Across the Mekong River Read Online Free PDF Page B

Farmers and workers, caught up in the wave of change, took to the streets of Vientiane and Luang Prabang, demanding the Pathet Lao take control of the government. Rumors filtered in of North Vietnamese troops moving ever farther west.
    Un easiness settled in my middle. A friend told me of former Hmong soldiers who were organizing forces and gathering arms. If the Pathet Lao took over the country, they would be ready to fight again.
    In early May, Uncle Boua received a message from General Vang Pao calling a meeting o f clan leaders in Long Chieng. By now everyone had heard the chilling pronouncement on Radio Pathet Lao-- the Hmong Special Forces are the enemy of the Lao people; the Pathet Lao will duly punish or wipe them out .
    I accompanied Uncle Boua to Long Chieng and attended the meetings at the General’s house. For days leaders argued and struggled over what to do, their faces lined with worry and fear. Should we take up arms again, or was it best to flee the country? If we left, where would we go? Who would take us? Many could not contain their anger, ready to fight once more to save our country. But emotions would not be enough to win a war. We needed arms and support. Being one of the younger men, I kept quiet. Then Uncle Boua, a steady voice of reason, said that without the Americans, fighting would be futile. I had promised myself never to leave my family again. There must be another solution, a way to live in peace.
    Days passed, but no decisions were reac hed. Then I heard the devastating news. My friend and former commander, Blong, came to me. After the ceasefire, he had joined the Royal Lao army and stayed on with Vang Pao. His face was ashen and filled with deep lines, making him look much older than his twenty-eight years. He suggested we take a walk so we could speak in private.
    We strolled in silence down the jumble of dirt lanes between hastily built houses, most of them nothing more than tiny huts. They had been slapped together with bamboo, wood, tin, cardboard boxes, whatever was available. The makeshift town had grown up around the air base over the war years as more and more Hmong were driven from the hills to seek refuge. Many of the homes had been deserted after the cease fire agreement as families left to rebuild their lives in the mountains once more. A few had stayed on. Laundry hung on ropes, and the smell of onions and cilantro and garlic wafted through open doorways mixed with the pervasive smell of garbage and open sewage drains. Barefoot children screamed and chased each other up and down the dusty paths, fighting with sticks. A group of boys played a game with wood tops. As we continued on, a naked baby girl stood in a doorway and cried. Her nose ran, and her face was streaked with dirt. I thought of my own three children at home.
    At last we reached the edge of town and continued on the path to the neatly planted vegetable gardens, lush with the promise of newly sprouted herbs, mustard greens, broccoli, onions, and bitter melon.
    “The North Vietnamese have taken Sala Phou Khoun,” Blong said at last.
    My heart sank. This was the last stronghold of the Royal Lao government. Now there was no defense left against the Pathet Lao. The communist troops would march into Vientiane and take over the capitol.
    Blong clasped his hands behind h is back, his head hanging down. “There is more. Yesterday, the CIA told General Vang Pao that he and his top officers must leave the country. The Pathet Lao will take them prisoner, or worse, kill them.” A slight tremor filled his voice. “The CIA will fly the men to Thailand until things are sorted out.”
    I was speechless, trying to grasp his words. Was our country truly lost, every shred of hope gone? I could not accept this. Surely the Americans and other countries would not stand by and watch the government fall. Perhaps a compromise could still be reached.
    The first rains had left narrow cracks in the dirt path. Soon torrential downpours would