At this same time while the Southerners are so far away in a place where the land is spread with fire and smoke, where is my young brother… in a flooded foxhole or in the forest? Far from you day by day on another road, I miss you but must control myself.
And at this time there are so many families with no houses… where will their children live?
Oh! The cruel crazy American pirates! Your crimes pile up like mountains. One day if I live I will take revenge until the last drops of my blood.
November 18, 1969. After 3 months of hardships from the enemy, I returned to the forest. When I left, I left with sorrowful heart as I looked back at the Delta. The hamlets and village gave me support through those days. Now attacked by the enemy they are already flattened from Duc Phong to Cua Mountain. Standing at Hoi An* you can look through to My A* sea shore. Oh my God! How sorry it is: all the population has left and now there is only an empty land, the trees fallen under the enemy tanks. Because their hearts are still tied to the Revolution all the wives wearily returned home with all their things scattered around. They try to cook simple meals for their husbands who return to fill up with a bowl of rice. All the old mothers slowly carry rice to their sons all wet who just came from the river side.
November 23, 1969. Today is Phuong’s birthday. My dear young sister! I don’t just miss you and your birthday because the wind and drizzle from the north makes this forest cold. Anytime it is the same: in any situation I always keep in my heart the warmth of our family memories. How much do I miss them, all those birthdays, those Sundays our family home was crowded with people who came to offer congratulations, and all the warm parties that were so happy. Today is also Sunday: What is my young sister doing for our birthday?
For surely you will remember me in all the happiness and will save a thought for a sister far away. My dear young sister, you can never imagine what I am doing today. In the morning I was carrying things to go to work, and at noon took the medicine chest and followed 2 people to visit a comrade cadre.
On the way I met some Army comrades: I hesitated to stop there with friends from home, not knowing what to say. They were breaking off bamboo shoots: skin pale they told me that they were hungry and that they had had malaria for a long time. The Great Resistance is written in blood, bones and the youth of so many people, did you know that?
November 26, 1969. One year older… one more year of hardship fighting in the South. I walk firmly along the honorable way I have chosen. I am not sad when it is my birthday in spite of the leaves in the jungle wet with the heavy rain. Speak softly to me those lovely words: I am not sad when the only music to congratulate me today is the sound of the river water running and that the room in which I am writing in this notebook more than one new page of my life is only a wet and narrow trench. I am not sad because later when I reread the pages of this notebook I will be proud of my young life. Here I don’t have warm friendly moments with friends next to the fragrant roses on the table; here I don’t have the fortune to be with my beloved on an uncrowded road when the violet sun slowly sets in the afternoon. Here I lack a lot but still it is enough.
So smile, Thuy. Please be happy as the book opens to a new page of life filled with honor and beauty.
November 29, 1969. Building the clinic hasn’t been finished yet and we have to move: the enemy knows where we live and follows us there. I must carry my bag and find a new place, so returned to the Southerners.
I said good–bye to the Northerners: leaving them I don’t feel sad, but I am filled with worry. The enemy is concentrating to destroy the Northerners from the first hamlet. I hope that all the comrades are strong in the conflict so we can recover warm and beautiful days in this prosperous and beautiful land.
November 30, 1969. The way to a military operation is always filled with hardships, especially duty in the field where there are American troops. I passed through Pho Nhon* and no-one was there, all the ground floors empty with the beams burning like the shadows of ghosts. I don’t understand why I care for and miss Tan a lot. Is this your homeland Tan? Why is your homeland so desolate? All the empty gardens with the deep violet “daily” flowers giving people a feeling of excitement and regret. I picked some and kept them until I came to the Ben Be River*, and then let them go. Never forget the deep and simple memories of a life-long friend.
