Short Story: The Crossover Point
- VietnamWarZero
- Apr 15, 2019
- 8 min read
Updated: Jun 1, 2019
by Elizabeth Wilcox:
History 97M
March 14, 2018
The Cross Over Point
I have trouble remembering my father. I remember snatches of stories and little bits of his face, and I have no photographs of him. I have no physical reminders of my past since It was all burned up. I wish now for those reminders. I wish I could look at them sometimes to remind myself that I had a family once. I wish I could show my children their own past. Then it would not be forgotten. But all I have are my memories. And they aren’t very much. I remember things in bits and snatches. Some things I remember aren’t important.
My father died in 1968 in the big offensive that everyone hoped would mean victory for us. But he had been gone for a long time before that. I was only about twelve when he died. I cried but by that time I had seen a lot of death. It had hurt too much to let myself think about before, when there was no war.
Sometimes he used to sing a song to me before bed. He had a very beautiful voice.
Sleep my baby sleep
Your parents are still working in the fields.
All is tranquil.
In the tree birds are singing.
In the doorway butterflies are flying.
Sleep my baby sleep
I loved to listen to him. Those are my most vivid memories of him. My mother would sometimes join in, but she was ashamed of her voice. My mother would pat my head and tell me to go to sleep before the sun caught me on the other side.
Those were happy days, at least for me. I was an only child which was very rare. But my mother had something happen to her after I was born and she never could have another child. Even at that age I knew that was a terrible tragedy. I blamed myself.
After the war started and they began bombing my mother and I moved in with her parents living in Niam Dinh and she went to work in the hospital in Hoan Kiem. My mother was a skilled nurse. Now I knew I could not be selfish. My country needed my mother. She told me to be good for my grandparents.
My grandmother was very sick with tuberculosis but Grandfather said it was grief because her favorite son had been killed. My grandmother sometimes thought that I was my mother and called me Tran. But I didn’t look much like my mother. She was very beautiful and smart. My grandfather talked about the war and how all the sacrifices were worth it if our beautiful country was once again whole. I listened to him and didn’t let him see how sad I was and how much I missed my parents.
I knew about the bombings because we all had to help dig the shelters but I didn’t really let myself think about it. I didn’t believe it would hit us. And besides, my grandfather would protect me. I loved my grandfather best because he treated me like a grown up and said that someday I would be just like my mother. Sometimes I got a letter from my mother but all she talked about was how she missed us and hoped that she would be able to visit soon. But there were always more patients to see.
One day we got a letter. It was from one of my mother’s friends who was also a nurse. She told us that the Americans had bombed the hospital. My mother had been there. Most of the patients and doctors and nurses had survived the bombing because they had warning and went to the shelters. But my mother was with the sickest ones and refused to leave. It was just like her. My Grandfather said she was the most stubborn person he had ever met.
I felt so angry then. My beautiful mother was dead. I remembered how she used to crawl in beside me in bed after my father left and I would go to sleep pressed up close to her because it was cold. She was gone.
Why had they hit the hospital? My grandfather said they did it deliberately. He said that they just wanted to make us give up so they could win. The hospital was only full of sick people and doctors and nurses. There were no healthy soldiers. My Grandfather said that there were rules against this. Hospitals weren’t supposed to be bombed. My mother was supposed to be safe.
I decided then that I must be very brave. Someday soon I would be old enough to help out. I was only ten but when I was a few years older I could join a work brigade. Until then I must help my family and not complain about the things I had to do. I had to stop crying because crying wouldn’t bring them back and it would make me look weak. I needed to be strong like my grandfather said.
My grandmother didn’t even know what happened to my mother. We were afraid to tell her. She was so sick herself. So we made up stuff about the letters my mother sent. My grandmother just nodded and kept on sewing uniforms. I don’t know if she believed us. She just wanted to.
The day it all happened I was at school. I always tried to do well in school because perhaps I might be a doctor and treat the soldiers. I knew that was a long time away but it kept me in my seat when it was hard to focus in school. Thinking about my mother just made me sad. So I concentrated on my math. Thinking about her wouldn’t bring her back.
We heard the sirens go off. The school had a shelter and Mrs. Ngeyem Thi Thin ordered us to stop crying and get inside. She was a very stern person and nobody liked her much. She never smiled. They said her husband died or something. But she made us get inside.
We were all crowded on top of each other in the shelter that was more like a cellar than anything else. All I could hear was the crying of the younger children. It was so hot in there and smelled bad with so many people. I tried to stop crying because I was too old and I needed to be strong like my mother.
My friend Le held on very tightly to me. She had been my friend ever since I had moved here. We could hear the sounds of the planes and the bombs overhead. Our teacher stood in front of the door keeping it shut. We could hear screams. Some of the students and teachers in the other part of the school must not have been able to get to the shelter. Le had an older brother who was in the other part of the school.
I don’t know how long it all took. I thought about my Grandparents. Would my poor grandmother who was barely able to move be able to get to the shelter in time? I knew my grandfather would never leave her. I could hear Le sobbing about her brother.
Finally it was all over and our teacher opened the door. The school above us was mostly destroyed. I thought about how just a few minutes before we all sat in those seats. If not for the sirens we would all be dead. Le pushed me aside and started calling for her brother. Our teacher refused to let us go very far from the shelter. But Le didn’t listen. She ran towards a pile of rubble and began trying to lift it with her own hands. She kept sobbing and screaming for help. I started to go towards her. But my teacher pulled me back.
“No, you must stay with us until the all clear,” she said as she tightened her grip on my shoulder.
That’s when the sirens went off again. We scuttled back into the shelter. Mrs. Ngeyem Thi Thin slammed the door again. I screamed as I realized Le wasn’t with me. She had stayed behind. How could I have left her? How selfish of me to worry only about myself. But no matter how many times I tried to get the teacher to open the door, she refused.
“There is nothing we can do, Mai.” She said.
How could they do this? Bomb us and just as we got up to try to help the wounded bomb us again. Kill anyone with any human instincts to help. I didn’t understand why. I kept screaming for Le, for my grandparents and for my parents.
Finally the all-clear signal was given. I rushed out hoping that Le had hidden behind something. It probably wouldn’t have helped. Fragmentation bombs were so deadly that even ducking on the ground wouldn’t help. Le hadn’t even had time to take shelter. Then I saw her. By the time she figured out the bombers were coming back she hadn’t had anywhere to go. She looked almost uninjured. But I knew she was dead because her eyes were wide open but she wasn’t moving. It was my fault. If I had warned her she might have survived.
We weren’t allowed to leave the school. I kept crying thinking of Le and my grandparents. I was there when I saw my Grandfather coming towards me. I threw myself at him. He was alive. I still had someone left.
“Grandma?” I asked. He nodded. She was safe.
“Le.” I sobbed. I wouldn’t forget this. Like I hadn’t forgotten my mother’s death.
“They’ll run out of bombs to drop, Mai.” My grandfather said.
“Maybe we’ll run out of people.” I replied.
I looked up at the sky again. Any moment planes could appear and kill more people. But I felt more resolved then ever. If we ran out of people at least they would run out of bombs. But it wouldn’t bring my mother or Le back. It wouldn’t bring the students from the other classes back. Nothing could.
“Come on, Mai. We have work to be done.” It was true. We had to try to see if there were any survivors. And try to rebuild or get sent somewhere else. I glanced back at the school. I would probably never be back. Le would be buried with everyone else.
“Good bye. I promise…” I said. But what could I promise her? “I promise I won’t forget.” That was all I could do.
Reference
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Kuzmarov, Jeremy. "Burns's Vietnam Episode 3 Should Have Addressed Human Costs Of Bombing The North." The Huffington Post. September 20, 2017. Accessed March 10, 2018. https://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/burns-novick-episode-3-should-have-addressed-human_us_59c1ef65e4b0f96732cbca5d.
O'Brien, Tim. ""The Things They Carried," 20 Years Later." YouTube. April 23, 2012. Accessed February 22, 2018. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RBR_PzzzFQ8.
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Photo Source and Description:
A South Vietnamese mother and her three children on the deck of an amphibious command ship being after being airlifted out of Saigon by U.S. Marine helicopters on April 29, 1975.
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