It's been a lifetime

When I was little, I often saw Uncle Chung come to my house. He and my father sat in the corner of the yard, talking about many things, talking enthusiastically. From the childhood of bathing in the rain, learning to swim, building dams to catch fish, to farming, courting girls, getting married and then joining the army. On days when he was in the mood, Uncle Chung would bring his guitar. The man and the woman sang, their voices had withered over time but their emotions were still full, singing very enthusiastically, their taste was red music. The two of them sang loudly, with great enthusiasm, every time my mother would "scolded" them singing and the whole neighborhood would go deaf, then giggle.

Later, when I was a high school girl, that day my father was away from home, Uncle Chung came to visit. I was also a music lover, so when I saw the guitar, I rushed over. My uncle and I played and sang while talking. After talking for a while, I was surprised to learn the details of my uncle's resume.
In his youth, after learning a few basic letters, he struggled in the mud for several years before getting married and having children. He got married at sixteen and joined the army at twenty-two.

Initially stationed in his home province, he was later transferred to the Reconnaissance Company in the Central Highlands in 1960. He participated in many battles and suffered several wounds from stray bullets, the most serious of which was on his left arm. As he spoke, he rolled up his sleeve and I saw a large scar, where the “mouse” was, not bulging but deep, as if the “mouse” there had been gouged out. Seeing me frown, he laughed heartily, saying it was just a minor wound, nothing to be afraid of!

I asked him if he wasn't afraid of dying, and he smiled, pretending to be timid and shy (like the little girl who was asking) but revealing a calm demeanor .

- Everyone is afraid of death. But once in battle, fear is gone. Fear is death, and fearlessness is death!

Then he told me about the year 62, the main company of Dak Lak provincial army brought troops to Dinh Dien to protect the people to celebrate Tet. On the afternoon of the 30th, the enemy sent three battalions, divided into three wings to surround. Although our force was smaller, we fought fiercely. He had never felt as extraordinary as at that moment. He thought of nothing but protecting the village to celebrate Tet. At that moment, he suddenly felt death was as light as a feather.

The most emotional and still moment was when the gunfire on the battlefield stopped. Peaceful for a moment, but at that moment, the pain had lasted forever - Uncle Ho's voice was lost, choked. After a rain of bombs, trees were cut down, sap oozed out, like blood. In the middle of the wild mountains and forests. Sun, thirst, hunger. A soldier in dusty military uniform, calling out the name of a comrade who had shared a thin blanket in the late night forest full of salt fog, his hands were soaked in blood - Uncle Ho spoke with tears slowly welling up, making me feel moved to tears. Then Uncle Ho cried. Tears flowed with difficulty as he told the story after the raid, when four comrades had died. The pain dried up his tears. The pain was even greater than the pain.

“The most difficult and memorable moment?” Uncle Chung suddenly became pensive, his eyes darkened as soon as I finished speaking:

- Don't think that heroic stories in stormy times will be remembered. No, they are often forgotten in times of peace. But I have never forgotten, unfortunately I have not met a young person (except you) who wants to hear/believe "stories of stormy times in times of peace".

He let out a long sigh. Then, as if he had met a kindred spirit, he enthusiastically told:

- It was in 1966, on the way to work in the war zone, I was arrested and imprisoned. Seven years in prison. Seven years - a period of time that may be short in a person's life but too long if we follow the formula "one day in prison is a thousand years on the outside". Initially, I was imprisoned at the Cao Nguyen Interrogation Department, then taken to the 2nd Army Corps, Playcu. During the Mau Than attack, a unit of ours directly attacked Playcu prison. After that battle, I was immediately transferred to Phu Quoc prison.

I have read many stories about wartime prisons, especially Con Dao and Phu Quoc prisons. But this was the first time I met them in person and heard the stories from the people involved. I was speechless with excitement, almost holding my breath to listen.

Uncle Chung said, emphasizing each word: Both Con Dao and Phu Quoc prisons are HORRIFIC HORRIBLE Hauntings. Not only are sticks and sticks used to hit people, but also nails are used to drive ten-point nails through the knees to threaten, intimidate, and interrogate. If you don't confess, you will be tortured even more severely. Looking into the distance, sadness is evident in his sunken eyes, he spoke softly but it sounded deep.

- They beat him, starting from each area. Whoever confessed was released, whoever was “stubborn” was tortured until… death. The broken sixth rib was a stroke of luck - he pointed to his thin rib - it still aches every time the weather changes. But the ultimate tragedy was that in that prison, he had to witness with his own eyes many of his comrades being beaten to death. Along with the overwhelming pain, the fighting spirit also surged to the utmost.

Seeing my worried expression as if I wanted to share, he said that he was lucky to have gone through the days of bombs and bullets but was still somewhat intact to reunite with his wife and children. Pausing for a moment, he said sadly that the most painful thing was that his mother's grave was already covered with grass.

When the Geneva Agreement was signed, Uncle Chung was released from prison, recuperated, and sent to study. He then became a political commissar for Squad 35. He prepared for the General Election and then participated in training new soldiers to send to the Cambodian battlefield. When he reached retirement age, he returned to his hometown.

It was an old chest. Uncle Chung slowly and carefully took out a notebook. The paper was damp, moldy, yellow, many pages were rotten and falling apart. When he opened it, there were only traces of poems and thin essays written in the forest. With sparkling eyes, he said, this is the most precious one and pointed to the guitar hanging on the wall.

His hands playing over the strings, the majestic melody and the sometimes strong, sometimes weak narration, he brought me back to the rare happy moments of the soldiers when they gathered around the guitar. At those times, Death was no longer remembered by anyone.

Uncle Ho laughed as he told the story, wiping his eyes as if he was about to cry. It was so much fun! Everyone sang, good or bad. They all sang and clapped their hands. Uncle Ho spoke with obvious pride, his face glowing with excitement, as if he was singing with his comrades, not me. Then he laughed:

- I don't know much about the flute, I'm a native farmer. This type of instrument is called "jungle music". I learned a little bit, I know how to hook, but when asked about music theory, I'm clueless. Sometimes I can only hook one chord for the whole song. As for the rhythm, I took a risk, just switched to rum ba and slow and hooked, I can sing any song. But I sang it all the time, no one complained.

After saying that, he laughed heartily, his eyes were sunken and wet as he told the story of when he was wounded in the shoulder and arm, and when his friend carried his guitar for him while marching. He climbed mountains and waded through streams, through fire and bullets, but he never forgot his guitar.

- The strings still have the warmth of their comrades! - he said, about to cry.

After telling it over and over again, I only found out at the end that Uncle Chung's wife was also a soldier - a youth volunteer, working as a nurse on the battlefield.

Returning from the war, two steadfast soldiers still live simply in the three-room brick house of their childhood. Old, very old!

My father sadly told me: Uncle Chung's wife is currently in the final stages of liver cancer. He is senile and clumsy, so he has hired someone to take care of her. Where is his daughter? My father was furious, blaming his daughter for being nosy and careless and not knowing anything about the neighborhood. They had one child, but he died in a traffic accident a few years ago, their only child. Now his wife is sick, and he is old, so he has to hire someone to take care of her.
After listening to my father's story, I made a special visit right away. With the hope of sharing something.

In her tired, broken voice, my aunt told me that she was fine now. She had reached a rare age and had accepted the call of death. When she first found out about her illness, she was confused and devastated, but then calmly accepted the ticket to “go on the train forever”. Uncle Chung told his wife that this was enough for one life. No more regrets.

The last time, before leaving my hometown to start a new life, I saw Uncle Chung hugging his guitar on the porch - alone. I went in to say goodbye. He happily supported my youthful ambition to travel far and wide. Then he said, if I were strong enough, I would go too, wanting to hug my guitar and wander back to the places my youth had passed by, just to sing the songs of the past...

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