Combatants
Bill Diamond
War never ends for those who can’t stop fighting.
Tranh fought on. If he let the struggle end, the truth of how many died for nothing would sear. Common wisdom is that America lost the Vietnam War. But, Vietnam didn’t win. Not the generations who fought in it. There was no conclusion for blighted victims of an unjustified war. Especially one with indiscriminate bombardment, napalm experiments and Agent Orange atrocities. Most afternoons, his current target, Sergeant Miller, came from his comfortable job to the beach for a swim. Tranh had scouted the American’s routine for several days. Now, to avoid suspicion, he parked in the main lot at Gulf Islands National Seashore before Miller arrived. It was near empty on this warm, mid-September Wednesday. The black Ford pick-up pulled in after five. Miller walked toward the water. He hadn’t stayed in military shape and tended toward obesity. Tranh’s pulse increased. It happened every time he faced the enemy. His memories burned deeper, like an injected drug that wouldn’t purge. He was a ceaseless warrior. Soldiers long to end wars and return to family, friends and familiarity. Before the American invasion, he was a peasant rice farmer. A hard life with wife, young children and simple satisfactions. The bombing stole that. With his soul exterminated, Spring could not bring renewal. Beauty was invisible. Love unattainable and couldn’t heal. He was paralyzed in time. War was all he had left. The North Vietnamese foot soldier entered the United States five years earlier in 1978 after taking an overcrowded boat out of Vietnam. Most boat people left to escape and start a new life. Tranh used the exodus to cover his movement and continue the fight. Same crusade, different battlefield. He quickly adapted to the alien land. His trucking job acted as camouflage. A cover story to conceal his deadly actions. In wealthy America, it was easy to find work that involved travel around the country. The enemy nation subsidized his operation. During the Vietnam phase of his war, Tranh lived in the tunnels. He’d learned stealth, survival and many ways to kill. In his mind, the American combatants hadn’t left the war, merely moved to their stateside burrows. Because they were out of uniform, they thought the carnage was over and they were safe. For Tranh, it was their turn to be dug out and exterminated. Since infiltrating America, he didn’t wear a uniform, but, a lapel insignia designated his unit. It signaled he was on active duty, not a spy behind enemy lines. As in Vietnam, the entire country was a war zone. No front lines. No safe territory. Miller entered the water, and, once neck deep, began to swim laps parallel to the shore. There were no others in the lot. Tranh stripped to his trunks and walked across the hot, white sand. Shrapnel was embedded above the elbow of his left arm. He kept it as a reminder. Now, he rubbed it as a talisman. In the sea, he swam closer to the shore and in a parallel, but opposite, direction from Miller. After a distance, he turned and stroke by stroke they approached each other. When they passed, Miller’s eyes widened in surprise. Vietnamese were a rarity in this part of the South. Tranh pretended to ignore the look. If Miller was alert, the fight could be problematic. Despite the reaction, Tranh didn’t want to abandon this quarry. He swam several more laps to desensitize the sergeant and lower his guard. It gave Tranh a tactical advantage. Tranh didn’t know how many he’d killed since arriving. It had to be dozens. Soldiers don’t keep count. Still, it was fewer than those obliterated by a single bomb on Hanoi, or burnt in his torched village. He returned home once after the night attack on the rural hamlet. The planes flew so high, there had been no sound. No warning. What had been his home, his family, his life, was a charred scar. The only remnants were singed bones that might be his children. The horror smothered his humanity. Americans justified civilian deaths as a regrettable evil on a “confusing” battlefield. It would have been easy for Tranh to do the same and kill randomly. He had higher standards. His enemies were those who had served in Vietnam. Tranh wasn’t systematic picking his targets. It was pointless to debate who deserved to live or die. War didn’t care about such things. You were in the crosshairs in the moment, or not. You don’t pick who is shooting at you, or who you shoot. That’s up to chance. Thus, he was arbitrary. As the bombing had been. Prey were easy to find. There had been many invaders. He found certain of his recent adversaries at the new Vietnam Veterans Memorial. Tranh chose not to kill those clearly living with trauma. They were already in hell. Often, they would kill themselves. He left them to decay in their pain. Miller stopped swimming. He stood looking out to sea and breathing heavily from the exertion. The sky was hazy and humid. There was no good or bad weather for an attack, just opportunities. Tranh could see no witnesses on the beach. His eyes grew shadowy and withdrawn. He suppressed thoughts and let the darkness rule his mind. The seagulls, breeze and waves covered his approach. His last strokes were quiet. He swam underwater and pulled out Miller’s legs from behind. While the sergeant was surprised, Tranh held him under. His wiry, copper arms embraced the slippery body and contrasted with the pale skin of the Caucasian invader of his country. Miller had a size advantage, but Tranh was fighting fit. Miller’s fat arms were stronger than they looked, yet couldn’t grab. Tranh didn’t want to choke his neck and leave telltale marks of an attack. It made the struggle harder. His feet kept striking at Miller’s legs and wouldn’t let them get purchase. Sergeant Miller hadn’t caught a breath before the ambush. Still, he had the strength of fighting, not Tranh, but death. When Tranh’s head surfaced, he realized the sounds of mortal violence are universally the same in the Gulf as in a flooded rice paddy in his lost homeland. The battle waned. As life flickered, he saw Miller’s uncomprehending eyes ask ‘Why?’. Tranh never explained. There is no reason. War is its own justification. With death, Tranh released his grip. The body floated away. The water cleansed evidence of the expiation. It would be recorded as an unfortunate drowning accident. Tranh’s casualties wouldn’t be celebrated on the Wall. Forgotten victims. Like his kin incinerated by napalm. Many nights he wished his time had come. His duty didn’t allow him to terminate his life. Thus, until the end, he would continue the conflict. |