Find The Cost Of Freedom

My name is Phong Duc Vuong.  I live in New Zealand and raise sheep for a living.  As you might guess, I am not a native Kiwi.  In 1975, when forces loyal to Ho Chi Minh overran Saigon, I escaped.  Then, I was a Colonel in the South Vietnamese Army.

 

Sheep farmers are a special breed.  My new neighbors were leery when I first showed up.  But once they saw how serious I was, they began to accept me.  My obvious differences were less than the one big thing we shared.

 

Even after they got to know me, my new countrymen struggled to pronounce my name.  I told them, you can call me Panther.

 

In Vietnam, I was a reconnaissance specialist.  My father had been one as well and taught me from an early age.  When I joined the military, my skills were apparent to my superiors.  I became a trainer as well as a soldier in the field.  When the Americans started sending advisors to Vietnam, I worked with their best reconnaissance man. 

 

His name was Eddie Anthony.  While serving in Vietnam, he got promoted twice, and like me, was a Colonel when he retired.  Like me, he left Vietnam with a nickname.

 

This is the story of how Major Edward Joseph Anthony became Eastwood.  I am qualified to tell it.  I am the one who gave him the nickname.

 

Eddie and I became friends immediately.  He started calling me his Chinese twin.  Which summed up Major Anthony’s sense of humor quite well.  He clearly knew the difference between people from China and those of us from Vietnam.  And he knew it would ordinarily be taken as an insult. 

 

But he knew he could get away with it in my case.  He knew I would never show any kind of reaction when he teased me.  From my perspective, I would force myself to be patient.  Eventually, I would figure out a way to get revenge.

 

My friend was fascinated by differences between cultures.  When he served in Korea a decade earlier, he became fluent in their language.  When we weren’t teaching recon classes, or moving silently through the jungle on a mission, I taught him how to speak Vietnamese.  He helped me perfect my English, which came in handy when I fled to New Zealand.

 

He didn’t just want to become fluent in my language.  He wanted to master every inflection of Vietnamese speech.  That was a lofty goal, given that European languages such as English use very different sounds than do the Asiatic languages.  He mastered syntax and grammar very quickly.  We both struggled at trying to sound like a native. 

 

Eddie was much better at it than me.  Other Vietnamese were impressed with his ability.  He made it a point to learn how to pronounce my name perfectly.  I even taught him the subtle differences in how my father would pronounce my name, depending on if he was happy with me, or otherwise.

 

It was classic Eddie.  As soon as I told him, “You now speak just like my father,” he got that look on his face.  I knew I was about to get bullshitted.  

 

In a very exaggerated voice, he said, “Colonel Ve-U-Wong, it is apparent to me that I cannot pronounce your Chinese name.  From now on, I am going to call you Panther.”

 

That was his style.  He invented a ridiculous story to cover up the compliment he gave me with the nickname.  The truth is, a panther is one of the stealthiest animals on the planet.  It is a fearsome hunter, particularly at night.  It can blend in to its surroundings, wait patiently, then pounce when prey stumbles across its path.  A panther can stalk silently, and strike without warning.  A panther is the ultimate reconnaissance soldier.

 

Perhaps I was better at pure reconnaissance than my American friend.  After our first joint mission, he insisted I give him the same stealth lessons my father had given me years ago.  My father, among other things, was a master at listening.

 

In our home, he would put on a thick wool cap, one that covered his ears.  Then he would turn the volume on the radio up, and sit facing a wall.  He would count slowly to 20.  That would give me time to creep, as quietly as I could, to a spot of my choice.  I would stand, motionless, and wait for my father to take off the cap and turn down the radio.

 

As silently as I could, I would take one step, in any direction.  I would be barefoot during these exercises.  For years, my father could easily tell me exactly where I was, and which direction I stepped in.  Even though his back was turned.  Even after I thought I had mastered the art of silent movement.

 

I will never forget the first time I stepped so quietly my father could not hear me.  He stood, turned to me, and bowed.  He said, “Perhaps my hearing is not as good as it used to be.”

 

Like Eddie, my father liked to hide his compliments.  I knew what he meant.

 

Major Anthony applied the same intensity to the stealth game as he did to the rest of his life.  He only had one gear, and one speed.  He did not know there was another lane aside from the fast one.  It took him less than a year to make me to admit that my hearing was not as good as it used to be.

 

What I taught him made Eddie a better soldier.  I am proud of that, because he was already the best I had ever fought beside.  There was not much room for improvement.

 

He was a lethal shot.  He could hit any target.  And, unlike some people who are only at their best on the range, the confusion and emotion of combat did not affect his aim in any way.  No soldier I fought beside wasted fewer rounds than Major Anthony.

 

He did not need bullets to kill a man.  Once he sprung out of a hidden position and almost decapitated an NVA soldier with his knife.  I saw him sneak up on a man standing guard at an enemy outpost.  He quietly strangled the man to death.  The only sound was a muffled thud when their bodies hit the ground.

 

Edward Joseph Anthony was the most efficient hunter of men I have ever known.

 

I do not know how many men I have killed.  I was never interested in counting.  I have never lost a moment of sleep over the things I did during the war.  I cannot say the same about my friend. 

 

Eddie suffered from terrible nightmares.  And debilitating headaches.  He carried the weight of every kill he’d ever made on his shoulders.  The man who could move silently through the night, and impose his will on anyone, could not escape from his own emotions.

 

I considered the irony.  The most skilled soldier I’ve ever fought beside was being eaten alive, from the inside, by his own mind.  No man could face him in combat.  Nor could he face himself.  He was his own worst enemy. 

 

As I look back, I wish my friend had never joined the Army.  He would have done well in the sheep business.  And, he would have slept at night.