Duong Huong - The Zenith

“Can we return to the command post now?” asks Nha.

“Yes…We have observed enough,” An responds, and the two of them go back. “I am sure they went out looking for a deserted spot so that they could make up chicken-style,” a soldier suggests. “They picked the right moment, too. With the soldiers wrapped up in watching the girls in the show, they went out there to take care of their choked-up balls.”

“What do you mean, chicken-style?” asks another soldier.

“Damn you, don’t play the innocent. If you don’t know, then who else would?”

“You want to pick a lump of charcoal and put it in the hands of another?”

“Fire and charcoal. Who the hell told me the other day about the Lao being expert at ass-fucking?”

“You mean chicken-style and ass-fucking are the same? Oh, then I know now…”

“Hell with you, joker!”

“If I am not the joker, how can you have such a hearty laugh?”

An observes Nha walking really fast with his head down, as if trying to flee from the rowdy comments of the soldiers. He must feel awful, thinks An. Normally he is a well-spoken man, if somewhat simplistic, but all offenses against the more spiritual side of life always take him off guard and affect him more than others.

An catches up with him and says, “No one is born to be a soldier. War is something imposed on us. You shouldn’t give those comments too much thought.”

“I am someone not given to quarreling. But in this case you can’t just stop wondering. How do you explain this affair?”

“I, too, am at a loss.”

“How are we going to explain it to our colleagues?”

“If we don’t understand it ourselves, then it’s better not to give any explanation.”

“But you can’t do that. Whether we want to or not, there is no way for us to escape giving some explanation in front of everyone. In the army, each death must be explained clearly, for it also concerns the family of the deceased. Either it’s the shameful death of a traitor, or it’s a sacrifice out of one’s duty to the people, in which case the family is entitled to some compensation.”

“Yes,” An responds as he bitterly thinks to himself: “But life is not all that simple. There are lots of deaths lying outside the boundaries that you are drawing. There are unjust deaths, stifled and quiet deaths, unintended and unconscionable deaths, deaths that steal upon you like poisonous snakes, these poisonous snakes of Fate that no one can prevent or fight off.”

Soon they are back at the command bunker, where everyone has been silently sipping tea or smoking water pipes while waiting for them. An knows that they are all waiting for an explanation. There has to be an explanation. Concluding that it is best if he speak first without waiting for entreaties, he announces:

“I report to you, Deputy Division Commander and leading cadres…Battalion Commander Nha and I have carefully observed what remains on the bank of the stream. I feel certain that our division commander and Ma Ly could not possibly have gone out together for a bath because although he was in good health, our commander was already over fifty. At that time of day, the water is freezing. Second, I am sure Ma Ly would not dare go into the water. The whole time I lived with him in the Viet Bac, I wit-nessed him taking a bath only twice, and on both occasions it was during the middle of a hot summer when he was enticed to do so by his San Diu, San Chi, friends. Normally, Ma Ly would never volunteer to sink his body into the water. Even when he had to, he would quickly dry himself so he could put his clothes on right away. We used to call the Meo ‘water-shy cats.’ Thus there is no possible reason for both of them to suddenly and crazily step into the water for a bath in the middle of the night. As for other explanations, I do not have enough time nor experience to guess…”

After he finishes, he sits down by Nha. The others are shell-shocked. Someone coughs dryly. Then the deputy division commander, with all seriousness, states:

“Comrades, I am forced to ask that all of you give your opinions so that we can come to a final decision. We have responsibility for solving this situation, as it relates to the honor of each one sitting here. We have to confront the anxieties of more than one thousand of our soldiers here as well; after that I am sure public opinion will spread to other friendly divisions. Furthermore, we cannot just report the situation upstairs and wait for the higher echelons to come and open an investigation, then write up a file to submit to the military tribunal as usual. That is out of the question. It would take half a month, minimum, for the paperwork to move up and down. Besides, it will only take a heavy rain tonight for everything to be washed away if we do not gather whatever is left on the bank of the stream. These mementoes need to be kept for the families of the missing men. I use the word ‘missing’ here because we are still uncertain as to the fate of our division chief and the Meo fellow. We hope, of course, that they are somehow still alive in some way that we don’t yet know.”

One officer says, “I believe we should rule out that they are missing, for it would not be very persuasive. Can you imagine two naked persons alive without a piece of clothing on? Who could have forced them to do something like that?”

Another reminds him: “A year or so ago, did not enemy rangers catch a whole bunch of our troops bathing naked in a spring? If I am not mistaken, they were from Division 887.”

“Oh yes, I had forgotten all about that incident.”

“You certainly have a short memory. It happened just last summer and you had already forgotten?”

The first officer replies, “I am forty-nine already. ‘Can’t be too smart when young, or keep it all together when too old.’”

Another comments to the group: “I say this — and I hope you don’t think I am superstitious. I don’t believe that our commander is alive. At six o’clock this morning when I woke up, I heard lots of vultures croaking on the mountain. Ever since Thang’s troops stepped on mines, did you ever hear the vultures in such a ruckus?”

“Right,” says another. “I also heard them, and the sound gave me goose bumps. At that time, it was barely light, and yet the vultures were out in great numbers. This must mean that they have found their food. Their cries come from the direction of Beak Mountain. That’s where the stream runs into the Nam Khuot River.”

The deputy division commander turns to his staff aide: “Comrade, tell us how much time it would take from here to there.”

“Around twenty minutes by helicopter,” the aide replies. “But a walk through the woods would take at least five days minimum. From where we are stationed to the Nam Khuot River there are no blazed trails through the woods, nor is there a road going through our encampment. Following the stream is also out of the question since the part of it right below us, less than two hundred meters down the mountain, becomes a rocky cliff that is exactly like Death Mountain on the other side. There is only one way, and that is by following the trail used by the Van Kieu people. And that trail would take no less than five full days, The vulture cries that you heard could not possibly have come from the Nam Khuot River. It’s three kilometers away, and no bird cries can be heard from such a distance. I suspect, however, that these vultures once they find a carcass may have a way of telling one another, of communicating by crying that way. It may be a way to call the others to come.”

“I think so, too. Our military staff assistant’s analysis is entirely reasonable,” agrees the commander of Battalion 2. He then turns to the deputy division commander and asks: “Do you think we can find a helicopter?”