--Part 1
I don't tell this story because I matter. I tell it because I'm still alive—and they aren't.
That day, I was sitting on the porch, trying to mend an old canvas chair whose leg had snapped during last year's rainy season. It was December, and the sun burned hard and yellow. My eyes were cloudy, my hands trembled, and the needle kept pricking my thumb.
Vũ—my grandson—came running in from the alley, schoolbag still on his back. He handed me a weathered notebook, its cover worn soft, its pages the color of ash.
He said:
"Grandpa, is this yours? I found it in the ancestral altar. It has your name."
I took it, hands shaking. It was the journal I'd written when I was twenty. The year my mother shaved her head to send me off to war.
Back then, my name was Ngô Văn Tính. I was from Phù Mỹ, Bình Định. I knew little beyond rice fields and the red dirt path that led to Diêu Trì station. I was eighteen, had never held a rifle, never killed even a rat, and believed that when the war ended, people would turn guns into hoes and grow vegetables.
My mother sold rice at the train station. My father died when I was six. I grew up with the sound of trains and people shouting "Run!" whenever planes flew low. When I passed the national exam, the village school hung my name on the gate. Three days later, I was drafted.
I remember the day I left. My mother didn't cry. She only said:
"Tính, if you're going, just don't die on the road. They might never find your body."
I laughed.
"I'm the fastest runner in the village, Ma."
She didn't smile. She gave me a string of dried soapberries, told me to pack them in my bag to keep my clothes smelling fresh. I didn't refuse. Later, deep in the jungle, that scent would wake me at night—I'd think she was nearby.
Training camp in Quảng Nam was bone-chilling. The first night we heard real gunfire echo from the hills, I trembled like a leaf. The new recruits all burrowed into their blankets, pretending to be brave. But I knew—we were all terrified.
They gave us plastic ponchos, aluminum cups, and a single warning:
"Don't die for nothing. Surviving is already hard enough."
I met Lê Bá Cừ on the third day. He got into a shouting match with a sergeant for being punished just because he called him "Squad Leader" instead of "Comrade Commander." They beat him, but he still grinned. He turned to me and said:
"I hate talking like we're in a stage play. Just call me Cừ."
From then on, I had a friend. I'd later find out he hid love letters in his gun barrel.
After nearly two weeks of training, we were ordered to march into the Trường Sơn mountains.
3 a.m. Mist thick as fog. We left camp quietly, each carrying over 30 kilograms: rifle, ammo, rice, raincoat, shovel, canteen, hammock... My first step outside camp—my heart pounded like a war drum.
The jungle trail felt like a descent into a bottomless well. Each step deeper into the shadows. The forest was silent—no birds—just the crunch of boots on rotting leaves.
By noon, we crossed a stream cold as stone. Cừ cursed as he waded through:
"If I survive this, I'm opening a coffee shop. I'll name it 'Death Creek Café'—nice and dramatic."
I didn't reply. My jaw was chattering. I just kept my eyes on the back of the guy in front of me—skinny shoulders soaked in sweat, steady like an anchor.
That night, we stopped at a place called Rào Bò. No villages. No shelters. Just wet leaves and thread-thin leeches. The squad leader, Lâm—a quiet man from Quảng Trị—handed each of us a single candy.
"Sweeten your mouth. First night's always the worst," he said.
I hadn't unwrapped it when gunfire crackled from a distant outpost. Muzzle flashes lit the woods. A whistle blew. We froze. My hands clenched the SKS rifle I'd never fired.
Cừ whispered beside me:
"Old-timers must've hit a mine or patrol."
I asked,
"Anyone dead?"
He didn't answer.
Moments later, Lâm returned, face unreadable:
"One dead. Two wounded. Rookies. One strayed off formation."
No one spoke. The candy melted in my palm.
That night, I didn't sleep.
I lay in my hammock, clutching my rifle. I heard leeches drop, someone sob softly nearby. Cừ murmured something—later I'd learn he was reciting his girlfriend's letter. He knew it by heart, like a prayer.
I closed my eyes and saw my mother again. Her rice shop. The train sounds. Burnt rice. Her bloodshot eyes that morning I left.
I cried. No one saw.
--Part 2
At dawn, the jungle fog thickened. Our hammocks were soaked like they'd been pulled from the river. The smell of mildew, wet soil, and lingering gunpowder clung to everything.
We packed our gear in silence. No one spoke, but everyone's eyes were heavy.
Later that day, our squad followed an old supply trail—used back in the war against the French. Now it was all overgrown with thorny grass and hidden traps.
Before noon, the front scouts suddenly halted. A sharp explosion ripped through the right flank. Trees shook. Birds scattered. Something hot sliced past my cheek. Then a scream:
"Cừ! Cừ, no!"
I turned. Cừ wasn't whole anymore.
His left leg was mangled, blood spraying like a burst pipe. His eyes wide, face pale, mouth open but silent.
I rushed to him, trembling, tying my scarf around the stump. Lâm shouted:
"Drop your hammock! Use the rope—tie above the knee!"
A piece of shrapnel had lodged in my shoulder. I felt no pain. Just cold.
We carried Cừ back a few hundred meters, trying to keep him conscious. He whispered,
"I don't... want to die... in this jungle... Tính..."
I held his hand. For the first time in my life, I prayed.
But by evening, he was gone.
No burial. No ceremony. Just a shallow hole, some leaves. Lâm placed a scrap of cloth with his name:
"Lê Bá Cừ. 1953–1971."
That was the first gravestone I ever saw.
That night, I didn't cry. I just looked up. A shooting star crossed the sky.
After that, I changed.
I no longer believed what we'd been taught. I understood: every step in the jungle was a dice roll with death.
A week later, we saw combat for the first time.
That evening, the sky blazed red. We approached an enemy outpost near Đá Lăn stream. Across the hill was a small American squad. They had bunkers, rifles, even a working radio.
Orders came: attack at 2 a.m.
I was in the main assault group. When I received the order, I swallowed hard. Lâm said only:
"Don't fire until you see the red flare."
I lay behind a rock for hours. Ears ringing. Palms soaked. The mountain's chill seeped into my bones. But I didn't shake. I just waited.
When the red flare lit the sky like falling fire, we moved.
I heard screaming, gunfire, the wet thud of bodies. The sound of blood spilling makes no noise—but I saw it clearly.
One American raised his hands to surrender. A comrade shot him anyway. He fell, eyes wide, dying only meters from me.
We lost two. They lost ten.
I don't remember faces. Just the blood on my hands, the way my SKS kicked when it fired.
That night, I sat alone. Lâm joined me. Didn't speak for a while.
Then he pulled out a cigarette, struck a match. The flame lit his red eyes.
He handed me one. I didn't smoke.
He said,
"Everyone fears dying. But living isn't easy either."
I didn't answer. Because I knew—from now on, I wasn't the village schoolboy anymore.
I was a soldier. A soldier who knew what blood smelled like.
--Part 3
Time dragged on like the jungle rain—endless, heavy, relentless. I got used to waking not knowing if I'd still be breathing tomorrow.
Every morning, I checked three things: my hands, my legs, and my rifle. Still moving. Still intact. Still dry. That's what mattered.
After several skirmishes, our unit fell back to a temporary base built into a hillside: dugouts, a Hoàng Cầm stove, a small rice cache lined with leaves.
Life in the forest became routine: morning guard, midday hauling, evening digging, night shooting, midnight ambush. No one complained. The jungle didn't care.
I got used to the stench of sweat, rust, moldy rice. I sometimes dreamed of home: the porch, the vines, my mother combing her hair, Cừ reading love letters aloud.
But when I woke, it was cobwebs and wet soil that greeted me.
One day, we received a special supply drop: Tam Đảo cigarettes, blank paper, notebooks... and letters. A whole bag of handwritten ones.
I got three.
One from Ma. One from my kid sister—I'd forgotten her birthday. And one from... Thảo.
Thảo—girl from my village. Two years younger. Always wore pigtails and laughed bright. The day I left, she slipped me a bundle and whispered,
"Open this when you're really scared."
I'd carried it but never dared open it.
Her letter was written in purple ink, on student paper:
"...Anh Tính, is it cold there? It's raining early here. Grass is tall again. I still walk past your house every morning, still remember your mom drying your uniform in the sun. I don't really understand war... I just want it to end so everyone can come home..."
I folded the letter, pressed it to my chest.
She didn't know—I'd seen men blown apart. That I'd killed a man reaching to surrender. That these hands once planted beans, and now only knew blood and soil.
That night, I wrote something in my notebook. Didn't send it. Just wrote.
The next month, the jungle turned colder. Leeches exploded in numbers. Climbing hills, my body bled from bites in every fold. One day, I found one in my ear canal, bloated. I dug it out with my knife. It still squirmed.
War doesn't kill with bullets. It kills with exhaustion.
A new lieutenant arrived: Hoàng. Northern accent. Skinny. Glasses. At night, he read Hồ Dzếnh poems aloud.
One line stayed with me:
"...When you left, half my soul died. The other half went mad..."
I didn't fully understand it. But his eyes were glassy—like his mind was somewhere far from this jungle.
He taught me how to oil a rifle fast. How to hold my breath while aiming. How to recognize helicopters by the rhythm of their blades.
He said,
"War doesn't reward the strong. It spares the ones who stay clear-headed."
One rainy day, we ambushed a patrol at Khe Đá Mòn. Mud up to our knees. I lay still for three hours. Didn't cough. Eyes locked on the scope.
When they came—boots sinking in mud, barely audible—we struck. Gunfire tore the silence. I saw a bullet pierce the chest of a Black American soldier. He fell mid-whistle.
We searched their packs: dry rations, knives, medicine... and a photo. He was standing with a woman and two children. They were all smiling.
I wrapped the photo and burned it with his body.
No one laughed. No one spoke.
That night, I wrote:
"He died while whistling. A man can die even while happy."
--Part 4
The rains came early. The jungle turned to soup. Rust crept onto rifles. Rice molded. Men molded.
That night, we marched in darkness. No moon. No stars. Only mud and breath.
Lâm's squad went ahead. I was in the rear with Trung, Dậu, and Thịnh.
At a fork, we lost the others. We whispered. No reply. Shouting would bring bullets.
Dậu said we should turn back. Trung disagreed. Said keep forward.
We built a shelter and waited for morning. Better that than stumble blind.
Rain drizzled through the night. I curled in my hammock, one hand on my rifle, one over Thảo's letter. Thịnh wheezed. Trung kept watch.
At midnight, a rustle. A faint glow. I rose—signaled to Trung.
We approached.
An old man sat by a small fire, roasting cassava. White beard. Tribal clothes.
He looked up, unafraid.
"You lost?" he asked in broken Vietnamese. "Come sit. Don't step on the fire."
We hesitated. Then I went first. The smell of roasted cassava was overwhelming.
He handed each of us a piece.
"Eat. Not poisoned. I eat too."
Dậu asked:
"How long've you lived here?"
The old man smiled.
"Longer than the war. Longer than that tree. I fought the French. Lost my way. Stayed."
"You were a soldier?" I asked.
He nodded.
"Got separated. Couldn't find my unit. So I stayed. There's rain, firewood, food... no dying."
We slept in his hut. Before we left, he warned:
"Head east with the sunrise. Watch the pools. The rain hides old traps."
He gave me a pouch:
"Herbs. For wounds. Can't stop the bleeding—but might stop the soul from leaving."
Two days later, we rejoined our unit. Lâm gave me a quiet nod. Didn't ask questions.
That night, I wrote:
"Some people don't die. They just choose never to return."
--Part 5
After regrouping, we were ordered to the front lines. Enemy had surrounded Bò Gai Ridge. No detailed maps. No reinforcements. Just orders:
"Attack before 5 a.m."
We trekked for three nights. On the last, C-47s roared in the distance. The sky glowed red.
Lâm pulled me aside. Handed me a pouch.
"Herbs from that old man. You keep it. I think you'll live longer."
I squeezed his hand. Said nothing.
We reached the enemy post before dawn. They had bunkers, barbed wire. At the top—ammo stockpile and radio tower.
Lâm drew a dirt map. Three-prong assault. I led the left flank. Platoon leader hit the front.
4:50 a.m. Fog thick. Final ammo check.
4:57. Signal blast.
Attack.
I ran. Heart thudding.
Screams. Gunfire. Bullets slicing the air.
Dậu took a bullet to the chest. No time to help.
I dove into a crater. Fired back at a machine gun nest. One enemy dropped—his photo fluttered to the ground, bloodstained.
Didn't look. Kept moving.
5:10. We breached the tower. Trung and I destroyed the radios.
Smoke cleared. Trung lay still—throat torn open.
I closed his eyes. No scream. Just silence.
We pulled back. I had no wounds. Not a scratch.
But I felt hollow.
That night, Lâm found me.
We'd lost half the squad. He said nothing. Just placed a notebook in my hand.
"Write. If you live long, don't let this all vanish like it never happened."
So I wrote.
Every night. By oil lamp. Through insect cries and jungle wind, I wrote.
Each name lost. Each voice gone. Each dream never spoken.
I no longer cried. I just remembered.
Remembered so I'd know who I'd been, who I'd lost, and why I was still breathing.
.