“Beats me.”
“I mean, half the men who were with Mr. Tram died, and he survived. Ted Buckley survived, you survived. Do you think it was fate? Or skill? Or luck? What?”
“I really don’t know. The dead, if they could speak, would tell you why they died, but the living have no answers.”
She took my hand, and we rode in silence down Highway 9 through the peaceful valley of Khe Sanh, which means the Green Valley, and which must have seemed like a cruel joke to the twenty thousand North Vietnamese who came here and watched the valley turn red with their blood and the bomb-blasted earth, gray with ash, and black with rotting corpses.
And the South Vietnamese, who were fighting for their land, must have wondered if inviting the Americans to help them was a blessing or a curse because no one can level the terrain like Americans, and the destruction must have been beyond anything the South Vietnamese could comprehend.
And for the six thousand American marines surrounded and besieged at Khe Sanh combat base, so far from home, they must have wondered how they wound up in the epicenter of hell on earth.
And Khe Sanh, the Green Valley, had passed into military legend for the marines, right up there with the Halls of Montezuma, the Shores of Tripoli, Okinawa and Iwo Jima, and all the other blood-soaked battlefields around the world.
And for the First Air Cavalry Division, casualties were mercifully light, victory was claimed, we put another battle streamer on our regimental flags, received a commendation from the president, and flew into the A Shau Valley, where fate awaited us in yet another dark and misty place.
I looked at the countryside as we passed through the valley, and I saw it was green again, and life had returned, coffee and vegetables grew over the bones, and the human race marched on toward something hopefully better.
Yet, standing there on that plateau, I knew that I, and Ted, and Mr. Tram could hear the whispers of ghosts on the wind, and the distant sound of that bugle that split the quiet night and roused the beast in each man’s heart.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
We continued east on Highway 9. In the hills, I could see acres of fire and smoke, like the war had returned, but then I remembered that some of the Montagnards practiced slash-and-burn agriculture.
The mouth of the valley widened and the hills on both sides retreated into the distance. The landscape became less verdant the farther east we traveled.
Around us were flat, open stretches of scrub brush and some hardscrabble farms. I recalled seeing this from the air as the armada of helicopters, in nice neat formations, carried us to the hilltop landing zones of Khe Sanh.
I said to Susan, “The DMZ is about five kilometers north of here. This entire strip of land south of the DMZ, from the coast to the Laotian border, was the marine area of operations. The marines set up a series of firebases from Cua Viet on the coast to Khe Sanh in the east. This whole stretch of land was fought over for a decade, and the marines said that DMZ meant Dead Marine Zone.”
Susan asked, “Did it always look this bleak?”
I replied, “I don’t know. This might be the result of defoliation, napalm, and high explosives.” I added, “The motto of the defoliation people was, ‘Only We Can Prevent Forests.’” I had thought that was funny once, but it didn’t seem funny anymore.
We came to the former marine base called the Rockpile, a towering, seven-hundred-foot-high rock formation, which we could see to our left as the road swung east again.
We continued on, and I saw a sign near a dirt road to the right that said Camp Carroll. A mini-bus was coming toward Highway 9 from the dirt road, and on the side of the bus it said DMZ Tours.
I remarked, “DMZ World.” I said to Susan, “When I was back here for Part Two in 1972, Camp Carroll had been turned over to the South Vietnamese army as we were trying to turn the whole war over to the South Viets. During the Easter Offensive of ’72, the South Viet commander of Camp Carroll surrendered to the North Viets without a shot fired. We heard about this down in Saigon, and we couldn’t believe it at first. The whole garrison just laid down their arms.”
It was then, I recalled, that I knew that as soon as the last American soldier left, the South Vietnamese would lose the war, and all the American blood that had been spilled here was wasted.
We continued on and passed through the town of Cam Lo, which would never be a picture on a postcard. There were a number of DMZ Tour buses parked on the street near a café, and I said to Susan, “Just north of here is Con Thien firebase, which as you know means the Hill of Angels, and where a high school buddy of mine was killed.”
We left Cam Lo, passed the turnoff for Con Thien, and continued east.
The landscape hadn’t improved much, and the sky was even grayer as we came toward the coast.
There were a few buildings on both sides of the road now, and there was even a decent-looking four-story stucco hotel with a big banner sign that said DMZ Visitor Welcome Here — Rooftop Restaurant Sees DMZ. I said to Mr. Loc, “Dung lai.”
He glanced back at me and pulled over.
Susan and I got out and walked back to the hotel, named the Dong Truong Son. The lobby was small but new, and we took the one elevator up to the rooftop restaurant.
It was well past lunchtime, and not yet the cocktail hour, so no one was there, except a young man who had to be the waiter because he was sleeping in a chair.
Susan and I took a table by the low wall of the covered restaurant where we had a panoramic view to the north.
I knew this place; I’d seen it from the ground and from the air, I’d seen it on maps, and I still saw it in my mind. I said to Susan, “That’s the Cua Viet River, which runs out to the South China Sea over there. To the east is Con Thien on the Cam Lo River, and all along the Cam Lo were smaller fire support bases, starting with Alpha One to the east, Alpha Two, Three, and Four.” I pointed and said, “Beyond the Cam Lo River, you can see the Ben Hai River, which runs right through the center of the old DMZ at the 17th Parallel, which was the border that partitioned North and South Vietnam. I’ll be going that way tomorrow.”
She didn’t reply.
Susan and I looked out over the still devastated landscape, and from up here, I could see the telltale ponds, some of them running in a straight line, evenly spaced, so there was no mistaking that they were created by a bomb pattern.
She said, “It’s bleak. So much different than around Saigon and Nha Trang.”
“I had the same feeling when I came from Bong Son in January ’68. We came into the winter monsoon, then the Tet Offensive, then Khe Sanh, and the A Shau. Rain, fog, mist, mud, gray skies, scorched earth, and too many corpses. I remember thinking that my father may have had it easier fighting the Germans in France in the summer of ’44, although I never said that to him.”
“Your father was in World War II?”
“He was an infantryman, just like me. The Brenners pride themselves on never having had an officer in the family, or anyone with a safe military job. We’re just South Boston cannon fodder for the wars. I lost an uncle in Korea.”
Susan said, “My father was an air force officer in Korea. A flight surgeon.” She added, “As I said in Saigon, I think you’d like each other.”
“Fathers have a tough time liking guys who are having sex with their daughters.”
“I’ve never had sex. I’m still a virgin. Ask my father.”
I smiled. “Well, then there’s the age difference.”
“Paul, I’m past thirty — my parents wouldn’t mind if you were a Civil War veteran. They’re desperate.” She added, “So am I, or I wouldn’t bother with you.”