Historically, Khe Sanh was a place where, like the A Shau and Dien Bien Phu, a great Western army had gathered in a remote, godforsaken valley, to do battle with the Vietnamese. Dien Bien Phu had been a decisive military defeat, while Khe Sanh and the A Shau had been at best a military stalemate, and in the end, a psychological setback for the Americans, who believed that a tie score was no substitute for victory.
We passed by the plateau of the old combat base and came to the town of Khe Sanh, which, like A Luoi, had disappeared during the war, but Brigadoon-like, had reappeared years later.
The sky was still gloomy and overcast, and this was the way I remembered it in April of 1968, a sky as gray and heavy as my mood had been, a place where the stench of thousands of dead bodies hinted at your own fate.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
We drove into the town of Khe Sanh, where substantial buildings of stucco and red tile roofs were springing up everywhere on well-laid-out streets.
We pulled into a big square where a large market building was under construction. Obviously, this was a showplace town, a place with an evocative name that the government wanted to look good for the tourists and newspeople. And, in fact, there were five tour buses parked in the square and dozens of Western tourists were wandering around the market stalls, probably trying to figure out why they were here in this remote corner of the country.
Mr. Loc pulled into a gas station, and Susan and I got out of the vehicle and stretched. I said, “I need a cold beer.”
She said something to Mr. Loc as he pumped gas, and we headed across the square toward an outdoor café.
As we walked, Susan asked me, “This wasn’t the base, was it?”
“No. We passed it on the way in — that high plateau. Khe Sanh combat base took its name from this town that no longer existed at the time. We’ll go up to the base later.”
There were a number of outdoor stalls on the way toward my beer, and Susan, true to form, had to stop at most of them. A lot of the stalls sold two-kilo bags of coffee, which must be the local produce, and some stalls had pineapples and vegetables. There were a cluster of stalls that sold war souvenirs, mostly junk, like jewelry made from scraps of brass shell casings. I spotted some 105 millimeter brass shell casings with flowers growing in them, a mixed metaphor if ever there was one. There were bud vases, which had once been .50 caliber machine gun shell casings, plus the short, squat shell casings of grenade launchers that were being sold as drinking cups with handles welded on them.
Susan said, “Where did all this stuff come from?”
I said, “The United States of America.”
“My God, there’s so much of it.”
“It was a hundred-day siege. This is probably a minute’s worth of ordnance expenditure.”
She wandered over to a stall that had bits and pieces of armaments— plastic stocks from M-16 rifles, the release levers and pins of hand grenades, the cardboard telescopic tubes of M-72 light anti-tank rockets, and so forth. Plus, there were plastic canteens, GI web gear, ammo pouches, bayonet scabbards, belt buckles, and all sorts of odds and ends, the archaeological evidence of an army that once fought here, for sale now as souvenirs to the survivors, who might want to take home a piece of hell.
Susan questioned me about the bits and pieces, what they were and what they had been used for. I answered, then said, “Cold beer.”
“Just a minute. What’s this?”
I looked at what she was holding and said, “That happens to be the canvas carrying case of an entrenching tool. You clip it on your web belt, and the shovel blade fits right inside.”
She put it down and walked to another stall where a family of Montagnards was selling crafts. She whispered to me, “Paul, do you know what tribe this is?”
They were dressed in bright blue and red clothing with elaborate embroidery, and the women had their hair in huge piles on top of their heads, bundled in brightly colored scarves. The ladies wore huge hoop earrings and were smoking long pipes. I said to Susan, “I think they’re from California.”
“You’re a wiseass. What tribe are they from?”
“How the hell do I know? They’re all Montagnards. Ask them.”
She spoke to an old lady in Vietnamese, and both of them were surprised that they each knew Vietnamese. Susan chatted with the old woman, then said to me, “Her Vietnamese is hard to understand.”
“So is yours.”
The whole family was gathered around now, talking away, the ladies puffing on pipes, the men smoking cigarettes. They discussed Susan’s Taoi tribe scarf and showed her their more brightly colored scarves. At some point they started looking at me, and I could tell that Susan was informing them that I was once here.
A very short old man with bow legs approached me, dressed in an orange sort of tunic with a yellow sash around his waist. He took my hands and looked into my eyes, and we stared at each other. His hands were like leather, and so was his face. He said something, and Susan said to me, “He says he was an American soldier.”
“Really? I don’t think he meets the minimum height requirement.”
He kept talking, and Susan translated as he spoke. “He says he fought for the Americans with… the green berets… he spent seven years with them… they paid him well… gave him a fine rifle and knife… he killed… many, many… he said beaucoup, beaucoup… you hear that?”
The old man said, “Beaucoup, beaucoup, vee-cee—” He made a cutting motion across his throat, which I understood very well, having done it myself. I said to Susan, “Ask him if he still has his rifle.”
She asked him and he looked at me and nodded almost imperceptibly.
So, I’m standing there, looking at this incredibly wrinkled old face with narrow slit eyes, and we’re holding hands in the Khe Sanh town square, and we don’t have much in common, except the bond of war, which can never be broken.
Susan said, “He wants to know if you know Captain Bob, his commanding officer.”
I replied, “Tell him I once met Captain Bob in America, and that he’s doing well, and he speaks often of the bravery of his Montagnard soldiers.”
Susan translated this, and the old man totally bought it. He squeezed my hands, then went into the stall and came out with a bronze Montagnard bracelet, which you can’t buy, but which they’ll give you if they like you or if you’re brave. He opened the thin bracelet, put it on my left wrist, and squeezed it closed. He stepped back and saluted me. I returned the salute.
By now, we had a few Americans around us, plus a few Viets who didn’t look happy with this.
I said to Susan, “Tell him thank you, and tell him that Captain Bob and I will be back to organize another Montagnard army.”
She said something to the old man, he smiled, and we shook hands.
Susan absolutely had to have six scarves and sashes of multi hues, and for the first time since she’d been in Vietnam, she didn’t argue price, but gave the old lady a ten.
Susan wanted to take pictures, of course, so she asked the Montagnards if that was all right, and they said it was. I said to Susan, “They’ll cut your head off.” But she took pictures anyway, and they didn’t cut her head off. We all posed for shots, wearing scarves around our necks, then bid one another farewell, and I made directly for the café.
Susan said, “They’re from the Bru tribe. Let me see your bracelet.”
I held my arm out, like a sleepwalker.
She examined the simple bracelet and asked me, “Is there any significance to this?”
I replied, “It’s a token of friendship. I actually have one at home. Now I have two.”