This is a work of fiction. Names of characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously; any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locations is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2015 by Dennis Milholland – All rights reserved. Other than for private, not-for-profit use, no part of this work may be reproduced, transmitted or stored in any form or by any means, other than that intended by the author, without written permission from the copyright holder.

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Farewell, Uncle Ho

by Dennis Milholland

questions and comments are welcome. www.milholland.eu / dennis@milholland.eu

Chapter 103 (Friday, July 28, 1967)

I had five-hundred dollars in American Express Travelers’ Cheques. We were standing in front of the only bank in Ban Me Thuot that would change them into Dong. And it was about to close until Monday, and nobody could tell me how much an elephant would cost.

The bank manager, a soft-spoken Frenchman, pulled me to one side. “You are assuming that someone would sell you their elephant.” He lowered his voice even more. “The Montagnards regard their elephants as members of their families. It would be like selling your sister.” He snickered and looked to see if any of his employees had heard him.

“So, how do you suggest, I get my two sons and myself to Dalat?” I gave him an uneasy stare, since the only reason he'd let Bu, Hao, and myself into his bank in the first place was that we were in the company of a Catholic priest. “As far as I know, the QL-27 is closed, because of blown up patches of highway.”

“Your best bet would to be to exchange three hundred dollars, which would give you 4,500 Dong and get the local CIDG to loan you an elephant and accompany you to Dalat.”

“CIDG?” I wondered.

“Indigenous militia, who will hire out as body guards, property guards, armed escorts, and the like.” Apparently he was making sense to Père Martin, because the priest squeezed my shoulder and nodded.

***

According to the fuel gage, Pater's Renault was running on fumes, so I directed him to the Shell station, on our way to the market. As opposed to Saigon, this Shell station attendant didn't even ask me for the time of day, much less an ID, and he chatted quite friendly in Tây Bồi pidgin French and explained to me the concept of the CIDG, or Popular Militia, which were made up of Montagnard guerrillas, trained by the Vietnamese and American special forces and operated within enemy-controlled territory. And when I paid, no questions were asked about the Yankee coupons; now, that was the proper way to run a black-market economy.

When I asked Père Martin what to take the twins' grandmother, he suggested a bag of lowland rice. “She grows upland rice, and her yields have been decreasing, since her daughter was killed.“

"I thought rice was rice.” Of course, my knowledge of rice had been gained exclusively from reading labels in the supermarkets of lower Manhattan and the 5^th Arrondissement of Paris.

He seemed embarrassed. “The field, ruined by the crash of your helicopter, was her rice field.” One glance at my confused face, prompted him to explain. “Upland rice is grown in fields, like other grain, not in flooded paddies. The boys had been out, taking stock, when you crashed."

My dark-red face revealed everything. I was ashamed to have been associated with the destruction of her livelihood. Had the tables been turned, I'd have shot the fucker, who'd destroyed my farm, rather than take him into my home and care for him. And secondly, I'd thought the green-golden fields, slowly approaching harvest were wheat fields. I'd never heard of upland rice.

As would have anybody, he asked me about the red face. When I told him about my confused knowledge of agriculture, he had to pull the Renault off to the side and wipe his eyes from laughing. The twins, in the backseat, were falling over each other at how civilization and a doctorate had caused me to be so stupid.

Being laughed at by two eight-year-old boys and an ancient country priest, absolutely brought me down to earth with a thud. And having been partly responsible for destroying Grandma's food supply by participating in this mad war, put the last nail in the coffin of my military career. With tears freely flowing and with a huge lump in my throat, I hummed, as well as I could, Boris Vian’s anti-war ballad, 'Le Déserteur', to comfort myself. The twins were hugging me from the backseat.

***

We went by the rice dealer’s stall at the market. I pointed at the 25 kilo bag and the vender quoted 200 Dong in pidgin French. “It’s milled and comes all the way from Cholon.” He was trying to impress us. But he'd underestimated our secret weapon. Bu and Hao took over, and by the time they’d finished, we got it for 70 Dong, so we took two for their grandmother. Linh was certainly going to be impressed by them. And I knew that they both were going to be essential in negotiating the body-guard/elephant rental, run by the CIDG.

As a special treat, I suggested getting some strawberry seeds for their grandmother. They both grinned approval and cautiously nodded. At this, Père Martin started acting odd, so I asked if he would like some, as well. His face lit up, and I soon found out why. Strawberry seeds were, despite haggling, about as expensive as gold. But at the end of the day, these were gifts for people, who had helped me, more than they could ever realize.

***

Pater's Renault was struggling to make it up the incline back home, considering we had an extra 50 kilos of rice on the back seat, which made the twins' heads as high as mine, which they enjoyed while playing grown-ups.

The last hundred meters or so, we had to back up the hill, because the reverse gear was stronger than first. Grandmother was sitting on the narrow front porch, smoking her pipe. Exotic smells were drifting through the house, making me realize that I was famished. My stomach growled loudly; Grandma looked pleased.

I unloaded the bags of rice into her sleeping area, placing the bags lengthwise on the floor. According to Père Martin, the smell of humans scared off rice rats, so she would sleep on the bags.

Since the priest didn’t know the Rade word for strawberry, Hao helped out with the French word. The priest and I looked perplexed at one another, since she didn’t speak French. Then, with a certain amount of jocular snootiness, she added, as translated by Hao: “I was, after all, born in Indochine française. Just like Madame Nhu.”, upon her mention of whom, she gestured as if to spit on the ground out of dislike for Viets in general.

The hot-pot with rice was vegetarian, due to the Catholic Church’s ban, still placed on meat on Fridays in the Vietnamese Church. The interesting question was, however, if fried crickets were meat or not. But for her and me, she served roast chicken. No question, no problem. Père Martin kept away from temptation by keeping his head down, but the twins were openly looking at our chicken and drooling.

***

After dinner and before we went to negotiate our transport with the CIDG, we enjoyed an after-dinner joint, spiked with opium. Grandma didn’t mind the twins’ smoking, so they got theirs as well. On our way to talk to the CIDG, I noticed quite a few village children smoking. Bernice would have had a calf, if she’d caught me smoking as an eight-year-old. I’m not saying that I didn't. After all, I went to school in Greenwich Village. But she never caught me.

On the other side of the small, wooden, church, was the paved road, the same one, that had taken us to Ban Me Thuot. Père Martin was of the opinion that it would be much too dangerous to cross the paved QL, or national route, on foot. Pavement had always meant motorized traffic. What I assumed he meant was: motorized military traffic.

We arrived at an adobe, one-storey house, with a red-tile roof. He shut off the engine, still on the red-dirt road, I thought to save fuel. “I'm afraid the motor will backfire. Not good in front of the house of the CIDG commander.”

We got out; Bu and Hao took my hands, as if to protect me, and Père Martin followed. “Let me do the talking.” Bu squeezed my hand to underscore what he was saying. “I’m going to tell them that you crashed in the American helicopter; they like Yankees and hate the French and Viets.”

I chuckled at the idea that a trained American soldier, would hide behind an eight-year-old kid, but the priest must have thought it to have been a good idea. Before we got to the French-style veranda, a man in a not-very-clean pair of, what appeared to be American-issue, jungle fatigues and boots, came out. His hat and red-bandana kerchief were pure Texan.

My mind boggled, in what seemed like a parallel universe, when I realized that the Captains Duvet also had an Indochinese cousin. Bu had just started, I’d assumed, explaining to him, who I was, when he was rudely interrupted with: “Yeah, Kid, I know.” Not only in English, something that Bu didn't understand but also with an obnoxious imitation of what he thought was an American Southern drawl. “What can I do for you all?”

“My kids and I need transportation to Dalat.” I tried for a civil tone.

“They ain’t you kids. They Nigger Gooks from here, and you Frog Chink, not father.”

I first realized that I had the fucker by the throat, when the priest gasped. Then, I started to enjoy, what I was doing. One hit to the face was for all the abuse Bu and Hao had endured, because of this war, perpetrated by fascists on racists, or vice versa, with real people left to suffer. The next one was for Dave. Then, I hit him again for me, to calm my mental anguish. But it didn’t help. The pressure was still building. And I knew that I had to stop this, before the little fucker croaked.

***

After we got back to Grandma’s, Père Martin jumped out of the car, I assumed to tattle on me to the Matriarch. I pulled up his hand brake, which was between the front seats, and got out, myself. Before I could slam the car door shut, the twins had me by the hands. I didn’t think that they knew how soothing it was, when they took me by the hands. Ever since the crash, it had been the only comfort, I could find.

Grandma came out to the porch, staying under the eaves, where it was dry. She looked at me, long and hard. She spoke her mind. And I was afraid that she was going to tell me to leave, until Hao translated. “Let the boys take you back to the crash site. It will do you good to let go of the pain.” She then smiled, just a bit on the naughty side. “And I’ll have that warm drink for you, when you get back.”

***

The walk in the cool drizzle helped me calm down. Having Bu and Hao by my side gave me courage.

When we got to the site, the Army vehicles had been removed from the slippery, red-clay road. What I guessed to be a forensics team, was sifting through the remains of the burnt-out skeleton of the helicopter. “Was likely a static spark.” I heard one of the men in civilian clothes say.

“Did you love him?” Bu asked quietly.

“Who do you mean?” But somehow I knew he meant Dave.

“The man you waved at?” Hao explained. I had always heard that twins were able to carry on a conversation as one person. I had always heard that it was creepy. But I found it endearing.

What I found troubling, though, was that these kids had watched the chopper explode, they'd seen Dave fall out, dangling on his cable, ablaze, struggling not to die.

“Yeah, I loved him, but not as much as I love Gerry.” I responded truthfully, shutting down the flashback.

“Gerry is the man, who you were talking to on the phone?” I acknowledged this request for clarification from Bu as legitimate. After all, they were going to be confronted soon with two fathers. But I wondered how he knew that I'd been talking to a man.

I nodded and followed up with: “That’s right.”

“So,” Hao squeezed my hand. “you love Gerry, like I do Bu?”

I recognized two things that made my heart feel lighter. The first was that, when Hao had said Gerry in his soft French, it sounded like 'chérie', which means 'sweetie'. The second was that Bu and Hao saw themselves as lovers.

***

We fortunately got back to Grandma’s house before the heavy rain started. As promised, she handed me the same tasty drink, which she’d given me when I'd arrived here. Hopefully, I wouldn’t sleep so long, this time.

The twins helped me get undressed, so Grandma could take my clothes to the kitchen at the back of the longhouse, to dry them near the fire. I stepped out onto the porch to empty my bladder, sipping on the drink. Grandma and the twins came out, while I was in mid-stream.

"Grandmother will loan us her elephant, if we take Père Martin along, so he can bring it back." I nodded my agreement, but I didn’t feel that I should give her the thumbs up, while standing there with my dick hanging out. “And she's arranged for our uncle, next door, to accompany us.”