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www.groovekorea.com / December 2014 28 F a l l e n f r i e n d I made my way north and spent some time lounging on the idyllic yet deserted beaches of Da Nang, then moved on to Hoi An. A major stop on the tourist circuit, it has easy analogies to Disne- yland — both complimentary and derisive. The original medieval structures and thousands of lanterns create an unparalleled warm ambience, but at its core it is a several-mile-long gift shop, and no place is safe from hawkers and their wares. For the history buff, however, it serves as the launching point for a day trip to ruins from the Cham Empire called My Son. Simi- lar in style to the structures found in Angkor, they are nonetheless smaller and bombed all to hell. The heat beat down relentlessly. People tried to hide in the shrinking shad- ows of the midday sun, while I unabashedly used my umbrella as a parasol. Many of these fourth-century Hindu temples stand partially in ruins, and giant craters open up higgledy-piggledy, a tes- timony of the wartime bombing campaign by U.S. forces that targeted suspected Viet Cong hideouts. Our guide described how his father had operated in this area as a Viet Cong soldier. I declined to mention that mine had operated here as well, but on the other side. He was reconnaissance with the 101st Airborne all through central Vietnam, and probably into territories where we weren’t “officially” operating. One of the few stories I know of my father’s combat experiences occurred while his platoon was patrolling a swamp. As he turned a corner around a cluster of trees, a young girl stood up from the water; she had been breathing through a bamboo straw, camouflaged in mud and foliage. On instinct he squeezed his trigger and the gun jammed. Time, for him, felt like it stopped as they stared at each other, motionless. Then, for no apparent reason, she nodded and handed over her AK-47. After taking her back to base camp, she was soon turned over to South Vietnamese forces, as was protocol at the time. He later said he never would have done so if he knew then what he knew now — of the probable rape, torture and violent death that awaited her at the hands of U.S. allies. His main area of operation was centered near Hue, the old Im- perial capital a few hours north of Hoi An, so I booked a ticket there. These days Hue is known mainly as the home of Huda beer, as well as the citadel and tombs of former emperors who had been reduced to mere figureheads under French colonial rule. Its close proximity to the former DMZ and its logistical importance made it the epicenter of the Vietnam War. The Battle of Hue (and its eponymous mas- sacre) was one of the bloodiest periods of combat and the turning point of public opin- ion against the conflict. It was around here that my father’s best friend’s chopper was shot down. By the time his platoon found the wreckage, he had already died from wounds sustained during the crash. The responsibility later fell on my dad to inform his friend’s wife and children, with whom he already had a deep relationship. During the late ’80s, we were living in Fort Bragg, North Carolina, when a traveling edition of the Vietnam War memorial came through town as it made its way around the country. The sky was overcast as we head- ed up the hill dressed in our Sunday best. Pieces of paper and charcoal were made available so visitors could get rubbings of the names of loved ones from the wall. We went to track down my dad’s friend’s name on one of the indistinguishable stretches of ebony. When at last we found it, he got down on one knee for the etching, steady for a few seconds before falling forward and erupting into a heaving wail, his whole body shuddering. He tried desperately to choke back a wave of anguish, which, suppressed for too long, was finally breaking through the surface. With some- one like him, the sobbing sound carries with it a strong element of shame, conveying a sense of personal failure as much as pain. I stared stunned as the man who but a moment before had seemed as indomitable as the wall in front of him lay doubled over on the ground, the paper crumpled as he grasped at clumps of turf be- tween his fingers. Edited by Elaine Ramirez (elaine@groovekorea.com) INSIghT As he turned a corner around a cluster of trees, a young girl stood up from the water; she had been breathing through a bamboo straw, camouflaged in mud and foliage. On instinct he squeezed his trigger and the gun jammed. Time, for him, felt like it stopped as they stared at each other, motionless. Then, for no apparent reason, she nodded and handed over her AK-47. An infantryman is lowered into a tunnel by members of the reconnaissance platoon (1967). Mekong River Delta outside Saigon