I am sitting in the Taipei airport where I have a five hour layover before my final eleven hours to LAX. The past 16 days have flown by.  I took nearly 700 pictures. I have 4 hours of video. I kept an audio journal for much of the time and I have written these posts. I am grateful to all of the readers of this blog who have commented or sent me messages that you have enjoyed reading it. I did not write these entries with any sense of an audience. I wrote to provide me with a way of thinking about the past at the same time I was experiencing the Vietnam that exists in 2010. I spent time each day thinking about what I was seeing. I looked forward to putting the words into the computer or where that was not possible to thumb them into my iTouch.  I know that there are many grammatical, spelling and even some factual errors in the posts. (For instance, my central Vietnam guide’s name is Vinh not Ving as I listed it.)  I have tried to be honest and I think, as Vicki would say, I have written from my heart.

I was a young, fairly naive man when I went to Vietnam in 1969. I had no idea what to expect when I came back to Vietnam in 2010. No one who has not been in combat can really know how it permanently etches pathways in your brain. I retraced many of those pathways while I travelled. Vietnam has always been beneath the surface for me, affecting my professional, artistic life and profoundly affecting my personal life.  The experience, in part,  helped to end a marriage after only 2 1/2 years. In part, it contributed to my not holding a fulltime job until I was 35. In part, it has kept me from developing very many deep friendships. It has affected my current marriage and my family in untold ways. I say all of this not to use Vietnam as an excuse but to say that for years, the shadow of my experience as a soldier was always on my mind. My decision to go back to Vietnam was an attempt to shine a bit more light on the experience to hopefully lessen the cast of the shadow.

So what conclusions do I draw from this adventure? I probably won’t know that for weeks, months, years or maybe never. I merely experienced it and I know that I have been deeply affected by the experience. I do have impressions. The country looks little as it did when I was there. The country is still very green and the red clay is just as I remember it. The weather is still hot and humid and when the rains come, it is very heavy. The jungle/forests have been mostly replaced by rubber tree and coffee tree plantations. The remnants of the war are minimal and can only be seen if one really knows where to look or wants to receive the full tourist, propaganda message at the war memorials or museums.  Westerners are seen everywhere and tourism is booming although most of the tourists are European or Austrailian and not American. In the three sections of the country that I visited, building construction abounds. The second language of Vietnam, taught in all schools is English. English speakers and signs in English are everywhere. Most businesses and people will accept U. S. dollars as well as Vietnamese dong. In metropolitan areas, motorbikes and more and more cars make rush hour life-threatening although all Vietnamese drivers seem much more aware of each other than American drivers do. The people in Ho Chi Minh City seem to be heavier than people in other parts of the country. My hosts at dinner last night (a French lawyer and his English wife) said that obesity is on the rise because city dwellers are turning more and more to fast and pre-processed food. While there is a predominance of youth and an accompanying pursuit of material goods, there are still many examples both in the cities and in the country of people doing things the way they have done for centuries. Many families still live with many generations in the same home. The government still controls the media and the public image of the country. April 30 is going to be a huge celebration throughout the country of the 25th anniversary of the liberation and unification of Vietnam. Huge posters, banners and red flags with gold stars are everywhere. There is evidence of foreign companies throughout the country but citizens in private talk about how corupt high  government officials are.

My lasting images however are of the faces of the people,  people that I met and to whom I talked, people whose faces flashed by as I rode in the car or walked the streets. I tried to take mental photos of the faces I saw. When I came to Vietnam before, I never was able to see faces except those in fear, pain or in some cases death. It’s the many colors, shapes, and expressions of the people that I will take with me. They stopped being enemy or potential enemy long ago. Today, having experienced the people of Vietnam, I left Vietnam knowing a lot more than I did in 1970. I did not escape a nightmare but left a friend.

 I hope to update these blog entries with photos once I get home and sort through the photos since some have commented that they would like to see some photos. I am going to continue to write and have lots of ideas of plays and other writing that have come from this journey.

Finally, I need to offer thanks. I am extremely grateful that I am in a profession and work for a university that granted me a sabbatical to pursue this adventure this spring. I am grateful to the members of the Theatre Arts Department at CLU who have picked up the slack while I was gone this semester. I am grateful to my students who constantly inspire me and keep me young. I am grateful to Tim, Brett, Susan, Kevin, Nate and the Kingsmen staff who also allowed me to step away from Shakespeare and journey to Vietnam.

Lastly, I am thankful to my family. My mother, my brother, and my sisters lived my experience with me for the past forty years ago and always supported me. Most importantly, I thank Vicki and Caitlin and Caleb who have been behind this journey throughout the planning and who communicated with me regularly while I was in Vietnam. Vicki has given me the courage to follow my heart.

Peace!

That’s when I met Padge. He could have stepped right out of central casting. He was handsome in the all-American boy way with dark wavy hair, strong jaw, chiseled body and with a big smile always on his face. He moved with the ease and grace of an athlete which he had been in high school. He had enlisted in the army out of high school, gone to airborne training and shortly before joining us had gone to special tracker training. He joined the platoon and was
immediately made a squad leader. I had been moved to the CP (command center of the platoon) to replace the RTO who had been wounded. I had lot of interaction with the squad leaders and got to know Padg. What impressed me the most about him was his quick wit and easy sense of humor. One didn’t survive without a sense of humor and he was a survivor. Sometimes at the firebase we would play a little improv game that we made up for our own amusement. We called it “Markleville” because that was the small town in Indiana where Padg was from. The game would work this way. When other people in the platoon were sitting around with us, either Padg or I would say. “I got a letter from Markleville today. Do you remember Mrs. So-and-So (we would make up a name) who lived down on Maple street?” and then the other would say, “Yeah, didn’t she have a brown an white Lab mix that kept chasing Mr. Carter everytime he delivered milk?” And the game was on. Sometimes for nearly an hour we would people Markleville with a wide
assortment of characters, weaving complex relationships and histories that were all made up. We did so with straight faces so those around us thought we were childhood friends. We loved the game and would do it even if there was no one around. (Years later when I taught an improv class at the university, I taught them “Markleville.” Padg was very bright and eager to learn about everything. We would talk late into the night about Thomas Mann and Hemingway and of course Shakespeare. He was planning to go to college when he got out of the army in a few months. He also talked about his disillusionment with the war and how he would be glad to be done with the army.

At the end of April, we had not made enemy contact in over two weeks. Everyone was starting to be a little lax as if we were on a camping trip. On the 30th, we got resuppled including a Sundries pack filled with all kinds of candy and other goodies. The packs were large boxes meant to supply companies with 150 men. We were only 20 so
everybody got anything they wanted. We horsed around with the shaving cream and razors because the last thing we wanted to do was shave in the jungle. After the log bird left we moved about a half hour away and set up a location to spend the night. Everyone was eager to spend some time reading the letters from home we had gotten in the log. Then
the patrol clearing the area found the trail. It looked old and not used recently but the Lt decided to put an automatic ambush on the trail just to be safe. An automatic ambush or “Angry Alice” as we used to call them consisted of several Claymore mines strung together with blasting caps and then hidden on the edge of the trail. A trip wire running
across the trail was rigged to a detonator and anyone coming down the trail would trip the wire setting off the detonator which would send the ball bearings in the claymores into anyone following down the trail. Padg and another guy, Mickey Pearson volunteered to set the ambush. It was about 4 pm. It was a very hot day and Padg wasn’t
wearing a shirt although we were always told to keep camoflaged. I remember that he had a headband around his head and years later I could almost see his image in the Rambo posters. (Padg was better looking than
Stallone.) I also saw his smile and heard his laugh as he started down the trail. Less than five minutes later there were shots from beyond the perimeter. We immediately hit the ground. The Lt had me call for air support and he sent four men down the trail. In a few minutes they were back with Pearson carrying the bloodied, lifeless body of Padg.
He had taken four rounds from a sniper in his bare chest. Though Pearson fired, the assailant was gone. Padg collapsed and died instantly. Though patrols were sent out, artillary fired, helecopter gunships blasted the area with rockets, and jet bombers dropped napalm, five hours later no enemy living or dead were found. I was ordered by my Lt to call in ten enemy dead. This came after his conversation with our battalion commander who had flown out to our location. Apparently the policy was to count 10 enemy dead to every one of ours. Several days later Mickey Pearson would be killed walking point less than ten meters outside our night location.

In my short time in the southern part of Vietnam, I made it a priority to try to return as close to the area where I served as possible. When I talked to author and Vietnam vet, Tim O’Brien last fall when he spoke at CLU, he told me to be sure to walk the ground I had walked when I served in Vietnam. This spring, for the first timein 40 years, I made an attempt to pinpoint the fire support bases and surrounding areas of operation. I found a book that gave descriptions of the bases, their units and approximate locations. When I booked with my tour company, I tried to tell them
where I wanted to go and gave them nearby towns. The itinerary they prepared was vague regarding this part of the trip. When I arrived in Ho Chi Minh City on Monday evening, I told my guide, Trang what I wanted to do. When I sat with him and an old map and also a current map, he was still unsure that he could assist me in reaching where I wanted to go.  He said that where I wanted to go was far away and I would not be able to do the previously planned itinerary.  I told him that going to these places was important to me-much more important than going to tourist sites. The tour company specializes on designing tours to individual needs which makes themvery accomodating and in my mind a good company to employ. 

On Tuesday, Mr. Trang, our driver and I set out to find some place that I had been with Echo Recon. Trang has guided veterans for years but had never taken anyone where I wanted to go. I had a few place names and a picture of a mountain in a photo that I took when I was in Vietnam. The mountain was a landmark to me that stood by itself among smaller hills. In 40 years though, names of towns and provinces have changed. We went in a general
direction toward the Cambodian border. After several hours of driving, we finally arrived at Quan Loi which Trang knew contained an old airbase. I remembered Quan Loi as a base that I flew into when I first went out in the field and later when the unit was transferring to another area. I even had a few pictures from the base. Near a rubber plantation, there was a sparse area of low trees and bushes. We pulled into the area and got out. Like many of the other abandoned airfields I had seen on the trip, there was little to see: some broken Tarmac, bomb craters, and a few rotting pieces of sandbags. I tried to orient myself but nothing really clicked in my memory although I’m sure that this was the base where I had been. We continued to drive toward the border and Trang and the driver expressed their concern that we were going too far to be able to easily return to the city by evening. And then in the distance, the mountain top appeared. From the moment I saw it, I knew from its distinctive shape that it was Nui Ba
Ra, the mountain from my picture. I told Trang that all I wanted was to be close enough to get a decent picture. Despite their concern about the distance we continued to drive. We crossed a bridge and Trang said it was the Song Be River, a river that I had patrolled along and crossed many times with Recon. I got out and smelled the air
and the river. It was very familiar and very peaceful. As we pursued amountain photo opportunity we got closer and closer to the mountain. Soon we were in a small town called Phouc Long. We turned left on a road in the town and stopped near a garbage dumping area and roadside rest area togo to the bathroom in the bushes and take the mountain’s picture. As I was relieving myself, I looked beyond the dump where there was a broad open area. I walked forward and looked up at the mountain. It was exactly as I remembered it from 1970. Song Be base was no longer here except for the tar still stretching out at me feet all around me but the mountain oriented me. This was exactly where I had been! I had really come back. And with me came the memories of Padg, Pearson, Doc, Snowshoe, Davis, Whitlow, and Pete. They had walked this ground with me. Now I walked it to honor them.

I was
reminded of the stuff we carried by a war museum at what was once the
Khe Sahn Airbase. This museum was more developed than others in
central Vietnam. The government brought in a Huey and a Chinook helecopter,
a 155 mm artillery piece, and reconstructed several bunkers done in
the style of the American bunkers. They are even rebuilding the runway
with hope of attracting more tourists. Inside the museum building,
amid all of the usual patriotic propaganda were a couple of displays
that brought me back 40 years. One display contained the typical
contents of an infantry backpack including canteen, weapons, Claymore
mines, smoke grenades, mess kits and dogtags. Everything was in the
open, almost inviting one to touch. I have no idea where the stuff
came from. It was probably pulled together from all over the country by some
military archivist. Yet, there it was-stuff carried by some American
(s) right next to a display of the much lighter typical NVA’s pack of
one canteen, weapon, rice pot, and hammock. Both armies battled for
these hills, both climbed up and down, both armies suffered many
casualties and what really remains are artifacts–artifacts that old
soldiers like me stare at and remember.

In 1967 when I was a junior in college, my father died. He had been a life-long smoker and lung cancer finally caught up with him when he was at the still-young age of 56. The loss of my dad was a blow to the whole family.  My brother Bill, ten years older than I, stepped into the male leadership of the family but there was little doubt that my mother was still in charge and was very capable of calling the shots.

My mom was born into a farm family on the prairies of Minnesota. She was the younger of two girls and took delight going with her dad as he went about his farmwork or riding with him in the lumber wagon behind his team of horses. She loved animals, especially her dog. Unfortunately, she lost her beloved father way too soon when she was only eleven. (An apendicitis attack could be fatal in those days.) Her mother bundled her and her older sister, Lilly off to Minneapolis to live with their grandparents. She had started school in a small one room school house and now went to a city public school. She was a good student and progressed into high school. Her mother remarried and she embraced her step father and her life as a “city girl” even though she would regularly travel to her birthplace to visit with the many extended family members of her father. One of the classes she studied in high school  and excelled at was Shakespeare. I remember the red volume of the Complete Works on the shelf in the living room as I grew up. I also remember her showing me the amazing scrapbook and journal she had put together for the class. (It was only later that those memories would re-enforce my life-long love of the bard.) There was never any question that she would go to college as her older sister had done and part of her inheritance allowed for that. She decided to go to a Teacher’s School. She began college and then shortly after she started, 1929 and the Great Depression affected all levels of society. After two years of college, she decided to begin working. She qualified to be a teacher in the rural areas of Minnesota. She signed on to begin teaching near where she spent her early childhood. Teachers in those days boarded with local families and the conditions were pretty trying. She once had to barricade her room with a chair at night to protect herself from a mentally disturbed son of her boarding family. She was chased by bulls and dogs when she walked to and from school. In the winter, she had to start the fire in the school, break the ice in the drinking water and trudge through drifting snow. Her students too were a challenge. Many of the farm boys would drop in and out of school depending upon the need for their work on the farms. Some of the boys were nearly her age but Ruth was never one to be trifled with and she controlled and taught even the most unruly. When not teaching, she enjoyed going to parties and dances with her cousins. At one such party, one of the local wild boys bid on a pie that the young teacher was auctioning off to raise money for the school. He said he would buy the pie only if she would eat it with him. Herman Arndt and Ruth hit it off and with large groups had a great social life. He even picked her up from the train and once drove her all the way to Minneapolis. They eventually became engaged, got married and began farming on the prairie. Ruth stopped teaching and began to help out on the farm. When the first child arrived, they hired someone to help out with the cooking, cleaning and child care so Ruth could continue working outside which she enjoyed. There were four children in all, a boy and a girl and then with a seven year gap, another boy and a girl. Being in the younger set of children, I knew my mother as a strong disciplinarian and I soon learned why none of the older school boys gave her grief. She was a great cook and baker and my sweet tooth can be directly attributed to her chocolate cake and fresh fruit pies. She loved growing flowers in addition to a large garden. She played the piano and some organ. She was heavily involved in our church, taught Sunday School and was involved in the Lutheran Women’s Organization which at that time was called “The Ladies Aide.” Books were always important in our house. We didn’t have a tv until I was in middle school. Mom loved reading recipe books in additions to other genres and to this day, I don’t understand why.

She always had strong opinions which sometimes led to less desirable traits. She was stubborn and would set her jaw when she didn’t want to something. She had little patience with people who didn’t listen. She found leaving a tip or shaking the hand of the minister upon leaving church silly. She demanded respect and manners from her children or consequences would follow. It is no secret that she always liked boys better girls as both of my sisters will readily affirm. Somehow she recognized a difference in me and encouraged my study and my love of the performing arts. When she was a girl, they called her, “Mike” and so it was appropriate that one of her boys would be named after her. I was a shy teenager and she virtually pushed me into social involvement and when my senior year came around, she drove me to the senior play auditions. I was cast as the male lead and that for better or worse opened the door for the rest of my life.

When I went to college, she did not discourage me from studying drama but tried to make sure that I was practical and studied to become a teacher as well. When I would come home on college vacations or breaks filled with myself and all the new knowledge that I and no one else had ever possessed, we would have late night discussions in the kitchen. I remember trying to shock her by announcing that “God was Dead,” but she was never shocked. As long as she lived on the farm, I always enjoyed coming home and having those discussions after everyone had gone to bed.

The war in Vietnam affected our small town as well. One of my classmates was one of the first people to die in combat from our area. A childhood friend was paralized from the neck down by an enemy bullet. During 1967 and 1968, as the war escalated, my discussions with my mom often centered around the war. She was raised in a time when there was loyalty to one’s country. Although my father did not have to go to WW II, she and my dad had encouraged my brother to join the army a few years after he was out of high school. She believed that the army did wonders for him but she entertained my strategies for not going. My cousin became a minister and when I was young, I thought that I too would be one so that option was plausible. When I signed the teaching position, I think that she was really pleased and relieved that I would not have to go to war.

When I got my first draft notice, I drove to the farm and talked to her. She supported my appeals but ultimately felt that if this was what the government required, then it was my duty as a citizen to comply. The appeals were denied and one June morning several days before my birthday, she drove me to my county seat for the trip to Minneapolis to be sworn in. Later in the day, as I stood in a phone booth on Hennipin Ave. several hours before I was to depart for basic training, I talked to my fiancee, Kay about possibly leaving and going to Canada. I was so scared and so upset. Ultimately, during the conversation, I realized that my mother had raised me to be responsible, to be faithful, to obey the law of the land. I also knew that my mother was now a widow and the matriarch of our family. I didn’t want to do anything that would hurt her.

So I went off to Basic and Advanced Individual Training. Her letters came regularly and filled me in on the news from home. When I came home on leave, before shipping out to Vietnam, we had more of our late-night talks. I voiced my concern for my safety and the uncertainty that I felt about what I was doing. Always a woman of faith, she said that she knew that God would protect me and that she would pray for me every day. She believes that her prayers get through and have power. I should have been dead on at least three occasions when I was in Vietnam so who am I to dispute that power? She accompanied me to the airport that day I left for Vietnam. My mother is not one to show emotion or display public affection but she grabbed my hand and held it tight. The tears in her eyes will never be forgotten.

In 2010, women are prominent everywhere in Vietnam society. All of the propoganda monuments prominently feature women as do the pictures from the war. I’m sitting by the window of my hotel in Hue and most of the motorbikes going by are driven by women. (When riding, business women in the cities wear skirts, very high heels and are often texting. But every square inch of skin is covered. Masks are worn over the face. Helmets cover designer haircuts. Gloves are worn on the hands. Skin is to be protected from the elements.) Women are teachers, running businesses, working in factories and are soldiers. The society is still macho and male driven but one only has to look around to see who is really making it work. The farm women are in the rice paddies or raking the drying grain. Market women carry unbelievably heavy baskets filled with vegetables, fish, flowers or other produce suspended on a piece of bamboo placed over their shoulders. Construction workers climb rickety scaffolding and lay the bricks to build a house. Street vendors get up at 4 a.m. to cook the pho noodles seven days a week. Wives move in with their husband’s families and share limited space with several generations. And then the children–carried by mothers as they go about their work, dressed in their uniforms to either begin school at 6:30 a.m. or 12:30 p.m., riding behind or in front of their mothers on the motorbikes or bicycles. These children are like children everywhere. The girls move together in packs holding each other’s hands, giggling, flirting with boys, watching the latest video on television, and of course with their cell phone never out of their hands. They help their mothers move the cattle, clean the fish, wave passer-bys into their shops, or they can be seen just hanging out.

My mother wrote me a letter in Vietnam every week. I often didn’t get them for several weeks after written. In her letters, she shared the news, told me of my friends, and gave me encouraging words. Across the miles, the strength of that stubborn German, that frontier school marm, the rock and center of our family-my mother gave me comfort.

Most of the people in Vietnam are young, well beneath the age that remembers the war of 40 years ago. From time to time, I see an old woman dressed in traditional “pajamas” often wearing a bamboo conical hat. I wonder what their memories of that time was, if they had sons, brothers, lovers who fought or maybe they themselves were guerillas or regular soldiers or even heroes. Wars are generally regarded as a male-centered venture. This former soldier recognizes that he could not have survived without the women who impacted his life then and those that continue to give it meaning. To one special lady in Minnesota–Happy 101st, Mom!

Today was spent in the DMZ or demilitarized zone in Quang Tri Province. This area was the scene of some of the most protracted and bloodiest fighting of the war. The town of Quang Tri was almost completely destroyed. We visited two shells of Catholic churches that have been preserved as memorials to the resistance. One is also a shrine to the Virgin Mary because legend has it that she appeared here to the faithful in 1798 as the Chinese were driving Christians from Vietnam. Even today, Vietnamese Catholics make pilgrimages here. I also crossed the bridge over the river denoting the separation of North and South Vietnam which occurred in 1954. In the midst of the cold war, there was fear that the communists would persecute Christians so creating a Christian south seemed a good solution. Uncle Ho didn’t see it that way and twenty years of struggle resulted.

In the late 60′s the DMZ was the target for a carpet bombing attack to try to stop supplies and soldiers from moving south. Thousands of tons of bombs were dropped including deadly cluster bombs which contained many bomb lets which did not explode until touched. Today, 40 years later many unexploded bombs are still discovered here. Children and farmers are warned not to go into uncleared areas. People are still being killed or maimed by unexploded ordinance.

The most amazing part of my journey today was a visit to a seaside village where a preserved non-military site demonstrates the resolve of human beings to survive. Because the village is located on a route often used by rebels smuggling arms, first the French and then the Americans bombed the area heavily. To protect themselves, the villagers dug shelters in the hard clay. When completed and much of it still exists today, there were nearly 45 km of tunnels in three levels going down some 23 meters. The hand-dug complex features family living quarters, a meeting room, a medical clinic and even a delivery room. 17 babies were born in the tunnels. This was not ordered military action but people trying to survive. Those who know me, know how important Shakespeare was for me in Vietnam. I carried a copy of some of his works with me and would memorize passages and would speak the words to give me comfort. Above the door leading into the museum at the tunnel village is a line of text both in Vietnamese and in English. I never had to fear anything from the sky as did these people in the tunnels. Their determination and choice is reflected in the well-known words they chose to put above the door: “To be, or not to be.”

Oh, yes, one half world away, one more event began on January 30, 1968 . A lunar new year holiday called Tet, generally unfamiliar to most westerners would suddenly cause all Americans to realize that the tiny little war in Vietnam was for real and the enemy, despite being overwhelmed in the air and by the technological might of the West would not easily be dismissed. Because of the Tet Offensive, the President, the Secretary of Defense and the military commanders were put on the defensive not just in Vietnam but in the realm of public opinion at home. It’s important to point out that the Americans defeated the enemy in the Tet Offensive. They repelled the attacks across the country and re-secured all of those bases that were over-run but the psychological impact of the attacks helped shape the war policy for the next few years. It also fueled the anti-war movement in the U. S.

For the past two days, I have been in Hue, the former imperial capital for the Nguyen Dynasty and an important historical site for both the Vietnamese and French colonists. The city is located on the coast almost equidistance between Hanoi and Saigon (Ho Chi Minh City). It is a city of about 300,000 inhabitants with prominent French and Chinese architecture, broad leafy boulevards, and numerous canals coming off of the Perfume River. The most prominent feature of the city is the walled Imperial City with its moats and massive walls. At the center of the Imperial City is the Citadel, the residences of the Vietnamese emperorers from the 1820′s until 1945. The layout of the city and the citadel are impressive. It was obviously modeled on China’s Imperial City and today it is one of the major tourist attractions of Hue.

In 1968, the North Vietnamese and the local Viet Cong made Hue and the citadel a major objective of the Tet Offensive. Because of the strong presence of the French during much of the nineteenth and twentieth century, there was a large Christian population here but there were strong divides among the people in their support of the north or the south. These divides even affected families. I think I mentioned in a previous blog posting that my guide, Ving’s family was divided with two uncles serving the south and one serving the north. One of his uncles spent significant time in a re-education camp following the north’s victory in 1975 because he had been employed as radio operator on the U.S. base in Danang. When the V. C. and NVA launched their offensive on January 30, 1968, one of the true horrors of the war was committed as people who were believed to be supportive of the south or the Americans were rounded up and summarily executed. This brutal vengeance was carried out against men, women and children. Often whole families were murdered, many decapitated and their bodies thrown into mass graves or into the canals. We learned of the massacre in Mai Lai by American soldiers but we very rarely heard of the more than 5,000 people that were butchered here in Hue. People fled the city in droves, many to never return here, even after the war, because of the horror that happened here. Ving said that his own father who was a baker here in Hue at the time moved to Danang where Ving grew up and never came back.

The NVA attacked the South Vietnamese (ARVN) headquarters located in one corner of the Citadel and dug in all around and in the Imperial City. The U. S. Marines, the Army’s 101st Airborne Division and the division that I joined in 1969, The 1st Cavalry (AirMobile) joined in the fight which was the hardest fought, house-to-house urban combat in which the U. S. had participated since the Korean War. The thickness of the walls of the citadel, the well dug-in and fortified positions of the NVA, the vulnerability of the canals and river to snipers, the lousy weather that dominates this area and which prevented much air support, all, made this battle one of the longest of the war. The enemy held off the ARVN and the Americans for nearly two months. Although they ultimately suffered heavy casualties, they also inflicted heavy casualties upon the Americans. More importantly, TV news for the first time was broadcasting daily from the war zone with Walter Cronkite himself walked the streets of Hue and mused aloud on camera for millions of Americans to hear that he wondered if this war was winnable.

Last night, in my room, I watched You Tube video of broadcasts from Hue in 1968. (Technology continues to amaze.) As I rode through the streets of Hue today on the back of Ving’s motorbike as he pointed out Hue University, the Shell Station, the Provincial Capital, all major landmarks of the conflict, the videos I had watched became real. As I walked through the Citadel and saw the still damaged walls and artifacts, I became aware of how intense the fighting here must have been. I thought back to the firefights in which I participated and the fear I felt as I searched for cover and prayed that the cacophony of rifle and artillary and grenade would cease. I could only imagine the fear felt by my fellow soldiers and marines who battled here for weeks sometimes progressing only a few feet at a time while seeing their buddies fall from a sniper’s bullet or an RPG.

In 1968, war was an abstract thing to me. I was more upset about having to give up my cushy, middle class life for two years than I was concerned about hugging the ground with a rifle in Vietnam. In the spring of 1968, I was cast as Petruchio in The Taming of the Shrew, a dream, macho role. I thought that I was a very hot actor and was sure that I was bound for stardom. I was a campus leader on my small campus. I had friends. My professors liked me. I was a procrastinator. I could get people to type papers for me at the last minute. I had the usual campus romantic entanglements. I was concerned about the politics but in an abstract, intellectual way. Little did I think as I watched the news stories from Hue in 1968 that over 40 years later I would be sitting here near that battle trying to make sense of it all. Who were those 5,000 people killed by the V.C.? Who were the Americans who died or were wounded here? Who were the NVA, ARVN, and VC who lost their lives? What did they think or feel before they died? Do people still say their names and remember what they were like as people? Did any of all that death make any difference? The questions are mine and I don’t have any answers. There probably aren’t any answers; there will always be questions.

Today I ceased being a war veteran for most of the day and became a tourist. Of course I have been a tourist the whole time that I am here. I sleep in beautiful hotels.  I have a private guide, a car and a driver. I eat three meals a day and my life is hardly punishing.

I have talked about Vietnamese culture in previous blogs but I thought today I would briefly share some of my reflections as I near the halfway mark in my journey. As I have said previously, I am in the central part of Vietnam. Yesterday and most of today I was in Hoi An. Hoi An is an ancient city and is very important in the history of Vietnam. Its location on the coast made it the main port and access for traders to Vietnam. The Japanese, Chinese established the trading business there. The French sent missionaries to Vietnam through Hoi An and the Dutch and English made it the center of their trading ventures in Indo China. Because it is a low city, weather affects it severely each year. The main business section of the old city is regularly flooded. The silt from the two major rivers eventually limited its use as a major port and Danang took that position. Through much of the twentieth century, Hoi An languished as a small city with excellent craft villages and architecture reflecting its Japanese, Chinese and French development. During the Vietnam War, Hoi An was virtually untouched by the war raging around it. Although there were strong pockets of VC resistance in the mango groves and canals that spider-web out from the river, the city escaped the ravages of other cities in Quang Nam Province. In the 1990′s, an enterprising European came to Hoi An and fell in love with the ancient town. He led investments and archeological digs and established the old town as a major tourist mecca. Today it, along with this whole area of the South China Sea coast is booming with tourism. Walking through downtown Hoi An this morning reminded me of a stroll through Solvang although Hoi An is the real thing and not an American artificially created representation of another culture. Today Ving took me to museums, temples, craft villages, and to a theatre performance. We even had tea in an authentic 16th century Chinese merchant’s house that still belongs to decendents of the original merchant. The house reminded me of Stratford Upon Avon. Hoi An has shops specializing in all kinds of local specialties, most specifically silk (tailored and pre-made), pottery, jewelry and Chinese, Japanese, and Vietnamese cloth lanterns. The town was filled with Westerners, mostly Austrailian and German. I also did hear French and Italian. I didn’t hear any Americans. The area is continuing to grow as a tourist destination and today I really felt like one.

Let me talk for a moment about Vietnamese food. I never have really experienced much of this food in the U.S. but friends have always raved about it. I must say that I concur. I have eaten in the upscale restaurants in Hanoi, the variety of the hotel restaurants where I have been staying but my favorite experiences have been, thanks to Ving,  in small villages in the countryside when he suddenly decides it’s time to eat and has the driver pull over to the first place he sees. He was the first one to introduce me to pho which is ubiquitous throughout Vietnam and in the Vietnamese community in the U.S. but suprisingly was only introduced here in the 1950′s. Pho is basically noodle soup but that’s to say that Starbucks basically makes coffee. Each rendition of pho is completely different based upon what part of the country one is in and what time of year it is. Ving has tried to explain the variations, most of which has to do with noodles. The noodles are rice based but that’s where commonality ends. So far I think I have had at least five different varieties of noodles. The basic dish arrives at the table in a big bowl. In the bowl are the noodles, vegetables, meat of some kind, and the seasoned broth. Each person has a small bowl into which the noodles, meat and vegetables are placed. The broth is poured over the top. A soy and or a seasoned fish sauce is sprinkled on top. The diner then mixes the ingrediants together with chop sticks and begins eating. It’s considered proper manners to suck the noodles up into your mouth and it’s required that you slurp up the broth by lifting the bowl to your mouth.

Yesterday as we were in Que Son Valley, we came into a small village. We pulled over at a small house with an area on one side covered by a thatch roof. In the open concrete under the roof were several plastic tables (the small kind that little kids have in back yards). By each table there were also several small plastic chairs. As I eased my old body down into one of the chairs hoping that my weight would not collapse the plastic legs, Ving said I was in for a treat. This area, he said, is known for the sweetest chicken in Vietnam. As he said this,  two of the sweet birds came strolling by the table followed by a dog and a cat. At the end of the room, a pile of rice was spread out for drying. The only other customers were two men deeply engrossed in a game of Chinese Checkers. Ving, as usual, did the ordering even going back to look at the kitchen. I usually have beer with my lunch because based upon her India travels, Vicki has always said that beer is the safest bet. Today though, Ving told the driver to pull my beer from the cooler in the trunk rather than have one of the ones from the shop–”just to be safe,” he said. We waited for what seemed to be a long time as compared to other days when the pho arrived within a few minutes. The chicken was brought out first. The cooking method is to chop the chicken into pieces and boil it. Vegetables and the local noodles are then added along with lemon grass and other local herbs. It’s pretty difficult to eat slippery pieces of chicken with chopsticks, especially when the skin and feet are still attached. Ving assured me it was ok to eat with my hands and I also learned that taking the pieces of  bones out of your mouth and leaving them on a pile is also acceptable. The bowl with the noodles in the broth arrived next. The combination of tastes was incredible. I have eaten chicken my whole life but this variation ranks among the best chicken meals I have eaten. The noodles were transluscent green but equally delicious with a hint of basil and lemon. The lemon flavor was from the lemon grass which Ving assured me is the best way to prevent diarhea and the villagers also raise lots of it to keep away the snakes. (There’s a connection there someplace but I’m going to leave it well enough alone.) We finished the meal amidst the dirty concrete floor and farm animals, sat back and talked while the driver had his cigarette and then continued on our way.

Food is something that all human beings have in common and I am glad that my memory of eating in Vietnam did not end with digging food out of a “C” ration can.

For the past two days, Ving has taken me to sites in Quang Nam Province that served as the center of much of the action as the Marines and then the Army moved into Central Vietnam in order to stop supplies coming down from the north. This area of the country is very narrow from the border with Cambodia and Laos and the South China Sea. In addition to the large airbase in Danang, an equally large and important airbase was located a bit farther south on the coast at Chu Lai. From Chu Lai, the marines moved inland. The Chu Lai area is ringed with mountains, one set of which was called “Rocket Ridge” because many rockets were fired from there down on the Chu Lai base. Yesterday we visited several artillary hills and helocopter L.Z.s. Most of the major artillary placements on these hills were replaced quickly after the war with large memorial statues to the “victory.” One overlooking Chu Lai had the date of 1965. I asked Ving about that and he said that the memorial was dedicated to the first engagement between the American troups and the regular North Vietnamese Army. They didn’t win the battle but in their mind, that’s where they began to win. I ended the day yesterday rather disappointed because what I saw and recorded on my camera was lot of empty space. Most of the evidence of American presence had long since been stripped away. Even the memorials themselves seemed to be neglected as if everyone was trying to forget and let the land reclaim itself from war.

Today, although once again visiting sites of major actions, the immediacy and importance of the war for the Vietnamese was brought into focus. And, I too was reminded of the immense cost of war. We drove into the Que Son Valley, site of some of the heaviest fighting of the war south of the DMZ.

The valley is west and leads into the Central Highlands. It is still primarily an agricultural area. The farmers are now in rice-harvesting season. As a farm boy, I am still intrigued by the work of farmers. Here, much of the work is still done by hand. The rice is planted by hand, irrigated by hand and harvested by hand although the scythe blade has given way to a motorized weed cutter. The bundles of rice are still fed by hand into a small portable thresher which is powered by a farm woman pedaling her feet up and down on the machine. The straw is collected to feed the animals or burnt. The threshed rice is then spread out in front yards or on the road to dry. I talk about the rice because one of the reasons that the Que Son Valley was so important for both sides is that it was the place the soldiers could get food.

In Que Son City, in the heart of the Valley were several major American bases to support the battle in the area. One of the hills used as a command center is surrounded by huge volcanic boulders which still show evidence of thousands of rounds of bullets and lots of shrapnel from mortars. Again on the hill, is another large celabratory statue of a male and female soldier with weapons raising a small child up into the future. I now have seen plenty of these statues and the accompanying posters which speak to the era of the Soviet cold war. They seem a bit out of place and out of fashion.

We next went to another building nearby which looked like a Buddhist Temple on the outside save for the prominent Gold Star on a background of red. The building and grounds were very park-like and they seemed still to be continuing construction. The site was again located at a former American stronghold. The caretaker of the building then let us go inside. The resemblence to a temple became even clearer as I came inside. The room was probably 80 feet by 80 feet and 20 feet high. There were several large drums and gongs around the room. In the center of one wall was a large alter with flowers and burning incense. A metal embossed picture of Ho Chi Minh was at the place where the Buddha statue usually is. On either side of the alter were wooden panels with words enscribed. Ving translated and told me that the one panel honored the ancient Cham people of the area who defended Vietnam from the Mongolians and the Chinese invasions. The other panel honored the modern people of Que Son who defended their homeland. On the walls of the rest of this large open room were large, polished granite panels upon which were carved names, birth dates and death dates. Over 14,000 names are housed here: soldiers from the area but also men, women and children, the collatoral damage of the war. My Lai is not far from here. After asking for permission to take some photos in the room, I stood in front of the wall once again looking at my reflection staring back from behind the names. It was the first moment during this trip that I became emotional and could not say anything for a long time. The wall in D. C. contains over 50,000 names. This memorial in Que Son only contained the names of local people. I thought about all the people who have stood in front of walls staring at names of friends or loved ones lost in wars, wanting to touch them or laugh with them, trying to make sense out of the senselessness. A short time later as we were walking across a local bridge, we were passed by many school chilren on their bikes heading home after their school day. Two of the kids went by laughing and then they turned around and came back. The boy and the girl pulled their bikes to a stop in front of me. The girl, Ving said had just won an award for her English studies and they both wanted to practice by talking to me. After a simple exchange of greeting, I asked their names. They told me and then both exceedingly proud of themselves, giggled and turned their bikes back toward their homes. I pray that their names will never appear on any walls.

Today was the first day of really exploring the battlefields around Danang. Ving is a student of the history of the war in this area and he delighted in showing me where the Americans and the VC held ground. We visited the site of the Marine Airfield, several hills that contained artillary placements commanding the area around Danang, and followed what had been a branch of the Ho Chi Minh Trail and is now a major highway connecting the north and the south of Vietnam. While it was interesting to compare the sites with period photos of the bases in full operation that Ving possessed, there was little to actually see and record. The open strip of land where the Marine Airbase existed is still there and obviously looks as if aircraft could take off and land there. Yet, only the dirt and some blacktop remains of what was the runway. The PVC metal plates that formed the base of the runway have long been cannibalized for someone’s house or melted down to be repurposed. There is evidence of some concrete footings for buildings and a few bunker walls but not much else. The hills used as firing positions for the artillary have been converted into war memorials and trees have been planted and grown disguising the open fields of fire.

I was most struck today with my drive and walks through the villages. Unlike cosmopolitan Hanoi, and tourist-trapped Danang, the small villages are probably much as they have been for generations. The people in the area of DaLat where we mostly were today are farmers or fishermen. Though today was a Sunday and there was less activity, the farmers were continuing to work. Corn, rice and red hot peppers were spread out in front of the houses to dry. Sometimes the drying was happening on the road itself and often my driver would drive right through the grain. The houses in the villages are quite shabby even though often painted vivid colors. Wood, bricks and miscellaneous rubbish surround the houses and bicycles and the occasional motorbike are seen in the front room of the houses. But as Ving points out, the area is thriving. There are many shops, all stocked with food, appliances and household wares. Satellite dishes sprout from roofs and I saw one shabby shop with several glittery prom dresses in its window.

It was when Ving and I got out of the car and walked that the eery feelings from way back in my visceral memory began to creep up. At one point Ving took me down a trail to the river to where “Liberty Bridge” and “Freedom Road” existed to link Highway One to the Marine base. The bridge had been destroyed by the VC after the Marines left the area and has never been replaced. The only way for the farmers to cross the river at this point is by a small, crude ferry boat. We rode across the river with several people on motorbikes and a few pedestrians. It was an unique experience crossing the river with these farmers in the way they had always crossed save for a few years during the war. We walked up from the river into the small village on the other side and I was aware of the way I was carrying my camera and strap–much in the same way I carried my rifle. I also became aware of my discomfort walking down the middle of the narrow road and I scanned from side to side being aware of all movement. Mind you, all of this was subconcious and not me “acting” a scenario. We came to a small shop along the side of the road and Ving suggested we stop and have a soda while we waited for our driver who had to travel the long way round to get to the other side of the river. While we waited, we talked about my experience and what it was like for Ving to grow up in the rough times immediately after the war. Sometime during our conversation, a young man came and sat down at the same table we were sitting at. He didn’t say anything and sat behind me so I never really looked at him. I don’t know if he spoke any English but he sat there while we talked for about one half hour and then got up and left. There was a bit of discomfort and Ving remarked about it after he left. He said that this particular village and this whole area was a major center for the VC during the war. Soldiers and VC moving from the North would stop here for resupplies and rest. Ving said that during the war, soldiers would have to be very careful when moving through this area because they would never know who the enemy was. He joked that the man behind me was probably from the government trying to find out what we were doing or during the war he could have killed me. (Funny man.) At the small shop there was also a cute little boy about 4 or 5 and his 2-3 year-old sister. The boy was very shy. Ving thought that I was probably the first westerner that he had seen. I took his picture several times but he kept his distance. Finally his sister broke the ice and they both posed for me while their mother and grandmother prodded them. It was only when they viewed their photo that their smiles broke through. Sitting there in this little country town with people very much like my farm family in Minnesota took away thoughts of ambushes and booby traps. My soda didn’t have bits of glass. It felt nice.

I am not intending to make this blog a political propoganda piece praising Vietnam but rather I am musing on what I see as the stark contrasts between the image of North Vietnam when I was a soldier and the reality of the current country.

Today I left Hanoi, the capital and political center of the country with its cosmopolitan feeling and flew to Danang on the South China Sea. The weather has gotten much warmer but still not uncomfortable. I am staying in a resort on China Beach with wide smooth sandy beaches and all the elements of luxury one would find at a 4 or 5 star resort. For those that don’t know the history of American involvement, Danang was the site of the Marines first landing in Vietnam. It later became one of the major supply ports for U.S. troops in Central Vietnam. The U.S. built the largest airbase in the country and it was also the site of the major miltary hospital. It would have been a great place to recuperate from wounds.

My guide for this portion of the journey is Ving, a 41 year old man who was 8 when the war ended. He had 3 uncles who fought for the south and 1 uncle who fought for the north. He became fascinated by the war and tried to understand both versions of the war. After a number of occupations, he went to university and studied history. Because of his English and his study of the war, he started leading American veterans on tours as they returned to Vietnam. He said that he has often been moved by vet stories and loves being a guide for vets. I am sure the next week will be an interesting one with this student of the war as he takes me to scenes of the major battles.

Today, however, he merely showed me around Danang. Danang during the war had a population of 50,000 and was primarily a fishing village and shipping port. Today the population is 500,000 and it is one of the largest cities in the country. There is new construction everywhere, much of it high rise buildings, lavish mansions, many, many hotels and resorts like the one I am staying in. Ving says that “Danang is the center of dreams for the future of the country.” Unemployment is low and people come here to advance in the middle class and beyond. All of this has happened since 1995 when Vietnam embraced their form of capitalism and foreign money flowed into the country. Most of the construction has happened in the past 5 years and the resorts are becomming famous worldwide for their beauty and value. This is not quite the communist model of the 60′s that I learned about then.

The other major contrast I noticed today and have noticed throughout the week is that the people of Vietnam are quite religious. Buddhism is the major religion throughout the country but strong Hinduism and Roman Catholicism are also evident. We drove by a huge white statue of a female Buddha (I’m sorry but I can’t remember her name.) The statue is at least 60 feet tall of white marble and is located on a mountain above the entry to the harbor from the South China Sea. It and the accompanying pagoda were just erected last year. The “goddess” is apparently the protectress of local fishermen who believe that during storms she will appear out of the mists and guide them home. Today all fishing vessels leaving and returning to the harbor sail under her watchful presence. Ving also took me to Marble Mountain. This is an area that is actually 5 separate mountains that have names associated with the five Chinese elements (air, water, fire, earth, and metal). At the base of Water Mountain is a large village that is totally made up of stone craftsmen. Street after street contains stone cutters who build everything out of the local marble and other stone. The noise of the work is almost deafening. Most amazing though is the trek up and into Water Mountain. The caves in the mountain are ancient and have been used for centuries as temples and shrines for worship. What is interesting is that Hindu shrines live along side the Buddhist statues and shrines and other even more primitive religious areas. One climbs the well-worn steps with pilgrims carry objects of worship and incense to burn. Old people, young people, and families with children make the steep climb to the caves. There are some tourists but most seem to be Vietnamese faithful. At the top of the mountain, we went through a very dark cave and down some treacherous steps into one of the most incredible sanctuaries I have ever been in. A huge vaulted cave as big as a cathedral, lit only by light streaming through three large holes in the ceiling of the cave houses several large Buddha statues with alters. The walls are blackened from fires and the natural shapes of the rock walls almost seemed carved and resemble shapes recognizable as animals and plants. Ving said that this cave was particularly important during the war because the Viet Cong used to hide in it and it was their major field hospital. As Danang was being attacked in 1972, the Viet Cong held attempts by the South Vietnamese and U.S. forces to push them out of the mountain (at least according to Ving’s account.) What is fascinating is that neither side bombed or used artillary here and the religious shrines are preserved as they were centuries ago.

Despite the war, despite the attempt of the Communist government to eradicate vestiges of religion and outside influence, despite the failure of the collective system leading to thriving capitalism, despite the traditional cultural divide between the East and the West, the human spirit finds its way.  There can be no simple label applied humans. The perjorative “gook” that my buddies place upon our enemy did not apply then and tonight as I sit among these resiliant peoples, I am even more aware of the danger of creating such distinctions.