other boy, he vomit. But me, I feel crazy, like all of a sudden my blood is electric; and I shoot and shoot and shoot. Only shooting, no thinking. No fear, even. You don’t even see what you shooting. Except one time, I see this Vietnamese guy, kid, like teenage, running to hide behind a tree, and I point the gun at him and shoot. He stop, his face surprise, like almost smiling. Then he gone. Only grass where he was. Standing one minute, gone next minute. Dead. I think: this guy is dead. And I’m the one who do it. I feel crazy, like not myself, like shooting machine. Like maybe I can shoot and shoot forever.
Until Sombo, he tell me, “Okay, stop now, it’s all over.” And he take me back to camp, where right away I go to sleep, very hard, like dead myself.
More walking, more hiding, until we get to another camp. We join now with other kid, some real Khmer Rouge, and some like us, just kid who get gun one week ago to fight the Vietnamese.
We now one unit. But one Khmer Rouge, young guy name Phat, maybe only one or two years older, he says the new kids are not real Khmer Rouge. Not loyal from the beginning like him. We only soldier now because they force us.
So Phat, he says new job will prove if the Little Fish really love Angka. When tank comes, he says, we have to climb up and put the grenade inside. Very, very dangerous this job.
Little girl who carry the rice, who now cuddle at my side at night to be warm, tells me don’t do it, it suicide. But I tell her it’s also suicide to say no. Because this guy, I think he might kill us if we don’t.
So next time a tank comes, me and one other boy, we run to it and climb on like monkey. The other boy, he slip off the top, and I don’t see him anymore. I hang on, tank still moving, like big angry animal underneath me. I turn the handle, open the top, and drop the grenade inside. Then jump off and run back to the woods very fast.
Big noise, then the tank goes in direction like crazy, crash into trees.
Again I feel this electricity in me. Like I have a power bigger than me. Like even if I do crazy thing, I can’t be kill. Then I look back and see the other boy sitting in the middle of the road, his leg not right, too short, with bone sticking out, jagged, white, and blood gushing. He points to something a little bit nearby, something on the road where the tank just pass by. His foot.
After this big fight, we get a new gun. Like Vietnamese gun, this one shoot many bullets no stopping, automatic, just touch the trigger. Lighter also, this gun, and smaller. Good for kids like us.
But no one show us how to use it. They just give it and leave. And one boy, kid from dance group, he just playing around. All of a sudden the gun shoot itself; and this boy has blood on him, and thing from inside, like liver, intestine, now outside, spilling out. He try to catch it with his hand; but all these bloody thing, slippery, keep spilling out.
I go over and hold this boy, rock him like a baby, and also hum a song from my aunt, a song for falling asleep, until his body turn cold, his face like wax, no life in him anymore.
I stand up, see myself cover in blood—so dark, almost black, like ink. I think maybe I should wash it, get rid of it. But I think maybe it can protect me, this boy’s blood on my body, so I paint myself with it—wipe it on my face, my throat, my arms. I take his gun also and strap it across my chest, two guns on me now.
I go see Phat, the Khmer Rouge boy who say I’m not real soldier. So he can see what I am now.
CHAPTER NINE
SOMBO NOW IS VERY STRICT. NO MORE TIME FOR HIM AND ME to sit together and talk or listen to the radio. Always gruff face, always short temper. And I think maybe now this guy, this only friend I have, he doesn’t like me anymore.
I see some kid give up. Just slip behind and never seen again. Other kid, I see them shoot themself, I think on purpose. One kid, he go crazy and run straight into bullets. And sometime I think maybe I
Until Sombo, he tell me, “Okay, stop now, it’s all over.” And he take me back to camp, where right away I go to sleep, very hard, like dead myself.
More walking, more hiding, until we get to another camp. We join now with other kid, some real Khmer Rouge, and some like us, just kid who get gun one week ago to fight the Vietnamese.
We now one unit. But one Khmer Rouge, young guy name Phat, maybe only one or two years older, he says the new kids are not real Khmer Rouge. Not loyal from the beginning like him. We only soldier now because they force us.
So Phat, he says new job will prove if the Little Fish really love Angka. When tank comes, he says, we have to climb up and put the grenade inside. Very, very dangerous this job.
Little girl who carry the rice, who now cuddle at my side at night to be warm, tells me don’t do it, it suicide. But I tell her it’s also suicide to say no. Because this guy, I think he might kill us if we don’t.
So next time a tank comes, me and one other boy, we run to it and climb on like monkey. The other boy, he slip off the top, and I don’t see him anymore. I hang on, tank still moving, like big angry animal underneath me. I turn the handle, open the top, and drop the grenade inside. Then jump off and run back to the woods very fast.
Big noise, then the tank goes in direction like crazy, crash into trees.
Again I feel this electricity in me. Like I have a power bigger than me. Like even if I do crazy thing, I can’t be kill. Then I look back and see the other boy sitting in the middle of the road, his leg not right, too short, with bone sticking out, jagged, white, and blood gushing. He points to something a little bit nearby, something on the road where the tank just pass by. His foot.
After this big fight, we get a new gun. Like Vietnamese gun, this one shoot many bullets no stopping, automatic, just touch the trigger. Lighter also, this gun, and smaller. Good for kids like us.
But no one show us how to use it. They just give it and leave. And one boy, kid from dance group, he just playing around. All of a sudden the gun shoot itself; and this boy has blood on him, and thing from inside, like liver, intestine, now outside, spilling out. He try to catch it with his hand; but all these bloody thing, slippery, keep spilling out.
I go over and hold this boy, rock him like a baby, and also hum a song from my aunt, a song for falling asleep, until his body turn cold, his face like wax, no life in him anymore.
I stand up, see myself cover in blood—so dark, almost black, like ink. I think maybe I should wash it, get rid of it. But I think maybe it can protect me, this boy’s blood on my body, so I paint myself with it—wipe it on my face, my throat, my arms. I take his gun also and strap it across my chest, two guns on me now.
I go see Phat, the Khmer Rouge boy who say I’m not real soldier. So he can see what I am now.
CHAPTER NINE
SOMBO NOW IS VERY STRICT. NO MORE TIME FOR HIM AND ME to sit together and talk or listen to the radio. Always gruff face, always short temper. And I think maybe now this guy, this only friend I have, he doesn’t like me anymore.
I see some kid give up. Just slip behind and never seen again. Other kid, I see them shoot themself, I think on purpose. One kid, he go crazy and run straight into bullets. And sometime I think maybe I
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