For Two Cows I Ain't Half-Bad: the memoir of a young girl in the Vietnam War Read online

  For Two Cows I Ain’t Half Bad

  by

  Sam and Bac thi Eaton

  For Two Cows I Ain’t Half Bad

  © 1990 by Sam Eaton and Bac thi Eaton.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

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  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to those that we tried to protect, people who live in places like Krum, and Denton, Texas; people who live in places like An Hoa, and An Long, Viet Nam.

  Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Foreword

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  It speaks volumes about the American system that a junior NCO and his third-grade drop-out wife can declare themselves expert on one of the most significant political events in the second half of the twentieth-century, and have someone of the expertise and stature of Maj. Gen. McKinnon write such an outrageously positive foreword. Even more important than the foreword was his wholehearted belief in the merit of our work.

  Helen Reagin-Smith, Jim Mitchell, Patrick Henderson, and Laurie Rowell have worked extremely hard to teach us the rudiments of the writing craft. What we didn’t learn was not their fault.

  Tom Slizewski (Soldier of Fortune), Jim Shultz (Gung-Ho), and Maranda Martin (Playboy) were “beyond the call of duty” encouraging and helpful, whether buying or rejecting what is a woman’s story for men’s magazines. Ironically, women’s magazines were totally unimpressed by my wife’s story.

  Foreword

  He who knows himself, and knows his enemy, wins without danger.

  Sun-tzu

  Bac Eaton’s story is a graphic picture of the struggles of a young Vietnamese girl and her family in war-torn Vietnam. It should be required reading for all who served there, as well as their families and friends. It explains in simple yet powerful language the forces that were acting on the Vietnamese nation, while we, the United States, were so closely involved. These forces, religious, ethnic, political, and always life-threatening, were never fully understood by the Americans. Whether we were serving in Vietnam, had already served there, or were directing the conflict from Washington, D. C., we never knew what we were facing. This failure to understand made our efforts to meld the South Vietnamese people into an effective cohesive force an exercise in futility.

  In a simple but compelling way the author describes the harsh realities of life in the hell of Vietnam. It is miraculous that anyone could maintain any kind of day to day existence much less dream of the future under these conditions. Bac is living proof of the spirit of the South Vietnamese people and their ability to surmount overwhelming odds.

  Robert N Mackinnon

  Maj. Gen. USA Retired

  Prologue

  To measure the depth of the ocean is easy

  To measure the length of a river is simple

  To measure the soul of a man, that is difficult

  (old Vietnamese proverb)

  Hanada International Airport Japan, Dec. 1972

  Why in the Hell am I, a reasonably sane twenty-eight year old career NCO with three Viet Nam tours to my credit, sitting at the Air Viet Nam gate? I’m in the departure lounge, smelling my own fear, waiting to board a 727 back to Saigon. The war is probably lost. Other Americans, if they have any sense, have already gone home.

  Even dumber than going back, I’m going back in direct violation of a written order straight from the Pentagon. I went through channels all the way up to the Pentagon then back down to the Defense Attache Office Viet Nam for permission to return legally. Permission denied. The U.S. Army didn’t want to let any sailors mess up their war by marrying old girlfriends, even if Bac had just given birth to my baby.

  The fact that I have played by their rules, and gone through proper channels for over a year, trying to marry her legally didn’t cut any ice.

  It wasn’t too late for me to get smart. The Defense Attache Office (DAO) Viet Nam had tried to help. That DAO Army Captain did volunteer to help me get Bac and our baby out of Viet Nam. He sounded sincere, I believe him, and I can still back out. It isn’t even backing out, It’s just being smart. I like the Navy. How will it help Bac to ruin my career? Worse, what good am I to Bac if I’m in prison, or dead?

  My friends have been making side bets on whether or not I live to come back. C.T., my best friend, swears he is betting even money on my side. Good man, C.T. He has been to Viet Nam. He knows that as long as I stay in Saigon, I am just as safe as if I stay in church. Well, almost.

  Screw his even-money bet. Bac is down in the Delta, about two klicks this side of the Cambodian border. The baby should be about two weeks old. There are too many miles of bad, dangerous road between Bac’s home and Saigon, for Bac and our baby to travel. It will be weeks before they are in condition to meet me in Saigon. At a time like this a woman needs her man. I’ve got to go to them.

  Or do I? I can go to Bangkok and have a ball. The last time I was in Thailand, I had rented two women at the same time. I could visit Bac and the baby later, when they could meet me in Saigon, when it was safe. Then! Then, out of control, my mind turns back to Bac.

  Chapter 1

  An cay nao. Rau cay nay.

  You always protect the tree that gives you good fruit.

  (old Vietnamese proverb)

  Bai Cham hamlet, Kien Phoung province, Viet Nam

  I knew what a doctor was. I’d met my first American when I was twelve, and worked for the American Navy for two years. The unborn child inside me was half-American. I knew all about foreign things like doctors. Still, half-American or not, my child would be born the traditional way.

  With the Americans gone, a doctor was out of the question.

  The nearest doctor was four hours away over rough, dangerous terrain. Anyone attempting to travel the roads at night risked imprisonment or execution by either the VC or the Saigon Army, whichever caught the traveler first.

  With the Americans gone, doctors were for the very rich, like Americans, like my husband. Not that I was poor–my husband bought me for two cows. Two cows represented incredible, impossible wealth for a poor widow’s daughter, even if she had the good fortune to graduate from the third grade. It was a remarkable price, more than any other husband in the village paid for his wife.

  Superstitious? Yes, I am. I’m oriental. I’ve witnessed incredible happenings. God, someone or something, must take an interest in human affairs. In Asia we believe the old wisd
oms, what some call superstition. Vang, one of my two very special cows, is a perfect example.

  Vang gave birth to her first golden-colored calf the same day that I gave birth to my first beautiful, blue-eyed, golden-skinned daughter.

  That morning was wonderful in other ways, too. The sunshine splashed over the surface of the rippling, silvery water between green, sandy banks. A clean morning breeze trailed softly over the autumn trees. Fallen leaves slept in the hazy October dew. A glorious Vietnamese Mekong Delta morning.

  Like every other morning, I walked slowly down to the river bank to check my two cows. Vang (gold) and Bong (flower), were contentedly eating the grass under the mango tree where they were chained. They were in their ninth month of pregnancy, as I was.

  Thank God for that. If we had to carry our babies for twelve months like the water buffalo, there would be no cow or human babies born. At least, not if other mothers felt as miserable I did.

  After I got there, Vang started crying, “Boooo.”

  I could tell by her tone that it was her time.

  A moment later, it was even more obvious. There was no time for me to get help. I tried gently to pull the calf out by two of its tiny feet. Vang pushed. No luck.

  In my condition, it took a few minutes to gather my strength to pull harder. The calf came out. Calf and I both tumbled to the ground on top of some musty smelling old hay.

  Vang looked weary, but she turned and started caring for her calf. I stayed to help. We were both happy to see the beautiful girl calf. I named her Sang (bright shining light).

  After Sang tried to stand several times, she finally got up, went to her mother and took her first drink of milk. I looked at her precious face and softly said, “I’m so glad you belong to me, little one.”

  I should have gone home to tell my family then that we now had three cows. Three. Unbelievable wealth.

  My two sisters, younger brother, and I lived with our parents–two old widowed women, Mom and Grandmother. The big family house was burned down during the Viet Minh-Hoa Hao War twenty years before, when the family’s men were killed. We were living the small house that I built three years before when I first worked for the Americans, a two-room shack. Frames and beams were bamboo, laboriously cut by hand. Palm thatch covered the walls and roof.

  I should have gone home right away, but instead I spent most of the day on the river bank with my new cow. Until I felt the pain inside myself. I walked home as the pain grew worse. My family sent Uncle Tam on his Honda motorcycle to bring the midwife. No one in the village was rich enough to own a car.

  The sun was setting. The woods had already filled with shadows. A cool October breeze blew in the tiny window as I sat waiting for Ut, the midwife to arrive.

  Eventually she came. I’d seen Ut kill one of my older sister’s babies to save my sister’s life. I’d also seen her accidentally kill one of my mother’s babies. I’d worked for an American Navy doctor long enough to appreciate modern medicine. But she was the best midwife in the village, and an old-fashioned, country midwife is better than no one.

  As soon as my uncle carried her small, old, shabby medicine bag into the house, grandmother served the traditional hot tea and sweet cakes. Buddhists traditionally burn incense and a chicken head to welcome the midwife to the home of the family of a woman in labor. After finishing the ceremony, Ut came to the back room where, like Vang earlier, I was now crying for help.

  “Well, well, you look old enough to take the pain. How old are you, child?” Ut asked, pulling a hot water bottle out of the bag, then giving me a piece of pure black Chinese medicine from a larger block. “Put this in your mouth.”

  “I’m nineteen. Please help me, and my husband will repay you. You must save my baby. If you can’t, I want to die for my baby to live. I promised my husband that I’d save our baby.”

  “That is poor, foolish talk. If the mother lives, then she will have another chance. I try to save as many lives as my ability allows. I may not be able to read or write, but I have sixty years’ experience at my job. I’ve saved many lives. Lost many, too. I believe it’s better for the child to die than the mother, if it comes to that choice. Besides, life and death are up to God.”

  “Please try.”

  “I always try, honey. Is your husband an officer?”

  “He is American Navy, and rich.”

  “An American, he must be a millionaire,” Ut said, a smile lighting her old face.

  “That’s not why I want my baby to live. Without my husband Sam’s help, my family would be dead now. He’s my hero. I do love him. He said he’ll be back for me. I’ll wait, even if it takes my whole life.”

  “That’s good, child. Now, lie down and let me check.”

  I cried. At that point I didn’t even care if VC spies, attracted by the noise, investigated and discovered my half-American and killed both of us. Miserable, hungry and hot, even in the cool October night, I cried for Sam to come help me, “Oi! Troi oi. Chet toi roi.”

  “Calm down baby, the VC will hear you,” Mom said softly.

  “I don’t care. It hurts too bad.”

  “I know, honey, I know,” Mom whispered, wiping my face with a cool cloth.

  Grandmother kept a white candle burning in the family altar in the middle of the house. She held on to her rosary beads, a worried look on her face as she sat with the other women.

  “Mom, I feel like pushing,” I cried.

  “Good. That’s a good girl,” the midwife said.

  I looked at the clock. It was almost one o’clock when they took me out into the back yard next to the pig pen, where Mom washes her dishes. Vietnamese Christians believed that it was unlucky for a wife who hasn’t had a Church marriage party to give birth inside her parent’s home. Buddhists had similar superstitions. At that moment I didn’t care where I was.

  My family had hung an old straw mat to form three walls and placed a bright oil lamp inside. Mother held onto my head, and three other women were with me.

  “Keep pushing hard. More–more!” Ut yelled.

  “I’m trying, just let me rest for while,” I panted. I couldn’t seem to catch my breath.

  “No child, it’s too dangerous to stop now.”

  “I saw the baby’s hair,” another woman shouted.

  “Take a deep breath. Hold down. Push. Push harder,” they screamed.

  My body grew rigid with each push. Pain screeched through me.

  “It’s no use. She’s too weak, can’t push. The baby’s too big for her.”

  “Do something,” Mom cried. “Don’t let my baby die.”

  “Help! Anyone. Help! Help us, please!” Mom cried.

  Ut spoke. “She and the child will die if the baby does not come soon. Damn! I have no more power.”

  I was exhausted. My breath grew even shorter. I was about to give up.

  I became aware of my grandmother’s voice, clear and strong as always. “Jesus, Mary, Joseph, Three Christian Gods, please help my granddaughter. Her life is in danger, out in the middle of the river with the typhoon wind. Please bring her back to the river bank. I beg you my mighty God.” The other women’s voices joined in, and I grew even more scared. Those words were only for those on death’s doorstep.

  “With this holy oil and God’s power we will save his child from the evil. God is good,” the other women chanted. “God is good . . .” the sound of my grandmother’s chants came near me.

  “Rub this oil around the baby’s hair and try with your finger carefully around baby head,” Grandmother instructed the midwife.

  My grandmother seemed to have taken over. A flicker of hope rose in me. Grandmother could do anything.

  “Bac, don’t go sleep. Drink this holy water,” she ordered, pouring it in my mouth. “Listen to me. Push harder.”

  I tried my best, again.

  “Go, go, go! Don’t stop!” the women shouted.

  “The baby is out!” the midwife yelled. “Good, good.”

  I grew limp. My body
felt heavy and numb, but at least I was able to start breathing normally.

  Until Mom cried, “Oh God, please. No! No! She is the family saver.”

  Shocked, I turned and watched as Ut pulled the baby out of the pan of water. It looked so silent and very pale.

  I was too tired to do anything but sob, “Mary, mother of God, please bring my child back.”

  Ut looked grim as she turned the baby upside down and slapped her rear again and again. Everyone held their breath as they watched.

  Finally, the baby cried out, “Nhoa, ngoa.”

  Everyone’s breath escaped in a single “Whoosh,” and then they all laughed and smiled and nodded at each other.

  The baby wailed again and again until she’d screamed herself out.

  “Thank you, God, for bringing us to shore,” I said–or perhaps thought. I passed out as they were helping me back into the house.

  I woke up lying on a small cot. Under the bamboo bed a fire was burning–black charcoal in a pot. I had to lie on my belly over the fire.

  Then Mom lay my baby, wrapped in an old black dress covering her from head to toe and curling around her face, by my pillow. I still felt weak, but I turned and looked at my baby’s face. She was peacefully sleeping. I gently removed the cover from her head.

  I cheered silently, “Oh, you pretty little one. I love you.” I was checking her fingers and toes to see if she had all of them when Mom came back in.

  “Oh my. God be merciful. Forgive her,” she cried, as she rushed to wrap the baby up.

  “Bac, don’t ever do that again. The Evil must not see her or she will die.”

  “What?”

  “The child is beautiful. Most children like that don’t live,” she whispered. “The ancestors like to take the beautiful ones with them for angel guards. That is why each time a pretty baby goes out of the house, the mother takes carbon black from the bottom of cooking pot and puts it on the baby’s forehead. No stranger can see the baby until she is baptized. Then the evil ancestors may leave her alone.”