Across the Mekong River Read Free Page B

slack as he lets out a long sigh. The air is filled with static, the heated anticipation of what will come next.
    “We’ll begin with a statement on the filing and the report from Social Services,” the judge says at last. “First, Miss Lee, would you state your name as you wish it to appear in the court record. Do you want to be referred to as Nou Lee or Laura Lee?”
    The court recorder, a younger woman with bleached blond hair cut into short spikes, turns to me. Her hands are poised above the keys of her machine, waiting for my response. She blinks several times with a bored indifference.
    The question catches me off guard. I am confused, unsure how to answer. I am not one or the other, but a strange fusion of both. I do not know how to split apart the pieces.
    Of course, I am here today becau se I am being forced to choose. The American flag hangs on a pole to the side of the judge’s bench, an unspoken promise. A reminder: nothing is given without a price.

PART I
     
     
     

Chapter 1
    PAO
     
    If only we had fled Laos as soon as the civil war ended. If only I had not been lulled into complacency by the charade of peace the communist insurgents offered the Royal Lao government. If only I listened to my heart and not their empty promises. If only. So many times I have wept. If only.
    February 22, 19 73. A date etched in my mind. My men and I received a radio message. C ease fire in effect. Return to headquarters . An agreement between the two sides had been signed, yet I never believed anything would come of it. The enemy was still shooting shells at us, and that morning U.S. bombers had flown over as usual. I knew the communist Pathet Lao, buttressed by North Vietnamese troops and guns, could not be trusted.
    The conflict ceased without ceremony, a candle snuffed out, leaving only a momentary halo in the darkness. The five men in my unit stood before me, shock and disbelief swimming in their eyes. For over three years I had led them on covert missions behind enemy lines. We shared the bond of fighting side by side, surviving despite the odds. I was their commander, friend, and counselor. I had tended to Xiong when he fell ill with a fever and to Nao when a bullet lodged in his stomach.
     
    The week before, I had chanted a blessing in a bai si ceremony to protect us as we headed out on an assignment to track Pathet Lao movements. We still wore the strings we had tied on our wrists to keep our souls tethered to our bodies. I touched my frayed strings, brown with dirt, understanding the unspoken questions that muddied all our thoughts. What of the brave soldiers, our Hmong brothers, who had fought for our land and freedom, only to be shot or blown up and buried in unknown graves on forsaken mountainsides? What had they died for? After our sacrifices and blind loyalty to the Americans, how could they leave us to the mercy of the Pathet Lao? This time, I had no reassurances to offer my men.
    My rifle suddenly felt heavy in my hands, cold and unnatural. Yet the mind grasps for ho pe even where there is little. In that moment, my thoughts turned to more immediate concerns. I would be home with Yer in time for the birth of our third child. I did not want to think of anything beyond this happy event.
    Over the next two days we made our way back from the jungle east of Sam Thong. An eerie silence had settled over the forest. No planes. No explosions. No gunfire. I grew keenly aware of the trills of thrushes and woodcocks, the swish of a civet cat slinking through the ferns, and leaves whispering the sorrow of those who would not return from this long, bitter war.
    Late afternoon we reached the airstrip on the hilltop at Lima Site 201 and caught a Huey for the short hop back to headquarters in Long Chieng. It was the start of the hot season with clear skies and warm hazy air. The helicopter’s front and rear rotors whirled in competing tempos as we skimmed above the mountains. The scarred landscape below sagged as tired and