The battle had only been over for a couple of hours but the streets were already full of people.
A group of begging children had immediately made its way to Trautman and surrounded him, jumping all around. The two children who were much younger than the others were bare-naked.
“Okei, okei. Amerika okei”
Their small hands stretched outtowards the colonel while some pulled on his uniform's sleeves as he walked down the road.
Although Trautman ignored their requests, he couldn't help but look at them.
Whether it was the famine, disease or the war itself, most of those children would have died before they reached the age of seven.
One of them already had a swollen belly, which meant that he was highly malnourished.
In no more than a few days, that child would have slipped into a downward spiral of sleepiness and delirium, that always and inevitably ended in death.
Trautman knew there wasn’t anything he could do about it.
Even if he tried taking care of him, a thousand others would end up the same way. In the end, there was scarcely anything to do to stop it.
Therefore, what was the point in saving only one?
There were other ways to get over guilt.
No one can save the whole world on his own at least not in this lifetime anyway.
Maybe in the next one, but certainly not in this one.
Trautman consequently simply went on disregarding them as he headed towards the city limits.
Calm down – he thought to himself.
You’re just irate so calm down.
Think straight.
***
As he got further and further from the base, the streets filled with pass-byers, beggars, people on bikes and sometimes, there was even the occasional U.S. jeep with ARVN or American soldiers in them.
Don't do it – said a voice in his head, as he stared into the crowd through lost eyes.
Control yourself because if you don’t you’ll blow everything.
If you get yourself killed, everything you’ve done so far will go up on smoke.
Despite it all, Trautman continued through the crowd and, eventually in the midst of all those people, the occasional Vietcong face began popping up right in front of him.
They were all male, in their twenties or thirties and all had the same Vietcong style haircut. Their skinny bodies tended to have a straight and firm martial arts posture along with a very attentive stare.
There was no mistaking them.
The first one Trautman came across was so close when they passed each other that he could have reached out and touched him.
Those sons of bitches – he thought angrily.
Walking out in the open just like that.
But it’s not like he could basically shoot them in the head with all those people around in cold blood,
As he went along his way, some Vietnamese respectfully moved out of his path, while others quickly disappeared back into the crowd preferring not to be seen at all. There were a selected few however, that stayed exactly where they were, staring at Trautman with hate filled eyes and a subsequent lack of interest in hiding it.
Trautman continued on his way like he hadn’t noticed.
At a quick pace, he passed through the dangerous crowd for a while longer and only stopped when he finally got to his destination.
***
The Blue-Moon Bar was a bleak, one storey building, with a wooden sign that had been painted by hand.
It was practically empty inside and that day it looked more worn down than usual thanks to the light of day coming in through the windows. In a corner of the room, there were two young prostitutes who were both completely nude on top and thin enough to seem malnourished.
The two girls just laid there in a state of drowsiness, obviously high on opium, even if it was only morning. They were probably still high from the night before.
Trautman sat down at the bar, took his beret off and ordered a drink in Vietnamese.
A guy popped out from behind the back door.
He came in, poured the colonel a drink, furtively looked around for any trouble and quickly disappeared again.
Trautman sipped his drink alone in silence as he waited.
He knew he was being watched.
In fact, only shortly thereafter, a Vietnamese made his way through the same back door.
He was gangly, taller than the average Vietnamese was and past his prime.
The man's forehead was high and sweaty, and there was oily hair coming down on it.
His eyes were as thin as slits while his facial features were rock hard.
Trautman didn’t bother looking up from his glass.
“Your information was wrong, Lao” he said.
In a shrill and somewhat alarmed voice, the man started babbling incoherently, but when Trautman looked up at him he stopped point blank.
“The Vietcong were there, no? Information right” Lao said.
“No, no...” said Trautman shaking his head.
Then he added:
“First of all, there were two attacks, not one like you said”
“Vietcong’s team were here. I told you they were!”
“No Lao, no... They weren’t Vietcong's team like you said, but a whole damn battalion and they weren’t the damn Vietcong at all, but North Vietnamese regulars”
Trautman then leaned a bit over the bar towards Lao, and this time his eyes were the ones full of hate.
“We lost a lot of men because of you Lao”
The Vietnamese backed up all the way to the wall until his shoulders was up against it
“You, You...” he said stuttering.
“You lost men? Vietnam lost men every day! And much more than Amerika! I was right! You know nothing about Vietnam! NOTHING!”
From the corner of his eye, Trautman noticed the two prostitutes get up and disappear, and he knew exactly what that meant.
Then Lao added:
“You! Stupid American full of medals come here, fuck women, smoke opium and you think you understand my information!”
“I don't 'fuck women or smoke opium', Lao. Now you listen to me...”
“Then you fuck also for free if you want, but I no work for Vietcong! No! I work for those paying me! You pay me and I gave you information!”
“Exactly, Lao... You work for whoever pays you, and that was a trap”
Lao moved his head back in an attempt to catch his breath while Trautman, who was still on the other side of the bar, kept his eyes on him.
In the South-East-Asian way of life, money was money no matter what, so selling information was a job like any other, and selling to both the Americans and the Vietcong simultaneously was normal, and there was no shame in doing it.
By that time however, the Vietnamese knew fully well that the Americans didn’t see it the same way.
They didn’t understand it, but they knew it.
The colonel in particular had made a name for himself citywide being especially harsh when it came time to enforce it.
That's why, after a long pause, Lao said in a feeble voice:
“No trap... I never betray my friend Trautman”
Nevertheless, he was lying, which is why Trautman looked straight into his yes.
“No, man... I know you did, Lao. You took money from both of us, me and them, but the information you gave me was distorted”
“No...”
“Oh yes it was, Lao”
Under the counter and out of Lao’s sight, Trautman ever so slightly lifted the holster carrying his 1911, to keep from shooting himself in the leg once he got around to pulling the trigger.
Not wanting to make a sound loading, he raised the hammer just as slowly too.
“How much did they pay you Lao?” Trautman said.
“I no betrayed”
At this point they stared at each other motionless.
They didn’t move a muscle until Lao did something unexpectedly, taking Trautman by surprise.
Lao smiled.
With a smile, he said
“Trautman friend....”
Trautman looked at him
“I have costs, my friend. I hav'a bar that costs a lot daily and gimme no money. The Vietcong pay me well. They pay me a lot if I give them you alive”
Trautman then lowered his eyes back to his glass.
“I am fully aware of this, Lao” he said, andshot him through the wooden counter.
The gun was so close to the colonel’s leg that he felt a sharp pain from the backfire. The forty-five made such a bang in that little place that even Trautman's eardrums hurt. It wasn’t the first time he had fired a gun that way, so, despite the pain he knew perfectly well he wasn’t shot.
The colonel had hit Lao right in the middle of the chest, where he could see blood quickly flooding out from.
For a split second Lao stood on his feet with a seemingly surprised expression, but slowly collapsed to the floor thereafter.
There was a small piece of intestine coming out of the hole.
His looked like He’d just seen a ghost.
Then a pool of blood started spreading on the floor.
Trautman got up from the stool and pulled out his pistol.
He knew shooting it while it was still in the holster could cause a jam, so just to be sure, he racked the slide again and a bullet flew through the air – Clack! -.
With his gun now at the ready, he looked around.
The place was still empty and silent, but despite this he felt he wasn’t alone.
“You can come out now” said the colonel
“I won't kill you”
A little kid came through the back door behind the counter.
He had an old French colonial rifle in his hand and was shaking. His eyes were wide open, flinching and watery.
His weapon was pointing down and it didn’t seem like he intended to raise it either. Trautman pointed his handgun at him and suddenly, the kid’s eyes came back to life.
He was barely sixteen.
Trautman was hoping he didn’t have to kill him but kept all hopes safely hidden behind his rock hard expression.
“You shouldn't pick up that kind of thing if you don’t plan on using it” he said.
Then, he added:
“You’re still neutral in this district, are not you?”
“Y-yes S-Sir”
“Fine”
Trautman tossed three coins over the bar.
“If you ever decide to change sides for good, let me know”
Trautman turned and walked out the door disappearing into an undiscerning crowd.
***
Only once he was lost in the crowd did he finally feel safe and sighed in relief. Looking up at the sky, he closed his eyes and let the sun warm his face for a second.
As his eyes opened, his stare returned to normal. Looking straight at the horizon, his eyes moved over the crowd.
That takes care of one – he thought.
We’ll get the other tomorrow.