Black Hearts, Gold Warriors

PART O​NE:

THE SURVIVORS

Chapter One: Almost Paradise

Northern Mindanao, Philippines January 8th 2000.

He sat perched precariously, on the steep bank of the Agusan River in Northern Mindanao. He could easily lean back and be safe, or lean forwards, and tumble into the swirling and sliding waters of this massive river. He was a strong swimmer but no match for the twisting currents and snags that lay concealed below the surface.

Jim allowed himself a wry grin. How much this was like his life right now. Choices. A choice between his troubled past and his beckoning, promising future. He could end up going either way, following either stream.

He threw down twigs and watched them slip, turn and roll through the swirl of the pressing waters. Below him, the urgency and purpose of the river torrent gave him energy and focus, to prepare for this last day.

He watched a group of men and women panning for gold, further downstream where the waters calmed and slowed. This amazing river of riches had given its treasures of gold nuggets and grains, for over a thousand years. To be turned into gold ornaments, jewellery, coins and ingots for trade. It had fuelled Butuan’s importance along the Nan Hai trading route of Asia, and propelled these Islands into the history of Indo-China.

His mind wandered back over the past six weeks: over what they had achieved. He thought about how his life had changed, and smiled. The good hand of lady-luck had been his for a change. And there was Jorani. Whom he had found, or had she found him?

For a moment, Jim felt a little dizzy from the weight of their successes. He felt a great sense of accomplishment, from his own role and a sense of pride. That he had the skills and knowledge to decipher the texts, and prove the links and role of Butuan in the history of these Islands now called the Philippines. And that he was after all, a professional archaeologist and not just the treasure hunter of old.

But above all of these wonderful things, Jim had proven to himself he now had the passion and spark for love and life. He could feel that warm feeling in his chest and felt calm and hopeful. Gone was the blackness, the sorrow and despair of yesterday. He now saw green and yellow for new opportunities and revived hope. And the reason for this waited for him in Butuan. His Apsara, Jorani. They had talked of going back together to Cambodia. To start a business in archaeological tourism. Jim was sold on the idea and could not wait to start the new life. His old troubled life here in the Philippines was gone, washed downstream in the brown waters of the Agusan River. He felt cleansed and relieved by this. That weight on his shoulders was no more.

Or was it?

But what about Thanh? Will he just let me be in peace? Will he let me go?

Jim was neither able nor willing to seek an answer to this. He preferred to string Thanh along and ditch him at the last moment.

He walked back down to the trucks and the team as they completed the truck loading, and cleaning of their campsite. They had lived and toiled here for the past four weeks, apart from the brief Christmas break in Davao. They had all shared this wonderful journey of discovery and learning. Himself, the museum archaeologists, the engineers, the labourers and the guards. In all 20 people, 21 when Jorani was here.

He watched Conny and Rosita as they clucked around like hens, supervising the securing and covering of their precious artefacts. The security guards sat smoking unconcerned and happy. And Raul and his family, who now had a future from the agreed artefacts they had been allowed to keep. He watched them as they prepared the final meal for the team.

‘Conny, how long do you think it will take us to get back to Butuan? Jim smiled as he accepted his plate of rice, fried eggs and salty fish.

Conny and Rosita joined him at the long table. Conny dipped some fish into the side dish of patis, and looked thoughtfully at the driver. ‘Maybe ten hours Jim…more or less. The road has some washouts, which we will have to go around. It is 80 kilometres I think.’

Jim nodded. ‘Great. We should be there before dusk then. I’d like to buy you all dinner tonight when we get back to Butuan. And drinks.’ Jim looked across the table as the team sat and ate. They looked back at him and made whopping noises in appreciation.

Jim was happy. Above him, the early morning sun was rapidly rising into a clear pale blue sky, with not a cloud in sight. In the small hamlet of Raul’s clansmen close by, he could hear the sounds of a new day beginning. The cocks crowing, the children laughing, old men spitting and coughing, radios blasting away and children and pigs crying for food. The same noises he had heard each day living exiled in his nippa hut on San Antonio Island, whilst he dried out and got his life back in order.

But then like sharp pain from a deep cut he felt the fear, the doubt and the guilt he carried from the secret that he only he knew.

Thanh has been too quiet for my liking. He is out there somewhere waiting… I can feel it. What can I do to protect this group? Should I tell them about my business with Thanh and how he is after me? And that they may be in danger just because of me?

Jim sighed deeply and rolled his shoulders. He felt he had too much to lose by exposing his links to Thanh. He could not reconcile the pros and the cons for coming clean, and now Jorani was the one who gave him new direction and strength. Instead, he preferred to think of the evening ahead, and how he would be once again with her.

It will be okay. Just relax.

A man ate cold rice and dried fish, about two kilometres ahead of where Jim and his crew were finishing their breakfast. He sat near his motorbike, waiting and watching from his elevated position. He could see Jim and the group but they could not see him, he was sure. He pressed the button on a two-way radio and spoke rapidly in Vietnamese. Then he smiled, placed the radio into his bag, discarded his meal and kick started his bike. With a last look back, he saw that Jim and his team where piling into the vans and starting to head up the mountain track. He pulled down his helmet visor and quietly moved back on to the road.

Chapter Two: The General

Tourane (Danang) Vietnam, January 1945

Lieutenant General Sakaguchi Yasuhiko stared out of the window of his Museum office in Tourane. He was an impatient man, a man on a mission, with time running out. He was tall for the Japanese race: over six feet, wiry, and completely bald. His face was long and angular. Back in Tokyo, they said he should be in the movies, with his looks.

Yasuhiko had been in Hanoi as part of the Japanese Southern Expeditionary Army, since September 1944. His mandate was to operate a garrison force in French Indochina, to circumvent possible allied landings and Vietnamese resurgence. But his official mission now was to gather up as much war loot as he could and send it back to Japan to continue the war effort, to re-build a post war Japan. For Yasuhiko, this meant he would search for treasures and artefacts from the Nan Hai trading route of Indo China. Under Emperor Hirohito’s Imperial Headquarters Command, all commanders had been ordered to ‘acquire strategic materials and become self-sufficient’. From copper wire, oil, coal, rice, dried fish and salt, to real estate, museum and private art collections, bank deposits, national treasuries and temple treasures.

He looked at the document in front of him, written in Japanese, with some French translations along the margins. The book pages were of rice paper and brittle, dated the year of 1620 Edo period. As he had done many times before, he read the 20 pages and wondered as to their accuracy. The author was a Japanese merchant from Hoi An or Faifo, as it was called in the seventeenth century. The document had a crude map with place names in Vietnamese and Japanese, referring to mountains, rivers and places nearby to Faifo. The author spoke of temple treasures of bronze and gold figures of the Champa gods, festooned with jewels. He wrote of the Katu mountain tribes, inland of the village of Ngoc Kinh, along the Song Vu Gia river. The map pointed to the An Bang mountain range, about 70 kilometres west of Hoi An. These Katu tribesmen were reportedly the guardians of the treasure of the Champa Kings. Yasuhiko always wondered why the merchant did not seek to recover the treasure. Yet, the merchant talked of the difficulties of travel through ‘the dense jungle plant growth, the rivers and the constant rain, the leeches, the serpents, the ambushes by treacherous Katu warriors.’

Yasuhiko put down the old book, and turned his attention to a French Army map of Thuong Duc, dated 1938. The places as described by the Japanese merchant were all relevant and made sense. But the biggest question was where on the An Bang range, was the supposed treasure site? The area he had marked was a series of highly twisted and tortuous contour lines, closely spaced and in dark brown, on deep green. That meant steep slopes and thick jungle.

But for Yasuhiko there was little evidence for him to continue in reality. He had murdered and tortured countless prisoners over the past six months. But to no avail: he had found nothing further about artefacts, treasures and fortunes hidden away. It had merely been sport for him and his prison guards. He tired of this torture and now wanted to do something more constructive. To look for the treasures of the Champa Kings, who had amassed temple and other treasures, over the 1000 years that the Champa Empire had flourished, in central Vietnam. The plan had hatched in his mind, to take a battalion of soldiers and engineers to the mountainous area, find the people who guarded the treasures, and bring these treasures back for transhipment. At least try. In the close of 1944, he knew he would have to hurry as he felt that Japan could not hold out much longer against the allied forces, which were closing and advancing against the Japanese forces across the Pacific and parts of SE Asia. It was time he knew.

The heavy, northeast monsoon rains of January 1945 were on cue as Yasuhiko, with his special task force from Hanoi, arrived by train into Mỹ Son village near Tourane, in the heart of the ancient Champa holy lands. His steward awoke him at five AM with a cup of freshly brewed, strong black coffee from the central highlands of Vietnam.

Yasuhiko sipped the brew reflecting on the history of the Cham people and the Champa culture and history. Before the war, he had been a student of Indo Chinese history at the University of Tokyo. He was fascinated by, and knowledgeable of, the history of the Chams, the Malays, the Javanese, the Dai Viets, the Thais, the Mons and the Khmers, that prospered and fell in the golden era of Indo China, from the 5th to 15th centuries AD.

He knew from records that the Katu people had developed very close ties with a famous Champa king, Che Bong, who ruled the Champa Kingdom from 1360 to about 1390 AD. Che Bong was noted for his successful invasions and routing of the Dai Viets and their armies, during several skirmishes, up to his death in 1390. He was known to have taken many treasures from the Dai Viet capital city of Thang Long, and brought these back to Mỹ Son and other holy Champa sites.

After the death of Che Bong the avenging Dai Viets retook their lost lands and resources. At that time, the Cham people were thought to have moved much of the temple treasures into the mountains around and west of the Mỹ Son holy lands and temples. Buried there, with the body of their last great warrior king, Che Bong.

The treasures of other lost kingdoms of the Javanese, the Sri Vijayans, the Khmers, the Laotions and Burmese over time, had given much of their secrets and wealth to the Imperial Japanese forces. Now it would be the Cham people and their ancestors, who would fuel this voracious appetite for wealth and resources of the Japanese Empire.

But what about the An Bang Mountain range and the unnamed burial place of Che Bong and his treasures? Do they still exist? Am I wasting time?

Yasuhiko was not confident he could find the site. No village was evident, and he had no leads to go on. His only hope was an old Katu man, whom he had threatened with his family’s destruction if he did not cooperate. Now as he stared through the rain and drained his coffee, he saw only grey shrouded hills and mountains. He was even more dismayed as he stood and shook himself from his lethargy, strapped on his pistol and stepped through the carriage door onto the muddy train station platform.

‘Corporal, call our men. It is time to leave.’

The battalion had reached the village of Ngoc Kinh, on the Song Vu Gia River, west of Tourane. It took almost two days by trucks. Now, they trudged and slipped through the foothills of the mountain range and the rice paddies. Water buffalo pulled plough boards through the grey and silt, pea-soup like mud, of the paddy fields. Men and boys followed in their wake, dressed in the black costumes of Vietnamese farmers. Women bent from the waist planted the lime green rice seedlings, their bamboo, conical hats bobbing up and down, like a puppet show. A classical Asian pastoral scene. Even in time of war.

The old Katu tribesman their unwilling guide, indicated the top of a large hill, and started walking towards it. Two soldiers followed closely behind him. Yasuhiko and his men rested and waited, until the old man came down from the hilltop, babbling away in his dialect. Yasuhiko’s interpreter calmed him then translated into Japanese.

‘He say that he can see the way to the mountain range An Bang, and it will take three days to reach it’.

Yasuhiko did not trust the guide. ‘Tell him if he lies to me, his wife and family will be skinned alive, with him watching.’

The guide translated and the fear on the old man’s face was real. Yasuhiko nodded with some satisfaction.

Yasuhiko had never seen nor felt so much rain before he came to these mountains. His men were permanently soaked, from their heads to their toes. The rain was a mixture of soft, irritatingly constant sprinkling, through to hard, cold, bullet like drops, which lashed at their uniforms and exposed skin, dispiriting and maddening, causing Yasuhiko to despair. At low points, it seemed to him that they were trapped in this mist and rain. It was like stumbling around in a maze with no exit.

The rain and mist affected the landscape also, through colours and tones, and softened its edges and size, to make it feel smaller. Sometimes to make it feel more menacing. There were only four colours, with many shades of grey, according to the time of day and the amount of cloud cover. The grey-yellow of exposed soil, the grey mist, the grey-green vegetation and the grey-red-orange colours of new leaves. This was now the fifth day of their march, up the slopes of An Bang, and he had not seen the sun in that time. The mists, the rains and the closeness of the tall forest shut out all hope of light, and with it came a dark and deep feeling of anger and frustration.

Yasuhiko was perched against the grey-green moss covered trunk of a huge tree, whose branches rose through the mists. Held it seemed in deference and supplication, waiting for the blessings of water and air from above. At ground level, he felt almost helpless against this primeval might and force of nature, openly hostile to his task force. Above in the mist he could not see, but could hear them. Birds: hundreds of them calling. Their tunes melodic and far, and some nearby serene and constant, had a calming effect.

A bloated leech rolled down his shirtfront onto the saturated soil below. Fascinated, he watched it swim and wade slowly across the mini streams of its micro-terrain, with his blood as its cargo. Leeches and mosquitoes were a constant menace not only as bloodsuckers, but also for the diseases and parasites, they could transmit. He had now gotten over the initial horror and repulsion of these creatures, and the thought of being eaten from the inside out.

Yasuhiko was now wondering how much further they could really go. Several of his men had severe fevers and had to be left at a makeshift base camp to recover. And he wondered about the guide.

Was he really guiding them or just leading them in circles, aimlessly around this mountain range? The doubt grew in Yasuhiko’s mind.

On the sixth day, they reached a small clearing. Not so much a clearing as it was a slightly less dense forest cover. It appeared to be a village. From his barometer, Yasuhiko measured the altitude to be 1050 metres, and it was definitely cool. And very wet. There were twelve native huts, and as many families of old men, old women and young children. A handful only, of young men and adolescent boys. The rest of the men died in wars of resistance against the French army over the past few years. Yasuhiko noted the faded pallor of the people, their skin almost grey, and their bodies festooned in tropical ulcers and fungal infections. But what was even more noticeable, was their ambivalence to him and his troops as they marched into the village just before noon. However, the guide was known to these people, and that gave Yasuhiko some hope.

He immediately took over the biggest hut and had the occupants expelled. This was to be his office and living quarters, and the people went placidly, almost resigned to what may come next. Yasuhiko was appalled at this lack of spirit. He had huge bowls of rice cooked up for his men and pilfered chickens from the local people, and while his cooks prepared the meal, he had all of the old men rounded up and the women and children seated in front of him. The old men were tied together and taken to the rear of the village for interrogation.

After an hour, the Sergeant returned and reported to him. ‘Yasuhiko san. The old men are silent. Not one will speak of the treasures. We have tried beating them, but it does not work. Your permission for more extreme measures?’

Yasuhiko nodded as he shelled his bowl of boiled peanuts.

The Sergeant walked into the middle of the group of women and selected one, who he grabbed roughly and led away to the old men. In front of them, through the translator he asked again. ‘Where is the treasure of Che Bong buried?’

There was no response. He nodded to two soldiers who led the old women to one side, and pushed her to her knees. The Sergeant drew his Katana and held it in the attack position above his head. He smiled at the old men, and the old women, before he yelled and the sword flashed downwards, slicing the head from the old women. Blood spurted in several gushes before slowing to a trickle, as the corpse toppled sideways onto the ground.

He picked up the head, walked back to the group of women, and placed it on a stake in front of them. Their horror and fear was clearly seen by Yasuhiko, but the old men seemed little moved.

He nodded to the Sergeant. ‘Now go for the arms and legs one by one. Make it slow.’

The next woman selected screamed and the others wailed as she was dragged away. There was silence for a while, then a scream that sounded like the pain that came from unbearable suffering. Then another scream and then there was nothing. The Sergeant came back dragging two bloodied legs, cut off above the knees. These he placed next to the head, and started to form a scarecrow- like figure of human parts.

Yasuhiko did a quick calculation. Enough women to finish it and some to spare. He smiled with satisfaction.

It took them another body until at last one old man, stood up and pointed to the distant peaks then to him, offering himself as a guide.

At last, they had a guide. However, Yasuhiko had to be sure of the guide and of any treachery. So he divided his force into two groups, with one to guard and execute the village people if needed, and the other to follow the guide to look for the Champa treasures.

Two days later Yasuhiko and his men wandered into a concealed cave entrance, along the edge of a limestone karst. Yasuhiko had the guide secured by ropes and pushed him forward into the cave to lead the way. Using their bamboo and coconut oil lamps, they found a passage into the centre of a long cavern, which opened up into a small chamber about two metres high. Bats flashed past them in their frenzy and fear to escape. Snakes lay coiled and ready to strike at them and had to be fended off with the torches.

They stumbled on in the coal-black passage, with the air now much cooler and breathing more difficult. After they walked for about 20 minutes, the old man their guide, fell to his knees, seemingly weak or unwilling to go any further. The sergeant pulled him up roughly and pushed him forward, but the man stumbled and fell to the ground. He began to dig in the damp and loose soil with his bare hands, and was soon joined by Yasuhiko’s men with shovels and picks. The old man suddenly reached out to the soldier in front of him, grabbed the bayonet free from its scabbard. Before anyone could react, he took the bayonet and plunged it deep into his own chest, falling into the excavated hole they were digging.

Yasuhiko quickly realized why the old man had killed himself. In an effort to save his family and clan, he had led them to the site of the Champ king’s treasure, and he could not live with the memory of his action. Yasuhiko was now excited and ordered his men to dig quickly. It did not take long before a soldier’s pick hit a solid object with a dull cracking sound. The soldiers carefully pared away the soil to reveal a stone slab with inscriptions. Yasuhiko jumped into the shallow trench and brushed off the soil with a straw broom. He recognized the Hon Ken symbol used by the Chams, the symbol that marked the Champa concept of existence, through unity, balance, stability and peace. Then he saw the name of Che Bong inscribed, in Champa text and the tributes to him. Yasuhiko hugged the slab and kissed it.

‘Now I have you and I will have your power.’ He turned back to his mean. ‘Get this lid off quickly.’

The soldiers cleared away the surface and exposed a slab two metres by one metre. They could not budge it with their picks and shovels. They then packed two grenades with trip wires, onto the stone slab and covered them with sacks of soil. When they had retreated from the cave, they pulled the pins and waited for the dust and smoke to settle.

The slab had fractured but not broken and the soldiers split it into smaller pieces and removed these. Yasuhiko held up his hand to stop work and he ordered the men out of the pit. On his knees, he scraped away the dirt and loose rock. After a minute, his lamp caught the reflection of metal. Lifting up a few last remaining pieces of the slab, he lowered himself into the chamber. Using his bamboo lantern, he could see the chamber was about two metres square, and just tall enough to stand up in, but full of objects.

Yasuhiko smiled as his gaze wondered around the objects, many in silver and gold. He knew now the treasures of the Cham people were his. He would succeed in his task to support the Emperor and would be honoured accordingly. Or, he could prepare for his own future.

We cannot leave any clues about this treasure. The King’s treasures must be relocated to a secret site. Only Uncle Hitoshi and I will know where these treasures will be buried. This is mine, and I will return to Vietnam to recover it, even if Nippon is destroyed. I will make a map and take with me to Uncle.

Chapter Three: Man and Mandala

Danang Vietnam, March 1975.

It was only a matter of time. The North Vietnamese Army was on the verge of taking Danang, at about the same time the Americans were ready to abandon it. The South Vietnamese Army had neither the will nor the means to intervene. For one man, Captain Nguyen Van Thanh in the South Vietnamese Army, there was no more hope for him and his family in Vietnam. Their future lay only in escape.

Van Thanh stubbed out his cigarette and placed an envelope of cash onto the table. Opposite him, three fishermen counted and sorted the greenbacks, the Aussie dollars and the French Francs.

One nodded and placed the envelope inside his shirt. ‘Tonight at eight o’clock we go. Bring only clothes and water. There is space for four of you only.’ He stood and left with the two other fishermen.

Thanh watched them leave. Soon he would be watching his family leave also. He could only find space for his wife and three children. His friend who was also leaving that night would look after Thanh’s family during the trip. Thanh would take another trip after he had secured his family’s exit and collected his gold bars and stolen artefacts for his own exit. He dreamt of a new life in a free country like the Philippines or Malaysia. He had chosen a refugee boat that was headed towards the Philippines as the chance of pirate attacks there were much less, compared with the Gulf of Thailand.

Thanh was a soldier and really knew nothing about the ocean, which in turn could be warm, tender and calming, then cold, merciless and murderous. He was not prepared for the possible dangers of the South China Sea, which lay between him and the Philippines. He placed his faith and hope, and the safety of his family in the Gods and in the fishermen.

Van Thanh lifted his three children onto the deck of the small and crowded vessel, next to his wife. It was dark and as his night vision strengthened, so did his apprehension. The boat was no more than 40 feet in length and looked more like one of the thousands of the round bottomed riverboats that plied the Mekong River, rather than an open sea vessel. And there were at least 50 people on board he counted. He turned and spoke to his wife Huyen and clutched her hands in his, hard. The moment of separation was fast approaching he knew, and he wanted to give courage and hope to his young family.

‘Huyen my wife, take care of our children. I will follow you in the next month and see you in the Philippines.’ He pressed a heavy gold chain into her hand. ‘Wear this and use it when you land to give you a start.’

She did not look back at him, but he knew she was crying and trying to be brave for her children’s sake. All around him, Thanh could hear the whimpers, the soft and urgent goodbyes, the laughter and squealing of young children, oblivious to the peril their parents had placed them in. He reached out and hugged his three children and wife, and kissed the tops of their heads. He closed his eyes, to stem the tears and to inhale and imprint into his mind forever, the scent and sound of his family. For he knew there was a strong chance they would never meet again. But he would rest better knowing they had more chance in escaping a communist Vietnam, rather than staying and facing the ‘re-education camps’, the suffering of post war famine and the retribution that would be inflicted on the traitorous South Vietnamese people by the fanatical North Vietnamese.

Three days out to sea, the ocean turned from a gentle blue and lazy swell, to a frenzied, foaming cauldron that tossed the boat like a cork in all directions. The people roped themselves together and to the boat. Their clothes were soaking; their bodies were cold and their bellies empty. Then the storm stopped, the sun came out and their spirits lifted again. The ocean was once again calm and still, and mothers busied to dry the clothes of their children. The fishermen were able to catch some sea birds and they all ate a simple stew and rice.

On the fifth day, they sighted the first of a group of islands in the distance. The fishermen told the passengers they would soon be on dry land, as they were approaching the Southern Philippines. Huyen’s hope and confidence grew. She knew they were getting close and soon would be in a new homeland. To start a new life. With the blessings of the gods, Thanh would soon join her and the children.

She smiled as she tussled the head of her youngest son. She hugged her children and told them soon they would be in their new country and their father would be with them next week. She closed her eyes and remembered their house in Vietnam and her mother and father. Despite her happiness tears fell. The sorrow of having to make choices and leaving loved ones behind. And her country and way of life.

Then she heard the noises. Something had changed. The fishermen began shouting and ordering the passengers to get down inside the boat’s hull, and they turned the boat away from the island group. That was when Huyen saw the boats fast approaching from in front of their boat. Soon the first of two boats was alongside them and fired two shots at the fishermen, wounding them both. Huyen could see about ten heavily armed men dressed like fishermen in the first boat, who yelled and jeered at the boat people. Then their own boat slowed and stopped and the men climbed aboard.

Huyen now felt great fear and helpless. It seemed to her that they were so close, and had survived the cruelty of sea. Now she did not know if they would survive the cruelty of these pirates. With great speed and ruthlessness, they clubbed and hacked at the men with big sticks and machetes and soon the deck was red and slippery with blood. They stole the valuables from the men and then turned on the women and children.

Huyen held her children to her and pushed her way to the back of the boat. She watched helplessly as her friends were raped and brutalised. Children were snatched from mothers and thrown overboard, despite the pleadings and offers of their mothers. Huyen saw two men advancing towards her. She grabbed her children and tied them to her with a rope from the ship, then jumped into the ocean. The pirates laughed and waited for them to surface, and when they did, they used bamboo poles to hold them under the water. Huyen and her children could not swim and soon they stopped struggling. The pirates left them, and the sea took them from this life and from their father and husband.

Van Thanh made his plans to follow his family. First, he had to gather his wealth and collection of temple statues and artefacts he had obtained as an amateur treasure hunter, from historic sites across Vietnam. Especially those from the Champa holy lands. Thanh had seen much of his ancestors’ monuments and buildings obliterated in the past 10 years. He had seen some spectacular temple treasures seized by the South Vietnamese Army from museums and archaeological sites, ostensibly to be sold to finance the war effort. But in reality, it was the Generals who hoarded them or sold them on to wealthy Thai black