Calls Across the Pacific by Zoë S. Roy Page A

for books on the Chinese Land Reform Movement. Her mind returned to the elementary school where she had learned that poor peasants were contented to denounce landowners who had exploited them for centuries. But now she had heard a story from the other side — the tale of a landowner’s daughter. On a scrap of paper, Nina copied down a couple of call numbers for books she had found. A glance at her watch reminded her that she had to finish the groundwork for her course on American Political Thought before she could explore the politics of China.
    She placed the list into her folder, then turned and headed to the bookshelves with a stack of periodicals and government documents in her hands.

10.
BAMBOO STICKS
    L ATER THAT FALL, Nina attended a presentation in one of the university’s multi-purpose halls. Ajax, a fellow student, stood on the podium. He was talking about his personal experiences in the Vietnam War.
    â€œI’ve never spoken of this until now,” Ajax said, starting his story. “I need to get it off my chest. I want people to know what we Vietnam veterans are going through. The Americans may be withdrawing, but the war is still raging and the memories are fresh and painful.”
    Nina followed his story attentively and pictured a battlefield in the mountain bamboo groves of Vietnam. On a June afternoon, during the late stage of a Tet Offensive in 1969, a group of American soldiers had stooped under the bushes to search for a path to move ahead. Their alert eyes and sticky faces shone in the sun; their heads were hidden under twig wreaths; their uniforms were soaked in sweat mixed with dirt.
    â€œWe groped around,” Ajax said. “Suddenly, gunshots were fired from behind a hut about twenty metres away. A fellow next to me collapsed, and blood trickled over his face. All of us immediately dropped to the ground, and some of us shot back. I remembered what I’d learned during training, so I felt the pulse of my fellow soldier. He was dead. ‘Son of a bitch,’ came out of my trembling mouth. I grabbed a grenade and hurled it into the hut. I was fighting for my own life and my fellow soldiers’ lives. In the explosion, smoke and fire erupted. You can bet that the sniper’s gunfire was silenced, but then I heard a child scream from inside the shelter. One soldier dashed to the burning spot. A minute later, he leapt out of the flames, carrying a little boy under his arms. It was my buddy, Lenard! Before he could place the kid on the ground, he sank into a patch of ankle-high grass. I jumped up and ran over to Lenard to help. I took the child and laid him under a tree, but my buddy was stuck in a punji trap: a couple of sharp bamboo sticks pierced his body. He was soaked in blood, his eyes half open — I have never forgotten that stare. It was a close stare, right in front of my eyes, and yet it looked a thousand yards far away. Pain twisted his face. He mouthed the words, ‘Shoot me!’
    â€œI was shaking all over, but I pulled the trigger. I heard the blast of the gunshot, but I dared not open my eyes. I felt as if my own body had been blown apart, as if my own flesh and bone had just been splattered all over the ground. I threw my rifle away in disgust. I fell to the ground and vomited. My empty stomach expelled only water and mucus. The finger that had pulled the trigger went numb. Lenard vanished in my fuzzy vision, and I passed out.”
    â€œ Let’s sharpen bamboo sticks. We are preparing them for the American enemy .” Nina remembered these lines from a song she had learned in a music class as a ninth grader in 1965. That year, the Vietnam War had become more intense, and more American combat troops had been dispatched to Vietnam. Since China had sided with Hồ Chí Minh’s North Vietnam, all Chinese schoolchildren had been taught songs and poems to support North Vietnam. Nina’s class had also performed a show that admired