Bao Ninh - The Sorrow of War

Kien had been trying to bandage Quang’s thighs.

‘Stop! Stop, please!’ he sobbed, and blood ran from the corners of his mouth. He lay still for a moment then moved his head and opened his eyes. ‘Kien, Keeee-en, shoot me!’ he said ‘Shoot!’

The jungle reverberated with artillery fire. Noisy shouts echoed through the smoke. Kien trembled desperately, but kept on trying to bandage Quang. While trying his best he fervently hoped Quang would faint and be free of the horrible pain – his pain was even torturing Kien. It seemed death itself was forcing Quang to stay conscious a little longer, to prolong the cruel torture.

Then even more artillery rounds came in from the enemy, with one shell exploding near them and burying them with earth, making it even more difficult for Kien to help Quang. Miraculously, Quang had lived through the second blast.

Blood flowed from his mouth and blood bubbled through his nose as he breathed. His eyes were wide open, as though he wanted to say something. Kien bent closer to listen: ‘If you pity me please don’t let me go on like this. I can’t stand the pain. My bones are smashed, my guts spilled…’ His voice was barely a tiny whisper yet it was clear and he spoke firmly: ‘Let me die. Just one shot. Please…’

Then with unexpected speed Quang summoned his remaining strength and reached with his one good arm for a grenade, then held it up.

‘Got it!’ he said loudly, almost cheerfully triumphant. He then began to laugh a ghastly laugh.

Kien looked on in alarm as Quang shouted to him, ‘Get out quick, Kien. Go! Out of here! Get out!’

As Kien started to move he heard Quang’s ghoulish laughter. He jumped up and began to back away, his eyes on the grenade’s detonator. Swiftly he turned and ran as Quang’s crazed laughter followed him.

Nine years later one of Kien’s MIA team said he had heard crazed laughter echoing from Hill 300, on the other side of the Sa Thay river. Kien listened as the nervous man gave his version.

‘I think it came from the jungle monster the Trieng people talk about,’ said the soldier.

‘Anyway, I’m sure it wasn’t a human laugh because it was shaking and choking. It didn’t last long but I froze in my tracks. Looking around a bit, I found a small grassed clearing and then a little hut. I could smell something burning, like barbecued cassava, so it meant there were human beings there. Near the hut I saw a hairy figure, someone with very long hair and a beard, sitting naked on a log staring right at the place where I was hiding.

‘Then I saw a grenade in his hand, would you believe it? I crawled backwards but as I did I brushed a few leaves and the man must have heard it because he stood up, looked my way and stepped forward. I jumped up then ran away and as I ran he started that horrible laughter again, and followed me.’

‘Perhaps it was the Forest Man,’ said another, remembering the local folklore.

‘Why would Forest Man have a grenade? And Forest Man isn’t supposed to live in a hut. And would Forest Man laugh like that?’ the young soldier replied.

‘Maybe it was Tung. What do you think, Kien?’

‘Tung who?’ asked Kien.

‘Crazy Tung. The guardsman, don’t you remember? He went crazy and left us in the jungle when we were based near Crossroad 90 in 1971. That’s quite close to that area.’

‘Oh, that Tung, I remember now. Maybe you’re right. He used to laugh and laugh when he had his mad crises and he gave everyone the shivers.’

The ghost talk went on. Some said there were ghostly streams in the jungle where those who drank the water began immediately to suffer all sorts of diseases, including mental illness. But they remembered that Tung’s illness had been caused by a bomb fragment penetrating his brain. At least that’s what the regimental doctor had said.

Kien remembered their headquarters had been bombed and many soldiers killed and wounded. Tung appeared to escape unscratched, except for a terrible headache. The nurse gave him aspirin but that seemed to make it worse.

Then suddenly one night Tung’s laughter had sounded through all the huts. Yes, that hadn’t been far from here. Tung cleared out and although many tried to track him down and bring him back he skilfully avoided his trackers.

After several weeks there was still no trace of Tung. The soldiers began saying the bomb fragment had zig-zagged around in his head leading the craziness into all corners of his skull, making him crazy in several different ways.

Still, listening to the story of Tung, Kien could hardly concentrate. All he could think of was Quang’s death and his laughter, and the grenade, nine years ago. It seemed to the soldiers talking about these mystical happenings that intense physical pain could mingle with the earth and grow into the trees in the jungle. Such desperate tragedies might create those ghostly sounds, sounds that would be heard forever, recreating the agonies of the past.

It was around this time that Kien began to drift over the edge from logic and started believing in ghosts. Ghosts in the winds from hell and in the mystical occurrences in the deep and gloomy jungle.

Kien and his MIA team finally decided to investigate the hut where the long-haired man had been seen. As they approached they heard a howl of laughter, coarse chuckles and roars, as though they were warning calls trying to prevent them prying.

‘Who are you?’ Kien called. ‘We’re your friends,’ he added, hoping to entice them out.

There was no reply. Only the sounds of a creek running down from Hill 300.

The jungle was still. ‘The war is over,’ Kien shouted. ‘It’s peace. No war. You can come out!’ he added.

The reply was a long peal of hysterical laughter which made the hair on their necks stand on end. Laughter? Or simply the howl of a lunatic? The barbaric moaning echoed on and on, the sounds clashing as though more than one voice was calling.

The MIA team waited patiently until the noises stopped, then moved towards the hut. Kien and the team felt rather than saw shadows flit from the rear of the hut into the jungle. From the top of a tree near the grass plot they heard a bird call sharply as the grass parted below the tree.

‘Look!’ someone shouted.

At the edge of the clearing where the bamboo jungle began, a ghostly figure was seen momentarily. Long hair flying. Then another, bent-over shadowy figure running along behind the first. Illusion and reality mixed with each other as the figures merged with the dark green jungle backdrop.

The MIA team were amazed. They left a can of rice, salt and medicines in the hut, hoping to help. But when they returned a few days later the rice and the medicine were still there, untouched. ‘They might think it’s a trap,’ said one of the team.

‘They? That means you’re sure they’re human?’ said one who felt they’d been ghosts.

‘Look,’ said Kien picking up a comb. It had been fashioned from a piece of aluminium, probably from a crashed plane. Long hair was still in the comb.

‘Well, they aren’t ghosts. Or Forest Men,’ one said.

‘But who are they? Ours? Deserters? Or Saigonese?’

No one had an answer.

For weeks after that the team kept a sharp eye out for the hut-dwellers, but not once were they seen. Once some laughter was heard, and another time one of them had seen a woman bathing in the river at dusk. When he had approached she had turned and burst into ghoulish laughter and fled, into the bush or into the reeds on the edge of the stream.

‘Maybe the other one’s gone and ditched her,’ said one soldier. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s carrying a baby.’

In this way they mulled over the mysterious figures. The one who spoke of the baby was hoping this unfathomable story would be made less tragic by adding an air of hope, perhaps even a happy ending. By including a baby, it somehow sounded better.