John showed us a few other treasures from his chest: a GI web belt, a plastic canteen, a compass, a K-bar knife, and a few ammo pouches. I was reminded of my own steamer trunk in the basement of my house, like a million other trunks all over America, filled with bits and pieces of a former military life.
John then took a small blue box from his chest, which I recognized as a military medal box, like a jewelry box, and he opened it, very reverentially. Lying on the satin lining was a round bronze medal with a red and white ribbon. Stamped on the medal was an eagle perched on a book and sword. Around the eagle were the words “Efficiency, Honor, Fidelity.”
I stared at the medal and recognized it as the Good Conduct Medal. I recalled that the Special Forces guys used to buy them in the base camp PXs and award them to their Montagnard troops for bravery, though the medal had nothing to do with bravery, but the Montagnards didn’t know that, and the army wasn’t bummed out about the Special Forces guys handing out these nothing medals to their Montagnard fighters.
I took the box as if it held the Congressional Medal of Honor and looked at the Good Conduct Medal and showed it to Susan. I said, “John got this for extraordinary bravery, above and beyond the call of duty.”
Susan nodded and said something to John in a respectful tone.
John smiled, took the box from me, and snapped it closed. He put it gently back in the big chest.
I thought about my Vietnamese Cross of Gallantry, given to me by the Viet colonel who kissed both my cheeks, and I wondered if I’d actually gotten a medal for having a clean uniform or something.
Anyway, last but not least, John lifted a long object out of the chest wrapped in an oilcloth, and I knew what it was before he unwrapped it; Dai-uy John still had his M-16 automatic assault rifle, the plastic stock and hand grip glistening with oil, and the cast aluminum parts and blued steel barrel gleaming like they’d just passed a company inspection.
He held it toward me with both hands, like it was a sacred object, and our eyes met. I put my hands on the rifle, and we both clasped it for a few seconds. His smile had faded into a sort of stern and faraway look, and I think my own face had the same expression. We both nodded in remembrance of things past — the war, the missing comrades, and the defeat.
Without a word, he re-wrapped the rifle and put it back in the chest. He closed the chest and stood.
Susan and I stood, also, and we walked out of the longhouse into the overcast daylight.
John led us back to the path, and we waved to everyone on our way. At the head of the path, he said something to Susan, and she replied. She said to me, “John wishes us a safe journey, and welcomes you back to the hill country.”
I replied, “Tell John I thank him for showing me his medal, and for introducing me to his people.” I didn’t know if the Montagnards celebrated Tet, so I said, “I wish the Taoi tribe good fortune, good hunting, and happiness.”
Susan translated, John smiled, then said something. Susan turned to me and said, “He wants to know when the American soldiers are coming back.”
“How about never? Is that soon enough?” I said, “Tell him the Americans are returning only in peace, and there will be no more war.”
Susan told him, and he seemed, I thought, a little disappointed. He’d have to postpone killing Vietnamese for longer than he’d hoped.
I reached into my pocket and took out my Swiss army knife. I handed it to John, who smiled. He seemed to recognize the knife, and in fact, began pulling out the blades and the other gadgets.
I said, “That’s a Phillips head screwdriver, John. Just in case you run into any screws. This weird thing is a corkscrew for your Château Lafite Rothschild, or you can screw it into a commissar’s head, if you want.”
Susan was rolling her eyes while I showed John all the handy gadgets on the knife.
John took the dark blue scarf from his neck and put it around Susan’s neck. They exchanged some words, and we bid each other farewell.
Susan and I started down the trail.
She said, “That was fascinating… and moving. He still… well, he seems to idolize the Americans.”
“They also liked the French, which shows bad judgment on both accounts.” I added, “They just don’t like the Vietnamese, and the feeling is mutual.”
“I understand that.” She thought a moment and said, “I can’t believe I’ve been here three years, and I didn’t know anything about any of this.”
“It’s not in the Wall Street Journal or the Economic Times.”
“No, it’s not.” She asked me, “Glad you stopped?”
“You stopped. I went along to see that you didn’t wind up on a cooking spit.”
We got to the end of the path, and I said, “I’ll bet Mr. Loc is hanging by his heels from a tree with his throat slit and the dogs are lapping his blood.”
“Paul, that’s gross.”
“Sorry. I wanted to drive.”
We found the RAV, and Mr. Loc was alive and well, but looking a little annoyed, and maybe nervous.
We got back into the vehicle, and I said to Mr. Loc, “Cu di.”
Susan asked, “Is your Vietnamese coming back?”
“Yeah. Scary.” Most of my Vietnamese had to do with getting laid, but I did remember some common expressions. I said to Susan, “Sat Cong,” which means, “Kill the Communists.”
Mr. Loc did not like that, and he glanced back at me. I said, “Keep your eyes on the road.”
The bad road continued north, and we came to a small place on the map called Ta Ay, a cluster of primitive bamboo huts in a flat mountain meadow whose inhabitants looked Vietnamese. The Viets lived in the villages and cultivated the land; the tribespeople lived in the hills and mountains and lived off the land. It was fascinating, as Susan said, and under other circumstances and without a personal history of these hills, I might have been in a better mood.
We passed through another hamlet, which, according to the map, was called Thon Ke, and the road turned west toward the Laotian border and dropped into a narrow valley, then turned north again and followed this meandering mountain valley until, an hour later, we came to a low-lying area of rice paddies, and a village called Li Ton. The road here was actually the tops of wide rice paddy dikes. The Ho Chi Minh Trail. Amazing if you thought about it; more amazing now that I’d seen a piece of it.
A little more than two hours after we’d left A Luoi, we crossed a new concrete bridge at a place called Dakrong, and a few kilometers further, the Ho Chi Minh Trail intersected with Highway 9, which was two lanes of semi-paved blacktop, partly compliments of the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers. Mr. Loc turned left onto the highway, and we traveled west, toward Khe Sanh.
I said to Susan, “This road was blocked by the North Vietnamese army during the siege of Khe Sanh, from early January to April 1968. Even an armored convoy couldn’t get through. But in early April, we air-assaulted into these hills all around the besieged camp, and about a week later, an armored column with a few regiments of marines and ARVN soldiers forced the road open again and relieved the siege.”
“And you were here?”
“Yeah. The First Air Cavalry got around a lot. It’s nice to have hundreds of helicopters to take you around, but usually you don’t want to go where they’re taking you.”
We continued a short distance on Highway 9. Traffic was moderate and consisted mostly of scooters, bicycles, and produce trucks.
To the right was the plateau of Khe Sanh combat base, beyond which rose tree-covered hills, which were obscured by mist and fog. Geographically, this place resembled the A Shau Valley, though it wasn’t as remote or narrowly hemmed in by the hills.