Ít đường

Short Story

31 January 1968 - Saigon

Just a splash of sugar in his coffee would make everything all right, all right in cascade. Bada bing bada boom: Concierto de Aranjuez in sketches out of Spain oh so long ago. Cradle me rockin’ as the cup was on a saucer, but it was the rattling of the rattan table, and onto the asphalt painted yellow - striped. You could feel the boom-rock-boom. And then came the quiet - in a Viet Nam kind of way - short sharp shocks in your bones.

Across the concrete there was a was a display of piss and blood mixed in with the cold black coffee, but instantly there were a troop of old women to brush aside with the antique brooms that were everywhere in Saigon, because there was a command from the mayors quarters that every spill must be cleaned up if it were in the site of the American patrols. And what the mayor wanted, the mayor often got because there was an inordinate pool of people to make it happen. But out over the roads, there were plenty of bodies that stared into the blackened sky until the western medical staff could look at them and count the shrapnel and the bullets, and add it to a growing list of the deceased on this Dead Tet campaign.

The National Liberation Front of South Vietnam, or Việt Nam cộng sản or Việt Cộng, had risen up across the south and tried to claim that the old regime was not even “old” or “regime,” but an ancient footnote on the pages of history. The Americans were tone deaf and called them the Viet Cong in their rushed and unsubtle diatribe of words pouring out like Brinks on the Hotel. 1964 was a very good year, but 1968 looked to be spectacular with crack the sky, shake the earth.

That’s the way the young MD found the situation - eyeballs schmear with shit on an onion bagel. He fumbled for his walkie-talkie.

“Come in, base - this is Dr. Hunter.” There was a distant, echoing, smash of glass - the war never sleeps.

From over the banana radio came a grace under pressure vox: “This is base, what is your emergency?” It was slightly annoyed: Ma Nishtana ha-laylah ha-zeh, “What do you want now?”

“I have...” Hunter looked down, “An E-3 holding on to life. Face is badly mangled, and an eye rolls around.”

“Your location?”

He looked up, realizing the short cars were stopped, no mopeds were whizzing, and the rapidly Didi Mau were not present. He looked at the street sign, all riddled with holes. “Nguyen Thai Hoc... Near Minh Mang bazar.” Mispronouncing every syl-LA-ble as a tripped down the rabbithole à la Cu Chi tunnels following the White Rabbit on the soundtrack for dissent - one that mother gives you get here - sloppy dead.

Nearby, a stream joins up with the Saigon River in a choppy commotion as if the waters were on the side of the Viet Khong.

“It will be a while, Dr. Hunter...”

“He does not have that long...” Even as Hunter spoke this, he was stripping away the top end, trying to find what was the most important injury to take care of. He saw a red door, and he knew it must not turn black in the aftermath of pus and destruction brought to you live by Sanyo. So suddenly, he was not aware of when the medic came, only glanced out.

A voice came, like over the radio: “I am the medic with the 101st airborne.”

“Do you know CPR?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do it.”

A block away, a chopper dropped a violet gas grenade, billowing up to the heavens, for reasons unknown. It mixed with the murky blooms of soot and ash - with a panache of fire engines from Uncle Sam. A few flakes rained down on them. Hunter tried to shield the worst of it, but it was a chain of fools. Hello. Hello. The shell says low. It hit the left femur of the medic. Another BOQ by DRV on the DMZ down on Corner Street RVN, sweeping wide on the boulevards amid the rubble. And the sarge went pa-pump-pa pa-pump-pa pa-pump-pa on the sidewalk - and for once he wasn’t being run over.

Yeah, it was clear to the doctor that the last squirt of sanguine was coming - the realization flooded the doctor’s brain. That meant that he could treat the untreatable sergeant or turn his attention to the medic, and one last pump, and finally, he moved to the medic.

“Steady... I know it hurts, but it will be all right.” Alright. Oh Lordie Alright. The medic smiled as he grimaced.

After the Dr. had set the medic’s bone, he turned around to look - but it was obvious the mortem was past. In nomine patrus rapped the chant in piss and blood as the trumpeter wailed.

He looked down on his work, and he saw a photograph in the sergeant’s jacket pocket. The Dr. shouldn’t have taken it, but it seemed new. He glanced. It was in the wide world of color - the sergeant and a Vietnamese woman.

They were both smiling, and in the foreground, a cup of cold cà phê sữa and a purple parasol on top.