Smokey Joe's

The heat and humidity of Saigon’s Chinese quarter in Cholon was cut by the clanking fan above. Lance Corporal Wally Riggs finally got his respite from the muck and constant terror of ambushes in the rice paddies. Just the whiff of a breeze through shoulder high grass was enough to send him diving into the slop and more leeches to pick off before they sucked all his blood.

Now his hand was cupped over the breast of the Vietnamese girl turning towards him with another cup of tea. Her tired teenage face was blurry but became more beautiful with every sip - —her eye lashes black like a comb over brightening eyes catching the glint of light from a disco rainbow of colors pulsating to the strident licks of Jimmy Hendrix. It didn’t take much to arouse the loins of a GI fresh out of the paddies and about to get rolled. He thought the “tea girl” was going to kiss him when two helmeted MPs hovered over them.

“Corporal, you got papers?”

They had him cornered, and the girl was able to slip off the stool and disappear. There was nowhere to go. The hard edge of the bar braced his shoulders. It had been a festive day. Fireworks were wheezing and exploding all around in celebration of Chinese New Year. He was inebriated enough for his nervous system to vibrate to guitar licks and the feel of a woman, but this confrontation sobered him up. He stood up as if to leave. The two MPs blocked him. Suddenly, he looked up and the MP forced him against the bar.

“This place is off limits. You armed?”

“Hey, Sarge, those aren’t sky rockets. That’s AK 47 fire out there.” Riggs sobered up fast, his eyes widening from combat terror to get their attention.

“Stand back, Cpl.” He felt a baton pressed into his gut when the doorway suddenly turned bright orange with a blast of machine gun fire. The MPs arched backwards and collapsed to the floor. Instinct took him diving to the floor, scratching the boards, edging close to the bloodied corpses. They were dead for sure, and he had dutifully checked his weapons in for the weekend leave in secure Saigon. Only MPs were allowed to carry any weapon here. He already figured out what intel had failed to. Under the cover of the TET Chinese New Year, Charlie had infiltrated Cholon.

There was no way out. He slowly frisked the corpses beside him and un-holstered their 45s. They had extra clips. It was ghoulish to be searching their pockets. He did it fast. Nobody in here could be trusted once they saw him alive and moving. Armed now, he inhaled like just before planting the pole in a high school track meet.

The streets were theirs now. Riggs was going over the bar and as far away from this street as he could move in the few minutes he had. Over he went before the bartender could move from under the counter. He jammed the .45 in the cowering man’s flank. Riggs spoke softly in three sentences. “Get me on the roof. Screw up, and you’re dead. Move it.”

“Okay , okay. We crawl and then make run for that door.”

The bartender’s hand was trembling, his finger pointing behind him. Riggs followed. They slid on their bellies, lifted the hinged bar, and made a run for a tiny green door. Riggs had no way of knowing who was in this bar. The ladies were lined up with little expression on their faces. They knew this was coming. They had to. They lived here. Riggs waved the .45s at them to make sure they didn’t move.

The bartender unlocked the green-boarded door that opened into a narrow stairway to the brothel upstairs. The effects of the tea had worn off. He had been drugged. He was stupid but still alive. The bartender pulled himself up the stairs, his legs wobbly from the prodding of the barrel of a .45 in his back. Fortunately, it was only two stories and then a small platform on a stairwell with a mud stained window to the alley. The sight was not unique for him, but it was still a shock. Fully armed NVA troops were rushing the alley. He could see a US tank in flames. MPs were known to come into Cholon in tanks. Not so friendly— - particularly today on this Holiday.

“The trap door is open to the roof?” Riggs’s voice was combat-terse with unmistakable immediacy.

“It is. Turn that steel knob and push.”

“You stay down on that floor. Not another word. Not another word, you’re dead.”

“Yes, yes soldier. Please, just go. Now, you go!”

Riggs felt a moment of relief. It was that moment when your life was spared until the next shot. He would get his bearings now. Scanning the roof tops of the tightly contained structures of old China Town, he decided it would be possible to get out of here— - just go roof to roof and hide out until dark before making a final break. He counted his ammo. He had two .45′s and two extra clips. Stupid asses, he muttered to himself. How could anyone disarm Walter Riggs in a combat zone? MACV— - that’s who. This war was over.

Those dead MPs were looking for deserters. Cholon had them in spades. They were into black market— - everything from US arms to poncho liners— - even deuce-and-a-half trucks. How he was going to get out of this country was not on his mind. How he was going to get out of Cholon was. Lying prone on the roof and gazing over the rooftops was prelude to what would be one hell of a New Year celebration. Riggs cussed to himself, “this is the Year of the Rat.”