Highways to a War (50 page)

Maybe, Mike said. But I’m going to keep on hoping that’s not so. You should do the same, Count.

Dmitri’s voice rose slightly above a whisper: it was weary and small, and suddenly drained of its life.

I try, Snow—but I am getting very tired. I think I am in for one of my malaria attacks.

We’ll get you through, mate. Right, Jim?

Mike’s pale face had turned towards me under its mosquito net, and I roused myself. Right, I said. Don’t worry, Count. Hang in there.

There was silence for a time: nothing to be heard but the rustling of leaves in a breeze, the whine of mosquitoes, and the sounds of other insects. Then I heard Dmitri again, very soft, like a child.

Hey, Jim: where would you like to be now?

It was a game we often played, to help ourselves along.

Sitting in the York in Singapore, I said. With a long cool beer, and Old Charlie breaking up the ice.

Old York is gone now, Dmitri said.

So is Old Charlie, Mike said. A lot of things are gone.

Whatever happens, Dmitri said, we had some good times—right?

Right, we both said, and were quiet again. We had meant what we said, and it was important to us. I drifted into sleep, feeling comforted.

 

 

The next day, the march got much harder.

We’d now been moving down the Trail for seven days, and were into the first week of May. The monsoon was arriving, and the afternoon downpours were turning the surface of the Trail to a thick red mud: mud that sucked at our sandals, making it difficult to walk. Soon these rains would get heavier and more frequent, and I dreaded what this would mean. Never dry, we would get foot sores and fungus, and there would be mud, mud, mud.

Turning, I found that Dmitri had lagged far behind, and I stopped to wait for him. So did Mike; and Weary halted to watch all three of us, while the rest of the patrol went ahead. We were always watched.

Dmitri trudged up to us slowly, looking very pale and tired. I remembered what he’d said the night before about his malaria coming on, and Mike obviously remembered this too: he asked him whether he was sick. But Dmitri shook his head.

I’m OK, he said. He is the one with malaria.

And he jerked a thumb at Weary, who stood with his rifle drooping to the ground. Weary’s eyelids were half closed now; he was a bad yellow color, his face shining with sweat, and he was shivering in regular spasms. We all knew the symptoms, and looked at him with concern: that he walked at all was remarkable. Mike spoke to him in Vietnamese, pointing to his rucksack. He was asking to take it.

Weary looked baffled and uneasy, shaking his head. But Mike took the pack from him; he tried to take his Kalashnikov too, but Weary looked so alarmed that Mike grinned and gave this up. He slung Weary’s rucksack from one shoulder, and was now marching with two packs.

After a few minutes, Captain Danh turned and saw what had happened; he stopped, frowning, waiting for Mike to come up to him. What are you doing? he asked.

He’s sick, Mike said. Malaria. He should lie down.

We cannot stop. Our medical officer will give him tablets, Danh said. But you cannot carry two packs.

It’s no trouble, Mike said. Let me do it.

Captain Danh hesitated. Then he said: If you wish. Thank you for telling me: he is a man who does not complain.

As soon as Doc had given Weary some tablets, we moved off again on the muddy red track through a swampy country. There were thick clumps of palm trees here; the rain had stopped, but the shining green palm fronds dripped like leaky taps. We were all in single file except for Captain Danh and Mike, who walked together at the head of the line. I watched through the gloomy green light as Mike bent to speak in Danh’s ear, gesturing in that way he had, but only with one hand, since the extra pack impeded him. Once, Danh turned and looked at him and laughed.

I began to find Mike’s powers of endurance awesome. Like Dmitri, I was getting more and more fatigued and weak. I’m generally pretty strong, but I wasn’t used to functioning on starvation rations like these, or to marching for such long periods without rest. I’d begun to develop a blister on my right foot—and this is one of the worst things that can happen on such a march. And I too feared malaria: bouts of it came to me occasionally, as they did to Dmitri. In normal circumstances, with the right drugs available, this would have meant a few days’ inconvenience; but going down with malaria here would mean being left behind at an NVA rest station, since the unit would certainly not stop. And under such conditions, this could mean getting very ill indeed—or even death.

These were things I tried not to think about. No such fears worried Mike, apparently; his years with the ARVN had made him as tough as these North Vietnamese. And even some of the soldiers had a strained look now, their faces pallid and yellowish. They made jokes all the time about being hungry.

 

 

That evening, we had our first encounter with the Khmer Rouge.

We had come out of the swampy country, and the red road widened: it was coming on dark, and although there were paddy fields here, there was no sign of life nearby: no lights. Turning a bend, we found a halted North Vietnamese convoy: a row of four military trucks, Soviet-built, solid and old-fashioned, with bicycles tied to their radiators. They were filled with NVA troops in their baggy green cotton uniforms and sun helmets—at least a third of whom were young women.

The lead truck had its headlights on and its engine running. Near it, like shadows, stood a dozen or more figures in black pajamas. They were slung with AK-47s, and one of them was talking to an NVA officer in a sun helmet. They turned to stare at our unit, examining Mike, Dmitri and me with great curiosity.

I had not seen Khmer Rouge at close quarters before. They were all very young, except for the man talking to the officer: brown-skinned Khmer peasants, with long wavy hair. All of them wore the red-and-white checked
krama:
either as a scarf or as a turban. From their looks, I suspected that they came from forest and mountain regions which had very little contact with the outside world; and what was most noticeable about them was a look they had in their faces. How can I explain this look? All of them had it. In the lights of the truck, which put strong shadows on their faces, their eyes seemed to shine with anger at something: something they didn’t understand; something which made them all the more hostile because they didn’t understand it. It was as though something larger than themselves had taken possession of their spirits, filling them with malice. I don’t say this because of what they have done since; I saw it then. More than anything else, they reminded me of a street gang: the sort of street gang you have to fear.

We halted at the edge of the road, and I noticed that all our soldiers were fingering their rifles. Captain Danh had walked over to the NVA officer and the Khmer Rouge leader, accompanied by Doc and Lenin. He produced a document from a pocket of his uniform, and the Khmer Rouge leader examined it in the headlights, while Captain Danh spoke to him in Khmer, smiling pleasantly. Danh was obviously accustomed to this situation.

Next to me, Weary suddenly muttered in my ear in Vietnamese, looking all the while at the Khmer Rouge.

They say they have a right to some of these arms, he said. They say that the Chinese send the arms for them. They are thieves.

After a prolonged conversation, Danh and Doc and Lenin began to walk back to us, and the NVA officer attached to the convoy called an order.

A stack of automatic rifles and some Chinese B-40 rocket launchers were unloaded from some of the trucks, and the Khmer Rouge began to gather these up. Then, without looking back, they made off into the darkness among the palm trees and turned into shadows again.

I was hoping against hope that we would now ride down the Trail in the convoy. But the trucks were pretty obviously full, and we weren’t taken aboard. They began to pull out, the young male and female soldiers staring at us curiously as they went. One or two women smiled, and a group of young men waved to us.

As they jolted off down the Trail, I watched them go with a growing despair. I should not be giving way like this, I thought; and I resolved to harden myself. But I was worried about the blister, which had now begun to throb.

 

 

There had not been much food available at the last relay station, and that night we had nothing to eat but rice and some dried fish. But we were camped near a village, whose lights we could see through trees, and Prince and Turtle went off to see whether food was to be had there.

Weary didn’t want to eat. While the rest of us sat around the pot, he lay sweating on his poncho in the full grip of malaria. The first stage of it had also come to Dmitri; he sat shivering in spasms, his face sweating, hugging his knees and looking ahead of him with a fixed stare.

Captain Danh had ordered Doc to give both Weary and Dmitri some malaria and vitamin tablets. Now he frowned at Volkov across the fire, and then looked at Mike and me. I am concerned that Mr. Dmitri is not fit to walk tomorrow, he said. We must get to the border in the next three days, to make connection with my superiors. I am under orders: I cannot stop. We may have to leave him at a rest station.

The Count gave him a sickly grin, and spoke with an effort. You can leave our whole three-man team behind, if you like, Captain. We don’t want to be separated.

I cannot do that without leaving three of my men with you —and I cannot really afford this, Danh said. Also, I would not like you to fall into the hands of Khmer Rouge, which is possible. He paused, looking at us without expression. Some of them are not civilized, he said.

Prince and Turtle appeared out of the darkness, walking into the light of the low fire. Each of them carried a live chicken by the legs, and the soldiers set up a cheer, talking and laughing excitedly: this was a feast. The chickens flapped their wings and faintly squawked.

But Captain Danh held up his hand, speaking to Prince and Turtle in Vietnamese. He spoke clearly, and I was able to follow. Where did you get these chickens, he asked. Did you pay the villagers?

Prince’s handsome face went sullen. No, he said. They are bad people in that village. They would sell us nothing. They say they have not enough. So we took these. All of us are very hungry, and getting weak.

No. You will take the chickens back, Danh said. His face was stern; his lips tight.

The soldiers around the fire went quiet; and Prince and Turtle stood holding their chickens, staring at Captain Danh. Turtle’s round face had a comical, puzzled look, like that of a dog refused a walk he has been promised. But it was not amusing; we all wanted the chickens too badly.

Do what I tell you, Danh said. This is not the way we deal with the people; you know this. We do not come to rob them; we come to free them.

The two men turned away without a word, and trudged off into the darkness. I waited for some mutter of protest from around the fire; even perhaps for anger. But there was none; only silence.

It was then that I knew that the North would win the war. Dmitri was in his hammock before Mike and I were, and we stood beside him. His malaria was coming on fast now; he shook violently, and sweat streamed down his face and soaked his shirt. His half-open eyes were pale and blind, staring up at us, and I saw that he was only half conscious.

Mike wiped Dmitri’s forehead with a handkerchief, bending over him. Ride it out, Count, he said. It’ll pass by morning.

Dmitri answered in a small voice, and we both bent nearer to hear. Just don’t leave me to those fucking Khmer Rouge, he said. You saw their goddamn faces.

We won’t leave you, mate, Mike said. You’re too valuable. We might be able to trade you for something at the border.

We both tried to joke and reassure him, but I don’t think he heard us any more; he was looking straight up into the overcast sky, his eyes rolling back in his head.

Lying in my hammock, I hoped that the rain wouldn’t come back during the night. I had found that the blister on my foot was turning into an open sore, and it was throbbing badly now. Doc had put Mercurochrome on it; he had no adhesive bandages, and he’d wrapped a cotton bandage around it, but I doubted that this would stay on. He had frowned and clicked his tongue, and he spoke to me in Vietnamese. This could stop you walking, he said. It could spread and turn into jungle fungus—especially if the rain sets in.

I knew this was true; I had seen what happened to soldiers in the rainy season: to both Vietnamese and American GIs. It was the time of skin fungus; of ulcers that didn’t heal because they were never dry. But I also knew as Dmitri did that I must keep on; and I didn’t speak about it to Mike. In my head, I kept seeing the black shadows of the Khmer Rouge.

For a time, Mike and I lay in our hammocks without speaking. The Professor sat on guard a few yards away, leaning against a palm, his head on his chest, rifle across his knees. There was a moon showing through a break in the cloud, and we could see Dmitri’s white, streaming face under the mosquito net, his eyes closed. He was delirious, tossing his head and muttering.

I’m afraid he may not make it tomorrow, I said.

He’ll make it, Mike said. Even if I have to carry him.

I saw from his face that he meant this literally. We’ll both carry him, I said. But I’m getting a little worried, Snow.

So am I, he said.

This surprised me. He hadn’t admitted it before; it wasn’t like him. He pushed his net aside and lit a cigarette.

Sometimes I think we may never get back to Phnom Penh, I said.

I hadn’t meant to say it: if I hadn’t been low from hunger and fear about my foot, I wouldn’t have, and I expected Mike to dismiss it.

But all he said was: You could be right, mate. But don’t think about it.