Shadow Children of Saigon

By Robert Fulton

Shadow children refer to the thousands of orphans of mixed-race who lived from hand to mouth in their perilous passage through the dark shadows of Saigon during the Vietnam war. Rejected by their culture as non-Vietnamese and often shunned by the Americans, they desperately strove to live. Young and defenseless, their only hope was to stay too the shadows as they went about a routine that was one hundred percent about shelter and food to sustain them one more day. Lahn, Di.U, and Mien fit exactly into the description of shadow children. The book unfolds their story through seemingly impossible odds, tales of grit, and unbelievable journeys. On a specific day in their young lives fate bestows on them a small miracle that can not easily be understood at first, but will lead them to the sympathy of an American helicopter medic. who reaches out in an effort to help them through; the difficulties of their daily journey. Scenes of rescue and details of the American soldier fighting the war emerge along the way. A harrowing ending that threatens to drown them in its menace and uncertainty looms. A stirring epilogue promises to complete the tale.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Mar 31, 2022
• ISBN: 9781734701449

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Chương 1

LAHN

Often it starts in a bed, inside rumpled sheets, damp from tropical air or from the wet splatter of monsoon torrents. There was nothing glamorous, just small rooms painted in loud colors, with an open window. The limp curtains wait to be altered by a cool breeze in the night.

Moral tethers, having been severed by war, distance or just raw opportunity, produce two bodies striving for ecstasy in their absence. Damp with sweat and the smell of alcohol, they hope for a release from the pain of an inner nature or at the very least a brief respite from loneliness. Frequently financial profit is the single-engine that drives the encounter.

There is no intention to love, only to join in a dance that combines two cultures for a brief moment. This moment launches the journey of a thousand unwanted children of mixed race, hated by their culture, leaving them to find nurturing in an emotional desert, devoid of kindness or help. Amid the changing trials of war and an indifferent population, they suffer.

Other combinations of circumstances produce the same results. Even good intentions are unintentionally splintered by war bringing forth these children of the dirt.

Various vegetable scraps, small wrappers, and debris fly from the top of a battered garbage can onto the sidewalk of a poorly lit street. The lamp post nearest the can leans dangerously across the sidewalk, its dim bulb threatening to crash to the ground and extinguish its meager illumination.

A small boy rises cautiously from inside the battered can and slowly stands. He looks around and then leaps from the barrel, landing lightly on his bare feet amidst the scattered refuse. His name is Lahn, a boy of only eleven. He stands on a sidewalk in the middle of the city of Saigon during the last years of the Vietnam War. His face is worn beyond his years, but he still has a child’s movements. His hair is brown and curly. He is half American and half Vietnamese, a shadow child surrounded by the war that produced him and rejected as non-Vietnamese by the culture he survives in.

His hair is bound in a band of dirty green cloth. His shirt is a faded khaki, torn away at the elbows, too large for his slight frame. His black trousers are cut off at the knee, and his sandals swing from a string at his waist. A small bag completes his tiny uniform of neglect.

He picks through the scattered items he threw from the garbage that may have value as food or be useful in any way at all. He stuffs them in the bag at his waist.

Hearing a nearby noise, Lahn cocks his head sharply, listening for danger. He jumps up and sprints down the street past leaning lamp posts. He knocks over a trash can, but as the danger is not at his heels, he pauses briefly, searching the contents as he sets it straight. While he rolls the barrel upright, he is assailed by screams of derision and lumps of old bap cai (cabbage) flying from a nearby balcony, hitting the pavement beside him. He scoops them up as he turns and continues his sprint down the dark street.

Rounding a corner, he turns into a street blazing with the colors of flashing signs. He slows his pace, dodging people coming and going into various entrances, standing in groups, and leaning against the buildings, smoking and chatting.

Some men are in army uniform, others in civilian garb, open short sleeve shirts with tan slacks. The fawning and attentive Vietnamese women are beautifully wrapped in their native áo dài modified to just below the knee and split up along the thigh. The red, gold and turquoise cloth pop through the flashing colors of the signs. The soft patterns sparkle boldly.

A gaggle of men and women laughing loudly step suddenly from the bright entrance of a bar into his path. He slams into a large man and spins away. The man yells drunkenly and jerks his cigarette from his lips, snapping it at Lahn. Slowed by the size of the group, Lahn takes the cigarette painfully against his cheek. He runs faster to clear the crowd; the sting of the burn is barely noticed.

ON THE RUN

Finding himself alone near a large tree, he stops in its shadow, presses his hand against the small wound on his face, and contemplates his next move.

He is the leader of a small band of three shadow children, including himself. All are outcasts living on the very edge of the city’s comings and goings—hated and rejected by the vilest of prejudice as non-humans. All his movements are about survival. Every day, only two questions exist in his youthful mind, shorn of innocence by his grim existence: will I eat today, will I live?

A large group of Vietnamese youth stand beside their brightly colored motor scooters and motorbikes in a nearby city square. They are animated by laughter and loud conversation as they drink down red cans of Coke and white cans of Miller beer. Eating from sticks filled with roasted chicken or fish, they occasionally spill their drinks on the hot exhaust of their bikes, sending brief puffs of white steam into the air. They toss down their candy wraps that skip across the square, driven by the light breeze.

The crowd begins to move nervously and rev their engines. A boy shouts, Start the hunt! Let’s go!

No, no, wait, wait for Trong Tri, he’s coming, shouts another.

Trong Tri will keep the body count much higher, comments a bike driver to the passenger behind him.

Get the little beggars, make ‘em squeal, yells out a girl from the back of a bright yellow bike near the fountain.

A dozen shadow children crouch near the edge of the lighted public square just inside an alley behind piles of wooden crates. Their hair is shaggy; they are clothed in a wild mixture of rags and colorful patches. They are dangerously trapped. Two of them peer from behind the crates, their faces smudged; they are terrified. They have come to be in exactly the wrong place at precisely the wrong time.

A motorbike rider casting his eyes around the square catches a quick glimpse of two peering shadow children. He swerves his bike in their direction—his passenger points from behind him in the direction of the alley. The children jump from behind the crates and scatter, a blue and a yellow bike swivel and chase after the green bike headed for the children running away into the alley.

There, in the alley! Get’em! Get’em! shouts the first driver.

Loudly revving engines sound the charge of the lurching bikes maneuvering wildly toward the alley opening. Some run into each other in their haste.

Three bikes slide to a stop at the opening of the alley. Their riders and passengers jeer and hoot as the children scatter down the alley into its shadows.

Lahn looks down at the scene from the second story of a building that faces the square. He crouches in the darkness staring through a broken window as the crowd becomes confused. He winces as he sees the shadow children being discovered and fleeing into the darkness.

His hand slips and pushes against a loose piece of stone. Tumbling downward, the chunk of concrete crashes into the edge of the square. He jumps back into the shadows of the room filled with rubble.

The driver of the nearest bike looks up at the broken window of the abandoned building. He kicks down his kickstand, takes a club from his belt and steps towards the nearest doorway. However, just then, the rising cheers of the crowd bring his attention back to the square.

From the corner of the square, a large black and silver motorcycle slowly motors toward the center of the gathering. Drivers of the smaller motorbikes pull their bikes back to clear a path for the big Triumph—flags and streamers decorating the motorcycle flutter slightly until it comes to a stop just short of the fountain.

Trong Tri, dressed in Levis, a belt with a large silver buckle and a bright purple shirt opened to the waist stops the big bike in their midst. His boots are black with silver buckles. He greets the gang calmly with a wave of his hand. His face is cruel with a slight sneer; his laughter comes suddenly and then stops as quickly as it started.

Lahn goes to the window to see if anyone is coming for him. No. He breathes a sigh of relief. As he stares down from the broken window, he catches a glimpse of Trong Tri on his black and silver motorcycle. He jerks away from the window. His breath catches in his throat. He can’t put his finger on it, but the sight of Trong Tri terrifies him like no other. The terror runs deep.

Lahn stands in the empty room filled with fallen ceiling tiles and broken furniture. He is confused about what to do next. If the gang below in the square scatters soon for their nightly hunt, he may be trapped where he is. The question is can he make it back to Mien lying sick in their hiding place before his route is blocked by marauding bikers?

He hears the crowd roar from below and steps to the broken window. He looks down and screws up his face in thought, weighing the risks. He pauses, then bolts for the door at the end of the room. He hears the crowd below roar once more.

Trong Tri! Trong Tri! screams the excited crowd as the bikes line up behind the black and silver motorcycle and slowly leave the square in a rough parade of color, noise, and high-pitched shouts.

Lahn finds his way across the room and through the door. The dark hall beyond leads to a descending stairway with a broken handrail. He takes the stairs two at a time and sprints across a small lobby and through the entrance. He stays to the dark side of the street. The engine noises and shouting are fading as they parade out of the square and turn down the street in the opposite direction.

CHAPTER TWO

Chương 2

MIEN

A small fire sputters on the bare earth amid the scattered rubble. Nearby is a cracked plastic bucket of water, and a small wooden crate stands on its end. Two worn, plastic tarps filled with holes lie askew close by.

The small fire reflects weakly against a silver curtain of Coke cans. The tops and bottoms of the cans have been removed, and the remainder flattened and fastened together with bits of wire at each corner. The curtain is silver except where the odd red Coke label shows the maker’s occasional carelessness placing a flattened can the wrong way. The curtain is suspended at one end of the small clearing to stop the wind swirling through the bombed-out building and catching under its broken ceiling.

This is the home of the three children in the gut of a partially destroyed building piled with broken pieces of concrete. It is a deserted sector of the city, and there are no crowds or passersby. The flames of the tiny fire are safely hidden from the street by the thin curtain of aluminum.

Mien’s reflection in the hanging curtain resembles an image in a House of Mirrors; although lying down, he appears to have a huge chest and tiny feet. His head is elongated, and his legs are longer still. He does not see his reflection as his eyes are closed, and he occasionally groans loudly during his restless sleep. He is alone in the hideout and in pain from a wound on his leg that has become red and swollen.

Lahn picks his way between the chunks of concrete, winding his way deeper into the collapsed building. He smells the smoke from the tiny fire and begins to see its weak glow against the random stones that make up the shelter.

He climbs up and over an especially large boulder of concrete and jumps down on the other side at the edge of the small clearing where Mien rolls fitfully on a tattered tarp in the middle of the dirt circle they call home.

Lahn steps to the fire, stirring its dying embers and adding a few small remnants of broken furniture to its sputtering flames. He moves to where Mien is prostrate on an old tarp and gathers up a tattered blanket that has been thrown off by Mien’s restlessness and places it back on the small boy. A crude wooden crutch lies beside Mien. Lahn moves it away and kneels beside him.

He places his hand on Mien’s forehead; his face curls in a kind of fearful concern. Mien begins to stir. Lahn takes the bag and sandals from his waist and throws them toward the corner of the dirt floor. Mien opens his eyes.

Mien is slightly older than Lahn. His hair is jet black. His left leg is twisted in a curious position, and he uses a crutch in his travels as he cannot stand without its support. Despite his handicap, he is the clown of the group. He always has whimsical comments or jokes to make them laugh. However, his humor has drained from him in the past week as his fever and pain have increased.

Mien groans and opens his eyes. He struggles up on one elbow, turns his face to Lahn and quietly asks, Lahn, are you back? Di.U, is she here?

Lahn answers softly, Yes, Mien, I’m here, not Di.U yet.

It hurts.

Di.U is coming. She’ll be here later with something to help you. I’m sure of it.

How long?

Soon, Mien, rest.

Mien falls back on his mat. He reaches down to touch the bandage on his calf. Lahn gently stops him. He strokes Mien’s forehead and a tear gathers in his right eye. It slides down his cheek and drops onto the bare dirt leaving a small dark spot. Lahn’s eyes close tightly. His face is a mask of anguish; he doesn’t want Mien to die.

He gets up, walks to the cracked and yellowed bucket of water and scoops out a cup for Mien, returns, and gives him a drink while holding up his head. Mien drinks it all. Only a small amount escapes his lips and drizzles down his cheek onto his shirt. Lahn gently rests Mien’s head back onto the tarp.

Lahn sits cross-legged, watching Mien toss and turn and finally fall into a fitful sleep. He gets to his knees and crawls over to where he can unwrap the bandage on Mien’s leg and look at the wound. As the bandage falls away, Lahn’s eyes grow wide. The wound is purple and swollen.

He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a relatively clean rag, opens it, and reaches into his other pocket, where he pulls out several cigarette butts. He opens them one at a time and shakes their contents into the rag. He smooths out the small pile across it with his fingers, folds and wraps it around the wound. He stands and walks over to retrieve his small waist bag, opens it, and rummages through it, looking for something edible.

He returns to his place near Mien and munches on a piece of the raw cabbage thrown at him earlier in the evening. He stares at the reflection of the dancing flames in the aluminum curtain, and his thoughts drifted back to the moment near the river almost five days ago….

The two boys walk