Suddenly he hears a fish twisting in his ears. It makes the same sound as the fish jumping in the container where his mother had kept them. The fish had noisily fought all night. Above that container was the tile roof. And above the roof was the sky, a high, open space filled with sunlight, a light blue…
3
Military Field Hospital 306 sits at the jungle’s edge, not too far from a stream, in a fine setting for a multispecialty facility. The buildings are clustered together up high under the shade of bushy trees that are so dense, even during bright summer days sunlight cannot break through. In that permanent shadow, clusters of wild orchids and crow’s-nest plants dangle. Behind the hospital is a large stone cave into which as many as thirty seriously injured soldiers can quickly be moved when bombs fall. The kitchen, the communal dining room, and a storeroom are shoved into an area close to the cave’s mouth.
It is the spring of 1969 and the hospital is full of injured soldiers. The number of those waiting for surgery is three times more than normal, forcing the doctors and staff to work around the clock. The screaming and moaning, along with the angry fighting of the crowd of injured soldiers, has turned the hospital into chaos.
Among the injured soldiers appears an alluring prince, a delectable prey for the twelve girls who work at the hospital and stand shakily on the divide between their last moment of youth and the time of loss. It is Lieutenant Hoang An. Hoang An is considered a manly ideal not only for his looks but also because of his unusual courage. He did not utter a sound during an entire surgery performed without anesthetic. A piece of shrapnel had cut Hoang An’s left arm; on arriving at the hospital, the wound — tourniqueted too long on the road — had become infected, and they had to remove the arm from the shoulder down to save him. Oddly, Hoang An healed very quickly, almost magically. The injured soldiers around him, even though some were half his age, looked at him with admiration and envy. Even before new skin had grown to cover his stump, he was strolling all over the area, setting up traps to catch porcupine and fox for the kitchen to prepare for meals. After he had fully recovered, he volunteered to help the girls carry stream water up to the camp; With only one arm, this lieutenant could carry more than many men with two arms. He had the legs of a hunter and he climbed the slopes like a gazelle. The girls of the hospital looked at him with adoring eyes. But Hoang An shared his goodness with everyone, thus there was no fighting among the girls waiting for life’s chances. So when he was completely rehabilitated, the head of the hospital kept him there instead of transferring him to another post. Eventually, Hoang An became a member of the hospital staff without specific duties. He seemed extremely pleased with his new role. Nobody said anything, but people understood that soon he would be sent to the rear because he could no longer fight. Until then, it was best to dedicate himself to helping others.
One frigid morning, with fog covering the mountains, the loud horn of a vehicle is heard. From the truck comes a shout: “Medical supplies from the regional command have arrived…”
Everyone in the hospital rushes out, surprised.
“The telegram said two more days before the ambulance would arrive…”
“Who knows? Perhaps there was no bombing so the road was open…”
The staff, including Hoang An, go down to pick up the medicines and medical equipment. It is indeed true that the American bombers have taken the weekend off, which has left the road safe to travel. Everybody is happy because, besides medicines, there are also food and loose-leaf tobacco. When all the packages have been unloaded and lined up neatly along the sides of the road, the driver starts the engine and immediately takes off for headquarters. As the truck rolls a few meters, he suddenly cries out, “I forgot!”
Bending down under the seat, he takes out a tattered and dirty backpack.
“Does this hospital have anyone by the name of Hoang An?”
“That is I.”
“Headquarters sent along this backpack, which belonged to a martyr. Was he truly a relative of yours or not?”
“If not my relative, then why would they send it to me?” Hoang An replies, with doubt in his mind. He wonders whose pack it could be — perhaps that damned Meo tribesman Ma Ly.
The soldier looks at Hoang An and explains: “Not that I am nosy, but the address is very vague. Moreover, in this military region there are six named Hoang An. The administrative office was skeptical of sending it to you because your birthplace is Lang Son but this martyr was a Tay from Thai Nguyen.”
“Ah,” An says, smiling. It is beginning to make sense to him now.
The driver turns over the backpack and squeezes his hand. “I wish you good health.”
“Thank you. I also wish you safe travels.”
Hoang An looks down on the dirty, smelly backpack; it is like a beggar’s bag. He guesses it had been thrown in a stone cave for a while, at least a year or two. That would explain the moldy, dried bloodstains and the many holes made by roaches eating the canvas. Attached to the pack is a faded piece of white paper on which someone had written not too long ago.
Remnant belonging of Lt Hoang Huy Tu, Battalion 115, Zone 18, Company 3, Platoon 1; martyred at the battle of Thuan Hoa. Suggest forwarding this to Captain Hoang An, of the First Battalion; Battalion Commander Dinh Quang Nha
An is lost in his thoughts for a moment. The name Hoang Huy Tu evokes a time of warmth and happiness. He had been the husband of An’s sister My. Tu’s family had lived close to the town of Lao Cai. His father had been a famous welder. Hoang An has fond memories of his sister’s wedding; it was the first and only time he had set foot in Lao Cai.
After everyone returns to the hospital and the medicines and food have been stored away, An takes Tu’s backpack and walks toward the stream, where he can be alone. He carefully opens the pack, which contains a fall-winter outfit, a dry tube of toothpaste, a brush with worn-out bristles, a small horn comb, and an envelope sealed by layers of plastic. A smell of mildew is mixed with that of the damp cloth.
“This is all that is left of a handsome and healthy man. All that is left from a husband and a father. The possessions of Lieutenant Hoang Huy Tu. Precious items that someday I will turn over to My and her children.”
He sits there for a while before the insignificant items. Then he opens Tu’s letter. It is written on the ruled paper of kindergarteners.
Dear Brother,
Since the day I saw My off to go to Lao Cai, so much time has passed and so many things have happened. Even though we have had no opportunity to meet since then, I have never forgotten you because My always reminds me of you. We have two children, both boys. My family moved to Thai Nguyen after you enlisted, because there my father found a connection to do big business and the welding shop had potential to grow. My father is also old and the production for which we are responsible required hiring almost ten workers. I have nothing to complain about, except among the three brothers, two must take the road. With no clear news about the youngest brother, tomorrow I have to fight in Thanh Hoa. Soldiers sent there have little hope of return. It is said that the earth is hard and narrow, therefore corpses are not buried singly but mostly piled up by five or seven. This afternoon, the whole company is writing letters to their families. I am writing to you. Everybody thinks quietly that it is the last letter they will ever write as a soldier.
Dear Brother, there is something you have surely guessed about but didn’t know for certain. Miss Xuan and Miss Dong were both killed in the year of the rooster (1957), their skulls smashed with a wooden mallet. The body of Miss Xuan was thrown on the side of a road outside Hanoi, making it appear that a car had hit her, pretending it was a traffic accident; and Miss Dong was thrown under the bridge across Khe Lan, on the road to That Khe. I only learned about this three years after the fact through an acquaintance. My parents-in-law and Mr. Cao were all killed in the winter of the year of the dog (1958), a year after the deaths of the two women. When I returned to Xiu Village, three weeks after that disastrous night, only ashes remained of the two houses. The hamlet people said that one night they had suddenly heard a helicopter landing by Son Ca Falls. Because it was so cold and dark, nobody went outside to look. About half an hour later, the two houses went up in flames. When neighbors arrived, they smelled gasoline and the fire was high like a dragon lick, so they could do nothing. Looking through the flames, they could not see one person. They stood there like statues, watching each beam fall. The fire burned until the next day. Later the charred body of Mr. Cao was found among the ashes. My parents-in-law were missing, invisible. The district proclaimed that a company of American lackeys from South Vietnam had flown up to start the fire and bring havoc to our people. But I know that the killers were the same ones who killed Miss Dong and Miss Xuan. Our Tay logic tells me that.