realized she had lost them all, she was powerless against this thing called Vietnam. The people at the picnic table stared, silent. A large-bellied man with a sandwich in his hand hesitated and reluctantly began to approach them, Duke with a ball in his mouth ran along the water, and the young mother ran to her two boys, pressing them into her hips, the reality of the war creeping up the sand, invading, at last coming home.
FIFTEEN. Hang Hum Noc Ran
Tiger Den and Snake Venom- A Place of Danger
November 1968
It was a prodigal’s return. Helen arrived in Vietnam at night; as the plane approached the darkened runway of Tan Son Nhut, the lights on board blackened to avoid rocket or mortar attack. Blind, she could only feel the magnetic pull of the place, dragging her back to earth, and she suspected it had exerted itself, however faintly, all the way to California.
She stood in the open doorway of the plane, unable to see anything in the pitch-dark night of the tarmac, the air shrill with the sound of jet engines revving for night runs. The physical weight of the heat and humidity made her feel like a fish being released back into water. She breathed in deeply, and the scent that had teased her in the States came to her, forgotten and familiar, a third-world emanation of jungle and decomposition, garbage and dinner and unwashed skin mixed with the fumes of sewers, diesel, and rain. Home.
In the chaos of the airport stood Linh, unchanged, as if their months apart were nothing. Her relief to see him in the flesh, as if she dreaded that he, too, had become a ghost, was so great she dropped her bags and ran to hug him, kissing his cheek.
He pulled away, embarrassed, and looked around to see who might have been observing. She had forgotten too much already; all the difficulties and barriers to life in Saigon had disappeared from memory in her rush to return. Linh handed her the golden scarf.
She took it and wrapped it around her neck. “I missed it.”
Linh shrugged. “It was always yours. It waited for your return.”
“Good to be back.” She tried to hide her disappointment at the formality between them. When she had wired him announcing her return, she took his answer that he’d pick her up as approval.
She saw there had been a change in him, his face more tired and drawn than she had ever seen it. The war had not stopped simply because she went away.
“Is it really good?” he asked, and picked up her bags.
“Believe it or not,” she said. “It’s more terrifying there than here.”
“I don’t understand,” he said.
They rode into the city in silence with a new distance. Without the barrier of Darrow, the easy camaraderie between them strained. Helen was very aware of Linh as a man, and her former playful intimacy, up to the kiss she had just given him in public, embarrassed her. Clear that they had had a unique window of friendship because of Darrow, and this allowed her to know him in a way that would not have happened otherwise.
Things appeared smaller and dirtier and shabbier than she remembered. The car idled at the mouth of the alley in Cholon, dawn just beginning to lighten the edge of the sky, the first merchants stirring. They walked single file to avoid the large puddle, Linh ahead, carrying bags, until they reached the crooked apartment, its worn, stained stucco and tipped blue roof, the faded Buddha door. Helen stood in the alley and looked up, and her heart flooded at the sight of the red lamp in the window. A guilty plea sure like smoking a cigarette after months of abstinence. Her vision swam. Unreal to accept that Darrow was gone when she felt his presence here stronger than she had in months. Nothing was the same and yet a teasing that one could rewind time.
“Did you marry, Linh?”
He watched her face, not able to guess her feelings. “No.” He stopped, but when she remained silent he continued. “Thao fell in love with a mechanic. They married last year. She is expecting a child.”
“I’m sorry…”
“I’m happy for her.”
Helen seemed far from him. So far he feared he’d never reach her; he half-expected that she would know the imagined conversations he had with her in the intervening months, the intimacy gained in his thoughts. “Sleep and I’ll come by in the afternoon.”
“Stay and let’s talk-”
“It’s better to rest, I think. Be patient. Good night.”
At the press briefings, Helen was surprised how filled the room was, how many unknown faces. New journalists jockeyed for information and packed the restaurants and bars. She recognized a handful of veteran reporters, and when she caught their eye, they nodded, unsurprised by her return. For those who had the appetite, it was as simple as wanting to be where the action was. For the first time in months, Helen felt she was where she belonged. Doing what she was good at. Being at the source of history in the making and not reading about it in the paper. But she noticed there was no more talk at the parties and restaurants and briefings whether the war was being won or lost. It had ceased to be an issue.
When she first went back to the magazine’s offices, Gary met her with a big hug and stony silence.
“Come on,” she said.
“You weren’t supposed to come back.”
“I missed you too much.”
“Liar.”
“And Linh sent me a letter.”
“Don’t worry about Linh. He hasn’t been exactly mooning around. He’s my new star reporter.”
“He didn’t say anything.”
“Things have changed. Be careful. It’s getting uglier by the day.”
Linh and Helen went out on patrol in the Bong Son. She could not wait to leave the hot house of Saigon. Orders were delivered that she not shower with soap or shampoo, and not wear perfume. Ambushes had been discovered because the Vietnamese could smell the deodorized, scented Westerners from far away. That morning, in preparation, the platoon had purchased gallons of nuoc mam, fermented fish sauce, and amid laughter from Linh, they had smeared it all over the canvas parts of their gear and on their uniforms.
A nineteen-year-old PFC named Kirby slapped a big gob of it on Helen’s back and rubbed it around. “If you’ll allow me, ma’am.”
Helen acted the good sport even though the smell sickened her and she’d have to throw away her tailor-made uniform afterward-no number of washings would get rid of the odor. “Aren’t they going to be suspicious of a patch of jungle that reeks of fish sauce?” she asked. But she felt excited and alert for the first time in months, energized by the patrol; in her new confidence, the debilitating fear seemed vanished.
“Naw, after a few days we’ll just smell like any other gook.”
Helen looked to see if Linh had heard.
But instead of lessening, the odor of nuoc mam seemed to grow more rancid, more lingering. It rubbed off of the canvas and onto her skin, sank into her pores, until Helen was so overwhelmed it distracted her from the danger of walking patrol. Sweat reinvigorated the paste; it stuck in her throat and burned her eyes, permeated her hair like cigarette smoke until that, too, reeked.
Two days into the patrol they were deep in the jungle, hunkered down for the night under a canopy of umbrella trees. Hot meals and mail had been delivered earlier, and Kirby made his way over to Helen, who sat on a rock, staring at her serving of ham and beans.
“Not hungry?” he said. He had a slight frame and a sleepy expression; one could almost see the fear in him. “I’m hungry all the time.”
“The fish smell makes everything taste bad,” she said.
“If you’re hungry enough, it doesn’t matter.”
“Want mine?” They sat in silence for a minute. “Get any mail?” she asked.
