Free The Vietnam Reader by Stewart O’Nan Page B

Thuong said, “and try to make it as honest as you can. Show us your heart is pure.”
    The prisoner nodded and began: he had worked long that day and had gone to bed early. It was the rainy season and there was more to be done this year because of last year’s drought.
    “Ask him what he had for breakfast,” Beaupre told Anderson, “go ahead. Speed up the interrogation.”
    The prisoner was interrupted by Thuong who told him to hurry up with the story if he wanted to live to finish it. He had gone to bed early when he was called by Thuan Van Thuan.
    “Is he a neighbor?” asked Thuong.
    “No, he lives three houses away,” said the prisoner.
    “Sweet Jesus,” said Beaupre. “The prisoner said he knew it was trouble right away.”
    “Why,” demanded Dang, “because he knew all his Communist friends were coming? All the dogs were coming?”
    “No,” said the prisoner, “because Thuan’s voice was loud and commanding”; he stopped, and it appeared for a second that he was going to say, commanding, like the Captain’s, but then he continued. Usually Thuan’s voice was soft and supplicating, an attitude he did not trust because Thuan was not honest. He claimed to have an electric box, the only one in the village from which he received special messagesfrom Saigon and Paris and Hanoi; the prisoner was sure it was a false electric box. Thuan had been arrogant and had demanded they come to a meeting; Thuan had insisted that his wife come too, which upset him since she had been sick and coughing and had finally fallen asleep, but Thuan had given them no choice and so they were taken to the center of the hamlet, where lamps had been lit, and where there were twelve visitors, all men. He knew right away they were soldiers.
    “Did they have any weapons?” Thuong asked.
    “I didn’t see any,” he said, “but he knew they were there.”
    “How does he know?” Dang asked, “because he is one of them.”
    “Because of the way the men behaved,” he said, “men who have guns behave one way and men who do not behave another.”
    He seemed puzzled that they did not understand the distinction, and asked Thuong: “You have never talked with a man with a gun when you don’t have one?”
    “Good question,” Beaupre said, “the sonofabitch is telling the truth.”
    The suspect stopped as if waiting for someone to stop him; he said the men had talked about politics and said that the long noses (he looked embarrassed at Anderson and Beaupre) were coming to the village the next day and would try to kill all the people. Then they had served tea. He himself had taken two glasses. He had wanted to take only one, but had been afraid if he took one, this might offend the Vietminh.
    “Vietcong,” Dang corrected, less angrily this time.
    Some of the others had taken three cups.
    “See how many cups he’ll take from us,” Beaupre said when Anderson translated this.
    The next day he had been told to go north from the village, because the Americans were coming from the south, east and west, and for that reason he had slipped away and gone south. Thuong asked him about his wife; she had been kept by the Communists as a bearer and as a hostage. Thuong continued to ask questions about the enemy, and Beaupre pulled Anderson aside and told him to get on the American radio and quickly call the information in; he did not trust theViets; if it were left to them, the intelligence might not reach the CP until the next day.
    “He was telling the truth, wasn’t he?” Anderson said.
    Beaupre didn’t say anything for a minute. “Yes,” he finally answered, “he’s felling the truth. That’s the worst thing about it. Makes you long for the usual ones, who’ve never seen a VC, never heard of the war.”
    He walked on a few yards. “A rock and hard place. That’s where we are, between a rock and a hard place.”
    He felt dry and thirsty and a little nervous; he had mocked this operation from the start, and most of his fear had