The Mountains Sing(50)

“H??ng, watching the blood of those men seep down the stream, I suddenly thought about their mothers and sisters. I thought about tears and sorrow. I thought about you, Grandma, your mother, and H?nh.

“I had hated the Americans and their allies so much before that day. I hated them for dropping bombs on our people, killing innocent civilians. But from that day, I hated the war.”

What my uncle said made me think. I had resented America, too. But by reading their books, I saw the other side of them—their humanity. Somehow I was sure that if people were willing to read each other, and see the light of other cultures, there would be no war on earth.

“Perhaps it was my sympathy for the enemy that later saved me.” Uncle ??t shook his head. “Once, I was journeying alone through a forest to deliver an important message to a close-by camp. Then I heard the sounds of an approaching helicopter.

“I ran, trying to find a hiding place, but there was nowhere to hide, so I lay down and covered my body with rotten leaves.

“The helicopter floated into my view, and in its open door stood a white man, tall and broad-shouldered. He was studying the forest beneath, his hands clutching an M-60 machine gun.”

I gasped.

“The foreigner pointed the gun at me. I was sure he saw me. The helicopter blades had blown the leaves covering me away. I held my breath, waiting for the sounds of gunfire, waiting for terrifying pain to sear through my flesh, waiting for death to take me away. But the man just stared at me—then he shook his head and flicked his hand. The helicopter slowly floated away, and above me was nothing but the brilliant sky.

“I still wonder who that man was and why he didn’t shoot me. Perhaps he didn’t see that I had a weapon, for I had hidden my AK-47 behind my back. Perhaps he was sick of killing or had turned against the war. Or perhaps he simply thought I was dead, but I know that isn’t true. In that instant we looked into each other’s eyes as if into mirrors.

“But war isn’t kindness or sympathy, H??ng. War is death, sorrow, and misery. I know, because I wound up at one of the worst battlefields, near Núi Bà ?en—the Black Virgin Mountain, southwest of Sài Gòn. We thought we were safe in the shelters dug under large bamboo groves, near the mountain’s foot, but the enemy quickly located us. They bombarded us with artillery before sending in their ground troops. The battle only ended when we shot down two of their helicopters. After the enemy had withdrawn, I thought our captain would order us to move away, to find another hiding spot, but for some reason he decided that we’d stay the night. He sent some soldiers out, to form a circle of protection around us, and a team up to the Cambodian border to buy a pig. We had to celebrate our victory, he decided. We’d been hungry for days, so he wanted us to gain strength for another difficult journey.

“When the meal was ready, we squatted on the ground, about to enjoy our feast. As soon as we picked up our chopsticks, noise rumbled from the sky. I thought it was thunder.

“‘B-52 bombers!’ someone shouted. We sprang up, running for our lives. I pulled Thành along, dashing for a nearby bomb shelter. It was a large one, dug for common use.

“I dived down, Thành followed, together with six other men. Explosions lifted us off the ground, flinging us about like pebbles. My ears went deaf, my vision black. Rocks and soil rained down on us. More explosions came. I thought the shelter would give way and collapse on us, but all of a sudden, the bombing stopped.

“Things became quiet. I could hear my frantic heartbeat and the crackle of a fire. I smelled dust and a burning stench.”

My uncle gazed at the oil lamp. His face twitched.

“But I knew it wasn’t over yet. The Americans liked to carpet bomb with their B-52s. The second attack would come soon. I longed for the security of my honeycombed-rock shelter, where I’d been earlier. ‘I’m going back to my place,’ I shouted. ‘Comrade Thành, come with me!’

“‘No, you go ahead.’ Thành’s voice trembled. He didn’t want to risk being hit while running outside.

“Two of my comrades followed, but not Thành. The ground was strewn with rocks, bamboo branches, and pieces of the delicious pork we’d prepared but hadn’t had time to eat. I could hardly see where I was going. Finally, I found my shelter and jumped down. The other two men ran toward their own. Soon, the second round of bombing hit.

“Later, when silence returned to the bamboo forest, my company gathered. The B-52 bombs had killed more than half of us. Thirty-six young men died that night, including four people with whom I’d shared the common shelter. Some were crushed beyond recognition. Some were blown into pieces. I could only recognize Thành by his beaded bracelet.

“I’d already buried many comrades along the way, but that night was the hardest. Disfigured bodies and unrecognizable body parts . . . Thirty-six men in an unmarked mass grave . . . I agonized for the family of my best friend, a man so shy he hadn’t even held a girl’s hand yet. There were no tears of good-bye. It was forbidden for us to show sadness. If we expressed emotion, it could only be hatred toward the enemy.”

My uncle clenched his fists. I held onto the S?n ca.

After a while Uncle ??t spoke again. “As we moved away, thunder exploded above our heads. Lightning ripped open the black sky. The rain punished me with its cold lashes. For the first time in years, I allowed myself to cry, because the rain could hide my sorrow. With the exploding thunder, I was able to beat my fists against my chest and scream. I hated myself for not pulling Thành along as I escaped the common shelter. I could have saved him.”