"Right."

"I fly up here once in a while on business. Did you say you never got to China Beach?"

"Nope."

"Monkey Mountain?"

"Hate monkeys."

"I guess you weren't here too long."

"I was here for exactly seventy-one hours and ten minutes. And I never stepped foot out of the airbase."

"Right. You wanted to go home."

"In a pa.s.senger seat, not the cargo hold."

I recalled another television show from the last days of South Vietnam and said to Susan, "In about late March of 1975, as the end drew near, World Airways sent two 727s on a mercy mission to rescue civilian refugees at Da Nang Airbase. When the first plane landed, about a thousand hysterical men, women, and children mobbed the aircraft. But the South Vietnamese military decided that they deserved to be saved instead of the civilians, and they began firing at the refugees, and two hundred soldiers from the South Vietnamese Black Panther regiment threw everyone off the aircraft but themselves."

"That's awful."

"The pilot of the second 727 had the good sense not to land, but television cameras in that aircraft captured the sight of refugees hanging in the wheel wells of the first aircraft as it flew over the South China Sea. One by one, the people in the wheel wells fell off."

"My G.o.d..."

I tried to imagine the panic and desperation of those last days before the final surrender. Millions of refugees, entire military units falling apart instead of fighting, paralysis in Saigon and in Washington, and the mesmerizing images of chaos and disintegration flashing across television screens around the world. A total humiliation for us, a complete disaster for them.

As it turned out, the bad guys weren't that bad, and the good guys weren't that good. It's all perception, public relations, and propaganda anyway. Both sides had been dehumanizing each other for so long, they'd forgotten they were all Vietnamese, and all human.

Susan said, "I never knew any of this... no one talks about it."

"Probably just as well."

Highway One came to a T-intersection, and I looked at my map and pointed to the left. Mr. Cam made the turn, and we continued on. The highway around Da Nang was heavy with trucks, cars, and buses, and Mr. Cam played chicken with oncoming traffic every minute or so.

Susan told him to cool it, and he stayed behind a truck, which made him unhappy. It was Tet Eve, and he wanted to be back with his family in Nha Trang. He'd come very close to being there in spirit only.

The land started to rise, and I could see huge mountains up ahead, with spurs running right down into the South China Sea. The map showed that the highway went through these mountains, but I didn't see how. As we continued to climb, I said to Susan, "Have you taken this road?"

"Yes. I told you, I took the torture bus, Saigon to Hue. It was a nightmare. Almost as bad as this trip."

"Right. Is this mountain road dangerous?"

"It's breathtaking. There's a single pa.s.s through the mountains called Hai Van Pa.s.s. In French it's called Col des Nuages."

"Cloudy Pa.s.s."

"Oui." She continued, "These mountains used to separate what was then all of Vietnam to the north from the kingdom of Champa that we just drove through. There's a distinct weather difference on either side of the pa.s.s, especially now in the winter."

"Is it snowing in Hue?"

"No, Paul. But it will be much colder on the other side of Cloudy Pa.s.s, and possibly raining. This is the northern boundary of the tropics." She added, "I hope you brought something warm to wear."

In fact, I did not. But I shouldn't blame Karl or anyone for that. I'd been on the other side of the pa.s.s in January and February of '68, and I recalled the rainy days and the cold nights. I said to Susan, "Do you have something to wear in that bottomless backpack?"

"No. I'll shop."

"Of course."

We kept climbing up the mountain. To the left of the road was a steep wall of rock and to the right, not far from the wheels of the car, was a sheer dropoff into the South China Sea.

Susan said, "This is spectacular."

Mr. Cam was not sightseeing, thank goodness, and I saw that his knuckles were white. I said to Susan, "Tell him to pull over. I'll drive."

"No. There are police at the top of the pa.s.s."

We climbed to about five hundred meters elevation, judging by the water below. The mountain towering over us to the left was at least another thousand meters. If I had driven this last night in the dark, it would not have been fun.

After what seemed like a long time, we approached the top of Cloudy Pa.s.s. The terrain flattened out, and I could see old concrete bunkers and stone fortifications on both sides of the road.

We reached the summit of the pa.s.s, and there were more fortifications scattered around. There was also a tour bus, a few cars with Vietnamese drivers and Western tourists, dozens of kids selling souvenirs, and a police outpost with two yellow jeeps parked out front.

Mr. Cam said something, and Susan said to me, "He wants to know if you want to stop and take pictures."

"Next time."

"Everyone stops. We should stop. It will look less suspicious."

"Tell him to pull over."

He pulled over close to the precipice, which dropped down to a small peninsula that was the end of the mountain spur. I said to Susan, "Take a picture, and let's get out of here." I kept my eyes on the cops hanging around near their jeeps on the other side of the road. They were glancing at all the cars and the tourists, but seemed too lazy to cross the road. Then again, you never know.

About twenty kids descended on the Nissan, pushing useless and stupid souvenirs at the windows.

A few of the kids had these aluminum can origamis of Huey helicopters, and I was amazed that these things had been faithfully reproduced for almost thirty years since the Americans had left.

One kid was banging the window with this tin Huey, and I saw that on the side of the helicopter was a perfectly painted black and yellow First Cavalry insignia. I said, "I have to have that."

I lowered the window a crack, and the kid and I argued price. We each held on to the helicopter until I released a buck, just like a drug deal going down.

I cranked up the window and said to Mr. Cam, "Cu di."

He threw the Nissan into gear, and we continued across the pa.s.s, then down the other side.

Susan asked, "Do you like your toy?"

"You don't see these all over." I hand-flew the tin helicopter around, then made a whooshing noise like rockets firing, followed by the chatter of a Gatling gun.

Mr. Cam laughed, but it was a nervous laugh.

Susan asked, "Are you all right?"

"Coming in for a landing." I hovered the chopper and landed it on the dashboard.

Mr. Cam and Ms. Susan were quiet. I love acting nuts.

By now, we were on the downslope side of Cloudy Pa.s.s, and sure enough, there were clouds obscuring the road and a wind came up, then rain started to splatter against the windshield. Mr. Cam turned on his wipers and headlights.

We continued down, and the rain got heavier, and the wind rocked the Nissan. I glanced at Mr. Cam, and he looked a little concerned. When a Vietnamese driver is concerned, his round-eye pa.s.sengers should be terrified.

Traffic was light both ways, but there was enough of it to make the descent more treacherous.

Within fifteen minutes, we'd gotten to a lower elevation where the clouds thinned out, and the wind and rain eased off a little.

Susan said, "Those winds come from the northeast and are called the Chinese winds. It's winter here, and not a good time to travel cross-country."

We got down to near sea level, and within a few minutes, I could see a large expanse of flat land spreading from the sea to the mountains farther west.

Susan said, "We have left the ancient kingdom of Champa, and are now in the province of Hue. The people here are a little more reserved, and not nearly as easygoing as where we just came from."

"So, Cloudy Pa.s.s is sort of like the Mason-Dixon line."

"I guess."

I looked at the sky, which was heavy with a solid, low, gray cloud, as far as the eye could see. The terrain, too, looked gray and wet, and the vegetation seemed colorless and stunted.

I remembered this winter landscape very clearly, and in fact I remembered the sodden smell that I smelled now, and the burning charcoal in every hut, a little heat against the cold, damp wind.

We were down in the flatlands now, and off to the right was a squalid bamboo hut, and out front, a peasant stood in his doorway, smoking a cigarette and staring out at the rain. In the brief moment that I saw his emotionless face as we pa.s.sed by him, I understood just a little the lives of these rice farmers; work from sunup to sundown, home to a meal cooked over an open fire, then to bed.

And then there were the leeches, and the foot rot, and the vermin inside the huts and the lice in their hair.

And when the wars came, as they always did in this country, the peasants were the first to be recruited and the first to die-millions of them, wearing their first decent clothes, and carrying a weapon that would cost them two years of earnings made in the rice paddies.

I'd seen all of these things long ago, although I only now understood it. I understood, too, why so many of them joined the Viet Cong in hopes of a better life after the victory. But, as my French friend at Tan Son Nhat said, the more things change, the more they stay the same.

The sky was gray, the rain fell in the fallow black paddies, the countryside seemed dead and deserted.

It was Tet Eve, and I recalled the Tet Eve of many years ago, huddled in a hastily constructed bunker in the foothills west of Quang Tri, not far from here. It was raining, and I was smoking a cigarette, looking out at the rain and the dripping vegetation, not unlike that peasant back there. The gray dampness seeped into the muddy bunkers, and into our souls.

We didn't know it then, but within a few hours, a battle would begin that would last a long, b.l.o.o.d.y month. And at the end of that month, Hue and Quang Tri would lie in ruins, the body bags would run out before the ammunition, and nothing would be the same again here, or at home.

Susan said, "Hue, fifty kilometers ahead."

I thought of my close calls getting out of here in '68, and my more recent close calls here. This place had colored my life, and changed the course of my personal history, not once, or twice, but three times now. I should ask myself what kept drawing me back.

BOOK V.

Hue

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE.

It was a little after noon, and the rain had stopped but the sky remained gray. I could see a small propeller aircraft landing at Hue"Phu Bai Airport to the right of Highway One. This, too, had once been an American airbase, though not a major installation.

Susan spoke to Mr. Cam, and he pulled into the airport gate, where a police jeep sat. The rain had washed the mud from the car damage, and I pictured specks of yellow paint on the front fender. The two cops gave us the eye as we pa.s.sed. I recalled Mr. Conway's advice to avoid airports, but as it turned out, I needed to drag the red herring through an airport.

As we drove through the airport, I could see a few remnants of the American army and air force-concrete bunkers, revetments, and a concrete control tower that I remembered.

It wasn't a busy place, so Mr. Cam was able to park in a s.p.a.ce near the small terminal.

We got out of the Nissan, I opened the rear hatch, and put our luggage on the ground.

Mr. Cam stood by anxiously, waiting for what would happen next. He wasn't dead, so he was way ahead of the game already.

I got out my wallet and counted out two hundred dollars, which I gave to Mr. Cam and said, "For Mr. Thuc."

He smiled and bowed.

Then I pointed to the damage on the Nissan and asked him, "How much?"

He understood and said something, which Susan translated as three hundred dollars. I gave it to him without argument, looking forward to putting in this expense when I got back: Damage to hired car incurred while running police vehicle off road and killing two cops-$300. No receipt. Damage to hired car incurred while running police vehicle off road and killing two cops-$300. No receipt.

I looked closely at the damage and pointed out to Mr. Cam a few streaks of yellow paint. I pantomimed sc.r.a.ping them off, and he nodded quickly. Then I counted out another hundred and gave it to Mr. Cam, indicating that this was for him.

He smiled very wide and bowed lower.

I asked Susan, "You think that's enough for almost getting him killed?"

"Sure. How much do I get?"

"You volunteered. He was kidnapped." I reached in the car and took the toy helicopter off the dashboard and handed it to Mr. Cam. I said to him, "A gift for you so you can remember this trip forever." As if he needed a reminder.

Susan translated something, and Mr. Cam bowed and said in English, "Thank you. Good-bye."

I looked at my watch and said to Mr. Cam, "We fly to Hanoi now. You buying that?"

He smiled and said, "Hanoi."