Across the Mekong River (4 page)

Blong clasped his hands behind h
is back, his head hanging down. “There is more. Yesterday, the CIA told General Vang Pao that he and his top officers must leave the country. The Pathet Lao will take them prisoner, or worse, kill them.” A slight tremor filled his voice. “The CIA will fly the men to Thailand until things are sorted out.”

I was speechless, trying to grasp his words.
Was our country truly lost, every shred of hope gone? I could not accept this. Surely the Americans and other countries would not stand by and watch the government fall. Perhaps a compromise could still be reached.

The first rains had left narrow
cracks in the dirt path. Soon torrential downpours would erode these into deep ruts and gaping holes.

I swallo
wed hard and glanced at Blong. “Will you leave?”

“I don’t know. We’re waiting to h
ear how many planes are coming. I wanted to tell you. Maybe you want to bring your family here. Just in case.”

I
talked it over with Uncle Boua. Should we rush home and bring our family back? It was a three-day walk each way. Would there be time? Uncle thought the leaders were overreacting. Surely only the top officers in the Special Forces need worry. We had been lowly lieutenants, not that important. Why would the Pathet Lao bother with us?

Uncle was the elder of our
family, a wise man, a shaman of renown who drifted between this world and the one beyond. I trusted his judgment. We decided to stay in Long Chieng until it became clear what the Americans would do about the evacuation.

Fear
erupted as rumors circulated of Vang Pao’s departure. Hundreds and then thousands of Hmong from surrounding settlements began descending on Long Chieng, pouring out of the hills, hoping to be rescued. Men and woman pushed past one another as they hurried into town, carrying tattered cardboard boxes, bundles of clothes, and baskets filled with belongings. Children clung to their mother’s skirts, their eyes wide with confusion. An elderly man collapsed on a basket at the side of a Quonset hut and gasped for breath. A lost boy, maybe three years old, screamed for his mother, and a woman stopped to help. She had a baby on her back, another in her arms, and two older girls crowding close to her, but she took the little boy’s hand and hurried along. Others thought only of themselves, abandoning the weak.

Families settled in empty houses and on every bare patch
of ground around the air strip. They built camp fires to cook rice and laid out quilts to sleep. A hum of muted conversations, pierced by the occasional cries of babies, settled over the town. The air filled with the stench of bodies massed together in the oppressive heat. The knot in my stomach wound tighter. And more people came.

After two days of endless waiting, the familiar roar of engines filled the brilliant blu
e expanse above the mountains. Expectant murmurs rose into urgent calls as families stood and gathered their belongings. One C-130 transport appeared over the horizon, the sun reflecting off its heavy metal body and whirling blades. It circled the sky, dipped into a steep descent, and landed with a jolt. At the end of the runway, it turned around, engines still running, poised for a quick takeoff. I stood in the doorway of Blong’s office as the chaos unfolded. A lieutenant colonel stood on a box with a clipboard in his hands and called out the names of the families designated to leave. A ring of soldiers surrounded him, holding up their guns, trying to maintain control and keep the crowds back. But people drew closer, packed tight against one another. Women and children cried out. Men begged.
What about us? What about my wife and children? Please, I’ll give you all the money I have. You must help us. You must.

The pilot dropped the t
ailgate of the cavernous hull. People rushed forward, tripping over one another, shoving and screaming, overpowering the soldiers. Hundreds pushed their way up the ramp. The pilot raced to the cockpit and revved his engines, blasting dozens onto the tamarack like rocks rolling down a hill. But hundreds more pressed and shoved their way toward the ramp. Somehow the pilot and soldiers managed to beat back the crowd and close the tailgate. The engines roared as the plane rushed down the runway, wobbling and straining, barely lifting off the ground and climbing high enough to clear the mountain ridge.

Silence descended.
The waiting began as hopeful eyes turned again to the sky. Surely more planes would come. But only a twin engine Piper landed briefly and whisked away the wives and children of two colonels. Then two rickety C-47s took a few hundred more. The angry crowd erupted, fighting the soldiers, jumping into the side doors.

The first C-47 filled immediately beyond capacity, but somehow the pilot closed the doors and lifted the rattlin
g hunk of metal off the ground. The crowd turned and surged toward the second plane like a flock of birds shifting directions in one seamless dip of wings. Over the mass of bobbing heads and clawing, tangled arms, I caught sight of Blong rushing his wife and four children around the far side and into the plane’s hold. My breath caught in my throat with a mixture of happiness and envy that they should escape. But a few minutes later he stood at my side, tears streaming down his face. He waved as if somehow his wife could see him through the metal body of the plane. The doors jammed close, and the plane rolled to the end of the runway. It started up at full speed then screeched to a halt. The doors opened and dozens were pushed out like baby birds nudged from their nest. I cringed as the plane took off, its belly nearly dragging on the tarmac and over the mountain top. Blong sobbed, his eyes still searching the horizon as the hum of engines faded away. I had no words to comfort him. We both knew he might never see his family again.

Throughout the day small planes ferried the
lucky few to Thailand, and then the skies grew silent. Blong confirmed my fears. No more flights. Even if I had returned home for my family, we would not have made it back in time. We would not have been among those evacuated.

My anxiety mounted each hour as the latest rumors spread about movements of Pathet L
ao and Vietnamese troops. Then the news. In one last covert operation, the CIA had swept General Vang Pao to the safety of Thailand. His life was in imminent danger. They had given him no choice. He was shuttled out the back door of an office building into a waiting helicopter, hidden on a rise above town. No one could know. The end was that close.

Panicked
families gathered themselves up and began a mass exodus on foot, heading out on the road to Vientiane and the Thai border. Thousands more arrived from the mountains, winding their way into the base, a giant stream of ants stretching over the landscape.

Uncle Boua and I
left immediately for our village, weaving our way through the tide of men and women, young and old, carrying their children, blankets, cooking pots, baskets of rice, jewelry, clothes, whatever they could manage. Most people plodded steadily down the dirt road, bent with heavy loads and grasping the hands of crying children. Others became more and more agitated with each step, casting away belongings on the roadside, half-running and pushing past the slow ones.

On our walk home Uncle Boua and I talked at length about
leaving. Uncle could not believe it would be as terrible as expected. He said the Pathet Lao would make a show of punishing a few Hmong officers to bring fear into our hearts and quell thoughts of resistance. But life would go on. In such a war-weary country, we would turn our energies to rebuilding. Besides, he was too old to start over. What would Thailand do with so many Hmong fleeing across their border? Would the Americans take us in? Too many unanswered questions. He would stay and take his chances. I did not share his optimism, but I hoped he was right.

We reached home to find that rumors and fear had spread through Muang Cha and
to our village. My youngest brother Shone, cousin Soua, and their wives and children were preparing to leave with several members of the Yang family for Thailand. Uncle Boua urged me to go with them if I thought it best. But Yer and I talked it over that night. Uncle Boua was the elder of our family, the one who had raised me from the age of six. I could not abandon him and Auntie Nhia. It was my duty. My brother Tong insisted on staying as well.

The next week a Voice of America broadcast reported the Pathet Lao had opened fire on 10,000 Hmong as they tried to cross the Hin Heup B
ridge on the way to Vientiane. The soldiers had mowed them down with machine guns and rockets and bayonets. Hundreds died. Radio Pathet Lao told another story, reporting brave soldiers had saved the Hmong from their CIA leaders who were forcing them into exile. The announcer urged all soldiers to follow the spy activities of reactionary traitors to completely eliminate the American enemy. We knew they meant the Hmong.

Another ten days
went by. We heard from a passing farmer that communist troops had taken over Long Chieng, and former soldiers were disappearing. All the people had to attend reeducation classes. That evening Tong and I went to Uncle Boua to discuss the latest news, urging him to reconsider. As he puffed on his pipe, his eyes clouded with sadness. His shoulders slumped, doubt gnawing at him and eroding his resistance. I waited patiently for his answer. After a long silence, he shifted in his seat and nodded. We should prepare to go.

I needed to remove all traces of my
role in the Special Forces in case the Pathet Lao soldiers came to our village. It must appear that I was nothing more than a simple farmer. As dawn spread over the mountain, I folded my army uniform into a small bundle, carefully matching the creases on the pant legs, smoothing the ribbons flat on my shirt pocket, and placing my cap on top. I wrapped them in a piece of hemp cloth tied with twine then did the same with my rifle. The boys and Yer watched in silence. As I stood to leave, Fong and Fue clamored to go with me. But for this last mission, I needed to be alone. Carrying my packages and a shovel, I climbed for twenty minutes up the hill and into the woods. My legs grew heavier with each step. A light mist still covered the ground and cooled the morning air. I stopped to dig beneath an acacia tree covered in white blossoms. Sweat ran down my back as my shovel worked through the tangle of ferns and moss. When the hole measured two feet deep, I kneeled down and gently placed the packages inside. I pushed the dirt back into the hole with my hands as white petals drifted down and grazed my cheeks like soft tears. I thought once more of the men who had died and the bravery and dedication of those who fought. Here was the legacy I left them, one of fear and retreat when I had once been so proud. I buried all hope for my country.

Yer and I left lat
er that morning for Muang Cha. We needed supplies for our trek out of Laos--a flashlight and batteries, a new scythe, extra rice, additional salt to dry fish and pork. We could have managed without these things, but I hoped to learn more about Pathet Lao troop movements. We would head southwest toward the Thai border below Pakse, staying clear of the towns and villages. The walk would take at least three weeks, perhaps more if we had to hide along the way. We had no way of knowing how difficult our trip might be, how wide the enemy’s reach might extend.

But the trip to
Muang Cha changed everything. If only I hadn’t insisted on going. If only we left that afternoon with whatever we had. If only we escaped while the border was still relatively easy to cross.
If only
.

YER

Always war in Laos. Long before I was born. The village elders told stories. Foreigners from near and far intruded. Thai, Burmese, and Khmer, later French and Japanese. They wanted to steal the land. Then Vietnamese rebels crossed the border and stirred up even more trouble. I never understood. What made these men do this? Since I was a little girl, conflicts came and went like cycles of the moon. Small changes hardly noticed. It started with rumors. We heard from a passing villager of fighting in another province. In time the conflict grew closer until we could no longer ignore it.

We lived in the mountains of Xieng Khouang Province, in the middle of northern Laos. A beautiful place of gentle streams and green forests. On a clear day from the peak above our village I could see the broad Plain of Jars with its a
ncient stone jars, some as tall as two men. Lao villages and flooded rice patties dotted the valley. Beyond were the houses and Buddhist temple of Xieng Khouang town. We built our Hmong villages on the steep hillsides. Working our fields and tending our animals. Only our land mattered.

Right after Pao and I married, war onc
e again spilled into our lives. The fighting began to the east on the Vietnam border and slowly stretched one town into another. The young soldier Vang Pao traveled through the villages, calling on the Hmong to stop the communists before they took away our freedom. Pao was reluctant to join, hoping for a peaceful end. But after the Pathet Lao and North Vietnamese troops occupied the Plain of Jars, Pao and the other men in our family said enough. They joined the Special Forces. After the rice harvest in the twelfth month, my husband left to train in Thailand. I was only seventeen.

At
first life went on as before. I shared a house with my mother-in-law and Pao’s youngest sister Sri, not yet married. So it did not feel as empty. With our cousins, aunts, and old Uncle Mang, we hiked to the fields to plant and weed and harvest the crops. Evenings we chatted and laughed as we cooked dinner and sewed by the fire. I took comfort in the routines, the satisfaction of turning the soil and nurturing tiny sprouts into strong healthy plants. Long hours of labor left my muscles sore with a satisfying tiredness. The rhythm of the seasons tempered my loneliness and worries about Pao.

Every second Friday, Sri and I hiked two and
a half hours to Xieng Khouang. We traded our vegetables and embroidered cloth at the market for salt, silk thread, or metal tools. I kept a wary eye on the Pathet Lao and Vietnamese soldiers. They acted friendly, but I was not fooled by their false smiles and easy words. They puffed out promises of freeing our people from the corrupt Lao government. I had to smile and pretend to agree. Inside I hated them, knowing one of their bullets might take my husband’s life.

There were happy days when Pao r
eturned home for short visits. He could not tell me what he did, but I knew he was fighting in the jungle. Not so far away. One season passed into the next for two more New Years. At last we were blessed with our first child, Fong.

By the end of the next year I seldom went to town
. It was too dangerous. Bloated, green American planes roared overhead, scattering bombs along the Plain of Jars. The explosions echoed through the valley and up the hills like thunder. Huge clouds filled the sky with smoke and the smell of burning metal. I worried for the Lao villagers in the valley caught in the path of the bombs.

Communist troops expanded into the mountains like wild mustard plants spreading through a field steali
ng nourishment from the crops. We heard stories that the soldiers were searching for families of the Special Forces.

One morning in October, Pathet Lao sold
iers marched into our village as I was feeding the pigs and chickens. Two were Lao. One was Hmong. From Sam Nuea he said. He was short and wide with large ears that stuck out and a broad flat nose. His eyes narrowed as he looked at me with a mixture of hatred and hunger. I wondered what had brought us to this, Hmong fighting Hmong. Surely he must have seen my fear as I picked up Fong and held him close. The man ran his finger back and forth over the trigger of his rifle as he spoke.
What hot weather now. How old is your baby? How are your fields? Where is your husband today?
My legs quivered. But my tiny mother-in-law came to my side, standing very straight, giving me strength. For the first time in my life I lied:
He went to another village to buy a cow
.
He should be back tomorrow.
The other women gave excuses for their husbands and sons. The Lao soldiers walked into our houses and poked among our things. I could hardly breathe. At last they turned to leave. The Hmong soldier stared at me, barely smiling.
We are winning the struggle, sister. Only those who join the people’s cause will be safe
.

They came again in
the second month of the New Year. We were working in the fields, slicing the buds of the opium poppies and collecting the thick, milky sap. I had Fong, almost a year old, tied to my back. He bounced and kicked, babbling unformed words in my ear. Sri was telling me again about Chor, the boy from a neighboring village. He had been courting her since they met at the New Year’s celebration. As soon as Pao returned home again, Chor would send his marriage negotiators.

Auntie Nhia’s son Gia, only five
years old, stepped into the woods to relieve himself. We heard a loud crack like an axe splitting a log. Gia ran into the field, shouting there were soldiers in a ravine. They were cutting a path up the hill. One had fired a rifle at him. I dropped my knife on the ground and raced with the others into the forest. We ran up through the trees and over the rocky peak. My sides ached. I thought my lungs would burst. We did not stop until we reached a thick grove of bamboo and buried ourselves in the middle. I put Fong to my breast to quiet his cries. That day we were lucky. They did not find us.

Two months passed.
This time they caught us unaware as we harvested the last of the corn. Soldiers ran into the field yelling, firing guns.
I thought I heard someone laughing. We fled into the trees once more. Sri clung to my arm, pulling on me harder and harder until I stopped. She fell slowly, first to her knees then on her side. A bullet had passed through her middle, leaving a large, red hole in her back. Blood gushed onto the mossy ground. My hands shook as I stroked her cheek, the tears spilling down my face. She asked me to say goodbye to Chor. My mother-in-law collapsed next to us, rocking back and forth, moaning.

Smoke drifted through the trees. The soldi
ers had set fire to our field. When at last it seemed safe, we carried Sri back to the village to bury her. We found our houses burned and the rice and animals gone. From that day on, time and seasons had no meaning. Survival meant escape. Running away. Farther and farther away. Hiding in the jungle.

We walked through th
e night and half the next day. We were fourteen women, ten children, and Uncle Mang. It took all my effort to convince my mother-in-law to come. She wanted to die right there next to her youngest child. But I held her arm and led her along the path.

On another, taller mountain deep in the woods, we built small shelters, tying bamboo poles together against the trees
and covering them with thatch. I think we were there six months, maybe longer. We could only plant a small vegetable patch and search for food in the forest. But somehow our husbands found us and brought whatever supplies they could carry. Sometimes they sent small planes that buzzed overhead and circled low, dropping bags of rice and baskets with live chickens that floated down in big silk umbrellas. The American pilots waved to us.

The Pathet Lao always followed. Soldiers surprised us one evening in June as we came back from gat
hering mushrooms and firewood. My belly was beginning to bulge with our second baby. Fong was strapped to my back. Bullets flew and rang out from every direction. I had no thoughts: I took my mother-in-law’s arm and dragged her along. We ran across the wooded hill and down a knoll to a stream, crouching down in a patch of high grass in the water. I held a hand over Fong’s mouth, but he seemed too stunned to cry out, his eyes enormous as he stared up at me. I smelled the soldiers coming, their sweat sour with garlic and hot peppers. Their footsteps sounded like galloping horses as they trampled through the brush. I was sure they would hear my heart pounding. Minutes or maybe an hour passed, and still they pushed through the growth. Fong fell asleep on my shoulder. My mother-in-law sat down in the stream, her eyes closed as if drifting into another world. My legs ached from the icy water. At last the men gave up, swearing vile oaths as they headed down the hill. They killed my sister-in-law Pa, Tong’s wife, and Auntie Kee and her daughter Gao that day.

The
following year American planes filled the skies as never before, day and night, hour after hour. Thousands of bombs rained down over every bit of land in the Plain of Jars and surrounding hills. The sky became so thick with smoke we gasped for air. The night carried a strange, yellow-red glow from the explosions. The bounty of the earth was destroyed.

On a sunny afternoon in July we planted long beans, yams, and taro in a sm
all clearing near to our huts. A single engine plane passed over and then circled back. I looked up, hoping for a parachute with bags of rice. Uncle Mang wiped the sweat from his brow on his sleeve and waved to the pilot. The plane dove down. A spray of bullets danced across the ground like crickets hopping through the dirt. Uncle Mang’s eyes widened, his arm still lifted, his hand in the air. Blood began to spurt from his neck and chest. He collapsed on the ground. Then he let go of his last breath.

No
where was safe. American bombs kept falling. They did not distinguish farmer from soldiers, friends from enemies. I did not understand. Lao villagers ran into the mountains to take cover in caves or dig trenches in the woods. Thousands died. No time to bury their dead. Nothing remained of their houses, animals, fields. All blown to pieces.

We took shelter in a large cave with other families
fleeing the madness. It was early November, the time of the rice harvest. But there was no rice. We could no longer farm at all. I felt like a plant yanked by its roots from the earth, cut off from this last shred of normal life. Many did not survive, killed by bombs or fever or hunger. One morning my mother-in-law did not wake. I understood her souls did not want to live in this world any longer.

Pao appeared one night in December after a two-month absence.
I could not stop crying when I saw him. Through the years and separations, I had never complained, never told him of my terror and suffering. He led those of us who remained to Long Chieng. The Special Forces had recently won the base back from the Pathet Lao after a long and bloody battle. We lived in a small hut near the air strip. I never slept more than an hour or two at a time, afraid of what might come next.

It was my babies that kept me from giving up--Fong, so sturdy and brave, and little Fue, a
child bursting with happiness and love. I kept them beside me, Fue tied on my back and Fong attached to my waste by a rope around his wrist. I never let them play farther then a few feet from where I worked. As they grew older, they helped gather plants and grubs in the forest. They learned quickly to keep quiet when we hid in the trees. There was never enough food. Many days I did not eat so they would not go hungry. I prayed to our ancestors and made offerings every morning. I know it was my father, long gone to the other world, who watched over and protected us.

Five more years before t
he war ended at last. A month later my first beautiful girl, Nou, was born. We moved to a new village and life unfolded into a familiar pattern. Two happy years passed until the Pathet Lao took control of the country. When Uncle Boua finally agreed to leave, my husband held me close in bed that night, stroking my hair. He murmured in my ear, his voice soothing and reassuring. We could stay in Thailand until the situation improved. The communists could not last long. The people would see through their lies. We would come back.

I could not imagine life in a
nother place. Now, we would never again go to our fields. Never harvest the crops I had lovingly tended. This was our land. The fertile earth, forests, streams. These were the source of our being.

The next morning I gathered clothes, bedding, silver jewelry, an
d bags of rice for the journey. I packed everything I thought we could carry.