The Gun Room Read online

  THE GUN ROOM

  Georgina Harding

  ‘[Photographs] are the proof that something was there and no longer is. Like a stain.’

  Diane Arbus

  Contents

  1 Soldier

  2 Tokyo

  3 Kumiko

  4 Summer

  5 The American

  6 Girl in a White Dress

  A Note on the Author

  By the Same Author

  Also available by Georgina Harding

  1

  Soldier

  It is the eyes that make the picture great. The soldier’s eyes look out directly from the page. They look out and through – or perhaps they are not looking at all but seeing only what they have seen already, images that are imprinted on the retina and on the memory so strongly that they cannot be supplanted by whatever is before them now. This soldier has seen horrors first hand. Perhaps he has been a perpetrator of them? The viewer can only imagine, from experience perhaps but more likely from things that he or she has read and other photographs that he or she has seen, and imagines now, cumulatively, knowing and having seen those things, and seeing the photograph and the look in the soldier’s eyes. This may be one of the great photographs of the war; the sort of photograph that might have made its photographer famous, if he had not fled.

  From the air, the landscape was awash with mist. Hills floated above it, inky jungle ridges and sometimes the crowns of individual trees, but the mist lay wide and deep where the land flattened into delta. In the far distance, a white disc of sun lit a silver brushstroke of sea. It was an oriental scroll unrolled beneath him, an exotic floating world to which he had no connection. His existence was all within the hard bubble of the chopper, a glass-and-metal bubble of noise and vibration and shouted words. He couldn’t make out the half of what was said but he nodded and mouthed back, and bent past the machine-gunner in the doorway and took pictures of the mist breaking, the paddy beginning to show, and colour – bright green squares, red-earth tracks, already-warm blue sky, and somewhere away across the fields, a dark billowing in the air that could not be mist, to which he saw the pilot was pointing.

  He had met the pilot in a bar the night before, a young American flyer no older than himself. His name was Jeff. They had got on well. They had gone outside into the night and smoked some weed. He had said he was a freelance though he was barely even that, and Jeff had offered the ride just to show him the sights. He hadn’t promised any action. Whatever it was Jeff shouted now he couldn’t hear, as the chopper turned and headed towards the smoke. He guessed it was something to do with luck. He was excited with his first-timer’s luck.

  The village was some way off. They flew over fields where people were working, so low that he could see their conical bamboo hats and their heads turning towards the chopper, and some of the people running, not knowing that they did not mean to shoot. Indian country, Jeff yelled then, as if these were Apache below, but he got the point. Any of these people might be regarded as hostile. They flew over lines of craters that showed where others had flown before, craters in the irrigated fields gleaming with water that reflected the chopper passing, others in the jungle that were just brick-red holes, or sometimes the red ringed with black from incendiaries. You could see how the bombs had dropped, one after the other, across the land. But he wasn’t taking pictures now. He did not intend to waste his film on landscape. He didn’t even take a picture of the first action that he saw, the first live piece of war that he had ever seen. They were just coming to the village, low, wheeling round, looking for a place to land. There was a woman wounded, lying across one of the paths in the paddy. They were so low that they could see her spread hair and her splayed legs in the black trousers, and her tunic thrown up, and see that she was young and that she was screaming, and clearly see that she had some wound on her middle where her hands clutched. Jeff went lower and the gunner dropped a flare to mark her for the medics. As the chopper moved away he thought he saw a soldier running to where she was and firing at her head. He saw it only out of the corner of his eye, looking back, his view restricted, and then he wondered if that could really be what he had seen. It happened so fast, and the chopper moved on and landed, and then he was out of it, and there was so much else going on.

  He had the camera about his neck. He was running, crouched, holding the camera. The rotor blades were still turning overhead, blasting hot air and dust against his face, throwing down the long grass through which he ran and driving it outwards in waves. There was the heat and the smoke and the fire-and-metal smell of the place, but the sound of it came to him only as the chopper engine stilled. The sound was more like a wind than anything that he had expected of war, a wind and a wildfire, a sound that seemed made all of movement and burning and yet a part of it came from within himself. No explosions. No gunshots. Was there danger? He didn’t know. He had expected to dodge, but there was nothing to dodge, only a line to walk towards the centre of the smoke and the sound, to where the shooting must so short a time before have taken place. He was in luck, Jeff had said. He would see action. But he was behind the action. The shooting was over. He was late. He was a moment too late and he was walking not into action but into the aftermath of action, into the rushing and the smoke, and he could not have told how fast he walked because time seemed to have split between himself and the commotion there ahead of him, as if he was in one time and that was in another. And then he saw the soldier, and he could not have said to which time the soldier belonged. The soldier was still. He was seated on the ground with his back to a wall, his back to all of that. The soldier was sitting very still and straight, with his knees bent up in front of him and his two hands clamped to the barrel of the gun held upright between them. He noticed the soldier because he sat so still, and because his features were so clean and strong, almost heroic. He stopped and took a first picture of him as he passed.

  Beyond the soldier, the village. The houses were burning. Bright flames leapt within doors and windows. Thick smoke seeped and clung and then poured from thatch, seething along the ground as well as into the sky as if it was too heavy to rise, melded and weighted there with the churned dust, and through that smoke and dust figures milled as senselessly as the smoke, villagers and soldiers, and small scared black pigs like squealing demons at their feet. Everything seemed to continue in motion though the cause of the motion was past. Even the dead, when he came to them, seemed caught in the act of moving. An old man running with his arm outstretched as if to catch his flyaway hat a yard from his fingers. A boy and a dog tumbled over one another as if in play. He took these pictures and he took others, those more predictable ones of confusion in the smoke. Hectic images they would be, of erratic depth and focus: crumpled figures on the ground with their limbs bared and askew, dead and living faces smeared with dust and blood, men with guns and women with their hands in the air, a grandmother whose grief broke her face wide open.

  He would have taken more. He would not have known where to stop. He went to the side of one building that was not burning and fumbled to change a roll of film. His hands were clumsy, not his own. So much less control he had of those awkward sweating hands than of the black mechanism of the camera. He had no thought. He was not even hearing the sound of the place now. He had only eyes, only a sense of the images: that there were more, that images were disappearing with every second that he wasted.

  Then he stumbled round the corner of the building and found himself at the end of the village. He had walked through it and suddenly it was behind him, at his back. He could hear it and he could smell it but it was behind him, and before him were the fields, so green and still. The rush left him and self-awareness returned. He took a couple of steps out into the green. He turned and took some shots
looking back at the village, shots that would establish the reality of it among the fields. Turning again, he looked at the ground at his feet, the young rice about him, the fields that ran to the flat horizon; this place where he was. There was a separation in his mind between here where he was and the burning village, this moment now and the ones before. Yet there in the village too it would be slowing now, since there were no shots to be heard. The dust would be beginning to settle, the smoke to rise, the dead to look dead. He walked on a little way, walked on along a dyke with that separation in his head, and then he looked down into the irrigation channel beside it and there were dead people in the channel. Here, now, in this place also, the reality. Half submerged in the murky water of the channel were the bodies of four or five men scrambled together. He took pictures but even in the pictures the number would not be clear, the arms and legs so scrambled, heads lost in the water. He could not tell if they had been tipped there or if they had been killed on the dyke and fallen, or maybe they had been shot from above, by someone standing where he stood, as they tried to hide. Someone standing on that spot, looking down and killing in cold blood.

  And then he remembered the woman. He looked across all the fields trying to get his bearings, though the land was flat and the paddy looked much the same all round the village. Again he looked back at the village itself. He thought that he knew the way the chopper had come, thought he recognised a grove of mango trees and a particular configuration of palms. He was moving slowly now, thoughtful, deliberate. He was beginning to understand what it was that he was seeing. He headed in the direction of the palms, but indirectly as many of the fields were flooded and he had to walk along the edges of first one and then another on the narrow raised paths that bordered them – slow paths, he saw they were, paths that were made not to be walked fast or directly by rushing men with guns or cameras, but to be padded barefoot and single file by peasants in the patience of a peasant day. He let the camera drop loose from his neck. He was shaking. Now that he had slowed he realised that he was shaking, and he was aware of time and looked at his watch, and saw that he should get back to the chopper. Forty-five minutes, Jeff had said. Already he had been gone that. He told himself that he must find the chopper. He could not be left here in Indian country. And he was just about to turn back when he saw her. She was in that same position across the path as he had seen her before from the air, but limp, not taut any more, the same black hair, the black trousers, the black tunic thrown back, the wound gaping red on her belly, but a second wound now precise on her forehead and a crimson pool beneath her darkening the orange soil. About her were the signs of her interrupted work: a hat and a hoe, and a piece of turquoise cloth of the type in which a baby would have been carried, snaking down from the path into the flooded field. He looked around but he couldn’t see any baby. He took a picture – though the light by now made it flat and it wasn’t a great picture – and then he walked back to where the chopper waited, knowing his way because this was the way they had flown in overhead so short a time before.

  Again the soldier was there by the wall. A second time, he stopped to photograph him. Even now it was hard to keep from shaking so it seemed to take a long time to compose the shot. He could see the chopper. The chopper was starting up. But the chopper could see him and the chopper must wait. This picture he knew he must have. He knew, as if from deep inside himself, the look in the soldier’s eyes. Or that look touched him deep inside. He took a breath from there, from the depths, and when he had the shaking under control he went in close and crouched down low. The soldier did not move. The soldier did not appear to see him. He made the shot entirely symmetrical, centred on the vertical of the gun barrel and the unseeing eyes. He composed it so tightly that when it was eventually published it was not cropped at all. His lens captured every detail: the coating of dust on the soldier’s skin and his fingers, the contrasting sheen of the gun metal, the bristle of beard on him, the slightly open lips, the shadow of his helmet that fell across his face above his staring eyes. And when, months afterwards, he compared this shot with the first that he had taken, he realised that the soldier could not have moved in all the time he had been in the village. Or perhaps he had blinked. He must have blinked. He had shot the first picture head-on as this one, but from a slightly different level, looking downwards, and from a greater distance so that there was more to the fore and to the sides – a dusty space in front, a section of mud wall to the soldier’s right, a distracting sliver of smoke and activity to the left – but the central image was identical.

  That evening he went out with Jeff. That was a bad one, Jeff said. That was all he said about the day. The day was put away. They had landed at the airstrip, and stepped out and down onto tarmac, and there were American voices all round them and it had seemed like a hot and scented version of America, and later the night had fallen, very suddenly, and they went out from the base to a bar on the shanty strip beyond the gates. Jeff wanted to get blasted. They had a few drinks first out in the street, and then they went inside. The Happiness Bar, the place was called, with pink and green and yellow lights strung outside of it like a fairground. There was the Fanny Bar next door, and the Sexy Snack, but Jeff had a regular girl at the Happiness.

  She has a friend, Jeff said. He asked the girl, Do you have a friend for my friend?

  The girl was little, but all of them were little beside the Americans. She seemed pretty, as so many of them were, young and delicately formed, but in the dimness of the bar he could see little more than black hair and bright lipstick, and the flirtatious upturn of her face. He guessed that her friend when she came would look much the same, and he was right.

  My name Dolly. What your name?

  Was that a name in Vietnamese? He didn’t know any girls’ names in Vietnamese.

  Jonathan, he said.

  She repeated his name. It was an alien language, Vietnamese, made up of multiple tones. When they spoke English it sounded mechanical. They sounded mechanical.

  It was too hot in the bar, the space so cramped that the air from the fan was blocked by the bodies in front of it. They took their drinks and the girls out into the street where it was cooler and the night when you looked away from the lights was almost blue. He was drunk and stoned, and for a moment he thought Dolly was actually beautiful beneath the pink and green and yellow lights. He looked at her, and he tried not to look at anything that was inside himself. That made him reel, to look into himself; if he did that he was lost. So he stood his ground and looked at Dolly, if that was her name. He saw that she was fine-boned, her hands small and finely made and elegant. She had a lovely exotic way of holding them. They dance with their hands here, he thought, seeing the way her fingers with their tapering pink-painted nails held a cigarette. They ended up in a lean-to at the side of the Happiness. One of the lights hung just outside the window, a yellow one. He saw that it wasn’t a coloured bulb, only a plain one with yellow tissue paper wrapped about it – that might catch fire, you would think, only it didn’t, or hadn’t yet. He was trivially aware of that, and of the girl’s face in the yellow light that came through the window, and the shape of her cheekbones and the slanting shadows of her eyes beneath him, and at the same time there was the other one, the woman on the path.

  You different. Why you different?

  Not a soldier. The words seemed apart from him, carrying no significance. Not American. English.

  He had closed his eyes but now he opened them again. Her face was yellow below him, her hair black, her eyes deep shadows. He saw that woman flat on the narrow path and the red on her belly. Dolly’s skin beneath him was unbroken, smooth, the colour of marzipan in that light. He could not touch it.

  He went back to his hotel. He didn’t sleep but packed his things, not telling himself what he was doing but just doing it, as if his body acted independently from himself. He hitched a ride out on the back of a jeep before he had to speak to anyone. He didn’t want to encounter anyone who knew about the day before. He
had taken the films from that day and packed them inside his socks at the bottom of his rucksack, not with the others in the camera bag. He didn’t know yet where to use them, if he would use them. In the light of another dawn, with the next dawn’s low mist over the land, only the sickness he felt inside him made him believe that they were there and that they contained the images they contained. The road ran along a dyke, raised above the fields. As the mist cleared along the road, white strands clung below. Already people were at work in the fields, where sections were flooded for planting, groups of squatting black figures planting out green shoots of rice. These fields and figures were identical to yesterday’s. As if there was no war. He held on to the metal bar at the back of the jeep and looked down at them along the receding line of the road. There were the bright squares thick with seedling rice. They took the shoots from the squares in bundles and planted them out in the irrigated beds, squatting, moving forward, inserting the shoots one by one, in lines and precisely spaced. He knew that here they had two, maybe three, crops of rice in a year. Two or three times a year the cycle was patiently repeated, this planting in the wet, harvesting, planting. As if that was all there ever had been or should be. He could not bear what he was, moving away so fast in the jeep.

  He didn’t go out to the countryside again. He spent the rest of his time in Saigon. There were others there like himself, besides the professionals, young men, even a few women, who’d made their way in somehow and were working at being reporters or photo-journalists, or just war groupies having adventures or maybe doing business, importing jukeboxes or Levi’s. They were loud. They drank a lot. They thought that being in Vietnam was exhilarating yet a lot of the time they just hung out at the hotel. From the hotel roof they could see the smoke of distant air strikes. He had read his Hemingway too. A writer was forged in war, Hemingway had said. A photographer, more so. He had talked his way out there like they had, with toughness and dreams, but he didn’t want to drink with them any more. He left the hotel in the morning before most of them were up, and went out and took pictures on the streets, of girls and bicycles and street sellers and cafes with bamboo chairs outside, that were all the more photogenic because you knew about the war being out there in the jungle and the paddy, and suspected that sometime not too far off it would be here in the city as well, and all this would come to an end. At five o’clock in the afternoons he went downtown to the daily press briefing. He got into the habit of this. He’d gone to the press briefing the day he came back on the jeep, to see if they said anything about the attack on the village, but they didn’t, and he got to going every day just in case he heard the place mentioned, some official tone putting an acceptable reality, or at least a narrative, to what he thought he had seen. Otherwise he tried to put it out of his mind. That didn’t work, of course. He knew the truth and he knew that he should have been telling it. The truth lay there all the time, like the rolls of film in those socks that he didn’t wear in the heat, in the bottom of his rucksack in the bare hot room that he didn’t visit all day, that he slept in so fitfully at night.