Battlefield

Nguyen Tin and I, two brothers, clung to Uncle Muoi Phuc (Nguyen Van Ba) – the then Chief of Staff of the Ben Tre Provincial Military Command – on our way to Battalion 516. Hiding under machine gun and rocket fire from enemy aircraft, we eventually escaped their firing zone. When crossing the Giong Trom River (near the Cay Me ferry crossing) in a small boat with only one oar, we had to use coconut husks for extra propulsion. We were still camouflaged and swimming under the watchful eyes of the aircraft. By late afternoon, we reached the encampment of Battalion 516 in Luong Phu commune. Uncle Muoi Phuc stopped at the Command Post (due to the urgent need to play a staff role in the Provincial Military Command, closely monitoring the battlefield, as from 1969 onwards Ben Tre was considered the period when American infantry became an additional combat target). Information and press were also handled in a similar manner. Nguyen Tin and I – two eager reporters – stopped at the Battalion headquarters. Here, besides the Reconnaissance Platoon defending the front line, there was also a mixed unit: political , staff, operations, manpower, ordnance… (ordnance was headed by Viet Liem - Tran Quoc Viet). The two of us were in this mixed unit. We had already seen Tan Hung - a member of the Provincial Military Intelligence - who had been sent down to reinforce the unit.

With the 516th Battalion, Nguyen Tin and I had long been like "family," having participated in many campaigns together. When we arrived, we didn't have to show any papers; sometimes, hungry, we'd ask, "Do you guys have any leftover rice?" When we left, we'd smile and promise, "We'll be back in a few days." This afternoon was different; we were hungry but didn't dare ask. Two large aluminum pots, already cleaned, were strapped to the backpack of the man assigned as cook that day. Our rifles were propped up nearby. Instead of, as usual, lying in hammocks and playing cards at this time, the atmosphere was thick with tension. You could see the anticipation. Waiting to receive marching orders. But, we waited until dusk without any orders. Chin Ha, a photojournalist from the Provincial Military Command who had been sent down a few days ago, said:

- I'm starving. Let's grab some bread and eat something to tide us over.

(The cakes were given to me by some close relatives who stopped by at lunchtime on their way to the market along the Ben Tre - Huong Diem ferry route; they were still in their packaging.)

"What will we eat the bread with?" someone asked. Although the shop was nearby, they had run out of canned sardines, so they were short on options and had to settle for ground fish sauce.

Each person gets a small piece of cake sandwiched between thinly sliced ripe bananas, dipped in the sauce. And that's it!

We had to wait again! We waited until well past midnight, many dozing off, before we were allowed to move. From Luong Phu towards Highway 5 (now Provincial Road 887), we reached the Ca Nuoi garden area and then set up a defensive position in Hamlet Hai (Go Gia), Long My commune. A mixed unit of nearly ten men was stationed in a large hut, with a large wooden platform occupying the entire space (later we learned this was the hut of Minh Tri's family – a member of the radio communications unit, part of the Provincial Military Intelligence). The hut was built at the edge of the garden, adjacent to a small rice paddy of about a thousand square meters, which his family used to take shelter from enemy bombing raids. The roof had just been reinforced, and the soil was still damp. Camouflage vines covered the thatched roof.

I was half-asleep. I heard someone mention digging trenches. But here, it was a mix of "spoiled rich kids," so they pretended to forget. I slept soundly after a hurried breakfast early in the morning, unaware that Nguyen Tin had washed his nylon clothes and was drying them. When I heard the distant engine, I woke up with a start, noticing his amusement at the lingering scent of baby soap on his collar.

"Wake up," he said. "There's a fat helicopter (referring to the UH1B helicopter commonly used by enemy commanders for battlefield reconnaissance)."

"Where is the fat?" I asked.

- Probably outside of Luong Hoa.

- Well… never mind.

Half awake, half asleep, I drifted in and out of consciousness, savoring the fleeting moments I could still manage due to the constant lack of sleep on the battlefield. Then, I heard the loud roar of an engine nearby, followed by a hand slapping my leg hard.

"Wake up! Wake up quickly!" Mr. Nguyen Tin called.

I regained my composure and realized the "chubby helicopter" had arrived, circling overhead. A flare was dropped from the aircraft, exploding with a "pop," immediately sending a column of smoke rising vertically into the hollow field next to our hut.

- Get into the bunker. Quickly. Wait for my order! - Brother Ba Thuan (Tuong) shouted.

(Without being appointed, now in the position of Battalion Chief of Staff, on his way from the companies before returning to the Command Headquarters, he automatically became the person authorized to give orders to our combined unit.)

- Viet Liem, you...

His words were cut off by a burst of machine gun fire from the two "fish-shaped" ⁽¹⁾ tanks . The sound of bullets whizzing around the hut, even hitting the still damp roof.

Viet Liem rushed out, a machine gun in his hand, his head turned back.

"Yes, it's fate. Grab it quickly!" urged Uncle Thuan.

From inside the bunker, I noticed both him and Tan Hung running back and forth, glancing through a hole in the wall to observe, then leaning against the outer corner of the bunker to dodge bullets from the two "fishing" grenades. The bullets embedded themselves in the ground and in solid objects inside the hut, creating a flashing light. Sitting inside the bunker, I imagined someone outside was firing a match repeatedly.

Suddenly, Anh Ba Thuan shouted, "Ah... it!" Then, following bursts of bullets, three shots exploded simultaneously. Later, we learned that when he shouted "Ah... it!", Viet Liem saw from the front lines two American soldiers, who had approached the hut wall from an unknown direction. Both were still fumbling in the ditch. One of them lunged forward, reaching out to pull the wall bracing to gain momentum. (If he could climb up, he would certainly throw grenades at our hut's door. And…). The machine gun in Viet Liem's hand was a broken gun transferred from the company that hadn't been sent for repair yet; it could only fire a burst ⁽²⁾ , not a burst ⁽³⁾ . But at this moment, it became a lifesaver. Viet Liem fired. Fortunately, both of them fell.

- Get out. Get out right now!

Leaving the hut at the command of Brother Ba Thuan, having to abandon our temporary safety and run under a hail of bullets from the planes, was truly terrifying. But there was no other choice. The American soldiers had already reached the edge of the garden!

I had only taken about ten strides when I encountered Ba Tich, the battalion's political commissar, with a backpack on one shoulder and a satchel on the other, swaying back and forth with each stride; a pistol gleaming in his hand. Further away, Ba Trung, the battalion commander, and Ba Thuan (Vay), the deputy battalion commander, were in a similar state. In general, they were caught off guard.

Bullets whizzed overhead. I turned around and saw an American soldier, his face as red as a fighting rooster's, aiming his gun at me. "Tin!" I called, grabbing him. We rolled into the ditch. Bullets chased after us, tearing up the ground and embedding themselves in banana and coconut trunks. We ran, sometimes down the ditch, sometimes up the bank, sometimes in a straight line, sometimes in a slanted line, trying to keep the enemy's line of sight from constantly changing. After a while, certain the enemy hadn't caught up yet, Tin and I stopped at an open, I-shaped bunker. We met up with Ba Tich again. Vu Binh, the battalion's typist, was also there, with his heavy typewriter still slung over his shoulder. Ba Tich said:

- Binh, go and cling to your karmic connection.

Vu Binh's voice faltered:

- No, I don't have a gun. And this machine?...

Perhaps only now did he realize that none of us had guns.

- Yeah, fine. Let me...

Then the "fish" swooped down, accompanied by a burst of M79 grenades and sharp bullets, leaving us speechless. After running a little further, we came to an L-shaped bunker with a lid, leaving half of the opening open, and I jumped in. Coincidentally, two other people (also unarmed officers) jumped in with us. Six legs crossed. Everyone said, "Okay, let the two of you go first, let me go up." But how could we get up when the bunker was cramped below, and two "top bunkers" ⁽⁴⁾ were swooping low above, continuously firing sharp bullets and throwing grenades? Each time, the three heads huddled together, turning around as if they could see the bullets and knew how to dodge them. In the end, we escaped. Seeing the dense banana trees on the bank, which were unsafe, I rushed down into the ditch, running and taking refuge under the young coconut leaves for cover. In this shallow ditch, I met Tan Hung again. He was running about ten steps ahead of me. Nguyen Tin was no longer there. One of the M79 grenades fired from the "fisherman" exploded right between us. A sharp pain shot through my groin; the warmth of the blood made me tear off my bandana. After bandaging it, I saw Tan Hung staggering, about to fall like a child learning to stand. Blood was flowing from his back and chest. I rushed over, trying to keep him balanced, making sure he didn't fall face down and risk infection. He was gasping for breath, gritting his teeth. I was carrying a drawstring bag containing a radio, a beard trimmer, and a few other necessities. He was carrying a briefcase, the pistol still in its holster. I quickly hid the drawstring bag and suggested he hide the briefcase as well so I could help support him. He shook his head, "No," implicitly letting me know it contained many confidential documents, the kind military intelligence officers only leave behind after death. He was tall, while I was shorter and lighter. He struggled to walk through the muddy ditch, making it even harder as he had to constantly lean against the bank to dodge bullets from the aircraft. Hearing footsteps on the bank, I looked up and saw Son Hai – a fellow soldier from his unit – carrying a PRC radio. I called out, "Son, Tan Hung…" Son replied, "Yes, wait a moment, I need to hide the radio that was damaged by gunfire." I thought Son would leave immediately, but unexpectedly, he turned back and offered his strong back for me to lean Tan Hung against.

From here, I was alone. Which direction should I rejoin the formation from, and with whom? Hesitation. I hoped to find Nguyen Tin, and so I kept running. Running amidst the deafening roar of low-flying aircraft engines and the whistling of bullets. It wasn't until I reached Ong Moc Hill – a hill located on a branch of the river, branching off from the Giong Trom River towards Huong Diem – that I realized I was out of the battle zone. I heard gunfire echoing from behind me.

Now that crossing the river was impossible because the other side was an open field, I sat down and happened to see a large mangrove stump. The tree had been damaged by bombs, I don't know when, but its branches had grown back sparsely, interspersed with nipa palm leaves. The stump was leaning, creating a shelter. If the enemy expanded their firing zone, I could cling to it to dodge the bullets. Well, I'll just have to accept it and wait for nightfall.

Taking advantage of the brief pauses between flares dropped by enemy aircraft, I crossed the river, heading towards the church, also within Long My commune. Hearing faint voices coming from a house (possibly abandoned), and confirming it wasn't the enemy, I approached. Unexpectedly, I encountered a member of the forward surgical team. I truthfully told a male nurse that I had a wound in my groin. He examined it, said it was a soft tissue wound, removed a thin piece of flesh the size of a jackfruit seed, washed it, and bandaged it. A girl brought me a packet of instant noodles, laughing and saying, "Eat all the burnt rice and you'll be fine." Seeing the pile of bandages and the pungent smell of blood that hadn't been disposed of yet, I knew the team had just treated several wounded soldiers and had moved them away.

I stayed with the team. There were no more wounded. At 4 a.m., the whole team marched. I went along. Along the way, we encountered several groups going in the opposite direction. Suddenly, there were shouts of joy:

- Phuoc, are you still alive?

It turned out to be Nguyen Tin. He said that since losing sight of me, he had been on the move, thinking about going back to Uncle Tam's house in Hoa Loi hamlet, Luong Hoa commune, to look for me. Uncle Tam is the biological father of Ba Nhon, who is currently the Deputy Chief of the Provincial Propaganda Department's Office - a large department of which our agency is a sub-committee. Yesterday afternoon, from there, after hiding the backpack, he and I followed Uncle Muoi Phuc to Battalion 516. Not finding me, not finding the backpack, and suspecting something bad had happened, he went back to Long My Cemetery to ask permission to shine a flashlight to look at the faces of each fallen soldier, to see if I was among them.

My brother and I decided to find the new encampment of the 516th Battalion, reportedly in Tan Hao. There, we met Uncle Muoi Phuc and the battalion's command staff again. We learned that, despite Uncle Muoi's instructions to position anti-aircraft guns even in small rice paddies, the area was too small—just over a thousand square meters—to be taken for granted. Furthermore, the command post was located right at the edge of the garden, next to the rice paddies, so when the command center was hit, they were caught off guard. The reconnaissance team quickly filled the gaps and eliminated the Americans who had entered the garden just as the three commanders reunited, conferred, and issued orders. The situation changed. The skirmishes between American infantry and the 516th Battalion's infantry took place right at the edge of the garden. The enemy retreated after suffering losses of more than a third of their troops. We also suffered losses, learning a valuable lesson about how to engage American infantry in close combat. Two new reconnaissance soldiers, unfamiliar with having to move their firing positions while positioned at the front lines, were killed by grenades thrown by the enemy. Tấn Hưng was seriously wounded, and Hòa – the leader of the youth volunteer team serving on the battlefield – reportedly did not survive on the way to the military hospital.

I returned to Giồng Chủ hamlet – where the Chiến Thắng newspaper's editorial office was located at Aunt Mười's house – to deliver the manuscript. Hearing that I was injured, Năm Thông – the editor-in-chief (who had basic medical knowledge) – asked:

- Is it heavy or light? Where? I can help…

I couldn't show it to him in front of so many people, so I gestured with my hands:

- It's just a minor scratch. Eating all the burnt rice will make it fine.

He laughed:

- Understood! Let me handle it.

He grabbed a stool. I went with him to the backyard. There was no one there!

May 2025

Memoirs of Han Vinh Nguyen

Source: https://baodongkhoi.vn/chien-truong-giap-mat-17062025-a148286.html