Hwang Sok-Yong - The Shadow of Arms

“Then, let’s drop it.”

“Who said anything about dropping it?” Thach shouted. “If you had not brought it up, I might not have remembered. I don’t know “

Thach stopped himself. Then he sat silently with his eyes trained on the newspaper. Minh spoke.

“Correct me, please.”

“What’s wrong with you today, anyway?” Thach asked, his face concealed behind the paper.

“I got rather agitated over a personal matter, sir.”

“What sort of personal matter?”

Minh tried his best to speak in a calm voice. “I ran into a student from school who said the other students are saying that I’m a coward who deserted the NLF. And then she told me that Shoan is getting engaged to somebody else.”

Thach put down the newspaper. His eyes were bloodshot. “It can’t be helped, really. I, too, had a similar experience. Your mention of Shoan made me recall a certain girl I knew when I was in the Buddhist Students Association. Congratulate them from the bottom of your heart, that’ll make you feel better. After that, promise yourself that the children they bear will inherit a proud and free country, and with that, go out and fight bravely. That is what I meant when I said that love and revolution share the same path.”

“I’d better go back to the fish market, sir,” Minh said, heaving a long sigh.

“I appreciate your telling me,” said Thach. “Neither of us seems to have the time for marriage. Go and speak with Mr. Trinh. And also check out the situation in Son Dinh village.”

All day long the clouds had been heavy and low, and that night the rain began to pour down. From the mountains in the distance came the sound of thunder, a sound not at all like that of bombs. When the lightning flashed, it was more beautiful than the light from a flare rocket. The monsoon season had begun. Along the coast, the weather was cooling off and the fog was getting heavier.

In accordance with orders, at 2200 hours Pham Minh went outside to get an emergency communication line ready. As a precaution, he was wearing an air force work uniform. The infiltration route for the commandos had been planned to begin from Phu Hoa, passing from there through the forest between Dong Dao and Ap Dai La, and then they would rendezvous on the hillside just west of Son Dinh. The meeting signal was to be made by striking a wood block: two sets of three beats with an interval in between, followed by many rapid beats in a row. The response would be a single beat followed by a pause followed by many rapid beats.

It was raining hard and in the pitch darkness you could not see your own hand in front of your face. The cold rain seemed to soak through your entire body, making you feel numb. Pham Minh scaled the hill from the village and crawled through the bamboo. Lizards could be heard scurrying about nearby. He stretched his legs out between some bamboo stalks and lay there on the mushy ground. The place reminded him of Atwat, up by the Ho Chi Minh Trail. He thought of the young men who had died namelessly in the jungle, their bones left there to rot.

Ah, and he thought of Shoan, engaged to an elderly merchant. Her parents must have felt greatly relieved. Like his own father, who died of a heart attack in a bathtub in the midst of the struggle against France, would they also lead happy existences disconnected from larger history? No, what Nguyen Thach said had been right, he should congratulate them, and fight so their children can grow up in a better nation. No, that was nonsense. What he ought to have done is tell Shoan his true feelings and persuade her to take the same path he had taken. But that was an ideal only for those with that destiny. Shoan — her name, recalling the jasmine of old Tonkin, was most fitting — had been to Trinh’s house just the day before he came. Hadn’t the doctor’s daughter made a joke of it? “Shoan was here just yesterday, so did you two make a date to come separately?” That was it, Shoan had wanted to go there the day before her engagement.

That night before Minh left for Atwat, that gorgeous night with its beautiful stream of shooting stars one after another, would never come again. When he had gone out to the backyard with a desolate heart, he had found a white ramie handkerchief lying inside the air raid shelter, filling it with the fragrance of canna. From ancient days, the women of Turen have been renowned for loving only one man in their lives. When their beloved set out; on a journey to a distant place, they would make a kerchief from their torn slip and give it to him as a memento.

Pham Minh was suddenly startled. Through the shish of the rain pouring down through the bamboo he heard the sharp, clear sound of a wood block being struck. In the jungle, a bamboo stick and wood block took the place of wireless sets as the main means of communication. Pham Minh became all ears. The signal was repeated. Quickly he sat up and struck his own wood block. Again there was silence. Minh stared into the darkness to try to make out something moving through the bamboo. Then there was a click and something jutted into his back.

As he turned around to look, a man lifted his gun up and growled, “Don’t move. Your name and unit?”

“Pham Minh, assistant agent with Third Company, 434th Special Action Group.”

“Any changes?”

“None.”

“The safe house?”

“Son Dinh, just down there.”

“Well done, Comrade.”

The soldier fumbled to grab Pham Minh’s hand and helped him up. He blew a short whistle, and the commando squad appeared from out of the darkness. There were ten in all. A man appearing to be the leader came forward and shook hands with Pham Minh. They were fully equipped with AK47 rifles, rocket launchers, and light machine guns. Some were bareheaded; others wore peasant hats with round brims. All were clad in black Vietnamese clothing and, instead of raincoats, they wore vinyl capes of various colors over their shoulders, as Pham Minh had in Atwat.

The advance guard and Pham Minh led the way and the others followed noiselessly in dispersion. Like water, they seeped silently into Trinh’s house. Two of the soldiers remained posted as guards at the front and back doors of the house. The moment they went inside, they heard a match strike and there appeared the white hair and beard of old Trinh. Very calmly, he lit a candle.

Pham Minh bowed to him politely, and said, “Forgive me, Uncle. I should have told you in advance.”

“You did mention that some friends of yours might come by. These are them? Come in, please. It’s been a long time since I’ve had young people in the house.”

Under the light, the commando leader looked to be a middle-aged man. His short hair made him look even more strong-willed and full of confidence.

“Pardon us, sir, for causing you inconvenience. Members of the army of the Democratic Republic of Vietnam, we fight today as a liberation force under the command of the People’s Revolutionary Party in the south. Would it be all right if we stay in your place until we can safely leave to accomplish our mission?”

“Have you eaten yet?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then please sit down and rest yourselves.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The soldiers, following the leader’s gesture, quietly sat down with their backs against the wall. Nobody opened their mouth. The leader sat beside Pham Minh.

“Based on our reconnaissance from the mountaintop, we have made our own rough estimate of the situation. Tell us about the infiltration route.”

“Heading up north from Son Dinh along the rice paddies, you’ll run into a stream. It runs south to the Thu Bon River, but if you go north upstream for about two kilometers you’ll reach Ap Dai La. From there to the perimeter fence around the air base is less than a mile. Of course, there’s some danger of ambush. We’ll have to identify any guards along the path in advance and take them out. Once that’s done, it’ll be no problem.”