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 5

It's not until we see more weapons and uniforms of the South Vietnamese Army, neatly folded and stacked in piles under trees at the curbstones, discarded by deserting troops, that we really know, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that it is over. On the other side of Lam-Son Square, not far from the curb of the sidewalk, onto which the dining terrace of late 19th-century Continental Palace Hotel opens, we pass people gathered around several mutilated cadavers of defeated, field-grade, ARVN officers, who are missing various parts of their skulls, brains and/or faces, either having preferred suicide to surrender, or who'd been taken out by angry, erstwhile subordinates. No one cares what happened; we just stop to stare; we've seen it all before and for much too long.

The rotting stench of feces, urine, the quick work of putrefying bacteria in this humid heat together with the sound of flies swarming, the morbid sight of skull fragments, splattered brains and distorted faces doesn't particularly disturb me, nor does it make me happy. I don't feel any emotion, I'm just staring at the corpses, almost hypnotized, as Jules' serious demeanor is ordering me to walk on.

He brings his arm around my shoulder, trying to keep me moving and from looking back. Despite his aversion to physical contact in public, he keeps a firm grip on me for the three long blocks, until we get to the end of Tu-Do Street, and can quietly slip past Notre Dame basilica on John-F.-Kennedy Square and into the relative safety of the park with its cool, fresh breeze under the three-storey trees, aligned in rows as they might have been on a rubber plantation, only perhaps not as closely planted.

Now, behind us but still close enough, one of the bells at the basilica startles me by ringing a couple of times for no apparent reason, since it's only 11:20, which is another forty minutes until noon, when it normally tolls. And I would have been prepared for that.

Jules helps me off the ground, where I'd dropped for cover. Maybe it's just the wind. Maybe it's a message for Catholics. Maybe my nerves are just extremely edgy; I've been on high alert for years.

We closely watch the activity off to the right, slowly approaching the old outdoor cruising grounds once favored by GIs amongst the neatly planted rows of shade trees in Central Park. Right now, however, we have our eyes on Tong-Nhut Boulevard as a troop transporter arrives and pulls to the curb to let some five or six tanks overtake. The tanks are packed with troops on top, not in battle gear, only fatigues and helmets, mostly only armed with AK-47s. I tense with unhealthy excitement, again having to let it sink in that the war is really over, and we've fucking made it. Jules, the twins, and I have survived, when so many haven't. I wipe tears of guilt from my cheeks.

Aside from being relieved, I'm also trying for happiness while still walking as if we're being pulled by a magnetic force toward a scene on the other side of Pasteur, the road that dissects the park and crosses Tong-Nhut Boulevard. It's fascinating, alright, but it's also a scene, which could easily still turn nasty, since the victorious troops are firing their AK-47s into the air.

"Have you ever seen anything like it?" I grab Jules' hand for a squeeze, which he quickly but gently withdraws.

"Yeah, back in November of '60, then in February of '62, November of '63 and again in January of '64 and yet again in February of '65." His facial expression is hard to read, but he can tell I didn't get his joke, and he smiles comfortingly.

"In '60, there was an unsuccessful, attempted coup against fascist Diem. Then in February of '62, two angry Air Force pilots fired rockets at the building in front of us, making it necessary to rebuild Norodom Palace in the form of this present abomination you now see. And, let's see, in November of '63, they nabbed the bastard, Diem, and killed him, making the man who has now been president for not quite seventy two hours, Duong Van Minh, president only to become a puppet head of state under Nguyen Khanh in the coup of '64, not to mention the coup against Khanh in '65. Yeah, I think that you can say that I've seen something like it, before." He snorts and chuckles sarcastically, nodding his head toward Independence Palace.

As I turn my head to look, tanks are pulling onto the lawn in front of where the last president of the Republic of Vietnam, Duong Van Minh, president with an ultimate purpose, as opposed to his predecessors, is awaiting his fate. Surrendering would normally have been the responsibility of Nguyen Van Thieu, the coward who deserted with an inordinate amount of treasury gold in his several tons of baggage, leaving someone else to take the inevitable blunt blow. But true to form for fascists, he saved his own ass. leaving his people to fend for themselves.

Soldiers swiftly approach the building to accept surrender, which vaguely resembles a squat version of the butt-ugly, and now, for a little more than eight hours, decommissioned US embassy, some three blocks further down Tong-Nhut Boulevard. Surrender seems to be inevitable today, even for the once all-powerful Americans, who were flying helicopter shuttles all through the night.

The short-timer president, Big Minh, still alive, emerges with a North Vietnamese officer. He is apparently making a statement. It's being broadcast over the radio, I would imagine, since we can't hear anything here. Jules' voice is a whisper. "So, this is what peace sounds like."

I hold my breath to listen. He's right; there's nothing. No tanks, no trucks, no traffic. Nobody's talking. It's as if the entire country is holding its collective breath. Jules again nods toward the Palace.

And now, with soldiers busying themselves on the ledge over the entrance to Independence Palace, slowly several Viet Cong's red and blue flags with the feared golden pentagram in the center are being waived from the balcony above the main entrance. We now know that the Provisional Revolutionary Government of the Republic of South Vietnam has taken power.

Cheers go up. We hear talking again. Engines are started. People are exuberant. Some are holding up their small children to sit on the knees of conquering soldiers. People are reuniting. We both take a deep breath and let out a sigh of relief.

Here we stand, still watching, as Jules shakes his head. "Guess that's it." He turns to go and pulls at my thin, baggy, black cotton pants and we start walking back toward Notre Dame. "I'm hungry." He sounds mildly hyperactive. "Let's go get the twins and Yvette and see if Givral is open. Didn't notice when we passed by, since we were concentrating on dead officers." He stops to look at me. "If not, we can check Brodard. If not, it's home for some black-marketed, gourmet C-rations and Champagne." He laughs quietly and gives me a hug, in public, right here in Central Park. "I've just realized two things. Peace feels great, and I now know that my future is with you."

I start to panic. "After all the years, I sort of thought--"

"--of course, I'm staying with you, Ben. But, to be honest, I wasn't expecting either of us to make it. Had that rocket fallen just short of the Majestic, we would have ended up like Gerry." His eyes become expressive and fill with tears. This is the first time that I've ever seen so much as a drop. "This means that I can love you without reservation, without being afraid that you could get caught by the Yankee MPs patrolling outside our house, or get shot by one of those Việt-khùng assholes." He nods to a group standing next to the troop carrier, trying to ingratiate themselves with the new kids on the block.

I have to chuckle. Some of the first words of Vietnamese I learned upon arrival were variants on crazy, one of which is khùng, and which sounds so close to công, used to denote a commune, that it stuck. But the play on words does sound funny, almost like a slur, though, as the topic of a Cantonese sentence.

I squeezed his hands. "But here you are. Here I am. We still have Bu and Hao to look after. Yvette, Wade, and Linh are still part of our family." My heart cringes at the omission of one still long cherished name. I blink away tears. I made it; he didn't. I have to take a deep breath.

My voice is shaky. "All in all, I think we're doing okay." I muse stoically. He lets me run a hand over his smooth face while I speak in a low, deliberate voice. "We made it through. And I promise you, not living in a fucking war zone will improve things enormously." It's odd how peacetime has always been the supposed goal of war, however, only to remain elusive, something which I can just barely remember, Jules probably not at all, and our two sons don't even understand the concept.