A Peace Without Honor: Sin and Retribution I

By Adalbert Lallier

The author, Adalbert Lallier, believes in peace, for he has known war. Having involuntarily witnessed multiple killing, he has chosen a life rooted in human loving and committed to peace.

A Vietnam postmortem in Americas crisis-ridden society.

The guilt of a great nation that suffered punishment during the course of six bloody days of chaos.

Once again the men die and their women suffer, for there is never a true Peace with Honour.

To love means to give life

To hate means to destroy life

"A Peace Without Honor: Sin and Retribution 1" has a 2nd book available with Xlibris Online bookstore entitled- "I Swear to You, Adolf Hitler, Fealty and Obedience: Sin and Retribution 2".

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 6, 2013
• ISBN: 9781479786794

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Copyright © 2013 by Adalbert Lallier.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2013901650

ISBN:

Hardcover    978-1-4797-8678-7

Softcover     978-1-4797-8677-0

Ebook    978-1-4797-8679-4

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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CONTENTS

Acknowledgment

PART ONE

Chapter I.   At the Border

Chapter II.   Phanh Anh Dung, the Avenger

Chapter III.   Tran Thi Hua: A Vietnamese Woman’s Tragedy in War

Chapter IV.   An All-American Takes a Vietnamese Virgin

Chapter V.   Roast Woodcock at the U.S. Air Force Base

Chapter VI.   How Not to Kill Your Best Friend

Chapter VII.   Thanh: The Intelligence Major Has a Secret

Chapter VIII.   Good-Bye, B-52s

Chapter IX.   Bon Voyage, Major Thanh

Chapter X.   A Border Crossing Turns into a Funeral Home

PART TWO

Chapter I.   True Loving Knows No Racial Boundaries

Chapter II.   Sandra: The Making of a Liberated High-Caste Woman

Chapter III.   A Black Trombone Player Ascends to Heaven

Chapter IV.   An Heir to the DAR Joins the Extreme Left

Chapter V.   Even in America, Death Knows No Racial Boundaries

PART THREE

Chapter I.   Pentagon Lunch

Chapter II.   The President Watches over His Nation

Chapter III.   A Blueprint for Counterespionage

Chapter IV.   James C. Fox: A Fox Becomes the Hunter

Chapter V.   New York’s Finest at International House

Chapter VI.   Sandra, an American Woman’s Postmortem on Her Lover

Chapter VII.   Major Nguyen Van Thanh Loses His Head

Chapter VIII.   James C. Fox: The Making of an American War Hero

Chapter IX.   A Hunting Fox on the Loose

Chapter X.   The Good American Encounters the Bad

Chapter XI.   Sandra’s Bedroom Admits the FBI

Chapter XII.   An Intellectual Draw over a Cup of Café Au Lait

Chapter XIII.   Between a Nap and a Shave, a Headless Body Causes Concern

Chapter XIV.   A Most Wanted Sample of Undamaged Human Skin

Chapter XV.   Mekong Female Flies and Pentagon Emergency 4

PART FOUR

Chapter I.   A Vietnam War Widow in South Washington

Chapter II.   Phanh Dinh Phung and an American War Widow Reembrace Life

Chapter III.   Between the Loincloth and Irresistible Nakedness

Chapter IV.   A PhD Learns that Loving Is Living

Chapter V.   Behind the Loincloth Looms Tragedy and Death

Chapter VI.   The Pentagon: Burn, Baby, Burn

Chapter VII.   A Fox Hunt Burns Some Tails but Bags Nothing

Chapter VIII.   Blood, Bandages, and Some Discharged Sperm

Chapter IX.   The President Is Making a Confession

Chapter X.   An American Radical Rediscovers the Virtue of Loyalty

Chapter XI.   A Severed Head Retains Its Secret

Chapter XII.   CIA Headquarters, Stage 1: The Fright

Chapter XIII.   The Doomsday Clock Keeps on Ticking

PART FIVE

Chapter I.   A Warden Goes on an Illegal Hunt for Big Game

Chapter II.   CIA Headquarters Stage 2: An Eye for an Eye

Chapter III.   CIA Headquarters Stage 2: Cain and Abel Forever

Chapter IV.   CIA Headquarters Stage 3: The Dead Cannot Talk

Chapter V.   International Conspiracy

Chapter VI.   The New Vice President Plays It Cool

Chapter VII.   Fox, Sandra, and a Bitch Named Princess

Chapter VIII.   While the President Walks His Dog, a Dead Man Returns to Life

Chapter IX.   Will Martial Law Ever Net the Really Big Fish?

Chapter X.   Bernie Seligman Takes on Walnut

Chapter XI.   In God We Trust

PART SIX

Chapter I.   White Man’s Law and Black Americans in Vietnam

Chapter II.   A Black American Vietcong POW Gets Himself a Job

Chapter III.   There Is No Escape from the Harlem Ghetto

Chapter IV.   During Peace Marches, Precious Blood Flows: Black Blood

Chapter V.   A Black American’s Blood Is Shed, and it Flows Red

Chapter VI.   Chinese Firecrackers and the Black Revolution

Chapter VII.   The Case of God vs. the Black Race

Chapter VIII.   Black Revolution: Victory or Disaster?

Chapter IX.   Get Major Thanh: Dead or Alive

Chapter X.   Firecrackers, Mortar Shells, and Cracked Pots

Chapter XI.   A Traitor’s Death Helps the President

Chapter XII.   Human Groans Usually Indicate Great Pain

Chapter XIII.   The Premature Death of a Vietnam Triple Ace

Chapter XIV.   Another Code Gets Broken, and the Hunt Intensifies

Chapter XV.   Amidst the Despair, a Brief Moment of Tenderness

Chapter XVI.   In Peace as in War, No Adversary Ever Engages in Fair Play

Chapter XVII.   A Scared American Husband Turns into a Real Patriot

Chapter XVIII.   A Heap of Motel Garbage Reveals a Clue

Chapter XIX.   While the Nation Mourns, the President Speaks of War.

Chapter XX.   The End at Trans-Central Airlines

PART SEVEN

Chapter I.   Only a Few Sheriffs Are Expert Anglers

Chapter II.   Lake Mead and Hoover Dam: The Ultimate Retribution

Chapter III.   If There Were a God, He Would Never Help Our Enemies

Chapter IV.   Only Four Hours to Destiny… and Death

Chapter V.   FBI’s Fox vs. the Vietnamese Mastermind: Round 1

Chapter VI.   Thanh: The Executioner Makes a Confession

Chapter VII.   Dams, Like Humans, Suffer from Stress

Chapter VIII.   Two More Moves Before Checkmate

Chapter IX.   For Fox and Thanh, the Hourglass Has Run Dry

Chapter X.   Even Though Enemies in Life, Forever Friends in Death

Epilogue

ACKNOWLEDGMENT

My eternal gratitude to Mrs. Beryl Delutis and her daughter, Mrs. Kim Delutis-Scott, for their encouragement and help in guiding me to through the maze of intricate complexities of English spelling and sentence structure.

PART ONE

Thou shalt not kill—except for thy woman, thy country, or thy God.

CHAPTER I

At the Border

Monday, 1140 (EDT)

The Champlain crossing in Upstate New York is one of the busiest checkpoints along the four thousand miles of nearly unprotected border separating the United States from Canada.

To John MacGowan, the green Mercury Marquis with Quebec license plates approaching the border inspection area looked no different from any thousands of other cars seeking to enter the United States, stopping at the border, opening for inspection, getting clearance, and passing along into the stream of traffic south.

At fifty-five, MacGowan, chief customs officer at the Champlain crossing and former staff sergeant with the famed Rainbow Division, had spent the better part of his life in defense of the virtues of his America: crushing the Nazis and containing the Communist peril in Korea. He had loved war, and slashing the throat of a Waffen-SS major had been one of his most thrilling moments, but the years were getting to him; and hardly ever did he speak of sex, war, or politics. When his only son was killed in the Mekong Delta, his life seemed to have taken on a new purpose: hatred. Cursing those miserable, cunning, yellow bastards, he even tried to reenlist at the Marine Recruitment Center in Plattsburgh; but Uncle Sam had no use for him anymore. Embittered and resentful, he returned to his border post.

Three years later, the killing at My Lai occurred. Instantly, MacGowan began smiling again, often showing the photo of his dead son together with pictures of the dead Vietnamese, proclaiming the death of his son had finally been avenged. Alas, he eventually did calm down, looking forward to retiring in peace.

MacGowan decided to check a few cars himself in order to change the monotony of his routine rounds. So far, it had been the usual dull, eventless day. Noticing the Marquis approaching, Inspector Stroker turned his huge, almost seven-foot frame to MacGowan:

Hey, John, look what we’ve got here—a gook!

MacGowan’s furrowed features quickened with this arousing epithet. With deliberate slowness, he strolled over, leaned against the window frame, and without looking, spoke.

Let’s see the passports.

Mon dieu, mon oncle, don’t you recognize me? I am Jean-Pierre, your nephew.

The voice sounded familiar. MacGowan bent over and finally took notice of the driver.

Jean-Pierre? On your way back to college again?

Yes, cher oncle. My midterm tests are coming up.

Who’s your friend? asked MacGowan, as he dutifully looked through his nephew’s passport.

Dung comes from Saigon and is also a student at Columbia University. We’re next-door neighbors at International House in New York.

MacGowan was taking his time sizing up Dung.

Do you speak English?

Yes, I speak English, Dung replied.

Good for you. You’re from South Vietnam, is that correct?

That is correct.

And may I ask you why you’re not in your country fighting for your freedom against the V-C?

I served in the Twelfth Ranger Regiment for two years until I was wounded. After my recovery, I was granted a study leave.

Inspector Stroker butted in, The chief inspector’s son was killed fighting your people’s war.

Which American unit was he with? Dung asked MacGowan.

The Third Marine Division. Died a hero’s death.

We went on several missions with the Third Marines. What was your son’s name?

John MacGowan Jr.

For a seemingly endless moment Dung remained silent, thoughtful.

Ever met him?

No, sir, I did not.

Too bad. He was a helluva soldier. Got a Bronze Star for bravery. MacGowan reached into his pocket and pulled out a leather case. He opened it and held it up for Dung to see. Dung glanced at the medal and looked squarely at MacGowan. All wars are bad since they always kill the innocent. I hope your son believed in the cause for which he sacrificed his life.

By this time, some of the drivers lined up behind the Marquis and began honking their horns. MacGowan straightened up and nodded to Stroker. Jim, you take the next three cars. I’ll take care of my nephew and his friend.

Jean-Pierre had never had a problem crossing the border. He was the nephew of MacGowan’s wife, Marguerite Plouffe. It had happened back in the days of the Second World War, when MacGowan, then PFC, was spending a few days on furlough in Montreal. He met Marguerite and proposed to her after two days. She had since borne him four daughters and one son, John Jr. Goddamn V-Cs!

MacGowan quickly returned Jean-Pierre’s passport. A luggage check was unnecessary. As a matter of fact, MacGowan never checked the luggage of French-Canadians. They were not rich people and always treated him in a friendly and polite manner before proceeding to where they would spend their winters in Florida. Besides, this young French-Canadian was not only his nephew, but also a student. What else could he be carrying in his trunk but his books and clothing?

However, checking the papers and person of this yellow-skinned foreigner was an entirely different matter, even though he sounded like a friend of Jean-Pierre. John MacGowan would never permit undesirable aliens to enter his country, especially if they came from Asia. Student visa or not, Saigon ranger or not, the official procedure had to be followed.

You will proceed to the immigration desk, MacGowan instructed the Vietnamese, pointing to the entrance of the building. Phanh Anh Dung had been through these procedures before and showed no apprehension. Aside from casting a quick glance at his watch, he showed no emotion. Neither was the slightest trace of resentment reflected in his eyes. Actually, Dung, the very gentle and fragile-looking Vietnamese who perhaps weighed only 140 pounds, had nothing to be worried about since most of the U.S. border and immigration officials were hardly concerned about the dangers that aliens from Asia visiting the United States might represent, even in the years immediately following the end of the Vietnam War. In fact, the vast majority of these officials were pleasant and helpful. One such individual was Bill J. Smith, the desk officer to whom Dung was sent. Smith quickly and amicably processed Dung’s papers but retained a copy of his alien border-crossing permit since he had to account for this student’s reentry.

Without further delay, the French-Canadian and his Vietnamese friend started on their way via Interstate 87. Only thirty-five minutes had passed since their arrival at the Champlain crossing. MacGowan, who cast one more glance at the departing car, observed its low profile with peculiar interest. Dammit, he muttered, I had forgotten that knowledge could be so heavy… probably hundreds of books… but what else could he be carrying? Certainly not one of his many girlfriends. Oh no, not even that rascal Pierrot. Too bad that son-of-a-bitch Asiatic wasn’t the driver. Would I ever have turned the car inside out. You just can’t be careful enough with their kind of twisted, greasy faces. But what can a guy do if he is only a customs inspector? Orders are orders, especially with F1-Student visas. And Jean-Pierre is a good driver.

MacGowan was forced to turn his attention to the next cars approaching; but thinking about Jean-Pierre and Dung driving together continued to bother him, keeping his concentration from the job.

Dung showed no emotion and remained quiet, nonconversant. He was unable to remember just how many times he had been forced to show his papers while en route to the United States. At this border point, his papers were once again found to be in order. Neither was the car checked, as Jean-Pierre had predicted. All these American officials were not unlike the bureaucrats in his country of South Vietnam. While some were nasty, high-handed, even racist, others seemed idealistic although a bit fraternizing. But this particular chief inspector felt like a symbol of evil, even though he seemed to hide it. A symbol of the destruction of Vietnam by the United States, of a developing country oppressed by a rich country, the toiling masses exploited by the capitalists, and the continuous attempts of the ancient cradle of civilization being dominated by white man. However, all this did not matter anymore as these fleeting impressions in Dung’s mind were being replaced by the images of the real purpose of this journey. On his return from Montreal, he would destroy the Plattsburgh U.S. Air Force Base, a mission in the course of which he was destined to die at exactly at 1400 (EDT).

The means of destruction had been safely packed into the trunk of the Marquis, two wooden cases each bearing only one inscription: Books, Handle with Care. They contained weapons capable of killing hundreds and of blowing up major military installations: a rocket launcher with scores of rockets and a mortar with numerous shells. In about two hours, these creations of man’s evil genius would be put to deadly use, as an act of revenge for the multiple American war crimes against the Vietnamese.

It seemed the seconds were ticking away faster and faster. There was barely enough time left to breathe and recall the few good moments in one’s otherwise tragedy-filled life.

CHAPTER II

Phanh Anh Dung, the Avenger

For a barely twenty-six-year-old young man, Phanh Anh Dung’s life had not been an uneventful one. Born in Saigon, he was the product of French influence over the cultural setting of the ruling class of Vietnam as a colony. His father, not only a rich merchant and leading citizen, had also been prudent enough not to run up against the French authority or engage in overt opposition against the Japanese Imperial occupiers during World War II. After the ouster of the French, his father, other relatives, and business associates were prospering from their mastery of Parisian French and their rapid learning of the English language due to the increasing presence of Americans; the influx of vast quantities of U.S. dollars; taking control of the major sectors of the economy through banking and international trade; and the creation of the sovereign state of South Vietnam. Their only son, Dung, had been put through the French Lycée, graduating with honors in letters.

After the arrival of the Americans, Dung quickly adapted to English and the American way of life, even volunteering to serve in the Ranger Regiment of the South Vietnamese Army, specializing in rockets, mortars, and tank warfare. Several years after Dien Bien Phu, and just two years of fairly uneventful military service, he was granted study leave in order to obtain a graduate degree in economics and political science with the intention of studying law in Paris. His excellent social background helped him advance quickly in the hierarchy of Saigon’s non-Communist nationalistic leading circles, while carefully avoiding any involvement with the emerging extreme political factions, and return to Saigon with his Sorbonne degrees and rapidly improving English. Eventually, he was admitted to advanced studies at the School of International Affairs at Columbia University in New York City, having no problems whatsoever being granted on a preferential basis the required F1 visa, thanks to his father’s increasingly close ties with American leaders in business and banking. Duly processed and fingerprinted, he proceeded to the U.S. mainland, landing in Los Angeles in August 1972 and commencing his graduate work in New York by September. Quickly establishing himself as a ranking student, he committed literally all of his time to writing in English his doctoral dissertation, The Origins of Communism in Vietnam.

Dung’s friends and closest associates at Columbia University quickly perceived him as the sophisticated, nature-loving, paternal, traditional son of a ranking Saigon merchant family. However, deep within and without their knowing, he not only abhorred war but was also carrying a deep hatred of the three evil powers that had perpetrated the crimes of genocide upon his people, one of which was domestic—Ho Chi Minh—and the other two, foreign—France and the United States of America.

Dung was only seven years old when the French were finally defeated in 1954. As an adolescent, he had hoped to lead a quietly peaceful and creative life, but the rising tide of unrest and eventual strife had left an indelible and well-nigh fatalistic imprint on his innermost being. His initial enthusiasm following the arrival of the first Americans had lasted not even two years, even though he had remained in close contact with them while serving with the Ranger Regiment. Only three individuals, each a native Vietnamese, had been informed of the real reason for his wish to leave the regiment; it wasn’t so much his desire to pursue graduate studies abroad as to detach himself from his increasing disgust with the corruption of the Diem and Thieu regimes, of their exploitation and impoverishment of his own people and the brutal downgrading and wanton destruction of Vietnam’s traditional moral core—terrible effects of the increasingly repulsive behavior of the U.S. military, especially with regard to their disrespectful and shameless treatment of South Vietnam’s young women.

While Dung was quietly sitting next to Jean-Pierre, whose attention was preoccupied by the exceptionally heavy traffic, these incessant images of desperation were once again spreading over his disquiet spirit. On and on, he was burdened with the most painful images: the burned pagodas, the forests and waters poisoned by American warplanes, the destroyed schools and hospitals, the far too many maimed children, the thousands of dishonored women, and the defamed traditions of his ancient people. Yet Dung had never felt sorry for himself, having convinced himself this kind of life wasn’t worth living and having voluntarily chosen to end it all, right here, and within barely an hour on the mainland of the United States of America. Glancing at the unfolding panorama of Upstate New York, Dung was in fact living through the final minutes of his life, having taken upon his own person the responsibility of an unforgettable opening scene as the last act of his own personal human drama: a planned retaliation, a calculated act of retribution.

Dung had never fallen for the Vietcong’s communism-induced slogans, even though some of them had at first found a sympathetic echo in his subconscious. But he would never forget his deep emotional attachment to those monks, nuns, and young men and women who preferred dying by immolation rather than continue living in shame, having sacrificed themselves for the cause of the freedom and dignity of their people and nation. His rising disappointment had been slowly turning into acute disillusionment, eventually incubating the desire to stage a unique deed. Not a consequence of hopelessness, but an act of courage with the aim of redeeming the evil perpetrated against his people; an act that would demonstrate a new and promising path for his people, one that would lead them from the corrupt selfish ways of the traditional elite toward a new, pure, and brotherly togetherness under selfless and totally honest leaders. He was no Vietcong, and he would never point to Marxism as being that path, simply because Marx and his proletarian system were alien to Dung and his people. But he did, at times, feel that Ho, the Vietcong, and the other leaders in Hanoi, who had sacrificed so much and taken so little in return, were much closer to the Vietnamese people than the succession of corrupt leaders in Saigon.

Continuing to sit quietly but deeply embedded in his thoughts, Dung recalled the other person with whom he had shared his innermost anxieties and hopes, getting in return counsel, solace, and a sense of direction. Recalling the features of Nguyen Van Xuan, the old Buddhist monk whom his family had known for many years, Dung looked briefly through the windshield of the Marquis. Viewing the rolling hills of the Adirondacks with their forests of spruce, pine, hemlock, and birch, he found that this country—America—would never understand the nature of Buddhism and the importance of inner peace.

He remembered Xuan’s opinion of man and life: Son, the present is only a transition toward something that will be neither better nor worse, neither higher nor lower than what had been in the past. We cannot move closer to God, but we may gain solace and hope by believing God is for a purpose and that man’s life has meaning. You, my son, may find your meaning and inner peace by devoting all your time to meditation. To do that, you must part from your family and not worry about daily survival. War or peace, starvation or opulence, revolution or evolution will not affect you. You have the fundamental right to be yourself. You are free to exempt yourself from the problems of others. Meditation is the purest form of human activity, and holy men have always been shown great respect, even by the new rulers of the north. If you seek fulfillment, you should become a monk.

The old monk’s message had seemed simple indeed. Detach yourself from real life—material life—and forget about the problems of the world. Instead, devote yourself to God and build a bridge between your life and His presence. Peace and happiness will be your reward.

A simple message it had been indeed, even if listened to from a distance of more than seven thousand miles. But it was not a message of sufficient power to shunt this young man unto the track leading toward detachment and meditation. This young man was concerned about the poverty of his people and the unjust social order in his native land. He did not have the right to be himself and to lead a life of personal detachment while the men, women, and children of his country were being starved or even subjected to the horrifying death by napalm.

When Dung left for the United States, his parting from the other senior friend Mai Van Kiêm was less involved and much less painful, no doubt because Kiêm’s influence on Dung had been more practical, more down-to-earth. Kiêm was one of those handfuls of heroes of the national liberation who had decided to remain in the south after the Geneva Conference declared itself for a line of demarcation in Vietnam. He had been one of the early supporters of Ho, and some of the aims of the Vietnamese revolutionaries had been very dear to him, especially land redistribution and the removal of the money-lending class.

But he was not a Marxist. No Marxist could change the fact that Vietnam had remained essentially an agricultural society. Kiêm would never trade off his commitment to ancestry worship and the village tradition of XA for allegiance to Marxist ideology. In consequence, he accepted a position on the village council and devoted himself to the improvement of methods of cultivation and animal husbandry and to weeding out local corruption and usury.

Eventually, he was elected to the national assembly in Saigon where he soon became the focal point of voices that were increasingly critical of the presidential regimes in South Vietnam. He even became leader of the Independent Element, a group of Vietnamese professionals whose importance held its roots during the era of the French colonial occupation. This group had been against integration into the French cultural milieu but was willing to form an association with France in seeking to emulate French technology and economic structures and to adopt other Western production techniques while leaving undisturbed the traditional cultural fiber of their own country.

Kiêm saw life as a continuous struggle toward keeping a balance between tradition and change. He was a conservative in that he was holding on to the precious piece of land that nourished him and provided a burial plot for him and his ancestors. The spirits of the past kept on arising from this land, giving him fortitude and guidance. But he was also an activist; he did not accept the Confucian idea that harmony between past values and the future was a function of reincarnation. Instead, he propagated a life of commitment to a change for the better. He would never accept totalitarianism, but neither would he subject himself to the dictatorship of the rulers of South Vietnam. Because of his often-expressed views, he found himself forever standing on the threshold of detention. But the power baggers in Saigon dared not put him in jail, for he was far too well known as a symbol of heroic resistance against the foreign exploiters, and he was also widely respected as one of the very few truly honest, incorruptible politicians.

Kiêm’s message to the parting Dung expressed a simplicity that was typical for a man of action: While a complete detachment from everyday life is required for true meditation, a bridge to higher meaning and fulfillment cannot be erected if the poor and oppressed are left behind. They need your assistance and your deeds. Your task is to continue leading the life of action, of construction, of physical and mental development in the face of the adversity and uncertainty that have always threatened to destroy our people. You will not be free to build your own bridge unless you first leave your mark and your contribution to the spiritual and material well-being of our people.

Dung was barely eighteen years old when he was confronted with these two opposing views. Young and longing for action, he preferred accepting Kiêm’s outlook. However, the spiritual strength he had derived from Xuan would remain ingrained forever in his core. Thus equipped and fortified, he had decided to offer himself and his service to his country.

However, this commitment was not to become his fate, since within two years, his life was shattered, apparently forever. A creeping agony about the meaning of life had remained with him from then on and would only part from him at the moment of his death. Right at this moment, sitting to the right of his friend Jean-Pierre, his death was quickly approaching on Route 87, at eighty-five miles per hour.

The sight of the excessive speed brought Dung back to reality. He looked at his watch: 1205 (EDT). Pierrot, please slow down a bit, we do not wish the New York state troopers to stop us. Remember, we do not need to be back at International House before 6:00 p.m.

Jean-Pierre smiled and slowed down without responding. Dung once again quickly sank back into his past.

Two tragic events had forced Dung to give up his early active life and to enter the path toward withdrawal and death. Unlike the self-immolation of the venerable monks, Dung’s death would not be a suicide, but an act of self-sacrifice for his own people as well as for mankind. His selfless act would guarantee him his ascent after reincarnation into a higher state of being. His act would permit him, by dying, to build an eternal bridge between the dismal present and the hope for a better life for his people.

The first of the two tragedies occurred to him while serving in the Twelfth Rangers ARVN with the unexpected and brutal killing of his sister and brother. He had just returned with his mortar platoon from a sweep through the elephant grass northwest of Pleiku when the commanding officer called him and informed him of the accidental death of his brother and sister on the family-owned rubber plantation about fifty miles inland from Saigon. Dung was granted a forty-eight-hour leave in order to arrange for the funeral. The full impact of this tragedy hit him only after arriving in Saigon and seeing the terribly burned bodies of his two most beloved. He broke down when touching the two corpses and remained for hours in a semiconscious state. His sister, Thi Lan, had been one of those frail and most delicate Vietnamese girls who, at the budding age of fourteen, revealed the promise of growing up to be a very special Oriental beauty. Her presence had already bestowed upon Dung the joy of pure, aesthetic heavenly pleasure. At one time, before giving his heart to his eventual fiancée, Hua, Dung had in fact been in angel-like love with his radiant, delicate, and fragile sister.

And now, he was faced with the ugly reality: his sister was dead, burned almost beyond recognition by napalm said to have been dropped accidentally on the rubber plantation when she was visiting her younger brother. How very dead she looked, shrunken to one-sixth of her former petal-like being. She would never give life, nor would she ever again cast a twinkle of her mischievously inviting eyes at any of the young Vietnamese men deemed to be appropriate suitors. Instead, her young rosebud-colored skin had discolored into ghastly reddish gray and was peeling, exposing large patches of raw, charcoaled flesh.

As a ranger, Dung had on several occasions found himself face-to-face with death by napalm, but never before had that experience been so sickeningly personal. His brother was even much more badly charred, with his back burned right down to the ribs, apparently since he had jumped upon his sister to protect her from the bombs, to no avail.

Dung’s tears were soon replaced by a tremendous outburst of wrath, a feeling of revenge that induced him to furtively discover whence the U.S. bombers had been sent to the skies over South Vietnam: the United States Air Force Base in Plattsburgh.

Experiencing this personal tragedy, Dung retired into contemplation, rethinking the linkage between the presumed harmonies in Vietnamese village life, on the one hand, and the improvement in technology that would promise an improved standard of living.

Pondering, he concluded the evils arising from attempts to improve technology would be much greater than the advantages that could be derived from it. Any other system suddenly seemed more preferable—even the historical backwardness of Vietnamese rural areas. Dying in one’s own village, surrounded by one’s ancestors and their spirits suddenly seemed a far better way of life. Progress and democracy could only mean foreigners and bombs. All of Dung’s previous dreams were suddenly shattered, being turned into undesired illusions. In their pursuit of the machine age and their private gain, the Americans had forgotten that virtue, not power, represents the highest and the ultimate good.

Keeping his discovery and conclusion totally to himself, Dung decided to become one of the spokesmen for the emerging National Social Democratic Front, trying to recover by reentering the road toward spiritual fulfillment along the lines of Xuan’s thoughts and reasoning; however, fate would once again interfere, thereby preventing his planned recovery.

The final step in Dung’s complete departure from his plans involving the attainment of spiritual well-being was taken five months later when he was informed that Hua, his beloved bride-to-be-for-life, had eloped with a captain of the U.S. Special Forces. As an immediate consequence, Dung’s initial warmhearted approval of American intervention had, instantaneously, turned into unmitigated hatred.

CHAPTER III

Tran Thi Hua:

A Vietnamese Woman’s Tragedy in War

Phanh Anh Dung and Tran Thi Hua were both children of Saigon’s commercial elite. Her father was a banker with French leanings. He had been to France many times and saw to it that his son, Phanh Anh, would study at the Sorbonne. The father’s brief internment by the Japanese occupiers never threatened the status of the family; rumors claimed the father had provided the Japanese with a steady flow of U.S. dollars required to purchase coal and crude oil for the Imperial Navy. His banking business had prospered even more through the association with the World Bank and in the early sixties the continuously increasing inflow of funds from the U.S. government. His private accounts in Paris and Zurich contained vast amounts of U.S. dollars and pound sterling.

Regardless of the outcome of the fratricidal conflict between North and South Vietnam, his family would be exceptionally well provided for. While admitting quite openly that spirit and people won wars, he also maintained that money—especially hard currency—was by far the most essential lubricant. He preferred living in the elegance of the French milieu of slight corruption but with personal freedom, rather than in the pretentious and virtuous atmosphere in the capital of North Vietnam.

Hua’s childhood had been one of opulence, but with the result of complete estrangement from her own people. Always surrounded by maids—most of whom were daughters of impoverished peasants—she appeared cold and indifferent as an adolescent, even though she did occasionally participate in organized assistance programs for the pauvres indigènes. Some of the traditions of her people, in particular music and dancing, amused her; but she much preferred Western-style products and material values.

To her, life was entirely meaningful when men of all ages, especially both domestic and foreign diplomats complimented her ethereal beauty and, on occasion, when appearing like a lotus in its radiant fragility; yet remarkably competitive and enduring she spent much time playing tennis or, at eighteen years old, resting her eyes on the most striking male players but preferring to converse (pretending to improve her English) with several visiting young officers dressed in their U.S. Special Forces uniforms.

The esteemed social status of Hua and Dung’s families reflected Vietnamese tradition at that level, implying Hua would eventually marry Dung—a favorite topic of discussion between her and her mother. After all, she had known Dung since her early childhood, was cognizant of his academic achievements, and admired him in his Ranger uniform. A perfect Vietnamese gentleman, he would cherish and protect her, confirm her social status, and guarantee her financial security and material wealth. All of which would permit her to continue with her frequent shopping sprees to Paris and the recently discovered joy of promenading along Fifth Avenue—always accommodated with an ample supply of U.S. dollars.

But Hua did not know if she really loved Dung. Still a virgin, although repeatedly overheating, she had never experienced deeply passionate satisfaction with a man who would have experienced the joy of arousing the millions of female pores waiting to be touched and who would know how to induce her to open up without any inhibitions, to share his passion and receive his spark of life. Her feminine instincts were unsure about Dung; but her mind, recalling tradition, insisted she would learn how to love him and how to be a perfect wife.

Orgasm. She had read about this mystery in ancient writings, in modern medical books, and in French prose, from the Kama Sutra to the unappealing and unaesthetic expressions of Germaine Greer. She thought she was perfectly well informed in theory, but her recently intensifying longing for the real-life experience was causing her some difficult moments.

Dung weighed only 140 pounds, which was typical of Vietnamese men. She knew Dung could run one hundred meters in 12.5 seconds, and he had also run in several five-thousand-meter steeplechase events, placing first each time. He was skilled in karate and swimming and was therefore presumably capable of equally quick reaction and endurance. As an excellent tennis player, he also seemed quite competitive, but she could not help wondering if all these traits would suffice to make him a good lover. As a man, Dung did not seem sizable enough to carry her in his arms or to make her feel tantalizingly crushed while lying under him in the course of an aspired lovemaking togetherness. She had not yet had the purely physical or mind-arousing erotic pleasure of seeing his love instrument, but in her intimate moments she was often wondering what he had there, if anything at all? For even with the greatest stretch of imagination, she saw nothing, even in the tightest of all his top-brand tennis shorts.

Yet Hua was quite willing to accept Dung in marriage, but she would first have to receive an affirmation of his qualities as a lover. The issue had not yet become extremely urgent. In the meantime, as a member of Saigon’s elite, she continued her participation in socializing with some of the younger-ranking Americans who were stationed in Saigon or spending some furlough time in the city. The men from America were physically superb-looking specimens. Even though their flesh-oriented stares revealed animal brutality, they also induced an extremely pleasant goose-pimple sensation, especially with their languid, leisurely strides that reminded her of the vibrancy and potency of male orangutans in Vietnam’s northern forests.

At first, going to the events where Americans were present, Hua always insisted on being accompanied by a Vietnamese escort, usually Dung. However, with the months passing and Dung away fighting the V-C, she not only gradually learned how to accept more matter-of-factly the ogling by the young American officers, but also commenced to feel enticing pleasure in speculating how it would feel if one of those superb-looking Americans would grab her with their lithe sensuous fingers, and what they would do with her—and how?

Dung, when present, could not help noticing the eye and body movements of Hua, on and off the tennis court, when partnered with Americans. Over the course of time, those occasions caused him a rapid diminution in happiness and even a complete loss of self-confidence. He felt he was becoming a loser at everything: first his siblings, then his own personal problems. Even in tennis, because although an A-class player by Vietnamese standards, he was forced to endure numerous thrashings by these gorillas from the United States, especially one John F. Anderson, a captain in the Green Berets. Eventually, in yet another dismal moment in his life, Dung gave up playing tennis and going to the club. From then on, Hua started attending all alone, more and more convinced that Dung wasn’t the man with whom she wished to mate for life.

CHAPTER IV

An All-American

Takes a Vietnamese Virgin

John Anderson’s arrival in Saigon initiated a series of events in the course of which Hua would eventually break with her tradition and forsake her Vietnamese fiancé. On a two-week furlough, the captain, with light-brown wiry hair, deep-set gray eyes, and a pantherlike gait, was filled with memories of sexual pleasure with U.S. college girls enamored with him. Six-foot-two and two hundred pounds of pure muscle, the star quarterback at Stanford looked absolutely mind-boggling both on and off the tennis court. When Hua first cast her eyes on John Anderson, her insides instantly turned hot, making her realize this American man would be her destiny. From that moment on, her feminine inspiration delighted itself during many hours of occasional speculation, with a playful and mischievous assessment of Anderson’s physical and mental qualities. From what she had heard, he was a most eligible young gentleman: Stanford quarterback; heir to the Anderson Machine Works worth many millions; and in Vietnam for adventure, experience and, presumably, conquests.

As a budding woman, she felt that he had slept with many American girls—unaware that most had simply thrown themselves at him. Nor did she know he’d already had his pick of Vietnamese virgins, albeit never from Saigon’s elite society. She also sensed all of those presumed mésalliances left him cold and unfulfilled. In reality, even though some of his conquests had been interspersed with feelings of true love, none of them had ever induced him to propose. Already in Vietnam for more than a year and still playing the market, Anderson—every day faced with the possibility of getting killed—was becoming concerned whether he would ever find his ideal woman. Even when in actual combat, he felt the increasing need to find and be with such a woman, a thought that not only encouraged him to survive, but also made him gradually lose interest in physical pleasure with other women. Well into his second year in Vietnam, he unexpectedly saw himself facing Hua.

Having been around, Anderson felt instantly pleased after noticing the question in Hua’s gentle deep-brown eyes. He playfully looked her over, like an impressionist painter gliding his brush ever so carefully over a translucent canvas, taking in her petite, finely shaped breasts and glancing downward toward her thighs… the lithe shapely offerings of a promise, as well as a mind-boggling invitation. His ego instantly visualized her in bed, wondering whether she would be timid or anxious, reticent or welcoming, lustful or demanding; however, he also knew she was elite, off limits. For the first time since his arrival in Vietnam, Anderson regretted not even having attempted to learn the Vietnamese art of greeting. How useful it would have been to demonstrate to her and, later to her father, his genuine interest in the culture and tradition of their native land, even though her parents might never welcome him, being not only a long-nosed but also a foreigner.

During his next two-week furlough in Saigon, John had ample occasion to talk with Hua. What started out as a soldier’s appreciation of yet another female rapidly turned into fascination and a deep longing for this young woman. Wishing to be with her more often and recognizing this would not be just another passing affair, he asked his father to use his connections and have him posted for a while to a desk job in Saigon. He became also increasingly concerned this budding relationship would never be allowed to culminate in marriage; the Vietnamese elite would not permit any sexual linkage between an American soldier and a Vietnamese woman. Neither would U.S. Army regulations allow more than just cursory sexual linkages between GIs and Saigon streetwalkers, most of which are runaways from the villages or daughters of impoverished families in the cities.

While the provision of sexual services to American soldiers had been accepted as a necessary evil (Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell), only very few Americans would have raised their eyebrows concerning simple love affairs, even if it involved Vietnamese underage virgins. This was so because such affairs were inevitably terminated with the American lover either being killed or sent back to the States, while the forsaken and forlorn female would be passed on to other enlisted men, eventually landing in bed with African-Americans. Tough on the girls, but war is war, and girls pay for them with their bodies just as much as their soldier lovers do. Regretfully reflecting a situation that had existed for millennia: unlike the soldiers/mercenaries—usually invaders from abroad—whose sacrifice of life and limb is often referred to as heroism, the sexually accommodating usually indigenous females are branded whores, forced to live at the margins of their society, usually ostracized even though most of their earnings, at least in Vietnam, were being spent on supporting their extended families, the sick, the wounded, and the maimed.

John not only knew the rules, but also was aware of the social credo of Vietnam’s upper crust. A seasoned veteran in sexual relations, he was first trying very hard to find a proper balance between his rising passion for Hua’s feminine mystique and his genuine concern for her happiness. For the first time in his life, he found himself truly loving and caring, in the position of a perfect knight errant and his motto: Truly chivalrous men will protect all women from all men, and his chosen one from himself until the twinkle in her eye gives him the signal. However, while still managing to mind his manners, he was becoming more and more aware of her passion for him and her increasingly visible longing for the ultimate intimacy. As her passion appeared to be rising into full bloom, his own longing for her was intensifying by leaps and bounds. Since the time was not right, he had to endure an increasingly painful patience.

Had it not been for TET-offensive that cast itself so surprisingly, and the totally unsuspecting American military, Hua and John would have continued agonizing about their hopeless situation. The offensive caught Hua on one of her trips to several outlying district schools. She had left Saigon three days earlier, with the intent of handing out food and clothing to the desolate children in two refugee camps and one remote hamlet. She had just arrived at the Phu Le hamlet in the Mekong Delta, a region that had been declared safe and pacified, when suddenly all hell broke loose. First, a two-hour bombardment with long-range rockets, and an hour-long shelling by the Vietcong that set the hamlet school afire and indiscriminately killed hundreds of Vietnamese civilians.

Caught for the first time in actual fighting, Hua and her guide were panicked, attempting instinctively to make it into the close-by tamarind forest on the other side of the protective bamboo fence; however, they never made it across the fence, stopped suddenly by a Green Beret who forced them to turn around and seek refuge in one of the deep dark holes the local peasants had dug for shelter below the floor of their miserable-looking huts. An elderly woman was holding a coughing baby on her lap, and two pot-bellied children huddled into the same hole. After several more hours of enduring the sounds and shock waves from the exploding shells, Hua sank into a pit of fear she might never make it back alive. Frightened, she commenced reciting a children’s Buddhist mantra, praying for help, any help. Finally, late in the afternoon, she heard the initially faint noise of approaching rotors that quickly turned into a roaring crescendo. The Americans were flying in reinforcements in order to meet head on and repel the V-C tank and infantry attack. The earlier sounds of V-C mortar shell and rocket explosions were displaced by the crackling of multiple machine gun and automatic weapons fire from the approaching dozen of U.S. Army helicopters. Quickly, she ascended from the pit and observed three of the birds touching down, while a fourth, much farther out, suddenly caught fire and nose-dived into a giant cloud of smoke. She also counted another seven of those birds of wrath, hovering over the hillside looking for their prey in the fields below.

But the cacophony of war repeated, amplifying to an ear-shattering outburst of shots, shells, explosions, and balls of fire that seemed to descend upon Hua from all directions. She jumped back into the hole and tried to dig herself still deeper into the ground, embracing Mother Earth in utmost despair, hoping to save herself from death and destruction. How infinitively and hopelessly distant she was feeling from Paris and New York, and how totally defenseless in the face of death, in the very mud hole of this forgotten hamlet amidst the inferno of bombs, of the terrified and the wounded. Inferno.

For hours, Hua kept on repeating: I am pure, I am good, I am chaste. If you, God, wish me to die now, please let it happen with my standing up in dignity, but not by having to be buried in this horrible place!

Hua did not know the helicopter unit had been made up of an odd assortment of Americans and South-Vietnamese soldiers and officers: GIs, NCOs, Rangers, and Green Berets. A total number of about three hundred had been quickly rounded up in Saigon, mostly on furlough, when the news about the unexpected massive assault broke out. John Anderson was put in charge, known as a military leader who could and would cope with any hopeless situation, and come out a winner. Within two hours, his men were being flown to the combat area.

Two Chinooks arriving crashed and burned a total of thirty men, but Anderson and his remaining men were able to touch ground and spread out to get ready for the counterattack. His men were soon positioned between the coconut groves, the rubber trees, and the bamboo hedge around the two sides of the hamlet and the rear, leaving him with just a few men in front along one of the canals running into the delta. Faced with a much more numerous enemy, he was eventually forced to seek cover in whatever had remained of the hamlet, ordering his men to dig in and defend themselves until the arrival of stronger reinforcements before the daybreak. Some of the GIs, instead of digging in, simply dislodged some of the surviving villagers from their holes, sending them to certain death.

Ordered to minimize American casualties, Anderson was unable to do anything about what he was witnessing. Nothing had been said about protecting the villagers, their land, their own huts, and their own self-dug mud holes. Deep within himself, he was feeling sorry for the villagers, but his hands were tied. He could always promise to bring them freedom and security, but he was not able to guarantee their survival. Throughout the war in Vietnam, there had never been an American body count of the villagers who had perished: the closest estimates speak of about two million Vietnamese civilians.

During the course of the night, the fighting eased and the noise of war diminished. Anderson gave orders to dig in still deeper and to search the remnants of the village, looking for civilian survivors. Jumping out of his hole, he approached the nearest hut, entered and detected a human voice, apparently in despair, reciting in Vietnamese what sounded like a mantra. He stepped closer into the depths of the hut, feeling his way in the dark and discovering a hole in the ground.

Reaching down he spoke in English, Is someone there? A whimpering sound answered in halting English, Yes, please help, please… Hearing the voice, Anderson suddenly felt electrified, desperately searching his memory cells for the source of this apparently frightened female voice. Reaching down with his commando flashlight, he found himself looking straight into a face he had seen before, just a few days earlier, an exceptionally beautiful face. The tennis court… this couldn’t be, this is impossible… this could not possibly be Hua!

Anderson did indeed find himself face-to-face with the woman he had learned to love and respect. This young woman was immersed in soiled and torn clothing and buried halfway in the orange-hued mud, looking terribly frightened, her lips still moving with the intonation of the mantra. She was unaware her blouse had ripped open and the whiteness of her bosom provided quite a sensuous contrast against the brightness of the occasional explosion outside.

Anderson, dressed in camouflage fatigues of the Green Berets and looking even more like a master over life and death, gently reached down with his left arm, while still holding his automatic in his right hand, and started lifting her up until their faces almost touched. As their eyes met, an avalanche of tears from Hua’s eyes flowed upon Anderson’s chest, while Hua instinctively attempted to cover herself. His strong, protective arms and the gentleness of his hands unfolded an innermost heat wave in her that, quickly ascending, set her cheeks aflame. Anderson stared at her in disbelief. The color of the face of this tiny, delicate, frightened little Vietnamese girl was suddenly changing from the pale-gray hue of the fear of dying to the vivid pink of a young woman wishing to live and be loved. Her tears stopped flowing and were replaced by a hesitant, furtive smile. She snuggled up against his chest, seeking solace while beginning to respond to the eternally embedded instinct of a woman who had finally found her man. She uttered half-crying, half-laughing, Anderson, Anderson, please hold me tight… , stopping in her attempt to cover her bosom. His eyes descended from her face toward her chest, resting for a moment on her firm and suddenly budding breasts, and to her torn skirt and shapely thighs. His mind raced back to the Saigon Country Club and that lovely female being dressed all in white and smelling like an early-spring lotus.

Electrified to the very tip of his toes, Anderson wasted no time. He lifted Hua carefully and gently into his arms and carried her, right in front of his men, to the last remaining dry shelter just off the center of the hamlet. He quickly made a cot of palm leaves and caringly eased Hua into it. He covered her with his tunic and left the shelter in order to arrange for the disposition of his men until the hour of dawn.

After reaching its peak just before midnight, the artillery and mortar barrage was easing off; but the high number of casualties were making Anderson, an officer who had been through many tough calls, grow increasingly apprehensive. There was nothing more he could do in the pitch darkness except wait and remain alert in the hope the V-C would do exactly the same. Eventually, the shooting became sporadic and seemed to shift to another sector. The eerie lull of the sudden tranquility added to Anderson’s disquiet, inducing him to remain wide-awake for another long, nerve-shattering two hours.

Everything remained still. He realized that no new attack would be launched, made his final rounds, and left instructions with his four platoon leaders and the outposts. He proceeded to engage in an action that he knew was in total contradiction to the ethos of the United States Active Officers’ Corps. Forced by his concern for the safety of Hua, his acute need for her immediate presence, and agonizing about her state of exhaustion, he hurried back to her shelter, caught between his conscience as active officer of the United States of America, propelled by his concern and rising desire

for her.

At the entrance to her shelter, he hesitated for a while, wanting to appear in full control of his emotions, and taking one soundless step at a