“Are you finished yet?” said one driver who was lying in a dark corner of the hut. “It’s my turn.” He moved closer to the dancing flame of the makeshift candle behind the corrugated cardboard and began:
One night in early March, my truck pulled out from the K3 Storage Unit. My assistant driver was behind the wheel that day because I had to attend a meeting with senior drivers at the battalion headquarters. I would join him after the meeting. Let me tell you a little about my assistant driver. He was a young and happy recruit; he worked very hard, but he also liked to flirt. The story I am about to tell happened back when I was assigned to the Mekong Delta routes. It was flood season, but the enemy still attacked the area regularly. They targeted the underground bunkers and the trenches, especially around the Blue Stone Bridge where we were protecting the border from the enemy. That night, immediately after sunset, it began to rain. After the meeting, I left the battalion headquarters and was waiting for my truck at the top of a hill. I had my hammock under my arm, wrapped in plastic, and a flashlight around my neck. I was smoking and felt relaxed. For a person who drives all the time, a person whose life is chained to the cab of his truck, a quiet moment like this is quite rare. I crossed my legs and leaned against a tree on the side of the street, breathing out rings of smoke and staring up at the small sliver of a crescent moon in the sky. This peaceful moment was short-lived. Soon I started to get nervous as trucks came flying like racehorses down the road in front of me. My assistant driver wasn’t among them. The darker it got, the more nervous and frustrated I became.
It was usually a relief when my truck was faster than the others, even by half a wheel. And for this trip I wanted to get an early start so we’d have enough time, when we returned from the delivery, to hide our truck in the Sang-Le woods. It was safe to hide the truck there, and it was close to where my sister worked. I had already asked my commander for permission to visit her. She’d written me a letter complaining that it had been three years since we’d last seen each other. But this was just my own personal concern. I was frustrated mostly because my assistant driver had been unable to get things done.
Then suddenly I saw him driving up from the bottom of the hill. When he came to a stop I started yelling at him for being so late. But he just ignored these reprimands and quietly handed me the paperwork and a receipt, then placed in the cabin a package of peanut sticky rice and a bottle of water mixed with sugar. “Have a safe trip,” he said, winking and tapping my shoulder. He crouched and jumped down from the truck. On this trip I was assigned to be the only driver. My assistant driver said good-bye and started to walk away, but he paused and banged heavily on the truck door.
“Hey, Lam. On the receipt I noted that a spare tire is missing, and I got the storage keeper’s signature to confirm that.”
“All right,” I said. I felt satisfied with what he’d done.
“There’s one more thing,” the assistant driver said. “But this one isn’t written down on the receipt …”
“What is it?” I asked.
“There’s a hitchhiker in the back who wants a ride to the Blue Stone Bridge.”
“We’re not supposed to take hitchhikers,” I said, annoyed again. “You know that.”
He gave me some excuses for breaking this rule, which all sounded logical enough. But I was still upset with him. I was sure that the person sitting in the back of the truck was a woman. I could imagine the scene perfectly: a shy woman, holding a white hat and standing at the door of the truck, while my assistant sat up in the cab with a grin on his face, asking her flirtatious questions as he finished a cigarette. How could he agree to give some woman a ride when our truck traveled through so many dangerous areas? But at the same time, how could one have refused and asked her to walk instead?
My assistant had already left, so I decided to get going. Before starting the engine I turned around to glance through the iron screen behind me, but I saw only darkness. The cab of the truck smelled like fresh rubber sap. I had no clue where exactly in the cavernous back of the truck the hitchhiker was sitting.
“Who’s in there?” I asked, trying to make my voice sound as stern as possible.
No answer. But I could hear the spare tires shifting in the back of the truck and sounds like a chicken fidgeting in its nest. I figured that the hitchhiker must have heard my conversation with the assistant and was probably too scared to answer.
“Who’s back there?” I repeated, less aggressively this time.
“It’s me. Please give me a ride to the Blue Stone Bridge.”
My guess wasn’t wrong. It was a young woman’s voice. Her voice sounded clear and calm—strong and confident, even.
“Male or female?” I inquired.
“Male.”
“Come on,” I said. “Don’t mess with me. I could order you to get off. This is an army truck.”
There was silence for a moment. Then I asked, “Why do you need a ride to the Blue Stone Bridge?”
“I am a road construction worker. Your assistant checked my ID. I have some business to take care of so I need to return to my unit.”
“What kind of business?” I asked, skeptical. My tone was teasing.
