May 5, 1970. The War spreads farther across Indochina. The dog Nixon is foolish and crazy as he widens the War. We will have to cope with very difficult circumstances again, but I have already promised my comrades that even if it kills us we will try hard until we break the warlike head of this poisonous snake.
How hateful it is! We are all humans, but some are so cruel as to want the blood of others to water their gold tree. Because of that there is never enough to satisfy the avarice and crazy ambitions of those blood-thirsty demons.
May 7, 1970. Today is the 16th anniversary of the victory at Dien Ben Phu, the historic victory which broke the invading French colonialists. That happened but after 16 years the flow of blood and fall of bones has still not come to an end in the South even with 25 years of war. Dear Country, 25 years in the fire but still strong and patient, still you raise your head to attack. At every step blood from fighting still makes the road red. Is there another country in the entire world which stands so much sorrow as ours? Or are there any peoples as courageous and patient as we are?
This afternoon everyone left for the delta: I don’t know if they can get through or not, and wonder if the enemy fire is still at Xoi Hill on the way. My heart is burning, sad, worried, and so full of hate I cannot breathe.
May 13, 1970. Nghia was wounded in the fighting: he broke his arm. When I was first away from him, I hoped that I could be close even though he was only lightly injured so he could come to the hospital and I could take care of him… now this hope comes true. (My M had dreams of the warm hands of Doctor Thuy taking care of him, but it didn’t happen.) Nghia is thin and older than his 23 years after being away for a long time and the pain in his arm makes him tremble, all of these things stirring me. I wanted to hold him in my hands and touch him, but I could not because everyone would missunderstand our true emotions and our regard for each other. They would think of other reasons.
Very simple the things he brought with him, the underwear that he wears and a pair of undershirts which Thuan handed to me, also a few parachutes and a notebook on duty. I found the souvenir book which I gave him in 1967 when I told him good-by and returned to base. The book is very carefully covered with nylon paper, and my heart is warmed when I realize all of my words still follow him along the road to war. Dear Nghia, please hold our affections forever like they were when we were living together in Pho Hiep. Truthfully, in the time gone by the beautiful picture of our affections has somehow faded because we didn’t take such good care of it: is that because of you, or because of me?
May 19, 1970. I received another letter… dear Mother, your every word and every line is filled with love, so that blood runs back to my thirsty heart. Does anyone understand how much I hope that I can return to live with my family, if even for only a minute? I have understood that since I stepped into the car which took me away to fire and bombs, but I still wanted to go. In these 3 years as I have traveled through the mix of thousands of sounds of war there has always been a nicer sound which was louder than that of the bombs and bullets: that has been the sound of the North, of Mother, of Father, of young sister, of all the people, of the trees on the wide way, of the waves on the Hong Ha River, and all the sounds of the capitol which I never cease hearing.
How many times in dreams have I returned to Ha Noi, to the warm embrace of my parents, the clear laughter of my sister, and to the bright shining light of Ha Noi? Even after 3 years away from home, 5 years away, or however long away, my love would never be different. Someone else may leave for money or for status, but for me only the Party would make me leave home. I am still a soldier in this struggle. The enemy attacks and guns fire, but I still smile calmly and go to my trench. When the enemy attacks I have to hide, sometimes even sleeping in the forest, but I still smile. The smile is still there when helicopters and HU-1As throw grenades near… but when I think of the people I love in both North and South my heart is nervous and sorrowful and sometimes tears flow from my eyes.
Does my heart burn in the fire and bullets yet remain weak? Is it alright to be that kind of revolutionary? I recall the words of Lenin: “The revolutionary is a person with a heart very rich and filled with love.” I am that way already.
