A other point of view on the Mekong river.
|
|||||||||||||||||||||||
International Conference on Mekong River opens in
Cambodia
|
Memories from a Sergeant’s handbag; he left
the names of the people out of his diary for personal reasons.] I was
assigned to a platoon forty-four men) that flew out of what now is
Saigon [now Ho Chi Minh City], August, 1970. I will end up in Cambodia
for several months, and my life will be shaped by the extraordinary
circumstances that I will befall. I am leaving these diary notes with a
girl in her purse, she doesn’t know about them yet, just incase things
do not work out as I hope they will. But I am getting ahead of myself. A
series of massacres along the Mekong took place in early 1970 about, or
close to five months ago, a new bloody chapter to the river’s history
one might say. We forty-four men were sent into the region to assist
Lon’ Nol’s troops (Cambodian Military). It was pointed out to us before
we left for this mission that the Vietnamese were responsible or the
growing deaths and wounded on Lon Nol’s ill-trained troops. But no sooner had we landed along the Mekong to meet our Lon Nol’s troops, which we didn’t, and the helicopter took off too off before we could recall it, we were in gagged in a fire fight with the North Vietnamese—to our revelation. I had noticed in the dim lights of the evening, for it was just before dusk, or sundown, Cambodian bodies floating down the river, too bad we couldn’t had seen them before we made the drop, we did fly right over them it would seem. Could it be that we were all geared up for a battle, not for what happened. They had been shot and some of them even had their hands tied behind their backs, and feet tied backwards as to simply allow them to sink quicker, and not have the ability to kick-swim. |
|
|
Everyone within our platoon inside of twenty minutes were shot dead, there was at least two hundred of the enemy behind us; no, possible, maybe more, the sky was full of bullets, and all we could do was duck, they were coming from all sides of us, it was an ambush, they knew we were coming; our radio man was gone before I could tell him to call for reinforcements, dead like the Cambodians in the river, the Mekong; Corporal Thompson and the Crusher, can’t remember his name, but he was huge, I fought him once on R & R at Cam Ranh Bay, he was shot in the head, both shot in the head. By the time it was over it was a brutal mass killing, here in this Cambodian world, on river I knew very little about. |
|
It was now dusk and I had three M16 rifles and a knife with me; I
stripped myself naked and like a snake I moved into the waters along the
delta—the swampy flood lands. I had a growing sense of disquiet in my
whole being, I didn’t know if I was going upstream or down. I couldn’t
tell, I lost all sense of direction, but I knew when I heard foot steps,
and when I heard them I remained quiet, then I stood up—sprayed the area
in a 180-degree half circle with bullets, fired, and fired and fired all
three M16’s into the long-grass and delta area in front of me, when I
had emptied all three rifles I dropped them in the water, and then
jumped back into the underbrush half covered with water, and as I went
forward I saw a dozen bodies. For some odd reason I was alone I sensed,
inadequately, they thought I was the phantom, and must had run off; and
to be quite frank, I felt that way—for I had killed nearly the whole
squad, possible ten out of twelve men. They had been a scout squad
looking for me I suppose, all were dead but the few that ran, if not all
dead, and if one or two were alive, I scared the crap out of them in any
case.
The village of Neak Loong was near by so I found out, as I found myself
in a daze trying to put myself back together, it was, I mean really was
a night over the Mekong, a savage night: fancies flooded my mind, as if
I’d be rescued, but that kept me going if anything. I would find out
later those troops, the South Vietnamese troops who ambushed us, were
fighting alongside, with the Phnom Penh forces (Yam Sambaur, in Cambodia
was now in charge, or so it seemed, he was a new face in the power
structure of Cambodia); they were to be massacred as well. A lot of
these sites, military sites, villages and so on, were linked to the
Mekong, were also vital to our Military Intelligence, such as the
Capital Vientiane, Lao’s capital that is, and again, Phnom Penh. But we
were loosing the river, as well as the capitals, or so it seemed.
I had found refuge in the small village of Neak Loong, and made some
friends there, they treated me well; at the time I walked into their
village, I think I was more, that is, more so, than not, in shock or
disbelief in what had taken place—my whole platoon wiped out. Again I
say, here I was, a naked white American walking in the back door of a
house, a house I had never seen, I never seen before (more like a hut,
hooch), and a family sitting cross legged eating rice and soup. A man of
about thirty-five, his wife of about twenty-five, four children between
three and seven, and a sister, of about eighteen, I where in a kind of
circle in the middle of the hut on a rug, just eating, and there I am, a
twenty-four year old American soldier, naked. I stayed in the village
for several weeks helping the family with what little chores I could do,
and got to meet the rest of the village folks, they were warm towards
me, but I was always afraid to move too far out of the village area, or
if someone came in, I mean if a different face I had not yet seen came,
and I saw it, I was in fear of them exposing me, and so I hid until they
were gone, or until the sister told me it was alright to venture
throughout the village freely again.
There was one event I remember quite well, that was the time the family
took me to a fishing village at the edge of Cambodia’s Great Lake and
there were many a fisher men with their small fishing boats, and people
carrying one-hundred pound white rice sacks placing them in the boats,
and filling up wicker baskets full of tiny fish. Wherever I went, looked
in this country, there was Buddha’s image, it was stored here and there,
under and over: in shrines, temples, outside standing along, on grave
stones—you name the place, it was someplace there. And I got to see once
the royal palace from a view, from Mount Phousi. But I had to go, to
leave the area, as much as I liked it, and the sister of the wife whom I
was becoming quite fond of, and friendly with; I do wish I could have
stayed.
I am now in Phnom Penh, and I like the river a little more now, the
Mekong has shown me a new face; I feel a lot better now. I’m sure the
Army people back home got me marked as an MIA (Missing in Action), and
will be searching for my bones for the next fifty years, but as soon as
I can make it back, they’ll know. On my way to Phnom Penh I went through
Neak Luong, which is, or was, still is I guess, a key river crossing I
found out. I also heard key supplies from Saigon to Phnom Penh were
going through that village, that is why the villagers were so friendly
to me, gave me food, a place to sleep for a few days, and even a few
American dollars. I think they befriended the US as well as the VC
[Vietcong], and whatever other Communist Army’s are playing in this war.
I found out down at the main market place, the big one here in Phnom
Penh, a lot of Russians were there. I played the tourist when I see a
Military uniform that is when I start talking about Angkor Wat, the
archeological site by Phnom Bakheng. Wish I had time to see it but I
don’t, I’ve been real busy. The water front along the Mekong here is
quite busy also. The delta comes back now and then to my mind, and the
firefight, the paddy fields, the vast inland lake as waters coved
everything, but I’m getting on.
I went to the Royal Palace in Phnom Penh today, and there are a lot of
Buddhist monks there, and just outside are, I bet, twenty or more, young
Cambodians without limbs begging. One followed me around the other day
in the Russian Market place; I call it that now, because it is easier
for me to remember. I’m living in the backroom of an antique dealer’s
house. I clean it up for him, and his wife. There is a lot of decadence
in the inner city, cars and bikes piled up, up high like junkyard here
and there, so it seems, here and there. I’ve been now, at this time here
for three months, total time gone I think close to five months. I’ve
acted like a deserter a few times when the Communist of the city looked
strange at me. I think they think I’m on heroin also; a lot of GI’s get
hooked on it, and eventually end up in other cities throughout this
region. I’ve seen a few, talked to them, strung out. They are no good to
go home, and no good for the US Army, and for some reason, Cambodia must
feel they are good enough here, and the Vietcong I think like looking at
them walk around like lost lambs, makes them feel good. Maybe a symbol
of the war, it’s dying slowly. Wish we’d just take the damn North, not a
problem if you cut all the fat away from the political system and just
direct the soldiers to fight and win.
End of the Memories: Now I must tell you the rest of the story.
It was shortly after that day, when the Sergeant meet five real, truly
real tourists that had come in from Bangkok, stayed in Phnom Penh a few
days, and went up to the site at Angkor Wat a few more days, then came
back to Phnom Penh, and were to head on back to Bangkok, thus to the
airport first. They stayed there, standing by a small bus with their
tour guide, when for some reason, of the five tourists the young lady,
unmarried, was pulled out of the group of five by two soldiers, one
Cambodian, and one North Vietnamese. The Sergeant saw this, as they
questioned her, then as they were about to take her (to some unknown
destiny) for further questioning, the protest started with the other
group members—and the two older woman were pushed back by a third
Cambodian, and the two men, but in their mid forties, were told to be
silent or be shot, and a forth soldier showed up with a rifle pointed it
at the two men. The young lady then willingly went, or started to go
with the now, four soldiers. I shall just call them Communist Victor’s
of the city, for lack of a better name.
It was at that moment, that very moment the Sergeant walked up to the
one soldier whom had his hand around the woman’s wrist and said:
“She’s my wife,” that made everyone take notice, and before the soldier
could translate, or figure out what he said, he grabbed his AK47, rifle,
Russian made, and without blinking an eye shot all four soldiers dead. I
guess he must had felt it was better he make his move without anyone
able to identify him, but what took place next was a racing campaign,
with six people in the bus through the streets of the city, and outbound
to towards Saigon, some one hundred and twenty five miles away. It was
reported, they had found a village after running out of gas, and held up
there, but the boarder between South Vietnam and Cambodia, with Saigon
not being that far away. Because they could not move either way, back to
Phnom Penh or toward Saigon, they had to remain where they were. At this
point, the US Government got involved, and the North Vietnam now knew
who the Sergeant was. To them, it was a mocking, and the Cambodian
Government did not want to alarm either side, caught in the middle.
In short, there was a compromise, but it was the Sergeant that surfaced
it. He would give himself up to the North, should the five people be
allowed to be taken out without any combat from any sides, for now there
were a handful of Cambodians outside the village, and the village people
were in fear, and there were several hundred GI’s coming to the rescue
with helicopters, and the North Vietnamese were sending something like
fifteen hundred soldiers to the area, if not more from the well guarded
and overwhelming supply of troops they had along the Ho Chi Minh Trail.
Besides the vast amount of ordnance dropped on this area, in particular
throughout Laos, they had more than enough troops to send to the Mekong
city of Phnom Penh. There were troops also coming in from Laos,
(American Troops) ‘Silver City’, also known as ‘Kilometre 6’ the main
reason was because they were Intelligence Officers and pilots, and the
Sergeant had some information they’d not care for the North Vietnamese
to have.
But all was too late, the bus was filled
with gas before ‘Kilometre 6’, could arrive, and the five tourists were
allowed to move out of the village onto Saigon without hindrance, and
the only report ever given after that was of the young woman saying, “I
looked out the back window, then the side windows, seen
him becoming surrounded by people in uniform, and they were not
Americans, then they tied his hands, and …and they just took him by the
hair and dragged him onto a big truck.” That was the last anyone ever
heard of him.
Author
Dennis Siluk, http://dennissiluk.tripod.com
| ©2006 allcambodia.com |