The Girl and the Vietnamese Officer

She was a college dropout working as an assistant to an American journalist.  The safe zone bored her.  Never close enough to the action, never allowed near any of the soldiers to ask questions.  She was frustrated.  Her boss had gone out with a patrol, alone, left her behind despite her protests. 

As the day dragged on she stewed in her tent furiously thinking of the adventure she was missing.  The air inside was stifling.  She grabbed a camera from their supply table and left.  As the sun beat down she wandered aimlessly taking pictures of the jungle plants.  Wasting film, which she’d be scolded for later.

Frustrated beyond belief she continued past the stone faced guards in front of the American compound.  Off-limits.  She’d already tried that enough times.  She continued along the dirt road.  She came to the Viet area, a smaller section that she hadn’t been to yet.  She straightened her posture, trying to look confident and official.  The guards looked at her quizzically for a moment, but didn’t stop her.  She passed by them without looking.  She kept walking, observing the new surroundings.   At a table next to a stack of rifles some tired looking Vietnamese soldiers hunched over a card game.  In a little shack an older man squinted through the steam of something cooking, cigarette in his mouth, as he looked up at the little blonde American girl inexplicably strolling through the camp.  She saw him staring out of the corner of her eye and hurried past. 

Several officers stood around a map table.   There was one her eyes focused on.   He was speaking, gesturing towards the map.  Standing and sweating in the heat she took it all in; his bearing, his features, in which she read so much refinement and intelligence.   As he spoke, she watched him effect the men around him.  Even as she turned to go she was quietly shocked by a rising warm feeling spreading through her as she walked away.  How could she feel such a sense of strength and brilliance of spirit from this man from only the small impressions of him she had of him when she saw him across a field? 

She received a message that night.  After linking up with some other journalists, the journalist was continuing on to make a tour of several outposts.   Stand by.  She sighed and dimmed the light before crawling into bed with a book but lay awake, remembering his face. 

*

It was a holiday in the safe zone.  A rare social meeting between some of the civilians, and Viet and American soldiers, as others stood guard.  Food was shared.  Cigarettes and contraband.  She saw him again.  She stared, absorbed in his movements.  Everything he did was a hypnotizing mixture of inexplicable harshness and an alien grace.  She socialized lightheartedly with the enlisted men her age.  When she looked up from her conversation, she no longer saw him.  After a short time the gathering no longer held its appeal.  She withdrew as night fell, walked back to her tent.  She turned the corner and was surprised to see that same Vietnamese officer standing there before the tent’s entrance. 

Without speaking he made a polite gesture for her to step inside.  She did and he followed her.  In the dim light of the small space he stood and regarded her.  She didn’t say anything, instinctively unwilling to interrupt.  She met his gaze.  She found him as compelling close as when she had observed him from a distance.  She saw such beauty in his eyes; older, though he looked young, and the way he stood stoicly.  She held her breath waiting for him to move.  He offered her his hand.  A formal but intimate feeling, shaking hands with this man.  She couldn’t believe she was touching him.  Her heart beat faster, and her breath caught.  A million images flashed through her head.  But she was intensely aware, focused on him, studying his face to see what he would do next.  He said nothing.

He lifted his hand to brush her cheek softly.  Even as he did so his expression did not change, his jaw remained hard, inflexible.  He touched her so delicately.  She did not move.  He tried other touches, tentative, testing.  She stayed still, just breathing.  Moments passed.   “Lay down,” he ordered her. 

She turned from him and went to the cot.  He followed behind her, turning out the light.  In the darkness he sat on the edge of the cot next to her.  It was surreal like a dream.  Never had she focused her attention so much on a man.  Every cell felt alive as he touched her skin, trailing fingertips down her arms.  She was overwhelmed.  She reached for him but he stopped her, held her wrists.  Spoke to her, but not in words she could understand.  Their tone, she understood.  At once commanding and endearing.  She immediately stopped, her body and mind went tame, docile as she was drinking in the sound of his voice, his presence.  Her submission was complete.  He took her. 

He looked down at her, and she looked up at him with wide, expectant eyes.  Her eyes betrayed everything.  Everything changed when he had taken that tiny moment of control from her, stopping her from touching him.  Her chest was tight and her breath shallow.  His fingers closed tightly on her wrists.  Something passed between them.  He moved his hands from her wrists to her shoulders, pushing her down as he moved to straddle her.  When he did so she melted to him, her eyes closed, she arched her head back, breathed out a sigh. 

She felt his hands caressing her throat.  She became quiet, still.  His hands adjusted for a better position, then tightened their grip.  She knew she should be afraid, but she stayed calm as she felt that gentle insistent pressure.   She willed herself to relax, told her body to take only a small breath.  She gasped but only the tiniest breath of air came in.  The pressure increased.  She didn’t choke or cough but felt her body flushed, she writhed beneath him.  She closed her eyes as her vision went dark.  She started to slip.  But at the last moment he released her. 

Every vein and cell tingled.  Like stepping into warm air after a plunge in cold water.   She opened her eyes and looked up at him with naked joy and shock.  Still in the glow of that sensation, she reached for him again.  This time he handled her more harshly.  She was wrenched her onto her stomach, one arm pinned beneath her, the other held behind her back by the weight of his body.  His arm wrapped around her throat he squeezed with that gentle pressure.  It was faster this time.  By the time she felt the need to gasp for air the black was already starting to spread from the corners of her vision.  She felt it coming on excitedly anticipating the feeling afterward.  It went dark again as he released her, and again she felt a monumental, spiritual awakening, every cell open and sparkling.  She cried out in ecstasy, and he covered her mouth with his other hand, tightening his hold on her throat again.  

For what seemed like hours or seconds she lived in a delirium of lightness as he took her to the edge again and again.  She felt the warmth of his kiss in her hair as he took her into darkness.   A more profound darkness this time, but suddenly everything stopped.  As if she’d been instantly transported forward in time.  Her sense of continuity was gone.  She was cold, and alone laying on the cot, her head turned to one side.  She brought her hand up to her face.   She pulled the blanket up around her and went to sleep, communed with sleep.  It came to her as softly as air.