Blasts of Patriotism

Barlow Crassmont

The Coconut Cafe’s explosion left Hung Minh Nhan’s ears ringing.  

Even from across the street, the loud boom trembled the ground, shattered numerous windows, and knocked several motorbike riders - who happened to pass at the wrong time - off of their vehicles. Severed bodies and corpses of blown up Americans brought a muted smile to Hung’s face, but the sight of his fallen compatriots quickly balanced it into an extended frown.  

They were collateral damage. Quan would agree. I’ll pray for their families, but our fight must go on, regardless of self inflicted wounds.  

He waved the excess smoke in front of his eyes, coughed momentarily, then hopped on his motorbike, and sped down the congested streets of Saigon. The setting sun projected long shadows across the stained concrete, and police sirens mixed with collective panic to create an acute cacophony that lingered into the night. The smell of burned wood and searing flesh followed Hung past the open market, where various vendors, stupefied and wide eyed, stared at the rising smoke in the distance, wondering how many casualties the Nationals’ operation took this time around.  

The Tran Hiep Ha meat shop was empty of patrons when Hung arrived, parking his bike just outside the front window. Inside, beef, chicken, fish and pork were laid out across the wooden table. A thick waisted butcher was thumping a slab of thighs with a cleaver bigger than his oddly shaped head. At Hung’s arrival, he nodded courteously, then motioned with his head to a door by the back entrance.  

“He’s down stairs,” the butcher said. Hung walked past him without replying, and soon found himself in a darkened basement. The sole illumination was a decrepit bulb, hanging from a cracked ceiling, lighting a round table where four locals were amidst a card game. In the center of the table, loose change was piled, resembling twisted, bent bottle caps. No one said a word for a while. At length, one of the men - Quan, an older version of Hung himself, less hair on his balding head - rose. He approached Hung, who stood by the door.  

“How’d it go?” Quan asked. He possessed an air of superiority that Hung found intimidating, but in an admirable sense, rather than an apprehenisve one.  

Hung nodded. “Success.”  

“How many?”  

“Several.”  

“Americans?”  

“Mostly. Twelve, at least.”  

“Well done!” Quan smiled, hugging his little brother.  

“Few locals were there, though…” Hung said, with a frown. 

The other sported a grave countenance, then eventually shrugged. “That’s never our goal, but this fight is complex, requiring much sacrifice. In the end, their dead will outnumber ours, I’m sure of it.”  

“What’s the word from the front?”  

“American troops have invaded Nha Trang and Hoi An. The remaining towns will soon follow.”  

“What do we do?”  

“For now, we wait for further instructions. But first…” Quan took a piece of paper from his shirt’s pocket. On it was a name, and an address, both scribbled in barely comprehensible cursive handwriting.  

“What’s this?” Hung said.  

“Name of an American reporter. He’s arriving tonight at Tan Son Nhat airport. Needs to be picked up and taken to the Caravelle Hotel. Here.” Quan extended the paper and a set of car keys to his younger sibling. “You can use my car. I need to lay low for a little longer.”  

Hung’s eyes did a double take. He hesitated, before unwittingly taking the paper from his brother. “American? Seriously?”  

“I know, I know,” Quan said. “But I thought you could use the money.”  

“If we work for the enemy, how can we ever be true nationalists?”  

Quan put his arm around Hung’s neck, and walked him further away from the round table, where the other trio’s heads were turned, eavesdropping on their conversation with unabashed curiosity. 

“This gig will pay you more in a few days’ time than you can make in six months. Besides, he’s a journalist. Probably knows a lot. Get close to him, engage in small talk, find out as much as you can. Not only will you be rewarded monetarily, you will be doing our movement a great service.”  

Part of Hung wanted nothing to do with the American invaders. Ever since joining the Nationalist movement, he’d detested their very existence, dedicating his life to exterminating as many as possible. But in the wake of their parents’ murder at the hand of visiting soldiers, Quan wasn’t only his elder sibling, but his sole mentor, role model, the remaining father figure. Hung  could hardly say no to the only influential person in his life. So, with grinding teeth, a head  bordering on shaking more so than nodding, Hung took the keys and the information from his brother’s hand. He then bid his brother and his compatriots adieu.  

Light rain glazed the tarmac of the airport’s runway, and Hung watched numerous planes  descend (they all look the same) from an enclosure where several smokers created a thick cloud  that could be sliced with a blade. He waited several minutes, then squashed the remainder of his  cigarette under his sandal, and rushed out to the gate. By the time he got there, the arrivals had  already disembarked the plane. A solitary white man, with a beard-in-progress covering his  tanned face, sporting spectacles that gave him a professorial aura, stood looking around.  

“Robert Neyland?” Hung said, faking a smile. The other nodded, then extended his hand.  Hung had little choice than to shake it at that point, or he would’ve aroused unwanted suspicions.  Neyland had a leather satchel over his left shoulder, and a mediocre suitcase that Hung picked  without asking. 

The ride to the hotel was silent, for the most part. If not for the rattling and squeaking of  the decrepit windshield wipers, and the growling in Hung’s stomach (he couldn’t recall his last  meal), the reticence would’ve been complete. Neyland was scribbling something on his tiny  notebook, and upon putting it away, spoke first.  

“Are you from Saigon?” he asked Hung.  

“No. Was born in Vinh Loi, and moved out here after my parents were murdered.”  “Sorry to hear that. How does city life compare to your hometown?”  

“It’s more crowded. More cars, motorbikes, stray dogs and cats on every corner.”  “Smog, too, I imagine.”  

“Yes,” Hung admitted. “But most is from combat areas, blown over by the southern  winds.”  

“Your English is quite good.”  

“It has to be,” Hung said. “I didn’t want to labor in the rice fields, so I had to learn.”  Hung’s vehicle pulled up to the Caravelle hotel. The front door lights were already  shining bright. Numerous guests meandered at tables rectangular and round, sipping cocktails  and ales while swatting burdensome mosquitos. The American gathered his belongings, but just  before exiting the vehicle, turned to his driver.  

“Are you hungry, by any chance?” As much as Hung wanted to distance himself from his  nation’s foe, he could not ignore his belly’s ongoing cravings. At length, he could do little but  nod.  

The hotel’s restaurant was filled with smoke (it was difficult to find a locale in Saigon  that did not), and an uncomfortable humidity that made one perspire simply from breathing. Robert Neyland sipped a whiskey on the rocks, while Hung helped himself to a bubbly red drink,  sipping it through a thin straw. The waiter had just taken their orders, while in the background, a  band of a quartet of musicians had just taken the small stage.  

“Ironic they’d even play music during such a turbulent period,” Neyland said. “But I  suppose the guests need to be entertained, especially at the prices they’re charging.” He took a  sip of his drink, while Hung contemplated how open he wanted to be with his new client-slash nemesis. “You don’t talk much?”  

Hung shrugged. “Don’t have much to say.”  

“Tell me about your job. How many clients do you pick up in a given week?”  “I don’t usually drive anyone. You’re the first.”  

“Oh?”  

“I work for a butcher shop, delivering meat to various restaurants and cafes,” Hung said.  “Meat, huh? I guess it’s a good way to keep hunger at bay.”  

“I guess.” And yet I’m hungrier than ever since taking the gig. “How long have you been  a newspaper man?”  

“Almost twenty years. Father was a journalist. I followed in his footsteps.”  “Lucky you. Vietnamese journalists can’t report whatever they want. Everything has to  be approved by the state first.”  

“That’s true,” Neyland said. “But lately, even Americans reporting anti-Vietnam war  rhetoric are getting pushback from the U.S. government. It may not be quite at your nation’s  levels of censorship, but anti-patriotism will always rattle the cages of the elite, even in a  democracy such as ours.” 

Hung looked at Neyland with a furrowed brow. He’s putting me on. There is no way this  is true. “Are you saying you condemn your President’s military involvement in our country?”  Neyland was halfway to taking a drink, and could only nod in the affirmative. “Our  leaders are capable of making mistakes, just as anyone. It’s only fair to call out poor leadership,  regardless of one’s allegiance.”  

The waiter brought over two dishes: a thick bloody steak, served with a baked potato, and  a side of green beans. He placed it in front of an anxious Neyland, who began to devour it  immediately. Hung was served with a Mi Quang, a bowl of flat rice noodles, stewing in a rich  aromatic broth.  

“What’s the word on the street about Coconut Cafe?” Neyland asked with a full mouth.  Hung glanced at him momentarily, then shrugged the query away, like it was an inconsequential  event he knew nothing about.  

“Explosions have become more common since your country’s invasion,” Hung said.  “Vietnamese are hardly shocked by such events.”  

“An American among the murdered was a friend of mine,” Neyland said. “Sean Brennan.  The local Quoc Ngu publication has smeared his reputation by stating he was the perpetrator  behind the explosion.”  

Hung continued to slurp and eat his soup, hoping his silence would confirm his ignorance  with the National rebel terrorist group.  

“That is pure madness,” Neyland said. “I knew Brennan. He was a humanist, the kindest  man. He never would’ve taken so many innocent lives. Never. And now your nation will think  and say only the worst of him, based solely on your government’s dishonest propaganda.” 

“Throughout human history, heroes have been praised as villains, and villains as heroes,”  Hung said. “The trend will continue. It’s just unfortunate that such a label fell upon your friend.”  “Yes,” Neyland said. “Most unfortunate.” The rest of their meal was consumed sans  conversation, as the bland tunes of the stage band kept silence at bay.  

It was past midnight when Hung returned to the butchershop. He parked the car next to a  decrepit junk yard, and went inside. The case of meat was already packaged and waiting for him.  The large butcher was still awake. He gave Hung a glance, nodded in his usual fashion, then  watched the young man read the note with instructions, before loading the meat cooler on the  back of his motorbike. In a matter of minutes, Hung was driving down Bui Vien street.  

Soon the rural darkness gave way to illumination of crowded bars, cafes and restaurants,  where white and black foreigners were as abundant as the Vietnamese locals. Women in short  skirts flirted with various customers, negotiating prices in English so broken it led to numerous  misunderstandings, which in turn produced exchanges of shouting and cursing in several  tongues. Hung ignored the verbal mayhem, and pulled up in front of Soul Alley, the bar of his  destination. It was dimly lit, candles in lieu of lights sat on every round table, and little music  other than the muffled conversations were to be heard. Hung carried the rectangular meat cooler  to the front door, but was immediately stopped by the bulky doorman.  

“What you got in there?”  

“Meat delivery, from Tran Hiep Ha.” He opened the lid, and the doorman examined the  slabs of red meat with his bare fingers, lifting this piece, turning over that one, and the like,  before giving him an approving nod. “The kitchen is down the hall to the left.” 

Hung was too glad to finally place the heavy cooler on the kitchen floor, where the chef  signed a yellow sheet with a red pen from his pants’ back pocket. Hung handed him the original,  kept the copy, then returned outside. He mounted his motorbike in a matter of seconds, before  riding off into the hot, humid night.  

He was barely two kilometers away, when a blaring blast in his wake illuminated the  night sky. The young man watched the devastation in his rear view mirror, but the present smile  was not quite as wide as the one he flashed upon Coconut Cafe’s demise. Sirens soon  reverberated from all corners of the city, joining the collective screams that would haunt Hung  even after he’d fallen asleep, rocking in a hammock on Quan’s balcony, overlooking Ben Thanh  market.  

***  

The dirt roads kicked up dust every which way, and the morning sun made him squint while  driving eastbound.  

In the driver’s seat, Robert Neyland held two cups of coffee, and periodically sipped from  one of them. He handed one to Hung, who gladly took it.  

“Thank you,” Hung said.  

“Don’t mention it,” Neyland said. “Besides, it’s early, these roads are rough and uneven. I  need you alert. It’s in my best interest to have as much caffeine in you as possible.” The wink  Neyland sent his way Hung could sense rather than see. I guess they’re not all monsters. But still,  it changes little, in the scheme of things. “How far is the base?”  

“Not far, but on these roads… it could take a while.” They sipped their coffee, and  discussed this and that. Small talk about life, each man’s upbringing, education, relatives, family members, what have you. Neyland showed Hung a photo of his wife and daughter, taken a year  prior during the family’s holiday in Florida.  

“She’ll be nine in November,” the American said with an unabashed smile. “Do you have  children?” Hung shook his head.  

“It’s difficult to start a family in Vietnam today. Whatever the politicians haven’t stolen  from the people, the American soldiers ruined with their invasion.” Neyland watched him with  somber eyes, measuring every expression of his young driver with a newfound awareness.  

“How much would it take?” Neyland asked. “For you to get your own place, settle down,  and the like?”  

Hung chuckled, shaking his head. “Does it matter? It makes little sense buying property  during wartime. Buildings and houses are bound to get demolished.”  

“Well, it can’t last forever. This war. This madness. At some point, our troops will pull  out, and Vietnam will once again have its independence. Either way, I’ll make sure you’re  handsomely rewarded for all you’ve done. I never forget a friend, and you’re the only one I’ve  got in Saigon.” He patted Hung on the shoulder, a touch warmer than a father or brother could  have administered.  

The car soon reached the American military base in the rural outskirts. It consisted of  several wooden barracks, and a few green tents that were torn in several places. Intermittent  gunfire and random explosions resonated in the distance, like loud whispers spoken too loud  from afar. Tanks and multiple jeeps were parked close by, collecting dust under the shady trees.  

Hung waited in the car while Neyland went to interview the army superiors. Tears welled  in the young man’s eyes, product of the journalist’s unexpectedly kind words. No one’s ever offered to help me start a new life, not even Quan, and I worship him like a God. The young  man’s mind soon turned into a maelstrom of confusion. He was no longer sure of his true allegiance. Whom was he serving, and whom was he assisting to murder? Was it possible that his  loyalty had been misplaced? It started as unchecked anger, due to his parents’ murders; his ensuing rage, made in haste, boiled into senseless violence against Yankees and other foreign  occupants, but also against random victims of his own people. Was any of it worth it in the long  run? Especially now, when he’d witnessed that not all invaders were as evil as he’d been told?  

Neyland returned to the car close to an hour later. He appeared agitated, shaking his head,  murmuring under his breath, muted curses resonating through his lips as Hung drove away.  “Everything ok?” the young man asked.  

“Not really. The standard bullshit.”  

“What do you mean?”  

“The end is still long ways off,” Neyland said, sighing. “Unfortunately. I’m sorry, Hung.”  “What… what did they say?”  

“Typical bullshit. They’re engaged in warfare against the resistance, fighting the spread  of communism, and all that bs. But the real reason is as clear as day. American defense  contractors have to get their due, and their weapons need to serve a purpose. What better way  than to annihilate innocent Vietnamese, and as far away from US shores as possible? Most  Americans will never know the true devastation. And 1968 has been the bloodiest year in this  conflict yet. Nearly fifteen thousand of Uncle Sam’s faithful have died since January. Who  knows how many more will join the fallen before it’s all said and done.” Neyland rolled the  window down, and spat out of it. 

The road up ahead was blocked off. A herd of buffalos, led by three elderly farmers, were  amidst crossing the road, and part of the herd had gotten stuck in the muddy river. Their trek  across the dusty path was slow, nearly lethargic, and caused Hung to blow his car horn several  times - albeit fruitlessly. “They’re going as fast as they can,” Neyland said. “We’ve no choice but  to wait.”  

“I guess,” Hung said. But I’ve got somewhere to be, and punctuality is of utmost  importance. The herd eventually crossed, but at this point the sun was way past the meridian, its  shadows projecting towards the east, like ghosts born of premature dusk. Neyland was quieter  than a mouse the rest of the way, his inner somberness affecting his young driver in ways  heretofore unseen.  

He seems more affected by what his own people are doing to us than so many of our  nationals. They eventually pulled up to Caravelle, both sweaty and exhausted by the burdensome  ride.  

“Thanks,” Neyland said. “I leave in two days. I can pay you now, if you’d like, or prior to  my departure.”  

Knowing there are people like you is reward enough. “No rush,” Hung said. “I’ll see you  tomorrow.”  

“You must be hungry. I’m starving myself. Dinner?” He motioned with his head for the  other to follow.  

Hung glanced at his watch, then shook his head hurriedly. “I wish I could, but have to be  somewhere. I’m late as is. See you bright and early.” 

They bid each other adieu, then Hung raced down the congested street, honking his way  through crowds of pedestrians and numerous herds of motorbikes, as if he was speeding through  a wild stampede, one incapable of vacating the open road at sight of larger motorized vehicles. I  hope there’s still time. After all, the delays were not my fault.  

The car’s tires screeched like two wailing cats when he pulled up to the butcher shop. The  front door was locked, and only after knocking on it repeatedly, banging his knuckles on the  glass maniacally, did he draw the presence of the large butcher to appear and let him in.  “What the hell?” Hung cried. “Why did you lock the door?”  

“You’re late.”  

“Just give me the cooler, and let me be on my way.”  

“The cooler’s gone. We’re on a tight schedule, and you were nowhere to be found.”  “What do you mean? Gone where?”  

“To the next target,” the butcher said. “Your brother took it.”  

“What? But he… he can’t —”  

“Yes, I know. But the orders came, and there was no one else. If anyone recognizes him,  he’s toast. And all because of you.” The butcher spat the most revolting loogie Hung could recall  seeing. It nearly made his stomach turn.  

“Where is Quan’s delivery?” Hung asked.  

“A hotel affluent with foreigners, especially Americans.”  

The words stung Hung’s conscience like a half dozen asian hornets. He hoped, he prayed,  he begged his inner deity the place in question wasn’t the one he dreaded. “Which one?” 

The big butcher chuckled, then mumbled the name in a raspy voice. It scratched his  membrane, similar to a handful of broken glass rubbed against it.  

Shit. “But I thought that place was off limits!”  

“So did we,” the butcher said. “But like I said, when orders come from above, we  follow.”  

Hung drove his motorbike with a fervor of a murderous maniac, one no longer caring  about tomorrow - or even the ensuing minute. He sped past innocent civilians, giving little mind  to their safety. He zig-zagged around vehicles large and small, ignored whistles from numerous  traffic controllers who pointed his way, and gave no mind to those who shouted the most  offensive curses to his careless driving.  

By the time he arrived at Carevelle’s front door, his sweaty shirt was drenched, he  breathed like a man fleeing a murderous mob, and his eyes were two bulging marbles, nearly  sprouting out of his head. In a sprint faster than that of the fastest hare racing past the slower  tortoise, he ran past several bellhops, nearly leapt across the concierge desk, until he found  himself in the kitchen, all the way down the back hallway. Once there, his eyes frantically searched for the familiar cooler. Left, right, up, down: there were only the kitchen staff, staring at  him with amazed wonderment.  

“Where is the meat cooler?” Hung cried. “It was delivered earlier.”  

The solitary chef stepped up, apprehension trembling in his anxious face. He pointed to the corner of the room. Hung instantly recognized the box. There must still be time. He picked it up, and gradually stumbled out of the kitchen. The staff stared at him in stupefied wonder,  shaking their heads and looking at each other periodically.  

Hung was barely out of the front door, when he heard the familiar tick-tocking.  Oh, shit!  

He sprang forward, landing on the semi-heavy cooler, throwing his body across it, just before it exploded past the hotel’s sidewalk. The ensuing boom was deafening, coloring anything in its vicinity with an abundance of red - and several body parts of Hung Minh Nhan. 

***  

The ensuing week’s Washington Post’s headline read: AN UNLIKELY HERO: BRAVE YOUTH SACRIFICES HIMSELF TO SAVE HIS SAIGONESE CITIZENS, AND SEVERAL AMERICANS.  

Beneath the capitalized text was Hung Minh Nhan’s photo. In it, he was smiling, his eyes two sparkling balls of jubilated glee. The article further wrote, “Even during such divisive times, Vietnam’s own are capable of otherworldly selflessness. Americans can only dream of such admirable courage.” -ROBERT NEYLAND, reporter.

Barlow Crassmont has lived in the USA, Eastern Europe, Middle East and China. When not teaching or writing, he dabbles in juggling, solving the Rubik’s Cube, and learning other languages. He has been published by British Science Fiction Association, Wilderness House Literary Review, Ghost City Press, and in the upcoming 41st anthology of Writers of the Future.