Page 91 of Cry Havoc
SERRANO WORKED HIS WAYthrough the gears of the Zephyr’s four-speed manual transmission, pushing the six-cylinder engine through a turn.
“Ford makes these things in the UK,” he said. “This one belonged to my predecessor. The red leather is a bit much, but what can you do?”
Tom sat on the front bench seat, right arm resting on the open window ledge. He wondered if he should roll it up, lest someone toss in a grenade. He decided to follow Serrano’s lead and leave it down. Maybe it was better to be blown up than bake to death?
A blanket covered the T223 and Thompson submachine gun on the rear bench seat. Serrano had told Tom that there were four hand grenades in the glove box. Tom checked and indeed there were. They each had a small overnight bag in the trunk. They would be staying in guest rooms on the DuBois plantation. No sense in driving after dark. The roads were dangerous enough during daylight hours.
Rue Cabinet had escaped much of the destruction of Tet. Serrano surmised that was to protect the journalists, leaving them alive to report on the war. It made no sense to kill the reporters and news crews who were so helpful to their cause.
They stopped at a checkpoint just outside the Cholon district, an armored personnel carrier blocking their path. Serrano showed his ID toa nervous-looking soldier in an ill-fitting helmet and flak jacket who may very well have been in high school the week before.
“Careful, sir. There are still pockets of VC in there.”
Serrano looked ahead at the smoke still rising from the ruins of what had once been a thriving Chinatown.
“We’ll call you if we need you, Private.”
“Yes, sir.”
The APC moved forward, allowing them to pass, and then rolled back into place.
“We really did a number on this place,” Tom said, as they drove through a war-torn section of the city.
“VC guerrillas drew us in,” Serrano said. “Maybe that was their plan, maybe not. Regardless, they succeeded in getting us to destroy major portions of Saigon. A damn shame. I love this city.”
What was left of civilization melted away and Serrano accelerated away from the smoke and rubble.
Rice patties flanked the road as they sped northwest, villages of bamboo rising from flooded fields.
“They’ve been living this way for at least two thousand years,” Serrano said. “To conquer Vietnam, you need troops in every village, but even if you do that, they can just wait you out anyway. What do you see out there?”
“Looks peaceful.”
“It does, doesn’t it? Out here, unlike the city, they live in harmony with the land due to some confluence of Buddhism, Taoism, and Confucianism. There’s an old saying: ‘The authority of the emperor stops at the gate to the village.’ If you are going to rule Vietnam, you better understand that.”
“Do we?”
“Some might, like Lansdale. Maybe a few others. Each of these villages is a society unto itself, self-sufficient and therefore independent. And if you take one by force, what do you get?”
“Trouble?”
“Rice. Not gold or riches. There’s no oil. Just rice. Maybe a few cows, chickens, or dogs. We won’t succeed in restructuring Vietnamese society in our image, or if we do, it’s going to take a lot more than Levi’s and Marlboros.”
“Speaking of, mind if I smoke?”
“Be my guest.”
Tom lit a cigarette and blew his first plume through the open window into the late-afternoon air. The Iron Triangle was to their north in the Bình Duong Province.Tunnels.Even in the heat of the late afternoon Tom shivered, remembering the darkness and claustrophobic conditions of the underground labyrinth.
“Tom.”
“Yeah.”
“Thought I’d lost you for a minute.”
“I’m good. Just taking in the view.”
“We’re about thirty minutes away.”
