At that time the scout platoon had built its huts on the bank of this same stream by which they were now parked, but further along, where the stream hits the foot of the mountain, divides, then continues along as two separate streams. Now, perhaps at that branching of the stream, their old grass huts remained. Thatched roofs, side by side, near the rushes by the water.
The area had been used then to house front-line soldiers called back to the rear for political indoctrination. Politics continuously. Politics in the morning, politics in the afternoon, politics again in the evening. ‘We won, the enemy lost. The enemy will surely lose. The north had a good harvest, a bumper harvest. The people will rise up and welcome you. Those who don’t just lack awareness. The world is divided into three camps.’ More politics. Still, the scouts were treated lightly, not being pressured as much as others to attend the indoctrination sessions.
They had plenty of time to relax and enjoy themselves before returning to the battlefields. They hunted, set traps, caught fish and played cards.
In his entire life Kien had never developed such a passion for cards as he developed here. They played all the time. At dark, straight after dinner, the game started. In the warm air which smelled of sweat and mosquito repellant the gamblers gathered enthusiastically, concentrating on their cards. The kitty was usually stinking ‘Compatriot’ cigarettes, made from wild leaves. Or, if the stakes were higher, it would be snuff, or pieces of flint, or the roots of rosa canina plants, which were smoked like marijuana. Or dried food, or photos; photos of women of all kinds, foreign or Vietnamese, ugly or beautiful, or anyone’s sweetheart. Any photo was valid currency. When the kitty was gone they used to get lamp-black and paint moustaches on each other. Some played, others watched, joyfully, noisily, sometimes all through the night. It seemed a period of happiness and calm. An easy, carefree time.
They were really happy days because for most of that rainy season they didn’t have to fight. The entire platoon of thirteen was safe. Even ‘Lofty’ Thinh spent a happy month here before being killed. Can hadn’t yet deserted. His mates Vinh, ‘Big’ Thinh, Cu, Oanh and Tac the Elephant were all still alive. Now, only the torn, dirty set of cards, fingerprinted by the dead ones, remained.
Nine, Ten, Jack.
‘Lofty’, ‘Big’ Thinh and Can,
Queen, King, Ace!
Cu, Oanh and Tac!
Sometimes in his dreams these cards still appear. He shouts their names and plays Solitaire. ‘Hearts, diamonds, spades…’ They had bastardised the regimental marching song and made it a humorous card-players’ song:
But one by one the card players at their fateful table were taken away. The cards were last used when the platoon was down to just four soldiers. Cu, Thanh, Van and Kien.
That was in the early dawn, half an hour before the barrage opened the campaign against Saigon. On the other side of an overgrown field was the Cu Chi defence line. The Saigon defence forces then started returning fire with artillery and machine-guns and they registered some lucky hits. In the trenches and in shelters the infantry were trying to enjoy last moments of sleep. But for Kien’s scouts, who were going to lead the attack as the advance guard, it was going a bit too fast. They were spooked by their cards, not at all liking how the hands fell as they played the game called ‘Advance’.
‘Slow down a bit,’ Kien suggested. ‘If we leave this game unfinished Heaven will grant favours, keeping us alive to return and finish the game. So, slow down and we’ll survive this battle and continue the game later.’
‘You’re cunning,’ said Thanh, grinning. ‘But Heaven’s not stupid. You can’t cheat Him. If you play only half the game the Old Chap up there will send for all four of us and we’ll torment each other.’
Tu said, ‘Why bother to send all four there? Send me with the cards. That’ll do it. I’ll play poker, or tell fortunes from cards for the Devils in charge of the oil urns. That would be fun.’
The dew evaporated quickly. Signal flares flew into the air. The infantry noisily came to life and began to move out. Armoured cars motored to the front line, their tracks tearing the earth, the roar of their engines reverberating in the morning breeze.
‘Stop, then!’ Kien threw the cards down, adding petulantly, ‘I just wanted to slow down for good luck, but all of you rushed the game to the end.’
‘Hey there,’ ‘Thin’ Van slapped his thigh happily, ‘I didn’t know until now just how much I enjoyed playing cards. I’ll have to learn to play better. If I die, remember to throw a deck of cards on my grave.’
‘We have only one deck and Van wants it for himself. Selfish bugger!’ Thanh shouted back as he moved out. Before an hour was up Van was burned alive in a T54 tank, his body turned to ash. No grave or tomb for them to throw the cards onto.
Thanh died near the Bong bridge, also burned in his tank together with the tank crew. A big, white-hot steel coffin.
Only Tu had fought, together with Kien, to Gate 5 of Saigon’s Tan Son Nhat airport. Then Tu was killed. It was the morning of 30 April, with just three hours to go before the eleven-year war ended.
Late in the night of 29 April and into the 30th when the two of them met for the last time at the airport, Tu had taken the deck of cards from his knapsack and given it to Kien. ‘I’ll go in this fight. You keep them. If you live on, gamble with life. Deuces, treys and fours all carry the sacred spirit of our whole platoon. We’ll bring you permanent luck.’
Kien sinks into reminiscence.
Whose soul is calling whom as he swings gently and silently in his hammock over the rows of dead soldiers?
Howls from somewhere in the deep jungle echo along the cold edges of the Jungle of Screaming Souls. Lonely, wandering noises. Whose soul is calling whom this night?
To one who has just returned the mountains still look the same. The forest looks the same. The stream and the river also look the same. One year is not a long time. No, it is the war that is the difference. Then it was war, now it is peace. Two different ages, two worlds, yet written on the same page of life. That’s the difference.
Kien recalled: At the time of our first stay here it was late August. Between the jungle and the forest along this stream, rosa canina blossomed in the rain, whitened everywhere, its perfume filling the air, especially at night. The perfume vapour permeated our sleep, fuelling erotic, obsessional dreams and when we awoke the perfume had evaporated but we were left with a feeling of smouldering passion, both painful and ecstatic. It took us months to discover that our nightly passion-frenzied dreams were caused by the canina perfume. Those diabolical flowers! Kien had seen them in the jungles along the western ridge of the Ngoc Linh mountains and even deep inside Cambodia around Ta Ret, but nowhere did they grow the way they did here, with such powerful scent.
The canina here grows close to creek banks, within reach of the mountain carp, who nibble at their roots, so when caught their taste is exquisite but instantly intoxicating. The local people say canina thrives in graveyards or any area carrying the scent of death. A blood-loving flower. It smells so sweetly that this is hard for us to believe.
Later, it was Kien’s scout platoon, taking a break in some idle moments, who decided to try drying the canina, slicing the flowers and roots, then mixing them with tobacco, as a smoke. After just a few puffs they felt themselves lifted, quietly floating like a wisp of smoke itself floating on the wind. The tasty canina had many wondrous attributes. They could decide what they’d like to dream about, or even blend the dreams, like preparing a wonderful cocktail. With rosa one smoked to forget the daily hell of the soldier’s life, smoked to forget hunger and suffering. Also, to forget death. And totally, but totally, to forget tomorrow.