Vietnamese Theory of Chance
A cucumber green Overland truck appeared in front of the small 19th century French villa which was the quarters of the District Chief and his three man American adviser team. A white square was painted on the top of the truck. A similar white square was painted over the back doors. In the middle of each white patch was a red cross—the universal sign of humanitarian purposes. The interior of the Overland was not equipped as an ambulance, but had seats and a cargo bed as standard equipment--so much for humanitarian purposes.
It was 1964 in the Mekong Delta of South Vietnam, and the struggle to prevent another nation from falling under communist governance was steadily escalating. By 1000 hours on this July morning a beat-up old truck about the size of a pickup came to a halt in front of the compound. It was fully equipped with running boards and a pair of headlamps that stuck out like chrome eyeballs. About a dozen soldiers stood jammed in the bed with clinging overflow standing on the running boards and draped over the front fenders.
Day-ui Tranh came out of the com shack and joined me, Captain Ed Skillman, and Captain KC Flint, standing at the front gate. He had on a soft-billed olive green cap and was carrying a pistol in his side holster.
The Chief opened the door for us to enter “We ride in Overland.”
“Isn’t it against the Geneva Convention to use a Red Cross vehicle for tactical operations?” asked KC.
“Not tactical operation. We visit Ap Lin village.” The Day-ui’s eyes nearly disappeared in his toothy grin. As Vietnamese went, he was tall at five-three. He was a captain in the Vietnamese army and currently the chief of Vung Liem District.
“Right,” acknowledged KC, “and that squad of troops just happens to be going to the same village”.
The Day-ui ignored him and motioned to the driver. The Overland headed out of town along the dirt road past the school and the pagoda. At the intersection with the hard top road we turned right and headed up Route 8 between rice paddies looking like square lakes bound by green cord.
Twenty minutes later we arrive at the village of Ap Lin. The Overland pulled off to the side in front of a high-arched concrete bridge. The driver cut the engine, and the Chief jumped out. “We take a walk now.”
We headed down a dirt road. The truck, aka troop carrier, had turned left into a paved area and parked.
Nguyen Tranh, Captain in the Army of Vietnam, and District Chief of Vung Liem, seemed to know everyone, or at least he waved and smiled to each person he passed along the way. To some he even reached out to shake hands. We proceeded along the edge of the canal out of the built-up area toward the southwest. Thatched houses lined both sides of the road. From time to time the Day-ui, in conversation, would point to one of us Americans, and either I or KC or both would smile and greet the individual in Vietnamese: Chau, Ong; Hello, sir … or Chau, Ba; Hello, madam … or, on occasion, Chau, Co; Hello, mademoiselle.
Not quite a kilometer down the road a second canal entered the main canal from the southeast. This canal was obviously a feeder from the interior of the village. It was just wide enough for two sampans to pass. Thatched houses sat widely spaced on both sides of the canal. Trails, about the width of an oxcart, ran between the front of the homes and the water. From a thousand feet in the air only the straight green line of jungle foliage would have been visible.
Some troops circled out to the front of our party. Our command group turned down the trail. The Day-ui chatted with the citizenry along the way, introducing us as he went. All the villagers wore black pajamas. The only way to tell a man from a woman was that the woman generally had her hair tied in a bun in the back. I discovered that if I greeted every woman with “Chau, Co,” (hello mademoiselle) regardless of age, I was an instant hit. KC, with his puppy-dog eyes, picked up on it. What would be a social blunder between Vietnamese was, from an American; flattering, funny, and forgivable. KC was a quick study.
For the next hour the three of us politicked our way to a four-way junction with a northeast canal. The density of thatched houses increased around the canal junction. As we drifted into a turn to the northeast, Day-ui Tranh spied an old woman sitting on her heels at the doorway to her thatched home. At his hello she gave him a toothless smile accented by red betel nut stains down her chin. She answered his greeting and held something out to him. As he walked over to her, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his billfold. Whatever she was selling, he bought ten piasters worth. She cackled, and they exchanged quips.
KC held out his hand. “What did you buy, Day-ui?”.
“Raffle tickets.” He passed them to the tall man.
“No joke? In the middle of water world you find raffle tickets?”
“You can’t buy, Captain Flint. I buy all she have.” He grinned—many teeth.
KC and I studied the tickets, while Day-ui talked to several other villagers. The book was a 1½-inch by 5-inch collection of twenty coupons. The paper looked and felt like course toilet paper. And the print bled so badly that one could hardly tell the difference between a 3 and an 8. The sequenced numbers were ten digits long.
I was astonished. “Holy cow, Day-ui, do you know the probability of you winning anything from this? It’s like one in fifty million—that is, of course, if this is a real raffle and these aren’t counterfeit”.
Day-ui Tranh took the tickets back and studied them. He looked back at the old lady who sold them to him and smiled. “No, Captain Skeelman … No, the probability of me winning something is fifty-fifty.” He looked at us blankly.
“You don’t believe that, do you?” said KC.
“Oh, yes, Captain Flint. The probability is fifty-fifty.” He glanced again at the old lady and looked straight faced around at the little gathering of villagers. “Fifty-fifty.” He nodded his head forward, assertively… “Either I win … or I lose.”
Before either of us could respond, he turned and spoke to the folks in Vietnamese explaining the conversation with the Americans. When he reached the punch line he faced us as he delivered it. The villagers erupted into laughter. It was more natural joy than I had seen since I arrived in country.
We didn’t need an interpreter to catch the Day-ui’s sense of humor. Laughter needs no translation.
KC gave me an aside. “This guy is one hell of a politician. I’m taking notes in case I ever get the bug.”
The command group moved on to the northeast and eventually came out on the hardtop road, along which the vehicles were parked. I became aware that the trail security was growing in number and realized that the troops were closing in behind as the party approached the pickup point. The Day-ui may have billed this as a visit, but it was an operation nonetheless. The question was how much of this was precautionary as opposed to necessary.
Probably fifty-fifty.
