Part 1: The Silence After
No one said a word when our unit came back from the front. The living were exhausted. The wounded groaned. The dead stayed behind, wrapped in old tarps and laid at the forest's edge, waiting to be carried home. We left with twenty. Thirteen came back. A week later, we were eight.
There was no bugle, no ceremony. Only the sound of rain on canvas, the slap of sandals as medics moved between the beds, the quiet crackle from the Hoàng Cầm stove—and the silence in Lâm's eyes as he folded Trung's torn shirt like it was a national flag.
No one asked what happened. In the jungle, we stopped asking "why." We just kept surviving.
I couldn't sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, the gunfire returned. Trung's face appeared—his lips slightly open, blood seeping through his collar. I didn't cry. I didn't feel brave. I just felt hollow.
I wrote in my notebook:
"February 5. Eight men left in the squad. Lâm still hasn't eaten."
The ink smudged where my wet fingers touched it. I didn't know why I kept writing. Maybe to remember. Maybe so if I disappeared too, someone would know that a boy named Trung once fought here, once lived.
On the third evening, we were given four days of rest. Not real rest—just not fighting. Some mended clothes. Others lay back and stared at the sky.
I was shaving with a broken mirror when Lâm came over, his voice hoarse:
— "Come with me."
— "Where?"
— "Medical post. Someone you know's back."
I dropped the mirror, wiped my hands, and followed.
The infirmary was a bamboo shack beneath a wild myrtle tree, covered in old plastic sheets. Inside: moans, quiet laughter, and coughing. Wounded men lay still, eyes fixed on the stained ceiling as if looking through it to the sky.
Lâm led me to a corner where a man sat with a wooden leg and a bandaged head. When he looked up, I gasped.
— "Anh Thịnh!"
He grinned, a few teeth missing.
— "Thought you forgot about me, Tính."
— "I heard you… you were discharged?"
— "Yeah, lost a leg. But I couldn't stand being home. Signed back up. Just doing dispatch runs now."
His wooden leg looked worn—hand-carved, dented. He smiled, but his eyes were red. Maybe from wind. Maybe from memory.
We talked for almost an hour. He told stories from the border, about snipers targeting even the medics. I told him about Bò Gai Hill. About Trung. When I said Trung's name, Thịnh didn't ask how he died. He just nodded and handed me a hand-rolled cigarette.
We sat quietly, smoking. That kind of silence that shares more than words.
That night, Lâm didn't sleep in our hut. He stayed with Thịnh, talking all night. The next morning, he handed me a small envelope.
— "For his mother," he said.
I tucked it into my shirt. Lâm looked like he wanted to say more, but didn't.
At lunch, the political officer came by, voice like rusted metal:
— "Any volunteers to head back to base camp for gear? Three men. Good for exercise."
Before I could reply, Lâm raised his hand. Then turned to me:
— "You coming?"
— "Yeah."
The third was Thành—a skinny new recruit, quiet but stubborn. He didn't say a word, just slung his pack and followed.
The road to base camp cut through wild grass, slippery rocks, red soil. The sky hung low, spitting drizzle.
We walked in silence for an hour. Then Lâm asked:
— "You still have Trung's notebook?"
I nodded.
— "Keep writing in it. If you don't, you'll forget. I'm already forgetting."
Thành asked:
— "What are you most afraid of forgetting?"
Lâm stopped, looked at the sky. Then said:
— "The sound of Cừ laughing. How he used to tease us. His mom's voice when she came to visit, holding sticky rice in a paper bag. If I forget, it's like he never lived."
I looked away, biting my lip.
We reached base camp by dusk. Ate cold rice and sesame salt. Slept under a supply tent.
That night, I didn't sleep. I sat beneath the thatched roof, listening to the rain. I wrote:
"Thịnh came back—with one leg. Still smiling.
Trung is gone. I haven't dreamed of him.
Lâm fears forgetting. I fear remembering too much."
On our return, we passed the edge of the forest where they buried the fallen. Crude wooden markers, names carved hastily. The wind smelled like fresh earth. We stood there a moment. I didn't read the names. Just stood.
Lâm put his hand on my shoulder.
— "Let's go. We have to live to remember them."
And so we walked on.
Part 2: The Man with the Broken Rifle
After every battle, someone in our unit would quietly disappear. Not always the dead. Some were injured and sent away, never to return. Some just... vanished. No announcements. No explanations. Over time, their names simply stopped appearing on the duty roster.
I called them "the ones who faded."
Not like Trung, whose death we saw. Not like Thịnh, who came back.
These men faded like smoke after a night shift cigarette—there, and then not.
One of them was Lực.
He was at least ten years older than me, with skin like bark and a temperament just as rough. Best ammo carrier in the squad, and the loudest complainer about the firewood never being dry enough for the Hoàng Cầm stove. I didn't like him at first. But one night, during a supply ambush, I watched him cover Thành—the rookie, trembling from cold—with his own jacket. I changed my mind.
That night, he sat beside me, slowly carving letters into the stock of his rifle.
I asked, "What're you carving?"
— "Names. Of people I owe."
I laughed. "You owe that many?"
He shrugged.
— "Owe my kid brother a cursing for dying early. Owe my drinking buddy back home a promised shot. Owe my mother a visit on Dad's death anniversary. If I don't carve them, I'll forget."
Lực had a habit of polishing his dented canteen when off-duty. It leaked, but he refused to swap it.
— "Took this one across the border to Laos in '70. Swapping it would be pretending that trip didn't happen."
One rainy night, he told me about a girl back when he was wounded at twenty—young nurse, braided hair, read stories to the injured. His eyes lit up while speaking, like he wasn't in the jungle anymore.
Then he sighed.
— "She married an officer. I don't blame her."
Lực disappeared during a morning forage run. A young recruit had gone with him. The kid told us:
— "He said go fifty meters deeper—there were tender wild herbs there…"
— "And?"
— "Then I heard shots. I hit the ground, didn't move. When I looked up… he was gone."
We searched all afternoon. Found nothing.
Except his K-44 rifle—broken in two—lying in the bushes.
The carved stock still intact. Faint words: "Mom… Dad…"
I didn't know whether to bring it back or bury it there. In the end, I took the stock, placed it in my pack. The chamber was empty.
That night, Lâm sat carving a walking stick, mumbling:
— "I bet Lực's still alive. Tough bastard. Probably just lost somewhere."
I didn't reply.
I just took out my notebook and wrote:
"Lực. The man with the broken rifle. Gone."
Two days later, we were sent to lay mines deep in the forest. Six of us: me, Lâm, Thành, Hào (a small, sharp-eyed Central boy who knew mines like his own fingers), and two new kids—Viễn and Lộc.
The jungle was wet. Grass up to our waists. A brown stream cut across the trail, filled with floating leaves. The wind blew oddly—rising in gusts, then falling silent. It felt like someone was watching.
We moved in single file, four meters apart, rifles ready. Lâm led. I flanked left. Thành flanked right. Hào checked the traps.
Midway, Viễn tripped on a wire—luckily just a decoy. But later, Lộc began to shake, feverish, muttering deliriously:
— "It's him… it's Lực… he's standing out there…"
Hào slapped him hard, yanked him up. We all felt the chill.
That night, as we set up shelter under a tarp, I overheard Lâm whispering to Thành:
— "You ever think… we're just taking turns?"
— "What?"
— "One dies, another fills the gap. Trung died, I became squad lead. Lực vanished, Tính's now on point. Maybe after me—it'll be you."
Thành didn't reply. But his sigh cut through the darkness.
I couldn't sleep. Rain ticked on the tarp. Leaves rustled in uneasy patterns.
I took out Lực's broken rifle stock and tapped it on the ground—three times.
Not superstition. But I believed: somewhere in that jungle, those who vanished were still roaming, still listening when we called their names at roll call.
Part 3: The Letter With No Recipient
After the mine-laying mission, things settled—for a while.
Rain slowed. Our shelter stopped leaking, though mold still claimed every corner. The leeches disappeared. The mosquitoes multiplied like magic.
That Tuesday afternoon, I patched my pants and scrubbed my shirt in a basin of brown water. The needle I borrowed from the medic was blunt and bent. Every stitch stung my fingers.
Next to me, Lâm pulled out a bundle of old letters. The paper was stained, the ink fading. But each sheet was folded perfectly.
— "Whose are those?" I asked.
— "Dead men's," he said simply. "Found one in Trung's pack. Unsent. Stuffed behind a plastic pouch."
I went quiet.
He unfolded it and began reading aloud—softly, like the wind might carry the words away.
"Ma,
I'm shaking while writing this—not from the cold, but because our unit's moving to the frontlines.
We used to just patrol, ambush, fire a few shots and retreat.
Now it's deeper. Real fighting.
We all smile, but our eyes are red.
Don't worry. I brought the scarf you sewed. If anything happens, I'll be holding it.
I'm sorry I haven't sent more money.
But I promise: if I make it through this, I'll come home for Tết.
I swear I'll come back."
Lâm folded the letter again. His eyes didn't tear, but they reddened.
He handed it to me. I took it gently. The paper smelled like mold, sweat, and something older—something like memory.
I placed it in my medicine tin. Lâm nodded.
— "You'll keep it safer than I will."
That night, I wrote a letter of my own—for the first time since joining the army. Not to my mother. Not to anyone at home. Just… to myself.
I tore a page from my notebook and wrote:
Tính—
If you're reading this, you're still alive.
Maybe.
But if you are, remember their names: Trung, Lực, Thịnh, Cừ, Lâm.
They laughed, they cursed, they ate burnt rice and died beside you.
Don't let anyone erase them.
Don't let bombs bury memory.
Remember.
Remember everything.
Until no one else does.
I folded it and tucked it inside my jacket, next to Trung's letter.
Three days later, I was assigned a special mission: deliver a coded message to relay station C. Alone. No heavy weapons. No noise. No mistakes.
Lâm walked with me to the forest edge. Handed me a small lump of hardened sugar.
— "Been saving this since training. Take it. Eat it when you're too hungry to eat."
I laughed, slapped his shoulder.
— "I'll be back. I'm not Trung."
He didn't laugh. Just nodded.
The jungle trail that day was eerily quiet. No rain. Just gray skies and bent grass, as if someone had just walked ahead of me.
I wasn't afraid. But my chest ached with something I couldn't name.
Two hours in, after a steep slope, I rested beside a fallen log. Took a sip from my canteen.
Then I heard it—a cough from the bamboo brush.
I raised my rifle. A voice came:
— "Don't shoot. I'm just a villager."
I stepped closer. An old woman, bone-thin, sat under the trees. Eyes cloudy, hair like ash. A basket of herbs on her back. She looked like a statue carved from wind.
— "You live here?" I asked.
— "Up the hill. In the stilt house. Used to be a garrison there."
I looked where she pointed—an old house, half-collapsed, clinging to the slope.
— "You live alone?"
— "Who else is left? Husband died fighting the French. Eldest son in '68. Youngest at the border. Each buried in a different corner of this land. I can't walk far. So I wait."
I had nothing to say. My throat felt tight.
She offered me bitter tea made from forest leaves. I drank it all.
On the wall hung three faded photos: one in a soldier's uniform, one in a plain blouse, one of a whole family—torn at the corner.
— "My sons," she said. "They were handsome, like you. But they're all earth now."
I took a ration bar from my bag and handed it to her. She accepted without hesitation.
— "You're still alive," she said. "Don't waste that."
— "What?"
— "I've received dozens of letters like yours. None of them ever came home."
That night, I slept on her floor beside the embers.
I woke twice—once to the wind, once because I swore I heard Trung calling from outside.
No one was there.
Just dry leaves spinning across the yard, like someone burning pieces of memory.
At dawn, I left quietly. No time to say goodbye.
On the table was a cold cup of tea and a small package—
the sugar I thought I'd lost, neatly wrapped.
Beside it, a scrap of paper:
"You're still alive. Don't waste it."
I ate the sugar.
It was bitter.
Part 4: Under the Nameless Stars
The last night before I returned to base, I slept in the forest.
Not because I got lost.
But because I didn't want to return too soon.
I hung my hammock between two old chestnut trees. No flashlight, just a small flame from dry sawdust to keep the mosquitoes away.
The moon was pale.
The stars—sparse and silent.
The jungle felt like it had been wrapped in thick cloth, muffling every sound.
I lay on my side, hugging my pack, rifle beside me. In the pocket of my jacket were three scraps of paper:
– A letter from Trung, never sent.
– A note I wrote to myself.
– A message from the old woman: "You're still alive. Don't waste it."
I laid them out on my chest, stared at them under the moonlight, then began to write again.
Not a diary.
Something closer to a will—addressed to someone I didn't yet know.
Maybe even myself.
If you're reading this, know you're not the first to lie beneath this sky.
Hundreds—maybe thousands—have laid in hammocks like yours, staring at stars, heart slowing as they thought of their mothers.
Some survived.
Some didn't.
But all of them were here. And all of them tried to live.
If one day you're the last person who remembers them, don't forget.
Don't sleep it off. Don't rush forward so fast that their faces vanish.
Those stars above you—
the ones with no names—
they are them.
Look up.
I folded the page, tucked it beside Trung's letter.
Sometime past midnight, I woke again.
There was a sound—soft, deliberate.
Not a gunshot. Not a branch breaking.
It was the unmistakable hush of someone walking barefoot on decaying leaves.
I didn't move.
Didn't turn on my light.
Just lay there, eyes wide open.
The sound stopped behind my hammock.
Then a voice—rough, tired:
— "You're still awake?"
My chest tightened.
It was Lực's voice.
I sat up and turned.
No one there.
Only cold air slipping between the trees, making me shiver.
I didn't sleep again.
Just sat with my back to the tree, polishing my rifle.
The broken stock—Lực's—was still in my bag. I hadn't dared to leave it behind.
I remembered clearly:
– His low laugh.
– The awkward way he spoke of the girl who read stories to him in the field hospital.
– His eyes, always searching beyond where anyone else could see.
I knew—even if that voice had been a trick of exhaustion, even if it was just a dream woven by the jungle—I believed he had come back, at least to this forest's memory.
At sunrise, I resumed the journey back to our unit.
Crossing a hill covered in silvergrass, I came upon a little boy herding buffalo.
He wore a torn shirt, held a stick, and played a bamboo flute.
He didn't speak.
Just watched me and kept playing, the melody soaring into the brightening sky.
I stood there listening for a moment, then walked on.
And I wondered:
If I never returned, would that boy grow up and survive in this forest?
Or would he too become just another name, carved into a soldier's rifle stock?
By noon, I reached the camp.
Lâm saw me first. Ran up, eyes wide.
— "You're really alive. I thought…"
I smiled.
— "So did I."
We didn't hug. Just slapped each other's shoulders.
No need for more.
That evening, I wrote again in my notebook:
I saw a falling star last night.
Right in front of my hammock.
No one picked it up.
Maybe because it didn't need a name.
Like Trung.
Like Lực.
Like Thịnh.
Nameless—but still bright.
Part 5: An Unfinished Report
After the communication mission, I was summoned to a squad meeting.
The political officer was already waiting in the tent, face stone-cold.
Lâm sat in the back, his eyes a quiet apology.
I stood straight, hands behind my back, not sure what I was in trouble for—but ready.
— "Comrade Tính," the officer said, his voice like rust on tin, "do you realize that sleeping alone in the forest is a breach of regulation?"
I said nothing.
I could've made excuses. Said the trail was slippery. That I got lost. That I heard gunfire.
But none of that was true.
The truth was simpler: I just needed one more night under the trees. To sit with the moon. To remember the dead.
I said:
— "I know. I was wrong."
He nodded.
— "Then write a self-criticism. Three pages. Due tomorrow."
I returned to the tent and picked up pen and paper.
I sat there for nearly two hours, trying to write something appropriate.
But every word felt false.
Because I didn't regret it.
Not for a second.
I wasn't guilty of anything—except needing to breathe.
To hold on to fading voices.
To sit still with memory before marching back into death.
Eventually, I just wrote:
I stayed the night in the forest because I was afraid I'd forget the sound of my comrades' footsteps.
I needed one quiet evening to remember the faces of the ones we couldn't bring back.
If that is a violation, I accept the consequences.
But I will not apologize for remembering them.
I folded the page. Didn't submit it.
Lâm read it silently. Said nothing.
The next morning, he put a hand on my shoulder.
— "I'll hand it in for you. I'll tweak a few words. You don't need to know which ones. Just enough to keep the officers calm."
I nodded.
Out here, no one cared about a perfect report.
All they wanted to know was that you were still clear-headed, not running, not broken, not panicking.
The rest… depended on how much faith they had in you.
That afternoon, Thành—the youngest in the squad—came to me holding something.
A crumpled piece of paper, folded small.
— "Found this behind your hammock. Thought you dropped it."
I unfolded it.
It was my original note—the one I never submitted.
The unedited truth.
I read it again. Then smiled.
Not because it was poetic.
But because for the first time, I'd written like a soldier.
No justifications.
Just truth.
That night, by the flicker of our cooking fire, I told Lâm and Thành about my dream in the woods.
About Lực's voice.
About the old woman with the sugar.
About the letters with no names waiting on the other end.
Thành looked at me and asked:
— "If one day you vanish like the others… what do you want us to remember about you?"
I stared into the fire.
— "I don't care if you forget my face. Or my name.
Just… write something. One line is enough.
Don't let me disappear like I never lived."
Lâm slapped my shoulder.
— "If you die first, I'll carve your name into my rifle."
— "And if you die first?" I asked.
— "You don't have to worry. I'll write a poem. It'll be terrible.
So bad, no one will forget it."
We laughed.
A small laugh.
Not long.
But honest.
That night, I wrote one last line in my notebook:
Some never return—
but they live on in us.
Because we speak of them.
Because we carve their names,
even if just in crooked lines
on the cracked wood of an old rifle.
[End of Chapter 2: The Ones Who Didn't Come Back]