We motored out of Cao Lanh, up country, in the opposite direction from the Tanh Tich airstrip road, past the Esso station and the movie theater, threading the fuel barrels that slowed traffic in front of the
Army’s 44th Special Zone compound, skirting the once fine white-washed villas that once belonged to French administrators, and finally breaking loose of sandbags and concertina wire into the country.

Up country.

East.

Deeper into the Delta.

If we drove 45 miles we would be in Cambodia, land of the Khmers, the people who built Angkor Watt, the temple Jackie Kennedy once visited with Prince Sihanouk (a round little man who looked like a gangster in his white suits and wrap-around sunglasses). In 500 miles we could be in Thailand, in another thousand, Myanmar (then Burma), then India, Pakistan, Afghanistan, Iran, Turkey, Greece, up the Adriatic, cross northern Italy, dally the Riviera, and finally enter Paris. That’s right, Paris, where American and North Vietnamese delegations were at that moment arguing over the shape of a peace table.

If we kept going…

It was a common dream among G.I.’s, imagining yourself heading east in a jeep or on foot, or stealing a boat and following the Mekong to the sea…escaping the war. Tim O’ Brien wrote a novel about it.  But that wasn’t the plan this day. It was Christmas. A truce had been declared throughout Vietnam and we were tourists — Tom, Tuyen (the compound nurse), Barry, and me. Our weapons were stowed and the top was down. Free of town, we cruised the rough macadam road past the open fields, the banana and coconut groves, the great stands of teak and mahogany, the ice houses of the Vietnamese mafia and the red dirt paths that mysteriously vanished among the bougainvillea in those sun-dappled palm corridors.

Had there been no war, it could have been the States and we would be considered nothing more than a jeep full of carefree young people, honking and waving at the gaudy Mercedes buses, whooping as we dodged the pedi-cabs, and stopping to pass out gum and candy to shy rural children.  Except for the occasional jeep full of heavily armed Americans, only Vietnamese Army convoys ever passed this way, convoys headed by Vietnamese Rangers in red berets and mirror sunglasses, who bullied their way through the hamlets and helped themselves to whatever they wanted. Tom, sitting in the back, nudged his aviator’s glasses down his nose an inch, leaned forward and hollered over the wind, 

“Are you ready?”

A chorus of whoops signaled the affirmative. The medic dug into a wet gunnysack and produced a can of Carling Black Label…and a can opener. The tepid beer exploded on his shirtfront. “It’s ready!” 

Tom popped cans one after another and distributed them until we were guzzling and jabbering, soaking up the sun and enjoying the scenery. But under an exterior calm, I was nervous to be so far out in “Indian Country.”  It was my own fault. I had offered to drive several days before in a spurt of bravado, fueled by a half dozen beers. My boss, Major Greenberg, the air liaison officer, had not helped matters when he unexpectedly granted permission. The area we were to visit was considered “pacified,” meaning the villagers supported the government in Saigon, as opposed to the Viet Cong, at least on the surface. One never knew. I could not back out without losing face, and saving face meant as much to Americans in the compound as it did to the Vietnamese. After months of operations, I was part of the B-43 family, even if I was Air Force.

“Hey! What’s going on over there?” Barry said.

We neared the main hamlet of a cluster that formed one of the largest villages in the province. I had seen it many times from the air. One of our pilots had put in an airstrike on a similar hamlet a day or two before, but that one was a few miles away. I heard most of the strike over the radio. Napalm had been employed. Four “structures” destroyed, and several others damaged. I cannot remember the number of KBA (killed by air).

From the road, we saw a couple of hundred people gathering in a common area of the hamlet, shaded by a grove of giant teak. A fleet of Lambretta taxis and several automobiles occupied almost every inch of the remaining open areas and aligned the verge of the red-dirt access road. 

“It looks like a carnival or something,” Barry said.

“I think you be surprised if you really know,” said Tuyen, giggling. “What does that mean?” Tom chided, digging her in the ribs. “I think maybe you drive in there and find out, what do you say, Spike (my nickname, bestowed by those in the compound with a measure of irony)?”  She smirked secretively and pulled hard on her Carling, which made her seem more like a sorority sister than a Vietnamese nurse. I looked to Barry for guidance. “Hey, why not?” the lieutenant responded. “We’re at peace, right?”

I left the road in a cloud of red dust and carefully guided the jeep along the edge of the clay track undulating in once-muddy runnels, now baked hard and deep, like the crust of a meringue. I pulled in behind the last of the line of vehicles—a Mercedes without a right rear door—shut off the engine and turned to my mates. “So… what now?”

“We join the party!” Tuyen exclaimed. She jumped out and without looking back, strode resolutely toward the crowd, turned, backpedaled, laughed, spun, and broke into a gallop.

She was a vision, this Saigon-educated nurse, snug in tiger fatigues and canvas-topped tropical boots, beautiful from the inside out. We all loved her, but more like your kid sister. The deeper love, the complicated stuff, was between her and Tom, though they never openly revealed it. She was leading the party now, and we were glad of it.

“Hey, wait a minute,” Tom shouted, running after her along with Barry. “Hey whadda yuh doin’?”
I lingered at the jeep. Sensing this, Barry pulled up short and turned around.

“What’s a matter, Spike, you look worried?” he said.  His round, boyish face and large brown eyes betrayed his thoughts, which complicated his relationship at times with the camp commander.

I nodded.

“A little, I’ve never been away from the compound—on the ground anyway—in this direction.”

“Well, don’t worry about it,” Barry said. “They haven’t even noticed us yet, and even when they do nothing will happen. After a while, you get a feel for things.  Besides, Tuyen’s the best barometer there is.  If she thought it was dangerous, we wouldn’t be here.”

“That may be true,” I said. “But we’ve been putting in strikes not that far from here. Seems close.”

“I’m aware of that, Spike,” Barry said. “But in this war, a few miles can be like two hundred. We have had very little trouble with this village. The leadership has been stable for a couple of years.  Take my word for it.  Come on, let’s see what Tom and Tuyen are up to.”

“What about our weapons?”

“They’ll be fine. Pretend you’re on vacation.” 

“Peace on earth?”

“Something like that, at least for now. Come on.”

I shrugged and joined Barry on the track. We passed from brilliant sunlight into the deep shade, and it took my eyes a moment to adjust. The shade returned me to the “Grotto,” a picnic area on the slopes of Mt. Diablo back home, a place of church picnics, where we would duck behind and climb atop rocks…and flirt with the girls, who were the main attraction. The ground was strewn with dead leaves that crunched beneath our feet and the air was fragrant with eucalyptus and deliciously cool in the breathless heat. As it so happened, every time I returned to the Grotto after Vietnam, I thought of this village, and so it has been ever after.

We threaded through the crowd, largely ignored, until we spotted Tuyen and Tom sitting in the front row of what appeared to be a small amphitheater. It was laid out in a circle, four rows of makeshift bleachers under a stand of teak, enveloping a bare, dusty arena, and presided over by a wizened man in a white gown, black slippers and four-cornered hat, sitting cross-legged at a battered table nailed among the benches. Like Ho Chi Minh, he had a wisp of a beard that twitched like a cat’s tail as he gravely examined a large rooster.

“What the hell?”

“Watch,” Tuyen said, touching my arm.

The old man smiled as if to pronounce the cock fit, then waved the bird away. Another was set in front of him.  He took the measure of it, frowned and dismissed the bird with a flip of his hand, which set off a ruckus among a faction in the crowd.  Another cock was presented, and the old man repeated the ritual, this time raising the bird above his head to examine the feet.

“What’s it going to be?  Some kind of offering?” I asked

Tuyen laughed and jabbed me with her elbow.

“Just watch, Spike!”

The old man smiled broadly, revealing a single gold tooth.  The second rooster was able. My hunch was confirmed when the crowd burst into more chatter.  The old man spotted us and his smile vanished. The  crowd at once sobered and went silent. All turned to stare at these Americans with the Vietnamese girl who wore tiger fatigues.

Tuyen rose. ” Không sao đâu. Chúng ta là bạn bè mà.,” she proclaimed, motioning to us.

“It’s all right. We are friends.” 

The crowd remained hard and silent.

“Jesus, what do we do now?” I said.

“I think I know,” Barry said, reaching into a cargo pocket.

 He pulled a fistful of piaster (or dong) notes from his wallet. Extending the bills and waving them like a fan, he pointed to the first rooster selected by the old man.

“Nếu bạn muốn. Tôi chọn cái đó.” Barry exclaimed, grinning broadly.“If you please, I choose that one.”

The old man studied Barry a moment, sternly, as a schoolteacher would an unruly youth.  It could go either way, I figured.  We might never emerge from this hamlet. 

But the old man smiled.  The crowd laughed as one and burst into applause.  I wasn’t the only one who was relieved. After that, a frenzy of wagering ensued as bills were tossed into the ring and harvested by  bookie, who logged and deposited them in the kitty.  Next, two gloved handlers leapt into the arena with the roosters and, extending them like weapons, stalked each other, charging, feinting, teasing, barely allowing the birds to touch, which whipped birds and crowd into a frenzy.  At last – the birds puffed up and lunging, the crowd ready to throw bottles — the cocks were released and tore into each other before hitting the dust, combs pricked, talons bared, eyes blazing.

“A cock fight!” Tom shouted in amazement. “I’ve never been to a cockfight in my whole life.”

“What did you tell him, lieutenant?” I screamed hoarsely over the din.

“Simple. I told him we’d take the white one — the one that’s getting his ass kicked right now.”
It was true. The big-breasted black chased the white around the ring, while the crowd, Americans included, babbled, then roared each time the birds collided in a blossom of flying feathers and feet, then levitated around the ring like dandelions in seed on the wind.  Oddly enough, there was little flying blood and meat. No razor-sharp spurs had been attached to the birds, nor had their talons been sharpened.  After several more minutes, the white cock was spent and went limp, while the black tried for a better purchase on the neck for a quick kill. However, the old man rose and nodded, and the black was driven away with a stick long enough for the white’s owner to dash into the ring and remove it. This generated another howl from the crowd.

“What are they doing, it’s not over, is it,” I asked Tuyen.

“The white one has lost, and will fight no more today,” Tuyen answered. “Maybe he will return another day…or make hens happy.” She winked.

“You’re kidding,” I said. “Where I come from in California, the cock fighters put metal spurs on them, and they fight to the death…or so I’m told. I’ve never seen one.” In fact, it’s against the law.  I remember when, as a teenager, a Chinese cook who worked at my dad’s restaurant, was arrested at a cock fight in Tracy, a Central Valley town better known then as home of the California Youth Authority prison.  Sometimes Cleo, the dishwasher, joined him and my dad’s boss had to post bail for them both. It seemed to me, then, that watching two birds tear themselves to pieces was an unacceptable risk. But that was before I appreciated the thrill of having a bet pay off.

“Here we never fight birds to the death,” Tuyen explained. “Why kill a perfectly good rooster?”
That was precisely the view expressed by Son—my Vietnamese guide and a former sergeant in the Saigon government’s air force—on my return to the Mekong Delta in 2003. We were touring a noodle factory near Can Tho when, away from the boiling caldrons, I watched a young man tenderly wash a white rooster and place him in one of a bank of bamboo cages.

“A fighting cock?” I asked. Son nodded. “Do they still stop the birds from fighting to the death?”

“Why, yes,” he said. And then I explained once more that in America, they fought them illegally and to the death.

“Ah, but that is so savage,” he said.

Bets were covered amid another wild bout of milling and shouting, while the victorious black was
paraded about in a grand procession of happy bettors shaking bottles of Ba mui ba and spraying the cock’s owner.  As one faction moved to the hamlet square, another took its place in the stands and chattered expectantly as two more birds were inspected.

“Do we bet again?” I asked.

“It would be the sporting thing to do,” Barry said, tipping back his ice-cold Ba mui ba, the “33” brand, called “Bombety-bomb” by G.I.s because one never knew how strong it was going to be, bottle to bottle. The Vietnamese spiked the brew with formaldehyde as a preservative, according to one widely accepted apocryphal story, replayed to comic effect many years later in the film Good Morning Vietnam.

“Hell not at these prices we’re not,” Tom mocked. “Beggin’ your pardon lieutenant, but it’s clear you don’t know a cock from a—.”

“Numbah ten!” Tuyen snapped, cutting him off and shoving him away. “Watch your mouth.”

“It’s time for the long pants,” Barry said, pulling another handful of bills from his wallet.

And so it went for the balance of the morning and into the afternoon. We bet several more rounds,guzzling Ba mui ba, screaming, laughing and disputing the elder’s calls along with villagers and guests from town. I even managed to double my money thanks to the shrewd young man sitting on my left, who frowned or nodded depending on which rooster I was about to place my money. 

“Him?” I asked, pointing to a sturdy black with copper highlights, probably imported from the states as part of the Civil Operations and Rural Development Support (CORDS) farm program.

“Numbah ten,” the Vietnamese said, shaking his head vigorously.

“What about that one?”

“Numbah welve (meaning worse than bad).”

“That one?”

“Numbah one, you,” the Vietnamese said, grinning broadly and nodding as if to say, “Smart choice.”

“Well then, have a beer on me!” I bellowed.  “This is one of the best Christmases I’ve ever had.”  

“You huh?” the Vietnamese said, still smiling, but confused. He shook his head and shrugged his shoulders, then pointed into the ring.

“You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?” I said slowly, trying not to slur my words.  I had
guzzled what I thought was a strong bottle when it was really one too many.  I twisted in my seat, leaned back on one hand and studied the Vietnamese. “In fact, you might be a little old Victor Charlie, taking a break just like me, am I right?

“You V.C.?” I asked.

“No, no V.C.”

“Yes, V. C.,” I said, smiling. This was a good-natured game we played with the bartenders in the camp lounge. It always ended in laughter.

“Numbah one,” the Vietnamese said less enthusiastically, extending a forefinger and pointing with the other hand at the black rooster. I realized then that I had miscalculated. This was not B-43. I felt ashamed and draped an arm around the man’s small shoulders.

“Aaaaah, who cares,” I said, giving him a squeeze, to which he laughed, but the dynamic had changed, and he soon moved away. It was a powerful lesson.

Finally, we had to leave.  As friendly as the hamlet seemed, it would not do to push our luck, and it was nearing the dinner hour—Christmas dinner and the big turkeys flown in fresh from the states. We started toward the jeep, still clutching bottles of Ba mui ba, re-living the shrewd bets, continuing to enjoy the sights and sounds of a village at peace, enjoying simple pleasures for the day.

“Tạm biệt. Chúc Giáng sinh vui vẻ!”

“Good-bye. Merry Christmas!”

We (almost) forgot that a war had been raging around us and most especially them…for years. I clutched the wheel and forced myself to think about something else. The roosters popped into my mind. 

They did not fight to the death.

I sighed. A great, heaving sigh. The sound my mother made when she finished paying the bills. The magic of the day was slipping away in the rear-view mirror, and there was no looking back. Dusk was coming on; the truce would be over at midnight, and I had to watch the road.