One of my experiences during the Viet Nam War. Conclusion.
I don’t know why, but the Christmas season with Hanh and Son is very foggy in my mind. I know we spent time at the bar. She was traditional, and, since I had not met her parents, she would not go outside the bar with me on a date. I remember she asked me, through one of her friends, if I would be in town during the upcoming TET holiday, which is the Asian New Year celebration. She wanted to invite me to be with her during the holiday. I told her, with the help of another waitress, I would arrange time off and we would work out something on my next visit.
Now this was just a week or two after Christmas, and, unknown to me, this would be the last time I would see either of them. I had my camera with and took a picture of both Hanh and Son. Hanh and I sat together inside a little while longer and talked while Son was out front playing with his parachute which I had given him for Christmas. I don’t recall what I gave Hanh.
It was time to leave. I remember Son walking away tossing his parachute in the air, and Hanh, standing there and throwing me a kiss and wave as I jumped onto the Lambretta and took off down the street. I was so happy. That last image of Hanh in that white ao-dai, the skirt of it blowing like tall grass in a gentle breeze; her smile that could make you forget where you were, and the thought of being able to see her again soon and hold my hands around her waist with my fingers practically touching in the back, haunt me to this day. I was unable to get into town to see her before TET, and was worried that she would not be working when I was able to get there for the holiday.
Then all hell broke loose …
The Viet Cong attacked. After several days of fear, fighting and worry, I managed to get a pass from my Captain. I won’t go into the details of the TET offensive around Long Binh-Bien Hoa, other than to say it was devastating to a lot of people. I was at a loss as far as what I could do to reach my “family”. I got a three quarter ton truck and, with a friend of mine driving, we went to Bien Hoa. I was anxious and my emotions running wild. Somehow , I felt that Hanh had been somewhere else and that she had escaped becoming a victim of the attack. And yet, deep down, I knew. Hope of finding her faded the closer I came to where she was supposed to be.
The rubber plantation was just about gone. In fact, there was so much difference from the last trip, we really had to watch the road to know where we were. Before we left on the run, someone had said the Viet Cong had held up in the rubber plantation between Bien Hoa and Long Binh. This one group of V.C. had come into Bien Hoa and were making their way to Long Binh (or the P.O.W. camp) when they got trapped in the trees. On the outskirts of Bien Hoa there was a refugee center and orphanage which was also hit. I had a photograph of the church with kids running around outside that I had sent my parents a few months before. When I got home they showed me a photo of the same church as it appeared in a local newspaper after TET. Only this photograph had soldiers running around.
I cannot describe the destruction I saw that day. I did have a camera with me that I borrowed from a buddy and I started taking pictures of what I saw. Unfortunately, there were only three shots left in the camera (which was probably for the better). We made the turn in the center of town and headed toward the bar. I noticed most of the little buildings were crumbled or full of holes from assorted rounds. We stopped where the bar should have been. There was nothing but rubble. The walls were blown outward – a direct hit.
I jumped out of the truck and stood there in disbelief. Around me, on the street, Vietnamese were wandering around in shock, looking for something or someone but saying nothing. The owner of the bar was in the wreckage, bending over, and, I guess, looking for something to salvage. I went over to him and, as I approached, he stood erect and looked at me with a vacant stare as though he were looking right through me.
I looked downward as I asked: “Hanh?” He turned his head side-wards and said: “Gone.” “Gone home?” I asked. He turned with eyes lowered: “Gone. Die.” I asked: “Son?” Abruptly he stated: “No see. Maybe die.” I asked no more questions.
I must have stood there for a long while. I don’t remember. I watched him squatting down in the ruins and shifting the broken concrete and rubbish. I slowly walked toward the back where Hanh and I used to sit. I gazed down and skimmed the debris at my feet. I saw broken bottles, paper shreds, and parts of the bar interior. Then I saw a lady’s shoe. I can’t say it was hers. Probably not. There were quite a few girls who worked there. I didn’t pick the shoe up. I just turned away and went back into the truck.
I never went back to the town of Bien Hoa. I went home the end of March. I had been planning to extend my tour because of my feelings for Hanh, but now…now I just wanted to leave this place and forget. Pretend it never happened. I was twenty-two when I met Hanh and twenty-two when she died. I survived; others did not. I still ask why.
It was eight weeks later as I stood near the runway waiting, with others, for the flight that would take me home. Suddenly, a gust of wind blew a cloud of sand and dirt into the group. Road dust, I thought to myself…cat bui.
Epilogue
In 1989, I asked a Vietnamese friend of mine to translate the words that Hanh had written on the back of her photograph. She wrote: ” My Dear Joe, I give you this photograph to remember me when we are no longer together. Keep it with you always.”
And that I have done.
end
