Vietnamese Cevilians

A true war story is never about war. This is my story.

The war has been hard, not just for the soldiers, but for people like us. Today our lives changed. At noon several U.S troops came into our village and we knew their grisly intent. We had heard and anticipated this for a long time, but somehow the event itself seemed distant, impossible, too dreadful to be true. U.S. soldiers were ordered to burn down all that was associated with the enemy—including us. I’v heard the Americans call it “Operation Pershing,” but I just called it mindless demolition. The soldiers carried backpacks full of guns and I observed a few holding lighters. One shouted at us to get out of our huts, and I subconsciously picked up my son, Bao. I assume they were searching for Viet Kong soldiers—I don’t even understand it. My eldest son, Duong, was already outside, glairing at the soldier.

I told him to stay close but the boy is too stubborn, and almost too independent. The soldier grabbed Duong and tossed him aside as if he were a toy. "I'm counting to three, and if you are not out of your little huts, you will burn along with them," yelled the soldier. He walked along to each hut, pointing his gun at the people inside and gesturing for them to leave. I clutched Bao to my chest and rushed to Duong, who was lying on the grass. I looked into his eyes and saw no fear, just anger. We looked around to see the rest of the townspeople walking towards us, confusion and terror in their eyes. The soldier made sure everyone was out, and simply flicked his lighter open and lit the roof of a house. He walked around and did the same for each, without any emotion, as if he didn’t care that he was leaving a defenseless village without shelter.
The soldier walked back past us and all I could think of was the possibility of the soldier lining us up and shooting us one by one. I thought as long as I had my family, there was still hope, still a purpose for living. I clutched Bao tight to my chest and grabbed Duong’s hand as the soldier walked by. Behind him was our village—engulfed in flames.

As the soldiers walked away, I could sense some humanity within them. Their eyes were plagued with sorrow and regret. Though we were the victims, I almost felt sorry for them. After all, they were just doing what they were told, weren’t they?

When the soldiers had left we sprung into action. Much of our village was already destroyed, but we felt we had to do what we could to save the remains of our homes. Duong was braver than anyone in the village. He seemed to have no self-doubt. Without hesitation he grabbed a bucket lying outside a hut and went to get water.

He told us to start throwing sand on the roofs to combat the flames, something that some people were already doing. Everyone was pitching in, the women the children, everybody. Duong soon returned and climbed to our roof with the bucket of water. He crawled along the roof, pouring water wherever he saw smoke beneath the straw.

After what seemed like hours, the last of the flames had died, and we could do nothing but stand back to look at what remained. He had managed to save much of would have been ruined. But then again, many families’ homes were completely destroyed. Because of the bravery and decisive actions by Duong, our hut had been salvaged.

We could hear the savage outcries of people in neighboring villages, but we tried not to imagine the devastations inflicted being inflicted upon them. We thought we had lived through the worst of the hell, but that was before the napalm bombs were dropped. We could hear the awful thunder of the planes overhead and the ominous crashing of the bombs in the distance. We knew the intent of the bombs—to strip the leaves from the trees in the jungle, and luckily we were some distance. We could do nothing but huddle in our hut and imagine the horrors taking place around us.