Going Back

  

I rented a 125 cc motorbike for 45,000 Dong (US$3) and followed Highway 1 inland skirting the hills south of Nha Trang. Roadside buildings, storefronts, and city traffic gradually gave way to thatch-roofed farm houses and small banana plantations. Traffic became busses, heavy trucks hauling cargo or sugar cane, and ox-drawn carts. Dark green rice paddies were speckled by the yellow cone-shaped hats of squatting peasant workers. My rented Suzuki rattled along the road's edge at forty kilometers per hour.

 

Most businesses in Vietnam have their owners name, phone number, and address displayed on their marquis. Fifty kilometers (30 miles) from Nha Trang, I noticed Dong ba Thin printed on most and the hair on my arms stood up.

It was a real place and not a figment of foggy memory or imagination. This was the village from which the muffled thump of B-40 rockets leaving their tubes woke the soundest of sleepers. Moments seemed long and thoughtful before their explosive impacts. The attacks occurred monthly but seldom caused damage.

 

Less than a mile down the highway, just past a sugar mill, I turned left onto a dirt road bordering an open field of scrub, sand, and swamp. There were no recognizable landmarks - the rows of concertina wire, steel guard tower, bunkers, and berm outlining our perimeter were all gone. Hungry for something recognizable, I proceeded slowly, scanning all directions. There was no sign of the PSP taxiways (perforated steel plates) or thick revetments that protected our helicopters from the poorly aimed rockets and mortars.

The only breeze now came from the South China Sea and not from noisy machines thrashing through the sky.

 

The road led to a guarded gate near some yellow buildings along the bay. As I approached, a Vietnamese Navy guard - much too young for my war - stepped out of a small shack wearing a puzzled expression - unaccustomed to seeing wayward travelers. He spoke no English and waved me back toward the highway. I was grateful that he did not greet me with hurling rocks or spit as upon my return to the U.S.A. from this same place in 1971. I obeyed the guard's command but followed a different path which led past grazing cattle close to where our sand-bagged wooden hootches might have stood. Only the distant hills to the north and west looked familiar until I intercepted the runway.

 

Our old paved Runway 32/14 parallels Highway 1 and was completely covered with sliced yams (a potato-like root) drying in the sun.

I slowly rode along its edge from one end to the other, then back  again. Three women continually walked the runway's length - their feet shuffling the chips to speed their drying. One man was a supervisor; another, the one who pulled the roots and delivered them to the site. Other crews manned chipper machines which sliced the stout roots. None spoke English.

 

I stood there on the threshold of 32 for a long while. Anguish, guilt, and sorrow confused my thoughts like a runaway going home after thirty-seven years on the road. I thought of Steven Kearns and two others who never made it home. I wondered if they somehow knew that someone had come back - and hoped they knew that they had never been forgotten.