will give up, too. Or run away. My family, probably everyone is dead. My friend Siv, Kha, Mek, I probably never will see them again. If Sombo, the only person I know in the whole world, he doesn’t care about me anymore, then why I keep going?
I look at him now, across the fire, soup cooking in the middle, his face hard, like different person from the guy who let me steal food, guy who I teach to play the khim, and think maybe he won’t care, maybe not even notice, if I disappear.
Soup is almost ready. First time in three day we kid have a meal, and everyone lean close to the pot and smell it—rice girl on one side of me, and Phat, the Khmer Rouge kid who hate me, on the other side. Then, from nowhere, we hear the whistle that says a bomb—from Vietnamese cannon—is coming this way. Sombo, he reach across the fire and grab me, throw me on the ground. The shell land right in the pot and metal and soup and dirt fly everywhere.
After, I look up from the ground and see Phat, the kid next to me, piece of him hanging from the tree, piece of him on the ground. And I wonder: why Sombo save me but let this other kid die?
Big battle that night, many kid die. Kid run right in front of me, get killed. You think you never can get used to a thing this sad, kid dying, but you do. You think maybe you want to die also. But you don’t.
You not living. And you not dead. You living dead.
The Angka voice on Sombo radio now says we have to walk north. And so after many days walking one direction, now we go the other. Same field we saw before. Same place where we fight the Vietnamese and so many kid die. The radio says Vietnamese now gone from here, but I think I still can smell their bad smell in the air.
Walking very quiet now. In case maybe they still around. No sound. Not even breathing. Then the little rice girl, she step on stick or something in the ground, something that make a click. Right away Sombo yell at her, “Don’t move!”
But this little girl, she so scare by Sombo yelling, she shy back from him and turn to me, then— pop! —a puff of smoke where she was standing.
After, her leg is gone. She cries very hard, scream for her mother, until she faint from pain.
Sombo tell us the Vietnamese do this, bury small bomb in the ground, called land mine. You step on it, you can lose your leg; you touch it, you lose your hand. A coward weapon, he says, for scaring us, for making us afraid every step.
This weapon, this land mine, it means now that even the earth is our enemy.
Some kid in our group, they grumble now. They say Sombo is no good. They say too many kid getting kill. And one guy, he look at me and say, “It’s your fault Phat get kill.” Another one, he point at me. “You,” he says. “You Sombo’s favorite.”
Then Sombo come by and yell at me, say I have to carry the rice sack and my gun from now on.
The other kid smirk, but I understand now why Sombo so gruff to me. Like before, like back at the camp, he protecting me.
We carry the little rice girl, take turn, her leg tied in a rag where used to be her knee. Now we go even slower. Too hard to walk and carry this girl. And too scare to even put our foot down on the path.
Bad smell now coming from her leg, all swole and turn black. She very sweaty, too, and panic, even when she sleeping; she toss and turn and cry from the pain. All of a sudden she grab me in the night, call me Mama, and say, “Please, please, stop this pain.” Then she die. And finally, for her, no more pain.
We hike to camp to get a new rice girl, but only get a skinny boy, smaller than the girl, too little even to carry a gun, kid name Koong. How this kid can carry rice sack, I ask Sombo. This kid, Sombo tell us, has special job. This kid special trained to catch rat, insect, frog, snake, anything we can eat. Beside, he tell us, hardly any rice left in our sack.
Many more days walking, and I think sometimes we go one way, next time the other. Like maybe we
I look at him now, across the fire, soup cooking in the middle, his face hard, like different person from the guy who let me steal food, guy who I teach to play the khim, and think maybe he won’t care, maybe not even notice, if I disappear.
Soup is almost ready. First time in three day we kid have a meal, and everyone lean close to the pot and smell it—rice girl on one side of me, and Phat, the Khmer Rouge kid who hate me, on the other side. Then, from nowhere, we hear the whistle that says a bomb—from Vietnamese cannon—is coming this way. Sombo, he reach across the fire and grab me, throw me on the ground. The shell land right in the pot and metal and soup and dirt fly everywhere.
After, I look up from the ground and see Phat, the kid next to me, piece of him hanging from the tree, piece of him on the ground. And I wonder: why Sombo save me but let this other kid die?
Big battle that night, many kid die. Kid run right in front of me, get killed. You think you never can get used to a thing this sad, kid dying, but you do. You think maybe you want to die also. But you don’t.
You not living. And you not dead. You living dead.
The Angka voice on Sombo radio now says we have to walk north. And so after many days walking one direction, now we go the other. Same field we saw before. Same place where we fight the Vietnamese and so many kid die. The radio says Vietnamese now gone from here, but I think I still can smell their bad smell in the air.
Walking very quiet now. In case maybe they still around. No sound. Not even breathing. Then the little rice girl, she step on stick or something in the ground, something that make a click. Right away Sombo yell at her, “Don’t move!”
But this little girl, she so scare by Sombo yelling, she shy back from him and turn to me, then— pop! —a puff of smoke where she was standing.
After, her leg is gone. She cries very hard, scream for her mother, until she faint from pain.
Sombo tell us the Vietnamese do this, bury small bomb in the ground, called land mine. You step on it, you can lose your leg; you touch it, you lose your hand. A coward weapon, he says, for scaring us, for making us afraid every step.
This weapon, this land mine, it means now that even the earth is our enemy.
Some kid in our group, they grumble now. They say Sombo is no good. They say too many kid getting kill. And one guy, he look at me and say, “It’s your fault Phat get kill.” Another one, he point at me. “You,” he says. “You Sombo’s favorite.”
Then Sombo come by and yell at me, say I have to carry the rice sack and my gun from now on.
The other kid smirk, but I understand now why Sombo so gruff to me. Like before, like back at the camp, he protecting me.
We carry the little rice girl, take turn, her leg tied in a rag where used to be her knee. Now we go even slower. Too hard to walk and carry this girl. And too scare to even put our foot down on the path.
Bad smell now coming from her leg, all swole and turn black. She very sweaty, too, and panic, even when she sleeping; she toss and turn and cry from the pain. All of a sudden she grab me in the night, call me Mama, and say, “Please, please, stop this pain.” Then she die. And finally, for her, no more pain.
We hike to camp to get a new rice girl, but only get a skinny boy, smaller than the girl, too little even to carry a gun, kid name Koong. How this kid can carry rice sack, I ask Sombo. This kid, Sombo tell us, has special job. This kid special trained to catch rat, insect, frog, snake, anything we can eat. Beside, he tell us, hardly any rice left in our sack.
Many more days walking, and I think sometimes we go one way, next time the other. Like maybe we
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