One of my experiences during the Viet Nam War. Continued.
I think we fell in love. Well, I say that with reservations. Perhaps it was just two people finding each other in a maze of confusion, fear and uncertainty, and, in our youth, clinging to the affection we showed each other. I wish we could have understood each other much better, but, sometimes, just holding hands and looking into each others’ eyes, says it all. I would look forward just to go on a courier run and spend a little time with my makeshift family in Bien Hoa.
She was Buddhist and I was Catholic. And, I knew that would cause a problem with our families if we ever decided to marry! I think what really impressed Hanh one day was that she saw a square little bulge in my shirt pocket, and shaking her finger at me, said: “You numba ten Ba Muoi Lam!” which means I fooled around a lot with women. I realized she thought I had a condom in my pocket, so I reached in and showed her it was a small religious figure in a protective pouch (given to me by my mother). She smiled and came over and kissed me on the cheek.
As far as I remember, she was always there in the afternoons that I came by. And, working at the bar, she made good money to help support her family and school expenses. She evidently came right from school which would explain the white ao-dai and pageboy hairstyle. Although her job was to fraternize and hustle drinks, I noticed if a guy got too familiar with her she would leave him sitting there and move to another. She began to sit with me whenever she could, when it was slow, not requiring me to buy her any tea. This upset the owner, so I started bringing him a bottle of something whenever I came which kept him happy ( a side note is that we learned to tear the label off the bottles so the owners could not refill them with moonshine). It got to the point that Hanh would basically stop working when I arrived and just sit with me. I would walk into the bar, and the other waitresses, seeing me, would smile, welcome me, and call for Hanh. She would come over, gently grab my hands, and we would sit down together. Those times became so precious to me that this beautiful girl, this Vietnamese girl, actually enjoyed being with me, a young man brought thousands of miles to her country to fight in a war. It started me wondering about fate, and how we become involved in other peoples’ lives through a series of unplanned events. We never had the opportunity to be together intimately.
As far as I remember, I was the only guy in my company who was seeing a Vietnamese girl on a regular basis. I had mentioned it to a few of my buddies with mixed reactions. Of course, the biggest drawback was that even if you fell in love with a National, which the army frowned upon, your tour of duty was one year and then you were shipped out. It was extremely difficult to process papers that would allow you to be married, and almost impossible to bring the girl home with you. I decided, since I had eight months left, to begin the procedure necessary to see if I could bring my “family” home with me. I wrote my parents.
Needless to say, it was pathetic. My parents were against the idea. My Captain and the chaplain tried to discourage me by telling me that it was simply an emotional experience due to being far from home and lonely; missing my family and friends, and, if I would forget the idea, once I got home and resumed my normal life, I would see how doing this would have been a mistake. I was told the girl, and boy, would have a difficult time adjusting to American society, that they would be subject to racism, feel disconnected from their culture, and would, eventually, become disenchanted with their new lifestyle. I was told to wait.
Being refused, I sought advise from my buddies. They told me since Hanh was Buddhist, that I could arrange a “limited time” marriage. It seems that some Vietnamese families would allow their daughter to marry a soldier for a period of one year- His tour of duty. This allowed the family to keep its’ status, and the girl, to keep her “honor” intact. This was allowed (but not recognized by the military) since most everyone knew it would be difficult to carry on a relationship after the soldier returned home, and even more difficult to send for the girl at a later date. Or, I could, as one friend suggested, just enjoy the moment; don’t worry, be happy. Well, I wasn’t very happy about my choices. I chose to wait a month or two, and then, if my feelings for Hanh grew stonger, I would try again more forcefully.
Our relationship grew from August through December. When I was off duty, I would try to get as many eight hour passes I could (my Captain was very understanding) to get into town to see her. I could hop in a Lambretta and be there in a matter of minutes, as the town was easily accessible from the base, and, for the most part, considered very secure. It was that false sense of security that would almost destroy the town during the TET offensive of 1968, and cost the lives of many people.
I would bring gifts for Hanh and Son. Nothing much, just the proverbial chocolate bars and perfume. She was my comfort as I was a stranger in a strange land. We tried to teach each other our respective languages and she fared much better than I did (I think she was getting help from her fellow barmaids). Soon, we were able to talk with each other a little : “I like you. You like me?” “Anh yeu em. Co dep lam.” I still remember the phrases. I once asked an ARVN (Army of the Republic of Vietnam)soldier how to say “I like you very much.” in Vietnamese. He wrote it down and I practiced it, and, when I saw her, I used it, and her puzzled look informed me I was not using the proper inflections. I tried again and this time her face broke out in a heart-stopping smile when she understood: “Toi thich co nhieu lam.”
It was that time when as a young man trying to adapt to a totally strange environment ( did you ever go shopping with an M-14 slung over your shoulder?), I met this wonderful girl, my lifeboat in a sea of contradictions. The Army taught me how to fight and survive but it never taught me about the people and their culture whose land we were blowing up. I consider myself lucky because I had contact with Vietnamese civilians, not just the enemy. I got to know these gentle people and some of their history and culture, and that would have a bearing on the way my life would turn out years later.
I was naive back then. I knew she was a bar girl but I also knew some of the reasons why. In a war torn country full of lonely foreign soldiers, it’s a good paying job for a minimum amount of effort. I never thought about what she was doing at work when I wasn’t there. Maybe I was just stupid or very trusting. But I do know that when I showed up at the bar, she immediately came to me and we stayed together until I left several hours later (provided I brought the owner his tribute).
There was a small back room where employees could eat and take a break. She would take me back there and we would sit alone together and eat and drink cola… and hold hands. Sometimes, another waitress would come back there and, seeing us, would put her hand on Hanhs’ shoulder, say something in Vietnamese, causing her to cover her face with one hand in a modest blush. They would giggle and then the other girl would leave.
There was one time when Hanh went out and bought us this fish sandwich. The Vietnamese would place this fish on a platform six to eight feet high and sun dry it. Then they would smother it in nuoc-mam ( a fish sauce) and place it in french bread. Well, I wasn’t used to this, and I took a bite and pretended to chew and when she wasn’t looking I would take it out of my mouth and place it in my pocket. Several times I left the bar with pockets full of partially masticated meat, tossing it out before I reached camp. How I would like, once more, to sit with her like that and this time I would actually eat the sandwich.
One day when I visited Hanh, she gave me a photograph of herself in an outfit that, for her, was unusual. She was wearing a cowboy type shirt and hat, wearing sunglasses; strumming a guitar. She pointed to the photo and said: “You give one for me.” I promised I would, And then, with a lot of pointing and hand gesturing, I explained I would like a photo of her in the ao-dai, the way she usually dressed. She understood, and the next visit, she gave me the photo I wanted and, on the back, had written something in Vietnamese. At the time, I didn’t have it translated, and, after she died, it would not be translated until 1989…21 years later.
end of part 3