90 Kernels of Corn and Urine for Breakfast (7/11)

1982

 I should have savoured the bitter melon soup Tuấn shared with us last night. He didn’t cook it as well as Thương did. No one could turn bitter melon sweet like she could. But it was food, and that was sweet enough for us. I stumbled to the ground. My hands were cold and clammy and the rest of my body was prickling from the wave of heat. 

This morning we had corn. I counted 90 kernels for breakfast, coupled with steadily increasing flakes of skin, snowing into my bowl. I hoped that my hands had become tough and callused so that they would be desensitised to the friction with the untreated wood. They wouldn’t let our blisters have enough time to heal. With constant pressure placed on the thin film, they ripped open and oozed out a raw pink substance. If that happened for long enough, they ripped open and deflated, to leave an empty bubble. Another empty sac in my body. I kept changing my grip on the handle to avoid the protective skin from ripping away, revealing the sensitive flesh.  

Beads of sweat ran down the handle of my axe and my face. I tasted the saltiness and slight bitterness of my excretion, shocking my taste buds, which were accustomed to the bland food and living conditions. It was almost as if the temperature had gotten so hot that the air itself was sweating. The smell of stained sweat had become a daily burden. Summer approached and battling the scorch meant working harder so that we could meet the cool cement sooner. White singlets were promptly immersed with sweat, dirt kicked up with an occasional fall of sap. It was so hot that even the flies could only manage a lazy drone around our perspired faces, and couldn’t summon the energy to move on to another victim when we batted them away. These were the things that embodied the last four months of my re-learning experience. 

I tried not to let my frustration show, as the commander lazily grinned at us. His tongue clucked impatiently and sent my heart into overdrive. They wouldn’t give us a ladle or cup. We bent like dogs, each taking turns lapping out of the bucket while the commander drank leisurely from a large canteen. 

The Việt Cộng pushed us harder. If we so much as stumbled, they reduced our rice rations. I had no tears. The sensation of crying could fill me, but my eyes only dry-heaved and burned with every attempt. Blisters wept on my hands instead. Our fingernails were caked with dirt. My knees looked like raw meat, and my back ached from steadily swinging my arms. The water smelled fishy, almost as though there were hints of fermented nước mắm, but I didn’t care.

We were cutting the trees when Tuấn had the urge. The rule was, that if one person had to go, we all had to as well. We had agreed that we would wait until halfway between our shifts to relieve ourselves so that it would be fair for everyone else. But instead of being angry, we were all glad. Tuấn received permission to use the bathroom and then pulled most of us into the woods. We pulled down our shorts and squatted, afraid that our shorts would fall apart if we squatted too low.

We faced each other. “Việt, can you please pass that leaf?”, asked Đức, as pointing at the rugged frond.

We began to laugh. It was such a ridiculous sight. Young men, squatting with their asses as bare as the day we were born. We actually laughed. Tuấn laughed so hard he let out too much than he intended. 

“Our sense of humour. They can’t take that away from us, right?”

We laughed some more. And slowly it became a bitter, inaudible cry. 

“The commander is on his way now.” the messenger boy from the campsite exclaimed.

I thought about the can of sardines hidden in my room.

“They’re here for the sardines. I stole it.”

“You did what? How could you be so stupid, stealing from the Việt Cộng?” 

“It’s not about the sardines. The commander wants you to write a poem for his wife.”, remarked the messenger before he scurried back to the headquarters.