Highways to a War (52 page)

I will not make it across there, I thought.

I stood clinging to my stick, swaying, knowing that I would fall into the mud at last, and not get up. My fear came through a screen: fear felt by somebody else. If the B-52s bomb me, let them, I thought. In a way, I wanted it.

The bombs sounded again, and the earth shook. But they were still at a good distance: not yet near us. Mike had turned to look for me, and halted. Even he was sickly white now, his eyes dark-shadowed and staring with fatigue, his chest heaving. Dmitri had stopped automatically, holding to Mike’s shirt like a child; I doubt that he knew what was happening. Their green uniforms and cotton hats were red with mud and black with rain. Lenin stopped too, and watched us with a grin that was not a grin, tilting his rifle.

Di di mau,
he shouted.

We didn’t answer; we panted; and anyway, the rain was almost too loud for us to make ourselves heard. Mike was holding out his hand, and I took it. He pulled me close to him, and shouted.

Come on, Jim, grab hold of my shirt.

No, I said. Help Dmitri.

You too, he shouted. I’m not leaving you. Grab hold.

His eyes were a washed-out blue in the rain, but they gleamed and commanded me. I took hold of his shirt, and he turned and started forward with Dmitri and me both holding on. Yes, he dragged us both, like a buffalo.

But then Dmitri fell. He fell suddenly, and lay still on his side in the mud, his eyes closed, shivering. The malaria had finally taken over, and he was unconscious. We stood looking down at him while Lenin waved his Kalashnikov at us, urging us on and shouting his
Di di mau!
He yelled some more words in Vietnamese, and I understood that he was telling us to leave Dmitri behind.

But Mike stood in front of Dmitri, his legs apart, and spoke in English.

No. We’re not leaving him, he called.

And Lenin answered him in English, which he’d never done before. So he did speak it. Hysterical anger was in his voice.

Go now! he shouted.
Finish,
this man! Go!

No, Mike shouted.

Head lowered, he looked at Lenin from under his dripping hat, and again he seemed to me like a buffalo: one that would charge.

Captain Danh would stop this happening, I thought, but he’s too far away to see. And all the time I was expecting more bombs to fall. But none did: the bombers had been farther off than they sounded, and must have passed on.

Lenin leveled his rifle at Mike’s chest. I saw that he was losing control, and would probably shoot. He was not like the others: he would do it. I believe he wanted to, and wanted to leave Volkov to die, because of the things he had heard Dmitri say around the rice pot. I began to plan how I might go for his gun, knowing that I was probably too weak to succeed, but also knowing I would try. Because of the nausea, I didn’t really care if I was shot: I would have half been glad of it.

Go! Lenin shouted to Mike. Go! He jerked the gun upwards, and I saw him stiffening, ready to fire.

Mike shook his head. You’ll have to shoot me first, he called.

I got ready to jump for the gun, my heart hitting in my chest; but then I saw that Mike was slowly squatting down next to Volkov, his eyes never leaving Lenin’s. He picked Dmitri up and began to carry him, staggering forward.

Lenin watched him, his eyes shining with anger, but he didn’t shoot. He followed, still wearing his grin of hate. I followed too, my wave of weakness lifting.

We made it to the forest, where Captain Danh was waiting for us, and Mike lowered Dmitri to the ground. He was taking in air in big gasps, and couldn’t speak; he sank to the ground and sat with his head on his knees. Lenin walked away, not looking at anyone.

Captain Danh ordered Dmitri to be laid on a poncho, and told Doc and Prince to carry him. And so we went on.

People say many things about Mike: I say he was a hero.

 

 

The rain went on, and so did we. I had a fever now, and was becoming light-headed, so I scarcely felt the pain in my foot any more. I marched, still using my stick.

Then, at nightfall, everything changed. Without warning, we were led by Captain Danh through a trapdoor in the ground.

Because of my fever, I doubted that this was happening. But it was happening.

The trapdoor was located in a small grove of palm trees, and had been well hidden. It was pulled back, and we found ourselves climbing down a ladder, one by one, through a hole that went straight into the earth. And now there was no more rain: no more water.

Looking back, I’m still not sure how much of what I remember now is real or not, because my fever at the time made everything like a long, worrying dream. Strange shapes had been looming up in front of me on the Trail, mingling with my memories of other times and places—all of these images appearing together, in a jumbled stream. But I was certainly going down this ladder now, rung by rung, my wet face burning, fearful of losing my grip. Straight below me, Captain Danh had a flashlight on, which bobbed like a firefly. Above me, I saw Mike and Doc encouraging Dmitri to climb down: he seemed to be conscious again.

Then, panting and dripping, we scuttled down red-brown corridors of earth, bent under a very low roof, following Captain Danh into a musty underworld. I began to comprehend that we were in a North Vietnamese bunker complex; but that didn’t make it any more real. None of us had ever been inside one: few people from our side ever had.

Shadows leaped in the tunnel. Strange soldiers appeared to greet us: young men and women in pale green uniforms. It was wonderful to see the delicate, elf-like faces of the Vietnamese girls, and I wondered at first whether any of these people were real, or whether I was hallucinating.

But they were real. They led us into a chamber where we were able to stand upright, and now we experienced our first physical relief in days: taking off our wet fatigues, washing ourselves in buckets of warm water, changing into dry clothes. All this happened for me in flashes, with my grip on consciousness strengthening and weakening, and I saw only what was in front of me: a bucket; a cake of soap; Mike’s face grinning at me as he washed. I remember Doc dressing my foot, and giving me precious aspirin: I still see his bushy head bent over my feet.

Then we were led to hammocks around the walls.

 

 

 

I opened my eyes. I didn’t know where I was, or how much time had gone by, or whether it was day or night. I only knew I was underground. Distant voices and laughter had woken me, so distant they seemed like dreams, and it seemed to me that I’d entered some old fairy story, and had come into an underground citadel of goblins, where time and the days and the seasons had no meaning.

Looking about, I found I was in a large chamber of red-brown earth, with walls of hard-baked clay, and timber supports for the ceiling. The hammocks were slung from these. The place was lit by a pressure lamp standing on a table; there were even chairs. The dry earth smell made me feel safe. I was still weak, but my fever had gone down, and so had the griping in my stomach, and it was wonderful not to have to walk.

The soldiers in our team hung motionless in their hammocks, and so did Mike and Dmitri, who were in hammocks near to mine. I could see through a doorway into an adjoining chamber which seemed to be a kitchen, where two strange soldiers were preparing a meal in a fireplace, the smoke taken away through a pipe. The far-off voices I’d heard were coming out of tunnels that entered the chamber.

When our team ate, sitting at a table in the kitchen, we had fresh vegetables and chicken with our rice, and hot tea with condensed milk. I had little appetite, because of the weakness from my gastric attack, but just picking at such a meal was a pleasure. Dmitri’s malaria had lifted, and although he was too fatigued to speak much, I saw that he ate a little too, and that his color got better.

I had never known such a feeling of luxury; and the greatest luxury of all was to be dry and safe. Captain Danh, who was eating with us, told us that these bunkers could withstand B-52 bombs from as near as one hundred meters. The only danger in here was spiders, he said; but I wasn’t inclined to take this seriously.

Looking across the table at Mike, I noticed that he was more drawn-looking than I’d ever seen him; he wasn’t talking much, and I feared that he might have strained himself in some way. But he gave me his wink: he could still do that.

 

 

All that day and the next night, we rested in the bunker, and nothing was asked of us. We stayed in the chamber where the hammocks were, listening to Radio Hanoi on a transistor radio, talking in our bad Vietnamese to some of the soldiers, and playing the Match Game. Dmitri’s malaria was passing. So was my dysentery, and Doc had dressed my foot properly with adhesive bandages. We were better, but all of us were still weak, and we spent a good deal of time loafing in our hammocks.

The next morning, straight after breakfast, we were approached by Captain Danh. He seemed unusually serious, and asked us to follow him.

Crouching, he led us some yards down a tunnel to a smaller chamber. Lenin followed us: still our guard, his face telling nothing.

An NVA officer sat here at a wooden table. A pressure lamp stood on it, lighting the room, together with some papers, a cheap Japanese camera, and a bowl containing candy. On a bench nearby stood three bulging packs. The officer was older than Captain Danh: thin-faced, with cheekbones like knobs, and wiry, graying hair. He smoked a cigarette in a holder, his movements seeming elegant and languid: but I believe he was just fatigued.

Danh sat down beside him, and indicated that Mike and Dmitri and I should sit on benches in front of the table. Lenin stood by the door. The officer gave us each a cigarette and gestured at the candy, asking us in Vietnamese to help ourselves. It was strange; I thought of schooldays, with a small treat being given by strict masters. And my heart began to thump: I think I already knew what was coming, but didn’t dare to believe it. My mouth was flooded by the unaccustomed sweetness of the candy; and it was like the taste of hope.

You walked well yesterday, Captain Danh said. He glanced quickly at Mike. You are very strong, Mr. Mike, or your friends might not be here. I am sorry it has been so hard for you all. You must be missing your families, as we do.

We have no families, Volkov said.

Danh raised his brows. That is sad, he said You truly are individualists.

Except for Jim, Mike said. He’s planning to go respectable: he’s getting married, when he gets back.

I am happy for you, Danh said to me. I am hoping that you can walk again today, Mr. Jim, despite your bad feet. You will now have your excellent boots back. All of you will.

He looked at the others. Today our unit goes over the border, he said, but you will not be with us.

He picked up a piece of paper from the table, and my heart thumped harder as he began to read aloud.

It has been decided by the People’s Liberation Army that the captured war photographers James Feng, Michael Langford and Dmitri Volkov are to be released. They will be given safe passage to a point where it is possible for them to make their way back to Phnom Penh. It is the hope of the People’s Liberation Army that they will report fairly on their treatment, and on what they have learned of the struggle of the Vietnamese people against American imperialism and its lackeys.

Captain Danh put the paper down and looked at us. This is on my recommendation, he said, because I have come to believe you are honest, and not in the pay of the CIA. I trust you will report honestly to your press on the hardships our soldiers endure to liberate their country, now that you have shared them. My comrade asks: will you sign a paper to this effect?

We all sat very still, looking at the officer with the cigarette holder. Finally Mike answered. Yes, we will, as far as I’m concerned. You’ve treated us well, Captain.

When Danh looked at Dmitri and me, we simply nodded. I did not feel able to speak, in that moment: I was thinking of Lu Ying.

Danh now signaled to Lenin, and pointed to the packs. Lenin came forward and unloaded them on the table: and there were our boots, our clothing, our press passes, our watches, our wallets: everything except our cameras. It all must have come down on one of the trucks. Sitting here in our NVA fatigues and Ho Chi Minh sandals, it was strange to see these clothes; they seemed to belong to other men, and to come from another reality.

We were asked to check all the items, and then to sign a list that identified them. We also had to sign the statement that Danh had spoken of. As we did this, Volkov looked up, his pen poised, and asked a question.

Where are our cameras, Captain?

Danh’s face became blank. They have been confiscated by the People’s Liberation Army, he said. They are not strictly your property, but tools of the imperialist press. They will now serve the Liberation.

He and Dmitri stared at one another in silence. I had the impression that Danh had made this speech for the benefit of the other officer, and that it was not something he was comfortable with; anyway, I like to think so, because for me Danh will always be a good man, and one I will not forget.

Finally Dmitri shrugged, and signed the paper. When he had done so, Danh smiled, wrinkling up his forehead in the way he had. I will miss our debates, Mr. Dmitri, he said.

Dmitri managed a small sardonic smile of his own: the first that had appeared since his illness. Then he said: You are the first Marxist ever to say so, Captain. Also the only nice one I have met, as a matter of fact.

Danh now turned to me again. Mr. Jim, you are fond of the old poets of the T‘ang, he said. I too. But you should know that our revolution also has its poetry. I have something by our best poet for you, translated into English. Take it with you, and think of us when you read it.