“It’s not far away, but we aren’t going there. There’s nothing to see but jungle. Any other places in mind?”
“In January of ’68, our battalion moved to the area between Xuan Loc and Bien Hoa. Do we go through there today?” I asked.
“Nope. Same story. Not much to see.”
“Within a week, they sent us back to Bearcat, our main base camp. Then we did jungle patrols around the Binh Son rubber plantation. We stayed there for close to two weeks.”
“It’s a nice, remote area, but we won’t see it, either,” he said. “No major battles happened there.”
“The Tet ceasefire that started on the twenty-eighth of January that year was cancelled on the thirtieth because of new intelligence information. B Company was sent to the PX parking lot at Long Binh to stand by as reinforcements. A, B, and C Companies were spread out for over a mile to protect the Long Bien facility. We faced the jungle to await a VC frontal attack. Our intelligence didn’t know that the VC had already infiltrated Bien Hoa, Widow’s Village, and Ho Nai Village. Later that evening, many of them hid their AK-47s and slipped away into the jungle to fight again. They were outnumbered and didn’t like the odds.
“No sooner had we arrived and positioned our APCs than the CO sent B Company a few miles away to a Bien Hoa suburb. The village had a dozen kilns and three dozen Vietnamese huts nearby. We started taking small arms fire and used an online formation in our APCs to drive through the kilns and village with our .50 caliber guns blazing. The VC stopped firing and disappeared, so we checked the village. We found no one and no weapons. We returned to our original location with Long Bien to our backs. With those eight .50 caliber guns firing continuously, I didn’t hear much for the next hour. I don’t recall if we had earplugs or not.”
“You took some thorough notes. Did you do it for your entire year?”
“No. I got bored with it and stopped after five months. I have a few more pages, but they cover seven months, so there isn’t much detail. I wish I would have kept writing.”
As the bus continued, John explained which units were assigned to the various patrols in this part of Vietnam. At 11:30 a.m., he passed around the sandwiches; we each got one chicken salad sandwich and one cheese and avocado sandwich. They tasted great, but I wished I had some potato chips and an ice-cold beer.
We stopped for a bathroom break on a hill, under a huge shade tree overlooking a village. The breeze was nice, and so was the shade. It was a remote place to park the bus, about one hundred yards from the main road. The trees were plentiful, and no one complained about not having an inside restroom. John passed around a container of wet towels. Afterward, we took several photos, hopped back onto the bus, and departed. We continued riding around for the rest of the afternoon, seeing villages, towns, rice paddies, and fields.
“It is a little past four, so we’re heading back to the hotel now,” John informed us.
When the bus drove into the hotel parking lot and stopped, I felt as if I’d been gone from the hotel for two days rather than nine hours. John stood up and told the driver to let the bus idle with the AC running. He had something he wanted to say to us. I watched him inhale deeply, exhale slowly, and then begin.
“I hope all of you benefit from seeing those places,” John said with a sincere tone. “Your courage to see them again, even with memories that aren’t pleasant, can bring about better thoughts from now on. Seeing those special places always brings back memories for me, too—some good, and others I’m still trying to forget. Remember this, fellows. You were here decades ago. These people have had to heal just as we did. And all of us in both countries are still trying to put it behind us. These people have memories that haunt them, too. And, worse for them, their homes and communities were destroyed. Life in Vietnam is better now than it was before the war started. In the end, there was some good; it wasn’t all a tragedy. We, the military, thought we were doing what was right and proper at the time, and our country stood behind us—for the first seven years. The United States gave its all to help Vietnam defeat its enemy—our enemy—communism. Personally, I think we didn’t get out soon enough. President Kennedy wanted us to leave when the troop count—they were called ‘advisors’ then—was no more than eleven thousand in country. The half dozen cabinet-level men who wanted us to stay saw to it that we remained. President Johnson rescinded President Kennedy’s withdrawal order, and then he sent additional troops until the count reached five hundred thirty-five thousand Americans in Vietnam. Within the White House staff, those closest to President Johnson successfully convinced him, as they did President Kennedy, to ignore his three advisors who were against the war and wanted us to withdraw from Vietnam.”
John stopped talking, took off his cap, and ran his fingers through his hair. He replaced his cap, straightened it, and continued. “I think the best way to approach our situation is with this in mind: the fighting and sorrows are in the past, and because of the war, millions of lives changed forever. We must go forward and live as best we can and put the past behind us—for our own good and the good of our great country.”
Then John stood in silence while he looked, one by one, at each of us. I knew he spoke the truth, and I realized it was up to me to lift the veil of grief I had worn all these years. I decided, then and there, that I would be a whole person again, even if it took me the rest of my life. I felt an unusual calm settle over me.
Then John changed his solemn mood. He smiled and said with gusto, “OK, we’ve got a nice meal in an upscale restaurant planned for you, and it’s considered ‘four-star’ in the restaurant guide. I think you’ll agree, and it’s only about a ten-minute walk from the hotel. Everyone go and do what you need to accomplish, and meet me in the lobby at seven at night.” He glanced at his watch. “That’s thirty-five minutes from now. We’ll walk there together. Does anyone need a taxi?” No one said a word. “Good. I’ve watched you walking around so far, and no one has a cane or a limp. It’s a pleasant stroll. Be ready for crowded sidewalks, and keep an eye on me to stay together.”
John then smiled, grabbed his things, and was first off the bus. As fast as he walked, he must have needed a restroom.
The humidity made me sweat as soon as I stepped off the bus. Most of us stretched, looked around, and walked into the hotel. The cool lobby was bustling with travelers. Suitcases were everywhere, and bellboys assisted departing and arriving tourists, most of whom were American or European.
“I’ll see you back here in half an hour,” I told Wes.
“OK, will do,” he answered.
Some of the other guys in our group went into the nearest bar.
X
Half an hour later, our group was assembled in the lobby. We left the hotel and started on our walk to the restaurant.
Movement along the crowded sidewalks was interesting. In a city of seven million people, any downtown walkway is bound to be busy. I noticed every type of Asian conveyance imaginable except horses hurrying along the byways, side streets, alleys, and wide thoroughfares. When traffic lights for pedestrians made it possible to cross a street, vehicles turned right on red, and there were often near misses between vehicles and humans. People knew to go with the flow, and although masses of people blanketed the area, a continuous, smooth movement had no bounds of fluidity.
The diversity of architecture on every block caught my attention. I was amazed to see modern buildings with glass exteriors and exotic shapes extending high above the streets. I wrote down the names of the tallest structures within sight in a bound notebook: Bitexco, 861 feet; Saigon One Tower, 641 feet; Sabeco World Trade Center, 559 feet; and Saigon Times Square, 541 feet. Those were four of the tallest buildings in the city.
As we walked, periodically John would stop our group, call out the building names, and point to them as we jostled with the masses on the sidewalk. I had had no idea of the modern accomplishments of South Vietnam. Except for one other ve
t who did his homework before our trip, no one else knew any of this was here either. All of these huge buildings were used by thousands of workers each day. I had not spent so much time looking upward for quite some time. Seeing the modernization and progress of Vietnam made me understand how the country had left the war far behind, both economically and domestically.
When we arrived at the restaurant, our table was waiting. Once we were seated, no fewer than five waiters served our group of twelve. Within minutes, waiters, each with a white towel over his left forearm, delivered our preordered drinks. Although the entire room was enormous, dividers created several less noisy table groupings. Pastel green tablecloths draped nearly to the floor. Matching personal napkins precisely folded to replicate a trumpeter swan sat in the middle of each setting. Utensils of the finest silver, positioned exactly within each setting, awaited our arrival. The drink servers, as silent as shadows, poured carbonated water into exquisite, leaded crystal goblets. Looking at the menu, I was relieved to see that beneath the Vietnamese name of each menu item, an English-language translation was printed in bold red letters. I ordered familiar-sounding Asian foods, and I hoped I’d enjoy my meal sans excessively hot spices or flavors I couldn’t appreciate. Then our group sat back to share individual thoughts of the day’s sightseeing.
John tapped his spoon five times on the lip of his water glass and then stood and offered a toast.
“To all of you who hesitated to make this trip but who decided to come anyway to experience this country from a new perspective, I applaud you! I can’t describe the many thoughts that ran through my mind the first time I saw the place where my brother’s Cobra helicopter went down. Yet just being at the place gave me the peace inside that I needed to begin my healing. May you appreciate each place we visit, every stop we make, and the people we talk to who were there—even if they were on the other side, fighting against us. They, too, have memories of their time in the war, and many of them have had to deal with those memories and heal, just as we need to do. So stand with me and raise your glasses to our friends who didn’t make it back, and be thankful that we did and that we have lived long enough to be here tonight.”
A movement of chairs lasted a few seconds while the men stood and then lifted their glasses, arms bent at almost uniform angles around the table.
Our eyes met, and John said, “To our fallen friends. We will never forget you.”
Then our voices melded into one male voice: “To our fallen friends. We will never forget you.”
We each took a sip in silence and then stood a few seconds longer in reverence. My eyes were moist. Looking around the table at the others, I saw that the emotion was unanimous. Then as one we sat back down, ready to begin the meal.
The waiters and drink servers stayed busy at our table throughout the meal.
While we ate, I told the group the story of Wes and I digging the hole for Sergeant Hamil with our two friends and the one about the grenade in the grease trap. One of the other vets, Red Masters from North Carolina, laughed so hard his face turned such a bright shade of red that I thought he was building up to an on-the-spot coronary. I was sure glad he didn’t have the big one and die on us. I could see he was tipsy, and his eyes looked as if they weren’t focusing when he looked around the table. Luckily the meal ended before he really got out of hand, and two of his friends helped him back to our hotel in a taxi.
When the meal was finished and the dessert plates were removed, I was fuller than I wanted to be. Judging by the looks of the others, I could tell we were all in the same boat.
John collected our money and paid the check. We went outside to decide what to do for the remainder of the evening. John said he had plans and thanked us for joining him. I watched him disappear into the crowded masses that were scurrying along the sidewalk. The rest of us divided into our usual groups, and we went our separate ways for our second night in the new Saigon.
XI
Wes and I decided to walk back to the Bitexco Tower. We followed the main boulevard of Nam Ky Khoi Nghia, turned left on Ham Nghi, and then angled off on Hai Trieu again on the left. We saw the sixty-one story building the entire time we approached it. Had I known, the Japanese Consulate on Ton Duc Thang Street was there, I would have gone around the block in the other direction with Wes to see it. I wondered how a consulate building looked within a business area.
We reached the tower and went inside, where we went to the top floor. We stopped in at the bar, ordered drinks, and enjoyed the magnificent omnidirectional view.
“I’m still amazed at this fully modern city. I remember what it looked like when we were here, and if I didn’t know the truth, I’d say it wasn’t the same city,” Wes said. He picked up his tall martini glass, and after his second sip, half of the drink was gone.
I scanned the large room. “Hey, do you recognize that guy over there in the blue shirt with three other tourists?” I asked Wes. “The one with the top part of his left ear missing? Do you remember Ray Simms? He had his ear damaged in a jeep accident the first week after he arrived in Vietnam, about a month after I arrived. He stayed at Bearcat and did KP for a month until the rest of his ear healed. Then they sent him to the field to finish his year minus the top half-inch of his ear. I’m going over to talk with him.”
As I walked toward the man I was sure was Ray, I recognized one of the other three guys with him.
“Excuse me,” I said. “Brad Thomas. Are you Ray Simms?
“Why, yes, I am. I faintly recognize you. Help me out. There are a lot of veteran tours these days. Were you in B Company?”
“I sure was, way back when. I’m over here on a tour. Is that what you’re doing?”
Ray stood up and held out his hand. We shook hands with vigor.
“Yes. This is our last night in Saigon, and I’ll call it that for the rest of my days. Calling it Ho Chi Minh City doesn’t sound right to me. Do you remember Tom Allen? He was in C Company.”
I turned to face Tom. I slightly recalled his face, just not his name.
“It’s good to see you again,” I said.
“Thanks. I’m sorry, I don’t recall knowing you in Vietnam. My memory is slipping.”
“I remember seeing you a few times, but we didn’t really know each other beyond an occasional hello,” I answered.
“This is Bill Evers and Jim Henderson,” Ray said as he introduced the two others at his table. “They were with the Twenty-Fifth Infantry Division. We met on our tour. We’ve been here ten days, and we fly out tomorrow afternoon. We’re staying at the Pearl of the Orient Hotel. How about you?”
“We’re down a few blocks at the Asian Seas. I wish our trips had overlapped a few days so we could get reacquainted,” I told him. “I’m with Wes Lane. He’s sitting over there.” I pointed in his direction.
I saw Wes looking our way, and I motioned for him to join us. He came over with his drink and mine. I introduced everyone.
“May we join you?” I asked Ray.
“Sure thing. Have a seat.”
After the five of us were settled, an attractive young server came to our table. Her alluring face showed a slight and stunning touch of European features. I’d seen her earlier and observed how every American male in the place watched her graceful movements as she moved from one table to the next. She took the drink orders for the other three at our table. Then she looked at Wes and asked, “Would you like something more, sir?”
Wes, being Wes, replied, “I sure would, but you must be talking about the drinks.”
For an instant, I saw his attraction to this lovely young lady. I read it in his eyes. She smiled, and I’m sure her response was often repeated.
“Yes sir, only the drinks.”
Then, as if he suddenly realized he was still supposed to be grieving for his wife, Wes stopped smiling, and his demeanor changed. He looked away, across the room, through the large panes of tin
ted exterior glass, outside of the unique building, and miles away to shield him from the moment. The others must have noticed it, too. Wes got up quietly, walked toward the restroom area, and disappeared in the crowd.
I quickly ordered another round of drinks for Wes and me. After the server walked away, I told the others that Wes had lost his wife recently, how much they were in love, and that he remained devastated.
The four of us then proceeded to talk about our lives since Vietnam. About twenty minutes later, Wes returned to our table and sat quietly on one of the comfortable, dark blue chairs.
“How many places have you visited on your tour that you remember from your army time?” I asked Ray.
“I was pleased with myself with all of the research I did before arriving here,” he replied. “I was sure I’d remember nearly all of the villages, hamlets, bridges, towns, and cities. What really happened was that everywhere we went—and we did a lot of walking, not just riding on the bus—I didn’t recall anything. Visually, it was all new to me, as if I were seeing it for the first time. Just like Saigon is now. It’s so new and modern, it’s like being in another city to me.”
“Don’t be too displeased with yourself,” I said with a smile. “It’s been almost five decades. It’s only natural that our memories are still back there. But with demolition, construction, villages abandoned, and old towns expanded, the places we saw are unrecognizable or, most likely, gone with the wind.”
“I know,” Ray answered. “I keep telling myself the same thing. But it’s still frustrating to see a village or hamlet on a map along with the name, and it’s as if it’s a different place. Or everything about it is totally changed so that it feels like I merely dreamed up being there.”
“I don’t remember any of the places we visited, either,” Bill remarked. He ran his fingers through his thinning hair twice while he smiled.
THE GOOD SOLDIER Page 5
