Beyond Survival. Gerald Coffee

than “ding”—each blow widely spaced at first, but then with gradually increasing frequency to an intense crescendo finished off by one final, distinct beat. I heard other gongs from distant villages, each with its distinct tone, but all signaling, in this case, the end of the formal work day and calling the people in from the fields and paddies. There was an alien savageness about it. Suddenly, it seemed the plug had been pulled on my remaining reservoir of confidence and I felt very, very far from home.

      After talking with a villager who seemed to convey official instructions, the cadre ordered one guard to tie a rope around my neck and the other to blindfold me. He used a piece of rag found on the dirt floor of the shed and permeated with the same offensive smell.

      We headed off, the cadre, two guards and myself, out of the village and inland, I guessed. The going was slow the first mile or so. Unable to see my way, I slipped down the sides of the muddy paths every few minutes, only to be yanked up each time by the coarse rope around my neck. It was cutting and chafing my already stinging face. Holding onto my injured arm with the good one made it even more difficult to keep my balance and, when I fell, to hurriedly wallow back up onto the path to ease the bite of the leash. Finally, the cadre became impatient with the slowness of our progress along the narrow levee and ordered the stinking rag across my eyes to be removed.

      We traveled easier then, guided along by the beams of two flashlights and pale moonlight diffused by a layer of thin clouds. We still stopped frequently for the three of them to confer about our route. One time during a stop, we were approached by a young man who seemed to know our mission. He had come from the direction of a village just ahead on our pathway. It was marked by a cluster of dim oil lamps and the frenzied sounds of some kind of rally. There was chanting and cheering punctuated by a gong. The conversation had been in whispers and had obviously been about me. One of the guards turned to me and, with a smile that matched the menacing sound of the gong, pointed to the village then to me, making a slashing motion across his throat. “They want to kill you,” I translated his accompanying words intuitively and marveled at how rapidly we pick up sign language, especially on issues of life and death.

      The cadre took the messenger seriously. We reversed course and circumnavigated the village, always talking in whispers and sometimes crouching low along hedgerows to remain undetected. The sounds of the frenzied villagers ebbed and flowed as we crept along and I was relieved as the din faded behind us. At least the concern for my immediate survival was reassuring. They were taking seriously their apparent order to deliver me someplace safely.

      Later, after moving along for some time at a steady pace, we encountered two old women shuffling along in the opposite direction. They both carried shoulder poles (I would later know them as chogi sticks) balanced at each end by shallow woven baskets, their obviously heavy contents obscured by cloth tucked in around the edges. The first woman also carried a small kerosene lamp with a wide conical top so its tiny flame could not be seen from the air. As they approached, the lamp swung quaintly to and fro with the rhythm of her bouncing load, like a scene described in a child’s storybook. The path was wide enough for us to pass one another, but our lead man with the flashlight seemed to recognize the old lamp swinger. We all stopped as they talked softly but excitedly. They were exchanging news from the opposite ends of our path, his version animated by airplanes and shooting gestures. Several times the two women glanced guardedly toward me. The leader shined the light directly into my face and they moved closer cautiously for a better look at the “black-hearted American air pirate,” as I was to be called frequently in the future.

      In the reflected light, I saw their faces and was astonished at how much they looked exactly as they were “supposed to”—right off the page of some National Geographic of my youth, all delicate wrinkles and indented mouths where teeth should have been. In the shadows of their woven conical hats, little threads and tufts of gray hair—more silver in the soft light—poked from beneath the black scarves tied beneath their chins. Their little black eyes sparkled in the light, belying the tiredness of the sagging skin around them. They held no youthful fervor and certainly no hatred. One of them asked a question of the guard holding the rope to my neck, then clucked her disapproval of his answer.

      Her face revealed the genuine concern and compassion of the grandmother she surely was. The gentleness of her touch as she reached up to test the tightness of the rope around my neck transcended the political and ideological conflicts that had led us both to this unlikely nocturnal encounter. She bubbled a few words to her companion, who immediately withdrew a banged-up thermos bottle from a shoulder bag. As the other woman poured hot tea, she stooped slightly, looked into my eyes questioningly, her hand held out straight, palm down, and level with her knees. She then stair-stepped it up, pausing briefly at three higher levels. She finished with her finger pointing at me and curiosity in her face. My mind searched for her meaning for only a second. Of course! Did I have children? I smiled wanly and held up three fingers, then four. No, three! How could I explain to her that my wife was pregnant with our fourth child? As she acknowledged my perplexity, I reemphasized three, then traced a bulging tummy with my good hand. Her eyes widened and the little wrinkles on her forehead furrowed even more deeply, as she shook her head slowly in comprehension.

      She shared a few words with the other woman, but without breaking the link from her eyes to mine. Her expression was a mixture of compassion and wonderment. Again she clucked her puzzlement and wagged her diminutive head. I could imagine her thinking, “Why would a young American flyer come so far away from home when he should be back there with his wife and babies?”

      The taste of the hot, bitter tea lingered on my tongue as my guards and I hurried on. Even the second cupful the crone offered hadn’t quenched my thirst, a thirst I hadn’t been aware of until it had been teased alive by the first swallow of the tea. I must have sweat much more than I had realized during the afternoon and evening.

      With the blindfold removed, I was able to move along fairly well, head down, eyes fastened to the bobbing white light preceding us along the path. The night was otherwise very dark now, the previously misty-thin clouds having thickened to block out the moonlight. There seemed to be no light or activity ahead that might define our destination.

      The Vietnamese were speaking sparingly now as we continued on rather mechanically. My thoughts wandered back to the old women and their kindness. Where had they been going on such a dark night? Probably returning to their own shabby homes after visiting their children or grandchildren. I would have many future occasions to recall them fondly, as well as my own naive assumption about their activities as the “party line” would be espoused repetitively on the VOV, the Voice of Vietnam radio:

      “In accordance with the enlightened policy of the Democratic Republic of Vietnam toward the equality of women in the revolutionary society, women are allowed to work equally, side by side with men. In the rural areas, older women, pregnant women, and women who are menstruating are allowed to work in dry paddies closer to home.”

      “Make watah! Make watah!” One of my guards from the previous evening, the one I heard chatting and smoking a while ago, stood in the doorway pointing to his crotch. I had so intensely projected myself back into the events of the past few days that I had not even been aware of his appearance. His half-question half-command brought me back instantly to the reality of my humble accommodations. “Make watah!” he repeated. I guess he’s asking if I need to take a leak, I told myself. I don’t really, but I’d better take advantage of the opportunity. As it turned out, he had anticipated the morning gong, for as I struggled to my feet in the straw, the flat brassy clang of a tire iron on the 100mm shell casing hanging from a limb in the adjoining courtyard assaulted my ears, adding to the anguish of my effort. As the inhabitants of the hamlet, My Xa, fell to their morning ritual, I pissed in the binjo ditch sewer across the path from the doorway. My urine was deep amber in color, and I realized this was the first time I had relieved myself since my capture. I must have been really dehydrated.

      To say the rest of the day passed uneventfully would have been true in the normal sense, but for me, as I became gradually immersed in this strange society, everything was an event. The soup and rice I was given in the morning and early evening—my first food in North Vietnam—were a major event. The soup had been made of coarse, bitter greens, but was thick with pork and well seasoned. The rice