Paranoia and a One Legged Man | Hue, Vietnam

Joe wanted his leg back. Not so unreasonable, as he had been born with two. However, all I wanted was a strong black coffee and a bite to eat.

Jude and I had spent the day wandering aimlessly, as people do when they have an overnight bus to catch and little interest left in the place of their departure. It was overcast but the humidity was crippling. I was sweating like a basketball team. The café seemed inconspicuous enough, hidden away off the main drag and offering a small menu that catered for our simple tastes. We took a seat and ordered.

I had a mouthful of my cheese omelette, good, but not great. The coffee was local, thick, sweet and black, an acquired taste that I had definitely acquired. The café had low lighting with a couple of seedy looking types sat in the corner. The short one had a wispy moustache and long hair pulled back in a ponytail. The tall one was skinny with pock marked skin. They spoke quietly, occasionally looking over at Jude and I. I knew they'd join us, it was only a matter of time.

The short one stood up, hopped up if I'm to be honest. Shit, only one leg, this could go one of two ways. Either he was a North Vietnamese who had a chip on his shoulder about anyone looking American or he was a South Vietnamese who had a chip on his shoulder about anyone looking American. Never mind the fact that I was still shitting in my pants when the whole Vietnam conflict began, I was about to be harassed because of my stereotype. I took a deep breath and wiped by brow.
'Hey Joe', he said in almost perfect English, 'can I sit with you?'
Before I had a chance to answer he was sat, his decade old crutches lent up against the wall. 'What's your name?'
'I'm Paul and this is Jude', I replied, offering an upturned palm in greeting, 'And you are?'
'I'm Joe', he said, limply grabbing my hand and grinning with that tobacco stained smile I was uncomfortably becoming accustomed to.
'You are Australian'
'Well I am, but Jude is Welsh. Wales, you know, near England', I made that last call almost out of habit now, a fact that pissed Jude off monumentally.
'I know Wales, Ryan Giggs, Manchester United, he is from Wales.' News to me, but I smiled all the same. Jude lifted an eyebrow.
'I also know many Australians. Good men, strong, good soldiers.' He opened a tatty, brown wallet and placed a photo on the table.
'This is my platoon and this is me', he said, pointing to a face near the front of the gathering. The photo was a black and white job, tattered at the edges and curved to the shape of his ass.
'I had two legs then. I was to train to be a pilot.' I wasn't sure where this was heading but Jude was kicking me under the table.
'Hmmm, okay, what happened to your leg then?' I'm not sure why I said it, perhaps out of morbid curiosity, maybe because I felt that was where the conversation was naturally progressing. A whack in the shin made me regret it.
'A land-mine, only fifty miles from here.' He seemed comfortable enough in his reply. 'It's okay, I am going to get a new one.' I wasn't sure how to break it to him. The fact that western medicine had only come so far. But even before I could think of a comeback he had his stump on the table and his pants leg rolled up.
'I am lucky to have this much.' he said, prodding at the stump with a tobacco stained finger.
He removed the appendage from the table, leaned closer and whispered, 'My American friend say that I need seven hundred dollars to get to Washington and the government, they will pay for a prosthetic.' Ahhh, the money call. I should have seen it coming.
'I still work for the American government now, you know. '
'Do you?' I asked, feeling for my wallet and making a mental note of the exits.
'Yes, do you want more coffee?'
'No thanks, I've got a bus to catch. It's been great. Here's twenty bucks, good luck.' He shook my hand, Jude shook her head, we made quickly for the door.

It wasn't the first time that paranoia had overcome me in Vietnam. Unfortunately it wouldn't be the last. I still had an appointment with the Chinese Embassy and a border crossing to endure.

What if he did work for the Americans? What if our conversation had been taped? What if I was being followed right now? Was it a crime to fiscally support spies? Jude was too hardened to put up with too much of my paranoia. Twenty bucks was a days travel in Vietnam, I was already in the dog box. On top of that we had a fourteen-hour torture test to endure tonight. I checked over my shoulder, three men gathered outside a store, where they looking at us? Quite possibly, after all we did stand out like a pair of bulldog's nuts. I reassured myself and pushed on. I had a bus to catch.

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