But you still speak very excellent Vietnamese. It is not the same just to study it. You are very good."
"Thank you. I am happy to have the opportunity to talk to the Vietnamese people." I began to feel that inevitable awkwardness that always comes at the start of conversations, as I sound for many minutes like a daily dialog from our language textbook.
Thanh took a long puff on his cigarette, savoring it, and blowing the smoke through his nose. After a moment of contemplating the cigarette in his hand, he looked at me and smiled easily again. "What do you think of Vietnam?"
"I like Vietnam very much," I said. I glanced past Thanh and out at the darkening sky. "The evenings are very cool."
"Yes, they are. Very fresh." I looked back at Thanh. He smiled and nodded, waiting for me to say more. I looked at his hands. I had heard so many whistles of respect for sappers from even the most grizzled "gook-killer" sergeants that I had an almost childish awe of these small brown hands. The left lay in repose on the arm of the chair. The right continually rolled the cigarette, meticulously keeping the lit end free of flaking ash.
"The fresh nights are fine to be with someone," Thanh said.
I looked up at him. The humor of the statement startled me as I saw in my mind the night roaming VC platoons. I could not tell if Thanh intended the joke.
"But is that your only feeling for Vietnam in three months?" he continued.
"No. Of course not."