Chapter Eight
Too Young To Die

The Mekong River begins as a trickle in the mountains of Tibet. Twenty-six-hundred miles downstream, the river is gorged in porridge-brown water, spreading into four fingers of the Mekong Delta. The rivers are called My Tho, Ham Luong, Co Chin and Bassac, and each one empties their discarded offal of humanity into the sea.
It is December and winds from the northeast have replaced the southeast monsoon. It’s now the dry season. The ocean has turned mean, angry and unforgiving of poor seamanship. Our patrol for the next three days will be on the smooth Ham Luong River, but I’m not looking forward to the three hours it will take us to get there.
Our patrols have been lengthened to three days instead of one—we still only get one day off in between. I have a letter from Chantal, responding to my complaint of rough seas and long patrols.
“If you were French,” she writes with teasing humor, “you would unionize and strike.” But all I can say is C’est la guerre, it is war. Longer patrols are more efficient, more time in the rivers, less time transiting to and from Cat Lo, which in a way is a relief from the tormenting seas. I must be crazy, but I’d rather risk the possibility of being shot at in a river than the certainty of being seasick and bruised.
“We have another crewman,” Gnau says. “This is Toi, our Vietnamese Navy liaison.”
“Good to have you aboard,” I say. “Have you been to the Ham Luong? Do you know the river?”
“Yes,” Toi says, “I know the river—a little.” Toi is barely five feet tall and thin, as if he never gets enough to eat. He has a nice smile and his uniform is spotless, a reflection of pride he must feel for the navy.
“Okay,” I say to Moison with a measure of reluctance, “cast off. Time to go to work.”
As Moison lets go the stern line, I see a man running toward us, waving his arms and yelling, “Wait up! Wait for me!” He’s dressed in fatigues and carrying a small bag.
“Lieutenant Amerau said you’re headed for the Ham Luong,” he says, almost out of breath. “I need a ride to Coastal Group Thirty-seven. It’s on your way. Any problem with that?”
“No problem,” I say, “jump aboard.” I think it’s odd he doesn’t have any insignia on his collar. “Are you an officer?”
“No, civilian contractor. Navy gave me these fatigues so I wouldn’t mess up my clothes.”
“Nice weapon,” I say, admiring the .45 he has strapped to his waist. “More pizzazz than my .38.”
“Just a precaution.”
“Why are you going to the Ham Luong?”
“Military contract. My company provides diesel generators to the Coastal Groups. I’m doing a field report.”
“Hey, could you take a look at our Onan? It’s always crapping out.”
“I’m just a rep. Honestly, I don’t know shit about fixing ‘em.”
“Well, thanks anyway. It’s nasty today; better hang on.”
Our transit to the Ham Luong is rough and the seas are huge. Blue-gray clouds merge into the sea as if there’s no horizon. We run into a stinging squall with wind gusting like hammers, walls of green water slamming our pilothouse and knocking our bow off course. Each wave, marbled with white foam, sounds like it’s growling a warning: Beware.
Gnau is driving and I stand at the chart table, ready to relieve him if needed and ready to puke if not. I could use a triple dose of Dramamine. Everyone else onboard is gripping the sides of their bunks except our visitor. He’s sitting in the main cabin on Hoffman’s chair next to the HF radio, bracing his feet against the stanchion that supports our radar mast.
I’m dropped to my knees by a sudden shock as we’re launched into the air by a giant wave, as if we were a seaplane trying to fly. I hear a loud bang behind me and turn to look into the cabin. Our guest is sliding on his back across the cabin deck and smashes his head into the aft bulkhead. The chair is following him—still attached to its broken pedestal—and slams into his chest.
“Grab that chair,” I yell to Taylor. Taylor rolls out of the lower bunk and holds the chair before it slides away toward the bow. I step into the main cabin to help and I’m punched in my stomach, a body blow from the pillar stanchion, as if I’m in the ring with Muhammad Ali.
Taylor manages to tie down the chair and I help our civilian into Taylor’s bunk. The hair on the back of his head is soaked with blood and I use a dishtowel like a turban to wrap his wound.
“I’m okay,” he says. He gives me a grimace—then closes his eyes. I think he’s passed out. “Just need to rest a bit,” he mumbles. Taylor offers aspirin, but he shakes his head.
The seas along the coast are full of ugly curling whitecaps and savage rollers pounding the beaches. We enter the mouth of the Ham Luong and it’s a rollercoaster ride all the way in. Our stern rises to a twenty-foot wave as our bow points down into the trough ahead. Our whole boat is lifted and accelerated, propelled by a giant wave, as if we’re a surfboard caught by a tsunami. The rush of massive turbulent water makes steering a challenge, our stern yawing and skidding out of control.
“Don’t get sideways,” I scream at Gnau, “we’ll get rolled.”
“I’m losing it!”
“Anticipate, anticipate! Stay ahead of it. Stay ahead of the next wave.”
Gnau struggles with the helm, spinning it left, then right, trying to keep control. We wallow for a second, almost motionless as each wave races by like a truck. Gnau adds more throttle, but it’s not enough.
Another roller comes crashing toward us. I pray our stern will rise as each wave launches us again toward the mouth of the river.
“Thank God,” I say as we enter the smooth, almost tranquil Ham Luong. “You did good,” I say, smacking Gnau hard on the back. “Damn good.”
“Hell of a ride,” Taylor says, uncovering the twin-fifties.
“There’s the coastal group compound,” Toi says, pointing to a watchtower on the right. Gnau drives into a small creek and pushes our bow onto a sandy beach. A navy advisor attached to the outpost helps our passenger stagger up the beach. They disappear into the only building on this forsaken spit of sand.
“Taxi job’s finished,” I say to Hoffman. “Let’s go.”
“Wonder if his company gives Purple Hearts,” Moison says, “for on-the-job wounds.”
We wind our way upriver, inspecting sampans and junks. Our day job is controlling the rivers, inspecting sampans like traffic cops, as if we were stopping drunk drivers and looking for booze: “License, registration, and open your trunk please.”
The tedium is unending. I remember my dad saying war is ninety percent boredom and ten percent unadulterated terror.
Rivers are forbidden to anyone at night. As curfew approaches, fishermen begin returning from the sea. Suggs, who has crammed our freezer full of steaks, notices some of the sampans have live lobsters, which are high on my hierarchy of need. With the help of Toi’s translation, Suggs becomes adept at bartering.
“Steak for lobster, one for one,” Toi suggests. Suggs keeps the lobsters alive in a bucket until dinnertime. We have two buckets. One is our toilet. No one wants to use the head, which is down in the crew’s quarters below the pilothouse, afraid of being inside the main cabin while we’re in the rivers—fear of B-40 rockets and things like that.
“Label the buckets,” Gnau tells Suggs. They both laugh. It’s good to hear them laugh.
Taylor has the watch, squatting on top of the pilothouse, scanning the river with binoculars.
“Skipper,” Taylor calls out, “there’s a large junk comin’ upriver.”
“Okay, standby for board and search,” I say to the crew. It’s not an enthusiastic command, but one of routine. I don’t feel we’re accomplishing anything, searching junks and sampans. Out of three-hundred searches this month, we’ve found only two suspected VC, one with too much money, and the other with a large stash of medical supplies.
As we close on the junk, Toi calls out over our loud speakers, “Lai day, lai day,” Come here, come here.
The old junk is easily ten feet longer than our patrol boat, over sixty-feet, bigger than any vessel we’ve searched. Her brown weathered sails are furled and she’s slowly making way with the putt-putt sound of a small diesel. A Vietnamese sailor tosses a line and we tie alongside.
An old man appears to be the captain. Toi asks for identification papers while Taylor and Moison leap aboard to begin a search. I stand near the aft helm, watching the old man. He’s barefoot, wearing baggy black shorts that cover his knees and a filthy shirt three sizes too big.
Hoffman is crouched on our cabin top, Gnau on the fantail and Suggs on the bow, each with an M-16, the safety off, keeping an eye on the crew of the junk. To protect Taylor and Moison, they won’t hesitate to shoot.
“Skipper,” Taylor yells, “I’ve found something!” He waves to Toi and me to follow him. A dark mahogany cabin at the stern of the junk is wide with a low ceiling and we bend down to enter. There, lying on a woven mat is a young girl with a frail, delicate face framed in coal silk hair. Thin white linen is draped from her chest to her ankles. She seems sedated, not reacting to our presence, her eyes as if in a trance, just black pupils without tears staring at nothing.
Brown stains are seeping out through the cloth. Toi gently lifts the cloth. Her burns shock me. Her flesh is grotesque, tortured designs in shades of gray with thin white streaks of tissue drawn taunt like violin strings, stretching her young breast into unimaginable distortions, a startling contrast to her pale angelic face. Her chest, stomach and legs are oozing yellow pus. A foul putrid odor makes me gag and I fight the urge to vomit. I know it’s a sign of infection, maybe gangrene.
“Toi,” I say, “tell the captain we’re taking her to the hospital in Ben Tré. Taylor, get our stretcher.”
Taylor starts to leave and then pauses. “Mr. Erwin, this isn’t our job. We’ll be out of our patrol area for the rest of the day.” Taylor’s formality is a sign. Whenever he disagrees with me, he addresses me as “Mr. Erwin.”
“Taylor, get the stretcher!” I repeat. Taylor bolts from the cabin, kicking the door, his body language conveying fervent disagreement. I can hear it in his voice as Taylor yells at Moison to search the cargo hold, and barks at Hoffman to get the stretcher.
The captain of the junk squats next to the girl and I kneel on the other side. As Toi translates, the captain becomes agitated, speaking fast and loud.
“He’s refusing to let her go,” Toi says. “He thinks we believe this girl is Viet Cong—thinks we are going to put her in prison.” Toi pauses and then says, “Mr. Erwin, she might be Viet Cong, wounded in some battle.”
“For crying out loud, tell him this girl is going to die if she does not get to a hospital! Tell him she’s not going to prison. Ask him if this is his daughter.” I watch the old man’s eyes as Toi translates—I can tell when he hears my question. The old man looks at me and nods.
“Why is he refusing my help?” I ask Toi. “This is his daughter—a hospital can save her life.”
Toi translates, but the captain just stares at me without responding. I wonder if he cares. I’ve heard the Vietnamese don’t care about their children, that their culture is different. I now think it’s true. I believe the years of war have made the Vietnamese callous to human feelings, an entire country just trying to survive; the task too overwhelming to worry about the life of one child. They can always have more.
Hoffman crawls into the cabin, pulling the canvas stretcher behind him. The father is startled, rising up to his feet, yelling, screaming at me with a vehement protest, spittle flying from his mouth.
There’s no translation necessary. He’s four feet away, his feet and arms spread; muscles tense—his whole posture says he’s ready to fight, to sacrifice his life to prevent me from taking his daughter. I’m armed with a .38; the father with nothing but his body.
“He doesn’t trust you,” Toi says, “fears he’ll never see her again.”
Taylor comes back into the cabin with our medical kit. Toi translates as Taylor gives instructions for the burn cream, the sterile gauze and the morphine. The father begins to relax.
Taylor turns to me and whispers, “Junk’s clean, no weapons, just fish and rice." Taylor pauses, and then says softly, “Skipper, please, let ‘em go.”
I want to help this girl—she’s close to death, but all I can say is, “Okay.”
The junk pulls away from our side and I watch it motor upriver. I wonder about Vietnamese values, about love for their children. Maybe I’ve been wrong; maybe they’re just like me. I wonder what poison I’ve taken to fall under this prejudice. Maybe I created this image for my own self-preservation, the concept that no one will mourn if I kill someone. I’ll be off the hook, no bad memories for taking a life.
I don’t think the young girl will live. In my mind, I still see the father cradling her in his arms as she closed her eyes. I don’t care if she is VC—she’s too young to die.