Hwang Sok-Yong - The Shadow of Arms

The Kethak checkpoint was manned by an ARVN QC sergeant and local militia. They checked the driver’s pass and glanced at the load. By that time, however, the agent had already handed over a “toll” of one thousand piasters, slipped in with the transit pass. If no toll had been paid, the sergeant in charge of the checkpoint probably would have made a fuss of unloading the entire cargo for inspection, saying he had to search for guerrillas and ammunition before allowing them through.

At the checkpoints on the outskirts of the cities, the inspection was usually more thorough for the outgoing traffic than for the incoming, mainly because the incoming trucks carried agricultural goods that were very scarce. Even when such goods were moving between so-called liberated areas under NLF control and the areas under South Vietnamese jurisdiction, both sides tended to be lenient.

The truck lurched forward again, and soon two knocks on the window were heard. Only then did the men in back pull their heads and shoulders up free of the vegetables, turning their necks to loosen the weight under which they had been buried. The five of them had been born again as brethren now fighting for the National Liberation Front. Apart from his four comrades, Pham Minh had no information about their higher organization, or about the identity of their fellow urban guerrillas, nor did he have any idea how they expected to regain the strength needed to liberate the nation while under the countless enemy guns, cannons, and aircraft in Da Nang.

According to the vague information they had been given, the number of NLF guerrillas active in Da Nang was at least two hundred. There were roughly forty teams, collectively known as the 434th Special Action Group of the Third Special District. In other words, the fifteen members in his training group at Atwat were comparable to a single company unit, and they were acquainted with no superior command above the level of company leader. The political staff of the district committee must have been handling the coordination with other teams on the next level above.

“We’re in Da Nang!” one of the team members shouted after hearing the sound of passing vehicles and peeking out through a parted canvas flap. Pham Minh could also sense they had arrived. The breeze now had the fresh smell of the sea. The truck pulled in past the inter-city bus terminal at the old Le Loi market and slowly parked in the lot for the produce market. The driver and the lead agent lifted the rear flap and pretended to begin unloading the goods. One at a time, the team members crawled out and casually joined in the work of unloading. To the eyes of onlookers, they looked no different from any of the other day laborers hired in the market to move the fruit and vegetables around.

When they were almost finished, they followed the eye signals of the agent to the Chrysanthemum Pub. It was the very place Pham Minh had first visited when he joined the Front. Since the pub was a place always jammed with travelers, nobody thought twice about strange faces, thus it was a textbook example of a good place for arranging a covert rendezvous. They walked in past customers eating nuoc mam noodles and passed inside the rear quarters behind the partition. No sooner had they sat down around a table in one of the rooms than a waiter stood before them. Their lead agent spoke.

“Bring us five bowls of noodles, steamed fish, and liquor. And pass the word that the cargo from Long Long has arrived.”

“Excuse me, . but who do you want me to tell?”

The waiter’s tone was respectful. The agent spoke again.

“We’re looking for Uncle Nguyen Thach.”

“I see. Just a minute, please.”

They were all either drinking tea or smoking cigarettes. Looking out through the screened window, Pham Minh was taking in the familiar sights of old Le Loi market spread out across the street from the restaurant. The aroma of fried fish and nuoc mam reminded him of the sweat of peasants. The strong salty smell of boiling boar’s intestines mixed with hot pepper wafted by. In the kitchen, sleek black sun-dried sausages were glossily shining and the fried bananas were deep yellow. Cooked rice with hot curry was evenly spread on a cutting board, and nearby side dishes of pepper, pork, cabbage and onions were being ladled around a whole duck that was bright red after being boiled and spiced.

There was not a single foreigner in the motley crowds bustling in the market. White people were nowhere to be seen, and in fact the distinctive sharp smells of the old market were deeply repulsive to almost anyone but the Vietnamese themselves. But the city carved up by many barricades and off-limits zones was coming to seem like a set of gigantic cages for animals and fowl. The young waiter who had gone out returned and stood there blocking Pham Minh’s line of sight. He came up to their table with a tray full of food.

“I’ve notified Uncle. He said he’ll be here shortly.”

The guide nodded.

“Now, let’s have dinner. I’m afraid this will be the last time we eat together.”

For the first time a humane look could be detected on the agent’s face. The team members asked no questions, nor did they chatter unnecessarily. They were heeding the unwritten rule that one never, regardless of time or place, seeks to discover anything about missions in progress. Nobody asked: Where am I being sent? Who’s my superior? Where are my comrades? What is the role of the owner of this restaurant? Are you heading back to Long Long? Is your assignment to help us with infiltration?

Such questions not only made no practical contribution to the mission, they only increased the risks and burdens as more people had more sensitive information. Another thing was, after once meeting a certain person and exchanging a few words, the next time you met somewhere you were to reveal no sign at all of the prior contact. Connections were to be formed only on the basis of what was needed for the current task. Once the common cause of the mission no longer existed, they should erase one another from memory.

It was their first hot soup since leaving Atwat. They also shared a kettle of hot liquor and a boiled fish garnished with ginger and nuoc mam . It was getting dark outside and a cooler wind was blowing caresses through the marketplace. Every so often they turned their eyes to the hall to check new customers entering the place. The guide kept checking his watch. Then a low voice came from the behind.

“Were you looking for me?”

A gentle-looking man in his thirties, clad in a jacket and black Vietnamese pants, was looking down at them. Pham Minh remembered distinctly that he was the same man who a few months before had received him here and put him in touch with the NLF. Though they were already acquainted, Pham Minh gave him only a blank look. Two other members of the team had joined in Da Nang at the same time and they, too, no doubt already knew the face of the operative known as Uncle Nguyen Thach.

It seemed likely that all fifteen of them who were slipping back into Da Nang in three separate teams would have their missions coordinated through this man. If someone were caught or turned traitor, the lead agent would be changed and the whole group would disintegrate and be reconstructed anew. Even members of the same team did not know the real names, former occupations, or hometowns of the others. All they knew of each other was the expressionless faces they now were peering at.

“I’ve come from Long Long. The goods are onions, cabbages, bananas, papayas, and some more. The tenants of our farm came with me.”

Nguyen Thach and the guide shook hands. The former sat down at the table across from the guide and examined them all one by one. Then he said, “I’ll buy the whole consignment.”