The Tiger and the Hare: Chasing the Dragon

By Jane Miller Chai

The Tiger and the Hare offers an exciting and unusual take on Americas Vietnam adventure. Author Jane Chai presents the thrilling story of a young American woman caught up in the seething intrigue of South Vietnam in the early days of 1962 and 1963, an absolutely critical period which set the stage---for better or worse---for the massive U.S. intervention that followed later. She fully captures the mood and flavor of that time. She deftly weaves real-life events and personalities into the story, adding not only credibility but unique insight to her tale. The book is in fact a masterful blend of fact and fiction, an important historical novel that for those of us who served there in those critical years is probably the only way the true story can be properly told. The Tiger and the Hare is a major contribution to that elusive understanding.

James Rosenthal, Political Officer at the U.S. Embassy in Saigon, 1961-1965.

The Tiger and the Hare goes a long way in illuminating how the U.S. became ensnared in a war in my country. Skillfully told, a young American female scholars enchantment with the history and culture of Vietnam conflicts with the rigid aims of her own country. This riveting tale of discovery describes two lunar years essential to understanding the subsequent years of war.

Nguyen Van Canh, University of Saigon Professor of Law and Politics; Author, Vietnam Under Communism, 1975-1982, Hoover Institution

Ms. Chai does an admirable job of evoking the issues and atmosphere of Vietnam in the early sixties.

Calvin E. Mehlert, Foreign Service Officer (ret.), Aide to Edward G. Lansdale

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 27, 2009
• ISBN: 9781440120220

Jane Miller Chai

During the early years of the Vietnam War, author Jane Miller Chai was Editor for Asia at the Japanese Reader’s Digest in Tokyo. At the Associated Press headquarters in New York, she was a division head, with focus on Asia. In recent years, she has taught at the Naval Postgraduate School in Monterey and on the San Francisco peninsula on the subjects: Southeast Asia, Central Asia, and the Silk Road (from China to Rome). She is the co-author of Pacific Security with Dr. Claude A. Buss, her Far Eastern History professor at Stanford University. She adopted two Asian boys.

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THE TIGER AND THE HARE

Chasing the Dragon

Jane Miller Chai

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The Tiger and the Hare

Chasing the Dragon

Copyright © 2009 Jane Miller Chai.

Author Credits: Co-author with Claude Buss, The Security of Southeast Asia

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This volume is historical fiction. The dates, places, organizations, incidents and events are true, as are the many journalists and others in Vietnam from late 1961 through 1963 and after. Fictional characters are differentiated from the factual in pages in the index.

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Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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ISBN: 978-1-4401-2020-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4401-2021-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4401-2022-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2009921074

iUniverse rev. date: 11/19/2015

Contents

I Georgetown

II Tan Son Nhut Airport

III Buddhist Morning

IV First Full Day

V Into the Hmong Highlands

VI Hmong Village Chief Exchange

VII USAID Office, Staying in Touch

VIII A Worthwhile Excursion

IX Cholon Market

X Christmas 1961

XI TET: Catholic v. Buddhist

XII Le Cercle Sportif

XIII Escape Saigon for Cap St. Jacques

XIV The Rubber Plantation

XV Hmong Village and Opium

XVI Fat Wong's and Rung Sat Swamp

XVII Saigon Opium and Hmong Hills

XVIII Laos Lesson

XIX A Dental Office

XX A Missile Crisis

XXI Entering the Year of the Hare, 1963

XXII Mekong Delta and Ap Bac

XXIII Letters and a Buddhist Monk

XXIV Independence Day

XXV August 20 Attack on Monastery

XXVI President John F. Kennedy Interview

XXVII Student Demonstration v. Diem

XXVIII A Very Long Night and Day

XXIX One Particular Day

XXX Cholon and Chasing the Dragon

XXXI November 1963

XXXII Final Assessments

XXXIII Changes

XXXIV Looking Back

XXXV

Factual Characters:

Fictional Characters:

About the Author

To Professor Claude A. Buss, who opened the eyes to Asia

Whatever has happened, the land always lives within us,

The spiritual stream untainted

Poetry still lives; the people are alive

We are the people and we will endure.

Nguyen Duy

Our Nation from a Distance

CHAPTER I

Georgetown

Linnea sat back after enjoying the delicate fillet of sole and gently steamed green beans the way she liked them, and luxuriated in the restaurant's cool ambiance within Georgetown's dense humidity. She needed only a glance at the dessert menu to choose a raspberry sorbet just to go along with Clarissa's chocolate decadence.

While Clarissa's father absorbed himself in a cordial menu, Linnea contentedly looked around. From their corner table on the second floor, she observed clusters of customers in designer outfits and well-tailored suits. Clarissa's father's importance was reaffirmed in their table location to be glanced at and not overheard.

Clarissa tells me you feel you're not appreciated at the AP, Under Secretary of State Ruffin said, and, with a lift to his voice, and maybe thinking of making a change?

Uncertain how to reply, Linnea grumbled, It's just that I know about Asia! The whining in her voice embarrassed her. She glanced at Clarissa who had been in the same Asian history classes but had returned east while Linnea continued with a Master's degree.

Brushing a brown strand loose from her barrette, Linnea said, I know I could be valuable on the foreign desk, and I've pressed for it. But Middle Management tells me it's pointless, she paused, and that I'll soon be promoted into Newsfeatures. With sarcasm entering her voice, You know what that is? A division for silly human-interest stories on Manhattan's streets, like a piece on a dog lifting his leg countless times, block after block, without a single tinkle.

Under-Secretary Ruffin's well-padded chest expanded with a chuckle, while Clarissa's eyes brightened as though anxious to share something. Linnea wondered how much of her gripes Clarissa had shared with her father.

Secretary Ruffin twirled his newly arrived sifter of cognac, as though wishing it to warm his words. Clearing his throat, Linnea my dear, Clarissa tells me USAID has sent you an offer of a job in Vietnam. Have you given that much thought? Twirling a bit more rapidly, It's a way for you to use what Stanford gave you and at the same time assist our country in helping the Vietnamese people.

Linnea turned to Clarissa's open, encouraging face. I don't know. Yes, my Master's was on Vietnam's indigenous tribes, but it was research and I've never thought of being on the ground with them. Regretting what she'd just said and intending to abide President Kennedy, she quickly asserted, I'd like to do good for my country. Yes I do, she said to herself. She wished to make her life count, although only these two would ever know about it or even care. Shaking her head at lurking thoughts, I admit I've imagined that experience in Vietnam might get me onto the foreign desk, eventually. But working for a government bureaucracy like USAID might move me farther away from doing the kind of writing I want.

Secretary Ruffin surveyed the two girls sitting opposite, his daughter slender with blond curly hair framing a pretty face like her mother's, and Linnea, California tanned and fit. I'm sure with USAID you'll be researching and writing about important things --- the Vietnamese people, for one. Then, in a familiar fatherly voice, Rather than being a delay in your plans, USAID might be right in step, going forward in line with career ambitions.

Giving her spoon a slow trip around the edge of the sorbet, Linnea recognized an ever-lurking sadness. Clarissa, and by extension her father, were very important to her --- in fact, all she had, she said to herself. Besides, isn't something happening in Vietnam?

You like your friend Stephen, don't you? Clarissa hurried to insert into the silence. You've told me that after you two met you often got together to talk at the ice cream fountain in the basement of your office at Rockefeller Plaza. You said you then spent your evenings checking out whatever you argued about to be ready for when you met again. To me, you wouldn't do that if you didn't at least like or respect the man.

He's okay. He's like those engineering students: self-assured and utterly sexless. He's old, too --- in his thirties. Glancing at Clarissa's father, hoping for understanding, Working together we'd probably do nothing but argue. And, trouble is, I might win, she laughed and then blushed. Anyway, with an unintended drop in her voice, he's already gone, to Vietnam.

Clarissa looked first at her father and then Linnea. When you and I were on the phone planning your trip here, the mail was plunked down on your desk. In it was another letter from Stephen, you said.

Under the tablecloth, Linnea's hands faced each other as though in Buddhist prayer. She regretted that such a lovely evening, begun with the comfortable ease of family, had now progressed into her feeling being sent away. Her head bowed.

Linnea, Secretary Ruffin said. I think I know what a difficult time this is for you. He waited for her to look up. I want you to know the potential there is for you with USAID. After a pause with a glance at Clarissa, Perhaps Clarissa seems to you already securely connected, involved, and on her way. She was fortunate to get the job on the Senate Foreign Relations Committee, yes. But, with a change in the administration or in a congressman, it could end and she might be on the outside and have to begin again with new employment goals. But they were urging her away. And what was this USAID?

Observing the look Clarissa and her father gave each other, Linnea sensed collaboration and that she was being pushed. Startled, she heard Secretary Ruffin saying to her,

You, Linnea, are on a different path that might be challenging but could be very rewarding, personally and professionally. It takes courage to plow into unknown territory, I know, but I think you have both pluck and passion. He let his voice became fatherly again. Clarissa has told me how wonderful you were to her when her mother died, and it was close to a most difficult time for you when your own family perished, all almost at once. You showed character...that you can care about others --- people --- even when you yourself are bereft.

Linnea remembered the phone call that came to Clarissa in Lagunita that cancer had taken her mother, far sooner than expected, and how Clarissa had come to her room and collapsed. Within a week, or possibly less, Linnea learned her own family's tragedy in Southern California. Linnea and Clarissa stuck close together, at mealtimes, doing homework, and walking to and from classes. And when Secretary Ruffin flew west to take Clarissa to dinner, Linnea was included.

Secretary Ruffin was saying, I think of you as part of the family, Linnea, and thus I think I can speak to you as your father might. Don't stay in a situation you don't like just because of a vague hope of a future change for the better. You're young, you're smart, and you're capable. Life teaches us, when an opportunity comes our way, grab it.

Following a good sip of his cognac, Secretary Ruffin's torso seemed to expand him into another sequence. Regarding your long-term desire to write, I have an idea for you. As you know, a lot of material comes across my desk about South Vietnam --- from military men, embassy and State Department people, and a host of others. I do my best to discern what they mean and what is actually going on in Vietnam. And I fear for the decisions our leaders may have to make out of the mishmash!

With a fingernail pressed into the thick white tablecloth at the table edge, Linnea tried to force herself into a decision she began to feel she would have to make.

I wouldn't mind reading a fresh viewpoint of what is happening in South Vietnam, Secretary Ruffin continued. You'll be writing Clarissa anyway, I'm sure. Well, in a letter or two, now and then, after you get your feet on the ground...and have inhaled smells you cannot imagine, he laughed at perhaps a pocketed memory, you could give your take on things, like notes from a diary or a draft of history. How does that sound to you?

Clarissa's gleaming forehead produced a knowing glint in Linnea's eyes. Clarissa and her father might have had something to do with the USAID job offer. But Stephen! The invitation had to have come from him!

CHAPTER II

Tan Son Nhut Airport

Linnea took the steps carefully down from the prop plane to zero in on a small, furry tree drooping with cotton flocks and red and yellow bulbs below a sign, Tan Son Nhut. What absurdity! Christmas in the tropics! Blinking from perspiration stinging her eyes, she appraised the glaring white cement of the tarmac as a boiling sandy beach needed quickly to cross.

Vietnamese passengers with oversized packages scattered ahead as she trudged toward the Quonset hut terminal. On the way, she edged out of her jacket, her silk blouse gluing to her chest. In all the books on Southeast Asia, she grumbled, steaming heat and suffocating humidity were not so much as even mentioned.

Glancing back, she saw a tiny tractor drag her plane by its big black nose --- gleaming silver about to be overwhelmed by yellow spears of elephant grass. Carts loaded with crates marked Made in U.S.A. lumbered past, barely missing her. She tripped. Her knee clipped the asphalt. Tiny droplets of blood sprouted through a now ripped stocking.

You had a long trip, accused a man with a low but distinctly New York accent, coming up from the side, with a good look at her.

Presuming he was a similarly exhausted passenger from the same series of flights, she thought of quipping that ducks picked up in Hong Kong made for a foul final leg. But the man had scampered away, dismissal in his wake.

Vietnamese military men in the terminal's shade resembled stage extras in the wings of a production of The Mikado. A closer look indicated faces gleamed as though from demonstrating South Vietnam worthiness in being America's newest ally in the fight against communism. Officers were waiting for her to point out which suitcases were hers. Waving her hand over a pile conspicuously large set a soldier in the latest jungle green to roll into motion to wrestle them onto a wooden platform of washboard-like rollers.

It took several seconds for her to comprehend that an officer's off accented English was telling her to unlock and open everything. Dripping with gold braid, he pointed to the red leather overnight case in her hand. Open! Sweat swarmed as she felt in her purse for the tiny, tinny keys to fight the locks. All yours? he exclaimed as more suitcases materialized, revealing dark eyes beneath a thick brow.

As though they contained either offal or TNT, a soldier with lesser gold braid brushed with stiff fingers a couple of her suitcases past him.

Linnea got hold of the keys and squared her shoulders as though summoning stature. She had arrived to do something about his country's police action while helping herself toward a future in journalism. She wasn't going to be pushed around.

A clean-cut Vietnamese man in a crisp short-sleeved white shirt and narrow black pants took that moment to rush forward. Miss Linnea, I am Vinh your assistant. I take you to USAID compound. With an open palm he indicated a car out on the street.

Heading toward the outside, straight backed, with chin raised, Linnea grinned at officers' presumed stunned realization they wouldn't be able to poke into suitcases being taken away. Anticipating that out of the hot mustiness in the echoing terminal everything would be better, she became stunned by the bright sunlight that smacked her hard in the face. Roaring machinery assaulted her ears. Inside clouds of dust huge yellow earthmovers raced back and forth, barely missing each other, laying the groundwork for what could be military and, she wondered, involving her country.

The black car squatting at the curb was a slung back Citroen sedan. How perfect! A gangster getaway car! Linnea slipped behind windows fogged with reflector film and sank into cool leather seats, leaving Vinh to struggle with her luggage. An embarrassed smile crept onto her face seeing Vinh make a second try at lifting a particular suitcase. Eyeing and moving around it, he positioned his legs for a drag and lift into the trunk. Her books. Too late! It should have been labeled?

But that wasn't the primary question. Should she be here, just before a war, as friends said there might be? She'd turned her back on her job with the Associated Press, and she hadn't succumbed to columnist friend Hal's persistent proposals, much as she liked him and his WWII hometown boys' stories that won his Pulitzer Prize. The AP was family to many, but amidst the rising swell for women's rights, she felt used as Middle Management's well-heeled, safe bet.

And what about Stephen? Your job with USAID is to use your knowledge of the Montagnards, he'd said in his last phone call from Saigon. You already know about the hill people. So, all you have to do is find out what the Hmong need and help them lean in the right direction.

I don't know, she'd answered, looking out her second floor Rockefeller Center window. It came over the wire that the Viet Cong bombed a place close to Saigon.

Come on! It's safer here than where you are right now, Stephen replied with a laugh, referring to the bomb through the mail slot of the Tass office on her floor by a Soviet-hating expatriate of an overwhelmed region. This job is a natural for you. Your knowledge of Southeast Asian tribes is probably greater than most other Americans here. It can be a stepping stone for you, just as I pray this job will be for me, he said, referring to an earlier remark he might be magazine editor of his international council after experience in Vietnam.

Excuse me, Vinh said, opening the driver's door, leaning over the seat, and letting out precious air-conditioned air. I have them all --- eight? With her nod, Vinh slid into the driver's seat, put it in gear, released the brake, and let the Citroen crawl like a hunched beast into a squirming cauldron of humanity.

In every direction people pushed carts and pedaled bicycles, many of them turning inquisitively at the passing car. Several came up close when the Citroen slowed and stared blankly at reflections in windows they couldn't see through.

How could Vietnamese have energy and motivation in this miserable heat? With that thought, the car air conditioner began to rattle; clearly, it was foreign and had to struggle hard. It seemed like something to remember.

The Citroen honked and a man's angry face came at her window, causing a recoil.

Righting herself, she asked, Vinh, Americans are welcomed here, aren't we? Wire photos of angry South Vietnamese came to mind. We are accepted, aren't we?

Yes. He turned his head to the side. An explosion happened in a field, in a rice paddy near here to make people mad. You and I will be in the hills, he said to sweat rolling down her temples, where it's cool.

Linnea settled back and wondered how soon she had to go into the Hmong hills for USAID. First, she needed to get settled and to figure out Saigon. An AP colleague suggested she immediately learn the political intentions of the Buddhists. And he advised she find out about opium in Saigon, a curious suggestion unless from an interest of his own.

Thirty minutes later, Vinh brought the car into a broad, shaded avenue of tall, thick-trunk trees, evenly placed and heavily leafed. The car slowed entering an area of old French-style houses set back amidst expansive green lawns with clusters of oleanders, ferns and rhododendrons. Brilliant scarlet and orange bougainvillea fanned out along perimeters while flowering mimosa splashed against compounds sheltered from the sun-drenching sky by luxuriant ginger trees and the bushy tops of ageless palms.

Why, this is quite nice! she said, pulling herself up. Unexpected, it brought to mind the rolling grass front yards of the Pasadena neighborhood of her childhood.

The Cong Ly district, Vinh said, as he turned the car into gates being opened by a pair of smiling boys in short brown pants. The best.

This is the USAID compound? Where I'll be living?

Sleep and work. Office is downtown, but Stephen and others do much work here.

The car sank into deep gravel and into a stop. Linnea stepped out under a porte cochere echoed in white scalloped-shaped steps beneath. Eagerly she took the steps to push the heavy wrought iron and glass front door open into a pleasantly fragrant and cool interior of marble floors. Polished teak emitted the familiar scent of linseed oil.

I'm glad you decided to come after all, Stephen said, rushing from a side room with a wide smile and a blue tie's nautical flags waving welcome. I'm sorry not to have met you at Tan Son Nhut.

I cabled flight details...well, departures and arrivals and departures --- so many and all confusing, she said, laughing with relief.

Yes, I know it was quite a journey, he said, grasping her arms. Anyway, Vinh's good at airport information. A brown lock dangled over Stephen's round frame glasses, making his handsome face youthfully collegial. Bending, in a low voice, I'm glad you're here.

A Vietnamese woman of indeterminate age came from behind the stairs and, with a glance at Stephen, took Linnea's smallest suitcase to start up the stairs. Linnea watched her swaying assent, reminiscent of her family's housekeeper climbing their circular staircase

Stepping to the side, out of the way, she watched Stephen and Vinh relaying her suitcases --- Vinh from the car, Stephen from the steps through the door. Finally finished, Stephen stepped up to her just as an American woman bounded towards them from the same room Stephen had earlier emerged. Her face was framed by wild black curly hair.

Well, hallo! Planning on staying long? Her hands went to her hips with an inspector-like forward bend as though counting a shipment.

In a voice strident and new to her, Linnea heard Stephen say, As the only woman until now, you are undoubtedly glad Linnea is here. Turning to Linnea, Susan is USAID's gift to primary education. And, Susan, Linnea's work with the Montagnards can make an important difference in America's presence in Vietnam.

Linnea's back muscles quivered, wondering if Stephen really meant that. Could she be in over her head? And what about Stephan? Was that a romantic spat he'd just had in the room with Susan?

That so? Susan said to the suitcases. My work taking what's taught in Saigon to the rural masses is already bearing fruit. She threw back her head for crinkly curls to spring medusa-like. And my work is definitely ripening! Collaboration, you know. With a lunge at the door, a yank, and an overhead backhanded wave, Susan was off.

Collaboration! Stephen muttered.

Confused and disjointed, all Linnea could say was, Collaboration is good, isn't it? That's what the U.S. is doing here, working with the South Vietnamese?

I'm referring to a different kind of collaboration, he said with a wicked grin. Let's get you upstairs. I'm sure you're tired. With a suitcase in either hand, he started forward, and then glancing to the side at her, Everything's straightened and dust free!

With a blush, she recalled the time she'd been invited to his place in Gramercy Park, from where they would walk to a lecture at the New York Public Library. He'd adjusted the lighting and cleared a path to the couch. Heading to it, she stumbled over a pile of books, releasing clouds of dust, resulting in a sneezing fit that snuffed out possibilities including her own.

Now, up the villa stairs, Linnea stepped onto the spotless wooden floor of a room taking up the entire side of the top level, pleasantly wide, spare and airy. Weary and slightly uncomfortable, she edged to the back windows opening onto a thick clump of deep green leaves. She leaned out to see glazed white ceramic elephants tilted at angles to each other in black mulch alongside huge blue urns overgrown with ferns and cymbidiums.

I think guava and fig trees are down there, she said hearing Stephen return. We had those in the orchard in our back yard. Appreciating the lovely stone bench beside a pond, when she saw an oval of water flash with white and orange she exclaimed, Koi are down there, too; they're good luck, you know. But the response she heard were steps going down the stairs.

Clutching the window frame, she feared the many suitcases would indicate she had come for something more than the short-term job with USAID. Several suitcases contained printed materials -- a couple of government documents given by Clarissa's father, some monographs and several of her old textbooks, perhaps of use to others here, too. Shaking her head, in her tiredness she smelled a familiar sweetness. It might be frangipani, but the aroma reminded her of the kumquats she'd sucked in her family's backyard while draped over the compost mound, dreaming of a future of adventure, far away. And so, here I am, she grumbled to herself.

Stephen let the last suitcase drop with a plop, startling Linnea into quickly turning. The six flights from New York to Chicago, Seattle, Anchorage, Tokyo and Hong Kong, the twelve take offs and landings over four days, had taken their toll. Steadying herself, she grasped the board serving as a worktable set on a tall pair of rectangular hi fi floor-speakers. Through blurred vision she noticed Stephen's Underwood typewriter resting next to piles of paper and pencils in a Harvard mug. A small, white refrigerator held his Leica camera and lens.

Aren't these your things? she asked, pointing with her eyes. When he didn't answer right away, she waved her hand over the desk and typewriter, This seems to be your room.

Yes, it has been. It's large and airy, and will probably suit your needs and style more than mine. With a glance at the pile of suitcases between his feet and her, Until I can figure out a space for my desk and files, I thought you wouldn't mind if I leave them here and maybe use the room, for a little while, when you're busy, probably out in the hills.

Her hand went to her brow. With everything she needed to accomplish in a very short amount of time -- six months, more or less, she had to have her own space. But she didn't want to begin on the wrong foot. Well, okay, I guess so.

Stephen stepped over to the large four-poster bed with a canopy spilling white mosquito netting like a tulip-skirted ball gown. Propping up a pillow, It was quite a challenge getting this Big Bertha in here, he said with the pride of achievement. With word you were coming, our cook Duong, the woman who brought up your suitcase, had mercy. Seems this bed belonged to a former Frenchman who just hasn't gotten around to coming back for it.

They stared at each other, Stephen at the bed, Linnea holding onto his desk.

She felt too tired to start out with questions, but heard herself saying, Stephen, in your phone calls you made it sound like I'll be taking jolly little field trips into the countryside. But what about the Viet Cong I've been reading about? The New York Times had a story about a recent incident near Saigon. You said on the phone that the explosions by the VC -- calling cards you called them -- are just to say they're out there. But....

That's right. No worry for you, though. You'll be in the hills with tribes who are friendly...and critically important.

After a moment, Well, why are the tribes critically important? You've said our purpose is to help them in their lives.

The tribes are important because they're our responsibility -- the South Vietnamese government hasn't been getting along with them -- and they're significant because of the huge amount of land they're spread over.

And that's the reason they're critically important?

Yes, he said, moving out from behind the bed. Some Hmong are helping us by watching what may be coming south from North Vietnam.

Stephen, Linnea began again, wishing swollen feet would stop wobbling in heels they were dying to escape. You told me USAID wants the Hmong and all the other hill tribes, to stay in place and start producing crops to sell. It may not be easy to make them alter lifestyles, you know. It wasn't the time to tell him what she had learned and had been told to worry about.

Before he could answer, she dashed into the bathroom and shut the door. Freeing hair from a barrette, she bowed her head over the sink to let red-brown tresses encase her face. With hands on either side of the sink, she couldn't tell whether falling drops were sweat or tears of fear. She kicked off her shoes, rolled down her ripped stockings and with tepid water sponged her face, neck and arms. With each stroke, she sought to assure herself she could be strong.

Finally somewhat soothed, even by the orderliness of the black and white tile on the floor and walls of the huge bathroom -- as big as her New York living room -- she felt better. A lift in spirits even came with the sight of the rusted claw feet of a yellowed porcelain bathtub pared with a shiny new moss green bidet.

You know what that is, don't you? Stephen said with eyes at the bidet when she exited. From his desk with a sheath of papers, he came up to her.

Yes, of course I do, she snapped. I was just wondering how...how it's turned on.

I'll show you, he mumbled, entering the hallway with an inaudible later.

CHAPTER III

Buddhist Morning

The sounds of distant tinkling of cymbals, accompanied by the soft, steady beat of muted drums, brought Linnea awake and upright. Buddhists! Monks out and about, ready for a day of passive prayer! Or could they be pondering a situation meriting attention? They may be the key, she remembered Clarissa's father saying.

To sweat and stew beneath clammy sheets, she said to herself, or to rise up and go out and do something? Rummaging through a suitcase, she found the new breathable fiber slacks along with a well-thumbed Saigon city map, and tiptoed fast down the stairs and out the heavy front door into the compound's courtyard.

Wide-eyed, feeling like a baby owl dropped from a good nest onto strange new ground, Linnea viewed the compound's straight tall trees as soldiers on guard. A soft, moist breeze sliding through palm fronds clapped reassurance, but a harsh clang of cymbals seemed to screech get going. She hurried through the villa gates.

Drumbeats and cymbal chiming seemed strongest a street ahead, just to the right. She raced for it, but then sounds came from another direction, playing tag, she felt, street after street. When she stopped, the beat seemed to cease with her, replaced by the thump of a low-register drum, sounding just behind. Her heart throbbed in unison. She swiveled about and walked fast, on and on, until the drum and cymbals became a thudding that surrounded her.

The moon, shining through a blanket of fog, illuminated two-story wooden houses and the uneven bricks in streets that required careful going. Her footsteps seemed to echo. Through slats in window openings, she sometimes saw the whites of eyes. When she came to corrugated metal doors and painted cement walls, she realized she was in a business area of small storefronts. Pausing under a yellow street lamp to study her map, she became conscious of smells -- a heavy mixture of ammonia fighting mold --- and sneezed.

A sudden thud of a deep drum, seeming like under her feet, startled and propelled. She raced to the corner and came to a halt in the middle of an intersection. Drumbeats ceased. Out of the corner of her eyes she saw movement. Noiselessly, as though they were ghosts carried along in a gray-green mist, saffron swathed monks floated along. Racing after them, almost piling into a monk at the rear, Linnea observed the thin, shave-headed and sandal footed monks slow down at small dots of fire in hibachis.

A woman in a worn red cardigan sat on a stool beside a brazier at the entrance of a shop with a rolled up aluminum awning revealing living quarters. Along with a big spoonful of steaming rice into silver begging bowls, she added a quiet word to the bowing novitiates.

Another woman a few feet beyond put slices of banana on top of the rice that might be the whole of a full day's meal.

Linnea moved parallel to the monks to read the profiles of the bare shouldered men and the expressions of the devout women serving them. She wondered if these same women got up early every day to give these Hinayana monks their daily sustenance, or, more likely, there were other devoted women to share the task. Each morning the monks might have to search for the women wishing to obtain merit, accounting for the monks' erratic hide and seek wanderings.

The monks moved on, their saffron garments melding them into a single thrusting instrument of peace. Linnea hurried along after them, and, as she followed, the cymbals and drums sounded lighter and distant, as though joyfully being put away. Had there been a message in the drums, calling the monks?

A block or two later, she realized she'd arrived in a clearing of rock-strewn dirt at the juncture of several roadways. In the moments that it took for her to look around, the monks vanished. Simultaneously, with a squeak, the drum and cymbal sounds ceased.

Confirming the location on her map, she was at Saigon's most significant Buddhist temple, the Xa Loi. But it looked neglected and unimportant. The earth at the entrance, however, was shiny, presumably packed smooth by countless bare feet. Through the open side of the temple's double-sided wooden doors came the smell of

Reviews for The Tiger and the Hare

[elwetritsche · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I really enjoyed The Tiger and the Hare, it is an excellent historical novel. It gave me so much insight into the time before the Vietnam War started. Linnea, a young American scholar, working for USAID, accepts an assignment to work with the mountain people - the Hmong- who aren't getting along with the South Vietnamese government. She ventures into opium dens, meets with Buddhist monks and interacts a lot more with the locals than other US officials.Linnea accepted the job because she tries to escape trauma at home involving her immediate family. She finds out that we can't outrun our shadows. She and her compatriots are mesmerized as they hear about Martin Luther King's dream speech in Washington DC and the civil rights movement taking off. When President Kennedy is killed there are some eery parallels between the upheavals in Saigon and those in their home country.