The half-day trip
By: Charles Hatfield
Tags: Vietnam, Short Story

Dac Kien shut his eyes momentarily, resting his head on the rattling glass beside him. Last night’s drinking had left him with a dull ache in his temples, which the throbbing windowpane was exacerbating. Despite the best efforts of Duong, a company driver, the grey twelve-seater Ford van had remained largely stationary for the best part of ten minutes, hemmed in by the ceaseless stream of motorcycles that were a constant at the northern end of Nguyen Hue street at this time of day.

Regardless of the fact Dac Kien was truly a born-and-raised Saigonese, and that for the last ten years had spent the larger proportion of his working life sat in traffic in this van or one similar, he still felt irritation as yet another errant rider clipped the passenger-side wing mirror with a resounding clunk, causing him to sit up with a start. Duong on the other hand was entirely reposed, chewing betel and scanning the dense blockade of bikes for an opening in which he might wedge the van. The ability to remain calm in Saigon traffic was a prerequisite for anyone dwelling in this sprawling metropolis, but especially so for anyone operating a vehicle with more than two wheels. Most taxi drivers could remain placid in even the most frightening (though more often, simply frustrating) of situations, their “road rage” expressed with a clicking of the tongue or a whistle of exhalation between their front teeth. Indeed, the convoys of lorries that raced into the city from the surrounding countryside, often spilling their loads as they bounced in and out of the rutted boulevards of District 12, were driven by men who despite their 18-hour shifts at the wheel, were impervious to the irritations that most find symptomatic of lack of sleep, remaining alert and awake as they lean on the horns of their lorries, like Duong, relentlessly chewing their betel. Nothing about the Saigon traffic phased them, they simply roared forth, awaiting the sea of bikes to part in front of them, as though they had the Pharaoh’s forces at their back.

Public bus drivers were perhaps the only ones who didn’t seem to be blessed with the essential combination of both natural fortitude and a Buddha-like tranquillity to navigate the Saigon streets, mused Dac Kien. They tended to be angry looking, small men, with faces haggard from the intense anxiety and pressure of their job as Saigon’s only public transport providers. They were quick to anger and had an unpleasant tendency, even by the standards of the Vietnamese, to spit from their open window while driving. As a small boy, Dac Kien had been fascinated by buses and lorries, any large vehicles. The way they moved through the traffic conjured images of a whale, passing alongside a shoal of tiny fish. Dac Kien had never driven anything larger than a motorcycle, the largest of which, a 1969 Honda CB750 was his 18th birthday present and his pride and joy for several years. Now seventy years old, he no longer drove at all, enduring the ignominy of taking the bus network, with its mean-faced drivers, on the orders of his doctor and the Department of Transport.

A slurping, bubbling sound pulled Dac Kien from his thoughts. Duong was greedily ensuring he didn’t leave a drop of his ca phe sua da, eyes on the road while his yellow plastic straw searched among the ice cubes for the sweet coffee nectar. Duong was the only person Dac Kien knew who would add his own additional sugar to the already sickly-sweet street-side coffee, and this habit had done little favour for his betel stained teeth. Dac Kien did not judge Duong, however. In fact, he enjoyed his largely silent company, and the fact he alone, out of all his colleagues at VinatoursXpress, judged Dac Kien neither.

They were late. It wasn’t as though the traffic had caught them unawares — they had left plenty of time. But lateness could be the difference between a three-star and four-star Tripadvisor review, as Dac Kien well knew, as did Mr Lee, his boss. His mobile rang in his pocket. Right on cue, Mr Lee.

“Dac Kien!” he yelled, “what’s going on? Why have you not picked up the family at the hotel? Is there a problem?”

“No, Mr Lee, sir. We are almost there. Only a few minutes…”

Mr Lee did not wait for him to finish. The line had gone dead. Moments later Dac Kien’s phone buzzed. “Fee deduction: 10%.”

Duong glanced across at his passenger, but Dac Kien’s face gave nothing away.

“Take a right here, Duong. Then the hotel will be on our left.”

The driver nodded, dropped into second gear and accelerated onto a side road, seemingly not noticing the elderly, non-la wearing lady, as she pushed her trolley of lottery tickets off the pavement. Of course, Duong had seen her, and vice-versa, but like most Vietnamese, they had a sixth sense when it came to crossing the road.

Ho Tung Mau street ran along the base of the Bitexco Tower, one of the two great pillars of the Saigon skyline. For much of Dac Kien’s life, the building of such a glass monolith in his city seemed not only unlikely but impossible. So much had changed with the restoration of relations with the United States in 1995. US investment dollars had begun to flow into the city like it hadn’t done for twenty years, and tourists came too, like the family awaiting Dac Kien and Duong on the steps of the Silverland Charner hotel.

Duong swung the van alongside the curb, directly in front of the hotel steps. Dac Kien took a breath, then reached for the clipboard at his feet. Before he had straightened up, the passenger side door was flung open. There stood a young man, his face pockmarked with the pollutant-caused acne that had been typical among city teens for the past two decades, with a distinct scowl on his face. He wore a traditional ao dai, a rather shiny one, thought Dac Kien, in the colour scheme of the Silverland Hotel. The man wore a name badge, “Thao” — meaning courtesy in Vietnamese — and beneath, “concierge”.

“VinatoursXpress?” Thao demanded shrilly.

“Ah, yes” replied Dac Kien, a little taken back by this young man’s, rather old boy’s, forwardness, not that he was unused to the precociousness of this generation, nor the disdain with he was so often greeted with.

“You are late, old man,” Thao spoke as though he personally was insulted by the tardiness. Dac Kien didn’t say anything and nervously looked over Thao’s shoulder at the group of Westerners further up the steps, looking at him curiously. Dac Kien opened his mouth to speak. Thao rolled his eyes dramatically, kissed his teeth with a sharp rasping sound, before breaking into a practiced, four-star concierge smile and turning swiftly on his heel to the group on the stairs.

“Clark family? Ready now? Time to go.”

The group began to proceed down the steps towards the van. Now that Thao had moved to one side, Dac Kien could finally get out of the van. He hurried towards the group.

“Ah Mr Clark, and your family, excellent. Sorry for the delay, the traffic, Saigon is very crazy at this time. Please let me take your bags for you.”

The old man’s offer was superseded by Thao, who flashed a hooded glance at Dac Kien before a simpering smile at Mrs Clark and took her backpack, which was excessively large for a half-day trip, and headed to the back of the van to put it on board.

“Pleased to meet ya,” Mr Clark said warmly, with a thick midwestern accent. “The name’s Robert. This is my wife Susan. And the kids… hey kids, come on.”

Two teenagers were still a few steps behind their parents. There was a girl, Dac Kien would have guessed about fifteen, and a boy, perhaps two years older. Both were looking closely at smartphones, and the girl had large over-ear headphones on. Robert smiled at Dac Kien.

“Kids, am I right? Do you have any? God, those infernal phones, am I right?” He laughed. “Ashley, Justin, come on, we’re going.”

The family boarded the van. Robert was what you might call a larger-than-life character, in more ways than one. He was a rotund man, with a large belly that stretched out in front of him, as though if one ran at him, you might bounce straight off. He wore a tight, golf polo shirt, and cargo shorts, with almost iridescently white flabby legs showing for a few inches before they met ‘tube’ socks, pulled high up his calves. The cap he wore featured the letters USA prominently and he wore dark aviator sunglasses. But he was cheerful and talkative, sitting a row behind Dac Kien and making plenty of excitable remarks as Duong swung the van out into a busy intersection.

Next to him sat the son, Justin and alongside each other in the row behind were Susan and Ashley. Susan seemed to Dac Kien to be quite the opposite to her husband. She was a tiny lady, with thin bony hands that grasped the seatbelt across her chest, as though bracing for impact. Unlike her husband, she was entirely quiet and gazed out of the window with little attention to Dac Kien’s introductory speech. Ashley was yet to remove her headphones.

“Ah, good morning everybody” began Dac Kien, “ah, my name is Dac Kien, but you can call me Dan if you like.”

“Okay, yeah, that’s good,” grunted Mr Clark as he fiddled with an air vent above his head.

“So today, we are going to visit the Cu Chi tunnel complex, about forty kilometres from Ho Chi Minh City centre. A very famous place in Vietnam. An important place for both the Americans, like you and for the Vietnamese.”

Dac Kien surveyed his audience. Mr Clark’s enthusiasm appeared to have already waned a little in the heat, he was pulling at his collar with one hand while rummaging in his shoulder satchel with the other. The two ladies were still oblivious to Dac Kien, but he noticed Justin looking at him closely. The boy took after his father in both build and fashion but had none of the friendliness in his face that exuded from Mr Clark.

“We gonna shoot guns right, mister?” he said, smirking, and fixing Dac Kien with a firm gaze. He turned to his Dad, “Scott shot off an AK when he was here, Pa, man I need to do that”, he drawled with a heavy emphasis on “need”.

His father grunted and nodded smiling, although it wasn’t apparent that he had actually heard his son.

“There is a shooting range, ah, Justin,” said Dac Kien politely. “I think you…”

“They got the AK?” Justin butted in. “Ah man, I beg they got that.”

“Ah, well, ah I think, yes, they should have AK-47, yes.” Dac Kien looked across at Duong, but his eyes were fixed firmly on the road ahead. They were moving through the outskirts of the city at a decent speed now.

Evidently, Robert had been listening. He smiled.

“Dan, my boy loves his guns, you see. Got a couple of rifles back in Missouri, hunting, protection, whatnot. We all shoot, even my wife” he chuckled. “You shoot much, Dan?”

Such questions always gave Dac Kien a jolt.

“Ah, no, Mr Robert.” Dac Kien sounded strained, and it was Duong’s turn to glance over at him. Dac Kien regained himself and forced a smile. “Not much shooting here in Vietnam.”

“Not anymore!” said Justin gleefully, prodding his father’s fat belly with his elbow.

“The boy is a bit of a military buff, Dan. Loves the Vietnam war. Loves it. His uncle on his Ma’s side was here you know. Marine Corps.”

“And he did plenty of shooting, alright!” yelled out Justin. There was something highly unsettling about this boy, thought Dac Kien; his rabid enthusiasm for violence was disturbing. Perhaps Mr Clark noticed this thought flash over Dac Kien’s face because he laid a calming hand on his son’s arm, who was gesticulating the firing of a rifle.

“Did you see much of the war, Dan?”

Dac Kien paused. This wasn’t an uncommon question on these tours. Indeed, one of the reasons he had managed to get the job as a tour guide was because Mr Lee knew Dac Kien had an excellent knowledge of the American War. Second to none, in fact. The issue for Dac Kien was not the depth of his knowledge, it was how it felt to delve among those depths, day after day, dredging the emotions, memories, and feelings to the surface, simply to make a living.

“I did, Robert. Yes. I was an officer in the war.”

“Oh, wow. You shoot up many Americans?” Justin was insatiable, and his father now looked more than a little uncomfortable.

“No Justin, I was a soldier for South Vietnam. ARVN. I joined in 1972. Not so many Marine Corps fighting here then.”

“Holy…”

Justin’s expletive was drowned out by the van’s horn. Duong swerved around a motorbike, laden with a fridge freezer, impossibly strapped and balanced behind a shirtless driver. The near-miss seemed to sate Justin’s appetite for excitement because he became quickly absorbed in his smartphone, while his father continued with his satchel searching.

Dac Kien exhaled quietly, made brief eye contact with Duong, who nodded imperceptibly and allowed his thoughts to run as he gazed out at the dusty highway. The land around was flat and didn’t have the same verdant greens that one might see in the nearby Delta. There was little to see along the roadsides, the odd house, a shop, a church. Dac Kien’s mind went back to 1972, to those years after the bulk of the American troops left, before the Saigon government’s inevitable collapse, a self-immolation of statehood which Thich Quang Duc had unknowingly depicted ten years earlier as he set his skinny frame ablaze on a District 1 sidewalk. Dac Kien remembered that day clearly. He remembered how his father slammed the Buddhists and left the family house in a rage. To him, the behaviour of the monks was as disruptive as that of the Viet Cong, perhaps more so, since living in central Saigon his family were largely immune to their guerrilla threat.

Dac Kien knew now that the war with the North was lost before it had even begun. He had many years to reflect on, and understand, this. Ten long years of re-education camps. The beatings, the sickness. Dac Kien had been so weak and thin when we returned to his parents’ home in 1986 had they still been there, he doubted they would have recognised him. When he went to visit their large French-style home, on a side street, adjacent to the broad Pasteur Street boulevard, he was unsurprised to find they had long since left. There was no trail to follow. He had seen his former neighbour Mr Daht, haranguing his children, as he always had done, in the lane outside the house. He asked after his parents but Daht stared at him, not recognising this sickly-looking specimen. Daht hadn’t had to leave Saigon’s foremost district, since he had been a VC informant. Despite the close eye he had always kept on Dac Kien’s government-official father, he had no idea to where his family had fled to. You better clear off now, Daht had said. People didn’t want to see puppet soldiers around here. And so began the rest of Dac Kien’s life, the youngest captain in the ARVN Rangers, once strong, handsome and proud, now shuffling away from his old home with nothing but the clothes on his back, and an ID card in his wallet, clearly stating his undesirable background for every landlord and employer to read.

Dac Kien told himself he was lucky to be in one piece. Lucky to be alive. He didn’t always believe this, though. In those early days of “freedom”, when he had a little money, he would strengthen his resolve to keep on living with rượu đế, the Mekong moonshine, that was the demise of many veterans of the American War. Twenty-five years of freedom. Fifteen years in South East Asia’s most economically booming nation. He had little to show for it. All he could call his own were his thoughts and his memories.

“Ready?” Duong was approaching the parking area close to the tunnel network.

Although Dac Kien had visited Cu Chi in this capacity numerous times, he still felt a twisting in his chest and stomach as adrenaline began to trickle into his veins. Re-education and two decades in civilian life hadn’t fully crushed the soldiering instincts of the hero of Battle of Svay Rieng. After that battle, he had been billeted at the Cu Chi garrison: the glorious commander, pride of the Southern forces. Of course, Svay Rieng is now solely regarded as a brief blip in the NVA advance on Saigon, and it was less than three months later that a wounded Dac Kien was taken prisoner, not three miles from where Duong now parked the van.

On arriving at Cu Chi, foreign visitors are required to watch an old communist propaganda film. Dac Kien led the Clark family to their seats on a wooden bench, where they promptly proceeded to start using their smartphones. Dac Kien watched on their behalf. “Cu Chi is a place of gentle and simple pleasures… of only wanting to live peacefully…” The tinny voice of the narrator had always grated on Dac Kien. He glanced at the Clarks, they still appeared uninterested. “Like a crazy batch of devils, they fired into women and children… they even fired into schools… into Buddha’s statues.” Dac Kien felt a hand grasp his shoulder. It was Justin. He had got up from the end of the row and come up behind Dac Kien.

“That like you, eh, Dan? Not a kid killer, are you?” he laughed as he spoke, but his eyes were cold and unfriendly. “Come on let’s go see the tunnels and shoot some shit!”

“Ah, no we must see the documentary film till the end, Mr Justin. It is the rule for visiting Cu Chi tunnels” Dac Kien said anxiously, but the teen was already walking out onto the terrace towards the tree line.

“Come on, Dan, it’s cool. I’ll make it worth your while” said Robert, his tiny eyes twinkling, his sunglasses balanced on his USA cap. He pulled a scrunched 30,000 Dong note from his pocket and wiggled it between his fat fingers before returning it to its moist cotton sanctuary. Dac Kien felt hot behind his eyes. This wasn’t allowed, he could get in trouble with the officials, perhaps lose his guide license. It was too late however, the family were all making for the tree line, Ashley’s headphones still firmly on her ears. Dac Kien composed himself and set off hurriedly after them. Behind him came Duong. Normally he would wait in the van, but he had a sense for when Dac Kien was in one of his “worry moods” and would on those occasions join the group, to offer moral support while chain-smoking his Truong Song cigarettes and watching on while Dac Kien explained the various gruesome traps and torture devices on display among the tunnel network.

“Tell us about the tunnel rats, Dan” Robert’s enthusiasm that had waned on the journey was fully restored.

“Ah, yes, specially trained soldiers, Robert. They only take a knife, a pistol and also a piece of string to find their way back out the tunnel.”

“They kill a lot of VC?” Justin chirped.

“Ah, well, not so many, Justin. It was a very difficult job. Very many problems. Many traps.”

Dac Kien remembered pulling the legless body of one of his men out from one such trap. The one survivor of a party of five who had entered the network, not far from where they now stood. He shuddered as he remembered those mashed stumps and the thick red stripes of blood they left on the moon-like ground as they rushed for cover in the craters left from the latest airstrike, dragging the pitiful half-man to a place to die in relative peace.

“We’re gonna see some traps, right? Apparently, there’s a whole load here you can look at and try out!” Justin’s eagerness knew no bounds. He was bouncing on his toes with excitement.

“Oh Justin”, his mother spoke up for the first time in a while, “not try out, baby!” She smiled benignly at Dac Kien, as though she recognised some might be embarrassed by their child’s enthusiasm for the historical maiming that had taken place on this very spot but could not muster any real embarrassment for herself — nor empathy for the elderly veteran stood in front of her.

Dac Kien proceeded to lead the Clark’s along the trail to a corrugated overhanging underneath which were various gruesome-looking wood and metal contraptions.

“Ah, say, how does this one work? Hey, Dan! Come over here!” Justin had rushed to the end of the row of devices and was beckoning the group to join him.

There in front of him was a trap door, covered in artificial turf. Dac Kien approached but was relieved when another guide stepped out in front, rushing a group of Chinese visitors forward who surrounded Justin and the devilish mechanism. The guide pulled out a weighted bamboo pole and prodded the trap door. It flung open with a bang, revealing a row of long bamboo spikes, jutting from the earth like spears. The Chinese group uniformly groaned appreciatively, while Justin’s voice could be heard, exclaiming “oh yeah!”

The teenager’s exclamation awoke a memory in Dac Kien that he had managed to largely suppress for the past few years. He recalled how a group of Green Berets had forced a VC prisoner to walk over a trap, just like this one, and roared with delight as he fell onto the spikes. Oh yeah.

Dac Kien was not feeling well. He was sweating heavily now, and his limbs felt heavy. To his relief, the Clark’s were not ones for detail, and they were happy to skip over most of the remaining trails and points of interest. The final stop was a café, gift shop — and shooting range.

“M-16 or AK? Dan, do they have anything heavier? Something with real calibre?” Justin could hardly contain his excitement as they entered the multipurpose clearing, the deafening small arms fire seeming not to bother the rows of tourists who sat eating corn-on-the-cob and drinking bubble tea.

“Go with him will ya, Dan? Help translate and whatnot. I need a sit-down, alright” Robert waddled off in the direction of the café area, leading his wife and daughter, while Justin headed in the opposite direction.

“You want me to do it?” Duong appeared next to Dac Kien and laid a reassuring hand on his back, then removed it quickly on feeling the sodden shirt.

“It’s okay, Duong. I’m okay. You get drinks for them, okay.” Dac Kien replied. The elderly man didn’t look alright at all, thought Duong. They had been colleagues for a long time now, and in that time become friends. He was aware Dac Kien had suffered in the war and its aftermath. He knew these trips to Cu Chi took it out of him. That was why, when Dac Kien could afford it, he drank so heavily the night before each trip to this site, he supposed.

Dac Kien followed Justin to the shooting range where he in spite of the continual crackle of small arms, his voice rang out clearly as he haggled for ammunition.

“It’s fixed price, mister” a range staff member was saying, much to Justin’s frustration.

“Fixed price my ass… hey Dan? Can we get a deal on this?”

Dac Kien came alongside him. “Ah, no, one price for rifle, one price for five rounds, one price for ten, you choose.”

“Man, ten won’t cut it. Here…” he fumbled in his pockets and pulled out a wad of cash, more than Dac Kien would earn in a month of tours. “Take this and get me locked and loaded, alright” he stuffed the cash into the bemused range operator’s hand and marched towards a counter where he collected an AK-47 rifle before heading to the firing step.

He turned. “Dan, come on, man! You gonna show me how to shoot this thing or what? You’re a real soldier right.”

The range operator intervened. “Sorry sir, range staff only to assist. Guides not beyond this point.”

“Get out of here” groaned Justin, rolling his eyes dramatically. He pulled a 500,000 Dong note from his back pocket. “Let me have the old man, alright.”

The range operator looked a Dac Kien, ashamedly, then scuttled forward and took the bill.

“All right!” exclaimed Justin.

Dac Kien’s heart was pounding. It seemed to be the only thing he could hear above the barrage of rifle fire. He followed Justin to the firing step, feeling as though at any moment his legs might give way beneath him. One step at a time, one step at a time. He stood next to Justin, who was fiddling with a pair of ear defenders.

“Ah, okay Justin, AK, err, it is a simple weapon. May I?”

Justin handed Dac Kien the rifle. The weight of it, so familiar, even after all this time. The magazine clicked into position with that satisfying clunk that took him back to his own “lock and load” moments as they skimmed the jungle canopy aboard American Hueys. He let his thumb caress the safety catch, and gently stroked the trigger with his index finger. He felt an urge to raise the rifle to his shoulder. To point. To shoot.

“Alright, alright, give it here.” Justin was eyeing Dac Kien curiously, with an angry shadow across his face. He didn’t like seeing this old Vietnamese man armed, up close and personal. He snatched the rifle. Dac Kien looked startled, as though he had awoken from a dream or some sort of trance. He stumbled back a pace. Justin shook his head. “Some guide” he muttered, “PSTD wreck more like.”

And suddenly, he was firing. The AK roared as Justin began to empty the clip at the targets that poked out of the mound of earth ahead. A grin broke out across his face. His shoulders started to shake, but it wasn’t the recoil. Justin was laughing. He was laughing with sheer joy at the feeling of unleashing lead in this place. This battlefield. This torture chamber. This mass grave. Dac Kien felt his chest tightening and began to gasp. He clutched at his throat. His skin felt damp. He tried to call out but there was no air in his lungs. He reached out at Justin and tried to tug at his shirt sleeve. The boy brushed him away without a glance. Dac Kien dropped to his knees and the sounds around him became blurry and distant, as though he was now underwater. He felt himself sinking, being absorbed into the intestinal network of death tunnels beneath his feet. The VC would have the Captain. This was it, he was sure. Finally, he would die.