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.

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Farewell, Uncle Ho

by Dennis Milholland

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

Chapter 95 (Friday, July 21, 1967, Saturday, July 22, 1967)

We rode slowly onto the grounds of the gated community, enclosing maybe ten mansions of various European designs. It resembled any number of small ski resorts, built in the French, Swiss, and German mountains in the 20's and 30's, down to the details of some mock half-timbered and stonework homes, others displaying elaborate Art-Deco brickwork and yet others with wooden trim reminiscent of the late 19^th century.

The car had hardly stopped, when Gerry bolted out of the backseat, as if he were looking for somewhere to throw up. I thought maybe he'd become carsick. But we found him on the sloping, manicured lawn, on the other side of the house, which faced Dalat, eyeing the structure. He whirled around to Jules.

"Let's see, you enter through the heavy, arched door, located under the stone stairs, which go up to the main entrance on the first floor. The family's entrance appears to go into the basement but is, in fact, ground level, which is the living space for the family. Perhaps, directly behind those windows." Gerry pointed to five, dark-green shuttered windows jutting out from the ground-floor stonework, forming the terrace above. He continued by pointing to the side. "I'd guess that there are two bedrooms and two baths, the kitchen, dining room, and the lounge." He gestured upstairs. "The first floor has formal rooms for entertaining, two guest bedrooms, and again two baths. The formal dining room has stairs leading to the kitchen, below. And the top floor is storage. How am I doing?" He grinned at Jules and Linh, whom I'd given a rough translation.

"Incroyable!" Jules looked as if he'd seen a ghost, rather than Gerry's having had a vision.

"Between the downstairs dining area and the living space," Gerry continued. "there are a couple of steps down to the lounge area and a huge archway, rather than a doorway when coming from the dining room, right?"

Jules nodded. "But how can you know this?"

"Um," Gerry swallowed appreciably. "the local Red Cross occupied exactly such a house, near where I was born in Germany." His voice was level and unemotional. "Since the exterior is identical, I had to assume that the interior would be, too."

Linh and Jules nodded that they understood, and marveled at the coincidence, as they returned to unload the car. Of course, I had to know if it had been the concentration-camp commander's house, during the war, and why he didn't explain about his having been born in a displaced-person's camp.

He took my hand and held it until we got our luggage. "This house is out of a catalog of maybe twenty ready-to-build plans, which were popular in the 20's." He let go of my hand and picked up our suitcase. "And I didn't say anything about my childhood, because I have my own horrors, and they have theirs." He gave me a peck on the cheek, as I opened the heavy, wooden door, still carrying the AK-47 slung over my right shoulder. "We don't have to compare tragedy."

***

Shortly before dinner, Gerry and I were sipping Dubonnet on the terrace above the living room, being that the bar was in one of the formal rooms, used for entertaining guests. As we ostensibly qualified as guests, Jules had brought us up here, likely to get us out of the way of his and Linh's preparing dinner.

Since we now had our residence permits for South Vietnam, we could leave the country on our civilian passports, at any time. Gerry and I were talking about when the best time would be to skip country. Of course, we were still waiting on Linh to get his visa. And since he had worked for the French embassy for years as their head cook, we couldn't imagine there would be any problems. We had agreed that Gerry would apply for political asylum once we got to Paris, since he, at least, didn't require an entry visa.

Aperitif glasses in hand, Yvette and Wade arrived, stood silently, hearing the tail end of our discussion. I was listening to Gerry but at the same time fascinated with the red-golden light of the sunset reflecting off his shiny, silky, blond hair. I loved this man so much that I sometimes ached with desire. I forced my attention off Gerry and looked at Wade. "How long do you think Linh's visa application is going to take?"

"Sorry, Ben," Wade took a sip of his drink. "usually my clients are applying for an American visa. I haven't dealt with the French enough to establish a pattern."

"Of course, my mother became French, when she married my dad." Yvette's cigarette still needed a light. Gerry came to the rescue. "But her mother needed a visa to leave with them. And if I recall correctly, it took about six months."

"That'll bring us up to Christmas." Gerry confirmed his accuracy by counting on his fingers. "The question is whether it'll be Christmas in Saigon or Paris."

"That, mein Schatz, gives you the choice between warm rain and cold rain." I laughed sarcastically as Gerry lit my joint, grinning.

***

Dinner had been spectacular. Obviously the team of Linh and Jules put the quality of everything off the charts. After dinner, Jules prepared an egg coffee, to go with the chilly night air and Cognac. Gerry wasn´t quite sure that he liked the idea. Jules patiently explained how he'd whisked egg yolk with sweet condensed milk and a couple of tablespoons of sweetened black coffee to make the frothy topping on the large cup of strong Vietnamese coffee. So, the only thing different from his usual morning coffee was the addition of an egg yolk. The procedure, of course, had reversed the layers. Normally, the condensed milk was on the bottom. That may well have been what Gerry objected to.

Gerry might have been German, but he clearly had been raised in the United States and was overly squeamish about eating things, which he couldn't readily identify. Although, he didn't seem to have problems with C-rations, where I, on the other hand, sometimes had major difficulties. Tonight, however, it had been sheer luck that he hadn't questioned the nutty-tasting, crunchy bits, in the shallot-red-wine sauce of the excellent Chateaubriand, which, in fact, had been deep-fried crickets, covered in batter.

Now, if the cricket question were to come up again, I could tell him that he'd already eaten them. Actually, it was sort of like sucking cock. Once you'd done it, it was no longer an issue.

***

Gerry and I had taken another sniffer of Cognac each to our room. Jules had assigned us to one of the guest rooms, again because we were ostensibly guests. It was luxurious, though. I placed our toiletries on the marble shelf above one of the two stand-alone washbasins. I hung our enema bag from the hook between the toilet bowl and bidet.

My guy was relieved to see that the toilet had a proper bowl and seat, as opposed to the two footprints astride a hole at our apartment in Saigon, since we were both having quite literally a gut reaction to the anti-malaria medication. Linh predicted that everything would be better by tomorrow. Jules didn't have an opinion.

When I came in from the bathroom, Gerry was sitting on the couch, still dressed, wide-legged smoking, sipping his Cognac. I took a seat on the floor between his knees and lit a Park Lane. "Are you having any trouble with the house?"

"Naw," He shook his head. "it's even a little comforting."

"Does the terrain remind you of Germany?" I wondered, having been to the Black Forest and near the French and Swiss borders. The Black Forest was exactly like here.

Gerry burst out laughing. "Not at all." He ruffled my hair and gave me a kiss on the head. "Where I'm from, it's totally flat. There are some low, rolling hills, but nothing like Dalat. More like New York City, except for Staten Island." He took a drag off my Park Lane and put it back in my mouth. "It's more like Long Island."

A serious chill ran down my back at the thought of a concentration camp on Long Island, and I pressed my head to his crotch. I blew hot breath through the black, cotton material onto his cock. The effects were desired; the effects were immediate.

Gerry took the Park Lane butt out of my mouth, took a last drag and put it out in the glass ashtray. He drew me to him, unbuttoned my shirt and drew his tongue across my chest. He stopped at my left nipple and sucked, like a small child on a pacifier. His hands released the hook on my cotton trousers. They fell, my dick slashed its way through the slit in my boxers.

I was already hard, torrid-sex hard. But when I had to remove the AK-47 from the bed, to be able to lie down, my rod was like steel. I sniffed the rifle, and Gerry grinned, knowing how I reacted to fire arms. The smell of gun oil with a whiff of leather from the pouch, combined with sensations of my lover's tongue under my foreskin, pushed me over the edge in an instant.

Gerry was also on a hair-trigger, and I barely made it to his cock with my mouth, before he shot more volleys than usual down my throat. It must have had something to do with cool, fresh air.

***

What actually woke me was the lack of noise. There were no sounds of scooters, no buzz of ceiling fans, no breakfast sounds from the kitchen. Gerry was next to me, barely breathing under my protective arm. The only real sound was that of a gentle rain, lightly falling onto the metal shutter, tilted outward, to serve as an awning in front of the opened window.

The first question to cross my sleep-dazed mind, other than to assess the wellbeing of my guy, was: who opened the window? The second question was, if I could make it to the toilet. My bladder was cramping, and I couldn't stand straight enough to walk.

As I hobbled toward the bathroom, I heard tittering behind me. I looked over my shoulder to find Gerry hobbling in the same direction. I tried not to laugh, because I was certain to piss all over the elegant furnishings, if I did.

Luckily, we made it to the bathroom, Gerry to the toilet and I to the tub. Being that pissing through a rock-hard erection was difficult at best, straddling the tub proved to be the better option, since there were fewer restraints. Having recognized this, Gerry moved to straddle the tub, facing me.

His warm flow onto my pubic mound made my cock go assault-rifle hard. I was straining to finish emptying my bladder, when. there was a knock on the bathroom door.

Jules was standing in the doorway from the bedroom to the bath, mouth gaping. Gerry gave him his bad-boy look and grinned approval, causing Jules to step out of his clothes, while crossing the marble floor. He lifted both of us with a hand each, signaling us to stand in the tub.

He got between us and hadn't even closed the shower curtain before his hard, heavily veined cock started to leak piss. The stream grew in intensity and abruptly stopped. He tensed; his body shook, and he shot rope after thick rope of jism into Gerry's pubes, where only seconds before his warm piss had been performing a baptismal ritual.

***

By the time we'd washed and dressed, it was somewhere in the early afternoon. Yvette was sitting downstairs in the lounge area on the massive window seat, reading a copy of Paris Match, she'd brought with her from Saigon. When I asked where Wade had gone, she told us to the PTT in town to make a call. Through the dining room window, I saw that his car was still parked next to Jules', where it had been, yesterday, causing me to think that he was walking in the rain.

I shrugged and told Jules that I would have to go by the PTT, as well, so that Gerry and I could phone our unit. He pointed to the telephone on the teak buffet and told me to write it down, so he could tell the operator the number I wanted in Saigon.

Mother Magsaysay answered on the second ring. "Yes, First Sergeant, we got here without incident. Yes, First Sergeant, both Helmstedter and I are taking our anti-malaria pills. Yes, First Sergeant, the billets are as secure as you can get. We're in a gated community with armed guards. Yes, First Sergeant, I am sure that none of our friends are Viet-Cong. Sure, First Sergeant, we'll report in as soon as we're back in town."

Without looking up from her magazine, Yvette chuckled and clicked her tongue. "You do know that you can go to Hell for lying the same as you can for stealing."

Gerry stopped chewing his bite of ham and cheese on baguette and shot her his bad-boy look. "Yeah, but they gotta catch us, first."