We walked next to the General Post Office, which was only one block away.
“Well, look at that,” I said. “An American train station right here in Saigon—minus the trains.”
It was designed by French architect Gustave Eiffel in 1886 was supposed to be one of the most attractive buildings in the city. Wes and I could immediately see why. The coral-colored façade, with white trim, presented carvings of the faces of famous scientists and philosophers. I read from another brochure that it reminded many people of a large American train station similar to Grand Central in New York City. The massive building was built in a French Colonial design and had a cavernous interior, and it actually had comfortable benches with padded seats for patrons.
“I’m amazed at all of this,” Wes confided.
“Me, too. I had no idea anything of this scale was located in Vietnam.”
Wes took off his cap and swung it at a fly buzzing around his head. He put his cap back on and smiled. “I hit him, but I don’t know where he went. We’ll see if he’s gone now. Travel halfway around the world, and nothing changes.”
During the French era, Dong Khoi Street became internationally famous. Then it was called Rue Catinat, a place where several dignified hotels and dozens of refined shops, relaxed cafés, and various bars beckoned westerners.
We stopped at the tall Metropolitan Building, a well-liked café spot. We snapped a few photos and walked on.
Across the street and down a block, we saw another tall, modern structure. It was the Vincom Shopping Center, a large, modern shopping area. Photos were enough. We walked onward.
The next stop was the former Hotel de Ville, which was completed in 1908 and was now home to the government-operated People’s Committee Building. Again, Wes and I were impressed. The structure was truly a resplendent, photogenic colonial landmark.
We continued into Lower Dong Khoi, where we stopped at the Continental Hotel’s outdoor café for another drink. Dozens of birds chirped noisily in the trees, while others hopped hurriedly on the ground near us. They checked empty tables and chairs for crumbs, but when a waiter approached, they scattered into the trees. Two-thirds of the tables were unoccupied.
As soon as the waiter brought our drinks, I took a long, refreshing sip of my martini. I asked, “Do you remember when we rode through Saigon during Tet, going from the ambush hot spot in Cholon where we lost six guys? Then we rode all the way to Long Bien, and twenty minutes after we arrived, a pallet of a hundred fifty-five-millimeter rounds blew up about a hundred yards from where we stopped?”
“Hell, yes, I do,” Wes replied. “The concussion knocked me and a few other guys to the ground. My ears were ringing for an hour. But I don’t recall noticing any of these buildings when we came through Saigon. I didn’t see an area like this when I was here.”
Now, visiting this neighborhood, I was amazed at everything I had not known had existed when we were here forty years ago. I turned my head to watch a busboy clean a table, and a thought came to mind.
“Do you recall a guy named Robert? I don’t remember his last name. He was on KP for three days for some screw-up he’d done when we were back at Bearcat. The mess sergeant told him to clean the grease trap. He dropped a grenade down there. It exploded and threw grease all over the ceiling and walls of the mess shack, and they court-martialed him.”
“Actually, I think he got an article fifteen for doing that. They fined him one hundred dollars.”
“When I saw the grease mess myself a few days later, I laughed so hard my sides ached. I can imagine being nearby and hearing the explosion.”
We reminisced, laughed, and told stories for another half an hour before we moved on. The bright sunlight was finally beginning to cool down.
The sidewalks were crowded, and traffic on the street passed in a hurry. We walked past the municipal theater that in colonial times, among French high society, had been an opera house. We took a few quick photos and then kept going.
By then, it was after 7:00 p.m., and we were hungry. We decided our final visit for the evening would be the Rex Hotel just beyond Nguyen Hue Street. During the Vietnam War, several well-known journalists had used it as their base to report the news. Wes and I rode the elevator to the rooftop bar to check out a great scenic view. It truly was fantastic. We could see the city of seven million people and the verdant countryside for miles.
By the time we got back to our hotel lobby, it was after 10:30 p.m. Both Wes and I were tired, so we said good night and went to our rooms. I wanted to write in my journal and call Sue to let her know how it was going so far. We had an agreement that I would call her once or twice while I was there. I showered, took a long drink from a bottle of water, turned down the bed, and punched in Sue’s phone number on speed dial. It rang seven times before she answered.
“Hi, it’s Brad. Were you on the roof?”
“Of course not. I thought it might be you, so I came out of the shower to answer the phone.”
“Are you naked and dripping wet?”
“Yes and yes. Well, I do have a towel around me.”
“No fair. I want to think of you all sexy and waiting for me.”
“I can’t stand here until you get back, so get that off your mind.”
“I’m tired. I’ve had quite a day.”
I told her about the trip getting into Vietnam, what had happened since we landed, and how Wes and I had met and had stayed together during the afternoon and evening.
“It sounds like you’re enjoying yourself. I’m glad. I know you had misgivings at first. You said that after you paid the down payment, you almost canceled. I’m pleased you didn’t. I think you need this visit to help clear your thoughts. How many other guys are in your group?”
“There are twelve of us. Most of them are older than I am, and Wes is the only one I know. His wife died recently from cancer. He’s still sad about it. Here they were, retired, everything all in place, and she gets breast cancer and dies. Her mom died from it. Do you get the tests yearly?”
“I used to, but now they say every other year is OK.”
“Did any women in your family die from it?”
“No. We’ve not had that problem. I come from hearty stock. I’ll be around for years.”
“That’s good! I’d hate to lose you. Hey, what’s the time back there? It’s eleven at night here in Saigon, on Monday night.”
“It’s eight in the morning Monday morning for me. You’re fifteen hours ahead of me—remember how we figured it out the day before you departed?”
We talked for another fifteen minutes, and then Sue said, “You know, you don’t have to call me every day. If you get busy or the time doesn’t work out, just call the next day. But don’t miss more than two consecutive days; I’ll worry about you. One of those Vietnamese babes might throw a net over you and keep you locked in her bedroom.”
I thought of saying, What’s so wrong with that? But then I thought better of it.
I described my room and the hotel. I raved about how modern and revitalized the city looked.
“After all I’ve done today and seeing a glimpse of Saigon, I’m really tired.” I pictured her beautiful face and a second later I continued, “I’m looking forward to seeing you soon.”
“I’m waiting to see you too.” Her voice sounded so inviting.
“Good night and good-bye for now.”
“Good night, Brad. Take care of yourself, stay safe for me.”
IX
The next morning at 7:30 a.m., our group, including John Turner, ate breakfast in the hotel’s largest restaurant. With so many American and European travelers staying there, the waitstaff didn’t bother showing us the Asian food menu. I was ravenous and ate a full breakfast, plus more toast and bacon, which I made into a tasty bacon sandwich with plenty of butter on the bread. The six wide, thin-sliced rashers tasted great on freshly
baked rye. The steaming hot coffee was as good as what I made at home with expensive beans.
“Sign your meals to your room, stop in at the restroom, and meet me in the lobby in ten minutes,” John said. “I have two sandwiches for everyone from the hotel kitchen, so we won’t be stopping for lunch. They are on the bus in the cooler.” He picked up his backpack full of papers, his notes, and two bottles of his favorite water and departed.
We boarded the waiting bus, got ourselves settled in, and waited for John to explain the day’s sights. Outside, it was already humid. The air conditioning on the bus felt good.
“If anyone hasn’t put on sunscreen, do it now,” John advised. “I see most of you have boonie hats. That’s good. You should have water with you. If you don’t, I have a case in the blue cooler in the back of the bus. Our first significant stop is Long Bien. We’ll be driving around on some back roads to see a couple of hamlets and villages some of you may have been through. Sit back and enjoy the sights, and I’ll do the same.”
As we rode the thirty-three kilometers of busy highway, all of us remained silent. I felt caught up in a reverie, knowing I was visiting only for a few days, the war was long over, and we were in another time. The sun had few clouds to block its brightness and pressing heat. Twenty minutes later, driving through heavy, fast traffic, we crossed a wide, long bridge over the Saigon River.
“Your lack of conversation is normal,” John told us. “Every group I’ve led stays quiet for the first hour or so on the first day. Then everyone loosens up and wants to point out things along the roadside and talk about old times. Just do what comes naturally. Some of you are more laconic than others. If it feels right, speak up and tell us something you want us to know.”
Then John seemed to get lost in thought. I saw his eyes narrow as he took on the thousand-yard stare, a condition when people stop living in the present and recall a moment in time or an incident they want to either remember or forget. Two minutes later, he showed a relaxed smile and said, “I have memories in this area. My unit lost several men in Cholon during Tet. I crossed the old bridge at this same location many times going to and from hot spots during the first week of fighting.”
“John, Wes, and I were in the Cholon area, too,” I said. “We were here in the Tet of ’68, but we didn’t come into the Long Bien Cholon area until the end of January.”
“I was here beginning the first week of January,” he informed me.
“We crossed the bridge to enter Saigon, and then we departed a week later. We lost several guys in the first two weeks. From here, we went to Long Bien to secure the ammo dump. What we didn’t know was that sappers had left satchel charges before we arrived. We entered the gates and set up a makeshift camp, and twenty minutes later, a huge explosion in a stack of a hundred fifty-five-millimeter artillery ammo shook us up. Wes and a few others were thrown to the ground. I wasn’t in the line of the blast. Luckily, no one was injured. A few of the men complained of temporary hearing loss. I heard that in the end, a few thousand of the hundred fifty-five-millimeter rounds were destroyed.”
I sat back and watched the scenery. Half an hour later, we pulled off the main road and drove a couple of miles farther east, to where the road turned to dirt. It led to a village of one hundred rice farmers and their families.
“In 1968, several of our units secured the bridge you’ll see on the other end of this village,” John told us. “One unit would stay for a week, and then another took their turn. The VC liked to use the canal to float supplies through here. After we sunk a dozen of their boats and killed several of their men, they stopped coming through here and started using jungle trails two miles away. Now, we usually come through here three times per week. We drive through slowly, but we don’t stop because they aren’t set up to sell anything to tourists. One of our local Vietnamese managers stopped once and asked if they would like to have us stop in with Americans from the war years. The town’s mayor talked it over with some of the others, and they said no. They did not want to see Americans or have them asking questions. They don’t mind us driving through, but they lost many young men in the war, and they haven’t forgotten.”
The bus drove through town slowly. People stopped what they were doing and looked at us with blank stares. No one smiled, but no one taunted us either. The few people we saw seemed indifferent. There were only a few small cars parked throughout the village. Motorbikes, bicycles, and pedicabs were moving about. When we reached the narrow bridge, John mentioned that it looked to be the same one from so long ago. It was obviously a poor village, and infrastructure upgrades were slow in coming. Except for a new coat of paint every few years, the old, narrow bridge probably remained the same.
“In another quarter of a mile, we’ll take another road that goes back to the asphalt connector that brought us in here,” John announced. “Along the way, you can see the farmers and their families in their conical hats planting rice in fields submerged in water a foot deep, just as you saw it years ago. They’ve done it this way for a few thousand years. Modernization may find its way here, but the farmers don’t hold their breath.”
“I remember our company pulling guard duty in a place similar to this one,” Wes began. “I have no idea what it was called or where it was on a map. It was too long ago. The platoon sergeant told us that all eight of us had to be alert all night, no exceptions. This was no picnic. The VC didn’t start any trouble. They wanted only to float quietly past without us seeing them. I remember a guy named Hanson liked this duty. He’d sit on top of the bridge, and if any of the boats came through, he’d pull the pin on a grenade and hold the spoon handle when it came off to keep it quiet. Then he’d hold the grenade for three seconds and drop it into their boats and blow them up. During a three-month period, he destroyed four boats and a few, probably local, VC. I never had the nerve to do that trick with a live grenade. I’d heard some of our guys up north would have one man pull the pin and toss it to his friend, and he would throw it at the VC. A few times, word got around that the usual six seconds before the explosion was shorter by two or three seconds because of a factory defect, and our own guys died because of it. It came down from headquarters for everybody to stop that practice. They told us to do it right or face a court-martial.”
“I never did it, either,” I replied.
Then, as if on cue, most of us opened our water bottles and took a long drink. I stood up in the aisle, stretched, and threw my boonie hat into the overhead luggage compartment.
Later, when we continued on the highway, John read a road sign that said we had six kilometers to go to reach Long Bien.
What will I remember of Long Bien? I wondered. How much have things changed? Will anything still be here to recognize? According to a brochure, Long Bien is a busy place.
“Let me fill you in on a few facts about Long Bien,” John said. “It’s located on the east side of the Dong Nai River. The base was a major command headquarters for USARV, United States Army Vietnam, and it wasn’t very far from Bien Hoa Air Base. In mid-1967, for security reasons, USARV and several other units departed Saigon and moved to Long Bien. The base had sixty thousand Americans in uniform working there in 1969. Most army personnel don’t know this, but Long Bien was not a Vietnamese city or town. The army simply established it as a military area in Bien Hoa, northeast of Saigon. Many of you would have most likely been processed through the Ninetieth Replacement Battalion at Long Bien your first three days in the country. During the Vietnam War, the Long Bien Post was the largest US base outside the continental United States.”
Just then the bus driver hit his brakes and swerved slightly to avoid a motorbike stopped in the roadway due to an accident that had just happened. John fell into an empty seat.
Someone yelled, “Incoming!” and we laughed. John stood up smiling.
When we arrived at Long Bien, the bus driver drove around for half an hour so we could see the sights.
“Who saw the old Long Bien Base?” John asked. “Did anyone see what’s left of the LBJ compound? That’s the name of the old Long Bien Jail, but I’m sure you remember that. OK, no one saw the old army post? I’m glad to hear that because it isn’t there anymore.”
“Where is it?” someone asked.
“Now, as of 2008, the land was converted to Long Bien Techno Park, a large shopping complex and a huge grocery store patterned after western stores.” Then John said, “Let me have your attention, please. Let’s take a minute of silence to remember all the Americans who died in and around Long Bien.”
The seconds seemed much longer than a minute.
“I’ve talked enough for now.” John sat down and took a long drink of water from a new bottle.
Around me some of the other men were engaged in a few separate conversations as the miles passed beneath our bus. I looked around and noticed that the others were busy watching the scenery.
I said, “John, I brought a few of my notes. Let me know if you’ve heard of any of these places, please.”
“Sure thing.”
“Wes and I were in Ninth Infantry Division, B Company, Second Battalion, Forty-Seventh Infantry. The nickname of our unit was the Panthers. I’d never been near an armored personnel carrier before, and I discovered that having light armor was a blessing. Not only did each APC have a .50 caliber gun, but also we had hundreds of rounds of extra ammo that ground units could not carry with them. We had boxes of grenades, ammo, trip flares, concertina wire, and whatever else we could haul, and we rode on the top of the vehicle for transportation. We never rode inside because they were a death trap from road mines and RPGs. We still walked on patrols and to recon nearby areas, but we didn’t need to rely on Huey helicopters to get us to a new location.
“In late October of ’68, the company spent two days to secure six engineers who drove bulldozers and cleared the jungle fifty yards away from Highway One from Xuan Lox to the Second Corps boundary near Phan Thiet. Is that area around here?”
THE GOOD SOLDIER Page 4
