Phuong was dreamily calm, rocking between the two men. When the truck hit rough patches she rested alternately on Kien’s, then the driver’s shoulder. Finally, the sky brightened. A full moon emerged from behind a cloudbank and moonlight filtered through into the cabin.
‘There it is!’ shouted the driver, pointing to a slow-moving engine and several carriages dimly visible in the moonlight across the fields.
‘Your train. We’ll beat it into Dong Van by five minutes,’ he said confidently. He seemed to forget about flirting with Phuong and got back to his beloved driving. Beating the train into Dong Van was an important goal.
‘Bloody hell! That locomotive sticks out like fire on a lake, any bloody bomber pilot could take it out without even using flares,’ the driver complained.
It was true. Red sparks flew from the engine with each powerful stroke of the pistons. Kien thought it looked like thousands of big fireflies escaping into the air, tracing an obvious, fiery line for others to see.
The driver murmured, half to himself, ‘I wouldn’t be taking on the Americans by sending troops in a bloody slow train. That’s a sure way of going straight to hell.’ But Phuong’s response was to giggle, and grasp Kien’s hand excitedly.
Nearing the station the driver pulled the truck off the road, to keep it concealed. ‘Go along the lines, that way you’ll not be seen getting to the platform,’ he advised. ‘If it looks like not stopping just wave your hat, that’ll work.’
Kien got down. Phuong went to follow him but the driver had his strong arm around her waist, hugging her. ‘Listen,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll be coming back in two hours to make the run back to Hanoi. Wait for me here.’ She began to leave but he held on. ‘You’re so sexy, so beautiful. I can’t believe you’re throwing yourself into the front line. What a waste!’ He let her go. As she started down he said hopefully, ‘Two hours from now, I’ll come back. Be here!’
Phuong and Kien, hand in hand, ran quietly along the edge of the rail tracks. Behind them a train whistle screeched in the night and below them the ground trembled as it got closer.
Nearing the end of the platform they stopped and faced each other. Another parting. They embraced and kissed desperately, both crying their farewells as the rumbling got louder until with a deafening roar the locomotive slowly moved past them, puffing noisily and spraying out steam as it creaked to a halt.
In their embrace they had not noticed the silence that followed. No voices. No sign of human activity in the carriages. They broke from the embrace and began walking along the platform, past a luggage van, then another, then a truck piled heavy with cargo covered by a tarpaulin. It was a goods train.
The station master, carrying a lantern, approached them. Kien asked, ‘The military train, brother. Where is it? The troop train from Hanoi?’
The station master lifted the lantern to get a closer look at them. ‘Are you mad? Want to go to prison, or swallow a few bullets? That’s military information. Piss off, or I’ll call the police.’
The station master moved on, leaving them standing. ‘Let me ask him,’ said Phuong, and she broke away, running after the man. In a few minutes she returned, looking serious. ‘Your train went through twenty minutes ago. This is a goods train, but also heading for Vinh, following the troop train. Your unit’s ahead on the same line. Jump on! We’ll only be twenty minutes behind them by the time it reaches Vinh.’
It was a risk. Vinh, a big port city halfway between Hanoi and the DMZ border dividing North Vietnam from South Vietnam, was an obvious destination for both men and materials going south. He’d mingle with the others there.
They clambered up, pushing the door wider. Underfoot it felt mushy, like soil. ‘Shut the bloody door,’ came a rough voice from the dark. ‘They’ll catch us with the door open. Quick, gimme yer hand.’
‘Just stand aside,’ said Phuong, swinging herself in easily.
‘A bloody girl!’ said a drunken voice.
‘Get out of the way,’ commanded Phuong. ‘Let us through.’
When they were both in, with Kien kneeling, she whispered, ‘Lie down. The train’s moving.’
‘You shouldn’t stay,’ Kien said.
‘So, you want to leave me again?’ she said, taking his hand. ‘I’m going to go a little further with you, that’s all.’
Kien started to protest again, but it was too late. The train was moving out of the station with sharp, sudden tugs as the carriages clanked against each other. Soon, it settled into a modest speed.
‘Come over here,’ said the voice, ‘plenty of room, more comfortable. You can sleep in each other’s arms. President Johnson’s on holiday, he won’t attack tonight.’
They moved hand-in-hand between bales of goods piled roof-high. ‘Move along, move along,’ the voice said, and there were grumbles from other men trying to sleep. ‘Make way for a pretty young girl,’ the voice continued.
Phuong entwined herself with Kien the moment they were settled. She kissed his cheeks, trying to calm him. To Kien it was part nightmare, part daydream and even in the tightest embrace a sense of the unreal stayed with him.
The crudely-made, old-fashioned goods car had a high roof which creaked along with the joints of the car’s walls. Wind howled through broken timbers.
A sensation of hopelessness swept over Kien. Phuong felt his unhappiness: ‘Why don’t you… why don’t you want me?’ He couldn’t answer. He simply lay there listening to the puffing of the engine, smelling the damp odour of the straw and earthen floor and the mixture of coal dust and fumes in the air.
Every few minutes very small stations and sidings whizzed past his vision, some with dim lights on poles the only evidence of their existence. Then a thundering as they crossed a steel trestle bridge. They were heading into the Red River Delta where the action started and he was savouring the last moments of freedom and romance with Phuong. God knew what would happen to them when they got there.
Kien, more than a decade later, relived those last minutes in the train. Phuong had long since left him, for the second time, although for some reason a lamp still burned in her apartment. Many times, after a night of drinking, he would forget the lamp had been left on, and imagine Phuong had returned. He would stand before her apartment door knocking and calling before remembering the light had been burning ever since she had left.
From now on it was nostalgia and war recollections that drove him on. With Phuong gone this was his only hope of staying in rhythm with normal life. The sorrows of war and his nostalgia drove him down into the depths of his imagination. From there his writing could take substance.
Kien and Phuong had been just sixteen years old when they completed Ninth Form. Kien remembered the event well. It had been in August, the start of August. The Chu Van An school Youth Union had organised a vacation camp at Do Son, on the Tonkin Gulf. Even non-Union members like Phuong and Kien were eligible to go.
The early days of the camp were wet and dismal. The sea seemed to be perpetual foam and it rained all day long. Then one afternoon the clouds parted and the sun shone brilliantly and the mood changed.
The students unpacked their gear and began pitching tents on the foreshore. As they shot up it reminded Kien of multicoloured mushrooms suddenly sprouting between rows of casuarina trees. That evening the students made a huge campfire and started a party around it. It was an extremely happy time for them all and as the flames grew higher in the night the beer, wine and music flowed and guitars and accordions started playing as the students began to sing.
It was a memorable, happy evening around the campfire amidst the trees with a background of the darkest of seas. The night wound down slowly and pleasantly, the students gradually dropping off to sleep. Kien, close to Phuong, noticed she was a little apprehensive, and asked why.