Two jeeps slowed as they entered the village strung along the highway. The lead jeep belonged to the Army of the Republic of Vietnam, or ARVN, and carried an ARVN major, lieutenant, and senior sergeant. It pulled over on the shoulder in front of a small building made of soda and beer cans flattened and joined to form sheet metal walls. The second jeep, bearing markings of the U.S. Army and carrying two American lieutenants, pulled in beside the ARVN jeep.
Jim Ledford, the American in the passenger’s seat, said, “We’re eating here?”
“What’d you expect, McDonald’s?” Bob Ravenaugh had been in country longer than his companion. He liked to show off his greater experience, which was why he acted like the crude “restaurant” didn’t bother him. In fact, he’d never been on the road like this with the ARVNs, and was appalled by where they chose to stop for breakfast.
Ledford said, “Yeah, a Big Mac would go good right now.”
“A Big Mac for breakfast?”
“Hell, yeah.”
Both men made it a point to appear nonchalant as they followed the ARVNs into the noodle shop, although both were anxious. This area was supposed to be pacified, but the Americans recalled stories of Viet Cong in little villages like this. “Viet Cong,” or “VC” was what the Americans and the South Vietnamese government called the insurgents they were fighting.
The front of the shop was open, with no wall. Ledford said, ““How do they secure this place at night?”
“I don’t know. Must have a big sheet of metal they lock in somehow, or maybe one of those folding gates.”
The three ARVNs sat at one table while the two Americans took one next to it. Ravenaugh and Ledford were tall even by American standards, and they sat awkwardly in the Vietnamese-sized plastic chairs at the Vietnamese-sized tables. Each table contained a stack of little squares of paper, a can containing chopsticks standing on their ends, another can with Asian soup spoons, and three bottles of sauces and peppers. Copying their ARVN counterparts, the Americans used the squares of paper to wipe the chopsticks and spoons, to get the grit off of them.
As they looked at the menu, a half-sheet of paper in a plastic cover, the ARVN major, Bong, said to the Americans, “Do you know what you want?”
Ledford having been to language school, unlike Ravenaugh, said, “Well, since the sign out front said ‘mì gà,’ I guess we’ll have to go with that, won’t we?
Bong smiled, “Oh, you know Vietnamese. Very good. You sure that’s what you want?”
“That’s what I want. How ‘bout you, Ravenaugh, you want mì gà? It’s just chicken noodle soup.”
“Yeah, that sounds good. And I’ll have some of that iced coffee with condensed milk.” Ravenaugh sounded a little out of sorts, preferring to be the expert on Vietnamese matters.
A skinny guy with thinning, gray hair and wearing gray cotton slacks, white short-sleeve shirt, and flip-flops, came to the Americans’ table. He looked across to the ARVN table, and each man ordered without being asked. They spoke too rapidly for Ledford to understand what they said. When the waiter looked at him, Ledford pointed to the menu to order, held up two fingers, and pointed back and forth to himself and Ravenaugh. The man nodded and went to the food preparation area behind a counter in the back of the room.
None of the group spoke as they waited for their food. Ledford looked at the other people in the room. He made it a point in Vietnam to eat “on the economy,” but this little shop in the country was a lot simpler than the places where he’d eaten in downtown Saigon or in the Tan Son Nhat suburb.
Male customers, a half dozen or so, wore tank top undershirts and either boxer shorts or pajama bottoms. The three or four women wore either pastel, cotton pajamas or dull colored long-sleeved shirts and baggy trousers. Everybody wore flip-flop sandals. He always thought of the sexy áo dai (long shirt) as being the typical Vietnamese clothes for women. Secretaries and other white-collar women in town wore the silk áo dai, fitted tight to the torso and arms, with long shirt tails flowing in the front and back, over black or white silk trousers. Only now did he realize he’d also seen without noticing the working women, maids, cooks, construction workers, wearing these plain shirts and pants in Saigon.
When the waiter brought the tea pot and cups, Ledford noticed for the first time the woman sitting on the floor on the other side of the ARVNs. She wore a white T-shirt under her baggy brown outer shirt, and was barefooted. A baby, maybe a little less than a year old, clung to her neck. He guessed the baby was her grandchild, given the old woman’s wrinkled skin and missing teeth. Her head was shaved, which Ledford recognized as the tradition for widows in mourning.
His attention was drawn back to his own table, where the waiter had just brought the makings for ice coffee. Each man received a tall glass with a thick layer of condensed milk in the bottom. A small metal cup with a lid sat atop each glass. The bottom of the cup was perforated. Coffee grounds had been packed into the bottom of the cup and covered with a perforated metal disk. Each man also received a glass filled with chunks of ice. They shared a thermos of hot water, and took turns pouring hot water into their metal “filter” cups to start the liquid coffee dripping into the bottom of the glass.
As he glanced back at the woman on the floor, she said something to the ARVNs. They ignored her. Even if Ledford’s understanding of Vietnamese were better, he would have had trouble understanding her speech, muffled in the way of people lacking most of their teeth. The Vietnamese sergeant finally said a few words to her in a low, angry voice.
“How much longer do we have to go?” Ledford didn’t care, but wanted to say something to get his mind off the woman.
“I don’t know. Hey, Major Bong, who much further do you think?”
“Hmm, maybe two hours.” He and the other ARVNs looked everywhere in the room except at the old woman.
Ledford liked the smell of the restaurant: frying foods, soy sauce, even the hint of the odor of nước mắm fish sauce that most Americans found repulsive. He had joked about wanting a Big Mac, but when the soup came he enjoyed it. Using the chopsticks he’d become expert at in language school at Fort Bliss, he wolfed down the noodles. Ravenaugh seemed to like the food OK, but left some of his soup. The ARVNs were still eating as the two Americans stirred their coffee and milk, then poured the mixture over ice for an after-breakfast cà phê sữa đá.
After they’d all finished their tea or coffee and paid for their meals, the old woman grabbed the bowls from the ARVNs’ table and drank down the remnants of soup from each bowl. She said something to the ARVNs. The sergeant spoked sharply to her, but gave her a few coins. When they all stood to leave she scurried around the tables on her knees and one hand, grasping the baby with her other hand. Grabbing Ravenaugh’s bowl, she finished it off.
She said something to the Americans, with a smile on her face, but the ARVN sergeant yelled at her. Backing away on her butt, she looked down. Ledford had never before been physically close to anybody so poor.
As they walked to the jeep Ledford said to Major Bong, “Who was that woman?”
“She said she’s a war widow. Begging like that, she makes us lose face. The government takes care of her.”
Ledford wanted to express sympathy for the old woman, but felt that would embarrass Major Bong even more. So he just said, “Oh.”
They got back underway and reached the province seat of Tan An in a few hours. After giving their scheduled briefings to the Civil Operations and Rural Development Support team, Ledford and Ravenaugh had lunch at a nice restaurant with an American major from the CORDS team. The ARVNs went off separately.
As the two-jeep convoy headed back to Saigon after lunch, Ledford said, “You want to stop at that place where we had breakfast and get an iced coffee?”
Ravenaugh glanced at him sideways. “If you feel like a coffee, let’s stop at a nice place.”
“I was thinking about that old woman. The ARVNs only gave maybe 20 or 30 P,” he said, talking about the Vietnamese money the French called piastres and the Americans called P. “That’s not even a dime. She can’t live on handouts like that. I wish I’d thought to give her something myself. If I gave her four or five hundred piastres that would only be a dollar, but that would mean a lot to her. At least you gave her your soup.”
“Hell, I didn’t give it to her, she just took it before I knew what was happening. Anyway, I don’t want to have to go back there. She’ll get by, and what little we could do for her won’t change her situation much. Hell, she’s probably a VC.”
“All right.” Ledford tried to say it with finality, to close the subject.
“You still want to stop someplace for coffee?”
“No. Let’s get back to the Center.”
#
A couple of weeks later Ledford asked Sergeant Kapke, who was the supply sergeant and also the motor sergeant in charge of their Intel Center’s four vehicles, if he could take a jeep out on his day off.
“You have to ask Lt. Ravenaugh. We’re not supposed to use the jeeps except for official business.”
He’d hoped to avoid asking Ravenaugh, who was the motor officer. The lieutenants at the Center occasionally used a jeep to go downtown together after work for dinner. What Ledford had in mind was further afield than that. Later that day he and Ravenaugh went to lunch together.
“What do you need it for?” Ravenaugh’s question was the one he’d expected, and dreaded.
“I’d like to go back to that café we stopped at on the way to Tan An. That old woman with the baby still bothers me. I thought I’d give her some money. At least you left her some soup to eat, and I didn’t give her anything.”
Ravenaugh looked at him hard for a few seconds before answering. “You probably better not do that. I think we’re supposed to clear it with somebody, the province senior advisor maybe, before we drive into their area. Aside from that, what happens if the jeep breaks down on you? You can’t call Triple A for a tow. Since we don’t have any radios, you couldn’t call anybody for help. I don’t think any American units are operating around there, and I don’t know what the odds are of an advisory team member happening along that highway at any given time. And if you got stuck there after dark, you might find yourself facing VC. I mean, I know it’s supposed to be pacified, but they still warn you to stay off the road after dark.”
“Christ, I hadn’t thought of all that.”
“There are plenty of people on the street around here begging, like that guy missing a leg who sits on the ground near the Officers’ Club.”
“Good points. Thanks anyway.”
“Don’t worry about her. Her government probably gives her some help.” Then Ravenaugh said it again, “Besides, she may be VC.”
He gave up on doing anything for the old woman. Ravenaugh didn’t tell anybody about his idea of helping her, which saved Ledford from some kidding.
#
A couple of months after the trip to Tan An Ledford got a girlfriend. Bao, a secretary at a U.S. agency in the Tan Son Nhat area, wore Western style clothes that showed off her great figure to full advantage. What struck him more than her body, though, was her face, with intelligent eyes and a sensuous, full mouth. She was fun to be with, and they went out a lot to clubs and the homes of other GI-Vietnamese couples.
They travelled around town by taxi, usually the cyclo type with an open carriage in front pushed by a motorcycle behind it. He knew she went to work on a Vespa, but hadn’t thought about it until one night when he happened to look at her motor scooter parked in the lobby of her apartment house.
“Do you ever go for a drive out in the country?”
They were climbing the stairs to her apartment. “No.” She glanced back at him looking puzzled.
Lying in bed after sex, he said, “The reason I asked about taking a ride into the country was, I’ve been wanting to go to Long An Province.”
“What’s there to see down there?”
He told her about the old woman at the café on the road to Tan An. The image of the old woman scrambling on the floor with the baby, scrounging left over food, still bothered him. He wished he could revisit the place and give her something.
“You don’t need to do that. She must have a place to stay, maybe she sleeps in the restaurant. They’re letting her beg there. People in the village must help her some. What can you do for her, anyway?”
“I don’t know, I thought maybe just give her a few thousand P. That wouldn’t be much to me, but might be a big help to her.”
“The people who own the restaurant would probably just take it away from her for rent. It wouldn’t last her long anyway. Besides, she might be VC.”
“What use would she be to the VC? Spying on how many bowls of mì gà are eaten in that shop every day? I didn’t see her watching the highway to count traffic. She’s no damn VC.”
“OK, don’t get so excited,” she said. “Maybe not VC, but you can’t do anything to help her really. She must have family or friends who are helping, or she wouldn’t be alive. A few đồng from you won’t make any difference.” She used the Vietnamese word for piastre.
“I guess you’re right. She probably gets some money from the Vietnamese government, doesn’t she?”
Bao scoffed. “I doubt it. Like I said, her family should take care of her.” She had made him feel better about the old woman until she made that last comment. Now he almost wanted to try again to convince her to drive him to Long An. But he wanted to make love, so he pushed the old woman out of his mind.
He meant to let it drop then, but a few nights later they were at a party at the apartment of an American civilian and his Vietnamese girlfriend. Ledford, drunk, found himself on a sofa talking to an Air Force captain about the old woman in Long An.
“I’ve given up trying to go back there. They won’t let me take a jeep from work on my day off. I even asked Bao to take me on her Vespa, but she doesn’t want to go.” Immediately he felt guilty for bringing his girlfriend into the conversation, but it was too late.
“Man, that’s a bummer.” The captain looked across the room to Bao, talking to another woman. “Bao, why won’t you take old Jim here down to the country?” He’d raised his voice so she could hear him, which meant the whole room heard him.
She looked at them and smiled, then went back to talking to the other woman.
“Hey, Bao.”
“Shut up, man.” Ledford felt sick. This captain had no business giving her a hard time, and it was Ledford’s fault that he was.
“Bao!” Everyone looked at the captain now, then to Bao, then back to the captain.
She came across the room with that elegant walk of hers, holding her wine glass.
“What is it, Freddie?”
“Why don’t you want to take Jim down to Long An to help that old lady?”
“There are plenty of people he can help here in Saigon. Why should I take a trip down there? I’m a city girl.”
An American civilian standing at the end of the couch said, “Still, if he knows a specific case where he could be of help, why not take the trip?”
A couple of more Americans drifted toward them, looking at Bao. Another one chimed in about Bao helping “her people.” Ledford admired her cool bearing, as the Americans in the room seemed to be ganging up on her, while the Vietnamese, all women, hung back silently. He wanted to say something to get the men to back off, but his mind was too fogged with drink to come up with anything.
After a couple of minutes of chattering, with Bao saying nothing, she finally said, “OK, let’s all meet at my place at nine o’clock Saturday morning, and convoy down to that café in Long An. Jim and I will be on my Vespa, unless one of you will let us ride in your car.” She gave her address, twice, in a loud, distinct voice.
They were all silent until somebody said, “All right, Bao! Way to go!” Others joined in congratulating both of them, and then the Americans went back to their separate clusters around the room.
#
When they rolled Bao’s Vespa out of her building at nine-fifteen on Saturday Ledford said, “I wonder if we should wait to see if anybody shows up.”
“Don’t be silly, nobody else is coming. Nobody cares about that old woman but you.”
He did feel silly, knowing Bao was right. Nobody expressed any interest in going, even though they congratulated her on giving in to his wish to travel to Long An.
He’d never ridden on her scooter before, and now found the seat too small. When he put his hand on her waist to steady himself she said, “Don’t hold me, you’ll make me lose my balance.” The back of his seat turned out be the only place he could hold on to, putting him in an uncomfortable posture of constantly reaching behind himself. He needed to hold to something as the Vespa jerked and swerved in the Saigon streets. Traffic lights and stop signs let him release his grip briefly before he had to grab the seat again as they began moving.
The seat of the jeep had less padding than the seat of the Vespa, but it accommodated his butt better than the narrow scooter seat. With morning sun beating down as they waited in line at the checkpoint on the way out of Saigon, he remembered the protection afforded by the jeep’s top. At that point he wanted to tell Bao he gave up, going on farther would be too hard for him. After the Americans at the party bullying her into the trip, though, he lacked the courage to back out.
Once through the checkpoint and out on the highway, he could let go of the seat as the scooter ran straight on the smooth road. The flow of air over the speeding Vespa gave him some relief from the heat, although he could feel his exposed forearms becoming sunburned. Now he understood why Bao wore a long-sleeved blouse. Saigon-fashionable, she wore denim bell bottoms, a scarf over her hair, and designer sunglasses. As an ARVN deuce and half, or two-and-a-half-ton truck, met them the driver sounded the horn and yelled at them, laughing.
The first time he checked his watch he thought it would show they’d been traveling for a couple of hours, about the length of time it would take to reach the village. In fact only half an hour had passed since they left the checkpoint. Again he wished he had the guts to tell Bao to turn back.
The trip became torture, his back and shoulders aching, and he found himself fighting to stay awake. A couple of times a change in speed going through a village jolted him awake, making him fearful of falling off the scooter in his sleep.
The next time he checked his watch it showed they were more than two hours out of Saigon. He panicked, thinking they may have missed the old woman’s village. In what seemed like another hour, but was really only fifteen minutes, he saw a sign announcing the name of their destination.
“I think this is it,” he said. Bao nodded and slowed down
She pulled into the only shack with a Mì Gà sign in front. As they dismounted he said, smiling, “Perfect timing for lunch.” Bao ignored him.
The place had more customers than when he and Ravenaugh stopped there with the ARVNs. Customers sat at all eight tables. He didn’t see the old woman at first, finally spotting her squatting on the floor at the back of the room, still holding the baby. Shortly after they entered, the couple at the table where the old woman sat got up to leave. As with the ARVNs and Ravenaugh, the old woman took the used bowls from the table and drank their contents.
By the time Ledford and Bao arrived at that table the old woman had crawled to another one. They ordered lunch—noodle soup for both, iced coffee for him, hot tea for her. He kept an eye on the old woman. When their food arrived he noticed two other customers at one table leaving, neither of them giving the old woman money.
He wanted to leave a lot of soup for the old woman, but was hungry and couldn’t resist emptying his bowl. Since he planned on giving the war widow 6,000 piastres, which had cost him $20.00 on the street, his guilt at emptying his bowl was assuaged.
“You ever come to Long An Province?” he said.
“No.” Bao wore a blank expression
He kept trying to make small talk, but she showed no interest. Finishing eating before Bao, he waited for the old woman to come sit at his feet. She still hadn’t come when Bao finished her soup.
“What are we waiting for?” Bao sounded impatient.
“I’m waiting for her to come over here.”
“Doesn’t look like she’s going to. That table she’s at now came in after us.”
“Yeah, I noticed that. Maybe she’s shy about coming around because I’m American.”
“You said she came around you before.”
“I was with ARVNs then. Maybe not having any ARVNs around makes her nervous.”
“Call her over. I don’t want to sit here all day.”
“I’ve been trying to catch her eye, but she never looks this way.”
Finally he paid the bill, and as they walked past the table where the old woman squatted, he reached toward her with the roll of piastre bills. She had not been looking at him, and he stuck the money in front of her face. Her head jerked as if she were startled and she looked up at him. He gestured with his hand for her to take it, but she made no move.
“Take it,” he said. She must have understood him, because she grabbed the bills with her free hand. She awkwardly put her hands together in the Buddhist greeting, cradling the baby in the crook of one arm, and cried out in a single sob.
He felt good, proud of himself, until he glanced at the two men sitting at the table. Both scowled at him.
He wanted to stay longer, but a push from behind and Bao’s voice saying “Go!” got him to move on out. When they were outside the café he heard laughter from the customers inside.
“What was that?” he said.
She didn’t answer, but climbed on the scooter and started it. He was barely seated when the Vespa abruptly started forward, almost throwing him off.
They didn’t speak again until they came to a checkpoint. As they waited in line he said, “Why were they laughing when we left?”
Over her shoulder she said, “At you, at us. For coming out here to give that old woman money that won’t last her any time at all. Laughing at me for being with an American who’d do anything so stupid.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. That’s why I didn’t want to come here in the first place. Those people back there are laughing at me because your American friends talked me into coming down here and let you make a fool of yourself. None of them showed up, of course. You heard me invite them to come, but you see who showed up.”
He’d never heard her sound so mad, and now he understood why she refused to come in the first place. Like she told Freddy at the party, he could help plenty of people in Saigon, veterans missing legs and war widows, begging on the streets. He had no idea why he wanted to help that particular old woman far from Saigon. Clearly this trip was stupid and hypocritical. In country for months, and he’d yet to give anything to the beggars where he lived.
They said no more for the rest of the trip. When they reached Saigon she drove straight to his Bachelor Officers Quarters rather than to her apartment.
That surprised him. “Do you want to go out to dinner tonight? To a nice place this time.”
“No,” she said. “I’m tired after this trip. Tonight I need to rest. Call me Monday.” So he wouldn’t see her Sunday. She just wanted a time out to cool off, he thought.
After a couple of failed attempts to make dates with Bao during the week, he asked if he could pick up the clothes he’d left at her apartment. Once that was taken care he didn’t see her again. He stopped eating at restaurants and cafés serving Vietnamese cuisine. When eating on the economy he stuck to places downtown like La Cave, The Pizzeria, and La Pagode. He didn’t date for the rest of his tour, and six months after that last trip to Long An he boarded his flight back to Oakland. To his seatmates on the plane he said, “All I want out of Vietnam is out of Vietnam.”
They all agreed.
END
Jim Ledford, the American in the passenger’s seat, said, “We’re eating here?”
“What’d you expect, McDonald’s?” Bob Ravenaugh had been in country longer than his companion. He liked to show off his greater experience, which was why he acted like the crude “restaurant” didn’t bother him. In fact, he’d never been on the road like this with the ARVNs, and was appalled by where they chose to stop for breakfast.
Ledford said, “Yeah, a Big Mac would go good right now.”
“A Big Mac for breakfast?”
“Hell, yeah.”
Both men made it a point to appear nonchalant as they followed the ARVNs into the noodle shop, although both were anxious. This area was supposed to be pacified, but the Americans recalled stories of Viet Cong in little villages like this. “Viet Cong,” or “VC” was what the Americans and the South Vietnamese government called the insurgents they were fighting.
The front of the shop was open, with no wall. Ledford said, ““How do they secure this place at night?”
“I don’t know. Must have a big sheet of metal they lock in somehow, or maybe one of those folding gates.”
The three ARVNs sat at one table while the two Americans took one next to it. Ravenaugh and Ledford were tall even by American standards, and they sat awkwardly in the Vietnamese-sized plastic chairs at the Vietnamese-sized tables. Each table contained a stack of little squares of paper, a can containing chopsticks standing on their ends, another can with Asian soup spoons, and three bottles of sauces and peppers. Copying their ARVN counterparts, the Americans used the squares of paper to wipe the chopsticks and spoons, to get the grit off of them.
As they looked at the menu, a half-sheet of paper in a plastic cover, the ARVN major, Bong, said to the Americans, “Do you know what you want?”
Ledford having been to language school, unlike Ravenaugh, said, “Well, since the sign out front said ‘mì gà,’ I guess we’ll have to go with that, won’t we?
Bong smiled, “Oh, you know Vietnamese. Very good. You sure that’s what you want?”
“That’s what I want. How ‘bout you, Ravenaugh, you want mì gà? It’s just chicken noodle soup.”
“Yeah, that sounds good. And I’ll have some of that iced coffee with condensed milk.” Ravenaugh sounded a little out of sorts, preferring to be the expert on Vietnamese matters.
A skinny guy with thinning, gray hair and wearing gray cotton slacks, white short-sleeve shirt, and flip-flops, came to the Americans’ table. He looked across to the ARVN table, and each man ordered without being asked. They spoke too rapidly for Ledford to understand what they said. When the waiter looked at him, Ledford pointed to the menu to order, held up two fingers, and pointed back and forth to himself and Ravenaugh. The man nodded and went to the food preparation area behind a counter in the back of the room.
None of the group spoke as they waited for their food. Ledford looked at the other people in the room. He made it a point in Vietnam to eat “on the economy,” but this little shop in the country was a lot simpler than the places where he’d eaten in downtown Saigon or in the Tan Son Nhat suburb.
Male customers, a half dozen or so, wore tank top undershirts and either boxer shorts or pajama bottoms. The three or four women wore either pastel, cotton pajamas or dull colored long-sleeved shirts and baggy trousers. Everybody wore flip-flop sandals. He always thought of the sexy áo dai (long shirt) as being the typical Vietnamese clothes for women. Secretaries and other white-collar women in town wore the silk áo dai, fitted tight to the torso and arms, with long shirt tails flowing in the front and back, over black or white silk trousers. Only now did he realize he’d also seen without noticing the working women, maids, cooks, construction workers, wearing these plain shirts and pants in Saigon.
When the waiter brought the tea pot and cups, Ledford noticed for the first time the woman sitting on the floor on the other side of the ARVNs. She wore a white T-shirt under her baggy brown outer shirt, and was barefooted. A baby, maybe a little less than a year old, clung to her neck. He guessed the baby was her grandchild, given the old woman’s wrinkled skin and missing teeth. Her head was shaved, which Ledford recognized as the tradition for widows in mourning.
His attention was drawn back to his own table, where the waiter had just brought the makings for ice coffee. Each man received a tall glass with a thick layer of condensed milk in the bottom. A small metal cup with a lid sat atop each glass. The bottom of the cup was perforated. Coffee grounds had been packed into the bottom of the cup and covered with a perforated metal disk. Each man also received a glass filled with chunks of ice. They shared a thermos of hot water, and took turns pouring hot water into their metal “filter” cups to start the liquid coffee dripping into the bottom of the glass.
As he glanced back at the woman on the floor, she said something to the ARVNs. They ignored her. Even if Ledford’s understanding of Vietnamese were better, he would have had trouble understanding her speech, muffled in the way of people lacking most of their teeth. The Vietnamese sergeant finally said a few words to her in a low, angry voice.
“How much longer do we have to go?” Ledford didn’t care, but wanted to say something to get his mind off the woman.
“I don’t know. Hey, Major Bong, who much further do you think?”
“Hmm, maybe two hours.” He and the other ARVNs looked everywhere in the room except at the old woman.
Ledford liked the smell of the restaurant: frying foods, soy sauce, even the hint of the odor of nước mắm fish sauce that most Americans found repulsive. He had joked about wanting a Big Mac, but when the soup came he enjoyed it. Using the chopsticks he’d become expert at in language school at Fort Bliss, he wolfed down the noodles. Ravenaugh seemed to like the food OK, but left some of his soup. The ARVNs were still eating as the two Americans stirred their coffee and milk, then poured the mixture over ice for an after-breakfast cà phê sữa đá.
After they’d all finished their tea or coffee and paid for their meals, the old woman grabbed the bowls from the ARVNs’ table and drank down the remnants of soup from each bowl. She said something to the ARVNs. The sergeant spoked sharply to her, but gave her a few coins. When they all stood to leave she scurried around the tables on her knees and one hand, grasping the baby with her other hand. Grabbing Ravenaugh’s bowl, she finished it off.
She said something to the Americans, with a smile on her face, but the ARVN sergeant yelled at her. Backing away on her butt, she looked down. Ledford had never before been physically close to anybody so poor.
As they walked to the jeep Ledford said to Major Bong, “Who was that woman?”
“She said she’s a war widow. Begging like that, she makes us lose face. The government takes care of her.”
Ledford wanted to express sympathy for the old woman, but felt that would embarrass Major Bong even more. So he just said, “Oh.”
They got back underway and reached the province seat of Tan An in a few hours. After giving their scheduled briefings to the Civil Operations and Rural Development Support team, Ledford and Ravenaugh had lunch at a nice restaurant with an American major from the CORDS team. The ARVNs went off separately.
As the two-jeep convoy headed back to Saigon after lunch, Ledford said, “You want to stop at that place where we had breakfast and get an iced coffee?”
Ravenaugh glanced at him sideways. “If you feel like a coffee, let’s stop at a nice place.”
“I was thinking about that old woman. The ARVNs only gave maybe 20 or 30 P,” he said, talking about the Vietnamese money the French called piastres and the Americans called P. “That’s not even a dime. She can’t live on handouts like that. I wish I’d thought to give her something myself. If I gave her four or five hundred piastres that would only be a dollar, but that would mean a lot to her. At least you gave her your soup.”
“Hell, I didn’t give it to her, she just took it before I knew what was happening. Anyway, I don’t want to have to go back there. She’ll get by, and what little we could do for her won’t change her situation much. Hell, she’s probably a VC.”
“All right.” Ledford tried to say it with finality, to close the subject.
“You still want to stop someplace for coffee?”
“No. Let’s get back to the Center.”
#
A couple of weeks later Ledford asked Sergeant Kapke, who was the supply sergeant and also the motor sergeant in charge of their Intel Center’s four vehicles, if he could take a jeep out on his day off.
“You have to ask Lt. Ravenaugh. We’re not supposed to use the jeeps except for official business.”
He’d hoped to avoid asking Ravenaugh, who was the motor officer. The lieutenants at the Center occasionally used a jeep to go downtown together after work for dinner. What Ledford had in mind was further afield than that. Later that day he and Ravenaugh went to lunch together.
“What do you need it for?” Ravenaugh’s question was the one he’d expected, and dreaded.
“I’d like to go back to that café we stopped at on the way to Tan An. That old woman with the baby still bothers me. I thought I’d give her some money. At least you left her some soup to eat, and I didn’t give her anything.”
Ravenaugh looked at him hard for a few seconds before answering. “You probably better not do that. I think we’re supposed to clear it with somebody, the province senior advisor maybe, before we drive into their area. Aside from that, what happens if the jeep breaks down on you? You can’t call Triple A for a tow. Since we don’t have any radios, you couldn’t call anybody for help. I don’t think any American units are operating around there, and I don’t know what the odds are of an advisory team member happening along that highway at any given time. And if you got stuck there after dark, you might find yourself facing VC. I mean, I know it’s supposed to be pacified, but they still warn you to stay off the road after dark.”
“Christ, I hadn’t thought of all that.”
“There are plenty of people on the street around here begging, like that guy missing a leg who sits on the ground near the Officers’ Club.”
“Good points. Thanks anyway.”
“Don’t worry about her. Her government probably gives her some help.” Then Ravenaugh said it again, “Besides, she may be VC.”
He gave up on doing anything for the old woman. Ravenaugh didn’t tell anybody about his idea of helping her, which saved Ledford from some kidding.
#
A couple of months after the trip to Tan An Ledford got a girlfriend. Bao, a secretary at a U.S. agency in the Tan Son Nhat area, wore Western style clothes that showed off her great figure to full advantage. What struck him more than her body, though, was her face, with intelligent eyes and a sensuous, full mouth. She was fun to be with, and they went out a lot to clubs and the homes of other GI-Vietnamese couples.
They travelled around town by taxi, usually the cyclo type with an open carriage in front pushed by a motorcycle behind it. He knew she went to work on a Vespa, but hadn’t thought about it until one night when he happened to look at her motor scooter parked in the lobby of her apartment house.
“Do you ever go for a drive out in the country?”
They were climbing the stairs to her apartment. “No.” She glanced back at him looking puzzled.
Lying in bed after sex, he said, “The reason I asked about taking a ride into the country was, I’ve been wanting to go to Long An Province.”
“What’s there to see down there?”
He told her about the old woman at the café on the road to Tan An. The image of the old woman scrambling on the floor with the baby, scrounging left over food, still bothered him. He wished he could revisit the place and give her something.
“You don’t need to do that. She must have a place to stay, maybe she sleeps in the restaurant. They’re letting her beg there. People in the village must help her some. What can you do for her, anyway?”
“I don’t know, I thought maybe just give her a few thousand P. That wouldn’t be much to me, but might be a big help to her.”
“The people who own the restaurant would probably just take it away from her for rent. It wouldn’t last her long anyway. Besides, she might be VC.”
“What use would she be to the VC? Spying on how many bowls of mì gà are eaten in that shop every day? I didn’t see her watching the highway to count traffic. She’s no damn VC.”
“OK, don’t get so excited,” she said. “Maybe not VC, but you can’t do anything to help her really. She must have family or friends who are helping, or she wouldn’t be alive. A few đồng from you won’t make any difference.” She used the Vietnamese word for piastre.
“I guess you’re right. She probably gets some money from the Vietnamese government, doesn’t she?”
Bao scoffed. “I doubt it. Like I said, her family should take care of her.” She had made him feel better about the old woman until she made that last comment. Now he almost wanted to try again to convince her to drive him to Long An. But he wanted to make love, so he pushed the old woman out of his mind.
He meant to let it drop then, but a few nights later they were at a party at the apartment of an American civilian and his Vietnamese girlfriend. Ledford, drunk, found himself on a sofa talking to an Air Force captain about the old woman in Long An.
“I’ve given up trying to go back there. They won’t let me take a jeep from work on my day off. I even asked Bao to take me on her Vespa, but she doesn’t want to go.” Immediately he felt guilty for bringing his girlfriend into the conversation, but it was too late.
“Man, that’s a bummer.” The captain looked across the room to Bao, talking to another woman. “Bao, why won’t you take old Jim here down to the country?” He’d raised his voice so she could hear him, which meant the whole room heard him.
She looked at them and smiled, then went back to talking to the other woman.
“Hey, Bao.”
“Shut up, man.” Ledford felt sick. This captain had no business giving her a hard time, and it was Ledford’s fault that he was.
“Bao!” Everyone looked at the captain now, then to Bao, then back to the captain.
She came across the room with that elegant walk of hers, holding her wine glass.
“What is it, Freddie?”
“Why don’t you want to take Jim down to Long An to help that old lady?”
“There are plenty of people he can help here in Saigon. Why should I take a trip down there? I’m a city girl.”
An American civilian standing at the end of the couch said, “Still, if he knows a specific case where he could be of help, why not take the trip?”
A couple of more Americans drifted toward them, looking at Bao. Another one chimed in about Bao helping “her people.” Ledford admired her cool bearing, as the Americans in the room seemed to be ganging up on her, while the Vietnamese, all women, hung back silently. He wanted to say something to get the men to back off, but his mind was too fogged with drink to come up with anything.
After a couple of minutes of chattering, with Bao saying nothing, she finally said, “OK, let’s all meet at my place at nine o’clock Saturday morning, and convoy down to that café in Long An. Jim and I will be on my Vespa, unless one of you will let us ride in your car.” She gave her address, twice, in a loud, distinct voice.
They were all silent until somebody said, “All right, Bao! Way to go!” Others joined in congratulating both of them, and then the Americans went back to their separate clusters around the room.
#
When they rolled Bao’s Vespa out of her building at nine-fifteen on Saturday Ledford said, “I wonder if we should wait to see if anybody shows up.”
“Don’t be silly, nobody else is coming. Nobody cares about that old woman but you.”
He did feel silly, knowing Bao was right. Nobody expressed any interest in going, even though they congratulated her on giving in to his wish to travel to Long An.
He’d never ridden on her scooter before, and now found the seat too small. When he put his hand on her waist to steady himself she said, “Don’t hold me, you’ll make me lose my balance.” The back of his seat turned out be the only place he could hold on to, putting him in an uncomfortable posture of constantly reaching behind himself. He needed to hold to something as the Vespa jerked and swerved in the Saigon streets. Traffic lights and stop signs let him release his grip briefly before he had to grab the seat again as they began moving.
The seat of the jeep had less padding than the seat of the Vespa, but it accommodated his butt better than the narrow scooter seat. With morning sun beating down as they waited in line at the checkpoint on the way out of Saigon, he remembered the protection afforded by the jeep’s top. At that point he wanted to tell Bao he gave up, going on farther would be too hard for him. After the Americans at the party bullying her into the trip, though, he lacked the courage to back out.
Once through the checkpoint and out on the highway, he could let go of the seat as the scooter ran straight on the smooth road. The flow of air over the speeding Vespa gave him some relief from the heat, although he could feel his exposed forearms becoming sunburned. Now he understood why Bao wore a long-sleeved blouse. Saigon-fashionable, she wore denim bell bottoms, a scarf over her hair, and designer sunglasses. As an ARVN deuce and half, or two-and-a-half-ton truck, met them the driver sounded the horn and yelled at them, laughing.
The first time he checked his watch he thought it would show they’d been traveling for a couple of hours, about the length of time it would take to reach the village. In fact only half an hour had passed since they left the checkpoint. Again he wished he had the guts to tell Bao to turn back.
The trip became torture, his back and shoulders aching, and he found himself fighting to stay awake. A couple of times a change in speed going through a village jolted him awake, making him fearful of falling off the scooter in his sleep.
The next time he checked his watch it showed they were more than two hours out of Saigon. He panicked, thinking they may have missed the old woman’s village. In what seemed like another hour, but was really only fifteen minutes, he saw a sign announcing the name of their destination.
“I think this is it,” he said. Bao nodded and slowed down
She pulled into the only shack with a Mì Gà sign in front. As they dismounted he said, smiling, “Perfect timing for lunch.” Bao ignored him.
The place had more customers than when he and Ravenaugh stopped there with the ARVNs. Customers sat at all eight tables. He didn’t see the old woman at first, finally spotting her squatting on the floor at the back of the room, still holding the baby. Shortly after they entered, the couple at the table where the old woman sat got up to leave. As with the ARVNs and Ravenaugh, the old woman took the used bowls from the table and drank their contents.
By the time Ledford and Bao arrived at that table the old woman had crawled to another one. They ordered lunch—noodle soup for both, iced coffee for him, hot tea for her. He kept an eye on the old woman. When their food arrived he noticed two other customers at one table leaving, neither of them giving the old woman money.
He wanted to leave a lot of soup for the old woman, but was hungry and couldn’t resist emptying his bowl. Since he planned on giving the war widow 6,000 piastres, which had cost him $20.00 on the street, his guilt at emptying his bowl was assuaged.
“You ever come to Long An Province?” he said.
“No.” Bao wore a blank expression
He kept trying to make small talk, but she showed no interest. Finishing eating before Bao, he waited for the old woman to come sit at his feet. She still hadn’t come when Bao finished her soup.
“What are we waiting for?” Bao sounded impatient.
“I’m waiting for her to come over here.”
“Doesn’t look like she’s going to. That table she’s at now came in after us.”
“Yeah, I noticed that. Maybe she’s shy about coming around because I’m American.”
“You said she came around you before.”
“I was with ARVNs then. Maybe not having any ARVNs around makes her nervous.”
“Call her over. I don’t want to sit here all day.”
“I’ve been trying to catch her eye, but she never looks this way.”
Finally he paid the bill, and as they walked past the table where the old woman squatted, he reached toward her with the roll of piastre bills. She had not been looking at him, and he stuck the money in front of her face. Her head jerked as if she were startled and she looked up at him. He gestured with his hand for her to take it, but she made no move.
“Take it,” he said. She must have understood him, because she grabbed the bills with her free hand. She awkwardly put her hands together in the Buddhist greeting, cradling the baby in the crook of one arm, and cried out in a single sob.
He felt good, proud of himself, until he glanced at the two men sitting at the table. Both scowled at him.
He wanted to stay longer, but a push from behind and Bao’s voice saying “Go!” got him to move on out. When they were outside the café he heard laughter from the customers inside.
“What was that?” he said.
She didn’t answer, but climbed on the scooter and started it. He was barely seated when the Vespa abruptly started forward, almost throwing him off.
They didn’t speak again until they came to a checkpoint. As they waited in line he said, “Why were they laughing when we left?”
Over her shoulder she said, “At you, at us. For coming out here to give that old woman money that won’t last her any time at all. Laughing at me for being with an American who’d do anything so stupid.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. That’s why I didn’t want to come here in the first place. Those people back there are laughing at me because your American friends talked me into coming down here and let you make a fool of yourself. None of them showed up, of course. You heard me invite them to come, but you see who showed up.”
He’d never heard her sound so mad, and now he understood why she refused to come in the first place. Like she told Freddy at the party, he could help plenty of people in Saigon, veterans missing legs and war widows, begging on the streets. He had no idea why he wanted to help that particular old woman far from Saigon. Clearly this trip was stupid and hypocritical. In country for months, and he’d yet to give anything to the beggars where he lived.
They said no more for the rest of the trip. When they reached Saigon she drove straight to his Bachelor Officers Quarters rather than to her apartment.
That surprised him. “Do you want to go out to dinner tonight? To a nice place this time.”
“No,” she said. “I’m tired after this trip. Tonight I need to rest. Call me Monday.” So he wouldn’t see her Sunday. She just wanted a time out to cool off, he thought.
After a couple of failed attempts to make dates with Bao during the week, he asked if he could pick up the clothes he’d left at her apartment. Once that was taken care he didn’t see her again. He stopped eating at restaurants and cafés serving Vietnamese cuisine. When eating on the economy he stuck to places downtown like La Cave, The Pizzeria, and La Pagode. He didn’t date for the rest of his tour, and six months after that last trip to Long An he boarded his flight back to Oakland. To his seatmates on the plane he said, “All I want out of Vietnam is out of Vietnam.”
They all agreed.
END
