Hwang Sok-Yong - The Shadow of Arms

Stapley shook his head, waving the glass in his hand. “Not true. I don’t know. Not me, but they must, in Washington or on Wall Street. It’s them, not me. Me and my brother were living in a dark basement studio, no sunlight through the windows. We didn’t even have cash to buy a new shirt. They’re the ones who made all the bombs and established the order of this filthy world. That’s why I’m splitting for good from that goddamned wonderful place, America.

“Hear me out. When napalm is dropped, it burns up the grass, burns up the rocks on the ground, too. As it burns, the napalm sucks away all of the oxygen in the area, so if people don’t get burned to death, they die from suffocation. Bombs explode below the surface when they hit bottom in swamps or rice paddies. Everything alive in the water is disintegrated, blown to microscopic bits, by the pressure of the shock that instantly blasts in all directions. Then there are the white phosphorus shells. When one of those hits, whether on land or water, whether there’s air or not, it burns on to the core at an incredible temperature. CBVs — they have compressed air inside that upon explosion sprays thousands of pieces of lead everywhere, cutting down everything within several square yards. You can set them for delayed detonation, so a mass of people, thinking they’re safe, come out of their hiding places and gather around the beehive before it goes off. Even if the wounded survive, the lead fragments will rot the flesh and soon that part of the body will have to be amputated.

“They have a gigantic three-thousand-pound bomb that bursts in the air, showering down hundreds of little bombs. You name it, high-velocity aircraft rockets, sidewinders, sparrows, shrikes, all kinds of tear gas and chemical bombs, defoliants that dehydrate and kill entire jungles, just to name some of the arsenal dropped from the sky. They may not be nuclear weapons, but they violate the Geneva Convention rules on weapons of war. Sitting up in my helicopter, I’ve seen countless bombs explode, shelling saturating the landscape, razing villages and annihilating people.

“The M60 machine gunners call themselves ‘monkey hunters.’ Even when there’s no operational situation, they think it an entertaining sport to spot targets and take them out. Sitting up there in an armored helicopter with a machine gun in their hands, they feel like millionaires out on a leisurely safari in the jungle. No shit, even if your helicopter malfunctions and drops from the sky, we have so many aircraft around, you can be picked up within ten minutes. Just think of it, in order to strike down a single farmer running like hell in the furrows of his field, they’ll fire hundreds of rounds, shoot rockets, and if that doesn’t work, they’ll call up for artillery.

“After I came to Turen, life became even harder to bear. Look at all that stuff stacked high in the supply warehouse. I can recite the names of all the big corporations who deliver all of those military supplies. And now, what’s the point of my struggle here?”

Yong Kyu interrupted him. “You were up in the sky. Well, I crawled in the jungle. You can see much better down on the ground.”

“Your soldiers also wonder about all this?”

Yong Kyu could not help but laugh. “When we look at you, you all look like hairy baboons, you all look the same. And I’m sure it’s the same with you when you look at us.”

“Us?”

“Yes, Asians, I mean. The whites think we are humans without any souls.”

“I see what you mean.”

“We’ve long been living in conditions like this,” Yong Kyu muttered bitterly, and, glancing back at Sang, went on. “Ask her, this girl should know all about it. The Korean War broke out when I was eight years old. Well, a few years after my birth, we were released from colonial status. But my parents’ generation was forced to serve in armies of colonials and many were killed, just like now, all over Asia and the Pacific in wars fought by the imperialist powers. At that time, you people were already involved. Your government partitioned our country and occupied it.

“As I work with Americans, the one thing I hate most is to listen to you people say how alike we are, how I’m no different from an American, and other garbage like that. In the same breath I hear you guys whispering how filthy the Vietnamese gooks are. ‘Gook’ is the label American soldiers picked up in the Korean War from the word ‘Hanguk,’ mispronouncing it ‘Han-goook.’ Americans used it to make fun of us. But I tell you, it is the Vietnamese that I am like.

“These conditions we’re living through now are the same exact conditions almost all Asians have endured for the past century. On many continents whites have fought each other with bloodied teeth and claws, like predators fighting over prey. Don’t pretend to be shocked. Even if you refuse to take part in this lousy war and succeed in escaping, you’ll have to live the rest of your life burdened by what you’ve seen and heard on the battlefield. It’ll be the same with me, of course, but I’ve made up my mind to make up for it when I go back home.

“In your newspapers I saw photos of demonstrators carrying picket signs that read: ‘We don’t want to die for Vietnam!’ What could be more absurd and hideous than that? What? Die for Vietnam? Your soldiers were dragged over here from the back alleys of filthy slums, from the dark bars where they were drinking, from the supermarkets where they rushed with discount coupons, from greasy floors beneath automobiles. You ask me why? Because the children of the wealthy were not about to come, that’s why. Ask your businessmen and their salesmen who conduct politics. It’s for them that you’ve been dying like dogs in the swamps of Vietnam.”

“Even I know that much,” Stapley replied. “Our armies go around the world taming people to our ways, making them docile so they can be devoured. The idea that we are fighting for Vietnam or for their unification is a moronic sentimentality from our government. The capitalists are trying their best, according to their interest-based policies, to keep from losing this little foothold.”

Yong Kyu felt drunk. In such a locale, the simplest expression, as simple as a military song, was best. To be sure, the lyrics of a military song seemed to fit very well the spectacle of this war. “Proud and brave, to protect freedom and the peace of Vietnam, you take part in this sacred war as a glorious crusader of freedom.” Yong Kyu set down his empty glass. “It’s getting late. Are you trying to make me talk the whole night away?”

“No, take Sang with you and get some sleep.”

“Isn’t she yours?”

“Let’s do the moving tomorrow. Good night.”

Stapley lifted his half-filled glass. Yong Kyu followed Sang, stumbling down the hall. It was more of a tunnel lined with bamboo than a hall. At the end it opened into a small field bunker. There was a basin, a pitcher of water and a garbage basket in one corner. Yong Kyu took off his combat boots. Sang poured water into the basin and put his feet into the water.

“Is this your home?” Yong Kyu asked.

“No, it’s far.” She lifted one finger and pointed into the air. “My home, in country. I came here one year ago.”

“Whole family?”

“No, my husband didn’t come.”

“Husband? You are married?”

“Yes, he’s a soldier, a sergeant.”

“Where is he now?”

“Hue.”

“Your child?”

“Sleeping in there. Pretty.” Sang smiled naturally and placed both palms to her cheek, making a gesture of sleeping. She looked happy.

“This life, is it all right with you?”

“What do you mean? My family — father, mother, sister, and baby — is together now, that’s very good. Everything is fine.”