If so, maybe there were cross lines to siphon beer out of the regular distribution channels.
In the brigade, Koreans only drank Korean beer. But beer was not classified as food, so it was outside the ration planning quotas. The amount consumed was unpredictable, varying greatly depending on the random distribution of the elbow-benders. PX goods were always paid for in dollars, and then resold for dollars on the black market. But Korean beer, whether it went straight to the brigade and made its way back out, or slipped into the black market on the way from the supply unit. It has a hot trade. It was the only item that could easily be traded as well as sold to convert profits into American military currency.
Just like with the specialty foods like almonds and peanuts, even when they leaked out, since they were purchased and sold for dollars, the ones suffering the loss in the end would be the Vietnamese city dwellers who consumed them. The war supplies, on the other hand, were bought and eaten by the families of Vietnamese merchants, bureaucrats, and military officers. It was like the delicate web of a deep-sea food chain. The item that had been hardest for them to get a grip on was none other than the Korean beer constantly streaming in from the piers.
“Why didn’t I think of it before?” murmured Yong Kyu aloud.
The driver, not privy to his train of thought, said, “Think of what, sir?”
“Oh, never mind. Hey, do you get the beer for the rec center from the PX?”
“No. Why drink American beer when we have our own? When a holiday for the forces is approaching we load a large quantity at one time. The brigade also gets theirs from the supply detachment downtown.”
Absorbed in trying to compose his thoughts, Yong Kyu did not even notice the plumes of red dust approaching from the south on Route 1. As the driver started the engine, he turned to the left quickly and saw the convoy’s escort Jeep approach with its headlights burning. A platoon of infantry marching along the edge of the road with its sandbag walls on either side presently disappeared, enveloped in the dust. The parade of vehicles made a terrible clatter as they turned at the Y-junction, keeping a wide spread between each. When the last Jeep passed by, they pulled out and fell into the file. They had no trouble passing through the east gate of the Turen supply warehouse. The truck pulled up in front of a B-ration warehouse. Leon, who had been on the lookout for them, gave them a wink as he stood there with his ledger in hand.
“So you survived, kid.”
Leon shook his head wildly. “Whew, you’re one crazy bastard. I did nothing but sleep all day yesterday.”
They sat side-by-side in the air-conditioned warehouse and talked about women.
“Come back after lunch, by then I’ll have the stuff loaded.”
“You can’t load more than two pallets of large cartons?”
“We can do better than that. First, we’ll load two side by side, then we’ll squeeze a third in behind. A tight fit, but we can force them.”
“The payment ought to be made the next day. The rate outside is changing day by day.”
“Fine. No need to pay me this time, since you took me out Saturday night.”
“That was just a good time among friends. You can return the favor next time.”
A black guy driving a forklift grinned at them as he passed by.
“I told him about you. He was cracking up.”
“Where’s Stapley?”
“He’s over at another warehouse.”
“Let’s take him out, too, next time we have a little fun.”
“Sure. He’ll kill you he’s so funny. And he’s a very bright guy.”
By the time Yong Kyu came out of the cafeteria where he had eaten fish, potatoes, and spinach with the other supply troops, the goods were all loaded. Three pallets of salad oiclass="underline" two hundred forty cans in sixty boxes. The Vietnamese love fried food, and before long a lot of households would be frying shrimp, bananas, corn, and whatever else with that oil. All Leon had to do was leave a space blank for that truckload and move on to the next one on his list of requisitions to be checked. As they left, Leon made an OK signal with his thumb and index finger.
Falling in line behind other trucks that had finished loading their cargoes, they made their way without incident back to the Y-junction. When they broke away from the convoy and headed downtown, the Vietnamese QC guards at the checkpoint gestured for them to stop. Slowly the truck rumbled to a stop in front of the guards. Pretending to be annoyed by the delay, Yong Kyu casually held out the special vehicle pass issued by General Liam, the Second Army commander. The guard took a step backward, saluted, and quickly signaled for them to pass through.
“He looked shocked.”
The driver sped down the road in high spirits. They drove straight to the ocean, passed the oil reservoir towers with giant “Gulf” and “Shell” labels on them, and entered the rear gate at the pier. The docks were hectic with the loading of all kinds of civilian cargo arriving in Da Nang for shipment from all around Vietnam. Once more they showed their special pass to the Vietnamese police and were guided in the right direction to go for unloading. As they parked the truck, Toi and another man emerged from a dilapidated wooden shack that served as an office. Toi called up to the cab of the truck, “Container 19 and conex box 5 over there are for our use only. Pull the truck to number 5.”
The truck backed up and a forklift came around and quickly moved the three pallets one at a time into the conex box. Toi locked the iron door, pulled the key out and handed it over to Yong Kyu.
“All done.”
Yong Kyu sent the truck back to the rec center and left with Toi in his Jeep.
“It’s been agreed that we’ll pay a monthly rental fee for the storage. So, when the pass expires, we’ll pay for both together.”
“Major Pham, he’s airtight.”
“You see, I’ve discovered that all the Da Nang docks are in his hands. That huge pile over there, you know what that is?”
Yong Kyu saw innumerable sacks stacked up and covered with tent canvas. The pile was as big as a two or three story building. A series of similar heaps were occupying half the space across the road from the piers.
“What is it? Flour?”
“No. Cement and fertilizer. They’re coming in in unlimited quantities. Ever heard of the phoenix hamlet project?”
“Never heard of it.”
“Three hundred new villages are being constructed. Flour and rice will be arriving, too. Nails, slate, iron bar, glass, paper, you name it. Cattle and feed grain, I can’t even remember all of it.”
“When they get those things, will the war end?”
“Not at all. It’s as if you’ve beaten someone to a pulp and call on the cripple with a bouquet of flowers to express your sympathy.”
“We have an old folktale like that. A man was rewarded for mending the leg of a broken sparrow. So another man found a sparrow and broke its leg just so he could mend it, expecting to be rewarded in the same way.”
“Was he rewarded?”
“All sorts of demons popped out, and he struggled to escape, drowning in shit and filth. Now we’ve got to go keep our rendezvous with the merchant.”
“Right, to the Bamboo.”
“Next time we’d better change the meeting place. The Bamboo is far from ideal.”
“We should rent an office or a shop.”
“Right. Talk with him about it. After all, we have to be there in Le Loi market.”