The Annapolis Hotel

I

Fifteen minutes new in Saigon, raw green, soaked in summer southeast Asian tropical sweat, soaked in ideal dreams, they called me to the Front Bunker Watch, twenty four hour flight from San Frisco, ten minute shower, five minute sandwich, now stand in front of the red-headed petty officer handing me a thirty caliber rifle, it was hot and humid June in the war zone, most of my sweat was not from the heat …

 “I don’t know how to fire that piece,” I warned, “They didn’t send me to Survival School—just flew me here from Memphis.”  He took the rifle back and said:  “Do this & do this & do this.”, then handed it back to me.  I was trying to remember the second “do this” when he told me my bunker was outside the wire, if any Vietnamese (but he didn't say the respectful word-he used a racial slur) if any racial slur stopped in front of the sandbagged bunker, in front of twenty yards of concertina wire, in front of the Annapolis Hotel I was to say “Get out of here!” in Vietnamese. 

 I asked what to do if they didn’t leave and he said to say “Get the f out of here!”, in Vietnamese. 

 “What do I do if they don’t leave after that?”  I asked with sweat pouring down my neck, into my eyes, down my arms, and down my resolve.

 “Shoot ‘em.”  he said and then he led me to the bunker.

 I thought, “This is not what I signed up for; my dream was to stop dominoes from falling, make the world safe for democracy, serve my country by being a good ambassador, not curse human beings I didn’t know, or didn’t know if they were combatants or civilians, or shoot them, THIS IS NOT WHAT I SIGNED UP FOR” I stressed walking into the hot tropical sun, into the hot colonial war, towards the bunker that sandbagged my dreams…

 II

  The street was bustling with bicycles, motorbikes, pedicabs, pedestrian hawkers of cheap souvenirs, arms circled by wrist watches imitating name brands and Asian nick nacks; beautiful, petite women with long middle of the back or tied back black shiny hair,  men, women, and children war-maimed, missing arms, missing legs, missing out—all looking thin and hungry—hurrying somewhere, going nowhere…

  I kept trying to remember how to fire the rifle, I, who had never seen a rifle range or a weapons class—he said do this & do this & do this…

  Some time later, my shirt soaked with sweat, I remembered the second “do this” and walked through the firing of the rifle in my mind; beautiful women, fragile, detached, distant, cautious, measured, walked by in white silk pants and split-tailed tunics, perfect doll faces walked by, some singly, some hand-in-hand with a doll-faced friend,

  The air burned danger, the air burned despair, minicabs burdened down with full loads of miniature yellow/copper human beings, a black toothed, black pajama clad grandma chewed betel nuts, lead an emaciated goat limping from the weight of the war —the weight of terror—the weight of deprivation…

  The smell of diesel, the smell of broken concrete, the smell of urine, the smell of sweat, the smell of dung, the smell of death—do this & do this & do this—revolved in my mind like a lights out ferris wheel stress-powered by electric fear driving my eyes from right to left, left to right, and back again, rooftop to street, street to rooftop, rooftop to sky and back again repeating the new, warning Vietnamese, the new cursing Vietnamese— and then it started…

 III

  He was an ancient grandpa, old and thin, yet thin is to weak a word to describe him, more like skin and bones and shallow, sunken eyes; he couldn’t have weighed more than 90 pounds; riding a rusty bike with rusty spokes and rusty chain, he stopped ten yards from me, sharp to my left, inches from the entrance to the hotel and the concertina wire, straw baskets stacked twelve high, balanced on the back of the rusty black bike; he dismounted, pushed at the kickstand with sandaled foot, walked to the rear of the bike—it happened too fast—began to dig through the bottom basket—it happened so fast—I did what I was ordered to do:

  “Papa San, didi!”, I shouted as loud as I could.  He turned, held one finger up and bowed—just a moment please—a reasonable request, and returned to digging in his basket; but this was war and I had my orders.

  “Papa San, didi mou!” I shouted louder than the first.  He winced at the profanity turned again, held one finger up bowing a little deeper— please sir one moment if you will—but this was war and I had my orders—do this & do this & do this, the words, the orders, now turning as a blur, a lights out ferris wheel in my rushing thoughts mind…

  I aimed the rifle at him, his back was to me when I bellowed,

“Papa San, didi f-ing mou!”, he turned and I saw raw fear in his eyes, diplomacy burned in fear flames, terror in his eyes burned seeds of hate tainting the image of America, forever creating ugly the image of Americans, of America, my heart, my heart, my truth heart countermanded the war orders, my heart light flooded light on the ferris wheel:

Don’t do this, & don’t do this, and for God’s sake, don’t do this, don’t shoot your Grandpa…

  But he had already leapt through the air, like a man half his age, landing hard on his commerce bike sweeping the kickstand with a windmilling, sandaled heel, pedaling away in a frenzy of fear to the rapid beating of my heart.

IV

  Two weeks later I was on the Mekong River at my duty station, LST 905, Large Slow Target Madera County, a new friend called to me, wanted to know if I had seen the Stars & Stripes, the military newspaper? I said I hadn’t, “Check out the story on the back page.”, he seemed oddly amused, a wry in-country bitter irony smile with chagrin, a smile for the surreal, sardonic complexities of war.

  I found the rag and read that the front bunker watch at the Annapolis Hotel in Saigon, the young sailor who had my watch, the green seaman who was where I was two weeks before, all of his bunker, all of the concertina wire, along with half the hotel, along with two black pajamaed Vietcong, had been blown away by a satchel charge thrown from the back of a motorbike.

  I missed my death by two weeks…

  The air was wet with sweat and death as it always was in the war Nam, the air went still as I read the story a second time; what about this young man who died?  Was he in- country for mere minutes like myself?  Was he taught the insulting warning curse like me?  Was he trying to remember do this & do this & do this? 

  And the two Viet Cong who died that day?  They were my contemporaries, did the bicycle basket grandpa tell them about being threatened and insulted?  Were they his sons, grandsons, cousins, relatives?  And what did all three men die for, die so young for?

  There were no dominoes falling that day in front of the Annapolis Hotel, only blood and bloody body parts and body pieces falling to the ground, democracy was not safer because three youths died, democracy was not reachable for the three, nor touch, nor love, nor breath, democracy was dead for the three, no dominoes falling, only death falling that day in June of 1969, almost 42 years ago, death falling like shadow cloud monsoon rains; death falling like the executioners blade―

composers of the falling dominoes myth snickered in the shadows―

laughter from the living dead―

laughter from impunity …

Jim Moreno, Spring 2010