Cold War Burning

Good morning from Littleton, Colorado.

As the front jacket to my book reflects, this is “A Vietnam War era story set against today’s political twist written as adventure fiction except to those knowing its veracity.” I recently signed a contract with my publisher. The book is currently in the pre-production phase and will be available in soft-back copies. I might miss my deadline of Christmas, 2009, but stay tuned.

The following snippets of information were in my daily blog, but at times seen only between-the-lines.

Why would I want to go back? … I had no choice, I had to go … to authenticate my fictional portrayal of Vietnam … revisit places I was assigned, … locate people I worked with during the war. … to a place where my sweat, tears, and energy were spilt to a forfeited cause … but was I ready for what I was about to see an experience.

We were on final approach to Tan Son Nhut, and I’m talking to the person across the aisle. He said he was coming back home for the first time since he escaped with the Boat People exodus. … Looking out the window to my left, I’m shocked for I see one, then another and another; old abandoned Quonset huts that thirty years ago securely housed American military aircraft. Weed infested shells of huts were barely standing today, with a rusted jet fighter under one.

The people working at the hotel were so helpful and interested in me, especially after I told them I was a veteran of the Vietnam War. They corrected me, and told me it was the “American War.” … Early next morning, I introduced myself to a Baptist missionary waiting not to patiently in the hotel lobby. … The man talked of the Hmong human rights violations they were there to examine. He said they had been on the “edge”  of getting into trouble with the officials before, but still planned to do their current investigation.

When I thought the sight of blood spilled on the ground was just a bad memory, it was brought back to reality as we slowed our progress. An overturned motorbike loaded with building logs had been hit on the road. Next to the bike was a large pool of blood, and it was the brilliant red color that nothing else compares.

I was overwhelmed with the expertly maintained Dalat Palace Golf Course. … The extra soft “bentgrass” used on all greens made for active green putting with little grain, according to my caddy, as he was reading the greens for me. … We saw natural beauty mixed with a human touch. … We finished at a “minority” section of the city. An older man spoke of his background in the medical field. He practiced at an American hospital in Nha Trang during the war. When the communist took over in 1975, he was not allowed to practice his trade. In addition to his native tongue, he spoke fluent English, French, and the Khmer language. His story reminded me of my hairstylist back home in Denver. As a young girl, she and a younger brother escaped with the Boat People exodus. She talked of families working for the Americans who were “blackballed” from working under the communist regime. It became a desperate situation we Americans left our friends when departing Vietnam.

Well, the ride down the other side of Dalat, on QL#27, offered me views that almost gave me a bad case of lasting PTSD. … I think I survived more close calls on that trip than the entire year I spent during the war.

The lady running the operation was unhappy about her country, and she wanted me to know. She was particularly angry with the folks living up north. “Be careful, for they treat all foreigners badly, and they treat us down here in the south like we are foreigners.” That was the nice part of her rhetoric.

It was miserably hot in Church, but again the music was beautiful. I was sitting on the right hand side when an older man came and sat down next to me. He tapped me on the shoulder, reached over to shake hands, smiled and spoke in French. I said, “I’m sorry, I can only speak English.”  He smiled and turned to pray. Whether friend or foe during the war, today his handshake told me all was okay.

I’m taking notes and pictures, (on the Nha Trang Beach,) when this young mother and her small son came walking towards me. The boy gave me a devilish look, then ran over with his hands held high. He wanted to give me a High Five. I obliged. We laughed together, and then he ran back to his smiling mom.

Only when opening the veranda doors to my third floor room, did I see the sight of Quang Ngai City for the first time. The sun was just rising over the South China Sea coastline to my east. Damn, there it was in front of me, a shadowy place so much in my thoughts lately. A place that only existed in my fading memory was facing me. It was real. I had to sit down quickly, as I broke down emotionally, tears flowing on the chipped concrete finished railing. I was all by myself. Hell, who would be up at this ungodly hour of 0500 hours, anyways, and who would care about this old slobbering no-name American.

Finally, after riding literally to the end-of-the-road, we came upon a graveyard. Workmen were in the area, and yes, the hill ahead was where an American military force had once been encamped. It was called Hill 4-11. … Growth of thirty foot trees, bushes and vegetation was everywhere, so unlike the war, when defoliants had reduced the hilltop to a barren landscape for hundreds of meters in all directions. We later visited LZ Snoopy, and I saw much the same, a graveyard and thirty foot trees and vegetation everywhere.

I noticed a bus load of Americans, probably a few returning veterans who had made a stop at the My Tra hotel before the usual travel destination to the My Lai Massacre site. I ran into a few of these “canned” tours, but for this one, I was going to leave a special treat. As they were getting ready to board, I stepped out onto the hotel entrance, and gave them a sharp military (grunt style) salute. The entire busload turned and with mouths wide open gave me a look, like, wow, could he be one of those guys who stayed behind? I guess I looked pretty shabby in my grungy sandals and shorts, and a really-really grungy looking baseball cap with the following insignia, “MAVC-Quang Ngai-70-71.” I would wear that cap later on my trip, again with pride, as I toured Hanoi during their Reunification Day celebration.

I knew I was close, for across the river was Buddha Mountain. I could almost sense my presence as we got off the road. … I walked up and down the rivers edge. Nothing much had been done around this section of the river. I became conscious of the ground, and had walked a bit too far out into a heavy grassy area. I started to get that itchy feeling in my feet. I knew the Regional Forces had planted many landmines and booby traps around the outpost for our protection. Damn, wouldn’t that get front-page news back home, if a returning veteran had stepped on one of his own landmines? I proceeded to quickly retrace my steps.

Finally back on the main road, I saw my guide talking to some people down the road. … One of the women he was talking to was born here during the time I was at Tu Binh. … She gave me such a funny smile, and must have thought that was sort of interesting. She came over and wrapped her arm around my arm. I told my guide to tell her that, “Yes, we were here together during a dangerous time.”

We headed east towards what I recalled as the serene fishing village of Co Luy. I recalled the beautiful sandy beach and the open market surrounded by nicely kept homes and businesses. I could not wait to see how it looked today. What a huge disappointment. … the quiet village packed away in my memory was gone. Today, the village was a disconnected mass of narrow dirt roads, a tiny local market with buildings crammed up next to the waters edge. There was nothing left here for me. “Let’s move on, I told my guide.”

I was about to get a lesson in cover-ups. … as I looked for the man I met earlier. … He led me out to a place I knew well, … near my old nemesis. … A group of four locals would fill me in on the ongoing struggle. One of the group spoke very good English. He said they call themselves by the term of, Community Organizers, … and said groups like his were everywhere in the southern part of the country.

I wanted to take them back to the war days. I was given an earful of what happened in this area when America up and walked away. … Many people in the south of Vietnam went back to their homes and waited after the 1975 takeover by North Vietnam. Trade commerce came to a squelching stand-still. Everything shut down, so, locals were forced in bartering amongst themselves for food and essentials during the initial days and weeks following the fall of the South Vietnamese government. It was a very bad time as communist forces slowly took control of the province, village by village, and hamlet by hamlet.

One day, everyone was alerted to report to the village center for documentation purposes. It was during that time that many of the individuals working for Americans or the South Vietnamese military were immediately rounded up and sent off to Reeducation Camps. Many never returned to their homes or families, according to the storyteller, and what happened in many of the camps is still waiting to be told by those who survived. … In my research, I have read of a few Vietnamese authors, a Mr. Nguyen Van Canh who wrote the book, “Prisoner of the Word,” and Mr. Tran Tri Vu who wrote the book, “Lost Years,” of his 1632 days in a deadly reeducation camp. “You did not hear of those events, Dai Uy Mudd?”  Another countered, “Sir, we are still fighting for the freedom you and thousands of Americans fought and died for, and now, the fight is here,” as he pointed to his heart and head.

I asked if any Americans stayed behind after the war, and one replied with a smile, “Well, yes, Dai Uy. Some are living right here.” … “They want to be left alone,” another piped up. “How can I meet them?” I asked. “We will not take you,” came their stern warning.

What the hell do I do with this information?

Upon leaving the My Lai Massacre site, I stopped to write my thoughts on a visitor pamphlet. I noticed a man from Cuba had been there last, and he wrote a scathing attack on USA imperialist atrocities committed around the world, … I was not about to leave that comment unmatched, as I sat down and tapped out a written story of the hideous legacy and stain that communism has left and continues to leave in a few countries, Vietnam and Cuba in particular. I surmised if the curators were going to tear out my page, they would have to remove his noxious commentary, his was on the flip side of the page. I felt good leaving my note, but sadness overwhelmed me of what happened here, March 16, 1968. It is part of our history, and should not be forgotten.

I was looking forward to revisiting Danang, for I had heard about the infrastructure changes from my dental assistant here in Littleton. He told me he was born in Quang Ngai but lived many years in Danang. He told me how entire sections of Danang were leveled for rebuilding and people were relocated here and there. These changes were in once heavily populated areas. During a family gathering at my home, I mentioned this example as one type of Communist restructuring. A Boulder, Colorado, guest at my home piped up and said, “Oh, that’s very normal, that’s what we call urban renewal here in America.”  I replied, “Yeah, Obama style.” … I saw Danang just as described by my dental assistant. … My guide in Danang wanted to know how we Americans came up with the name of “China Beach? ” “This is not China, Sir,” he said back to me.

I was arriving into Hanoi during their Reunification and Labor Day holidays. I wanted a sense to the feelings towards this veteran of the war, and to confirm or dispel the possible myths folks from the south have of their northern brothers. Hanoi surely is in another country than what I experienced from Saigon to Danang. They were not a match to the utter friendliness of their southern comrades. I never feared for myself down south, but for the first time, I stayed inside my hotel, the Hanoi Paradise Hotel, during the evening hours. I thanked Mr. Nguyen Sy Duan, director of the hotel, for the courtesy and security forwarded to me by his employees. … During the day I ventured out on walking tours. The most memorable was my tour of the Hanoi Hilton. … I read where John McCain paid a visit to Hanoi and the prison only a few weeks earlier. To me, the prison museum was much the same as other war museums I saw down south, all one sided, with no mention of any wrong-doing by communism.

On their Reunification Day celebration, I wore my grungy baseball cap with pride. MACV-Quang Ngai-70/71.

My guide to Hanoi was the most articulate, interesting and politically savvy person I met in Vietnam. He told me in no uncertain terms that he loved his country and believed strongly in his government. I told him he was “dead wrong,” on the second part of that statement. I told him that I saw parts of Vietnam coming-to-be, what Americans fought and died for so many years ago, and that was freedom from communism. We have agreed to continue the debate via email, and I hope to carry on with our dialogue.

To my new Vietnamese friends, many of you have been sharing emails with me since my visit. I welcome your continued comments and interest in my writing project. I am honored to know you. All of you were so caring and helpful to this old guy who at times was a bit crusty when questioning your beliefs and replies to my inquiries. From drivers of taxi cabs, to bus and motorbikes, to rickshaw and tour guides, to Internet Cafe managers, to restaurateurs and hotel operators. From folks I met on the streets, you all are a credit to your country. I say patriotic, because I was impressed beyond belief, at the love you dedicated people have for your country, a country that I saw slowly but surely coming of age in the economic world of commerce and trade. Many of you spoke openly and candidly of your love and passion and what you wanted to see as a future for yourself and your children.

To the governing communist … or socialist … or whatever you call yourself these days, you can be proud of the citizens such as the ones I talked with on my travels. As an old adversary of yours, let me offer a bit of advice. After almost two generations have past since the end of the war, I saw a country yet divided. If the people I met are typical, you Party folks need to get the hell out of the way so Vietnam can be united and brought into the 21st century. I predict the people will accomplish this feat in a peaceful manner, but do it, they will.

When the final day arrived for me to head home, I was ready. My final blog dispatch read: ” … Time to didi mau, I’m coming home. …”