Half a Dream
My name is Quy Nguyen and I was born on the 4th of July. I
grew up in Hue, Vietnam also seen as the central of Vietnam. It was once known
as the “Imperial Citadel” by the rulings of kings and queens amidst it all, the
legacy of the majestic fortress still lingers even today. My parent’s country
was located in North Vietnam, but the couple soon fled to the Southern region
due to the Geneva agreement which physically divides Vietnam into North and
South during 1954. They fled was voluntary due to the Northern president Ho chi
Minh’s recited communist actions, imploring every being in the North to flee
elsewhere.
Despite all this, my childhood had been very tranquil. I
remember my childhood vividly as if it were yesterday. It was a wonderful time
because I was naïve, having no worries of this and that. The siblings and I
were raised with the utmost love and devotion, presented by both parents. There
in Hue, we lived in a relatively suitable sized home with a beautiful view of
the imperial ruins, a pure water well, and a large exotic fruit garden
surrounded by white picket fences. I couldn’t have asked for anything greater.
Living this great childhood also had its bad terms. I had
longed to erase the engrossed memories of 1966 and years further beyond that,
but it embraces an inner feeling that it’ll never vanish. During 1966, I recall
an American compound located near my house. The ultimate purpose for this
compound was to surrender the protection of South Vietnam. I had snuck by the
compound regularly, visiting my American friends, but my dearest Government
Issued (GI) friend was Frank Doezema. Frank was a specialist four rank, single,
and rather handsome. Even though our language barrier was an issue, the
unconditional love that was illustrated between us showed that even language
wasn’t a factor to hold us down. Frank wasn’t any ordinary white male I had
ever met; he and I had a special bond that no one could interpret into words.
It almost felt as if our souls had voyage a troubled journey in searching for
one another where our dream of brotherhood society will in turn grow together.
During yonder years with Frank, I had not asked for much,
rather did ask of any troubling favors of him. Frank had been the one who’s
compassionate in all aspect during my childhood years. Knowing my middle school
was roughly two miles away from my house; Frank did the honor of lashing his
heavy army jeep upon the dusty roadway, waving and whistling to signal he had
arrived. Never have I sat in one, let alone allow my grubby fingertips smear
upon the surface of Frank’s jeep because of disbelief and awe. Neighbors and
strangers whom we’d passed on the jeep squeeze and raised their eyebrows as
Frank escalated down the sandy pathway heading to my middle school. Going to
school with Frank had been the same repeated process, dashing our way out while
laughing at little jokes or merely giggle at the fact that we had fifteen
minutes of quality time before heading off to class. The drizzling days were
spent huddled indoors, furnishing our warmth as Frank and I pulverized and
husked the rice for afternoon preparations. He hadn’t complained about the back
breaking work titles, rather Frank saw it as a meaningful way to creating a
stronger, everlasting bond.
I especially enjoyed those hot musty nights the best because
Frank was by my side teaching me English until my eyes couldn’t handle it
anymore, deceasing my mind into a deep, relaxing dream. Frank had whispered his
repetitive hopes to me each night before I went to bed, wishing after the war
had ceased, that he and I would once meet again in his country, America. I had gotten
too familiar with seeing Frank on a daily basis that if being separated from
Frank, it would only result in pulsating anger and heartbreak. Thoughts like
this had slipped my mind. Frank was a radio operator of some sort, something
I’m so unfamiliar with. An operation ten miles away from the base had indicated
the need of Frank’s help; therefore he packed his belongings and set forth to
the unknown territory, unsure of whom or what was awaiting him. A straight week
had quivered by and still there had been no sign of Frank.
I loomed around the base daily, asking his friends about him
and when he shall return. The friends shook their heads and knew nothing of it.
A worried feeling rushed through my body as the thought of Frank never
returning crossed my mind. The long, agitating week had final been over and I
decided to stroll along the base line once again. This day had been scorching
deadly rays upon my bony back and as the searing prolonged; my eyes kept
squinting as I continued to look down the dusty pathway. There appeared to be a
shambled figure upon the distance and because of the radiated heat waves the
pavements gave off, it was hard to tell who this mysterious figure was. It
limped its way closer to me and amazingly it had been Frank, my best friend
whom I’ve waited to see all week long. Frank knelt down to his knees and edged
me close to him, sensing his heart race and his body shaking, I began to cry.
Frank struggled to endure the pain he had felt for the both of us, but couldn’t
resist and heaved his head on my shoulder and began crying as well. The two of
us shall never forget this day.
Having spent some time with Frank now, our bond was closer
than ever that Frank felt the need to send me clothes from America. I objected
the idea, but he insisted that I replace my tattered garments for urban street
wear kids are presenting in America. A few days later the present had arrived
in an L19 airplane which hovered over the rooftop of my house twice before
plunging the gift down, landing perfectly on the front patio. Everyone clapped
their hands joyfully knowing the gift had reached its destination in one piece.
The package was neatly folded in blue metallic wrapping paper with a bow
situated up top. I carefully unlaced the bow and set it aside. Slowly tearing
off the tapes on the side was challenging for I didn’t want to ruin the neatly
wrapped delicacy. Inside appeared to be a pair of blue jeans, a colored
flannel, and brown steel toe boots all rearranged in a fashionable manner. I
grasped the new items and embraced it upon my chest as if I were squeezing a
loved one. I scrambled inside and tried on the untouched garments, slowly
placing my body parts through the sacred items. Frank stood appalled, looking
at the different me. I ran up to Frank and clinched his stomach firmly,
thanking him for all he’s done.
During the twilight hours, while the entire village had
conjured their meals, Frank’s base had been bombarded by the Northern enemies
causing fire and smoke to embed the skies. Beyond distance I realized the thick
black smoke had lurked its way throughout the village and the only person I
could think of was Frank. Cautiously creeping my way down into Frank’s bunker,
I realized the electricity on the base had been diminished with sparks of fire
popping in every corner. I hurried down into the bunker in search for Frank
when he appeared behind me with a worried look buried deep in his eyes. After
finding each other for a few seconds, he and I burst into tears while carrying
the burden feeling of worries in our hearts for each other, unsure of what
would become of us. Frank asked if I had been okay then quickly seized my hands
and handed me a can of orange juice. Looking down at the orange juice for some
time, Frank withdrew from my presence and returned to work immediately. Oh how
the emotion gripped my heart, nearly causing insanity to take over me! The
helpless cries I’ve heard this night mainly came from injured soldiers,
cleaving to the wounded nations of their body. I’d wanted to help so much, but time
was running out and my family needed the comfort of each other in order to
surpass this unexpected catastrophic disaster. I nervously jerked my head
upwards, capturing the scene of destruct and feeling helpless knowing the city
of Hue is strutting under the fumes of ghastly toxins with little being done
for our nation’s sake. The only action being done by our leading force was to
deliberately aim the artillery shells to counter attack the enemy targets in a
cross fire manner and defend our compound. For the moment I’d been revived
knowing Frank had been okay, but my other definitive side was entwined with
fear from this day on out.
Our villagers are still coping with the recent event, not
knowing when to erase the horrible affair, but progress was being made and so
have I. Frank’s enlistment time here in Hue was near ending when MACV had
ordered him to transfer jobs and dwell in their compartment for the time being
because the previous compound was evidently unsafe. Staying at MACV also meant
Frank can depart his duty and travel back home for a visit. The day he left, I
purposely hid from him because I knew the heartache I’ll show will only cause
some strains and an uneasy feeling. Finally, with some thought, I hugged him
from behind making sure he knows I didn’t want him to leave. He and I slowly
paced our way to his new MACV compound, there, I handed him my new address in
Hue. Frank knelt down and hugged me for the last time before he departed and
promised the two of us would meet again. Frank’s body, which I’m so familiar of
is becoming is becoming a rotten banana, flimsy and weak. I noticed as he took
his last glance at me before entering the base, concluding that his well being
had not been the same. I reached out my hand and waved in a ‘goodbye’ motion,
but the imperative feeling in me wanted to chase after him and bring him back
to Wonderland. The door behind Frank shut so loud that the harsh clatter
throbbed deep within my ears. I turned away and headed back to my lonely house
where there’ll be no signs of Frank. For days, I had left my school work piled
up in a dusty mound, just like the genocide of Jews during the infamous Nazi
attack as they had been piled up. School mates didn’t matter neither did my
daily intakes of nutrition. The best I could do was to drape my body in a
bedspread and ponder out the window, wondering where Frank was and when he’ll
return.
Continuous assaults from the North were still being seen
around my district so my father decided to move us out of that dangerous zone
and into our new home in Hue, which he’d bought a few months earlier. The
distance to our new home was approximately 29 kilometers away, therefore my
family decided to travel by car. I on the other hand, was accompanied by some
GI friends who gave me a lift in a helicopter. The new home was decent in size
with pained green walls along with cement flooring throughout the house. The
sentiment of the new house was much different than our previous. The
surrounding environment of the new home was booming with industrialized
factories, air borne pollution when in contrast, our previous house appeared to
look just like a painting, with blossomed wild lilacs and grass the color of
jade. It took several days for me to settle in when my father suddenly told me
Frank had been looking for me. My family and I drove yet another 30 kilometers
to bring back Frank from his MACV compound. ALAS! Standing before Frank’s eye,
I nearly broke down as the thought of him leaving to America this day struck
me. There wasn’t much to do, but to seize the moment together. We brought Frank
back to our new house for an afternoon lunch. This was our last meal together
before he left. After our meal, Frank stood up and pulled out two valuable
items and showed them to me. With the items cupped under his palms, Frank edged
the two items closer to me. He told me I could either chose his camera or his
wrist watch as a souvenir. I gazed at the two precious items back and forth and
came to a conclusion that I wanted the camera more than anything because it was
much heavier in structure and also it would not get lost easily. Frank slipped
the wrist watch back into his pants and handed me his camera, which I still
kept even today. My palms were cupping one of Frank’s belongings; therefore I
enforced tight security measures for the camera in order for it to last, aging
along with me. I thanked him again, but all he could say was, “I’ll return on
New Years, the first day of Tet.” I understood what he meant so I shook my head
and waved farewell.
It was a new beginning knowing Frank would not stop by
frequently, calling my name as he passed by or husking rice for afternoon preparations
almost causing a heart wrench that nearly left me lifeless, nearly collapsed on
the cement floor in agony. Without Frank, my family and I still managed to
start a new life in Hue and with the New Year coming, we were hoping for a
brand new start with many joyous memories to come. Living in Hue for some time,
I had learned to appreciate the natural beauty its landscapes showed or how
many educated scholars were raised here. Gazing ahead, the scenery of Hue city
filled my eyes with pleasure more and more as if I’m peering at an untangle
world, a world only meant for the elite royalties. Adding above that, the
celebration of the monkey (1968) filled the pavements of Hue with colorful
decors and tantalizing lit lanterns signifying the kept heritage of Hue
traditions causing this city to appear even more surreal. Tet is always
rejoiced with the use of explosive fireworks for three whole days, starting New
Year’ Eve.
As New Year’s Eve struck midnight, the Vietcong’s began the
“Tet Offensive” which in translation means an undeclared war and the
unforgiving actions towards the Vietcongs for the devastating wipe out of
innocent souls before Tet during 1968. The struck of midnight was meant to fill
the hearts of Hue citizens with a festive feeling for tomorrow morning’s
celebration, the first day of Tet. This had not been the case. The news of this
came rushing like hungry fire ants, and with little time to spare, my mom with
an older sister and two younger brothers huddled in a safe, secluded area in
our new house, thinking that this area could virtually escape the death and
destruct of the outside world. Right then, an American bomb unleashed the fatal
volatile bomb which bashed on the sector where my mom and siblings were
concealing, killing all four innocent souls within seconds. I let out a
deafening cry, but no one can hear me through the combat noise. I slumped to my
knees with tears flooding down my cheeks while peering at the scene of my mom
and siblings wilt behind the trapped clouds of gas and infernal flames which
augmented through the hole of the ceiling. The “friendly fire” which hit a part
of my house will forever be engrossed by remembrance on bad terms.
Over thirty years have passed by, yet the flashbacks of this
mortifying event concurs vividly in ways that I can never seem to escape. I
often asked myself, “why do other kids have moms, and I don’t?” The simple
answer to this question is war. War is the conflict carried on between two
nations or parties within a nation resulting in a series of battles either by
land, sea, or air. I often reminisce of my mother giggling or remember the way
her hair flowed along with the icy winter breeze. I even note the anniversary
of her death each year as it comes around.
My mom’s name was Thi, my sister’s name was Duy and my two
other brothers were Thang and Trang. I couldn’t stand seeing them rot under the
“friendly fire” therefore my dad and I dragged the four bodies from the fire
and set them aside. I had never seen, nor touched the ashy texture of dead corpse
before. The texture was mixed with burnt rubber skin, situated above the
decayed bones and the four faces have altered their appearances greatly that it
was beyond recognition. I wanted so much to bury the bodies to a place that’s
respectable, away from all the distortion around us, but it was nearly
impossible for the war did not end even after three days the bodies have been
laying lifeless beside me. The odors of the corpse were leaching into my wits
causing a nauseous sensation to withdraw from me. Waiting desperately won’t get
anywhere I thought; therefore, I hauled the bodies outside where I can burrow
four graves for my four family members. My scrawny body hadn’t eaten for three
whole days, so my hauling process requires extreme effort and there was no one
around to help me. I used a rusty hoe which I found very useful. The hoe was
used to flip the bodies over as if I was plowing a field of potatoes, flipping
and turning. Once the four bodies reached the dangerous outdoors, I quickly dug
my first whole in the front yard, removing the earthen portion of the soil and
then the next and so on. I dug an extra hole just in case there had been an
explosion nearby, I could quickly seek protection in the trench.
Complete and utter shock it was. I was on my own and was
ready to drop the four bodies in their separate graves when my father comes
running towards me. We both stood in silence, listening to the careless
explosions nearby and peered at the roaming citizens whom are dreading with
fear and perplexing their blood shot eyes. Still, we stood in silence. My
father and I said our quick prayers, for we too, have stepped onto the danger
zone of not knowing when our lives are at stake. We placed the bodies in their
graves and my dad quickly drew the soil on their body, and then up to their
neck. A string of tear crawled down my cheeks when the soil had toppled their
faces, for I know that was my last time being able to glimpse at their
features. Immediately after burying the bodies, my father’s sanity and hatred
for this war skyrocketed; hammering his head on brick walls until blood dripped
from his forehead with brick imprints marking his forehead. It was quite
obvious my father didn’t care about himself or anything else at the moment.
Still in the danger zone, I seized my father’s hand and ran
to the nearest intersection where the destruction was taking place. A natural
instinct immersed suddenly, an instinct so dangerous that our lives were on the
line. I quickly stooped my father and I down to the ground when at the same
moment a rocket charged at our direction, openly above our heads. We laid there
for what seemed a lifetime, with our arms shielding our heads, as if we had
been hostages during an armed robbery assault. My father and I got up to our
feet’s and scurried alone the death zone, watching from every angle for
potential explosions. Yet within seconds, another outburst of explosion made
its way towards another intersection, causing sparks of flame to ascend on
trees and killing all plant life that surrounds. Shaken because of this sight,
I gripped onto my father’s hand even tighter. Ashes flew throughout the street
without any hesitation creating the exact imaginary scene of hell, where only
shadows of darkness with the eerie ripples of shriek transcending your every
move.
There’s no way out now, I thought, but to endure what my
fate has in store. I peered at the streets even deeper now and watched a
widowed woman holding her young son trotting frantically in hopes of escaping
death, but it was no use because a random bullet pierced through the head of
the woman, causing her to shaken with pain and collapsing to the ground. The
thick red blood poured out of her head so fast it created what seemed a
circular pool around her corpse within seconds. The baby had not died however;
rather it crept up to his mother and raised her shirt up high enough so that he
can indulge himself with breast milk. It’ll always be indistinct for the soul
of the widowed woman because she will never know her baby still longs to live
with deprivation of nutrients or why a random bullet had been misdirected at
her. I couldn’t bear the sight no longer so my father and I ran away to a
nearby shelter, filled with friendly sailors and armed soldiers who were
willing and helpful to us. Right then, we felt very grateful. After a few days,
I asked the soldiers if I could visit my mom and sibling’s grave for grief and
remembrance. They nodded and escorted us accordingly.
Passing by the murderous street where the widowed woman had
died, I stopped to peer at the commotion. There had been an army tank
controlled by a few men with jugs of flammable gas ready to be put to use. I
stood and pondered as to why they carried such liquids when it hit me. The
soldiers were preparing to ignite the widowed woman and her son as their form
of preventing pesticide build up. The liquid gas drained the surface of their
bodies and a lit match was dropped causing a bright glare in front of my eyes.
After the bodies had been lit to ashes, the tank stampeded upon the deceased
ashes with reassurance that all germs are now gone. I arrived at my mother and
sibling’s tomb. No disturbances and no signs of suspected dug ups, thank god!
All of the emotions that have been packed inside of me have suddenly spurred
out when I saw the mounted hill of their grave. My tired body dropped before my
mother’s grave and found myself hugging the dirt as if I was hugging her real
presence. Although I knew she’s passed away, the distance between my mom and I
are still close even though we are being separated by a sheet of dirt.
Years have passed and the news that Frank had been killed in
the “Tet Offensive” had been brought to us. The camera that Frank passed onto
me is now a living memory. Although thirty years have passed by, the flashing
memories of Frank and I still emerge whenever I look at his damaged souvenirs.
Somehow, I need to put my mind at peace. In recognition to Frank Doezema’s
contribution to the Vietnam War, his name is respectively engraved on panel
36E, line 6 of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington D.C.
In 1972, I passed a test which placed me into a Medical
University located in Sai Gon, VN. Due to the Vietnam War, my dream of becoming
a successful doctor was the end of my career chapter. One year later, I was drafted
into the war. I was sent to an officer’s training school at a Medical Military
College and become a Medical Assistant Officer in the South Vietnam Army. Just
two years into college, the Communist took control as soon as the United States
Army left. For six miserable years, I was thrown into a “re-education camp” as
if I’m some sort of barbarian that needed focus control. I felt like a hopeless
slave working endless days and nights just to satisfy the communists. Our main
job was to exploit wood and plant trees in the Northern Forest of Vietnam,
along the Chinese and Laotian border. It was especially hard working during the
winter time because the temperature dropped to 28 degrees F, but we kept on
working because our pay in food was what kept us alive.
A lot of whom I became close with had died of mal-nutrition
all because the brutal weather and the conditions they’ve received. My body
would ache in agony at the end of a hard working day and the only thing I
longed for some decent food to replenish my energy. Our only source of heat
came from a stack of woods we had collected in the forest. No matter what
weather condition or environment we worked in, we weren’t given any proper
safety equipments to lessen our chance of getting hurt or ill. On the route to
our work place, we had to swim across a river as there was no bridge to cross.
Looming above were the guards with their pointed rifles, ready to fire at any
given time. Those who died had died from malaria or typhoid fever all due to
these unbearable conditions. Luckily I knew ways to avoid these unstoppable and
infectious diseases. We had no proper medical treatment; therefore many of us
were forced to take care of ourselves and others in any way possible.
Every month, the guards gave us permission to write a short
letter home explaining whatever we can squeeze into the letter in ten minutes.
Our families never received any letters and if one were to complain, they were
severely punished. Some of the prisoners committed suicide by slicing their
wrist veins or simply by drowning themselves in the river. Sometimes, they
would deliberately step on unexplored ammunition that had fallen from the
bombs. Many times I, too, thought of committing suicide because I couldn’t
survive another day, but the vision of my mother had told me to cease. In the
vision, my mother had told me, “You have a life to live, and one day you will
return home.” My mother’s words of encouragement had given me support to bear
with this crude lifestyle for the remaining time.
Our daily nutrition mainly consisted of boiled corn with
salt and no meat was ever distributed to the prisoners. The corn that we ate
had to be grown by ourselves along with the salt which we collected from the
sea. After more than six years of being in jail, I was reassigned back home in
Hue where years of discrimination had followed me. Because of my background, I
was denied of work permit since my citizenship had been taken away, therefore
the local policeman demanded me to report once a week regarding my social status.
I took on many odd jobs since I wasn’t able to find a stable job. Luckily I
found some odd jobs such as brick layering, cutting wood, digging wells, or
whatever I could find to make ends meet.
Knowing that my life wasn’t improving, I decided to travel
from Hue to Camau in hopes to escape by boat to any non-communist country
around Asia. The residents of Camau weren’t hospitable to my presence and did
not allow me to room with them. However, one family member felt pitiful towards
me and so they lent me an abandoned pig cage which I felt grateful for. My day
to day routine consisted of capturing crabs that were washed up along the
shore. Of the crabs that I was able to catch, I would exchange the crabs for
rice or money at a nearby business ship or local market. To make a living
during the winter, I was given the opportunity to work in the paddy fields.
Because I wasn’t a local resident of Camau, I was captured and locked up in a
penitentiary for three months. A county court extradited me back to Hue because
I had no work permit which was a requirement under the communist control.
In 1983, I finally returned home where I met my wife, Xao,
and then married her in 1985 and had my first son, Hoa, in 1986. Two years
later, my wife and I had twin daughters, Hong and Diem. In gratitude towards
the Vietnam soldiers, an agreement was signed between the United States by
President Bush’s Special Emissary and retired Army Gen. John W. Versey which
allowed the soldiers to resettle in the United States according to the
Humanitarian Operation on Nov. 13, 1991. I received a personal letter from the
government which states that my family and I was sponsored by a Catholic church
in Memphis, TN.
An opportunity like this was rare, but apart from that I
would be leaving behind loved ones, for who knows how long. The unstoppable
tears from the realization that I would be separated from my family by an ocean
have still not been washed away. The language barrier and the different customs
that I faced in this new land were frustrating because I was unwillingly to
assimilate so quickly. As far as I knew, America provided promising
opportunities, but the first few years in this new land didn’t seem to fulfill
these words. In time, English was learned, skills were acquired and gradually
this new culture was adapted. In all, it took me five years to appreciate what
it means to in America and with this, I was able to graduate from Washington
Technical College on Dec. 1997.
Coming to America has fulfilled half of my dream, but the
other half is still untampered, which is to research MIA soldiers in Vietnam.
The communist used terror of substance and spirit not only for all of the South
Vietnam officers, but also to over 80 million Vietnamese to tighten their grip
on a monopoly country as Vietnam today. These are very sad memories, but it is
also the experiences of many South Vietnam Officers and the POWs and MIAs of
the United States. I feel I have a debt to pay to the United States for my
resettlement and freedom, which is why I would like to help in any possible way
to resolve the MIA issue. My resettlement only seems half of my dream. I never
blamed Americans, but I condemned the war. “Where liberty is, there is my
country.”-Anonymous.
Since the beginning of the Vietnam War, I haven’t had the
“normal childhood” like every regular American teenager. Because of this war, I
was forced to grow up faster than most teenagers. Even till today, I often
suffer from posttraumatic stress disorder. Although some memories are easy to
forget, this experience will forever haunt my conscious.
Post-Script: A story
about Quy was printed in The Everett Herald in October 2010: Paying
respects to the U.S. soldier who cared in Vietnam by Julie Muhlstein. Unfortunately the online version is currently inaccessible.
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