LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

French never built one. Centuries of conflicts have scarred the weary earth of France and spawned plenty of memorials, but none for Indochina. What to do?

      Digging deep, I recalled Maya Lin had mentioned a memorial outside Paris, on a hill near the tiny town of Thiepval in Picardie. World War One, but still. She had seen slides of it in an architecture class and responded strongly to them.

      A few days later, I boarded a train at the Gare du Nord for Amiens, about 90 minutes away, then hired a taxi for the few remaining miles. The taxi driver told me the original Thiepval had been destroyed in the war, oblitérée totalement, then rebuilt nearby. When we were perhaps a hundred yards from the monument I told the driver to let me out. I walked the rest of the way, across a broad expanse of grass toward the overwhelming construct that rose up in front of me. Horrible! Monstrous!

      Two side arches and a center arch framed a void running the entire length of the building. Tunnels. Not even a proper building. Whatever it was, it screamed – War Destroys! 72,000 British and South African names, men who perished in the brutal battles of the Somme, men with no known grave. A tiny cemetery lies at its foot, the British graves marked by flat limestone slabs, “a soldier of the great war, known to God.” For the French, rough concrete crosses and bronze plaques saying simply, “Inconnu.” Normandy, this is not. This is awful... this is real.

      Back in the taxi, my composure regained, I told the driver to drive on, to the village of Albert, twenty-five miles away. As we went I listened to his version of Nôtre Dame des Brebières. Ruined by German artillery, the shell of the basilica remained intact, its Virgin and Christ Child atop the steeple but bent over the street at a severe angle. Some said the Virgin was offering her son as a sacrifice to end the slaughter. Others claimed she had caught him, sparing him the fate of the soldiers below in the street. Still others, that crazed by the fighting she meant to destroy herself and her son. A superstition held that when the statue fell the war would end, but the side bringing it down would be the loser. When the British abandoned the town to the Germans they destroyed the tower, statue and all, to deny the enemy an observation post. At the rebuilt church, its steeple and madonna restored, I saw that the stone-trimmed red brick, the three portals of its facade, had indeed inspired the monument. And I wondered how that prediction, or curse, was working its way through history.

      On the train, I scribbled my story maniacally, my hand unable to keep up. I finished just as we pulled into the station, closing with a comparison between the First War and our Vietnam. Both born of error and fed by arrogance, I said, producing in 1918 a weary satisfaction, for the Allies, that is, but crowned by the colossal misapprehension that we had fought the war to end all wars. America’s 1975, marked by shame and accusation. And how different, both, from the Second War we remember as in a just cause, though as I have come to appreciate, indelibly marred by its coda.

      Not until 1993 would France raise an Indochina War memorial, in Frejus, an old Roman town on the Mediterranean coast a few miles from Nice. Then again, we shouldn’t be too hard on the French. It was not until 1995 that America saw fit to remember Korea, and only in September 2001 did we break ground on a memorial to those who fell in the Second War. Can you believe that? September 2001.

      8. Sad, Sadder, Saddest

      EIGHT FORTY-FIVE AND JONATHAN IS LATE. I’ve been here since seven, trying to bring some order to my last three weeks’ efforts. I feel disquieted, uneasy. Had dinner last night at a restaurant in the neighborhood, sat at the bar making better use of their hospitality than I should have. While I wait, I look over my notes. Paul’s 60 Minutes program, what a coup! All unworthy thoughts are put aside. I am happy for him, and considering everything, I haven’t done so badly myself. But the two are not related – that’s the point.

      At nine-fifteen Jonathan rolls in. “Sorry. I overslept.”

      He is tanned, looks like he just stepped out of a travel poster. He tosses his briefcase on the table and looks around. “Looks the same here,” he grins. “You took some time off?”

      I am not in the mood for this. “What I did may lack excitement, but at least one of us accomplished something.”

      “Ouch,” he says, putting an arm around my shoulder. “But seriously, Gus, it’s good to see you, good to be back.”

      “What did you find out?” I’m resigned to spending the day on his adventure.

      He sits down. “I’ll start by telling you about Roberto.”

      “Okay.”

      “One of the more impressive people I’ve ever met, once you get to know him. He kind of sneaks up on you.”

      “Good for his line of work.”

      “Exactly. He’s short and wiry, speaks fluent Arabic, Spanish, I don’t know what else. He looks like something out of West Side Story – how the Army lets him get away with that I don’t know, maybe it helps. I met him the first night near the trailer park I was staying at. By the way, my credentials worked like a charm.”

      “The Green Zone. Is it the Fortress America they say?”

      Jonathan rolls his eyes. “You see other uniforms but it’s American turf, no question. Not for nothing do they call it the Emerald Palace. There are plenty of locals too – translators, secretaries, and the menial stuff, of course.”

      “Any rocket attacks while you were there?”

      “Nothing that close. The false alarms are worse, they make you edgy the whole time. But back to Roberto. He insisted we couldn’t be seen together. I stayed in a trailer with some other reporters but I kept to my cover story, of course.”

      “Which was?”

      “Civilian contractors, how they’re into traditionally military functions, security, transportation, food, that sort of thing. A little more research, I can put together a decent article. Roberto came up with the idea – it gave me an excuse to interview Nita.”

      “Garrison. You’ll finish this article first.”

      “Of course. First things first.”

      “What about ETVN?”

      “I met them the second day. Mike Habbal from D.C. and an Egyptian who heads their Middle East bureau. I was disappointed how little they knew – about Paul’s death, that is. Day-to-day they’re fine. They were relying on me to point them in some direction.”

      “What’s wrong with that? They paid for your ticket, after all.”

      “I generated enough leads to keep them happy. But the General was the prize and I kept him to myself.”

      “Tell me about him.”

      “Okay, but first Nita.”

      “Jonathan, at this rate we’ll be here all week.” I lean back in my chair. “All right. Why don’t I just step aside and let you run with it.”

      He reaches in his briefcase and lifts out a folder. “Give me a minute,” he says, sorting through his papers. “I’ll lay it all out for you.”

      * * * * * * *

      I FOUND MYSELF AT LOOSE ENDS. Part burnout, but mostly that evil twin to my healing Wall. I tried not to dwell on things, but I have to tell you, in the small hours of the second night I found myself sitting up in bed, sobbing. “Be quiet,” Diane mumbled, turning over and pulling the pillow over her head, “you’ll wake the kids.”

      Damnit, I thought, one of these days I will wake the kids, tell them what’s really going on. I went out to the living room and sat on the sofa, reconstructing my dream. I was at Thiepval, that much I remembered... then it started to come back. As I passed under the arch I heard a growl and the pillars began to shake. I turned and rushed across the grass toward the taxi – now it was painted army green. Looking back, I saw the monument chasing me, with these gigantic strides. The ground shook. I ran faster but I fell. Now it’s standing over me. On my back I watched

Скачать книгу