Vietnam Ruminations, Part 5
Robert Wilson, US/Philippines
in the jungle,
winter and spring walk
side by side
I never got used to the weather in the Mekong
Delta. The region is part of a rain forest liberally laced with rivers, canals,
and rice paddies. It is hot and humid, even at night. At times, the temperature
reached 127 degrees Fahrenheit. We were required to take salt tablets hourly to
prevent dehydration. Our clothing was soaked with perspiration an hour after
stepping outside, morning or afternoon. Heat waves undulated above the jungle
floor. Every day felt like Summer regardless of the time of year.
In the battlefield, we wore flack jackets, jungle fatigues, combat boots, and
helmets. Off the battlefield, we wore jungle fatigues, combat boots, and a soft
hat. The Vietnamese working on Base and those who lived in nearby villages wore
white or black silk pajamas and sandals. So did the Viet Cong. They were dressed
for the weather and never perspired.
who is the enemy
this autumn afternoon?
burning babies
Images of the Vietnam War continue to haunt
me...eleven months forever etched into my mind. Imagine what is etched into the
minds of the Vietnamese people who woke up to the war every morning, year after
year?
French, Chinese, American, North Vietnamese armies burning villages, raping
women, killing and torturing families, laying waste to rice fields, polluting
rivers, turning what was once heaven into a Dali-esque portrait of hell.
War movies draw big audiences at movie theaters. War is entertainment to those
who have not fought or lived in a war zone. Thankfully they have not experienced
what some of us have seen and felt. What many in the world continue to
experience. I hope they never do. Beheaded corpses, bodies burned beyond
recognition, human candles, friends and family members gasping for breath,
missing limbs, the stench of death, the end of dreams, horrors that defy
description or imagination.
Who is the enemy? It is not the villager who works day and night in the rice
field to provide sustenance for her family, who prays to the ashes of her
ancestors at night, wanting to be left alone to carve out the dreams others
don't want her to dream.
left for dead,
a blood soaked body
praying for words
Enemy
rockets hit our base during lunchtime. We were at ease, eating lunch in the mess
hall, talking about home and whatever else sailors talk about when the war is
somewhere else. It'd been a while since since the base had been attacked, and to
my knowledge, had never been attacked during the day. The telltale whistle of an
incoming rocket shattered the moment. A loud boom! Metal rain danced on
the mess hall's tin roof. Instinctively, we took cover under the dining tables.
One rocket after another came. I felt like a sitting duck. I told my buddies to
head for our duty station, the YRBM-17, a river repair boat barge docked nearby,
telling them it had never been hit. We ran out of the mess hall, the sky
raining rockets, some landing behind us, others in front of us. I remember
someone yelling at us, ordering us to join them in a sandbagged bunker. It was
not a time to think. Instinct said to run. As we neared the dock, the YRBM-17
was hit broadside, leaving a gaping hole in what was once the entrance. One of
my shipmates lay on the steel pontoons in a pool of blood. He looked dead. His
body crumpled up, his eyes closed. A person crouched nearby appeared to be a
medic. The rest of us climbed aboard the YRBM-17, assuming our battle stations
as dictated by a Naval regulation called General Quarters. After the attack, I
learned that the sailor I thought lay dead on the pontoon in a pool of blood was
still
alive, desperately trying to call out for help but unable to move or speak. The
person near him was not a medic but a frightened sailor frozen with fear. My
shipmate miraculously lived through the ordeal and was shipped out to a hospital
in Saigon then Okinawa where he underwent a series of operations.
on her mother's back --
the rice field
singing lullabies
Most women in he United States give birth in a
hospital. The average stay is 48 hours. Many rooms come equipped with
televisions and telephones. Mother and child receive twenty four hour care. In
rural South Vietnam, it was a different story. When a woman gave birth, she
could not afford hospital care or the
luxury of taking a few days off from work to recuperate. Soon after
giving birth, she wrapped her baby up, put the infant in a makeshift
harness attached to her back, and continued to labor in the fields under
the hot sun.
the riverbank
this short night --
staring mutely
I never let my guard down when I was in South
Vietnam. I didn't want to return home in a body bag. Day or night, the
possibility of enemy attack was eminent. It happened when we least expected it
to. My first ride down a picturesque, serene river canal in a river patrol boat
past waving children and smiling villagers standing in front of their thatched
roof homes, gave me a false sense of security. The war seemed to be somewhere
else. I came to South Vietnam thinking we were a welcome presence, the savior of
a country combating Communism. I was naive. Most of us were. We were sparrows
flying into the mouth of a two headed dragon waking up from a long slumber.
Night patrols were especially deceptive. With no electricity and air pollution,
the sky above was an astronomer's paradise, liberally painted with stars and
constellations one didn't normally see in America. It was breathtaking. The only
sound came from the patrol boat's diesel engine. It was like navigating through
a dream. Unfortunately, some dreams are nightmares.
Out of nowhere, a stream of light, the sound of a monster's footsteps, the dance
of metal rain. We'd shoot into the darkness, spraying the riverbank with
automatic rifle fire, hoping the nightmare would end. Praying we'd live to see
the sun rise. The adrenaline rush, unbelievable. Our hearts keeping time with
the dance of metal.
So much for the war being somewhere else.
without legs,
a tree stump
watching the harvest
The armed forces representing both sides of the
Vietnam War claimed to be fighting for the good of the Vietnamese people. The
war, however, did more to devastate the country and its citizenry than to help.
Villages and cities were leveled, rice fields torched, the economy drained.
Innocent people were slaughtered...victims of rockets, bayonets, booby traps,
mortars, bullets, bombs, and napalm. Others were maimed and disfigured; burn
victims, people without arms and legs; without sight or voice; the ability to
support themselves and their families taken from them, a death sentence in
itself.
from the jungle floor
this spring morning,
a father's whisper
The streets and villages of the Republic of
South Vietnam were filled with homeless children. They wore ragged, dirty
clothing, were unbathed, infested with lice, and had no one to care for them.
Most traveled in small groups, scavenging collectively for food, clothing, and
shelter. It was safer that way. They had no place to lay their heads at night.
The only future they thought about was an immediate one...forging an existence
out of nothing. They competed for handouts, scraps of food, leftovers foraged
from garbage cans and sanitary dumps. They called out to passing American
serviceman with outstretched hands. Those unable to fend for themselves, died
from starvation and disease. Others were swallowed up by the darkness that preys
on unprotected children.
The war claimed the lives of many of their parents, thrusting these children
into a sea of bleak uncertainty. The dreams, hopes, and comforts they'd grown up
with, replaced with the need for survival. All that was left were memories...
silent screams
keep me awake at night ---
the air thick with heat
During my tour of duty, I gained a respect and
admiration for the Vietnamese people and their culture. Some became friends,
inviting me into their homes for a meal, sharing with me glimpses into their
lives, their beliefs, and their outlook on a variety of subjects. I met them in
their villages, on base where some of them were employed and in the cities and
towns I visited during shore leave. Many were appreciative of our presence in
their country and wanted the liberty we
enjoy in the U.S. They looked up to Americans and expected us to win the war.
Unfortunately, there was a heavy price to pay for befriending us. The Viet Cong
had eyes in every village and city. Informants kept track of those who
befriended us. When the enemy launched an offensive, they were ruthless to
American sympathizers, setting fire to their homes, laying waste to their rice
fields, submitting them to the kind of torture we see today in horror movies.
I remember a laundry worker my shipmates and I hired to do our laundry and
ironing. She was a sweet spirited married woman in her early thirties with a
perpetual smile on her face. She worked hard for little pay and never
complained. All she wanted was to feed and clothe her family. During one
offensive, she and the other workers were away from our base for three weeks.
She returned a different person. Gone was the smile on her face, the hope in her
eyes. Her brothers, sisters, parents, and husband were slaughtered. Her house
burnt down. On her back, horrible burns and welts, an example made by the Viet
Cong to warn others of what would happen to those who support the American and
South Vietnamese war effort.
There was nothing I or my shipmates could do to help this woman or the other
contract workers on base during the offensive. We were preoccupied with
protecting the base and ourselves.
Many nights, I couldn't sleep, thinking about their fate, picturing in my mind
what the enemy was doing to them. I was also afraid for myself, not sure if I'd
make it home alive. It was a tug-o-war of the senses. After my tour of duty, at
least I was able to leave the war. This laundry worker and others like her had
to remain in it. And the worse was yet to come. In 1975, the American military
withdrew from the War. The Republic of South Vietnam fell to the Communists
within hours of our departure. What happened next was not a pretty picture.
rice sifted through fingers
calloused with what wasn't
supposed to have been
On the nights and weekends when the war was
somewhere else, many of us headed for the red-light district wanting to forget,
for a brief moment, the nightmare we'd been thrust into.
On one of those forays, I visited a bar located on the top floor of a hotel that
once catered to Saigon's elite when South Vietnam was under French rule. The
dimly lit ballroom was a brothel, the paint on its walls peeling, a shadow of
what it once had been, when the rich drank exotic drinks from long stemmed
glasses and dined on food the majority of the people in Vietnam never heard of.
Bar Girls were everywhere, dressed in tight, revealing dresses, catering to the
needs of servicemen like myself. Unlike their counterparts in the United States,
they were not addicted to drugs and didn't live with a pimp. Many were war
widows. Most had extended families to support and saw their profession as a
temporary means to provide their loved ones with the necessities of life manual
labor and a wartime economy could not provide.
I sat down on a bench and looked at the available Bar Girls, contemplating which
one I would select as my girlfriend for the evening. Seated a few feet from me
was an attractive woman, approximately nineteen years old, cradling a young
infant. Dressed like a bar girl, the look on her face said, "Not
tonight." Curiosity got the best of me and I asked her who the father of
her baby was. She told me he was an American soldier she'd met in the bar
eighteen months earlier. They'd
fallen in love, lived together, and married in a civil ceremony. When it was
time for her husband to return to the United States, he promised his newly
pregnant wife he'd come back. She told me she was waiting for her husband that
night as she had done almost every night since his departure. Hearing her story
saddened me. I knew her husband would never return. He'd used her. Her hopes of
a better life for herself and her son -- something they'd never realize.
A few years later, in 1975, The United States withdrew from the War, the fate of
the Republic of South Vietnam's citizenry lay in the hands of it's communist
captors. Bar girls, like the woman I'd spoken with that evening, especially
those with Eurasian children, were sent to reeducation camps. Life in the camps
were harsh, the work strenuous, the treatment unbelievably cruel. A life that
wasn't supposed to have been.
lizard,
come into my home
and eat the flies
In America, lizards are not welcome house
guests. Many people are repelled by them. In Vietnam, and other parts of
Southeast Asia, this is not the case. Lizards eat flies, mosquitoes, and other
unwelcome insects. Nature's exterminator. A cost efficient, toxic free method of
removing disease carrying pests.
In the former Republic of South Vietnam, it was not an uncommon sight to see
small gecko lizards crawling on walls in restaurants, bars, stores, and homes.
Looking through an Occidental's eyes, I was repelled at first, thinking the
owners of these places to be unclean and backward. Little did I know.
curio shop --
in the back room, a woman
shredding dog meat
Dogs are eaten in Vietnam. In America, where
dogs are revered as pets, the practice is repulsive. They are considered members
of the family. Almost human. Vietnam, on the other hand, is an extremely poor
country. Poverty is rampant. Starvation a stark reality. Having a pet dog is
inconceivable. To the Vietnamese, dogs are a source of meat, nothing more. The
meat is nutritious, just as safe to eat as beef or pork.
Once, during shore leave, I ate what I thought was a water buffalo sandwich in a
riverfront cafe in Mytho, a small city in the Mekong Delta, not far from our
base. I told the waitress, "This is good water buffalo." She looked at
me like I was crazy and said, "That not water buffalo, GI. Too expensive.
That dog."
Laying on her back,
she whispered to the cricket:
"for my family."
Small bars catering to the sexual needs of
American soldiers were a common sight in South Vietnam. The women who sold their
bodies were a different lot then their Western counterparts. I asked one why she
did what she did. She told me it was a matter of necessity. Her husband was a
South Vietnamese soldier who died on the battlefield. She had three young
children and an elderly mother in-law to support. She did what she did to
support her family and to finance her schooling at the University of Saigon
where she majored in Economics during the day. It was do this, she said, or be a
laborer unable to meet her family's needs. She wanted her children to have a
future. Unfortunately, the future some of these
women aspired towards, never came about, their bodies ravaged by venereal
disease.
Autumn morning -
papa sans fishing
discards from oily water.
I woke up one Sunday morning happy that it
wasn't a work day. I was going to kick back, hang out with the guys, and go into
town for a little rest and relaxation. I stood on the stern of our river repair
boat barge, the YRBM-17, which was permanently moored at the dock in Dong Tam, a
small base shared by the U.S. Navy and the Army's 9th Infantry. Looking out at
the water's edge, I saw Vietnamese men snagging garbage out of the oily, diesel
fuel covered water with makeshift bamboo fishing poles. Their catch was torn
clothing, discarded sea rations, and anything else they could salvage. Our
throwaways were their treasures.
washing laundry
by hand in dirty water--
no koi
The conveniences many of us take for granted
are nonexistent in the rural Vietnamese countryside. Toilets, toilet paper,
sanitary napkins, tap water, telephones, etc. are luxuries few can afford.
Supermarkets and drug stores are unheard of. Stooping down at river's edge and
washing laundry by hand in the filthy water is the norm. It's been done like
that for centuries. What other choice does a Vietnamese person have? Most in the
countryside barely eke out a living. No one raises fish or contributes haiku on
the internet.
wearing a dragon's
skin, this overcast night --
the tiger!
Tet is the Vietnamese New Year. Normally, it is
a time for celebration. In 1968, it was the eve of a mass offensive staged by
the Viet Cong. I was newly in country, walking with some buddies through the red
light district in downtown Saigon. It was a surreal evening. Almost dreamlike.
The weather was humid. Clouds kept the moonlight at bay. The street was
overflowing with Vietnamese civilians and American servicemen. Newbies, our
sense of adventure was on overdrive. We wanted to see and experience everything.
No parents to tell us what we could or couldn't do. There was also an intangible
something in the air, like an electrical current. It's hard to describe.
Something was about to come down. The calm before the storm?
There were an unusual number of funeral processions that evening. Small groups
of Vietnamese citizens walking through the middle of the street with a decorated
casket, the deceased's picture on top, carrying joss sticks and playing
indigenous instruments. Only later, after I was transferred to my duty station
in Dong Tam, did I learn the truth about the funeral processions. They were used
to transport arms and enemy soldiers into the nation's capitol in preparation
for the Tet Offensive.
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