Fiction

By

David Beakey

This incident did not occur. I just wanted to give some credit to the

few Kit Carson Scouts who actually helped us after they surrendered, were debriefed and then trained as guides for patrols. I know many squad leaders wouldn’t use the Kit Carsons, but occasionally they were helpful. They went out on patrols with us a few times. They helped us learn the terrain and handled some translation chores. When the Americans left Vietnam, I’m sure that some were executed and others spent years in the communist reeducation camps. I wrote this story because I believe that a few of them made it to the States and started new lives. They might have some memories of their own.

Hero

The cook was a traitor. He had disgraced himself in the eyes of his family and homeland. This must be true, since Phan had been told so, repeatedly, at the reeducation camp in Hanoi. He had toiled all day in the sun, with little food or water and then was forced to admit his wrongdoing in the classes at night. “Phan, how could you leave the National Liberation Front and become a traitor, a friend to the invading Americans?” his interrogator would ask. And after the first year, Phan could only bow his head and fight back the tears.

Now he worked as a cook, from dawn to dusk. And although he was old, the long hours and constant standing were no problem for him, as he had known much worse. The twelve years in the camp seemed like a dream to him now. He had never suspected that he would one day be released. And of course, he never imagined that he would leave his homeland of Vietnam and travel across the sea to this place, a place he had only heard about, from his friends in Echo Company.

The men peered across the rice paddy. The distant tree line was the focus of their gaze. A perfect place for their enemy to hide and wait in ambush. They discussed tactics, talking lowly, while continuously glancing across the dike, behind which they crouched. Jenkins, the squad leader, finally decided to send for the Kit Carson Scout, who was further back, with the Lieutenant. Some of the men were not happy with the decision to get advice from a man who only 6 months ago, was a Viet Cong. Yes, he had been captured and been trained, and then cleared by intelligence to work with the Americans, but most marines were wary and cynical. They suspected that he would revert to form one day, probably at a crucial time. However, they kept their opinions to themselves. Jenkins had their respect and trust. They craned their necks and watched as the wiry Kit Carson Scout, who they called Fred, scampered up to their position. He listened to Jenkins and then looked across the rice paddy. Seeming to ignore the tree line, he stared at a low area close by, where two dikes met. He shielded his eyes, squinting at the spot. He took on the appearance of a bird dog, freezing and staring. Finally, he whispered something to Jenkins, who blanched slightly. Jenkins seemed to gather himself and then nodded. He realigned the squad, so that they faced the area of Fred’s interest. He gave a hand signal, indicating that they should follow his lead. They were on total alert by now. Jenkins borrowed an M-79 grenade launcher and fired one round, a high graceful arc that dropped in the middle of the area they were scanning. The round exploded with a loud thud. Immediately, six or seven figures rose from the water and grass. They looked like straw men, with weeds and sticks attached to their bodies. They were soaking wet and water rolled off them. The marines cut them down in a hail of bullets. When it was over, Fred had already gone back to the Lieutenant’s side. The men had been so concerned about the far tree line that they hadn’t seen the enemy who were 50 yards in front of them, lying in wait.

As he cooked, Phan kept his thoughts to himself. He was a hard worker. However, he didn’t mingle with the other employees. While they respected his work ethic, they thought him strange. He had weird traits. If they came up behind him unannounced, he jumped and shouted at them. He was suspicious. He sometimes cried softly, for no apparent reason.

Over the years, Jenkins and some of the other men thought about Fred. They wondered if he made it out on one of those helicopters, near the end of the war. They wondered about his loyalties. Where was his allegiance now? Many of them realized, especially as time went on, that they owed their lives to that former V.C.

One day Jenkins and I decided to visit Seattle, on a whim. We met at a reunion in 1984 and discovered that we lived within 2 miles of each other, in San Francisco. We drove up to Seattle on a Wednesday. We wandered around, as tourists do. After a day of sightseeing, we were hungry. We walked into a restaurant and sat down. As usual, we were reminiscing. We talked about that day in the rice paddy. We joked, but our laughter was hollow. We both knew that a skinny, quiet, brave man had saved our lives that day. Just then, we heard a commotion. Through the open door of the kitchen, we glimpsed an old man, an apron around his waist. He was yelling at a waitress. He said, “You no do that! You stay away!” Apparently, she had startled him. We looked at each other and grinned. We knew what it was like to blow up at someone for no reason. We could really identify with him.