He was such a kind person. Just the other day he had given Mrs. Sau, an old widow, money to see a doctor. And the day before that everyone had seen Smith visibly grieving when they buried Hoa, who had been killed in combat.
Bach remembered her father saying, “Smith is a fine man, the nicest American among all American men who are dating the girls in the hamlet.”
While Bach was worrying about how to help Smith, she ran into Kiet. He was crossing the rusted, flimsy old bridge that connected the houses in the hamlet to the rice paddies. Nobody lived in the paddies; the only structures out there were ramshackle huts for the duck attendants. Kiet ate and slept in one of those huts. Bach knew that he didn’t have any parents or relatives. When she saw him now crossing the bridge, he was carrying a sack, which Bach guessed probably contained frogs he planned to sell in the hamlet.
“Kiet!” Bach called out.
“What’s going on?” Kiet asked.
“Please! You have to help save Smith!”
“Save an American?” Kiet seemed surprised. “Why? Are you in love with him?”
Tears suddenly flooded Bach’s eyes. She didn’t think she knew anything about love; she just felt sorry for Smith because he was nice and shouldn’t die from ant bites.
Kiet approached Bach and patted her on the head.
“Geez—you cry so easily! Okay, where is Smith?”
Kiet was only about eighteen or nineteen, but the group of drunken men deferred to him because he was articulate and a good drinker. He was decisive and efficient in the things he did, and this earned him respect in the hamlet. Physically, he was tall and lanky with dark skin, and he always wore black ba-ba pajamas and an old conical hat. He spent his days in the rice paddies, catching frogs and small fish. The people in the hamlet thought he might be a Viet Cong infiltrator and avoided him because they didn’t want to get in trouble with the South Vietnamese police.
Bach liked Kiet. Sometimes when he was out late catching frogs, he would stop by the house and Bach would ask her mother to give him some leftover rice.
Her mother would grit her teeth and say, “You act so brave, asking me to give him rice. But do you know who he is?”
Her father, meanwhile, was always on Bach’s side. “You’re overreacting! He’s just a kid from the neighborhood.” Then her father would load a bowl with rice and even some fish stewed with pepper, oil, and green onions.
Bach wiped away her tears with the hem of her shirt. She took Kiet by the hand and led him to the drunk guys and Smith. Kiet stood in the middle of the group and put his hands on his hips.
“Who tied ’Mit to the pole?” Kiet asked.
“Why do you want to know?” someone asked. “Is the American your grandfather?”
“He isn’t my grandfather,” Kiet replied, “but he is a human being.”
The crowd began talking boisterously among themselves.
“I did see him cry a lot at Hoa’s funeral.”
“Nonsense. He was crying because he’s afraid of dying in combat.”
“Well, that’s still better than a cowardly draft dodger.”
“Motherfucker! What did you say?”
The drunken men had suddenly turned on each other.
Kiet intervened: “I think you guys should let ’Mit go,” he said firmly. “Anyway, you’ll get in trouble if the MPs show up.”
“The American police? We’re not scared of them! And you can go tell them that! You’re a Viet Cong and you come here to defend Americans?”
“Let’s not talk about Viet Cong or Americans right now,” Kiet said. “We’re in wartime. If you are real men, you’ll save the fighting for the battlefield.”
And with that Kiet began to leave the circle of drunks. They seemed much more subdued now.
“Hey, wait a minute,” one of them said, grabbing Kiet’s arm. “How about maybe a little something to bail out the American?”
Kiet handed over his sack. “Here—it’s full of fish and frogs. Go ahead and eat all of them, but don’t mess with the American anymore.”
“You gonna drink with us?”
“No,” Kiet said. “I’m going home.”
Tom and John were never seen again in the hamlet. Miss Trung told Bach that she’d heard they had both been wounded in combat and had returned to their country.
Miss Hong and Miss Tuyet changed boyfriends like they changed clothes. They always seemed sloppy and disheveled. Once while they were eating rice-noodle soup at Miss Bong’s shop, Miss Trung asked loudly,
“Where are your bras? You girls let your breasts hang down like that, it’s embarrassing!”
Miss Tuyet dipped a piece of tofu into a bowl of shrimp paste and gave a fatalistic smile. Her breath smelled of alcohol when she spoke.
“The Americans are about to return to the United States,” she said. “They have already been defeated. Haven’t you been listening to the news on the radio?”
“Oh, but what does the Americans’ withdrawal have to do with you girls?” Miss Trung said dismissively, putting a piece of crab meat into Bach’s bowl.
“Well, it’s different for you,” Miss Tuyet said. “’Mit really loves you, so you’re not worried.”
“If the Americans leave,” Miss Trung said, ignoring this last, “then you girls should think about turning over a new leaf.”
“Turning over a new leaf?” Miss Hong said. “Can’t you see that everyone in this hamlet looks down on us?”
“Let’s stop arguing.” It was Miss Xuan, eating rice cake rolls one stall over. Her voice sounded tired and sad. “You girls stay here and try to be happy. Tomorrow I’m going back to my hometown.”
“Why?” Miss Tuyet asked, genuinely surprised.
“Henry is dead,” Miss Xuan replied.
Miss Trung kicked Tuyet under the table. “Stop asking questions,” she whispered. “Yesterday she found out that he died in a battle.”
Bach didn’t understand all of the conversation,
