A Bloodied Tapestry

So, one fine day in November, he and I headed north in my trusty and now well-running Scout. I remember him clearly. He was dressed in a light tan short-sleeved cotton shirt, Vietnamese-style loose trousers, sandals, and a pith hat. Our route was not paved—or, what was once pavement was pounded to dust by the American and South Vietnamese military convoys.

I had been used to seeing military convoys practicing for war. In my early years in Canada, during the time of the Korean War, the army would conduct convoys on our farm roads. I can remember trucks and tanks rumbling and mumbling up and down. When they stopped for a smoke, I was delighted if that occurred in front of our farm gate. I would walk among them. The men would be laughing, joking, and smoking with the kind of ease that comes from men being with men. But convoys in time of war…look out…

My first memory of an American convoy barreling through Kon Tum, heading north to engage the enemy, was a source of fright, anxiety, and exhilaration. I was standing about 200 feet from the main road on some errand to the American civilian compound just north of bridge. The ground shook under the weight of heavy tanks and fully loaded trucks with men and materials of war still many miles down the road. And the noise. Once across the river and past my view, tank drivers with heads appeared out of the driver’s portal and atop each tank and vehicle, a fully loaded trigger finger was waiting for any reason to shoot. Each man was intensely watching for any sign of danger, engines screaming to the limit. The smell of dust and diesel and the sight of the omnipresent American flag. Some vehicles flew the Confederate flag. The convoy was always a roar and a rush barreling north to war.

One can only imagine the damage that such American convoys did to the roads in Vietnam. Deep potholes, huge ruts, some as deep as 2 feet, made driving a challenge. In wet season, it made such a mess. In the dry season, the potholes were so deep it made speed impossible. The impulse was to speed the myth to keep ahead of the blast. The road was periodically mined, and the Viet Cong were always about. Most of the road was nothing more than a strip of land cut primitively from the surrounding forest. At one point about halfway to Đắk Tô, I looked over at my passenger. He was sweating much more profusely than the heat of the day warranted. He was making the sign of the cross as we rounded each bend. I asked him if he was frightened. He looked nervously at me and said no, smiling. I did not believe him. I remained remarkably detached from the reality of the danger. I was in the middle of the battle for Đắk Tô, fall 1967, and I did not know it. But he did.

We arrived at Đắk Tô shortly after lunch. Bill had said that he would be easy to find as his house was on the main road to the left just inside the hamlet. And his vehicle, a brand-new British-built white Land Rover, out front for marker. Sure enough, the vehicle was there. We parked, got out, and walked to the vehicle where I could see it was severely damaged. Bill emerged from his small house, which was low down off the road embankment, looking tired and disheveled. Not like himself, always proper. During the previous night, the Viet Cong not only attacked the perimeter of the village but also came right through town down the main street. I can still see him pointing excitedly up and down the street, exclaiming that they were shooting into people’s homes and lobbing a few hand grenades. Apparently, Bill’s new Land Rover seemed an appropriate target, and so, someone lobbed a grenade into the front seat. I remember looking down at the driver’s seat now in shreds, the windows shattered, the floor beneath the driver blown away, and the tires, at least the left front, was flat. To make a point of their displeasure at the sign of the foreigner, they shot into Bill’s house. On hearing the noise, Bill had rolled under his bed. I could see where bullets slammed through wall just above where he lay under his bed.

Remarkably, Bill seems pretty nonplussed and still wanted very much to show us his work in the fields around Đắk Tô. I can still feel the afternoon sun warm on my face walking through fields, kicking the soil, and seeing the dust in the wind. I felt at peace with my new life—at least, in those couple of hours wandering around this beautiful country. The fact that war was everywhere seemed odd and incongruous.

As we departed Đắk Tô, so was an American convoy traveling south to Pleiku through Kon Tum. It made no sense to ride ahead of them or be last, so I pushed my way into the convoy, not moving too fast. Nearer the middle was the safest bet, I thought. This would be my first experience of many traveling inside a large convoy. We were always encouraged to do this as a way of avoiding mines and capture. Needless to say, my ambivalence about doing this was great as it seemed like the ultimate compromise to my mission. However, on this day, ambivalence be dammed. The safest way south before dark (even I did not risk the roads at night except within city limits) was to make our way south in this convoy. Perhaps because we were heading south and away from the fighting up north of Đắk Tô, or perhaps because it was just too large to move too fast, the pace south was more relaxed than a northbound convoy. I relaxed and began to enjoy, even laughed to myself about the craziness of it all.

Suddenly, we stopped. The sounds of war were upon us. Men started jumping out of vehicles, throwing on flak jackets and helmets, clutching furiously at their M-16s. “Get out, get in the ditch” the lieutenant in the vehicle behind me barked in my ear upon seeing me sitting momentarily stunned. I remember jumping and crouching in the shallow ditch filled with other men. As my ear pressed on the ground, I could both feel and hear the sounds of war exploding into my consciousness.

Time was frozen in eternity to hear nothing except the screaming from the hell of war. I was imprisoned in the terror of noise. Yet, I could still see the world around me. Men next to me, trained though they were, seemed just as terrified as me. The smell of fear. The ground shook as heavy ordinance slammed into the earth itself nearby. In that moment, it occurred to me Mother Earth is not just a stage for war but feels the hot blasts of fire on her skin.

As I took the chance to look up, as others were, I could see a small battle going on about 500 meters to my left about 11 o’clock at the base of a large hill—one of many battles in the mountainous regions of the Vietnamese Highlands. I could see and hear American Air Force planes strafing the upper part of the hill as the upper part of the hill rained death down on us. I could see puffs of smoke on the hillside as men of both sides engaged each other.

I had come to appreciate the beauty of this part of Vietnam. Perhaps, my mind remembers falsely, but I do recall many beautiful greens on slopes and the country hillside filled with small rivers and streams. It seemed like there was month after month of beautiful days. In dry season, the days were hot and clear with reasonably cool nights, even 50°F. How cold that felt. Then came the rainy humid season, and while it rained a lot and was humid, it was never as tropical as Saigon. It was a beautiful part of the world.

But not that day. Lying in a ditch, I was initiated into another phase of what turned out to be another on-the-job basic warfare training; I was getting my “war nerves.” Maybe an hour or so, perhaps a break in the fighting…and then all clear. I don’t remember much of the rest of that afternoon. Later, much later, near dusk, crawling into Kon Tum, I remember feeling grateful to be alive. I noticed blood dried on the left side of my face…the world has looked different to me since that long afternoon. Surely, humans can do better than war? Why not justice as the Holy Books command? Seemed worth a shot.