December 6, 1966
Ap Hiep was deep in the jungle on the northern edge of the Central Highlands. One dirt road ran out of the village, but it was seldom used, for only the occasional supply truck came through. Most of the traffic in and out of the village was in the form of guerrillas who passed silently through the trackless forests to raid American camps across the boarder in Laos or ventured south to aid in attacks towards Vinh Moc. Though not immune to the widespread bombings, Ap Hiep was too small to be a strategic target and too isolated to raise the suspicions of the Americans. It was the perfect place for the Viet Cong and their families.
The village was twenty miles from Cham Hoi, and it was from here that Major Quon oversaw the guerrilla activities in a radius of forty miles—two days' easy march in any direction. The wound he had taken at the Battle of Ap Bac, where as the tales told, he had led a force of three hundred to victory against the enemy, prevented him from serving actively in the field. A one-eyed guerrilla was a liability to himself and to those he might betray if he broke under American interrogation.
Much had changed since that day Titi had awakened to find Ap Tan Thoi wrapped in fog and the Viet Cong entrenched throughout the countryside. The night of the evacuation, when Me Dè was killed by an American scout and Cam Lan was dishonored, had marked the end of Titi's childhood in many more ways than one. She had never been more than ten miles from the place of her birth before the flight to Ap Vanh. In the weeks following the battle, she had stayed in the village, living with the old woman who had taken her as a guest on the first night. The battalion had made several raids upon the enemy's encampments, but Ap Vanh was not a safe location for headquarters. It was too near the enemy. As soon as Major Quon had recovered sufficiently to travel, they had removed to Cham Hoi (the largest town Titi had ever seen!) to await orders from Hanoi. Titi remembered those early months as being full of turmoil and an underlying terror of the unknown.
At last the battalion had been assigned their region of influence, and Major Quon had begun the work of scouting for an appropriate base of operations. At last he had settled upon Ap Hiep, but it was winter again before Titi was settled in the village that was to become her new home.
She had been given a house of her own. It was a little hut like the one she had grown up in, but it belonged to her alone. It was a gift from Major Quon, who had commanded the villagers to construct it for her, and here she dwelt with Cam Lan. Being in disfavor with Major Quon, the older girl owed her very life to Titi. During the day, she labored at the concrete house in which Quon dwelt, working as an unpaid servant. She did the most unpleasant and unwanted of menial tasks, and cooked for him, and was often kept behind late into the night. When not employed in such a way, Cam Lan silently and gladly maintained the small household in which she dwelt, leaving Titi free to attend to her own work without concern for the necessities of living.
Titi had been immediately installed as the schoolteacher for the village, though at thirteen years she was younger than some of her pupils. Age, Major Quon told her, was not important. What was important was her understanding not only of academics but of the purpose and grand vision of Ho Chi Minh. Titi became the educator not only of the children, learning their letters and their numbers, but of the adults in the village. Each evening when the day's labors were finished and the people had eaten the evening meal, Titi conducted lessons in the principles of communism, sharing them with villagers who had never before given thought to anything beyond today's work, tomorrow's meals, and this season's harvest. Titi was proud to be opening their minds in this way. She was doing work that was good, not only for herself and for those she taught, but for the greater cause of Ho Chi Minh and the perpetual glory of her nation.
Like all other adults in the village, she was taught to use a gun and a rifle. She did not own any weapon, not even a long knife like the one Bian still carried, but in times of war all people must be ready to rise up and fight. So far the occasion to do so had not arisen, but in Titi's heart she knew it was only a matter of time.
Bian was now a guerilla of great knowledge and skill. Newly twenty years of age, she had the tactical prowess of many men twice as old, and in physical dexterity and strength she rivaled the young males. She had grown into a tall and imposing figure, with sharply chiseled features and the same inscrutable dark eyes she had always had. She was not often in the village, for she was too useful a soldier to sit idle. She would return for three or four days and then vanish into the jungle again for many weeks at a time. She had great skill with gun, rifle and knife. Her true gift lay elsewhere, but Titi did had no intimation of that until one clear day in early winter four years after the Battle of Ap Bac, when again her life changed irrevocably.
Bian was home for a brief period of rest. Having slept in Titi's hut and breakfasted with her younger sister, she was now attending to Major Quon, giving reports and discussing tactics with the confidence of a valued protégé addressing her commander and her peer in conflict.
Titi was conducting the morning's lessons. The school was an open structure, without walls. There was only a thatched roof supported by four poles. This offered shade from the sun, which today was shining brightly. It was a cool day, but not overly cold, and the children were happy and complacent as they chanted the familiar rote of numbers that preceded the arithmetic lesson.
The day's instruction had scarcely begun when there was a crackle of a battery-powered megaphone. "American!" bellowed the voice of Sergeant Leung, Major Quon's second-in-command. The sound was strangely muffled and nasal but still unmistakable. "AMERICAN!"
The villagers came running. Everyone knew what such a cry meant. The men had found a crash-landed Air Pirate. A prisoner.
They had heard the howl of battle early in the morning, moving away to the south. One of the anti-aircraft outposts scattered through the foothills and the many-tiered rice paddies must have succeeded in downing an enemy plane, and Leung and his men had been on hand to collect its pilot.
The people assembled eagerly. It had been a long time since they had last been able to greet a prisoner. A very young one had been found two months ago, but his leg had been shattered as he fell from his plane, and Major Quon had not allowed the villagers even a few minutes' retribution, for fear the boy would die before reaching Hanoi.
The soldiers came into the gathering throng leading a pale-bodied captive like an animal brought to the slaughter with a rough rope about its neck. The people hung back as Major Quon came from his house. Bian followed, her rifle on her shoulder. Her brown, wind-burned skin seemed uncommonly pale and beautiful against the black of her tunic and trousers. The commander stepped forward to greet his men, but the female guerilla remained at a respectful distance. Titi edged near Bian, careful not to attract attention as she moved towards the place with the clearest view. Standing next to her sister, Titi could see the prisoner well.
He was smaller than any American she had ever seen, but his arms and torso were hard with lean muscle. He was naked: glancing at his escort, Titi saw one man wearing new combat boots, and another carrying an American survival vest. The prisoner's bare feet were torn and bloody from the march through the jungle. An enormous black bruise spread over his right hip, which was probably part of the reason he limped as he was dragged forward towards Major Quon. His left shoulder was dislocated, but his left hand clutched his right wrist as if that arm, instead, were the true source of his pain. His dog tags were dull with blood from his nose, both eyes were blackened, and his lip was swollen. His hair, Titi noticed, was dark and curling despite its close-cropped cut.
Major Quon seized his throat and spoke to him in the American language. The prisoner bit back, his voice hard, angry and defiant. He was gray with pain and his unclothed body shivered in the cold wind, but he let no trace of weakness infiltrate his tone. He said something more, and the men who knew English laughed.
Bian hissed in rage. "Filth," she muttered. "Filth and scum. Slime."
Titi wanted to ask what the man had said, but Major Quon shouted something and struck the prisoner across the face. His chin smacked his right shoulder, and he stiffened with a muted cry of agony. His knees began to shake.
"Let the people greet their guest!" Quon snapped, turning on his heel and marching back into the bunker.
The soldiers stepped hastily and judiciously back. Finding himself suddenly unrestrained, the American looked around. His pain-dulled eyes sparked suddenly with intelligence and wary reasoning. He was seeking an escape, as if he could outrun armed and booted men. Titi was about to add "uninjured", but then she noticed that two of the guards had darkly bruised faces, and Sergeant Leung's nose was broken, bleeding copiously down his face. The small pilot had put up a good fight, but he would pay for his resistance. The soldiers he had obviously attacked were the only people with the power to stop the villagers.
The American took two loping steps back towards the jungle, then froze, realizing that he was surrounded by the villagers. Children ran to find stones and cut switches of bamboo. The adults stared at the naked man as if he were meat, and they starving wolves. The captive spun around, looking for escape. His lips were white, and Titi saw a spark of terror in the dark eyes in the moment before the first blow fell upon his back.
He tried to fight back, but the punch that he aimed at the hunter who had hit him went wild and struck harmlessly. His face contorted with pain as the inertia reverberated up his arm and into his dislocated shoulder. He kicked, his bare foot hammering the man's shin and eliciting an exclamation of rage. Then another man grabbed the loose shoulder and brought a knee into sundering contact with the prisoner's groin. He crumpled soundlessly. A woman seized a fistful of hair, and then as one the mob fell upon him.
Bian never participated in the ritual. It was the catharsis of the weak. The strong had other ways of avenging themselves upon their foes, and Bian was not weak.
Titi was. She meant to stand back, aloof as her sister was, but the air crackled with passion, and the bloodlust that seized the peasants was not to be resisted. Soon she found herself in the fray with the rest, screaming maledictions and obscenities and scrabbling for a chance to deal a blow of some kind against the American soldier. She felt her nails bite into the soft flesh behind his ear. Her foot struck repeatedly at his ribs as she was jostled and pushed away, only to fight the throng again, hoping for another chance to harm him. All around her, the others did the same.
Usually the soldiers would step in when they felt that the captive had had enough, but this time the man had broken the sergeant's nose, and such small favors were not for him. His captors stood by as the frenzy peaked and began slowly to die away. The men came back to their senses first, and left in haste, ashamed of their own lack of control. Their departure fueled a second wave of rage from the women, and it was most often now that the soldiers would step in. Not today. One by one the women fled too, dragging small children away with them, unable to look at the result of their madness. Titi tried to follow, wanting to hide in her hut and surrender to exhaustion, reveling in the aftermath of ecstasy, but Bian stopped her and forced her to her knees with an imperious hand.
"Wait," she ordered firmly.
Only the young boys remained, forming a tight knot around their victim. They kicked at the American, beating him with shafts of bamboo and pelting him with sharp stones. Titi watched, breathless and enervated in the wake of the fit. At last the game lost its appeal and the boys wandered off, bored rather than ashamed. A little fellow, one of Titi's best pupils, was the last to go, lingering to poke at the man until it became obvious even to the child that the American could no longer feel it. Then he too departed, and only Bian remained, staring without emotion and gripping Titi's shoulder.
Now Titi understood the shame she had seen in the eyes of the adults. The bloodlust they could not resist was a terrible thing. For the first time she could see that. They could not fight it, they needed its catharsis, and yet they could not face its result. The proud, brown-eyed American who had spoken boldly back to Major Quon was now a motionless, bloodied lump of flesh lying limp and wretched in mud mixed with his own bodily fluids, not all of them red.
Bian gestured broadly at him, her eyes flashing. "See?" she said. "This is justice."
Titi knew she had to be strong and proud like her sister. She was a grown woman now. At her age, Bian had already been a blooded warrior. Titi wanted to be a brave soldier like Bian, but the sight of the pulpy mass that had been straight and bold not an hour before sickened her. She knew that it must be justice, but she did not understand how it could be.
With a sharp, efficient motion, Bian slung her rifle across her back and strode towards the unconscious captive. She gestured that Titi should follow her, and the younger woman obeyed. Bian bent and seized the American by one battered upper arm. Titi took the other. The bloody flesh was cold and slippery beneath her fingers, like meat cut from a pig that had not been hung to drain. Her instinct was to release in revulsion, but Bian held fast, and so Titi forced herself to do the same. Together, they dragged him across the clearing towards Major Quon's bunker. Bian kicked the door once, defiantly, and a lieutenant admitted them.
Major Quon was seated behind his table, waiting for them. He gestured that they should release their hold, which the young women did. The American hit the concrete floor with a sickening smack, and Titi's stomach rebelled within her as he moaned in anguish. She had wrongly assumed that he was dead to all sensation. He was not.
Quon barked something in the language of the Americans. Bian's lip curled and she answered in kind. Then she kicked the Air Pirate viciously in the ribs. As he reacted, reflexively cringing, she spat disdainfully upon him. Quon spoke again in the tongue Titi did not understand. Bian nodded at Titi, and following her sister's lead the younger girl bent and took an arm again. This time they hauled him up so that his shoulder was level with Bian's. She kicked at his twisted feet, snapping an order. Though he could not open his eyes and his head lolled to one side as if he were not conscious, the man flexed both feet and they slapped against the floor as Bian forced him to stand.
He could not stay upright on his own, but the girls' firm hands held him and he could not fall, either. Titi could feel a bone-deep trembling in the arm she gripped between her ten slender fingers. A knot of muscle at the base of his jaw twitched with the effort of holding back the agony that was consuming him.
Quon rose and rounded the table. The naked socket of his left eye twitched, and the muscles within writhed. He chose always to leave his scar exposed, the hole where his eye had once been bared to the world. It was a sight that struck fear into the hearts of his rivals, and intimidated his subordinates. The only people who were not troubled by it were Bian, who feared not even death in the hell-fires that the Americans would drop upon the jungle, and Titi, who knew that however hideous his face, it in no way detracted from whom he was. It puzzled her that others were troubled by the sight, and bewildered her still more that neither Quon's soldiers, nor the women of the village, nor even Bian saw him as a kind, refined and intelligent man—quick to anger, yes, but good at heart.
She saw something of his grim reputation as he seized the American's bruised chin and forced his head up. The man somehow kept the flinch from his face, but he could not banish it entirely from his body, which shuddered afresh beneath Titi's grasp.
Major Quon spoke, his voice stern and commanding. The American responded, his words slurred and ribbed with obstinately suppressed agony. Another question came from Quon, and another answer from the wounded pilot. A smile of triumph flickered briefly over the major's face, as if he felt that he was obtaining clear cooperation from the prisoner. Another question came. The prisoner spoke. His tone varied not at all from the previous answers, but it was obvious that the response displeased Bian, for she tightened her hold so that the man hissed in pain. Quon blinked patiently, and repeated the question. The captive responded as before.
"Scum. Filth, slime," Bian snarled, though surely she knew the man could not understand her words any more than Titi understood his.
Quon spoke, very slowly and clearly, his voice stern and yet manipulative. The prisoner pulled back his swollen and purple lips, and sent a stream of bloody sputum spattering over Quon's chin. The Viet Cong commander wasted no time in driving a fist into the man's stomach with all the force he could muster. The prisoner fell back with such rapidity that it was all Titi could do to maintain her hold. The sound of anguish that rumbled through his chest but came only faintly from his lips turned her stomach, and she wanted to run, but she could not—she did not dare seem weak or frightened, not before both Bian and Major Quon. Thus she held fast and did not allow the man to fall. Bian forced him to stand again, though his legs were now shaking so violently that he could hardly stand. Quon wrathfully wiped his face, and then took hold of the American's chin again, this time with a bruising grip.
Titi watched in mute horror as the question was posed again. The prisoner made no answer at all this time, and Quon struck him with the back of his hand. The gold ring inset with onyx that Quon had received from Ho Chi Minh for his valor at Ap Bac cut into the captive's face, opening another bloody wound in his already battered skin. When Quon repeated the question for a fourth time, the prisoner muttered two short syllables, and again Bian stiffened in righteous anger. As if encouraged by her reaction, the man ventured to add four more syllables after that. Quon's hand flew to the rim of his vacant socket, and Titi wanted to shrink away from the rage in his remaining eye. He backed away from the captive and gestured to the soldiers on the sides of the room.
"Bind him," he ordered. "He will talk. The criminal is resisting my questioning. He must be punished."
The men took hold of the captive, and Bian let go. Titi followed her lead all too gladly, and stared at the blood smearing her palms. She wanted to flee the room, but Quon beckoned to her, and she approached his side. He put his arm around her shoulder and smiled.
"You can watch, little Titi," he said. "You are old enough now to serve your country. You are old enough to aid in this war."
Titi did not want to aid in the war—but then she thought of Cam Lan and the life of drudgery and misery she led. That was the price for cowardice and pacifism. She did not know if she were ready to pay that price. She liked the respect with which she was treated. She enjoyed her evening meals with the major. Most of all, she needed Bian's approval and affection, and if she refused to stay and watch what was transpiring here she would have no claim to either. So she nodded complacently and watched as the men went about their work.
One of them forced the man to the ground, manipulating his limbs as he did so and stretching the man's bruised and bleeding legs straight out in front of him. Another brought forward a length of rope. Sergeant Leung motioned for one of the lieutenants to kneel with his shinbones bearing down on those of the prisoner, so that he could not move his legs. Then the one who had induced the captive's present position took hold of each elbow. Suddenly the pilot panicked and tried to writhe free of the restraining hands. A hoarse scream of agony tore through him as his torso dragged on his injured arms. Leung dug one knee into his back and wrenched his elbows backwards. There was a soft, sucking pop, and suddenly the prisoner's right collarbone was jointed in the middle. Titi couldn't stifle a tiny exclamation of horror at the sight. The man's face contorted atrociously despite the inflammation of his ever-growing bruises, and his breath caught in his throat.
Titi looked at Bian, seeking some comfort in this moment of consternation. Bian, however, was watching the scene without passion. Her dark eyes were cold and a small line of smug retribution had appeared at the corner of her mouth. She lacked the hungry look in the eyes of the young men, and yet she had nothing, either, of the smoldering rage that Quon and Leung wore so brazenly.
They were lashing the captive's wrists and forearms together now, right to the elbow, and he was screaming as his limbs dragged on the dislocated left shoulder and the fractured collarbone. Quon barked something in the man's own tongue, but if it were an insult the man ignored it, and if it were a question he could not answer it. Leung finished with the ropes and forced the man's head back, stuffing a rag deep into his mouth. The captive gagged and struggled despite the anguish this had to be causing his restrained extremities. Leung only pushed the rag further in, grabbing another and shoving until it was plain that it would go no farther. Titi pressed her body closer against Major Quon's, and he held her snugly with his arm.
Then they began bending him. A lieutenant took his hands and started to lift them over his head. Leung knelt against his back, forcing him forward. The man's abdomen spasmed and he made sounds deep in his throat that Titi knew would have come out as shrieks of torment, had it not been for the cloth blocking his mouth. His head drew nearer his legs, and his arms were pulled still higher, still farther forward. The dislocated shoulder stretched and stretched, and the split in his collarbone widened. Then there was a sharp snapping sound, and his right shoulder was out as well. His forehead was now not eight inches from his thighs, and still they were contorting him. Then suddenly fluid exploded from his nose, spattering his body and the floor around him. It was watery, stained with red… Titi thought at first it was blood, but then she realized that he had vomited again. Unable to escape through the usual route, the bile and acid had expelled itself in the only way it could.
The prisoner's panicked breathing grew still more frantic, gurgling through the fluid burning his nostrils. Titi's knees shook, but she forced them to stay still. Tears were streaming down her cheeks. They would kill him!
But, said another voice, he was an Air Pirate and he deserved to die!
But no one deserves this!
He is an American! They killed Me Dè!
"STOP!"
Quon chuckled and stroked her cheek. "You want me to stop it, little one," he asked gently. Titi raised her fingers to her lips as she realized in dismay that she must have cried aloud.
Leung straightened abruptly, and the lieutenants withdrew. "No point," the sergeant said as the American's limp body fell to one side and his head struck the concrete with a bone-jarring crack. "He will not answer any questions for a while."
Titi looked at the captive, well and truly unconscious now. The body scarcely looked human, twisted and bloodied and soiled as it was. She shuddered and hid her eyes against Major Quon's shoulder. He stroked her hair. "You see? We do not suffer without retribution," he said softly. "What he suffers he has earned. He is a black criminal. He must pay for the evil he has done. Do you understand?"
No! No, Titi did not understand. He had been strong and straight and handsome three hours ago. Now he was bent and broken, bleeding on the hard floor. She did not understand. Yet she knew—her mind knew—that this man was one of the ones who dropped the bombs on the jungle. One of the strangers who had come to her country with no thought but to kill, to destroy.
She straightened and looked into Quon's eye. She nodded her head solemnly. "I understand," she said. She lied.
"Good girl," Quon murmured, bending and kissing her forehead. "You go and rest now. Later we will talk again."
Titi nodded once more, and turned to go. Bian was watching her, and there was a look in her dark eyes that Titi knew well, though it had never been directed at her before. Suspicion. Bian was disturbed that she had shown pity for the wretched captive. Titi knew she had to convince her sister that they saw the matter in the same light.
Titi squared her shoulders and walked towards the door. As she passed the American she paused, and spat upon him as Bian had done.
"Air Pirate," she said scornfully.
It was only late at night, while Bian joined the men guarding the prisoner to smoke and laugh as they prodded at their helpless prey, that Titi dared to bury her head in Cam Lan's arms and weep for the American's suffering and the ugliness she had witnessed with such complacency .