Ch 8
Vegard Lindtner's Egregious Saga (Part 1)
Laos 1970: The Plain of Jars
Deciding we needed some entertainment snacks, Alexander and I closed the library early – it was not like anyone was gonna come anyway. We crossed the street and Alexander opened the bar a bit early. No one was likely to come in, at least not before eight or nine, so we found a corner at the table and sat down.
“So this is supposedly the “attached” story we did not get in the first letter”, Alexander said – voice high with excitement.
“Yes, wonder why he did not send it with the first letter. He said the story was “attached” so one would assume he had actually “attached” it”
“Perhaps he changed his plans?”
“Probably, but if you change your plans in a letter you could just erase it or write a new one? Why not simply whisk out the last part and tell you'll send the story later?”
Thinking about this, I searched my pockets. Alexander went out for some chips and beers.
Finding my hairband, I tied my hair up in a high ponytail. It had grown a lot over the past month, but I still could not get all my hair into a hairband, so I usually did a high ponytail with the remainder of my hair flowing down to my neck. At least this method kept hair from getting in my face, something I found extremely annoying.
Alexander returned and opened the beers, a cold german lager, with his hands. After passing one over to me, he opened the bag of crisps and emptied into a glass bowl with art deco design before asking.
“So what do you think this ´breaking reality´ thing is?”
“Not sure. Kind of a vague term, but it definitely has something to do with a distortion in reality of some sort.”
“Yes, but why break? Why not tear, open, change, go through or something like that. Breaking Reality seems a bit...a bit violent and physical”
“Hmm, not that I'm an expert but I think you're on to something. Like ´breaking reality´ actually means to grab reality with your hands and breaking it in two...in lack of better words”
“True, like you do to crackers, or breaking bread? Like they do in church; Physically grabbing the bread and breaking it in half. But Reality has no physical form though, so I can't really imagine how he'd do it”
Me and Alexander agreed on all things more often than not, when we did not I would usually concede my point to Alexander – he was the smartest after all. There was an ease and comfort in that relationship, him being the dominant and I the submissive, that made him a very comfortable guy of being around. You did not need to wreck your brain over anything because he always had the answer. Almost like the relationship between gods and men.
With Alexander urging me to read, I removed the paper from my backpack. We were both visibly excited what secrets the bottle mail might hold. Even the room seemed to dampen the sound, soften the light and stilling the air in anticipation. He lit a cigarette and puffed on it noisily. The lamp used its light to cut a square in the darkness which lit the two of us up, but the rest of the room was pitch black. Smoke swirled anxiously around us from Alexander's cigarette as I read the introduction.
Laos 1970
Many regrets. This story is going to be long and probably tedious. That said, this story was something I had to get off my chest. As stated in my letter, my life is dull and empty but I feel that perhaps it will have some greater significance if some just read it.
Also it will probably do me a lot of good too. I have harboured a lot of secrets and wrongdoings for some time now and that is a thing that has been constantly eating at me - like a demon of sort has latched on to my back and kept feeding at me; Taking due care not to kill me, but still sucking pieces and pieces away from me and leaving me tired, pessimistic and hopeless.
With that done my story begins, like many others, at a small farming village called Phonsavan in Laos. The year is 1970.
USA has withdrawn from Vietnam. President Lyndon B. Johnson is relieved by Richard Nixon. All along the streets of America hippies are crying, faces filled with joy, Veterans are coming to grips with the new “home” they have come back to. The politicians though, are already planning how to break communism for good. The fight is far from over.
Having officially withdrawn from Vietnam, an abject failure and defeat on the U.S side, they choose instead to go elsewhere. Democracy, even though good in many regards, has a way of becoming blind to everything. Simply smashing ahead, taking no regards for the consequences, believing it it is the only possible solution, the end justifies the means after all. Therefore, Nixon demands that his generals go – or his generals demands Nixon to let them go – northeast along the Ho Chi Minh trail. A vital part of the communist supply route, Nixon and his top of the class schoolmates decides to try to cut it of.
If you can't get the head of the snake, send in rats. The rats will tease the snake for a while, making it angry and sloppy, then they will attack. Starting at the tail to avoid being bitten and poisoned, they will chew through every sinew and muscle until they sever the entire spinal cord. With the spinal cord gone – the head is up for grabs.
After Vietnam, there is no sound, reasonable way for U.S.A to launch another war. Therefore, they took advantage over the fragile and divided nation of Laos. Siding with the Royal Lao Government agains the communist party Pathet Lao they made Laos a living hell. In addition to supplying the RLG with ammunition and resources, they flew in secretly and carpet bombed the whole of the country. If you think Vietnam was bad, this was worse. Laos has since been the most heavily bombed country in the world in history – no jokes, they do make statistics about such things. To put the total amount of bombs dropped into a understandable formulation; The total amount of live ordnance was 2 million tonnes, distributed over 580,000 bombing runs. This means that they dropped an entire plane-full of bombs every eight minute for nine years 24/7!
An astounding amount of bombs were dropped, I'm sure I have gotten that across. Iraq does not even compare. Furthermore, as we know today, about 80 millions of the bombs – close to a third – did not detonate. Since America withdrew in 1973, 20.000 people have been killed by undetonated ordnance. So even though the war is over, there is a ghost hovering like a still moon above the entire landscape of Laos. Most of the bombs are still live, and as much as one person a week dies by a bomb – perhaps a farmer leading his cows to another pasture, or a young woman on her way to date some slick young gentleman under the stary night sky.
That is all I'm going to say about the war however, the story has to begin sometime. Just remember, this was the hell I was in. The hell I endured and still do to this day. So, the year is 1970 – I have been with the Pathet Lao for about three years...
Having just spent a week with my family home south in Savannakhet I arrived at Pathet's headquarters just before noon on March 13. The air was still and humid, rain-season was on us so everyday was spent trying to remain dry – which never happened. It was absolutely horrible, yours socks were the worst part. Always wet.
If you were not careful, had enough pairs, dried them well at night or washed them sloppily, you would get gangrene. Ulcer's would open up on your feet, they would then turn yellow and pussy – if not treated quickly – before spreading all over your foot. People told me it hurt like hell, every step a heartache, every moment an ordeal.
I was careful, so I never got gangrene. One of my buddies though, had to cut of his leg at the knee. Like me he was careful. He dried his socks under his shirt at day, and strung them up on a line in his tent come evening. Every week, he'd go over his feet taking great care to remove any puss, sterilise and remedy possible wounds and clipping his nails. One day though, he and some buddies had just returned from a 30 mile march back to camp. Clashing with the RLG the day prior, they were ultimately forced to retreat in a hurry – no time for sleep or rest. My buddy, his name was Khao, forgot to dry or change socks. Marching through the night, he was exhausted as they made it to the gates just after sunrise. He complained about some numbness before going to sleep for close to 24 hours. The next day was grey and wet, sun hidden behind layer upon layer of clouds. The only thing that existed seemed to be rain. Like the rain itself gave light to the world. I can't recall seeing the sun even once that day.
Khao complained to me that his foot hurt shortly after breakfast. I asked him in what way. He was not sure, but his foot was throbbing sending pulses of pain through his lower body. Concerned, I asked him to remove his boots. The sight that met me has never left me.
Yellow and saggy, the skin was even black at his toes. The yellow faded as it went up his legs, but all the way from toe to shin was filled with open and pussy wounds. A true horrible sight. I knew that instant that his foot was lost, there is no coming back once gangrene has taken a hold. The only true and certain way to remedy it is to cut the limb off about 20-30 cm over the last sign of infection. I told him this, and has he counted up his leg he found that he would have to sever of his legs mid thigh.
I heard nothing from him for the remainder of the day. He went to the doctor and cut it off. I saw him come back to bed late at night, probably just released from the med-bay, but he stank of alcohol. My noise twitched as he trudged sluggishly past my bed. There was no light, but I could hear the clunk of his new cane – all the camp had to aid feet-less veterans. I asked how he felt. Intoxicated he replied growlingly:
“All good man, the doctors cut it of just beneath my knee, I'm good know. A month or so and I'll be back. You see comrade. One month is all I need”
I put my head back on the pillow and resumed my sleep. Just as my consciousness drifted off, I heard someone else enter the tent. This man too had a cane of some sort, though it's sound was different than Kham's. The person had no smell, no footsteps either. I could not even be sure he was there. All I heard was the Cane beating its way softly along the wooden plank floor. The darkness grew thicker, and the rain let up. Slowly, the cane passed me. No air followed it, it hung completely still. As I fell to sleep, for some reason I thought on how me and Khao had laughed and enjoyed ourselves in the times past. Best friends, I and him would never tire of each other. He always had a joke on the back of his mind, ready for release. A gentle touch when times were hard. A heavy hand, when duty was taxing.
“I'm gonna be a good friend for him tomorrow”, I thought “Come breakfast I'll tell him that Joke I've been saving about the Monk at the Beauty Parlour.
I never got to tell him the joke. The doctors carried him away the morning after. My socks have not been wet since – not ever.
I'm meandering. The year was 1970, two years has passed since Kham's death and I have just returned from a short holiday with my family. The date is March 13. Not really wanting to come back, I trudge slowly up the hill to where our outpost is located. The hill is next to a small village named Phonsavan. A small trail, lined with beautiful bamboo trees and birds of all manners fluttering briskly in between, leads to the improvised metal gate. Beyond it lies our camp - all muck shit and tired men.
As I approach I say the password and go through the gate I'm asked to see the Commander. A man named Khan, he made a point out of always wearing a suit and a sailors cap, no matter the weather and terrain. As I came into his tent, he sat – as usual – nipping at his moonshine and cigar in hand.
A true-blood idealist, he and I was complete opposites.
I had no real interest in communism, I only preferred it to Government Rule. A friend of me had enlisted, and asked me to join. With the war being on my doorstep – literally, a bomb had dropped just outside my door and killed my grandfather – I took him up on his offer after a week or so of mulling it over. Also, I also dressed to the occasion. On the beach, I would wear swim-trunks and sandals. At a party, I would put on a suit. If I ever went hiking, good solid hiking shoes with comfortable and durable pants to boot.
Khan on the other hand was a communist through and through. He always cited Marx, which he claimed to have read several times – though I think he was lying. The year prior, he had read the Communist Manifesto, resulting in him staying inside for two days drafting his own version. Every sinew and fibre in his body, ached and believed in and for communism. There was no option, no alternative. The world would either end up as a global communist state or end in a convulsive soup of free markets, private enterprise and presidents.
He also wore that suit of his, cigar and whisky in hand; no matter the occasion, it made no difference. Always the same tired suit, the same tired look on his face, the same tired ideals.
I quaked as he told me what he had summoned me for.
“So you, along with a handpicked few, are going on a scouting mission. Leaving at dusk, you will make your way to the town where some supplies are waiting and continue eastwards. The mission is to locate and map the east-part of the country”
“What? Sir I have never scouted a day in my life! I'm not sure how to map either. I can follow a map easily, given I have a compass, but I have no idea how to make one. All I have ever done really is fighting. Point at the enemy and click”
“No worries, you wont. Another Person on your crew – Lao's his name - are simply to sketch the general location of enemy camps and forces there. Reliable sources have told me the Government has flown forces there, hoping to surprise us with an attack from the east. As we're bang in the middle of Lao's they sure are eager to have us removed. It will be fine, there will be no fighting only marching so remember an extra pair of socks. That's all comrade”
He sat nipping at his cigar, as I left the tent. There is no room for argumentation with an idealist, even if he is your comrade. Khan's word was law, at least within the borders of the camp.
I had a good meal, packed seven pairs of socks and waited at the canteen The sun sunk down slowly. When it was about to be gulped down by the horizon, only small streams of light flickering through the bamboo trees, two men approached.
The first one was thick and heavy, broad at the shoulder but small hips. He had a small machine gun slung across his back, his brown shirt cut off at the shoulders revealing a tattoo of a exploding dynamite on each bicep. The other was small, almost like a dwarf, except those strange fat legs and squishy face. He was like a normal man, only much smaller, all was in proportion. It was as if some strange scientist had put him in a machine and shrunk him down to half the size of a usual man. On his back he had a sniper, as long as himself and a 37. cal if I remembered my sniper course correctly. A cigarillo in his mouth, he had a slight limp and a very tired face.
These were the three handpicked people. One man with a machine gun only operable for two people. A sniper without a looker – the people with the binoculars, scouting and measuring distance to make the shot easier. Finally, there was me. A small man with no true talent or quality except having survived close to six years of essentially being cannon fodder.
Leaving the city, we went out over the plain of jars. An area of about 15.000km2, the plain of jars was a mystery beyond imagination. Some english anthropologist had excavated it and written a comprehensive survey in the early 1900's, but the area remained a mystery – had it been a cemetery, a corn storage or a mayan party place. No one could say.
Thousand of square cylinders lined the countryside. Some the size of a man, others the size of an elephant. Strange engravings, probably letters of some kind, was etched on some of them but others remained bare and unadorned. As we passed, I found my eyes attracted to them as if some strange anomaly in gravity coursed around the jars. Jar by jar, each different from the next, we cut our way across the landscape.
None of us knew each other, so the first half of the journey passed by in silence. Sometimes one of us would say “Right, through that valley over there” or “this mountain is too steep, we'll have to go around”, but other than that we would just walk. Nodding at each others directions and opinions or alerting the group if we spotted enemies or hostile camps.
Each day, we would wake with the sun. Tham “The Neck”, the name of the sniper and the only one who had any experience with map and mapmaking, would scout some and plot it all down on his map which he kept in his backpack. After that we would continue. Walking through the day, come night we would make some shelter of sorts (We had a small tent, but often used the environment – like a cave or put branches overhead) and fall asleep – but not before putting on a new pair of socks and slung the used ones over our shoulders to dry them for tomorrow. Tham along with Khem Thou “The Barber of Seville” (The one with the machine gun) made sure of cleaning their weapons too before taking the night.
To them it was like a ritual of some kind. They would start by removing the different parts – Khem Thou had the most for sure. The shaft, loader, spring, chamber et ceterae, were deftly removed and placed on a brown sheepskin cloth. Then, they would grab piece after piece and clean it where they found filth and ad polish where they found rust, making sure to place each part on the other side of the sheepskin when done. Every night, lying under my duvet, I watched them repeat the process. They spent most of the time on the shaft, but the parts around the trigger was also important to clean – or so I imagined from the time spent on it. When they worked, neither spoke. Yet they started the process at the same time, using the same amount of time on each part of the operation. No glances or words were exchanged, there were simply a cosmic understanding between the two. As the sun went down, it told Jupiter to message the pair and have them start working, which they always did night after night. Done with the ceremony, they reassembled their weapons – a sniper and a machine gun – piece by piece, folded up the blanket and wiped away the sweat with it before folding out their bedding and going to sleep – all in complete silence.
It was an exceptionally warm evening. The whole day had been stifling, with the torrential rain driving the humidity up even more. It had cooled of a bit, but still the heat clung to the humidity like a koala would to his eucalyptus tree. The sky had just cleared over the forest, but over the mountains ominous clouds threatened us with a wet night. Looking away from the clouds, I found the heavens, spotted and empty save for a comet that raced by. Underneath that comet, Than and Khem had just started polishing their weapons. I watched them perform the operation, like every other night, but this night I asked them:
“How come you polish your weapon every night? It's not like they need that much cleaning, you haven't used them at all and they're always tucked away in your shoulderbags”
The two men looked up simultaneously, but kept on dismantling the weapons and laying the different parts in the right location on the sheepskin. Khem took a swig of his canteen, burped before answering – his voice had a weary sound, like an old cowboy who's drunk to much whiskey and smoked too many cigarillos.
“Dunno. Just what we soldiers here were trained to. A weapon needs to be maintained so our officers drilled that bit into us. Before even shooting a gun, you would need to know how to operate the different parts, take them apart, clean them and even reassemble them – All in the dark”
“True that. Officers told me first week that its better to do it regularly. Had some story to boot too, but the details are a bit vague- getting old you see” Tham's voice was two pitches too high, and gentler than I would have imagined. With a golden lighter, dragon emblazoned on the middle, he lit a cigarette and puffed at it with obvious pleasure. After a few puffs and a dash, he continued.
“He had a good comparison though. He'd ask all the new recruits: So fuckwads! How many times do your clean your room each year? He was real strict that guy. You hated him like the devil in the beginning, but when I graduated – boy was I fond of the fucker! So anyway, some would say once each month, others each week or year or whatever. The trick was no matter what you answered it was never right, the answer he was looking for was every day”
Than held the pack of cigarettes up suggestively, I declined but Khem had one. Khem produced a flask too, a potent moonshine his father had made. I accepted and took a swig. The liquid set my entire throat on fire and I coughed and belched in response. To my surprise the other two did not laugh, but patted me on the back and had a drink each themselves. Neither of them coughed. They were just finished with the disassembly and produced the instruments to clean every nook and cranny of the weapons. All in perfect harmony.
“Now, it makes sense you see? Say you clean your apartment or room or whatever once a year it would be a hell. I mean, the shit and mounds of things to throw away categorise or fold – it would take days. Besides, you would have to shower the place with chlorine to make it habitable again. I tell you, apartments get real filthy if you don't clean.
If you just clean up after yourself every day before going to bed though, you won't have to worry. You simply remove the trash, recycle some cans or shit and go about your day.
Also, if you're sloppy with your cleaning. Not only will your missus be disappointed, but so too will the room. I mean, filth seep into the very room – like cancer. If a floor is dusty for a long time, mould or fungus develops. If there is stench in the room, that stench settles if left for a week or two.
If you make sure to clean your room every day though, that won't happen.
I heard too that it might actually decrease the lifespan of the building. Cleaning is a form of maintenance too I suppose”
Khem offered me the bottle again and I took a reluctant second turn at the bottle. This time it was not half bad. Although strong in the beginning, the alcohol had a sweet aftertaste and I as the burning slushed down my gullet I vaguely detected some exotic spices in the afterbirth.
Content with myself I stated:
“So, basically a weapon is like a room. If not cleaned regularly, dust and shit will settle and fester and ultimately ruin the gun. It is also better to do so every day instead of less often, less work”
“Yeah, you got it” Than replied before Khem intervened
“It is hard shit to clean your gun in the field. If an enemy attacks you might not be able to clean it for a couple of days – weeks if you're really unlucky.
I heard of a guy, young dude no more than twenty or so years old. He had been sloppy with his cleaning. He did clean it every now and then, but not often enough. Never knew the guy myself, but what my friends told me was that as he was about to engage with some Federal scumbags. They had fortified themselves in the bottom of a valley, where the enemy could only come from one direction – I think they had seen the army and then retreated – trying to choose the battlefield. As the enemy came into his field of vision, he pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. No sound, no bullets, no nothing. He pulled again. Only a soft metallic clunk. Weapon was probably jammed.
With the enemy coming at him, guns roaring and people dying, he just stood there mouth agape gun pointed at them and not able to do a thing. They first detachment of enemies missed him, I think, at least he remained still for half an hour squeezing the trigger. Too little avail though. Fucker was terrified, did not even think about unjamming the piece.
From what I heard, they found him the next day, finger still squeezing at the trigger and mouth wide open. Flies had gotten to him by then, not a pretty sight.
So the lesson is: Maintain your gun, you don't want to die of your gun jamming on you”
Mosquitoes were starting to bite the three of us. I asked them how come the boy did not try to unload the gun and fix it or something. The two wrinkled their noses, and looked up at a new comet trailing across the starry sky. “Probably scared shitless” they replied together as the comet vanished.
“And how come you always do everything together? You always start and end the process simultaneously”
“How come you always dry your socks?” Khem replied.
“Pardon?”
“It was a rhetorical question. It is a ritual. Something to do before passing onto the next day. Just like you and your socks. Every day, you take them off just after dinner. No sooner or later, then you check every toe carefully making sure there is no puss or humidity there. Wiping them dry, you clip your toenails and do a final check on the heel and the underside of your foot. That completed, you put the socks over your shoulders and produce a new pair from that special pocket in you backpack. Every day the same, just like us, because that's what you've been taught”
“Hmm, but it's not like I do it at the same time as another person...it's just something I do”
“I bet all the guys in your platoon does the same thing with their socks, stuff tends to go that way. Your general probably drilled it into you, to prevent gangrene or such”
“Yeah, well a friend of mine died of gangrene and after that I have always been really careful about that. Come to think of it, the commanding officer of my barracks did encourage it”
“Sorry about that...take a good look around you the next time you do it around camp, that is if we ever make it back. I would put good money on everyone around you doing the same. You never noticed is all”
“I will. I will”
Talking done, the remainder of the evening passed silently. We finished the bottle of liquor and and Than and Khem had a few more cigarettes. Watching the night sky after this, I could not help but visage the whole camp simultaneously inspecting their socks and feet.
As the sun woke us up the next day, we began our march after some biscuits dipped in hot tea. Than had a small boiler and a pot to heat water, but that was it. Not that we needed anything else, we had prepared rations which only needed reheating. Still, it would have been nice to catch some wildlife and cook it over a stove. Army rations, guerrilla army's more so, is not very satiating.
Over a week had passed since we set out. We were right on the border of the enemy territory and Than duly noted every outcrop and mountain on his map. Our goal was the top of a large summit, just visible, off in the distance. Mount Phou Keng. From there, Than predicted we would be able to see everything for at least a hundred miles by the aid of our binoculars.
A day's march away, we would have to make good time to reach it before sundown, but we were set on completing the mission and turning around tomorrow. That peek appeared before us, not like a mountain, but a finish line. Like a runner about to cross the line, or a person just about to die? That peek took on the shape of some fancy medal that we needed to attain, and the only way to do it was to get there today.
The trip had not been tiresome, we had plenty of rations and slept soundly throughout the night. We had only spotted the enemy on a couple of occasion, but never clashed with them. This eased the mood a bit, and we had no ill thoughts regarding the final day. “All will go well” Khem had said as he rubbed his eyes, head peeking up from the duvet “No trouble today. Let's take that summit, map down everything we see – the frontline is bound to be visible from there – and go home”. At the time, Khem did not know this of course, but it would all go terribly wrong – terribly soon.
The weather was the usual Laos weather in summer. Flies nibbled at out necks as we walked through the forest surrounding Mount Phou Keng. That, plus humidity up to our ears, made for some discomfort. But except from that, the skies were clear, the sun bore down on us, but we were relieved some by the shade of the trees. No wind as of yet, but Khem reckoned that it would get windy as we left the forest and began our ascent of the mountain. Misty skies covered the top of it, but you could barely see some hints of snow behind them. “Probably gonna be cold” Than mused, as we approached a river.
Concluding there was no way to ford the river here – the cliffs on either side too high and the stream too strong - than consulted his map. He bent down on one knee and laid the map flat on the ground. As he waved his finger, examined the topography and deliberated in great detail on how to best and most effectively ford a river, me and Khem sat down on two rocks and came to talking. He lit a cigarette and had a swig of his canteen As we talked, I learned that he had had a two daughters and a wife. He worked as a banker in Laos, Laos's capital; but when the war came the Americans raised his house and family to the earth. He never looked at me as he said it, just kept his eyes down and drew on the cigarette occasionally. He did not elaborate, not smile or cry or blink. I think now in retrospect that he was trying to distance himself from it – not confronting something may often seem the easier solution.
Discomforted by the sad turn of the conversation I asked for a cigarette. Not for any reason in particular, I just wanted to talk about something else. He lit my cigarette with his lighter and passed it on to me. As the nicotine hit me, Khem asked.
“Did not know you smoked?”
“Never have”
“Why start now?”
“Hmm, you have to try it sometime”
“Yeah, that's probably right”
Sitting on our two rocks, the conversation halted for some time. Not in any uneasy way, we just did not feel like saying anything Our gaze caught a gang of baboons skimming through the trees, swinging here and there and jumping in and out of the river. Clearly they had no trouble with the current.
“Say, your weapon has a lot of parts” I began shortly thereafter, their weapons amazed me and more so how clean they were.
“They do”
“How many exactly?”
“Well, mine has 73 – its a big fucking gun after all. Than's sniper has less. I reckon about fifty but I'm not sure”
“And you clean all parts each night?”
“We do”
“Why don't you just clean some parts now and some parts later. I mean, the exterior of the gun is probably the dirtiest – you should at least give that part a better chunk of your time”
“Yeah, you're on to something I admit, but here's the thing. A weapon is like a body, or a planet or a universe. Like the body, it consists of many organs – each with its own function. The hammer releases the bullet's payload, The spring loads the chamber and so on. If one of them stopped doing its job, the weapon would so too. No bullet would leave the chamber, or worse, it backfires. Just like if your heart fails and blood stops flowing around your body, or if your liver quits its job all of a sudden and decides to make your life a living hell”
“Never really thought about it that way before, is each part that important?”
“Sure is, at least that was I was told. Each part, whatever size or appearance, is like a tiny brick in a big puzzle. For the picture to be complete - the gun to work optimally - you need al the parts in the right order. Like the planet can't survive without trees, atmosphere, an iron core and everything else. Everything works independently, but also in cohesion with the rest. If one thing fails, so will the rest.”
Than interrupted our musings. He had found a way across.
There was a small suspense bridge only a km or so up the river. It was slung over the canyon above the water where the river was at its narrowest – probably no more than five meters. Sharp rocky edges led down to the river which roared underneath. The bridge was old. Here and there planks were either rotten to the core or simply missing. We tested the rope, which seemed good enough, though it had been chaffed thin at some points.
Deciding it was best not to put too much weight on it, we crossed one at a time.
First up was Khem. He slapped his chest and got a nice pump going before setting off. The planks shook and groaned, the ropes swayed ominously. Being the heaviest one we were sure that if he made it across, we would be fine too. He jumped across three missing planks, which made the bridge very upset, but it did not break and he landed safely on the other side.
Next up was Than. He fared better, though the bridge did not seem to happy with him. The waters roared and echoed along the rock surface as he made his way over step by step – taking great care not to fall or trip. It is strange how unbalance and shaky you feel if you actively think about not falling over.
It was my turn. I closed my eyes and rolled my neck a few times before setting out. I noticed the baboons were watching me from a safe distance. Their eyes were set on me from the top of a mahogany a safe distance away. I grabbed the rope and placed one foot in front of the other. The bridge seemed more shaky and the river more defiant than with the other two. As I was crossing that bridge. Even though I did not realise it at the time, I was also doing something else entirely.
A few jumps, a near trip and some shaky legs later and I was over.
The rest of the trip passed by uneventfully. We came out of the forest and ascended the mountain without any trouble. There was an old goat trail leading up to the very summit. Although it was hidden beneath the snow the last hundred meters or so, the slopes were not steep and the weather amicable – no trouble at all. That is until we peeked out over the enemy encampments.
Than watched the mass in front of the mountain through his binoculars and relayed the information to me. I put the information down in a small brown notebook Khem had produced. The skies over the summit had left, but at that moment I wished the had not.
At the foot of the mountain and stretching back a km or so was an enemy camp. Not a permanent camp, but a mobile one. The sun was about to set, barely visible on the other side of the horizon, and the snow – usually so white – was painted crimson. Most likely the enemy had decided to rest here for the night. Everywhere Then looked he saw soldiers digging holes to sleep in, those with a tent where busy with those and many more were on latrine duty. Amazing how much shit an army can produce. Then and there, I realised what “An army marches on its stomach” meant. It meant that they had to dig deep latrines to hide all the food coming out of them.
It was a big army. Their camp was like a scar in the landscape. Each person had at least two holes dug. One for sleeping, one for defacating and the result of this was a brown tear in the vibrant green landscape around the camp. Than did some calculations and approximated that they probably had to be around 20,000.
“Fucking hell bruv” Khem said as he dusted of the sweat. There was a small breeze, but even on top of of this white mountain the heat seemed unbearable.
“We have to run back. Report this at once” Then interjected.
“A force this large would decimate, if not obliterate our forces – are there even 20,000 people in the Pathet Laos?” I asked.
“Don't think so” they replied simultaneously
Getting ready to leave, we packed everything in a hurry. Khem shouted “take this!” and I shouted back “Take that!”. We had planned to spend the night here, but faith had set us bound for home. We shoved the tent back into our packs as Than finished up his map. Then, Than grew silent all of a sudden. The wind stopped and the temperature rose as-well. Something bad was ado.
His hands shook as he lowered his binoculars and turned towards us.
We had not taken into consideration that in the same way we could see the enemy, so they could see us. And that was exactly what had happened. Three black spots agains a snowy mountain top is not the most covert assembly and the enemy had gathered a small detachment bound for the mountain – and us. Than jumped up. Screamed something and ran ahead.
Before following, I took a look, and saw that the detachment was only small in proportion to the relative enormity of the army. A group of at least a hundred was headed our way, dogs in the fore barking and quarrelling. Probably slithering and quarrelling about who to eat first.
The snow gave way to ground in a blur. I tripped and fell as I tried keeping up with the other two now a lifetime ahead of me. We ran and ran; Tripped and Tripped; Tumbled and Tumbled; All the way to the bottom. Sweat stung my eyes and my lungs screamed. My legs were turned to christmas pudding by the quick descent.
We finally reached level ground. Rushed into the thicket and came upon the bridge – The baboons were still there, staring at us in confusion. By now I had caught up with the rest. Not thinking, we all set out over the bridge simultaneously. Each right on the heels of the other and I was the last one. The bridge swayed and argued with our steps, but it stayed up. I nearly fell through a rotten plank, but grabbed the rope just in time. Looking down, the river was foaming at its mouth. Having seen its chance, the river was not gonna let us go if we fell.
The bridge went on forever. It stretched and swayed which made the crossing longer and harder than before, but Than made it across first.
Shortly after, Khem was over and I sighed in relief. I was going to make it after all. A step forward, then a jump and there was only about a metre left of bridge standing in the way of me and the other side. Khem had drawn his machete, ready to cut the rope as soon as my feet found solid ground. He never got the chance to swing it though.
The ropes let go in a angry hizz, the planks shook and the bridge lost all suspension. I watched my comrades bloodshot eyes and Khem's blue tongue as I fell and then fell some more. The river had swallowed me whole.
