47 years since the beginning of the Fall of South Vietnam, since at least 155,000 rushed out on a 168 km to the seas from high ground. Herded, frustrated, trampled and shot upon, by friendly or unfriendly fires. well-meaning or not.
Major Hy of the fine Rangers was well-meaning. Last sighted standing tall in his Jeep, to get a commander’s view of the situation. Never been heard since. Not a trace. No remains. Rumors have it that he was shot, left to dead along the way during the ensuing chaos.
Central VN evacuees (60,000 never made it) then poured into and through then-Saigon, whose residents themselves (like our family) acted as new blood stream on steroid – which flowed out to the South China Sea, to be enfolded in our unending refugee’s drama.
Present continuous.
No one should wish that on even his/her own worst enemy.
Least was my cousin D, wife of aforementioned Major.
Up until last weekend, she was sill living in hope: that one day they would be re-united. If not in life, then in death. Death came. The major did not.
On my niece’s home now lay two photos, one presumed dead father, and the other, a freshly framed photo of my 88-year-old cousin D.
No closure, no happy ending to “un film de Coppola”, a line in Vietnam, the song.
I was so young when they met and married, had a bunch of fine children, living out a soldier’s wage life, but always with an army-issued Jeep parked out front, his final ride down from Pleiku.
Today, his wife is joining him. Joint lives, yet buried alone. From funeral Service to final resting place. I imagine her saying: “Do I have to do everything” i.e. find out he was really missing or dead.
I once attended a funeral therein Bien Hoa, an hour and a half drive from city centre. I remember the early service (5:30 AM), the oppressive heat and humidity which rises by the hour, the distracting sight and haunting sound of an all-white burial. Draining all the tears and taxing on all those present.
Today, I got a quick facetime to digitally show up . Cousin D, when a young, semi-orphan twin girl, used to hang out with my Dad, her uncle. (My Dad an army vet was flanked by two deceased brothers). In their outing often concluded with last stop at the street game of chance (tai xiu). One night they were left with just enough for two meatless noodle bowls.
Via cousin’s recount, I get to know my father from another angle.
They, My DNAs, and my memory now buried deep six. I hope she is now folded into the loving arms of the Father (her branch of the family all went Catholics).
To run into my father once again. To re-unite with her Ranger MIA husband. To join her twin sister . To be with our larger clan. A clan who was splintered, separated and scattered since the partition of Vietnam.
I remember seeing postcards or photos from the North. With censored caption: So and so just had a baby. A new bride joining us. The post card that had never arrived for my cousin was: “Honey, I am home”.
Nixon managed to have some prisoners’ exchange, the sticky point of the Paris Accord (hence, we’ve got McCain back). I hope my cousin gets a free reunion, without further delay. He is presume- dead. She on the other hand closed out her 47-year long agony, not a minute longer.
What else there is to talk about. War and peace, both at the same time?
Win or lose – irrelevant for the dead.
She is finally laid to rest. This morning. Memorial Day as it happens. Flag half-staff for major’s wife? Perhaps not. How about for him? Who dares to declare the missing dead! On what documentation and whose authority? Hence, in limbo (among 1600 US service men, and 300,000 Vietnamese per 2019 Wagner’s What Remains).
This time and in this case, only a dead widow can unravel the mystery for herself.
The tragedy of a lingering post-war story, the end of that convoy of tears, 47 years on with long tail and still free flow of tears, fresh ones, from many eyes mine included. Well-meaning or not. From Nixon on down (perhaps 99-year-old Kissinger is next up) to Thieu, who had something to do with that convoy. Who will wipe away the tears!
Certainly a convoy could be as long as the road it travels on. And that road is still traveled today by many, minus one: my cousin D whom I love very much.
Thang Nguyen 555 