Dang Thuy Tram’s Dairies[1]

Book One

Happiness and sadness fill my heart in these days bright with fire.

Life is a person’s most precious thing. We only live once. How can we live so as not to regret wasting the months and years, so as not to be ashamed that we have wasted the months and years, so that when our eyes close and our hand falls, we can say “All our life, all our strength, we have offered to the highest and most beautiful career in the world, the struggle to liberate our people”.

N.A. Ostrovsky

One must go through big storms in life, but one must never bend his head in the face of the storms.

April 8, 1968. Had to do an appendix operation without enough medicine. Only a few tubes of Novocain, but the wounded young soldier never cried out or yelled. He continued to smile so to encourage me. Looking at the forced smile on his dry lips, knowing his fatigue, I felt so sorry for him. Very bad because his stomach is infected, but not from a burst appendix. I searched for an hour but couldn’t find the cause, so I closed him up and restored circulation, using antiseptic in his abdomen. My concern and the admiration of this wounded soldier make me uneasy. I lightly stroked his hair. I would like to say to him, “Patients like you who I cannot cure cause me the most sorrow, and their memory will not fade from my medical career”.

April 10, 1968. That is finished. This afternoon all the soldiers went on their way and left everyone with an empty feeling in the wild and quiet forest. All of them left but their shadows were still here on all the roads, in all the chairs in the clinic, and in all those beautiful love poems. I heard Tuan order “All Packs go”. Their packs were not well made from the American bags, but sat very neat on their shoulders. Everyone stood in front of me to shake my hand once again and to say good-bye.

Suddenly a strange recollection went through my mind, of those long raining days on the river, and I cried so that I could not even say good-bye to everyone. Well, you go and I hope to see you again in the beloved North.

All day and night I worried about the operation on Sang. This afternoon I felt very happy to see Sang sitting up; his face looked tired and hurt, but a forced smile was still on his lips. His hand softly held my hand with affection and belief. Oh! This wounded young soldier, so very courageous! I care for you with a wild and deep love: the love of a medical doctor for her patient, the love of an elder sister for her young sick brother (though Sang is the same age as I am), and this love is more special than others because it includes my admiration. Can you see that in my worried look? Do you feel my soft touch on your pale, wounded, skinny hand? I hope that you soon get well in order to return to fight… meanwhile your old mother waits for you minute by minute.

April 12, 1968. Afternoon in the forest after the rain. All the trees’ green leaves in the sunlight, shining and pale, look like the hands of a girl who shuts herself in her room.

The air is so sad and quiet. The patients’ area is so quiet. In the officers’ area one can only hear Houng whispering in conversation with someone. I get the feeling that I am missing someone. Who do I miss? My parents, the people who just left, and also a patient who is waiting for me to come to him. Inside the feeling of missing there is something very sad, quiet, and heavy. Anyway whatever the wound in my heart is, it still bleeds: even though I want to work and try to find something else to staunch it, it’s still open and hurts a lot. Forget about it! Please forget about it and find another hope better than that one. Please use pride in order to forget disappointment. That person is not worth my pure and true love. Oh! Of all the people I love in Duc Pho, can anyone here understand all of my heart? A girl’s heart full of hopes and dreams, but unable to find a worthy answer!

April 13, 1968. Lots of letters from everyone: I thank them because they all send their love to me. Reading the letters I feel both happy and sad. Why do all of those people give me their affection, but one person who has my true and pure love… that person is not worthy of my love. How sad it is, M! I want to take all of their love to fill my empty heart, but I cannot. My heart still stubbornly beats with the speed of youth, filled with hope and love. Well, my heart, please be calm, like the rhythm of the ocean on a windless afternoon.

April 14, 1968. I got a poem composed by a wounded soldier staying in the hospital. It was inspired by love and admiration for the physician who closely took care of him and another patient. He tried to understand me completely in order to write this poem to me, a poem full of honest concern and sorrow for my broken heart. He wrote about the sadness of a girl betrayed by her lover. Reading the poem I was very depressed and was unable to hide my feelings. I wrote under the poem a few lines: “Thank you very much for your care, but it seems that you do not understand me. I promise that sometime I will explain to you a girl of Socialism”, and I gave back his poem.

Oh! Here is the saddest part of my relationship with M*. Everyone complains about M, and they all love me, but how hurt I am that they love me and are sorry for me also. Even Thiet, Hao, Nghinh… and everyone else they all agree with me and share my feelings, but I still don’t want them to. I can make up my own mind. I have strength to bury nine years of hope deep in the ground. The land of my spirit still is fertile and still has strength to be sown for a season of beautiful flowers. All of you! Please don’t water this ground with tears of sorrow: fragrant flowers must be watered with clean, fresh water.

Day by day love for M fades away, but blame grows at the same time. I have already, and I will now stay away from him: he is not worthy of me.

April 15, 1968. The quiet air of noon covers the forest. I heard that San is back, so I went to see him. All in the roomful of people were asleep, including San. I didn’t want to wake him, so I softly turned away, but his groans made me turn back. He had a shy smile for me: he is not hurt but perhaps he wants to see me. All day today I was busy. The conversation wasn’t about his condition. He asked me “Today is the day that you arrived in Duc Pho*, right?”

“One year exactly San” I answered, but I was surprised by his question. I wanted to talk with him about this whole past year, a year filled with hardship and struggle, but also pride in San’s homeland… but I found it difficult to speak. How can all the work I have done compare with that of San and all of those in Duc Pho who have been fighting so hard for 20 years already? If I tell him about missing my family during the time I have been away from home, I will feel even more selfish.

San only has his old mother. She agreed to send her son to the Army. San’s Father died when she was only 22 years old. This young woman had to sacrifice all her youth to take care of San until he was 19 years old, and then had to let him go to the Army. Five years passed and many times San almost lost his life… but seized it back again. Nearly a month ago while planning an attack, he barely escaped the teeth of the enemy. Nearly 15 of his comrades were killed in that short time. San also fell there at the foot of the mountains. During that time his Mother cried her eyes dry, but still couldn’t recover her son. Yet today San came here to me. How can I let the God of Death take a son from a worried old mother? He is her only hope. Never! I will try my best to do everything for San, the same as I do for all of the patients. Is this too much pride for a physician?

Received a letter and gift from Van: I feel sorry for Van. Why is life so hard for her? A person like Van should not have to stand all the hardships: she is very altruistic, full of hope and full of sentiment for the Revolution. Van must be compensated for all of those things… why is her life filled with struggle? I understand that as well so I have a responsibility to make her happy, and to give her faith by my determined actions.

April 17, 1968. Said goodbye to Ky and Phoung. I lived with them for a year now and understand the love of these friendly people.

Late at night, after the farewell party, Ky came to my room. We did not know what to say: the notebook in front of our faces, the pen in our hands, but all the words meant nothing. Just a little time left and he needed to write those important things. But why didn’t he do it? Did he want to tell me by his red eyes or by the sad smile on his slender face of the many nights he couldn’t sleep? He held me in his thin arms, an action very normal to him…but today I felt excited. He left at noon. After sending him to the river side I felt out of sorts when I returned to find a paper that he sent to Lien. In a few short lines he said “You and Tram have to care for each other truly. She came here by herself. She is far away from home and has only friends…” My dear brother Ky! Thank you very much. I will never forget your care for me!

This last time lying arm in arm with Phoung, listening quietly to her talk, warm tears ran down my face and dropped to her face. My dear friend! Even today I am still not a member of the Party: how sad that is!

April 22, 1968. Huong! Are you really dead? I heard the news and it seemed like a nightmare. When will all these sorrows end? Today one person falls, tomorrow another falls. The blood and bones pile up like mountains! Hatred and indignation are still in front of our eyes. When! When and when my comrades? When will we chase away all the pirates who drink the peoples’ blood but don’t smell the stench in our country?

All finished, all those long nights we whispered to each other will never happen again. My ears still hear clearly Huong’s low voice filled with sentiment. Huong always encouraged me, praised me, praised my true love. Now everything is finished: all those times we bathed together in the canal, ate sweet pea desert out of one bowl. I suddenly remember the day I met Huong on a military operation beside the river. She held me and kissed my hair and my cheeks, and we almost cried.

Look at Uncle Cong: he still does not know anything about this terrible news which makes me hurt as if someone put salt in my stomach. To lose a daughter like Huong seems harder that to lose part of your intestines. My dear uncle, please bear up: when you and Quang know this bad news… Quang, the boy who has waited for her, so true to her for so many years: his dreams will never come true. Your Huong has laid down in your homeland forever.

April 23, 1968. A very tired day. Three seriously wounded people came in at the same time. All day I stood at the operating table. My head is tense because of the wounded, because of Uncle Cong’s (Huong’s Father) cries, and because of continuing, constant sadness.

Duong was captured by the enemy on his way to serve. I don’t know how this lively, warmhearted boy can stand up to interrogation. I feel so sorry for Duong. The letter I wrote Duong will not come to him. The person carrying the letter has died, and the person who was to receive the letter has been captured. The voice from a sad song comes to my ears: “Mother’s heart is wide, large like the Pacific Ocean. The voice of the song is sweet like water flowing in the canal.” Is this the voice of Duong’s song from before, or his lamentations when he was still in prison thinking about his old mother who all her life worked for him, placing all her hope for happiness in her lovely son?

There are many mothers like Duong’s mother who will know sorrow, and who will cry until their tears are finished. Oh, if I fall dead, my mother will be the same as them, the same as any mother sacrificing her life for her children, who will then grieve always because her child died in the war. Dear Mother! What can I say to you when you have loved me so much but then I had to leave you and go far away? The enemy is still there. Still, how many mothers will lose their sons, how many husbands will lose their wives… how sad it is!

April 25, 1968. More sad news: on the way back from school in the province, the group of cadre from Duc Pho was attached by the enemy. Heard that a number of people were killed. Nghia, my young friend, was in that number. Don’t know what happened to him. He was courageous, with enough ability to become a leader. Dear Nghia, if anything has happened to you, then what can I say to you now? I will cry alone all the calm and quiet nights: my tears will dry and become a revengeful flame burning in my heart! I hope that in a few days you will instead come back and see me.

April 26, 1968. I received a letter from H8, not M’s letter, but from Tam. Read the letter and I felt very sad: all those days are gone and over. Why do you still bring that up Tam? You love me but don’t you know you hurt me? You let me know that M is sick: you said you understand me and love me, but really you don’t understand me. Do you not understand the self respect of a girl like me coming from the Student Class? If you understand me, then better to tell me right now all the important things: “Do a good job, be vigilant”. That’s all I want to hear.

April 30, 1968. Still sad Thuy? Some seriously wounded patients who I thought would die sat up today. Didn’t all the smiles from those pale, smiling faces make you happy? Didn’t all the praise for achieving cures and the organization of the clinic last month make you happy? No, still very sad. Sadness soaks into my heart just like the long days of rain soak into the earth. I want to find some mindless happiness, but I cannot. My mind has wrinkles already because of worry. Is there no way to erase them? The only way I can handle it is with one request: to make the patients get well, and to build the hospital well. Oh! Why was I born a girl so rich with dreams, love, and asking so much from life? My situation is the envy of so many people… very good family, able to improve myself, get a suitable job, loved by all. Is that asking too much? Answer the question stubborn Miss Thuy!

May 1, 1968. One more time to welcome International Labor Day in the jungle. This is a long and quiet day, filled with recollections. I miss Hanoi; miss my parents, and my brothers and sisters very much. I just closed my eyes at noon and I saw my parents and brothers and sisters in the house at the Party Chapter Public Health School*. There is still that narrow road; I crept through the broken door in order to get out to the street again like when I was small. Away from home more than a year already: will this be the last year away from home? Suddenly I think of those happy days before KN, filled with happiness and hope. Now! Just like before, happy like the victor who has already grasped victory in hand. The Revolutionary song is in my ears “Go down; go down the road to break all the chains, even if we have to sacrifice ourselves, keeping authority in the hands of the trade unions”.*

May 4, 1968. I cut conversation off by keeping quiet. In the dark I still see the two patients talking to me. It seems they understand the heavy calm about me is filled with tears. They care for me truly, the more they talk, the more they make me hurt. They ask why I did not struggle for political rights.

Why am I worthy to be a member of the Party, but am not acceptable to the Party Branch? Why and Why? Who can answer this my two lovely friends? Really, I cannot answer, so I remain quiet and calm. I think I can say something about the obstruction. It seems that almost everyone says “Tram is worthy to be a Communist”, but still I am not in the ranks of the Communists. It is not because I don’t want to be, but the more I want to be, the more I am hurt.

These few days are very sad. Every day all the letters arrive, all the words, all the actions showing that they love me and like me. But that kind of life is like a flame lighting dry wood. Why does everyone love me, like me, and admire me, but the Party remains so hard and ungenerous to me!!

May 5, 1968. My dear M! What can I say to you now? I still love you very much but the love is mixed with hate and blame. M, you said that I don’t understand you. No, I do understand you, but not completely. Therefore because of that I am sad when all around me everyone looks at me with pity. So M, you give me self respect. My wound never heals. What can I do? I will carry this broken heart with me all of my life.

Heard that M is sick…miss him and love him. If I was near him I would take care of him the way people had planned for me to do (even though the truth is not like that). My dear M, you are not mine but I would like to bring my love to rub your wounds. How can I do that now? Something tells me that I will not meet M again, and that the day we said good-bye is the last time I will see him. On the day that M stood there and looked at me leave I did not turn back even though I knew his eyes were following me. All the days of lying in the arms of the comrade I love are now like a long, long ago image.

May 6, 1968. Many headaches every day. I already said that you cannot ask for good people to be everywhere. I decided already that life must go through storms, but that one must not bow in the face of the storms. But really the storm that comes to me is the one that comes at summer’s end, very light and slow. Be happy; be happy with the loving smiles that the patients give me. Be happy that many people in the village and province give me their love. That is enough, my dear Thuy: don’t ask for more. The Party? The Party will understand me. Around me are more people who love me than people who hate me. The hate? That is just jealousy, that’s all.

May 9, 1968. When we live in the world we must know how to be modest, but there must be confidence in ourselves, and independence. If you are right, then you can be proud. If your mind is clear, that is the most precious of medicines. You must understand that and take that as the basis for self confidence. Why do I still think about it over and over when I know that what I do is right? Life is not only feeling, but life needs reason. Do you understand this Miss Stubborn Girl?

May 13, 1968. The Conference* in Paris is just opening. Here are the days of May, 1954* again. I am very anxious to follow the news. I know for sure that victory at the meeting must come from victory on the battlefield. Therefore prepare the spirit to increase the pace of fighting, to at last see who will live and who will die. Whether you live or die, it will still be happy when peace returns to our country again. Over 20 years already, the sorrow, smoke and fire still cover our gentle land. The tears, blood and bones given already have never mattered next to gaining independence and freedom.

May 14, 1968. A line of words noted on the table: “My dear Tram that I love” in Sang’s handwriting. A very simple sentence but it makes me sad. Day by day my regard for Sang is deeper. Once I had a conversation with Sang, like siblings fighting (I am like his elder sister, but younger than him), because we talked about who would die first if we must die. I said let him live because he had never had a good life and because he is the only son of his widowed mother. She has been a widow since she was 21, but Sang wants me to live because he said that I must return to my mother, brother, and sister in the North… because they wait for me. That’s nonsense, only conversation, but we feel that we really care for each other. I want to treat Sang like a really good friend but I worry people will misunderstand. Sang is 13 years older than me, married, and has a 5 year old child.

May 17, 1968. The war continues and death still happens everyday, every minute, every second as easily as turning over your hand. Just last night Thin and Son were still with us. Thin told Le to buy material to make clothing, but today both of them are corpses lying in Duc Pho, the first place they stopped here. Dying is too easy; there is no way to prevent the losses. Very sad.

Lien said something that is right. “Be true to each other when alive: if not then you will regret it when your friends die. When your friends die you will think that you didn’t take care of each other”. For myself, I will do it, but really I always treat people very nice. I care for them with an all-encompassing true love. I always approach all the patients in the clinic with responsibility and with deep affection, so even though we are strangers they feel very close to the doctor who cares for them. They call me “second sister” and they call themselves “younger brother” in spite of being older than I am, but are still happy to tease me. During these days of hardship, I still find happiness and consolation from them. As for my personal life: please don’t think about that any more; I push away the clouds on the horizon, and don’t let them become a storm in my mind.

May 20, 1968. Said good-bye to all the wounded soldiers returning to combat. We all should be very happy, but both the people going and the people remaining are all very sad.

More than a month these soldiers stayed in the hospital. Their feelings for me are not only the feelings of affection between a physician and a patient, but we are like good friends. Today they all left. Do all of you remember those long nights we had conversations with each other when I had night duty? Do you remember all the days organizing to carry rice, joining me to make decisions about the treatment of wounds? It seems you are specialists at these jobs. At night you cleaned the equipment under the weak light of an oil lamp. How happy all those days were! When will we meet each other again, and when will we be able to meet again?

May 25, 1968. These are very sad days for my spirit. What is it pressing so very heavy on my heart? Is it only the sadness of a bleeding, wounded heart, or is it something else? All the unfairness of society shows everyday. There are still worms and insects eating at the honor of the Party: if I don’t annihilate all those worms and insects they will destroy our love and belief in the Party. I am very sorry because I am still not in the ranks of Party members struggling to the end. Maybe because of that they hesitate to give me admission, even though all members of the Branch, and many people in authority in the village and province are urging that action be taken in my favor. The more I think about it the sadder it seems. I want to tell the people close to me about this but I don’t, so just seem calm. If I talk to them will they understand? Everyone has to survive these indignities and these heavy days. I am living in the midst of love, but am never happy with that, for there are always those jealous of the affection which the people give me. Of course life has two sides, good and bad. Everything is not always good, but why am I still so sad and full of sorrow?

May 29, 1968. Day by day stretch the long days. All day I am busy, making me forget those things which anger me, but they still stick in my mind like thorns, hurting me. Tell me why all you people! Why do we have weapons in hand but still we don’t use them, allowing the abscesses to grow in so many minds? Why when we are right, when we are in the majority, can’t we struggle with the minority and stop those few from making trouble and obstacles for all the people? Of course there are good people and bad people everywhere, of course opposition is the natural rule of society, but natural rules cannot satisfy us. Our mission is to struggle for Right, and if you struggle then you have to use strength. You have to think, and sometimes you have to give up personal interests; sometimes all of your life must be sacrificed for victory. That is it Thuy! When I recognize the right of the ranks of the Party, then all of my life will be bound by that goal. Thuy, you will be sorry when your career is hurt, but will be happy when that career is vigorous and strong. What else?

31 May, 1968. A coordinated movement of the base camp, all of the dispensary must move, with much hardship. My heart aches when I see wounded soldiers with the sheen of sweat on their pale faces, trying so hard to walk from one hill to another. Later if you live in the beautiful sunshine with the flowers of Socialism always remember these scenes. All my comrades please remember the sacrifices of these people who gave their blood for the common goal of all: because of them we have to work so hard today because devils rob our country and are still in our homeland… but dear wounded soldiers that I love like brothers and sisters please smile despite the hardships! Please stay happy like your comrades through this long period, no matter how difficult the situation is.

June 1, 1968. An early morning like today’s, all the trees are green and fresh after a shower of rain. The sky is clear, but why is my heart full of memories? I miss the North very much; miss all the trees with shining, green leaves after the rain, and the clean asphalt roads in the early morning; miss the simple but warm room, the sounds of laughter and the voice of the announcer from the radio in the middle of the house; miss my parents, Phuong* and all the people there in the North. When will the guns of war stop so I can return to the North that I love? I don’t know if we will have any days together again. Everyone loses in war: in the land of the South, hot with fire and smoke, it seems that almost 100% of the families have reason to mourn. Death and sorrow press heavily on the Southerners’ heads, but the more sorrow they feel, the more they hate, and the more strength they have to fight. The life and situation of the people here is a precious lesson to me. Is that not an honor for me Thuy?

Such is the letter that Uncle Thao* wrote to me: “Please don’t be sad Thuy. Here everyone looks towards the lovely South; there everyone has at least one of their relatives fighting”.

I left everyone in the North following my footsteps, waiting and believing that I will be victorious. I was victorious this past dry season, but still I need to try harder to obtain victory for all of the country, so Thuy, my dear, please control yourself and forget the sadness which presses on your heart. Please be as happy as the smiles which daily camouflage your face. Don’t let anyone quietly ask you about your sadness, why you try to but are unable to hide the sadness behind your constant smile.

June 2, 1968. Rain this afternoon, all the rain on the roof thatch and on the tree leaves make a monotonous sound which saddens me. For a long time I forgot the feelings of a schoolgirl from Chu Van An* sitting there with the tip of her pen in her mouth listening to the teacher but not paying attention, just looking at West Lake obscured by the drizzle….thinking of something else. Today those feelings of long ago, of a bourgeoise and a child just coming into adulthood came to me again. A cadre working hard in the life and death resistance of this year in the war made me understand the word “practical”. Yes! Practical life has two sides. Life is still filled with emotion. I still easily find love in life but only on condition that I have to live very honestly, to live with altruism. But no matter how honest you are, at times you still are hurt because there are still those who skillfully cheat you in order to gain a little prestige, a little interest, or even sometimes so small a thing as food. You want to live perfectly without thinking, only knowing rightness and the spirit of love? No, you cannot do that: someone will think that you are stupid and that you will allow anyone to press your hand and easily load you with burdens. So you have to struggle, but when you struggle you must have reason and experience with life. This struggle is not only between two persons, or between two groups of persons, but it is the struggle between two ideas… to improve or to hold back. The conservative idea is that of people who still hold on to the remains of bourgeois thought, and the idea to improve is that of the people who are fighting for the common good. That is the natural order.

June 4, 1968. The more one tries to be practical, the more complications occur. Why do people ask so much from each other when they are together? Never satisfied. Day by day, the more one asks for, the more need for completion, and against this need are so many obstacles. If you are not strong enough then failure is very easy.

Oh my dear! You live with so much thinking! Why do you have so many thoughts which make you sad? Please be happy, with a forgiving heart, with your sacrifices. Please don’t ask too much of life.

It is still raining. The rain makes me feel sadder, and cold rain makes a person want to reunite with his family. I wish I had wings to fly to the small, beautiful house on Lo Duc Street* with my parents, brother, and sister, to eat a meal of spinach, and to lie on the warm cotton blanket and have a good sleep. Last night I dreamed that peace returned. I went back and met everybody. Oh! The dream of independence and peace has burned in the hearts of 30 million people for a long time. They have volunteered to give all of their lives for the words of independence and freedom. And me, I also have sacrificed all my personal life to this great goal.

June 15, 1968. Diary please don’t blame me if I continue to note in you all the sad and heavy things, okay? The sounds of victory guns explode on all the battlefields North and South. Victory comes close already, but all of Duc Pho remains heavy with sorrow; day by day blood still runs and bones still fall. The saddest part of the hardship is that I still have not found fairness or rightness. I still have not won the struggle with the bad traits which dishonor the members of the Party and break the spirit of the people who work at the clinic. Thuy! Are you a loser? While the Party members and the youth all support me, I still cannot win over some of the evil persons in the clinic. All during the terrible dry season, I never felt sad, but always smiled in the face of hardship; yet now I am so hurt. The real enemy I do not fear, but I am afraid of how the enemy has poisoned my comrades’ minds.

Please keep a strong, fighting spirit: try to find a winner’s happiness. Try to believe in yourself and hope to keep strong and maintain the fight to the end for the good of the Revolution.

June 20, 1968. The letter Duong sent through legal channels is a letter filled with tears from prison. Duong writes “This letter is very simple, but Sister please keep it as a souvenir as it contains all my truth”.

I met Duong one hot afternoon as I carried a bag from the province to Duc Pho, this very strange place which welcomed me with all its love. Duong is typical of this place. I only stayed at Duong’s house one day, but still he already liked me very much. He is a very courageous and intelligent student. In the socialist system he is a young pen filled with hope. But under the roof of the enemy’s school are all the terrible controls against a spirit rich with understanding, a spirit filled with dreams and hopes, a spirit like Duong’s.

I understand this young student. Only together for a short while, we could not leave each other. The next afternoon I returned to the clinic. Duong stayed for awhile but was captured when returning from work. They beat him terribly but still he didn’t even say half a word. They prepared a document to send Duong to Con Dao*, but fortunately an old teacher of his asked them to let Duong stay, so now Duong has been sent to the Army and is in training. Don’t know when he will go into combat or if he will be able to return to our forces or not, or if a bullet will stop his hope filled life.

June 28, 1968. My dear M! Are you back? Is it the same M of all those Wednesday nights on the old road? If you said that in our relationship you did nothing wrong to me, and if that is so then what will life be like? I am not a girl with a narrow heart, am not superficial, and the result is that I think about all the time which has passed. I don’t know what to tell you. No! My dear M, please go away. Don’t sow sorrow in my heart if between us there cannot be love forever, even if we both live through this war.

June 30, 1968. Fall hasn’t arrived but yellow leaves cover the sky. I have never felt as sorrowful and lonely as I do this minute. “Life has to go through storms but never bend in the face of the storm”. Please stand up Thuy, even if the winds and the storms blow hard, even if tears fall and fill up the sad river of sorrow, still keep your spirit strong. Thuy, by strength, by belief in justice, by your personal idea of life you can continue in this hard life. No victory can come to us without change through sweat and tears, without sorrow, and sometimes without the loss of blood and fall of bones.

When my heart was broken, tears never fell, but why am I so weak now?

July 3, 1968. July returned with the south wind blowing noisily through the trees, with cool air every morning, and the sweet moonlit nights in the jungle. The sun of July is still burning with a belief in victory, burning with a dream of peace. July this year is still heavy with sorrow and hate while the country is sunk in the smoke and fire of war. For a long time I understood the 20th of July, a day of negotiations, but to finally reach that day took the fighting and loss of blood and bones, and the revolution and strength of 30 million Vietnamese people, thousands and thousands of times all heroes in only 6 years. That was a summer in Ha Noi, when the July night had a gentle air and on the uncrowded way I said good-bye to the Liberation soldiers off to the sacred resistance. From then until now I have grown up more whenever July arrives.

Now it is July again, in the middle of mountains and forest. I ran with the wounded soldier, ran from the victory. Only Vietnamese like us see victory even though the enemy is chasing close behind us, even as our soldiers carry such heavy bags, even as we kick our way through river and forest to hide from the enemy.

Suddenly I think of To Huu’s poem…*

Everywhere in this land

Like the South sorrowful and True

Like the South courageous and bold

Our poet is completely right, because there is no place like this land.

Civilian soldiers can annihilate the Americans anywhere. Every piece of land is soaked with the enemy’s blood. Every family wears the heavy mourning hat, but still continues to fight with strength and a strange happiness.

My dear Thuy, how honored you are to be in the ranks of this fighting group.

July 5, 1968. A friend of M’s came back to the clinic. The story that he told was intended to heal the break between M and me, but on the contrary it allowed me to keep my self respect and still made me sad. M is not really worth my love. Why does everyone advise me to forgive him and to return to him? No, I will never accept incomplete love, and M is not a person to accept my forgiveness to regain only my partial love. M told me that he never was mistaken about me, even the smallest bit, but that is not true: 8 years ago when we said good-bye M had already mistakenly fallen in love with a girl that he knew he could not love or marry. That is when the mistakes began, and he has continued to make mistakes. My dear M! If you could read all of these words what would you say? How many nights of discussion would it take before you understood?

July 6, 1968. All those simple and true letters still cannot console my lonely heart. All my friends everywhere miss me and love me, but I still feel lonely. I still cannot stand with the group in the front lines. My heart lacks the Party’s flame and love to make it warm. I come to the Party bringing a completely true heart, but the answer seems to be the same, and M is still not worth my love. Life has three important things: ideas, careers, and love. Not one of them do I have. Why shouldn’t I be sad?

These days I am homesick, terribly so. The wind in the forest seems like the wind moving the sugar cane leaves from side to side behind my home. The summer sun makes me feel like I am still studying and playing in the hall with my friend at Bach Mai Hospital on a sunny day. Any image, any sound reminds me of the life I lived in the Socialist North. What goes on there? Are my parents satisfied with their work? Do they have any trouble with those jobs? My dear Parents, the daughter that you have loved since she was small has not stopped living, but has a very practical life with many aspects: love, hatred, faith, and sadness. It’s a life filled with blood, tears, sweat, and also victory despite the thousands and thousands of hardships. Do you believe that I can get through this? Filled with sadness and love, but also happiness and strength, your daughter will win. That is my precious promise dear Parents.

July 8. 1968. A few pictures and some simple words which Mui* sent have made me feel gloomy. “During the time when I haven’t written you, it was not because I don’t love you.” Then what (was it) Mui? The heart of this little bourgeois character is always very complicated. A strange thing is that I prefer having it this way to having the simple mind of a farmer.

My own petty bourgeois character is still there, but not in the way it is said that my behavior is slightly bourgeois. What is bourgeois in behavior when I can mix with every class of people?

July 11, 1968. Long night, had a conversation with Luan, a student studying supplementary Public Health. These conversations increase my spirit a lot, and build an understanding of the Revolution and the life of a Communist.

More worthwhile than theory, Luan’s life is a lesson in these problems. From age 10 Luan knew how to do a revolutionary’s work. He knew the hate of a family isolated under American control. He knew how to love his grandmother, his young mother, and his young brothers and sisters who are still suffering thousands and thousands of sorrows under their system. So he left. Every night he passed out through the hamlet fence to contact the cadre for news. Then, when only 15, he joined the guerillas and started to carry a gun. From that time the hands of this 21 year old boy killed many Americans, and many times carried fallen cadre in his arms. Luan followed the Pho Minh* guerilla group all through the dry season. During the day he hid in a foxhole, and by night he did public affairs work. Wind and rain are in his 20 year old face. Luan looks older than his age, and seems even older when you compare his years to the age of the Revolution. I love Luan, and admire him even with his weak points, but that is the nature of the heroic Vietnamese and a thousand heroic times. Late at night the radio went off the air for a long while, but still no one slept. Everyone had their own thoughts. I thought about Peace. I hope Luan, like thousands and thousands of other Southern boys after 20 years of hardship, is still alive to enjoy those happy days. And Luan, what are you thinking about? Keep your beliefs, the hope of youth: I don’t want to see sorrow in your young eyes.

July 14, 1968. After getting the news that his father had died, Thuan fell on the bed and wept. He tried to control himself but continued to cry: the crying of a vigorous man like Thuan makes me hurt like someone put salt in my intestines. I feel sorry for him but don’t know what to say.

Thuan hasn’t had a mother since he was very young: his father worked hard to take care of three children. Then his older sister was killed in a fire about two weeks ago, leaving four young children. That causes the sadness which sometimes appears in this young man’s beautiful eyes. Thuan has a young sister who left home and followed her brother, joining the guerillas to be a revolutionary while she was still a teenager.

The first day that I saw Thuan, I felt that I liked him, not because when a student he had the good looks of an actor but because he studies hard, works hard, and knows how to act with and be reasonable with the people all around him.

Now what can I say to console him? With his father dead, who will take care of the three brothers who left to go to the army? Who will take care of the house and the fields? Even me, I still don’t know how to make that sort of decision. Thuan sits in front of me, his long eyebrows moving to hide his crying, hardly able to continue talking. “Will you let me go take care of everything at home for a few days and then return? At home the cow, the buffalo, and the rice fields all wait for my care, so please, sister, understand.” I don’t know what more he wanted to say, but he stopped at that point.

I lightly stroked his malaria diseased hand and said “Young brother, go home and make your decisions. About your studies the class and I will take care of those for you (for now). I hope that you will continue your studies and your work”.

Go please. Then study and continue on the very honorable way through fire and blood, the way you have already chosen to go.

July 18, 1968. Received 10 letters from the North at the same time. Everyone has their different thoughts but all of them love me, and all of them draw their own lovely pictures of the heroic North. The lovely North is still very strong and tightly united despite the bombing and the bullets firing. The war cannot slow the country on its way to victory. Of course there are still wounds in the body of the country, but like a man filled with energy, even painful wounds will not stop his progress, a smile on his lips and belief in his eyes. I have met so many young men like that here in the South, and yesterday with news from the North, the image of those young men returned with great clarity.

July 20, 1968. All the days are busy and work continuously arrives. With many seriously wounded and very little help in the clinic everyone is working very hard. For me the responsibility is much heavier than before, working every day from early morning until late at night. The amount of work is too much, but there are not enough personnel for the job. I alone have the responsibility for the clinic, to cure disease and to continue teaching. We labor always under great difficulties, but more than ever I feel that I have brought all my talents and all of my strength to offer up to the Revolution. The eyes of wounded soldiers showed pain and I felt that I couldn’t do anything (for them), but today those eyes seem brighter. The swollen arm of a soldier was bleeding, but today is healed already. The broken arms now have gotten well. That is all due to the nurses’ and my strength, day and night working at the patients’ bedsides.

And to the students I continue bringing the precious knowledge of medicine. I come to the classes not only with a spirit of responsibility, but with also the love of a big sister for those young brothers and sisters who have to bear all of the suffering and losses caused by the betrayal of the people who sold our country making it so hard to learn and study science. How sorry I am for all the people like Thuan, Lien, Luan, Xuan, and Nghia …everyone different, but all the same in liking to study, in trying very hard to understand to the highest degree. Thuan just was crying because of his father’s death. Two hats of mourning pressed on his heart, but a smile has returned to his pale lips. He’s already singing and laughing again, eager to join discussions. Looking at Thuan I feel that I like and admire him a great deal.

Lien is studying and working in the clinic, busy from morning until night just like a bird, very fast and happy to advance to the first rank despite all the hardships. That is an image from which I need to learn.

How can you count all of the nameless heroes made in this sorrowful southern land? If I can be included in this Revolution in the South, I will be greatly honored.

July 25, 1968. I sat by Lam’s sickbed. He was pierced by a piece of shrapnel through his spine. That cruel piece of shrapnel killed half of his body. From the chest down, Lam is completely paralyzed, and the other half is in pain.

Lam is 24 years old. He is a special public health officer from Pho Van*, a replacement in the village public health section not even a month yet. While on duty he was pursued by the enemy, escaping down a foxhole, but followed closely by the Americans. A small piece of shrapnel almost killed him, but he didn’t die: he just lay there waiting to die with a broken back which even the Northern hospitals cannot cure. So of course there was no help for him here.

Lam understands that, so he is very sad. This afternoon while I was sitting beside him, he gave me a letter from Hanh, his young wife, to read. With a slow voice he said to me “My sister, all of you and my family try so hard, for what purpose? I will die anyway. Even alive I cause trouble for you and my family”. A tear drop ran down his thin chest. I was so sorry for Lam, but didn’t know what to say to him. If I were in his situation, I would say the same things that he said. But I cannot give him any encouragement. Oh my God! How hateful the war is; and the more hate, the more the devils are eager to fight. Why do they enjoy shooting and killing a good people like us? How can they have the heart to kill all those youngsters who love life, who are struggling and living for so many hopes… youngsters like Lam, Ly, Huong, and a thousand other people?

July 28, 1968. Kha was captured! How sad I am remembering how long ago he held my hand, his hand the warm, sincere hand of a brother, compatriot, and colleague. Not too long ago we were working in the operating room: his handwriting is still on the patients’ documents, but today… where is he now? In heavy chains or in a prison room being interrogated?

That morning, July 20th, he left, never thinking that he would fall into the pirates’ hands, so he said good-bye to everybody with a funny and happy smile. He held my hand and with a low voice said: “I go, okay Thuy?” He went a short ways and then said: “In about ten or fifteen days at the most I will be back”. My dear Kha, now I like you and care for you more than ever. That simple but true affection I have had since the days I wore the red collar, since I called you “Uncle Kha”. I miss you, miss all those warm days at the small house which had the dark, round eyes of little Kim. Do you think we will see each other again? Your bag is still here: it hurts me very much every time I see it.

August 4, 1968. Every hour of every busy day is still difficult, but I don’t know why I am happy still. Is it because of the smiling but still sad lips of the young student which make me forget my personal thoughts? Is it the song of his heart still beating in spite of the mourning heavy in his thoughts? Is it the voice which reminds me to learn the miracle of a happy spirit? Yes, I will learn and never stop keeping the happy spirit of revolution that all you have taught me with the example of your comrades’ solid struggle.

And I am happy: songs come again after tired, laborious work. I am so happy when I see so many eyes looking at me and understanding me, loving and admiring me: the eyes of the students waiting for me to bring them to a higher understanding, the eyes of patients waiting for me to come to them… that is enough, Thuy. You cannot ask for more that this. Duc Pho gives me all of its devotion, and that is the highest priority.

Hai returned with sad news: Dung died after being captured alive. How sorrowful this is!

The pages of this small notebook continue to fill with blood. But my dear Thuy, continue to note that not enough blood and bones, sweat and tears of our people has flowed for 20 years. In these last days of the life-or-death fighting, every sacrifice is noteworthy. Why? Because during all these years we have fought and struggled, our hope has been like a bright light before us at the end of the road. Today we are almost there, but are still just short of our goal.

August 8, 1968. Not autumn yet, but every morning feels cold. Is it the coolness of the mountains and forests which makes me feel lonely? No Thuy! Don’t lie to yourself. Now you are very sad, a sadness in spite of the affections of so many people. You still cannot hide it. My dear Thuy, what can you say when life has so many sorrows and wicked people? How can you stop that? As there is pure and clean rain water flowing in the river, so there are also at times still waters which stay in close to the rocks. Although the river is beautiful so that we see it and love its beauty, the small still waters hate the river and stay away from it.

My dear M, are you just like the river? You are like the clear, flowing, and beautiful water of the river, yet still there is some water which lies quiet along the riverside. I am a person walking in the forest close by: what do you think about that?

Hopeful promises made public before magicians in ancient legends should not come to my pure and clean mind. M told me to forget those things which affect our trust in each other. No, my dear M, a belief in love after ten years of waiting is not easily broken, but when it is then it will not be easily mended.

So, I don’t know what to say. If you don’t return from this trip what will happen? God! Why do we only bring sadness to each other? Or what I should really say is:” Why does M bring only sadness to the heart of a girl who is burning with love and filled with hope for life?”

August 14, 1968. All the afternoons have been like this one, sunshine very weak coming through the door with the forest trees still and quiet. Will the burning of the fighting not get here? I am quietly listening to a group of students preparing for a test. The students! Why am I filled with affection for these lovely young men? Especially Thuan, one of the class leaders. Thuan is very studious, works hard, and is naturally polite. The main thing that makes me like him is his special strength in the face of sorrow. He has two persons to mourn: I sometimes feel this mourning as he sits there quietly, thinking and sighing, but he faces people and his job with such enthusiasm that few people can understand what has happened to him. I compare Nghia and Thuan. Nghia is (like) my adopted younger brother and I find that he and Thuan have many wonderful things in common. I would like to treat Thuan like a younger brother to warm his lonely and sorry heart… but should I do that, or not? Think carefully first.

August 16, 1968. Say good-by to Khiem, a friend of mine who has perished in this heroic land. My dear Khiem, I swear that I will seek revenge for you until my last breath.

On the afternoon of October 26, 1967, I left Pho Hiep*. The yard at Thuong’s house was crowded with people who came to say good-by. I was excited, which made me embarrassed, and didn’t know what to do. I sat down next to Thuong’s mother and picked up a potato to pack in the basket. When I looked up suddenly I was surprised to see big, black and very nice eyes returning my look with a gaze of affection… those eyes were Khiem’s.

I knew Khiem during those terrible days of the 1967 dry season when I went back to work in Pho Khanh. This young teacher had come to me with all of his true care and admiration. With the spirit of the people evidenced in the students’ lives it was easy to understand each other. During the days in the trenches I told him about Pavel, about the gadfly and about the poems that I like.

I know your name because it is a heroine’s

Beside the white tombstone in the rice field

When we miss each other I call you, comrade

A heart in a thousand hearts.

Then Khiem told me about his student days, in and out of prison. Khiem had been in prison for 3 years. He was in prisons all over the Province of Hue. The pirates beat him many times and he lost weight and became weak.

In the beginning I just liked him but later we became very close and true friends. We worked in the delta* for awhile and then I returned to base. It has been almost a year since we parted, but I always remember his eyes, black, sad and wet with tears looking at me the day we said good-bye.

Who could know then that good-bye was forever? Khiem already dead! One day the enemy fire landing on Khiem’s foxhole opened up the trench. Khiem jumped out and threw his only grenade at the enemy, making the bloodthirsty devils take cover. He was able to run a ways, but the grenade didn’t explode. The pirates stood up to follow and shot him, and Khiem fell. The bloodthirsty devils then came to chop up Khiem’s body, but he was dead already, his kind black eyes now open with hate. Khiem’s black hair was soaked with blood and full of sand, the sand of this courageous youth’s homeland. His gray uniform shirt was now in bloody pieces. That was the shirt which he wore on the first day that we met, the same shirt he wore to sneak with me along the small path filled with thorns and “tongues-of-tiger”* passing 31, 32, 33 Quy Thuan*, of 19-15 China Sea, and the same shirt that he wore one beautiful moonlit night returning from Pho Khanh*, the cold wind blowing from the sea making him shiver slightly. I gave him my sweater from home to wear. Over the simple gray uniform shirt the red sweater was a warm color. He said that day: “My dear Thuy, in this world except for my parents, Khiem will never care for anyone more than I do for you: that includes my sweetheart”.

Khiem sacrificed already! When I heard the news I was surprised and couldn’t believe it. When I first found that it was true, I did not cry: that was as normal. I sought strength to control myself, but as each minute passed by, the sorrow grew more and more, and then my tears fell. I cried by myself late at night, the salty tears running down my face dropping to my dress. My dear Khiem, how can you ever again hear what I say? Please heed my promise of revenge, the promise made in sadness and in sorrow, the promise made with hate in my heart and the promise made with unfading love. Do you hear me Khiem, immortal friend of my heart?

(From a poem dated October 25, 1967, at Pho Hiep)

My dear Thuy, leaving so many memories when I go.

Whose broken heart will always love?

When will the love of and missing of Thuy stop?

The last breath will be with love.

I left Khiem that day hoping to meet again. Now… who knew that day was the last time we would say good-bye to each other?

August 20, 1968. Submitted my application for membership to the Party. I’m not really very happy; actually I’m more angry. Why does this little bourgeoise always experience disappointments like that? Of course some of them are because of my social class, but I can see very clearly something else besides nature. A few people are responsible for finding something to criticize me about, for seeking a way to control me. I don’t know what to do about it. Life is just that way: even if you strive for and get the best results, you often cannot progress as far as a person less capable who got in at the beginning. When Huong was still alive she always encouraged me by (saying): “That is better for the little bourgeoise”. What is better? More difficulties, harder tasks than Huong’s? I am just like an abandoned child who after a long time is returned to the family, but now the new stepmother is very busy caring for her own children and is very cold to the husband’s children. Party! A great kind mother, but of many mothers there is only one mother (not really only one) like the step mother of legend.

August 27, 1968. The results of a serious operation: kidney broken apart, circulation stops, but the urine of the patient becomes normal again. I am supposed to be very happy: a person lives again, but why am I so nonchalant in the face of the patient’s smiles of admiration? One stream of blood is stopped but many streams are running hard, and we must fix the wounds of our country’s body first! The Americans are just like bloodthirsty demons that bite us when we are not paying attention. When we chase them all away then the blood will stop flowing.

August 29. 1968. I received a letter from Phuong* in Quy Nhon. I never met my beautiful niece, but I love her because of her enthusiasm and her life. In the early spring she followed the troops and was attacked by the Americans. They shot her, captured her and imprisoned her. She just escaped, but is still very weak and cannot return (to duty).

Reading her long letter with the soft handwriting. Phoung was Khiem’s classmate. She loved and respected him. If Khiem were still alive I would like them to fall in love with each other. Today Phuong returned from prison, but Khiem is already dead. My dear Phuong, as you wrote, it is fortunate that all those who perished did so with honor. We have to live with fire, flames, hate, and burning, our hearts hot, and have to use this flame to burn the enemy. Remember Phuong; remember this piece of our land has been soaked with blood and tears for 21 years already.

August 30, 1968. With news every day of victories from North and South, happiness fills my heart, but sadness is heavy in my mind. Why? Because the American pirates are still here so there is still mourning; because while they are here, there can be no happiness at all.

Lien came to me and asked why I treated M as I have been treating him until now. You ask me why? There are thousands and thousands of reasons, and I don’t know how I could have decided to act differently. Do you think I am not sad? No, the smile on my face is not a smile in my heart. I don’t want to continue to think about all of that because the more I think about it the sadder I am. Who can I believe now? Believe M or believe the hundreds and thousands of discussions about my story which surround me? Who should I follow? Follow my dream or be practical the way so many suggest?

Don’t ask me again: the sounds of the guns on the battlefield are waking us. Please listen carefully to the sounds of the guns and follow orders: “All for the front lines in order to gain victory”.

September 1, 1968. Sent a present to a friend. Very sad: I don’t want to send anything material to anyone and the recipient doesn’t really want to accept anything that is material. But why do I just send a present without any word, without explanation, with only a friendly comment?

Who can understand my heart? The heart of this girl is filled with sorrow and love, but at the same time is very hard and proud regarding this problem. A short conversation today, but for what? Didn’t you learn anything from that Thuy? No, there never was a lesson as hard and unreasonable as that one. That is the one thing… the only thing that I don’t understand is why jealousy seems to be an essential part of mankind. If it is essential, then why am I sad about it? Here is an office, a school, where difficulties and hardships constantly challenge a petty bourgeoise like me. What does it matter if I enjoyed happiness a lot and now must be tested by all the hardships of life? How must I live now? Best is to raise my head and live with pure, clean love, and with my own beautiful ideas, keeping the strong, communist spirit, a spirit transparent as glass, diamond hard and bright, following thousands and thousands of (other) believing hearts.

I say that, but still feel sorrow and loneliness. Of those who have been close, M is far away, Khiem is dead, Van is far away, Hai is far away, Nghia and Thuong are also far away… the confidences of the heart are not easy to share with just anyone!

September 5, 1968. The night to bid good-bye to the students; my heart is excited. On familiar chairs tonight I sat next to you and listened to all your lovely and true words, but tomorrow you will leave. You will go back to war and a thousand hardships: I hope that you will be strong enough. I understand you; you are filled with strength, energy, and belief… but what can guarantee that you will be alive on the day of victory? You are so courageous. I am so proud of you, but still worry. That worry is natural but wrong, the worry of watching a relative throw himself into a life and death struggle.

Good-bye. I look straight into the eyes shining under your eyelashes, and I can see already that you want to tell me that you care for me, believe in me, are concerned for me, and that you will miss me when we are apart. I understand that, and promise that I will be worthy of your beliefs.

September 6, 1968. This afternoon the forest, noisy with the sounds of people, suddenly quiets down. The only sound is the wind in the treetops, the sounds of the cicadae all around. Is the cold wind the wind of a storm, or the wind of autumn? I suddenly feel it, the cold numbing me outside and in my heart also. I miss them. It is an afternoon in early autumn, with a gloomy moon and fog in the rice fields outside of Ha Noi; I ride my bicycle by myself from the dormitory on the uncovered road. The wind blows through the trees and I tremble when I pass one with two branches.

No, this afternoon the wind is cold and my heart is cold not because I am not with my beloved, but because I miss all those other people I care for. Who are these people? My parents, brothers, sisters, and my uncle in the North. There are also the brothers who day and night threw themselves into the life and death struggle in the delta. There are the comrades who have died already for tomorrow’s victory. Is there anyone else? There are the young colleagues who gather around me these days to study. All these people have great affection for me. When away from them, why do I miss them all so much?

To Huu said:

“You miss someone just as you miss your beloved.

The moon comes to the mountain top,

And the afternoon sun stays there.”

He said something with which I don’t agree, because I don’t miss M that much now, and my mind forces me to forget him. If To Huu is right, then M is not my beloved. We don’t love each other that way. He is just a friend of mine, and if a friend, then a friend only. As I said today M, it isn’t easy.

September 9, 1968. The seventh storm. This year the North has had so many storms. Here in the forest it is so quiet, but in the North the wind blows hard, collapsing houses and trees. Is there a catastrophe there in my lovely North? The storm is there, but my heart also has storms. I worry and miss it so much. My dear North, please be strong, please be proud just as in those days of victory. There are surely many difficulties anyway: all the young men have left for war, and the weak hands remaining at home must struggle with the storm; it must be hard.

This afternoon I felt as if I was in a small hut in the village by the seashore, with the cold wind I took my sweater in hand and felt lonely. The wind at autumn’s beginning has arrived now, the second autumn away from home, the second autumn of being in battle. This afternoon where are all the people that I love, all those young men I care for in the delta? A friend is in a firefight…another close friend lies under our homeland already. My dear Khiem, the afternoon color changes to a light purple color: over there can you hear the sounds of the waves, and over there Khiem can you see the familiar way from Qui Thiem* to the new road? Do you remember all those light purple afternoons Khiem? Why are you quiet? Khiem is now quiet forever and will never answer me again.

September 10, 1968. I read Thuan’s letter and felt excited: I miss this young man who is so faithful to me. My heart warms like there is a small flame inside. My dear Thuan, your affection is an encouragement in the face of all difficulties, urging me to go complete my duties. Your story and your strength is a mirror for me to study forever. You are sad and ask me why I don’t treat you as a younger brother the way I did Nghia and Thuong? Because I want our affections to be sacred and lofty. I care for you, but don’t understand you at all, yet on the other hand you don’t understand me at all. So we will wait for awhile.

Tonight I sit next to the light and think a lot about this strong, intelligent young man. Please keep with respect all the beautiful feelings we have for each other. Please be true to our affections and stay worthy of our faith in each other.

September 15, 1968. Came back to attend the large women’s meeting in the village. I felt very happy surrounded by the affections of these sisters. Life is like that: it is only for a moment that you feel lonely.

Walking alongside the small canal on the way back, I suddenly thought of Thuan. This emotion is only sibling affection but why does it make me so excited? I imagine a small, cold hut with a small light beside the family altar. Thuan comes home after work, eats by himself late at night, and lies in the hammock with a cigarette and no one else to make a family but him. When he comes home alone except for his shadow, I would like to warm his life with my affections. I sent him a letter but feel I still didn’t explain myself well. Dear Thuan, are you worthy of my love?

September 17, 1968. When hearing Cap speak of the day Khiem was killed, I felt even sorrier for him. Khiem is dead already; his head is broken, a leg is gone, and he lies in the sand of his homeland. Khiem’s father’s hands were bound tightly; his wounded shoulder bled. When he saw Khiem’s body his tears flowed, and his great love for his son could be seen in his eyes. Khiem is dead already: his mother stood in front of his corpse but was in shock; she hasn’t yet returned to normal. When she recovers then she will cry for her son.

Dear Khiem, in another world can you feel the sadness of those still living? Your parents’ tears haven’t yet dried, and the wounded heart of a sweetheart hasn’t yet healed.

September 19, 1968. Big meeting of the village youth group, youngsters living with the satisfaction of youths brought up into the struggle. I had a chance to listen to the teenagers’ reports. In the first six months of the year young Hong, 14 years old, killed 6 Americans, sabotaged 2 vehicles with his own home made weapons, and took 7 of the enemy’s guns including 2 personal weapons.

Pho Chau took 5 guns, two personal weapons and one RC. That these youths are heroes when they are so young is cause for the people to be proud.

September 27, 1968. Admission to the Party. The clearest thing today is that struggle is necessary to be worthy of the name “Communist”. As for happiness, why do I feel so little compared to other happy days? Why Thuy? It’s as you said: “Just like a child who cries wanting his mother’s milk until he is tired; when he finally gets the milk, it doesn’t taste good anymore”. As I think closely about the dead who sacrificed their careers for the Party, I feel sorry and I miss all those who fell here in Duc Pho.

October 5. 1968. One of the patients died following an operation. He was 66 years old… old but still healthy, a long time Party member who had been fighting continuously for 23 years. His family and the clinic tried their best to help him, but could not save his life. Even though everyone including his family saw that it wasn’t my fault and that I tried very hard, I still feel regret. Why did he die? Because of the operation? No, not because of that, even though this was my first time to do this particular procedure. I was very calm and took my time. But, and this is difficult to say, when we tried to inject plasma the old man moved and it came back out. Very sad! Losing a patient who did not have to die: I need to learn from this.

October 6, 1968. There are those who have mentioned in half joking and half jealous words the way all the people love me. I think about that and believe really that they don’t care for me that way just because I am a physician. All the truly affectionate letters, all the presents sent wrapped with their love for me: from close friends these are not really expressions of gratitude to a doctor, but they are sent more from affection for me as a person, a sister, or a dear friend. Sometimes I ask myself if they are true, these expressions. Why would so many young men give me this degree of affection?

October 8, 1968. At the beginning of autumn the sun fills the forest. The sun in this season dries peoples’ lips and their hearts. I miss you with a heart as big and deep as the ocean holding the land of Viet Nam. I miss the secret friend with a small house at the end of Doi Can Street*, miss the naughty young sister with her soft hair, miss the young man from the South who just sent me a good long letter to say good-bye when leaving for school, miss the beloved younger brother with the shining eyes under long lashes, and how much more do I miss the loved one who lies on the homeland’s seashore forever.

My dear homeland! When will the yearning lessen, when will the country have peace? I know victory is not that far away, but why is happiness still so distant? Will I see that happy day? “Communists love life very much but will die very easily when necessary.”

Dead, we still love life, a life we have sought to change with sweat, tears, blood, and bones for 23 years already.

October 10, 1968. In the South the celebration of Liberation Day for the Capital (Ha Noi) is bright like fire. My spirit is excited: the liberation of Ha Noi… the sad scenes of the final retreat of the French soldiers crossing the Long Bien Bridge* and continuing north; Ha Noi has been liberated 14 years now, but even under the bombing and fire Ha Noi stands strong. I still hear the loving laughter of the young students at the Hang Bong Street School*; still hear the sound of the street cars running in the streets of Ha Noi. My dear Ha Noi, the more I miss you the more I pity Saigon, Hue, and thousands and thousands of villages, and cities, and streets of this sorrowful land full of fire and smoke. A war so cruel has never been seen before, and that in this cruelty we all fight so courageously has never been seen before. Who will be dead, and who will be alive when our country is independent? Even if I die I will have already enjoyed Socialism. There are still thousands and thousands of people who have grown up knowing only sorrow, people such as Khiem, Huong, Ly, Tuan, Hung, Tho… and still many others who have fallen without ever enjoying that happy day. How sad it is!

October 11, 1968. I have a friend who wants to show his love for me and who hopes that I will answer. I didn’t hesitate and told him that we are friends, and nothing more. I also told him that my heart gave up all private dreams, and that I concentrate only on my job. I have been true to my responsibilities and not to my heart. Truthfully, the love of M still makes my heart bleed. I want to forget, my self respect helps me to forget M, but sometimes I look back and it seems that I broke a valuable thing which I cannot find again. Tonight as I read over all the old letters how hurt and sorry I feel. My dear M! Your handwriting still is not faded on paper, but then why does your image fade from my life? You buried a beautiful love and you reject the things that you loved and respected for eight years. Everyone tells me that maybe when everything is over, then perhaps we will return to each other like many people wish, but for me, I know that it is finished. A mirror is broken; how can it be put back together again? When a cup of clean water is spilled how can you get it back again?

October 12, 1968. Read Phuc’s letter which makes me mad at him. He is just too impolite. Anyway it is a lesson on what not to say in public.

Went to the big guerilla war meeting and met many people. I felt very close to heroic Duc Pho in which today gather all the heroes from the war. I am pleased because it seems I am friends with many of the people from Pho Phong* to Pho Thanh* in Duc Pho, all who welcome me. One young man in a letter filled with hesitation expresses his love. What have I done to be worthy of such affection from Duc Pho?

October 13, 1968. Met Thuan after more than a month apart. Only a month but it seems so long. I am so happy to see that he is healthy and has progressed in his work. I am so happy and feel that time with him is so precious when we are together. Because the war continues, who knows who will die and who will live my young friend? I feel that there is something from his private life that he doesn’t reveal. Why? Why doesn’t he trust me? Is it possible that he hesitates? Didn’t he tell me that he cares for me truly a great deal? So, answer me.

October 22, 1968. Said good-bye to Thuan: we both felt that we could not say anything, especially anything which would excite us now. You go: I worry and follow step by step; the enemy guns seem very close in the direction of Pho Cuong. You go, with thousands of dangers waiting for you. How can I not worry?

As for me, I understand your quietness. You stand there with your arms crossed, yet even though your eyes look at me you cannot say anything. What does the word “good-bye” mean, because it doesn’t express your love for me? I think about the conversations between us. You said to me that you care for me more than anyone in the world, like Khiem loved me before. You said that right now your life is centered only on your job and how can you care for me? I listen and it moves me; I believe you, but I still question myself. Is there a truth like that? Why do you love me? Or is that the highest prize of those who serve the Revolution? I suddenly understand how people can sacrifice their entire lives to be true to the Revolution… because the Revolution trains them to become very high and beautiful and ties them together making them stronger than anything else in the world. What is more honorable than to live in the family of the Revolution?

October 23, 1968. After all the days of rain, the weather turned cold. At the beginning of cold weather I feel nothing is more precious than being with family. The fighting daily becomes more terrible and worrying. When will the dream come true for all the people in both North and South? In spite of sadness and fatigue, that is my only dream, and that of all thirty million Vietnamese. Dreams born in these years have ripened and have then already fallen!

During the long and windy nights a thin piece of material is not warm enough and I am kept awake thinking about all those people. Thousands and thousands of images of people that I love come before my eyes. Whenever I see black hair falling across a face and black eyes glancing up, I don’t know what to say. Is this a complaint? No! I am not a cold person; even a friendship is enough to touch my heart, not to mention a very precious love. But hair already covers the beauty of his face, and the eyes already have spoken silently and calmly for a long time. So how can you blame an old friend when you always use the word “love”?

October 24, 1968. An operation at the last phase of a stomach cancer. With a very simple procedure I operated to find the extent, but was very sorry when I found the cancer had spread to another organ. I couldn’t do more than that so closed the stomach again and very sorrowfully looked at the slowly dying patient. This afternoon beside his bed I felt so much regret. He tried to speak and smile, but tears still ran from his eyes. “I never complain about anything, I know you and all the comrades in the clinic have tried very hard to help, but I will never get well again. So it doesn’t matter to me if I stay here, then I will go to the hill to rest with the other comrades. If I return home it will only be to see my parents the one time and then to die.”

What can I say to him now? I stand there very ashamed. Of course there is no cure for him whatever, but still it is possible to extend his life a little. But this time it seems like I am as one surrounded who raises his hands and lets the enemy take away his weapons.

October 26, 1968. Don’t ever ask too much of any situation. There is nothing without limits Thuy. So think it over, look at things objectively and consider everything; put yourself in this state and you can see very clearly.

November 1, 1968. The atmosphere of this place feels warmer every day. It is as though I am a child of the Party living in the mother’s heart. This is because of improvements in the job. A victory, for from all reports last year the dispensary at Duc Pho was the most modern in the entire province for cures, and I am one of all of the exceptional people here. That is a victory for us all, but I have my own small part of it.

Looking back at the road I have traveled I am not sorry; in the rainy season of ’67 I was very firm and there were thousands and thousands of challenges for the petty bourgeoise, a girl physician who just left her student’s chair and is practicing to be a leader!

I hope that I will improve all my good points, control my weaknesses, not be satisfied with my own performance, and try working harder to improve more.

Very strange; in the gloomy incessant rain in the forest and mountains, why does there appear in front of my eyes a beautiful springtime garden? All the roses, chrysanthemums, peaches… all compete with each other. I and a beloved friend walk together… This peaceful scene is far away, Thuy! When will the Southerners be able to enjoy these beautiful seasons of flowers? Here there are bombs and bullets, sorrow and mourning, heavy in everyone’s life. Just yesterday a badly wounded young man 21 years old called my name hoping I could help him, but I could not, and my tears fell looking at him die in my useless hands. Thuy, in the South the winning flowers of conflict, the heroic flowers, still compete to bloom. All those flowers are of the blood and bones of all the young lives of so many people. I am walking in the South, walking in this garden, my heart so sad and sorrowful, but also filled with admiration and pride when I see these flowers fall. I loved flowers before; now I still love flowers, but now at every step I understand the beauty of these flowers… and the love for these flowers mixes with so many ideas about passion, hate and the pride of the Vietnamese people Thuy! (Are you also a very beautiful flower my dear?)

November 2, 1968. Reading over the letter, I feel sorry about a letter I mailed already. That letter hasn’t arrived there yet, but when it does you will be very sad at all my questions. My dear, I am sorry I was mistaken about your affections for me.

Received a lot of mail; everyone is thinking of me and cares for me. My heart is warmed because I live in a place filled with love.

November 3, 1968. The North has peace now! The sound of bombs stops altogether in my lovely North. My dear North! Happiness is bright in 16 million faces, but the smile on every face there hides sorrow. Because in the South are sorrow, fire and smoke: because the South is still loud with the sounds of fierce devils.

My parents and all my relatives in the North must be very happy today, but they can’t stop thinking of me and the people in the South. Please be happy, even if it not a complete happiness.

November 8, 1968. Sitting by your side holding your hand warm with love, suddenly I feel so sorry when I think that there is no way to protect you. If in this cruel struggle you fall, then I will remember this moment, will remember all my life your eyes bright with love and your warm voice. My dear young man, if this happens, when will the sorrow stop? Every time I hear you say that you love me, I feel very strange. Why can all the revolutionaries care for each other that way, deep and wide as the ocean, a kind of emotion like silver waves… a clean and pure love, very true?

November 10, 1968. All the social events day by day are opened wider to me. The big Provincial Women’s Meeting invites me to attend. The Liberation Youth of the Province has invited me to attend their meeting, but I don’t have status enough to go. In their arrangements there seems to be something unreasonable. Once again I understand more of people’s jealousy: there are still persons unhappy to see their comrades improve.

Please remember all your life these historic minutes of companionship in the life of the Revolution young man!

November 11, 1968. Why am I so sad when everyone goes on their way? I cannot say clearly why. I am really angry that I cannot go to those meetings at which if I were there I would understand and see so many precious things which would help to improve me so very much.

Is there anything else? I want to make clear my feelings but at last I am saddened when they say good-bye, miss them so much when they are far away, and my heart worries for them.

And the sad day last year when I left Pho Hiep? I am surprised that I ask myself again why my heart is so excited by affectionate emotions. Once again I ask this question and the only answer is that my heart is full of life, so a revolution of love is enough to make it excited and to make it tremble.

My dear Thuy! Girl very rich with love; your eyes don’t cry with tears anymore, even with tears of all kinds of sadness. Please smile as though the smile is always there: don’t let anyone discover that behind the smile is a sigh. 25 years old already, please be strong.

November 12, 1968. I don’t know why when I turn back to the old diary, to see Nghia’s old letters and to see again my love for this adopted young brother, I want to see if the same love is still there. Now like then I still care for Nghia, a very deep affection, and believe this love will always remain the same; but the excitement of the first days is fading away. My feelings for Nghia of course will never be lost. I want to know about this because I ask myself if I am a person who likes the new and forgets the old. I now have Thuan, and all my affections seem to be given to him, but compared to Nghia… before I loved Nghia the same way. Just the same, I still miss him when we are far apart, and it is the same when waiting for him when he is far away; and Nghia is the like Thuan in his affections for me in his thoughts and actions. Like the day that we disagreed because Nghia gave me a ring, now the same trouble has arisen with Thuan when he gives me money to buy a ring. It makes me angry to talk about love that way. Love is not given through valuable things, even though that giving shows love. My dear Thuy! How happy it makes you that life gives you all this love; I think not many people are as fortunate as you. Why is love like that? I cannot answer.

November 16, 1968. What can I say about all the feelings of the love that we give each other? Standing beside you, I feel so happy when you hold my hand; I am filled with love and faith. Sometimes I have to look at this and see if we should stop ourselves or not. But no matter how deep and how much we care for each other, it is still love for the Revolution, the pure and clean emotions of people thirsty for love, hearts bleeding because of the war, nothing else. But this wild love of the Revolutionary still feels strange.

November 20, 1968. Said good-bye to you. Every time I say good-bye I feel our love is deeper. Holding you in my heart and kissing your eyes I feel nothing can make us forget those moments we are together.

You ask me many times why I love you. Why? Because of your hard life, your courage in the face of danger and your heart’s hopes for a love when your life is lonely and cold. Of course you are loved by all the comrades, but you still need a real love. I came to you with admiration, belief and a strange affection. I did not say that I loved you more than Nghia and Khiem, but I can tell you that I will care for you truly deeply and forever. You hold my hand and say: “Please believe me, that now and in the future I will love no-one more than you except my dead parents”. I questioned you many times but you have never changed your mind, a devotion I do not think is practical. What can I say? Yes! I believe you, and will try to mirror your high and sacred love for me.

Oh! Young man that I love, you are the flame which brightens the Revolutionaries’ love, a sort of love which before I only understood in a general and abstract way.

November 24, 1968. Life is shown to us in a thousand different ways: love, sadness, hope, and jealousy. People only have one heart filled with blood: in the heart there is a half which contains red blood and a half which contains black blood. So in every brain there are some very bright and beautiful ideas, and then there are some very black and vile thoughts. You must understand that clearly; so please be calm and strong in the face of life.

Late tonight I sit beside the light and think. I don’t want it but sadness appears before my eyes. I wish that some beloved person would stay here and share everything with me. If you were here you would hold my hand, kiss my hand, care for and pity me. Isn’t that right?

November 25, 1968. Too busy, my head aches and I am tired. I don’t wish for anything but to return to my family with the consolation of their love. But a wish is only a wish; reality is reality. The patients’ moans are still very sad in my ears, the task continues to appear before my eyes in every different way, complicated, difficult, and making me angry!

November 26, 1968. It’s my birthday today, with enemy guns sounding from all four directions. I am used to this already, carrying the bag and taking the patients to run and hide. After two years on the battlefield it is nothing.

Now the forest is very quiet, the firing has stopped, everyone is very still, trying to analyze the situation. Only I suddenly think of lovely days at home. There was still a winter sun, but it was warm: my parents bought me flowers for a present, had a party with friends arriving with congratulations… now my wishes are different from then. If I could have my wish then first I would make it for all the people who have made sacrifices for 23 years, youngsters who have grown up knowing nothing but hate, sacrifice, and hardship; starting with all the people I love in the South. My dear parents, please be ready to welcome me and all your sons home from the South. All these young men deserve your love.

November 27, 1968. Sadness and missing him makes my heart so heavy. Oh! My life is so complicated. I want to forget everything, to only have left a great love which warms my heart. Why are you not here? If you were here then I would only ask you to be silently near me. Perhaps you will also understand this and share my sadness.

November 29, 1968. Review for the Party:

Good…

I am strong, not afraid of cruelty, not afraid of sacrifice, accepting complete responsibility

I have a good sense of organization

Everybody loves me

I learn well

Weakness…

Am not a perfect leader

Have not been active enough in work to be a firm leader

Still am a petty bourgeoise

Still weak in secret keeping and defensive actions against the enemy

Inspection and discipline still weak

December 6, 1968. Thinking about my relationships with everyone. In their eyes… how do they see me? We aren’t constantly together but meet because of work, (including the work of the Party, teaching youngsters). They are all very good to me and the people who work with me. Living with me are 3 types of people: the people who don’t like me, always finding my weaknesses in order to attack me; there are only a small number of these. Another type of person cares for me very much with a special devotion and will do anything for me: this type of person numbers not so many, but not too few. The last type of person is normal, hating and loving me equally. So what does this mean Thuy? What can I learn from these relationships? How can I do better? In life no one can please everyone.

December 7, 1968. Met Thuong*. For a long time during our days in the delta, I didn’t talk to him, but after a year apart I am so happy to see that we have grown and that our affections are strong and matured, strong in the face of the storm winds of the times. Please tend our emotions letting them grow without stopping!

December 9, 1968. On the way to the Party school, a beautiful afternoon with the sun pouring down through the high tree tops. Halfway up the hill I suddenly think of those days beside you… the time on the way to school, that bright love with all the beautiful shining colors bright and clear. Does that sort of love fade away? When I again live with happiness will I still love you the way I do now? And you... is it true what you wrote in the letter you just sent me? “Even though I have a person who loves me, I tell her that I still love you more than her.”

December 16, 1968. Difficulties continue, from one to another. The enemy starts mopping up in our area and we are now in a combat zone. All plans must be changed. All our strength must be concentrated against the enemy. In those plans was one for the big Branch meeting, the first one in 2 years. I have waited for it for a long time, for many reasons, and the day was not far off. But now we have stopped planning for it because of the enemy: very sad.

Like the note I sent him today asked, when will I see him again? When will our hopes come true, even if it is such a small hope it is important to us. The letter that he wrote to me said that he misses me; for me it is the same but I have to forget that because worrying and missing each other only makes me sad. I hope that he will be strong enough in the face of difficulties and dangers. I hope that I will see him again, can hold him and kiss his eyes with my undying love.

December 17, 1968. The news that Duong was captured for the second time brings me sorrow. Just a few days ago I received his letter, a long one. In the letter Duong said that he cares for me so much that he hoped I would adopt him like a younger brother (it’s still the adopted young brother)… but I can’t accept this for many reasons, the first being that there is no cause for me to admire him or to care for him the way I do Nghia, Thuong, and Thuan; the second is that Duong still has some thoughts which don’t match my hopes. For Duong I am only sorry, understanding, and nervous in the face of his strong affections.

Now he has been captured again, just after returning from prison and not recovered yet, sad and crying, still mourning because his father had been killed by the Americans. A few days ago the enemy arrived at his house, captured one brother and his sisters, and killed an elder brother who was hiding in a foxhole. They burned his house and his mother cried by her son’s body in the burning building. Is there anything sorrier than this?

My dear Duong! With those pirates robbing our country, every time I think about you my heart is so filled with hate I cannot breathe. We must force them to pay for their crimes. We have to gain revenge for you and for so many of our comrades who have fallen in this cruel fight.

December 18, 1968. I cannot accept what Mui* said; our way is the way of friends. It cannot be the way filled with the sunshine of warm love. So I will treat him now and forever like an understanding and faithful friend. That is enough. We should not and cannot have more than that.

Just a small story, but why does it sadden me so? It is not the only small story; there are many still happening in my life. Why is life so complicated? Every day has a new story, every turn a new tale. My dear Thuy! If you want love every day to have a new aspect, then how can everything else including sadness and peoples’ jealousy stay the same?

Don’t be sad, please smile. Please remain strong in any situation. Please always keep your faith, with all the hope from years gone by in your spirit.

Tonight on duty, a very gloomy light in the small room, the patients’ moaning made me feel so sad. More than ever I miss them with almost a burning in my heart. All of you beloved people, does anyone understand my heart tonight?

December 19, 1968. Went up a high mountain to work, and when I arrived at the top I looked out and could see before me the seashore of Duc Pho far away. There was a fog cover so the view was not clear, but still I could make out the familiar scene. All of routes 32 and 33 of Quy Thien*, all the houses close to the foothills there, all the beautiful memories of my revolutionary life, for me over there are all the loving hearts… and over there is just a piece of the South, but why is my heart so close to them?

December 21, 1968. For a long I haven’t thought of M. Today I reread all the letters from the North, letters from Thai, Phuong, Uncle Hien… and they saddened me. Back there everyone hopes that I will be happy when I meet M again, but why is life so complicated and unstable? I heard Uncle Hien say about Dung that all the weak connections between him and Dung have slowly ended, and now he finds out that Dung is a good person, nice, kind, strong, but also a loyal friend.

Life’s happiness hasn’t come to me yet, so I don’t know what will happen, whom I will love, what kind of person that will be, and whether I will still have warmth in my heart or not.

My dear Thuy! Are you sad? Please look again: besides you there are so many comrades, so many young people dedicating their youth to the Revolution. They fall without ever yet knowing happiness. Why do I think about my personal life? Don’t look to the North; look here at this land hot with bombs, bullets, sorrow, fire and smoke.

December 23, 1968. The memory of two years ago today, getting into the car at 3 o’clock in the afternoon, the same day which two years ago brought me into another way of life. This way is filled with difficulties: I understood that before ever coming this way.

But today, after practically 2 years, are you still sorry when you see the thorns along this way, Thuy? Why feel so sorry? Life is like that; there are beautiful, fragrant flowers and sunshine… then there are also dark clouds in the sky. A year has days of sun and has days of rain.

This afternoon I knew how to get rid of the anger, to smile and with notebook explain the lessons; tonight I knew how to smile at the reaction of the person bothering me, but why in the face of this book am I crying? Don’t cry Thuy! Please be strong and calm: you know that you are a good person. If you want to cry, please wait until you hold the hand of some beloved person to whom you can tell all these things. But now in front of this bitter and difficult life, in the face of all these challenges please keep the smile which you have kept for a long time, even if many tears hide behind that smile. Save your tears for the people you love. Do you understand Thuy?

December 26, 1968. Received letters from M and his father: it seems that everyone is happy for me when they know that, but why does it make me so sad?

M’s father said that I am right on some points: the Revolution, courage in love, a girl must have these things. But his father did not see my other side which is self respect and self love. If when I was in the North I had understood this war, and the spirit of being in the army, then maybe I would not have fallen in love with M. Only the inequality of our emotions has been enough to cause me to forget a love I am eager for.

Ten years have passed so this way has not been so short: now I am at a crossroads, with one way turning towards a new direction, another way leading me I know not where.

So what is it worth to be happy? M is still the person I knew long ago, and now I am a very practical person, with more understanding of love than before. That kind of love is no longer complete.

I held M’s letter in hand, not reading it right away. After reading it I was so mad, but a few days later I felt normal enough to return to work and it seemed that nothing had happened. My dear Thuy! Is your heart so cool that there is no excitement anymore?

December 31, 1968. This last night of the year the sky is clear with no clouds at all. Very late already but everyone still continues talking in all parts of the building. No one wants to sleep tonight because tomorrow begins a new year. The people in the big meeting will all go in different directions; everyone will take responsibility for hard tasks in the coming days. The fighting grows tenser day by day. In this final phase more blood still must flow, more must flow to achieve victory.

Sat next to him, not able to say all that I wanted to say, because also beside me sat many other persons I was talking to. A little sad because we could not say all we wanted to, but we understood each other when I looked into his eyes and heard his soft sighs. My dear young man, the love which gives us belief, strength, and happiness when we are together will then naturally make us miss each other when we are far apart. So please don’t be sad, please smile. When will I see you again? Will I ever see you again? If we never see each other again then… I don’t want to think about that sad thing. Good-bye my dear young man. I hold you in my arms, listening to your breathing. I want to say more but keep quiet because I believe that you understand me, understand all my deep care for you.

January 1, 1969. The New Year starts with Chairman Ho’s* wish for the New Year:

This past year we have had honor and victory

This year we will have more big victories

Because of freedom, because of independence

Fight to send the Americans away, fight to make them fall

Go avenge all your countrymen and your soldiers

With North and South together, nothing will be as happy

As this spring

This year there aren’t the high spirits of last year. Are my thoughts not yet right? Is it because I have not valued victory enough that I have these thoughts? Or am I correct after all? Was last years happiness the joy of a “beginning”, and this years happiness that of passing time? (Here I don’t speak for myself, but speak for all the people.)

January 4, 1969. Lying beside Ninh listening to her conversation, I don’t know why she suddenly told me the entire true story of “Brother Ba”.

After hearing the story, I was so sorry. I love Thuan; I felt that I understood him but I now know that I knew too little compared to the truth. I didn’t understand the extent of his spirit of hard work, his spirit of responsibility, Thuan’s very high spirit as a Public Health worker. In the general report of progress Thuan spoke of his accomplishments in only 3 lines. I really didn’t know about all the raining nights when he carried the medical box and traveled through the bombing with gunfire fierce all around him. One night Ninh felt sorry for him so woke someone else up to go. Thuan was very angry and told her that even if he was asleep or otherwise occupied she should still wake him up.

I knew too little about the state of mourning in Thuan’s family. I saw him acting so normal and with smiles, so how could I know all of the long nights when lying there he couldn’t sleep and cried like a child. I didn’t know about his poverty, believing him on this point. I didn’t know that he always was doing without so that I and others could have enough. He sat there looking at his hat, wanting to sell it to get money to spend… Oh! Why didn’t I think about that? And also I never realized completely his affections for me.

My dear young friend! I did so little for you. How can I change all of this now? Your life is a lesson that I must study forever, study your courage and sacrifice, your responsible spirit, your altruism, strength, and all the understanding of a true revolutionary heart.

January 9, 1969. Bon was 21 years old, 21 and wounded seven times in battle. I will never be able to forget this young spy-platoon leader.

I first met Bon when he came in with a small wound in his leg. After a few days he left though it was still not healed. More than a month later he returned. Wounded this time through to the shoulder bone, he lost a lot of blood so was pale and tired, but after an operation he woke with a naughty smile on his face. The wound was very painful but he didn’t cry and was only concerned if he could return to fight or not. Whenever I visited him I touched his hair and told him: “Don’t worry, I believe that you still can hold a gun and fight well”.

Another day when I met him with his AK on a military operation, he was happy to see me and said: “Good morning doctor. I tell you that my hand is doing well now”. He raised his hand and told me that his shoulder could move normally. I laughed and looked at the ruddy skin of this young Liberation soldier with his mischievous smile.

Today he returned to the hospital, his skin so pale. He lay down quietly without moaning, wounded in one leg from a mine, blood running all around his pants. With responsible spirit and sorrowful heart, I and another comrade worked hard to amputate his leg. Afterwards he still smiled and said: “Now maybe 80% can live”.

Finally though, he could not make it; losing so much blood that he couldn’t keep his strength. My dear Bon, your blood soaks this piece of your homeland, blood following your fighting way. Your heart has stopped beating so the heart of the nation can always continue.

Bon was dead, eyes closed very much like he was asleep. Sitting next to him, my tears drop by drop falling to his head, I touched his hair and it seems that he still lived. No! He did not die: Bon is still alive in my heart and all his comrades are still with him in this life and death struggle.

Sadness is so heavy in my heart and hatred for the enemy is a thousand times heavier. Looking at Bon I think about all the young men that I love who day by day struggle with the enemy, passing through firing and bombings. These days the enemy fights fiercely in Pho Cuong. Thuan was almost killed several times. Oh my God! While those bloodthirsty troops remain we will have sorrow. There is no other choice but to fight until those dead dogs’ heads are broken.

January 10, 1969. Feelings of sadness have continued through these last ten days of constant rain: 10 days which have been as long as months. Is there something coming; is there something restless, uneasy, and impossible to be sure of? Worries and sorrows without number, always seeing danger threatening beloved persons throwing themselves into battle. I say it here...if there is a day which still has the shadows of the American pirates, that day will be one with grief and sorrow. Oh, this war! When will it be finished?

January 11, 1969. The situation at Pho Cuong is still very tense. The enemy is still burning houses and taking away food to carry out their pacification program. Guns are still firing in that direction. Every shot reminds me of the people over there, and among the thousands and thousands of images I saw Thuan, with his black clothing all wet with sweat and rain, his face skinny and pale, tired but with black eyes still bright and with a smile on his face. I miss him so see him everywhere, sometimes even in the hair of a young soldier who has died in my hands. Lien has to face sorrow and mourning. She just received news that her mother is sick and almost dead. No one remains in Lien’s family any more. All her brothers went north to regroup, an elder sister went to Saigon, her sister-in-law was wounded by enemy fire and now we don’t know where she was sent. Only her old mother is left, a mother who has had to suffer all the hardships and sorrow so her children can enjoy the Revolution. Now Lien’s mother’s brain is hemorrhaging; she lies on the bed knowing nothing, no one to care for her. Lien cries, like Thuan cried when his father died, her tears soaking into my heart. All of this is due to the devils robbing our country: no one can argue with this.

January 12, 1969. Binh came and brought news of the American withdrawal; Pho Cuong returns to normal. Through his letter I know he is still all right. Four pages with the last lines left to say in person because he was too tired to write more, all about missing me and worrying about me. During these 12 days he ate only one adequate meal, wearing the same clothing wet or dry without changing. Tanks and troops were after him constantly for a few days, and many times he was almost killed. He didn’t tell me everything but from another person’s letters I know what happened. I am sorry and worry for him, but I am also angry with him because he has not been honest with me, thinking that he doesn’t want me to worry. Because of his deep affection for me he didn’t want me to know the entire true situation.

January 14, 1969. Everyone has left; the quiet clinic is sad. Only a few wounded soldiers remain; only a few personnel are left also. Everyone is busy with their own work. I listen carefully but there is only the sound of the running river. Twenty six years old already, not so young at all. Why do I let sadness disturb my heart? People really do make decisions. Like Nguyen Du* said: “When you are sad your surroundings are never happy”. How can anyone be happy when the American pirates remain in our country killing our people? How can you be happy when your country is still split in two, when everyone in the family is scattered in different directions.

But my dear Thuy, you cannot stay unhappy and always worry so much. The Struggle asks for people with happiness, strength, and strong belief. Take care of these feelings and forget the sad clouds before your eyes.

January 16, 1969. Nghia came to visit but I had gone to correct examinations so he left a letter and present for me. Handing me the gift and money Ba said: “Having an adopted young brother like that is very good”. The comment may not mean anything but I am not very pleased by it. Maybe Ba and many others cannot understand the affections between my warm heart and these people. Nghia, Thuan, Khiem, and Thuong… we love each other with a wonderful care, a care which makes people forget themselves and think only of the people they love. With this emotion people can sacrifice all of their lives to protect the persons they love. So what do these few thousand (piaster) mean? What do these presents mean? You must understand that these gifts cannot be priced with money, only with love. They sometimes need 10 or 20 piaster to buy cigarettes but when they have that they want to share it all with me. Sometimes they don’t let me know that they are poor so they can let me have money to spend. The result of this is I have to try hard to be worthy of these young men.

January 18, 1969. Reading his letters I feel sorry for him, but he makes me laugh also. His affections are really wonderful, very simple and warm. I never before read so simple a letter. Through the words he never cares about I see the truth of him. He worries about me from the biggest to the smallest things. He worries about my future husband: will he be a kind or a cruel person? It makes me laugh. I don’t know what he thinks about love. Why does he imagine a poor wife like that? But he is also right, because he doesn’t understand the standards for my beloved, an educated girl raised in Socialism. Don’t worry my young brother; your sister will not easily choose a love, don’t you know that?

January 19, 1969. A beautiful Sunday afternoon. The sun is very beautiful and the wind blows hard in the old forest. The radio plays international music. Working in the small room why do I feel this is so peaceful? I forget all about bombs and fire, mourning and sorrow; in my heart is only the happiness of the music.

I don’t know if I deserve to be criticized or praised; criticized because I forget all the people who continue in sadness and sorrow, because I forget the blood thirsty devils who remain in our country, or praised because after thousands and thousands of hardships I still have love, happiness, belief in life, and a hope still green and fresh in my spirit.

My dear Phuong*, there you always see the sadness of separation from family, but here I see a scene thousands of times sadder than that. Regardless, I still hope that you and I never lose our happiness and the hope in our hearts. Please remain the way you were; every Sunday afternoon we will go listen to music, come home late at night and write in our diaries, our dreams continuing even through the bullets and bombs surrounding us.

January 22, 1969. The nurse’s class is just over; many of the students hug and kiss me and won’t let me go. Only Ninh* is very sad holding my hand and saying: “I go home my sister”, and I don’t understand why she puts her head on my shoulder and cries. Many of the students cry when they say good-by but why does only this girl make me sad? Is it that I love her because her house was burned down completely with not a grain of rice left to eat? Is it because of her loyalty and the many times she wanted to tell me her feelings, and is it because Ninh loves and cares for her “brother Ba” (Thuan)? Maybe for all these reasons. Go home my young sister; I hope you will be a strong in the hours of hardship for a nurse in the Revolution. Your feet are so small but I believe that your strides will be large and long during the great life of our generation.

February 7, 1969. At night in an old widowed mother’s house: the fire light in the kitchen won’t let me sleep, or perhaps it is that the burning affections of a young man warm me and make me forget the cold in the jungle. I felt so sad when I heard him say: “My dear sister, if something happens to me and I cannot tell you my final words, then just think of today and that I said them to you already”. Holding him in my heart I am confused when I think that war never cares about anyone: perhaps he will fall because of his revolutionary duty. That moment… what will happen? Can the sound of my sigh tell him about my worry and my love for him?

February 8, 1969. Finished a part of the hard journey, 14 days of climbing up mountains and going down through rivers under the sun and the rain. All through these hardships I felt very happy because there was a sea of love everywhere. From comrades we never before knew to strangers on the road, all the people knew of our enthusiasm in helping the Duc Pho group.

How happy I am that the people in Duc Pho feel that I belong there. I share with them the happiness and pride of their heroic land. I am glad that at all the meetings the Duc Pho group is awarded first priority in all things, all the highest honors, all their love, and I a girl from Ha Noi have my own share in all these things.

Something else Thuy: during the hard and joyful days when you live beside these people that you love is that happiness still growing? All the people that I love… the experienced cadre understanding and loving me even though we meet just one time… the young cadre who just left their school chairs starting their duties all with different talents and accomplishing the highest goals… the kind girl friend working hard, knowing how to do more for others than for herself… and the young man who gives me all of his affection, taking care of everything for me and showing me a unique and wonderful affection. After more than ten days of living with him I asked myself: “Why is there that kind of devotion?” Between me and him everyone knows clearly that we care for each other like brother and sister, very clean, clear and true. So what must we watch for young brother? I have to answer this question before asking him.

February 11, 1969. My dear Thuy! Why? Why can’t you sleep with all of the pictures in front of your eyes? Why with all of the jobs waiting for your decisions can’t you forget the things which remind you of what is in your heart? What can I say? Love always has a mind to lead and I can never let love go from my thoughts. So… forget all the thoughts of love burning in your heart and pay attention to your job. Please forget all the love in your heart filled with the vigor of life. Can’t you hear all the guns firing outside which is the start of the big spring offensive?

February 14, 1969. Went to dinner with some of the northern troops. There were lots of faces and lots of voices which reminded me of all the days of socialism. I was supposed to stay longer to talk with them but I said good-bye and slowly walked back because my heart felt so lonely. The afternoon sunshine left the mountain top. New Years comes already, the third New Year away from home. I am supposed to grow accustomed to the loveliness of this strange land far away from home, I am supposed to feel the warm hearts of all the people in Duc Pho and Quang Ngai, but I still feel like the day I left home. I still hope to live with my parents and family and to believe I am yet a child to be taken care of. I want my mother to love me like she did when I was small. I want to write and tell my young brother all those things, but perhaps it is not necessary.

February 15, 1969. New Year’s Eve!* is it really New Year’s Eve? New Year’s Eve with all the sorrowful days filled with fire and smoke, and all the happy and peaceful days. The countryside is so calm and quiet but it is burning with preparation. Is that like the pain of a mother carrying a large child before he was born? Tonight after an operation I feel tired and don’t want anything anymore. That is my own fault.

February 17, 1969. You came because of duty, but also because of me. I can tell by your eyes full of affection for me. We are both the same; New Year’s does not belong to anyone, but for me with the situation now I feel lonely… I am far away from family, far away from the people I love in the North and in the South. For you there is no one left of your family except your two young sisters and brothers. You have me but I am far away from you. But our love will warm our hearts. Be happy, please. Don’t be sad when you are far away from me; I wish you a year filled with luck, victory and with our love growing stronger.

February 19, 1969. The air is so terribly quiet. Where did the warm wind of last night fly to? The jungle and trees are too quiet, so still that even the leaves don’t want to move. It seems that people are affected by the silence of the jungle and the mountain; everyone is very quiet in their own jobs. I don’t know what they are thinking but they stare and their smiles disappear. For me, my heart is so heavy and very confused. The first thing is I miss my family, and I miss him, but that is natural. Why do I see all those images from my past life? A morning on military operations with the trees and forest also quiet, the sunshine on the mountain top, a morning in the Delta with the sun shining on the table through the door, coming in past all the bamboo outside…

Something is waiting for me… what is waiting I don’t know for sure, perhaps I am waiting for everyone to return, the days pass so fast that the happy day will come… all those things are like a dream but still turn over in my mind and spirit.

And it also seems I have to worry about love. If everything we worry about happens then I am ready to die for the last victory, but why is the coming responsibility so big? I don’t want to know for sure, because that would only make it more difficult and bring more worry. Just forget it: when it arrives then make a decision; I always remain calm in hardship. But the thing is that I have to make plans and preparations before then.

February 20, 1969. Work is heavier than ever before. I never worried like I do now. I have been asked to try hard to assume the duties of a special organization leader. Compared with before I have grown up a lot, but looking at the requests before me I think I am sinking in too much work. How can I do it all? I can only try hard, try hard, and try hard… that is all.

The army is perhaps already on its way into battle. I hope you bring back victory letting me see your black eyes in the faces of you Liberation soldiers.

February 21, 1969. Read the poems from PH* written from the North for me:

Over there is my place in the Universe

In the past and also in the future

Over there I held a small love, a deep bird nest

The young birds have flown away already…

Is the love which wasn’t answered still in your heart my dear artist? For me your memory has been covered with many others for a long time, but today I read your poem and suddenly I miss you. It was a summer when the flowers bloomed red on the street, and the sun shined through the green trees. I got out of school and passed the 3 story building at 14 Le Truc Street*, looked up and saw you waiting for me with hair covering your eyes. It was an afternoon when the wind storm clouds covered the sky, but you still waited for me at the garden on Hang Day Street*. I rode my bicycle there and was surprised to recognize you under the street lights… I never loved you but I liked you as a young sister loves her older brother. That love has stopped because of the many times I broke off with you, but still you love me. In a past letter you wrote: “Well you go, and you will find a lover, but I can tell you that no where in the world will you find anyone to love you as I do”. It seems that is the truth, but I am not sorry that I don’t return your affections, so how can we have a fair and beautiful love? No matter what happens I still like you: please believe me that I will heal the love we had as sister to brother, okay?

February 24, 1969. The battles resumed the day before yesterday. There is still a very strong spirit, with a deep faith which has waited a long time to pass through the guns. My heart feels very happy, but I also worry; maybe because the task is so heavy, and perhaps for something else. Is it a worry for one of the people I love who will fall with the victory tomorrow? Of course where there are victories there are sacrifices: what can I say?

February 26, 1969. It’s a spring night with a very clear moon; I want to forget all about my emotions and concentrate on my job, but I cannot. I don’t know what will make my heart cool down from love, dreams and hopes. Last year when I heard the enemy searching for us on the ground when lying in a trench, I still told stories from Pavel to Khiem. Between the bombs and the firing I still sat between the stones to write in my diary and to write letters. Now during this busy time I still have a heart burning with life. Really it is not a passion for any individual which disturbs me, but a larger emotion… yet why is it so vital? I miss a niece who I never have met, a young woman who threw herself into duty and hardship yet who all the time thinks of me. How much I miss the young man who went to his duties but whose love is given to me. This morning standing beside the operating table for a young soldier with black eyes and long eyebrows, he made me think of a young brother every time he looked at me. What am I? A girl with a warm heart filled with love, but why am I never soft in the face of the many complications, difficulties and cruelties?

March 3, 1969. Went to visit a patient and returned at midnight. After returning I couldn’t sleep. Late at night the forest is so quiet, no bird sounds, no sounds of falling leaves, or of wind in the tree branches. What do I think about? What do I think about which keeps my eyes open? Looking through the window in the light of the gloomy moon I see many beautiful scenes, also the lovely scenery of Duc Pho, and then a separate scene of sorrow and sadness to come… can I blame myself? Did I hear the soldiers’ moans and the noise of guns firing far away? The battlefield is still here in this season of victory.

March 6, 1969. All those letters filled with love. The more I read them over and over, the more I feel the deep emotions of the sender, and I understand more than ever his love. For him I feel the same as for Nghia, Khiem, and Thuong. This means that there are those who have a higher place in my affections, which is something I have always known. But in every one of his letters he still says: “In my life you are the only one I love”. So what can I say to him now?

March 9, 1969. I saw Tan again and suddenly I felt something was not quite right. What was that? Sadness, loneliness, or self blame… I didn’t really understand, but only felt tense. Tan reminds me of some memories which I tried to forget and which I hadn’t thought about in a long time. Where are you? Tan came back but didn’t bring any news of you. Are we really so far away from each other my dear? Why do I feel that my heart is still bleeding? Why is the wound in my heart so hard to heal?

This afternoon here and there we are all prepared to the greatest degree, and you and I are part of those preparations; both of us are in the struggle, but why do we feel so far apart my dear comrade?

March 11, 1979. All the liberation troops are so worthy of admiration: they are strong and courageous when fighting, and here they are patient and courageous in their sick-beds. This gives the cadre a wonderful strength to withstand everything. Pain makes him cry, but he yet smiles, and still he answers: “It doesn’t matter”. I sit next to him and hold his hot hand when he runs a high fever, listening to his tired breathing. I feel so sorry for him but don’t know what to say. Besides the love of this physician there is the love of a girlfriend from home, but I don’t want to show this in conversation. He would only have to look into my eyes, but he will never know that.

There is the liaison officer with dimpled cheeks, always smiling though his wounded hand hurts.

There is the badly wounded soldier with the broken hand, yet he always smiles with a believing smile.

Today they leave on a military operation again, a victorious military operation. I hope they gain that victory, and I say good-by to the army with the bright black eyes.

March 12, 1969. What do I think about the change in emotions between Nghia and me? “Traitor” seems too strong a word, but I really feel that way, and I think something has broken in our affections. How sad I am, all those promises you made but have forgotten already, haven’t you? One night on the shores of Pho Hiep, the four of us what were we talking about? Those letters, those presents wrapped with all your love inside… now answer me please! Have you cut off our affections? I think about Thuan, perhaps one day Thuan will also change like that. If he does then I couldn’t believe in anything anymore.

March 13, 1969. An army comrade sacrificed, wounded in the stomach. After the operation his situation was bad because of internal bleeding caused by pieces of shrapnel which couldn’t be found where they cut the veins. After thinking about it I decided not to operate again, though I was hesitant and confused. At last he died. I thought about his death until I got a headache. Why did he die? Because of my indecisiveness? Maybe because of that. If my determination had been 100 per cent, then my hopes to save his life might have been 10 per cent. I listened to others and abandoned a job I should have done.

He was dead already, and in his front pocket was a small notebook with all sorts of pictures of a girl with a lovely smile and a strong letter telling him that she would wait, and a small handkerchief with the words sewn in: “Waiting for you”. Oh! You rear-line girl, the person that you love will never return to you again. The hat of mourning which you will wear will be heavy with sorrow, full of the cruel crimes of the murdering imperialist Americans, and also with my regret that I didn’t save him when I could have.

March 16, 1969. Party re-education. Reorganization of the Party, learning 3 buildings, 3 resistances. The Branch thoughts are:

Good: there is a lot of improvement in my leadership, understanding, and the responsibility I take to enter thoroughly all aspects of work; complete the heavy tasks given me; my position is firm, my organizational plans are very good, deeply thought out and applied.

Weak: There are still some aspects which haven’t worked out well: I have not used all my abilities in researching my treatment experiences, and am very weak in helping to change the cadres’ lives.

March 17, 1969. Read his short letter with all the anger and words of love, and I suddenly felt my heart is alive again like before in those days before the two of us had any break in our love. I already answered (I don’t know if I thought very carefully or not): “All the things which have passed in 9 years are not easy to forget even if we wanted to. People are people, it is you, it is me, and it is all the discussion around us both. But the roots of love still lie in the ground; it can still grow again if a fresh spring comes to the cheeks of the girl from years ago”.

March 19, 1969. The district of Duc Pho was hit yesterday. All the district burns with our troop’s fire-of-hate. Luc is among those courageous soldiers, wounded and just recovering his fighting strength. Luc died in the first battle after days of recovering in the hospital. I heard about his sacrifice and am very sorry about it. Before me is still the image of a young man with intelligent eyes and a determined face. He always liked to wear a red collar, the collar with the words: “Promise to die for the Country”. His warm singing sounded on those afternoons: “Oh River and mountain, how beautiful it is when the moon shines on the hill, the clouds fly under the people…”

My dear Luc, are you really dead? Why is your singing voice still in my ears and your handwriting still colorful in the letter you wrote me?

You are the same as Bon, Khiem, and all the other heroes who have fallen for tomorrow’s victory: you will always be loved in my heart and in all our countrymen’s hearts.

March 21, 1969. Have a thing I must think about: research and control, that is the reality of daily life. It seemed before that everyone easily cared for me when they met me. Is that why I am so happy about this? At times I have said I never cared for anyone; the right thing is to say everything straight, the wrong thing is a lack of softness when convincing people. Please be determined to overcome this, Thuy!

March 25, 1969. For more than a year I have not had a chance to go down to the Delta, so why am I so eager these few days like the burning sun in the summer? I miss the Delta so much. My dear Delta, with all the green rice fields filled with plants heavy with grains of rice. My dear Delta, with all the colorful dresses, all the white hats of lovely girls. My dear Delta, often the fire is burning red, yet cannot burn out the green color of growing life.

And… my dear young friend, I miss you so much, hope I can see you again, can look at your lovely eyes, can hold you in my heart, and can kiss you like kissing a little brother at home.

March 27, 1969. Heard that the Area Medical Hospital plans to bring me back there. First, it is only news, but why do I feel so sad? If it is an order, then I just have to accept it; what else can I say? But my God! Why so sad? I will leave this place, going up to the Province so far away and come to the Area… then when can I see all these friends that I love? Is there any other place like this piece of land, this land which has nurtured me with love, challenged me, trained me, bringing me up in the hardships, building me and supporting me to be a strong cadre?

His letter came; he worries about me, loves me, but he doesn’t know that I have to be away from him. But when we are apart will we both become weak? When only separating to go back to the village I cannot stand it, so how will I manage when I have to leave him to go up to the Area?

April 2, 1969. The enemy sent troops to Dong Ram*; from there to here is not even 30 minutes, so we must again prepare a defense against another sweep.

Tonight the dispensary is very calm in its preparation. I don’t understand why I feel sorry for the wounded comrades. They are not recovered yet have to climb from this mountain to another to hide from the enemy. They cannot find peace when their wounds still hurt. The American pirates are still here so we will still have sorrow; nothing changes.

April 5, 1969. If you knew how much I am waiting for you then you would be here today, already holding my hand and not saying anything, but we would understand enough what we want to say to each other. It rains very hard, is cold and very sad. Do you understand this dear young man?

April 6, 1969. Why? Why am I so happy when I see you after many days apart? After so many days my missing you is like the river flood waters after many days of rain. Why is there a sadness preventing me from coming to you with the kind heart which you should receive? It’s because of worrying discussions, misunderstanding a precious, simple love which is also deep and complex. Deep love doesn’t need to be talked about, but the complication is that why do I still worry when our hearts are clear as mirrors? When you hold my hand, love me and kiss me we should not have to worry, but we still must think about other people misunderstanding. My dear young man, of course nothing can penetrate our precious and beautiful affections, but I want to protect them and don’t want anyone saying anything about what is between us. Please don’t blame me when I don’t treat you like a young brother in public. Do you understand, wonderful young man, courageous and worthy of admiration?

April 7, 1969. Received a lot of letters and am very happy; letters from mother, from my sister, from friends, from the District, Province, village, and hamlet…everyone sent me their love. All that praise makes me happy. “Tram is loved by all, the Party believes… really a perfectly educated person.”

I don’t know how many times I have asked myself what I must do to be worthy of their faith.

Tan’s letter causes me to think also. He told me about himself and asked: “Whether I am close or far away depends on you, and do you think of me as a brother you are close to?” I admire him very much, not because he is the village secretary. I hope that by being close to him, he will teach me like an elder brother. But I worry that others will misunderstand and think that I only want to be close to a “big person”. But then maybe they won’t.

April 8, 1969. The enemy came near the water pipe; just a little farther and then everything in the clinic would have been finished. Why was I still so calm when I knew that the enemy was that close? After sending the wounded soldiers to hide, I returned to the operating room. I wanted to see if I still had enough courage and was smart enough to continue making decisions like normal or not. Finally the enemy didn’t arrive and I was able to sleep soundly in the mess left from the evacuation.

April 9, 1969. Attended the District Group meeting and my ideas were given great attention being discussed very carefully by the comrades. I am very sorry that I have been too busy to contribute much more to the young people’s work.

I don’t know why at the meeting table I was suddenly comparing this to the times I played with Vinh, Xe, Quang and all the working girls. At that time I was just “naughty sister Thuy” to them, and now I am a cadre with the heavy responsibilities handed to me by the Party in their faith in me.

April 11, 1969. With only a brief few moments away from the crowd of people, I wonder how I can still feel and understand those two eyes speaking of peace and quiet with deep sympathy. Farewell beloved black eyes, ok?

April 12, 1969. Waiting for something… something which makes me unsatisfied and so very unhappy. What more do I want? Everyone loves me and cares about me, and life still gives me the color of blue hope spread out before me, although there are some clouds covering my corner of the sky.

So, is it the job which is worrying me? Perhaps that is the reason; the job is so heavy that no one can complete it so I can’t guarantee the quality of my performance.

And is there anything else? Is sadness and thinking still pressing on my heart? When will my heart belong to the Party? However… the Party does say that the heart of a Communist knows only reason. I understand work, but still keep hope and love, so I still cannot be blamed!

April 16, 1969. One more person I care for of the people I love in the South. Does that mean you Tan? I am a little confused because even with the thousands of busy jobs you have as cadre secretary of the village you still save for me from the North all your thoughts, worries, and care. Exactly like Nghi wrote today in his letter from the North: “Our revolution is really a miracle”, because it opens love and opens my eyes to see a more beautiful world, where the flame of emotion is brighter today even though life is still hard and full of sorrow”.

My dear Tan, you can believe in me, believe my true heart, and believe in the true devotion of my young heart.

April 17, 1969. Sitting by him listening to his tired burning breath go through the thin blanket covering his body I feel very sad. I want to hold him in my heart to share his weariness; I want to hold him in my arms just as a mother holds a sick child. This emotion is very right but… in this world who understands this precious affection? It’s not that they don’t have eyes to see the truth, but there is always terrible gossip.

Very sad, when will society be finished with these backward ideas? When will people live complete with loving hearts and the bright spirits that I hope for?

My dear young man; please understand the love in the hand I put softly on your forehead, the look filled with care for you instead of the world.

April 22, 1969. Very sad when we say good-bye, not because we don’t have time to talk with each other but because I cannot show enough of my affections for him. With him it is the same; he sat next to me with his eyes so sad, unable to continue speaking because of his excitement. “I never told you that this time when far away I dreamed I lived next to you. But I cannot. When we are apart this time when will we see each other again?”

What can I answer? What am I going to say when my heart is also sad and it seems like there is something to worry about. The cruel month of May will come; the blood and bones will still pour out because of the final victory. If you are one of the heroes… what will happen? You tell me that if you die, then I must still feel you are close by, still recall your familiar shadow, and still hear your lovely voice. You don’t say that it will be that way, but if that happens how painful it will be.

How can I feel perfect happiness if you are not in this world anymore? No! You are always next to me; don’t go anywhere my dear young man!

April 24, 1969. The first thing I learned was: “Don’t so easily trust people”. Love is proven by practical things, not only through letters: study this lesson Thuy! Life is still filled with those worms of position. All those thorns from seeds compete with each other little by little for prestige and interest. So it is not surprising, but tell yourself to be more and more vigilant. I have seen this already M and Nghia; is this not a lesson for me?

Oh my dear little girl! 26, 27 years old already but your spirit is still not as strong as that of a person’s half your age. You have to stop dreaming of a child’s life, you have to think more offensively, of duty. You have to be more clever and add the tricks of someone in a position which many people are eager to be in.

My dear Thuy… you want to live with pure belief, with fresh hope, and warm love the perfect life, but it cannot be done!

April 26, 1969. Xuyen came back bringing not good news but rather sad news. I try to act naturally in conversation but my heart aches. He is still sick and tired but difficulties and dangers continue to threaten him. I imagine the sad shining eyes in the pale thin face of this young man, and I don’t know what I will do to protect this young man I care for.

April 27, 1969. Maybe there is nothing sadder than to flee and leave all the houses empty of anything or anyone. This afternoon when I returned to the clinic, the enemy was not far away. I looked back at all those empty houses and my heart filled with hate. Those roofs which took so much of our strength and work, how much sweat is soaked into every wall and every stone which is in this office. If we leave when will we have another place like this? I am not only sad but my heart is so heavy with worry and thought mixed with great sadness.

Last night as I dreamed a peaceful scene came to me in this mess of an empty evacuated house. I dreamt about Ha Noi, with the cool rooms and the yellow painted door of Chu Van An School, dreamt about the song book with the pictures of little Thanh Tra with the yellow silk hair and the white chrysanthemums of Hao* painted on the first page. And I saw my parents, my uncle Hien*, brother Buu and all the beloved people in the North. Oh! This dream is not only mine: the dream of peace and independence burns hot in the hearts of 30 million Vietnamese people, and also in the hearts of the worlds 3 billion people.

Tonight the moon is gloomy in the calm and silent jungle; everything is so still it seems to protect the quietness of the clinic. Sitting by myself on the chair in front of the operating room I am silent looking at the surrounding scene… I cannot stop a deep regret soaking into my heart. Tomorrow the clinic will move to comply with the new tactics against the enemy mop-up operations.

April 28, 1969. Even though we had a plan of resistance when the time came there was still trouble. This morning following the meeting with the leader of the clinic last night, all the seriously wounded soldiers and the ones who had difficulty walking moved to the Party School, because we found that the enemy could easily get to the clinic.

It was not yet 6 o’clock when I pushed them to move the wounded, so I could bring things and follow. After carrying them up the hill to the Party School I encouraged them to return to bring the remaining 3 wounded people left behind.

After not even 30 minutes some guns fired close by. I thought that the enemy had already arrived at where we were standing guard, so I turned back to tell the wounded soldiers to protect themselves. They hadn’t time to do anything before the frightened guerilla troops ran in to report that the enemy had already reached the watering spot so all the people hurried away. All of the strength needed to carry the wounded soldiers hadn’t returned yet, leaving only me, Tam, and a few first phase students preparing to go home to carry 5 patients. “We cannot leave the wounded so we have to try to move them all comrades”. I said that but felt worried and confused because in front of me stood a few weak and skinny children. The situation was very dangerous; Tan and Quang hurried back to tell us that the enemy had already arrived at the canal where we bathed. A few wounded soldiers were carried away leaving only Kiem, with a broken leg, with us. I didn’t know what to do but called Ly, the little girl student, to came and help us move Kiem. Kiem is very big, so was too heavy for two of us to carry. Trying very hard, I could only drag him toward the house a little ways. Not knowing what to do I found another person to come and help. Fortunately I saw Minh and Co, both of whom had just met the enemy. The enemy had shot comrade Van already. We few moved Kiem to a hole to hide for awhile.

After an hour we regrouped the wounded soldiers, leaving only Van and 9 cadres behind. We decided to move to a deep tunnel, using the position and food of the 120th Unit following a plan that we had made the day before.

An extremely difficult morning, perhaps the same as another time when the dispensary was bombed and attacked but harder this time because we didn’t know who to lean on. Some few of the people who never before had to move the wounded soldiers because they were so weak this time had to carry one and to climb up and down hills and to cross rivers to get to the new position.

Tired and hungry but I and all the comrades still remain calm. Anyway, we have grown a lot after these few cruel years.

At 4 o’clock we arrived in position and night came to a forest filled with moonlight. After examining the wounded nothing important had changed so I returned to lie down, putting my head on my hands and looking at the moon I could not stop thinking.

Two whole years already and it is April, the same season I arrived at (literally “returned to”) Duc Pho to accept the job when the clinic was destroyed after an engagement. Now it is April again… the April sun in the South is very bright and hate is burning like the summer sun. This afternoon from the top of a high mountain I looked down on the clinic, seeing the rising smoke which made my tears fall. So that is how so much sweat and work, how so much of the peoples’ property which had been used to support the wounded soldiers from then until today become smoke and ash! What can I say all my comrades? What more can I say than the steadfast philosophy of the Vietnamese people: “There is no other way but to fight until no imperialist American is in our land: at that time we can have happiness”.

April 29, 1969. I woke up at 1:30 this morning. The forest is so silent in the gloomy moonlight. The Liberation Station* is playing classical Vietnamese music. The voice and the words of the song fill the listener’s heart with sadness. I feel suddenly homesick. Is it the forest’s late night’s scenery which makes me feel so lonely? Is it the hardship of having no house to live in that makes me think about the warm room inside with my parents and all my family? But my dear Thuy, it’s not only you who is without a house to sleep in: besides you there are 40 people including the soldiers with still painful wounds who have to stand the same conditions, and also the thousands and thousands of Southerners also sunk in fire, sorrow, and hate. Did you think about that, Thuy?

May 2, 1969. In my difficulties I am not alone; around me are all the friends and young men concerned about the dispensary’s situation. In all the letters which arrive there is one which makes me extremely excited, a letter filled with love and concern for me. Thanks a lot everyone! I promise that I will remain calm to meet all difficulties, standing strong in a victor’s position.

May 3, 1969. Almost a year since I have been back to Pho Cuong, this friendly land that I feel is like my homeland is still the same. All of the civilians including people I know and don’t know welcome me very enthusiastically, but I don’t feel happy. Of all the people I love, I met not a one. Dang is sick again; she is mad at me because no matter what she says I still don’t want to stay more than a day. The girl’s anger doesn’t mean anything but it saddens me. Lying next to her looking at the bright moon I still cannot sleep. My dear young man, why aren’t you here? Why are you not here to share my emotions when I am waiting for you? I know that I am wrong, because I can’t blame anyone: the Americans are still here, so how can anyone travel? But I still am unhappy! Oh! My dear little Thuy! You are still a child, you are still letting love control the things that your mind knows very clearly.

May 11, 1969. We began building a clinic. Everyone concentrates on that job; only I, Lien, Vinh, Sau, and Sang stay away to care for the wounded soldiers.

This afternoon is sweltering; the wind can’t come into this Valley and the air is so heavy. In the sky the enemy planes roar fiercely. Sounds of bombs and of guns never cease… A heavy worry presses on my heart. There are only the few cadres with six wounded patients that must be moved. All the property is collected here, and from here it is very hard to make a retreat. If the enemy troops are sent down, what can we do?

From now until the day of victory will not be long, but there is in this part of the journey how much blood and bones my dear comrade? It’s never sad, but I feel sacrifice is naturally the first concern of everyone at this phase.

May 12, 1969. All the conversations with Long make me think a lot. I haven’t just met him today, but have known him since the difficult days of building the clinic. That Second Leader with the skinny body and white skin looked at me very friendly with happy eyes. “Try hard, try hard to learn to be an adult and a leader.” His rolled up his pants and shirt and waded in the rain going to work with all the people. Not too much later he left. Although he didn’t stay with me very long he cares for me and all the letters he sends are always filled with love and concern for me. Thuan and Ky many times brought his name up. “A very rare person” Thuan once said, and “In my life I have only admired two people for their way of life and they are you and Long”. This young man by loving me has encouraged me, but really Long does the same.

Lying there listening to him tell about the days of work he went through I shouted: “I can learn a lot of good things from you if I can be close to you”. My real hope is that I can go back to work with him. If nothing else changes maybe this will come true.

May 13, 1969. I went down to Pho Cuong after the fighting there. It still smells like a battlefield. The Army is dealing with the wounded and the dead. I don’t understand why the joy of victory (killed 98 of the enemy, shot down one HU-1A*, and one tank) still cannot overcome the sadness. Is that only my feeling or is it that of all the people? 15 comrades sacrificed and 21 wounded is not a small number.

The village and hamlet are very quiet; the guns of the enemy’s reaction are exploding like popcorn. I am not afraid but feel hateful and thoughtful.

I’m sitting next to him (that is what we both hope for) but why isn’t my happiness complete? In the dark one can only see the starlight and the brightness of enemy guns; I try very hard to look into his eyes and to see what he wants to say but can only see the same love as before.

He and I are the same; satisfaction is never in our faces, jobs and loves, always feeling incomplete. Is that eagerness for improvement or an ambition too much for either of us?

May 18, 1969. The war continues, all day and night the sounds of guns firing continue, the sound of planes still shouts and yells in the air, and every night the light from the guns brightens all corners of the sky in the direction of the District. The struggle day by day is more terrible and more cruel; our troops day and night are close to the fighting, the burning, bombs and bullets making their skins dark. All my dear Liberation brothers, in thousands of hardships and dangers you are the ones who must take the most, your blood is running and is soaking the flag and all the land you are protecting. This moment I feel deeply that your sacrifice and courage is so sacred and precious. The entire South is on the offensive; your people are everywhere throughout this large land. In everyplace there are footsteps of brave men. I know there are many of you coming from Socialism. Many of you come from peace and now step into this scene of fire and bullets. A few days ago I met a few white skinned young spies with down still on their cheeks. I think that they are high-school students who have just left their pens to take guns and make their way against the Americans to save the Country. All the Country is on the way, all the Country has thrown itself into battle, we must defeat the invading American pirates, and for sure they must return our independence and freedom.

May 19, 1969. Why do I treat him like that? I might make him sad, but I am just that way. It seems to everyone that I am the same, and sometimes I cause the people that I love to be angry or sad. It is not my character to be that way, but it happens because my emotions are so complicated… I ask too much of the people I love. As for material things I never ask for anything, but in matters of the spirit I ask a great deal. Thuan many times has told me that except for his parents, he loves me most of all in the whole world. But sometimes I still doubt his affections. I heard that the situation in Pho Cung is very tense. I know that he is having a very difficult time and want to tell him good things. Instead I sent a letter with only a few words full of blame. My dear young man, I always love you, but love is not always about sunshine and beautiful mornings, peaceful afternoons or evenings full of moonlight safe in the rice fields. Love is also a storm after a sweat-filled summer. That is it! To be a friend of this petty bourgeoise is most complicated.

May 20, 1969. Almost was killed once again. This morning a few HU1As and one helicopter fired into the deep trenches. I sat and saw the extent of their reconnaissance which worried me a great deal. Indeed after a round came close to the tree tops, they found a room full of wounded soldiers. The sound of a grenade exploded close to my ears, the flash blazing bright and the smoke covering the house. Everyone hurriedly evacuated to the trench which at this time was dry but there was really no escape. The helicopter left and I ran to the room of wounded soldiers. Everyone including the ones who could not move had gone to the trenches when the helicopter had turned away, its appearance becoming smaller. Grenades went off continuously around the building, and there were the sounds of rocket explosions by the hill where room number one is.

I turned to Minh; a wounded army comrade waited for help, but what could we do Minh, except to sit here?

I thought about all the people I love north and south and said to myself: “To die is so simple. Everyone waits with disappointment”. But the group of devils fired and destroyed for awhile and then they left.

I ran to move all the wounded soldiers. Tired but happy I carried Kham on my back: after the firing there were casualties, but that (carrying Kham) was the happiest (task). This same day all the groups moved to a new position. Oh my God! All these hardships to reach the end!

May 23, 1969. Returned to Pho Cuong to work, a gloomy night and to start out I stayed at Hanh’s house. “Never use a knife to stop your own bleeding”. No, this is true but I don’t do it that way.

May 24, 1969. I was back in Pho Cuong when the fighting started. At 2 o’clock the guns started firing; bombs, bullets, and planes all making distinct sounds, the sounds always heard in war films. Listening to the gunfire I worried; we were close to the battle zone. I had no time to go anywhere when I saw Thuan run out never caring about the planes over his head to tell me to return to the foxhole and hide.

That night we spent on the battlefield. The enemy actions were fierce; jets and bombs everywhere, two warplanes turning on their lights to pour line by line of bullets into the battle. In the night every round lighted red firing into the action and into my heart as well. Who was hit by all that fire? Was it all of you my Liberation troops, brothers who were with me last night on the road? Lam, Den… and how many others. All night I could not sleep; worry and hate made my heart so heavy.

May 25, 1969. These days living close to him proved more than the words that he said. Indeed he treated no one else the way he treated me. In this way was shown all the meaning of and ideas about his affections for me: his respect, his concern and his trying hard to care about me, his conversation, his look, the cup of tea he brought me and the shot he asked to give me when I was sick. Everything shows that he cares for me more than for anyone else. Isn’t that right dear young man?

June 4, 1969. These days are still tense; the enemy put troops near our building, they yelled and cut down the trees filling all the forest with noise. The clinic is very quiet and nervous. While working at Pho Cuong I heard the report so I stood still and worried, with a bowl of rice in my hand I still could not eat. Why is it always like this? Just finished building a few days before and must flee again. When can we get on with our duty? Worried, sad, and angry: will it ever be different or will we run like this always?

June 5, 1969. There is more of the enemy so we cannot stay here any longer. Tonight all the cadres and wounded soldiers will lead each other to run into Pho Cuong in the dark; we cannot see each other but maybe we can feel enough to know that the faces of the cadres and wounded soldiers are filled with sorrow and sadness. I went to make contact and learn the situation and didn’t return until late at night when all the men were finished dinner and lay on the floor of Dan’s house, a few of them asleep already. The rest were moaning with pain.

We left 3 of the wounded there because no one could carry them. A member of the cadre leaders was still there and I needed to return. Not knowing where the enemy was, going back at this time was really dangerous, but what could I do even in the face of death? My job demanded that I return.

Very late at night and no one had closed their eyes. Thuan sat silent next to me, not saying anything until he said good-bye, then just a short sentence: “I don’t know what you will do, but I worry too much”. Before I could finish saying: “I give this bag to you; inside is a notebook…” I wanted to continue with: “If I don’t return then please keep this book and later mail it back to my family”, but I did not finish. In the gloomy moonlight both of us could tell from our eyes the great sadness of our parting. He and all the others left, with only me left on the veranda of Tinh’s house. I don’t understand the tears which ran down my cheek. Were you crying Thuy? Don’t: please be courageous and strong. Please keep the smile on your face always even though thousands and thousands of difficulties and dangers threaten you.

June 11, 1969. The Provincial Government started up, an historic event, the Revolution taking a long important step. I’m happy because it is a victory, but more than that I feel the cruelty of the battlefield. All day and night the air is noisy with bombings, the jets’ firing guns, the helicopters, the HU1A circling overhead. The forest is filled with the scars of bombs and bullets. All the remaining trees were red because of the poisons. All the cadres are affected by the poisons, very tired, with no strength to eat. Everyone encourages themselves and their comrades but still there is worry on their faces and behind their faces: it seems they are shadowed with sorrow.

June 13, 1969. I went down to Pho Cuong, happy because this time I hoped to have a chance to live in the affections of close friends for one or two days before the engagement began.

I had just arrived when Thuan reported that we should prepare to meet the wounded from the 120th Unit* which had been fighting in the District. Three were seriously wounded, one of them Tam. Hearing that, I concentrated only on the medical problems. At 10 o’clock they arrived: comrade Loi very seriously hurt and almost dead, comrade Thanh’s wound not so bad but not good, and Tam… the little Pho Cuong boy with the very nice singing voice, big eyes, and very lovely personality… one leg was lost to a mine. He lay motionless in very serious condition. All my attention was to save him, but my heart was full of sorrow. It’s not only that there was so much bleeding, but that there remained so much, much more. “Be strengthened young man!” I talked to him and worried so much. All the long night no-one wanted to sleep, but worry and sorrow made me tired. At 3 o’clock in the morning I got up; he (Thuan) sent me on the road up the hill. My dear young man, don’t ever let misfortune happen to you, do you hear me?

June 16, 1969. All the memorable days which I will never forget, but what will I think of when I remember them: sadness, happiness, regrets, or something else? I already know how to do very well in all situations when emotions are so complex.

June 17, 1969. Isn’t it only the sorrow of love? If it were only that there wouldn’t be that fire-like burning, I wouldn’t have the strength to control all my thinking about love for a person. How can I explain? Before this, now, and later I always force my heart to follow the thinking of my mind, so I never make all the mistakes others make.

But here is a thing which surprises me about hard decisions…because if what I said is wrong then it isn’t right, but if what I said is right then it still isn’t right. What can I do? Oh! Life is so complicated and this cruel war makes life a thousand times more complex.

It’s late at night but the sky is still bright: is it because of the firing and flashes of the guns, or is it because of bright eyes shining with love? Is it the summer’s heat or the heat of emotion which leaves me breathless? Sadness and happiness mix together, but what is happiness? There is only sadness pressing heavily on my heart, a heart eager and thirsty for love but understanding the kind of love which will make it feel alive. This heart can only accept clean and clear blood and cannot accept diseased blood. Of course if there is no blood the heart will die, but it would rather die and remain the bright, precious heart of a genuine communist.

June 18, 1969. I received a letter from the family, one filled with peaceful colors. All the streets are red with summer flowers and the small room is filled with the fragrant scent of lotus. The familiar radio cabinet stands in the middle of the house. Oh! My dear bother and sister, that scene is far away… your sister Thuy only knows the gunfire at night and the smell of fire in her nose. The day that we said good-bye was so heavy, sad, and sorry… I felt so depressed when I read your letter.

At this time many people were leaving to go north. They were very happy to leave, but when they came to say good-bye didn’t show this happiness. But for me, I was smiling, happy to send them on their way. Afterwards I stayed by myself, not knowing what to say. My dear Thuy, don’t be sad, promise that tomorrow when the country is independent that you will also return north at a time when happiness will be complete.

June 25, 1969. The enemy arrived very early in the morning so with nothing yet to eat we had to run… more than a year and a half and needing to go to the foxholes again, the weather’s heat making me so tired. The situation with the enemy is very tense; their troops operating in all three hamlets of the village. The American soldiers, the enemy and the police fight with each other. The foxhole in which I lay was not that far from the enemy. Four of us went into it but didn’t pull on the cover because of the heat. It was noon already and Tan stood guard though he seemed tired. He sat down next to me to tell me about the enemy’s mopping-up operation. Suddenly we heard their yells and Tan looked out and hurried to close the cover. The enemy came up as close as 5 meters away from where we hid and the cover, closed hurriedly, was still exposed. I heard the enemies step on the wild pineapple plants and their calls shouted back and forth to each other. At my side Tan whispered in my ear: “If we are discovered what can we do?”

Then die!

No, I don’t want that, because for me it is alright, but for you what will your parents think about that…

Then he looked at me so worried and filled with care. I turned away and didn’t look back again. In those eyes were the words Khoriuchia said to Pavel in prison. I felt so sorry for him and for myself but there was no alternative. I would still do as Pavel did in that situation.

This war is so hard; I hope to stand strong as a communist.

Giau’s death surprised me! In the fighting today, spies showed them Giau’s hiding place and the mines and bullets of the bloodthirsty enemy killed him and 5 other guerillas. Just last night I met him at Xuan Thanh, as the new leader of the Pho Cuong medics he was happy to see me again. He was so different form the other times I had met him. Maybe of all the things Thuan gave him to do there was one thing Thuan didn’t mention and that was the responsibility to protect me, a village cadre and a person he cares for. Giau accepted that duty with diligence. He took Thuan’s place to escort me to work from one location to another. Late at night he led me to Thuan’s house and spoke with him: “Now let Thuy stay with you or go back with me”. Thuan laughed and said: “It depends on you”. Giau let me stay with Thuan. “Please protect Tram, okay?” He didn’t leave until late that night.

I didn’t think that night as I walked around with him on the circuitous path in the village, and ate with him those melons and the rice soup late at night with his warm family that it would be the last time.

Tonight there is still me, the moonlight, and the same situation, but Giau lies peaceful in the ground already.

His young wife with a child in her arms sits still as a corpse. I don’t know what to say to her and my tears almost came when I heard her say with a voice charged with emotion: “He is already safe, but you and Thuan have to try to stay safe to keep from losing everything”.

Oh God! What else can I have except revenge…revenge for all the people who have fallen, and also for the people still alive in the sorrow and deep hatreds in our hearts?

This young woman looked at me one more time and with black eyes said to me in the calm: “Why is life so short? We must do something so that we are not sorry when we die”.

June 29, 1969. Death still continues to make the hearts of the living bleed. A wounded soldier with his leg cut off by a mine came to the dispensary at 3:15. It was Lieu, a village comrade from Pho Cuong… not so long ago he led me to hide in the trenches, today…

Looking at him my heart burns with worry. If all the people that I love meet this fate what will happen, and if this stays the same, then what?

July 7, 1969. I said good-by to the Southerners as I left to go north to work for awhile. This afternoon I left Pho Cuong to go the tragic way and started on the life-ordeath section of road called Khe Sanh*.

Leaving the familiar beloved land I felt excited and began already to miss it. I am so bound up in this poor land. The mothers, the young women, the local cadre and the guerillas all seem to know and love me. Walking anywhere in the village I would hear familiar voices saying hello “second sister” and all the friendly hands would hold mine tight.

And can anything compare with the true deep affection that this young man has given me? He sat there with his head on the table worried and sorry for me when he saw that I was going into danger. His hands held mine tight and I felt him tremble with emotion and worry. He asked: “Are you coming back to me?”

I wanted to encourage him so hid my concern about whether I might survive at “Khe Sanh”. I continued to smile but my heart was so pained that this might be the last time we saw each other.

Dear young man! How can I reduce your image small enough to carry with me through these days of hardship, and why have you given your affections so completely to me?

Well, good-bye everyone: I hope to see you all again in happiness.

July 8, 1969. I returned to the familiar house at Pho Hiep* with its dried fruit trees at the edge of the village well and saw Nghia and Thuong there.

Nghia and I talked for the afternoon, but it was not enough time to mend the break in our affections. But I still liked the fact that “the sky is blue and clear again after the rains and storm”. I forgave him all his mistakes and felt happy when I saw that he returned to our previous relationship.

At night I went to Khe Sanh and everyone worried about me. Tan and Cho accompanied me to Vinh Phuoc*, the young woman worrying about me which made me sad. Before this I didn’t realize the extent of her affections. Possibly because Thuan worried so much she had to follow, but I now discovered her true devotion. From the strategic road to the pond until mealtime, Cho took care of me all the way, even with a bowl of rice and a piece of fish. For awhile she sighed: “I worry too much, how can you go to Khe Sanh where the bullets are like rain? What can you do there if you are left, or should I go with you and then return?” I touched her hand and said: “Don’t worry, I can go by myself; if something unfortunate should happen then no one will know”. But that night at Khe Sanh there was no fire or grenades at all. It seemed that the enemy felt sorry for the weak legs of a girl who lives in love and amongst people who cared for her since she was small.

July 12, 1969. All the days which weren’t busy I had a lot of time to think. What does a girl with a love-filled heart think about that makes her eyes spin with sadness? Of course I miss them so my heart will not calm down. My entire group from the South, those are all people I love… perhaps they still worry about me. My black eyes will lie awake in the long night when listening to the bombs and bullets in the North. Standing out here I try very hard to look through the mountain in order to see the Southerners and recognize the rumble of the mountain at Pho Quong. I miss them so much!

I left them with a thousand difficulties: maybe Trung is dead already; maybe the broken arm didn’t heal… maybe all of the men and women have to work very hard. I feel sorry for Tu, Ky, Lanh, and Lien…

One thing which hurts is the affections of this young man; this kind of love does not bring bright happiness, but instead causes worry, sadness and thought. What can I tell him now? It seems that there is something which can destroy it which before we didn’t feel, so it infringes on our affections. What will happen in life?

July 14, 1965. Today is Father’s birthday. I remember this day among the fire and explosions of bombs. Just yesterday fire killed 5 and wounded 2. I also lay under heavy artillery fire. Everyone still hasn’t gotten over the surprise and worry, but I am still like before! Longing, worry, and thinking press heavily on my heart. My dear Parents, young brothers and sisters there, do you understand and see the life over here? Life is extremely courageous, extremely harsh… to die is easier than to eat, but people still have the patience to fight. I am one of those thousands of people; I live with the Struggle and think about tomorrow. I will perish for the country, tomorrow’s victory song will not include me. I am proud to offer all my life for the country. Of course I am also sad because I cannot continue to live a peaceful and happy life: I am one of those people who give their blood and bones in order to take back the country. But what is so special about that? Millions and millions of people like me have fallen already yet have never enjoyed one happy day, so I am never sorry.

This afternoon was very sad, I miss him so much. What is he doing right now? I thought I saw him lying in a hammock, but with his eyes very sad and his face thin because he missed me. My dear young man, what can I say to you now?

July 16, 1969. I don’t know what people think when they stand and watch the robbing American planes. This afternoon was like other afternoons; the fighter planes circled the village and then fired a rocket into Pho An 13 village*. Afterwards 2 jets turned away from each other and dropped heavy bombs which exploded with fire and smoke… the square bombs shining in the sun falling to earth and becoming a red ball of fire followed by black smoke all around the sky. The sound of the planes is still there. Every time like that when many bombs drop the explosions deafen you and make your head hurt.

From a place not too far away I quietly watched, my heart filled with hate for those burning fires. Who is burning? In the explosions who is burning in the bomb craters? The old lady sitting next to me looked in the direction of the village and said: “That is where Hung’s wife’s mother lives.” Oh! My dear Vietnamese citizen heroes, perhaps in this world there is no one who stands so much hardship and sorrow as the courageous Southerners.

July 19, 1969. The class of Gynecologists left as a number of people had to go to duties far away from home. Hai went to Gia Lai*. The letter she sent back was filled with scrawled writing and tears. I felt so sorry for her. Only duty to the Party makes people leave like that. When I got into the vehicle which started me south, I too cried tears of sorrow and longing for my family, but I cried also for the honor. Now she has left, going with tears of sadness and sorrow on her face. Before going she wiped away her tears because she is a Party member.

Travel continues to be like that. I met many people because of the missions they had to go on, but I’m not sure they were proud enough when they traveled that honorable road. Why? That is very easy to understand, because the battlefield asks for so much and the rear lines have given all to the front lines long ago. Is that what it means, that there is something to show for the right thoughts in my mind?

July 22, 1969. A rainy afternoon away from home. Sadness, loneliness and thoughts like rain hiding the sky. I feel that I am to blame… in the fire of the country why is my heart naturally weak? But it is really not that it’s raining, or that the house is not strong enough to shed rain or that the lovely scenery makes me sad, Might it be that these few days after returning to the delta I felt extremely lonely? With all the mornings when the sun came out of the ocean, or the afternoons when the sun set on the far away rice fields and those moonlit nights on the white beach sands… all beautiful scenes but I still didn’t feel happy. How can I be happy when day by day sorrow and death still press into our lives? Yesterday in an operation the enemy came to the village and killed 5 people, and every afternoon bombs fall like rain on the village.

How can I be happy when everyone there worries and misses each other? A short letter arrived full of worry and love. All those people care for me and remind me to be strong, worrying about me constantly. What can I say?

This afternoon a letter came saying that you were preparing to leave for Area 6*. Hearing that, I felt sorrow as if I had received very sad news. You go… and the firm place I lean on here in the South will be lost. That is because no one else cares about me and understands me like you do. Even M does not care for me like this young man. It is strange, but there is really no other love like this affection, like the love between brother and sister, the true care in the family of the Revolution.

July 23. 1969. An American lighter has my name inscribed on it next to the name of a beloved comrade. Dao handed it to me and asked who was it from? I smiled without thinking, and then returned it to him, but when I left I was confused. My dear M! Why did you put my name next to yours? Why? Because of our previous dreams, or because your deep love is still there, or because of a thoughtless reaction? No one really does any thing without meaning. M you are not that kind of person, but dear M! You must tell me why you wrote my name next to that of the Liberation soldier which you always described as “not suitable for a girl medical student”.

July 24, 1969. I met Sang again in the delta. He didn’t think that he would see me so he stood still, happiness and surprise making him speechless. He is preparing to go north, so he invited me to visit. Out of respect I followed him. It was raining hard as we walked across the rice fields filled with water at Pho Van. We wanted to get out of the rain at his friend’s house but it had just been burned by the Americans, with only a piece of metal left to cover the seat of the owner and guests. I felt that it wasn’t convenient for us to stay and asked Sang to leave, but the friend was sad and asked “Why don’t you eat here and then go? Are you worried that the rice will not be cooked completely?” We hadn’t planned to stay and eat and the rice wasn’t well cooked because the rain fell as solid water. The fire grew smaller until only a few pieces of wood were burning in the kitchen, the pot boiling less and less because the fire finally went out and the rain fell into the rice pot. Is there a movie with scenes like this or not? A simple scene but to the people it says a lot about cruel war crimes. In the number of people sheltering from the rain there was a cadre who told the story of when the enemy first came destroying and burning. On that day in the wealthy village only a few homes were burned. New Years came and the landowner took the food offering to worship at a burned door in the middle of his roofless house. He, the cadre, came to visit with all the relatives and saw this scene and became excited. To encourage and cheer the victims he pointed out that now all in the village were the same. So he laughed at the scene this afternoon. “We are not defeated by them. Burn this one and we will build another: it’s not too difficult; just a few pieces of wood will be enough.” Life in war makes people minimize their needs. Life is only fighting and duty: all that is needed is a pot of rice and fish sauce, a piece of nylon stretched across a trench and a yoke inside with enough clothing, rice, potatoes, salt, and fish sauce, all ready to carry away when the enemy comes.

My dear Sang, travel to the North and tell the people who are living in the land of Socialism that in the South there is still sorrow... that only when it is rid of all the American pirates will we really have a life. That is all.

July 26, 1969. The guerrillas carrying ammunition back through Khe Sanh were attacked by the Americans at Cua Mountain*. Only a few Americans were on guard, but the rest slept like they were dead. Some of my comrades got close and recognized the Americans lying all over the rocks. Because they hurried one of them fell by a hole, but didn’t fall in because of a stone. The Americans triggered a mine but there were no casualties. At one o’clock in the morning they returned to Pho An* to meet Hung (army leader of the village), to find a place to stay and to tell their story. I came out from lying in the trench to listen. I didn’t think Thuan’s youngest brother Nhieu was part of this group but in the morning heard that Nga and Man were part of the unit, so I knew that this was Nhieu. I feel sorry for this young man, and ran to find him, but the enemy was active so his brother took him to hide. I was very sorry about that, hoping to meet him so I could hold his hand to cheer and to encourage him with a sister’s care. My dear young man, your image is that of the young brother I think about and miss night and day.

The way you go is not sure, and your heart is full of hardships. I wish you to go with firm steps.

July 27, 1969. The village was attacked at 1830. Everyone eating dinner hurried, leaving their bowls, with yokes on their shoulders to get away from the enemy. I didn’t follow the family I live with. I planned that if something happened to get into the hole and sit and continue eating my dinner, but the bullets fired overhead. Tam and Hung returned when it got dark, saw that it was not safe so decided to leave again. I went to Pho Quang*, they ran to 18*. Chin was too slow, so I went ahead.

As darkness fell I walked by myself between the villages with no one around. I felt sorry for myself and went to Phuong’s house, empty with trees all blown over by artillery and still smelling of fire. The shell holes were in front of the yard and in the road. I ran to Thinh’s house and she let me know that everyone had run to the paddy dikes already. By now she couldn’t take me there because of the gun fire. Indeed we hadn’t finished talking when guns exploded next to us, and the fire burned bright all around. I had to stay at Thinh’s. Tonight was a night I had to stay with no one to care for me but normally friendly civilians. After 3 years I go everywhere without ever worrying because even in the tensest situations I feel safe with all the people to protect me: by depending on them I have nothing to worry about. Tonight I was alone for the first time since coming south: I worry that if the enemy carries out their mopping-up operations where will I go? If they attack here tonight what will I do? Who will let me use a foxhole? Lying in the covered trench was hot so both of us went into the yard to sleep. The sound of mosquitoes kept me awake, or was it the thoughts going around in my head? The radio’s last announcements came very late but I still couldn’t sleep. I sat up and looked carefully into the darkness at the sound of a barking dog. Suddenly an unreasonable hope was burning in my heart, a hope that on the road would appear a loved one, a young man who would meet me so perhaps when I saw him I could put my face on his strong arm, my tears soaking his sleeve, and I would be quiet… I cannot explain this.

Why didn’t I think of anyone but him? That’s easy to understand, because in all the dangers and hardships here in the South he has taken care of me and protected me because he cares for and likes me. He has never let me be sorry: even a small task he won’t let me do myself, or even a short distance he won’t let me go by myself. Now tonight what is he doing? Does he realize that I am helpless and lost?

July 29, 1969. The war is so cruel: this morning a wounded soldier was carried in who was burned all over by phosphorous, arriving only an hour after he was hurt so that his burns still smoked. He is young, only 20 years old, the only son of a cadre in the village where I am now living. An unfortunate accident that the phosphorous exploded and he was burned so seriously that no one can recognize the once happy, handsome and young boy anymore. The black happy eyes have now become just small holes; the eyebrows burned a yellow color, with the phosphorous smoke and a burning smell. Looking at him is like seeing a golden roast in the oven. I stood still with sorrow. His mother cried and with her two hands touched all over his body. Pieces of skin, bit by bit, came off turned up like rice paper. Tears ran from his young brother and older sister trying to care for him, and another girl sat still next to him with kind worried eyes. Her cheeks were sticky with sweat because she was tired and nervous. Tu (her name) is Khanh’s (his name) beloved. She just arrived here with him and heard that serum was needed, so she crossed the river to buy it. The river is rising and she doesn’t know how to swim, but she crossed it anyway… love gave her strength. Now she sits there quiet and patient, sadness coming to her lovely young face. Looking at her I want to write a poem, to tell of the cruel crimes of war, those cruelties already choking to death the happiness of millions and millions of people, but I cannot. My pen cannot write of all I have seen and felt with my own senses.

July 30, 1969. At twelve midnight Ky from the Southern Group came and told me the bad news: the clinic suffered a surprise attack. Lien was killed when she led the wounded soldiers trying to escape. The wounded soldiers and the cadre don’t know who survived!!

In 3 months the clinic has been attacked 4 times. My heart burns with worry. Oh my dear comrades! Who has lived and who has died? Where are you now? Difficulties weigh like a mountain heavily on your comrades, and also press on my heart. Do you still have the strength to resist this mountain my comrades? You have to fight it or it will kill us all.

My dear Lien, on the day we said good-bye you hugged me and kissed me, and told me to be very careful, but today the person who fell was you, a girl beautiful in her work. The girl who the clinic has loved will never be there again. Some day while I live I promise to seek revenge for Lien, for Ly, and for millions of others fallen in this life and death struggle!!

July 31, 1969. Hanh arrived to report the clinic’s situation. Three months ago on the 28th it was attacked for the first time. Now it has been found again: Lien has been killed, Tu also on the hilltop, and Le was captured.

Sadness, sorrow, and hate leave me silent. Even though I know the situation already I cannot regain any calmness. Oh! My people already dead and still alive we will always be together, always close to each other so as to fight the enemy. We still have Lien, Tu, Ly, Hung and the billions of souls of comrades I love living next to me and fighting until the day of total victory.

August 3, 1969. I met Tan again after 3 months of hardship, fire and smoke. He treats me like a close friend and not as though he is the comrade village secretary. I don’t know if he agrees or not that in the relationship I maintain the character of a girl raised in Socialism… which means there will always be friendships and understandings not divided by class or rank.

The day I said good-bye to him as he returned to the Southern Group and I returned from Binh Me, I worried that I would miss him before he left. In the late afternoon when almost dark I arrived home and met him by surprise as he was leaving. In the shades of evening the color of his shirt seemed to be mixed with air… I could only see in front of me a smiling face and his black eyes. I felt suddenly sorry for him, this young man who always keeps a strong and wonderful happiness. I wanted to run to him, drop my head in his arms like all the times when I returned home from far away to meet my parents and Uncle Hien, but I didn’t say anything as around us were other people. He shook my hand and said: “Be strengthened Comrade Tram!” (I understood the word “comrade” that he used here). I did not think anything and replied: “When you get there write a letter back, okay Tan”. Afterwards I felt some regret at my words. I don’t know if people understand our devotion or not, or if they won’t be happy with the way a comrade cadre treats the Secretary of the Village Cadre in an incorrect manner!

My dear Tan: in everything I do I think about wanting to treat you like my actual brother, but because you are an important cadre I don’t want that. If you were a cadre like me then I could be satisfied by the family-like care with which we treat each other daily. What do you think about your young northern sister, southern brother?

August ?, 1969. I went on a night rescue. The road I had to use had many dangerous sections: all the national roads constantly used by the enemy, and all the hills where the Americans are stationed. The base area lights are very bright. I passed through the middle of the Pho Thuan rice fields on three sides of which are bright electric lights. Nui Chop and Nui Xuong Rong* all had lights hanging in front of my eyes. Those lights follow me in all directions so my shadow follows me in all those directions. I got the feeling that I was a player on a stage, just like the days when I was a student at medical school in the shows and musicals. Now I am also an actor on the stage of life: I am playing a girl of the Liberation with a black dress, every night following the guerrillas in their activities in our area close to the enemy. Maybe I will meet the enemy, and maybe I will fall with my hand carrying the red crossed box, and then people will also feel sorry for the girl sacrificed to the Revolution during her dream-filled youth.

August 6, 1969. Sunset over the rice fields makes a poetic scene at any time. Today during the enemy sweeps two comrades were seriously wounded and one was lost. Sorrow presses heavily on my heart but this afternoon standing in the paddy fields I suddenly knew that life is still going on. People are still busy with the harvest of ripe grain, and a smile is still on the face of the cadre walking next to me. His name is Cong, Liens loved-one. She died not ten days ago and Cong was very sad, yet now next to me with lively conversation he acts very happy. He had just held and played happy music on a mandolin before we left. I looked with surprise: if it was me in his situation, how would I act? Maybe I wouldn’t have a smile and lively music like him.

Oh! The Revolution is so wonderful in this land: the sorrow and the mourning are nowhere else the same, and the lively happiness of it cannot be compared anywhere else.

August 15, 1969.

“Is anyone a winner who has never lost before?

Is there anyone smart who has not done stupid things

Once or twice before?”

I have to read and understand To Huu’s words so I will not be unhappy in these circumstances. During an attack there were two seriously wounded comrades, 6 killed in action and 10 captured. Dao, the Hamlet Group Leader of Duc Pho was one of those killed. He was not that talkative, but he got his meanings across, understood people, understood the work, and was very much admired. In this action he led a group close to the District center. He was shot from the bottom through the top of his lung causing an open chest wound which went unbandaged making him dizzy and leaving him not well. To the last moment he was still conscious with a clear mind and didn’t want to make trouble for anyone else. I ran to help and cried. I felt so sorry for him, wanting to find any way to save him, but there was none. It seems as if I am like a soldier with two seriously wounded hands watching the enemy approach with weapons to kill me. Anger and hate make my hands tremble. No, I will not surrender! The idea of revenge will give me strength. My dear Dao, do you hear my voice? The sound of a comrade, a young woman and a friend is a promise to take revenge for you and the other comrades who have fallen for tomorrow’s victory.

August 17, 1969. I received your letter and am sad when you ask me “Do you remember this simple young man?” Oh God! Why are you so childish my dear, smart, courageous young man? I always save my whole care for you and thank you for your affections, don’t you know that? This afternoon was the same as all the other afternoons: I looked over there through the afternoon fog and still recognized the green top of the mountain with the red mark of land on it which is your home. Over there you worry about me day and night… how can I forget you?

August 25, 1969. During all those tense days the Americans lying in the rice fields every night surrounded the village to attack in the early mornings. In today’s early morning they had already encircled the village. Lying on the ground preparing to die and lying in the holes listening to them searching and yelling, the sickening feeling they caused was heavy in my heart.

In this morning’s sweep Thu Huong’s mother and son were wounded. Thu Huong is the nurse in the hamlet where I live these days. Just last night we talked until late at night, the first time I heard the mother of a wounded child speak about her sorrow and feelings of guilt. The child, very healthy and cute like a European youngster, was this morning hit by two pieces of mortar round which went through his chest to his heart, so I don’t know if he will live or not. War is like that, not caring about children or old people. The blood thirsty Americans are the most terrible!!

August 29, 1969. This mother is very young. Looking at her face with its white skin, and her body so slim, no one would know that she had a big three year old son. I don’t know her that well. I had lived near her son Thien. I don’t know why but tonight she told me her story of a mother and her only son. Thien is 18 years old now. His father went to war and the young mother just stayed home and took care of her son. Because she loved him she spoiled him: for every day he went to school he wanted his mother to repay him. He liked to eat cake and if any dinner was without fish he didn’t want to eat it or go to school, so making his mother run after him begging him to return and eat some rice so he wouldn’t be hungry. At 15 years old he wanted to join the Army. His mother wouldn’t allow it but he did what he wanted to anyway. He lied that he was 16 and left to follow the comrades. His mother let him go thinking that he would be back in a week, this child who all day wanted to eat, who never did any thing since he was born, how could he stay in the Army? But she was wrong. It was a hardship but the honorable life in the Army made him follow it. He withstood hardships and difficulties which he had never before imagined, and was a grown man and a Party member by the time he turned 17. I don’t know why he never wrote his mother for 3 years, perhaps he never understood how much his mother missed him. Those 3 years far away from her son were also 3 terrible years for the country. The enemy swept and destroyed. The last place her family lived, an artillery trench, was destroyed by a mine, and she led her old mother to find a place to live during the rainy season, spending all the cold rainy days living in the corner of someone else’s veranda. She could only worry about where her son was and if he had anything to wear. With a little money she bought yarn to knit him a sweater, and then waited for him to return but after the winter he hadn’t come back. She feared that the sweater would be too tight so the next season sold it and knitted him another. Day and night she asked for news of her son: “Do you know Thien at the First Work Camp?” Everyone who met her thought that she was crazy and pitied her: “Oh my God, the Army is so crowded, the area of Liberation is so large… and you ask this way to find out where he is?” Until one day she found that he was in Unit 48, and she ran to the comrade cadre to ask for help to let her see him. Understanding this mother’s heart the leader promised to take her to where Thien was… but after all that time of working hard to find her son, she sickened and could not rise for half a month. When she had recovered her son’s unit had left to go on an operation, so she again was worried and missed him. Then one day she met a person during harvest that was in the same unit as Thien. She was happier than if she had found money, and she hurried to ask the commander about him. He hesitated and then told her that the month before Thien had asked 3 times for permission to visit her, but had not been allowed to, so had left the unit and no one knew where he had gone to. Hearing this she went crazy: how much she had hoped to see him and now he was gone. Losing her mind she fought with the cadre: “You are not worthy of being a countryman or a leader because your unit is not loyal. You don’t understand anything at all. My son has left me and you would not let him return for 3 years. He missed me, where is he? If he has been lost on the way to find me then I will spread propaganda so that no other mother will allow their sons to join the Liberation (Army) anymore!” She left her job and went to Saigon, not knowing why she went, only that if she stayed home she would die.

But Thien had not really deserted: he had transferred to another, more specialized unit. Once he had brought rice and passed his home, but his mother wasn’t there so he continued on his way.

In Saigon she heard that her son had returned so she bought a ticket to return to Quang Ngai and there she met him, held him to her heart touching his hair and every scar on him. Her son Thien, a weak and fat boy before, now a thin dark skinned Army Cadre with a strong body. He was already a Party member, a smart reconnaissance-cadre after many hardships. Tears fell drop by drop on the green shirt with shoulders torn form the many burdens he carried.

Thien asked for ten days leave, not enough for his mother. Like to a dry rice field in the summer one cup of fresh water is not enough. She didn’t want him to return to his unit. “Don’t go anywhere, anymore. If you die, you die here and I will be satisfied. If you want the Revolution you can have it anywhere. I won’t let you go anymore…”

Lying in the hammock between 2 bamboo poles I listened carefully to her story. I smiled but the tears ran down my face to my hair. I felt so sorry for her, understanding very well her mother’s love for Thien. But it must turn out the right way if she is to become a typical Vietnamese mother who correctly loves her son, knowing how to offer him to the country. My dear sister, don’t let your love go wrong: I will wait to see the result and note it in my diary.

Late at night Thien the cadre, already asleep, became again a small boy in his mother’s arms. Dear Thien, the Liberation troops have struggled hard on the battlefield to win many honorable war medals. Please tell me if you will remain worthy of being a Liberation soldier?

August 30, 1969. For the past few days I have been very nervous having heard that the Pho Cuong unit was fighting very, very hard. I have worried a lot. Day and night I haven’t relaxed: it seems that something told me there would be bad news… and indeed this afternoon Tan told me the sad news from the victory: in a week of continuous conflict 14 tanks, 1 HU-1A, and 15 Army Trucks were destroyed, with 150 Americans killed. One comrade was lost and 2 were wounded. My God! The guerilla comrade killed was Nhieu, his parents already dead, this lovely young brother of Thuan. How much I cared for Nhieu. How much I love Thuan. Maybe he will be very sad. Thuan I understand this: you took care of your younger brother in every way, worrying about his eating and sleeping, and taught him how to be a person… now…

I feel so sorry that I cannot be close to you to share your sorrow, to wipe the tears from your bright eyes.

This afternoon when it became dark the village was attacked. I fled into the dark trench and couldn’t breathe, but I thought only of Nhieu. My tears mixed with sweat. Dear Nhieu, I, Thuan, and sister Bon will all seek revenge for you, okay?

September 1, 1969. Sent Tan to the meeting. My heart was worried and I missed him. Our affections have grown during these days passing by. I believe that he has for me a special affection which is also the family love of the revolutionaries, but especially deep because this is the spirit of people who understand each other. In the afternoon as I turned the pages of his notebook I saw the letters which I sent to him, only a few pieces of paper but ones that he still kept. I know that after he reads letters he always burns them, but mine he keeps which means that he has given me a corner in the notebook of his life.

From what he told So (a comrade from Pho Van) was one thing: that was to carefully protect me and not to let anything happen… the Party cannot afford to lose me. I smiled when I read: “Remember that I give you this (to do)”. Does he understand in that short sentence that he also gave me the affections of an older brother? Dear Tan, I hope that you return safely: I will welcome you with a sister’s love.

September 3, 1969. At 9:47 Chairman Ho said good-bye to us forever. My dear Uncle! We promise that we will struggle until we realize your hopes and the career which you left unfinished: the liberation of the South and the freedom and independence of the Country.

A very sorry morning when Uncle Ho died. Oh God! I don’t cry but my heart bleeds and I feel so sorry. My dear Uncle, why are you so far away from us when the job remains unfinished? The Country is yet not unified, the South hasn’t had the chance to welcome you… and now you are dead. I know in the other world you are unhappy that half the Country remains sunken in fire: The blood of the Vietnamese people is running to reach your goals. Remembering you we promise that we will fight to complete the task. Remembering you will cause our tears to freeze into a hate to pour on the heads of the American pirates.

Dear Uncle of all the Vietnamese, uncle of all the dispossessed people of the world, we believe that you will never die, that your name and your goals will live forever!

September 4, 1969. To the letter which Tan handed me after a few days far away I wanted to say a lot in reply but could not. He feels the same, for only one simple reason: he is surrounded by people always working! How can we find a day for ourselves Tan? All year we can only show our feelings in our letters and diaries. No, I don’t want it this way. You must have a day to tell me everything!!

September 13, 1969. Dear young man, the more time and distance away from you the closer to you I feel. I miss you and worry about you more than ever. The day when I see you again will feel like a small light in the darkness late at night. I am a traveler on the way, my eyes looking for the light while my heart thirsts and waits for it. Do you realize how I struggle to let you approach me? When I knew that my hopes would not come true, how sad I was. In the thousands and thousands of sorrows and cruelties I cannot forget one thing: when can I see you again? When can I live close to you as in those lovely days from before? Please don’t fall, okay? Please live to let me have a day to hold you once more in the care I have for a young man from the South.

The war is still long, and we are all soldiers on the front lines. Who knows what will be, but we still continue to believe like Simonob* who believed in the poem:

“Wait for me to come back:

My dear young brother, wait for me to come back,

Always wait for me… okay?”

September 14, 1969. My dreams have made me think deeply about this: I feel that I am back in Ha Noi after so many days away; I meet my parents, meet my young sister and live in Ha Noi, but the young Southerner is there. I meet Thuan and he stares at me, his shining eyes very sad. Oh! This is an image from the reality of today’s hardship-filled life.

These days I feel lonely and cannot retreat from the sadness pressing my heart: the clinic cannot banish it… it is still running here today and there tomorrow. My case in hand is heavy, but the worries are still heavier.

September 22, 1969. Time passes so fast: September is almost gone and already autumn returns to the yellow rice fields. Harvest scenes are supposed to be happy because security returns after many days of hard work. But the American pirates threaten those fields, helicopters in early morning circling to drop the troops for their sweeps, artillery firing into the rice paddies… worry and hate replace the happiness of the harvest.

I think suddenly of the films and songs from the Socialist rice fields, and my heart bursts with the question: “when can the South be peaceful, independent, and free?”

A letter from the Southerners arrived, but no letter from him. From other sources I know that he is sick, sad and so very weak. Worry for him makes my heart ache. Whatever I do I still cannot be close to him. God! How can I share his sorrow and hurt? I hope that he gets well so we can meet again. From far away I send so much love to him: can you hear me wonderful young man?

October 10, 1969. I haven’t written in this diary for a long time. Is the conflict gradually taking away the thoughts of one who knows how to think about life? No, I don’t want it to be that way, but the job weighs heavily on me and everyday the sorrow of dead comrades makes me forget personal matters. This diary is not only about my life but is pages of memory of a life bright with the Struggle and full of the sorrow of the courageous Southerners.

Tam Vinh is dead already! My dear Tam, I will never forget the hard working farmer who loved his wife, children and comrades with a very special care. Late at night while I slept he was in the bamboo trying to dig a shelter for me, bailing the water out so that if I needed it tomorrow I would not be so cold. He lent me his own foxhole also, and stayed in a different one filled with water. Are you already dead Vinh? No! You still live! A simple hard working brother that I will admire for the rest of my life.

October 21, 1969. The situation has become almost tense: at Mo Duc* tanks dug up most of the entire village. The civilians ran off, but the cadres were killed by the tanks sweeping through and crushing their personal shelters… I sat and listened to what he told me, and I worried. I could tell that he was also worried: his bright eyes deep with thinking of the brother I love. The more I listened, the more affection I felt even though at the only times we meet we can only say a few words, being surrounded by the job. I know from others that he cares for and worries about me. But how can I tell him about my emotions when we are so far apart? And how can I make him understand that he feels the same way? Tan, you are like my brother, and very close to me, but why do I feel that you are still a stranger? Is there some kind of wall separating us?

October 25, 1969. Maybe it would be hard to imagine that this place is the resting place of the group with the most responsibility in the hamlet. An empty leaking house, it hides a complete artillery shelter. Because of worries that it will be discovered, garbage is left all around. At night the sound of mosquitoes and dirt falling from the wood makes it impossible to sleep well.

Du Quan* was a very rich hamlet, the most beautiful in the village of Pho Quang, a rich village on the seashores of Duc Pho. Now anyone coming here only can tell the wealth of Du Quang from the artillery shelters, very big and modern. All around are the polished wood beams of fallen houses. The shelters are all lined with thick boards in a line, and are large enough to shelter 30 to 40 people.

Every afternoon after dinner everyone stands guard in the shelters’ doors to defend against the helicopters which arrive throwing grenades, and against the fire which comes straight from the mountain, DK, and the artillery fire… survival becomes pretty basic with thousands of dangers surrounding us.

October 26, 1969. All the days of living close to him somehow make me forget the hardships threatening me. Do the warm hands which hold me tight give me strength to do away with all the difficulties? It is his small fingers touching my hair which cause me to feel warm in the care of a brother and forget the loneliness of being far from home, and it is also his black eyes seen through the darkness and the crowds of people telling me: “Please walk firmly on the honorable path you have chosen already and you will always have us to help you with the friendship of comrades… and you will always have me to lead you on the arm of a brother”.

Thank you very much: I will live and be worthy of being your comrade and young friend. Can you hear this dear Tan?

October 30, 1969. It is flooding, water filling up all the rice fields, low places and villages.

The Americans sent troops yesterday morning: this morning we got up early at 0400 to fight off the enemy’s attack. It was still raining hard, and at 0700 they started their sweep. We all went into foxholes, built following the artillery shelter and very modern, but now so old that 2 of them were closed. Only I and Ky stayed in one but I worried and asked Tam to stay with us. We stayed about an hour in the foxhole and the water rose up to my chest. It was so very cold that I couldn’t take it any more. Not knowing where the Americans were we opened the cover and ran to the brush to hide. At noon Tam and Di, carrying weapons, came to find us and lead us away. No one has a foxhole they can use anymore: every one is filled with water and we don’t know where the enemy is. We all stayed at Tam’s house, all wet and cold, but I still felt happy. If you haven’t joined the Revolution, how can you understand this situation, the smiles still there on everyone’s pale lips? A lot of radios and watches were carried to the kitchen to dry out because all of them were filled with water.

November 1, 1969. At night along the road the tension was tighter than the strings of a musical instrument. Water flooded everything and the enemy was everywhere along the road, but no difficulty could stop us. Tan decided to go and I decided to leave with him, no matter how hard it would be. Our group still had 3 people left, but they couldn’t all go because conditions wouldn’t allow it. At 17:00 I followed Tan to the ferry landing. The road going through the hamlet and village was destroyed by the enemy with trees and houses scattered all around and only a few houses standing. The people were afraid and ran off, with sounds of rice and pots being carried away, a scene very sad which made you cry.

At the river bank there was only one ferry, and there were 15 people wanting to cross. Only half can go. Other than the number of agents there was only left 3 people: Tan, Vinh, and me.

The group very quietly left, walking carefully through the edge of the rice fields and thorn bushes. When we passed through the sewer (pipe) under the National Highway, I got the feeling that this was just like Maricuyt* working in the sewers under Paris. I never felt afraid (that is my personal character it seems). Leading in front was Tan, who always turned back, maybe feeling that behind him was a smile and eyes looking very carefully at the enemy’s outpost. Dear Tan, I want to keep all that happiness and those beliefs always. Tonight going along the road I also felt happy because we were together in the hardships, with you leading me through a tense situation.

We arrived at 23:00. I said good-by and wished you safely on your way, and to hurry back.

November 5, 1969. It is still raining and windy. I live here in a house which has never felt the war. I still don’t feel warm even though living with a happy and crowded family. Sitting on a modern bed with a hot dinner in the middle of the house, I think about everyone at this same time who is trembling from the cold wind blowing through a wet shirt. I hope that my love will be a small light to warm their hearts.

At this same time while the Southerners are so far away in a place where the land is spread with fire and smoke, where is my young brother… in a flooded foxhole or in the forest? Far from you day by day on another road, I miss you but must control myself.

And at this time there are so many families with no houses… where will their children live?

Oh! The cruel crazy American pirates! Your crimes pile up like mountains. One day if I live I will take revenge until the last drops of my blood.

November 18, 1969. After 3 months of hardships from the enemy, I returned to the forest. When I left, I left with sorrowful heart as I looked back at the Delta. The hamlets and village gave me support through those days. Now attacked by the enemy they are already flattened from Duc Phong to Cua Mountain. Standing at Hoi An* you can look through to My A* sea shore. Oh my God! How sorry it is: all the population has left and now there is only an empty land, the trees fallen under the enemy tanks. Because their hearts are still tied to the Revolution all the wives wearily returned home with all their things scattered around. They try to cook simple meals for their husbands who return to fill up with a bowl of rice. All the old mothers slowly carry rice to their sons all wet who just came from the river side.

November 23, 1969. Today is Phuong’s birthday. My dear young sister! I don’t just miss you and your birthday because the wind and drizzle from the north makes this forest cold. Anytime it is the same: in any situation I always keep in my heart the warmth of our family memories. How much do I miss them, all those birthdays, those Sundays our family home was crowded with people who came to offer congratulations, and all the warm parties that were so happy. Today is also Sunday: What is my young sister doing for our birthday?

For surely you will remember me in all the happiness and will save a thought for a sister far away. My dear young sister, you can never imagine what I am doing today. In the morning I was carrying things to go to work, and at noon took the medicine chest and followed 2 people to visit a comrade cadre.

On the way I met some Army comrades: I hesitated to stop there with friends from home, not knowing what to say. They were breaking off bamboo shoots: skin pale they told me that they were hungry and that they had had malaria for a long time. The Great Resistance is written in blood, bones and the youth of so many people, did you know that?

November 26, 1969. One year older… one more year of hardship fighting in the South. I walk firmly along the honorable way I have chosen. I am not sad when it is my birthday in spite of the leaves in the jungle wet with the heavy rain. Speak softly to me those lovely words: I am not sad when the only music to congratulate me today is the sound of the river water running and that the room in which I am writing in this notebook more than one new page of my life is only a wet and narrow trench. I am not sad because later when I reread the pages of this notebook I will be proud of my young life. Here I don’t have warm friendly moments with friends next to the fragrant roses on the table; here I don’t have the fortune to be with my beloved on an uncrowded road when the violet sun slowly sets in the afternoon. Here I lack a lot but still it is enough.

So smile, Thuy. Please be happy as the book opens to a new page of life filled with honor and beauty.

November 29, 1969. Building the clinic hasn’t been finished yet and we have to move: the enemy knows where we live and follows us there. I must carry my bag and find a new place, so returned to the Southerners.

I said good–bye to the Northerners: leaving them I don’t feel sad, but I am filled with worry. The enemy is concentrating to destroy the Northerners from the first hamlet. I hope that all the comrades are strong in the conflict so we can recover warm and beautiful days in this prosperous and beautiful land.

November 30, 1969. The way to a military operation is always filled with hardships, especially duty in the field where there are American troops. I passed through Pho Nhon* and no-one was there, all the ground floors empty with the beams burning like the shadows of ghosts. I don’t understand why I care for and miss Tan a lot. Is this your homeland Tan? Why is your homeland so desolate? All the empty gardens with the deep violet “daily” flowers giving people a feeling of excitement and regret. I picked some and kept them until I came to the Ben Be River*, and then let them go. Never forget the deep and simple memories of a life-long friend.

December 1, 1969. I returned to Pho Cuong, excited when I met all the people I knew. Pho Cuong is still crowded and happy, the same as before with all the people who knew me, with their warm hearts and all their affections. I always have the feeling that I am like a child who returned home from far away to live in the love of her family.

December 2, 1969. Saw him (Thuan) again: I had imagined that when we saw each other he would hold his head over my hand and cry, and that I would be unable to say anything when I first stepped in the old house. Nhieu is not there, but I don’t understand why we were all so happy and laughing.

How happy I am to return to live in this complete love for me. During all the days of living with the Northerners I could not imagine that I would have a time to see your shining eyes (again), could not believe that I would have a moment to hold your hand and to touch your hair. Thuong was there today when I had this moment next to you, all of us having lived in those warm days. Revolutionary zeal warmed my heart: I will never feel cold again even though the wind returns with drizzle to spread over the village and hamlet.

Tomorrow I leave again, hoping to meet once more my young brother and all the people that I love.

December 3, 1969. It was very cold at night, the wind from the north-east making me feel cold. I Ran to get next to him, shivering with cold, feeling warm when he took the parachute and put it on my shoulders while his hand held mine tight with emotion. It was not time to go yet so I sat there for awhile, but was not satisfied. At 4:15 Thuong and I took the bag and left. He went with us to the regrouping position and when the time to say good-by came I looked into his eyes and saw a wonderful care. I already had said good-bye to him as to a family member. When will I see him again?

It is the smoke and fire of war that dries my tears. Watching a sad movie makes me cry, so how can I stand the times I say good-bye to people who I don’t know if I will ever see again? This afternoon standing by Nhieu’s grave I still felt the sorry bleeding in my heart: I still felt tears at the edge of my eyes. Nhieu’s grave lies beside the road, the wreath of flowers is still there, he died more than 100 days ago but I feel as if he just fell to the ground. I lit a bunch of incense to put on his grave. I don’t know what to say to the dead. Dear Nhieu, you died a courageous soldier and your life is a song of praise for those still alive. Dear Nhieu, you died when your life was still so green with dreams, when love was blooming. I and all of us close to you only can promise to continue to fight in order to have revenge for your death.

December 4, 1969. Saw Van again: we held each other and how excited I was when I saw this girlfriend with eyes shining from tears. I have returned to the arms of Hai, Lay, and all the people I care for in the same unit.

All the days in this small house have made up already for the hardships of the days passed by.

END OF BOOK ONE

(Family Address)

Dia chi Gia Dinh

1. Bac si Dang Ngoc Khue (Dr. Dang Ngoc Khue)*

Benh Vien Dong Anh (Dong Anh Hospital)

Ha Noi

2. Duoc si Doan Ngoc Tram (Pharmacist Doan Ngoc Tram)*

V 501e BC 13b KA

T.H.D.K.

Book Two

Happiness and sadness fill my heart in these days bright with fire.

“These are the days of strong Communist spirit: a spirit clear like glass, hard and strong like diamond and bright with thousands of the lights of a trusting heart. Communists love their life, but when necessary will die as easily as a feather”

Hoang Van Chu*

December 31, 1969. New Year’s Eve 1969: we went on operations and returned to our old position; saying good-bye to friends and the people I love in Pho Khanh and making me feel that they are hard to forget.

One month ago I returned from work with the Northerners after 2 years away. The first person I met, Van, held me tightly in her arms and cried… Van, the honest girl who loves me like one of her family. How I treasure her. Tonight I was on my way again. I walked along a road filled with thorns and “tiger tongues” but my mind is filled with thought. Day by day for the dead on our side the way is crueler. Just a few days ago I was almost killed or captured, being only about 20 meters from them (the enemy) when our group started to run. By good fortune none of the cadres or wounded soldiers was hurt, but I did lose my bag leaving me only a radio and the special equipment that I usually carry. One night we slept in the forest and took one day to cross the mountain to arrive at Pho Khanh. There we stayed in the friendship of the brothers Bon, Truu, Hon, Long, Ba, Duc, etc. and their family. They all took good care of me and I met Hoan, Tong and Xu… all nice and warm hearted cadres.

This afternoon I left again and all my good friends kept with me for a long ways. When will I return here to sit with the hard wind blowing at the ferry crossing on the An Khe Canal?* Good-bye lovely Pho Khanh, good-bye Van: I hope to see you again.

January 1, 1970. One year older, so 30 years old is not that far away any more. In a few more years I will become an old and serious cadre: thinking that way makes me a little sad. My youth is over: fire, smoke, and war have robbed my youth of the happiness of love. Who doesn’t love spring, who doesn’t want brightness in their eyes when they are 20 years old? But… the 20-year-olds of this generation have given away the dreams and happiness which they should have had. Their dreams now are of ways to defeat the American Pirates and for independence and freedom for the country. From these dreams they will come to own what they will have. I am the same as the young men leaving for the front lines of war who go through the explosive sounds of bombs and fire. My youth is soaked with sweat, tears, blood and the bones of those living and those already dead. My youth has become strong from the challenges and hardships of the battlefield: my youth has also burned hot from the flames of hatred night and day. Also there remains the green of the colorful dreams of youth and the love which shines from the eyes which look at me: the eyes black from lack of sleep which always come to me happy and alive, eyes also shining with deep emotion under long eyebrows, and the naughty eyes of a girlfriend who seems to understand everything and who gives me all her trust. Thuy, my dear, is that a happiness which only Thuan can enjoy? Stay happy and keep in your heart all the dreams, letting the green color of youth stay always bright in your smiling eyes, okay?

January 2, 1970. I am an adult but why am I still like a small girl student who is angry and turns away when they still have many things to say? I am still the little Thuy spoiled by love. The love of all the people lulls me into the dreams of youth. When will I stop expecting life to spoil me? When will I learn patience like the kind mother, or the good wife who withstands all hardships to bring happiness to her family? I cannot do this: I can take the hardships of the material world and be generous to the people I love, but in spiritual matters I think of myself first.

January 3, 1970. On the same road where he said good-bye when he went with me close to the mountain, he still keeps his deep and warm feelings for me, but can still only utter a few of his thoughts when he again said good-bye.

The sky is so dark and it’s raining hard: I’m walking at night in the rain and constantly get lost, not remembering the road. I don’t blame you, but I do pity myself. I know that you are at the meeting and that your thoughts follow my trembling steps on this muddy road. I know that you cannot give attention to the sounds of gunfire in the direction I travel, but how sad it seems! Dear, why can’t we walk together like we did in those days? No matter what happens please keep your eyes bright like precious jade: don’t let there be any dirt in them. Please stay courageous in the face of any hardship; remain calm and clear whatever happens, determined to protect our pure secret emotions until life’s end.

January 4, 1970. I met Tan at night but could not say anything in the crowd of people. Dear Tan, why is love never perfect in the fire and smoke of this place? Is this right? Remember the day when we said good-bye and you held my hand saying only: “Please be careful at home, okay?” I looked into your eyes and already knew what you wanted to say. We said good-bye again… all the time while saying good-bye worrying and thinking about each other. Go dear Tan, lovely comrade who has led me along all the hard parts of this road. I hope that when you see me again I can say everything from the heart of the girl to whom you already have given your entire love and care to.

January 6, 1970. Work is so busy, which makes my head ache… or is it something else? What is it which makes me unhappy? I held some precious jade in my hand, but I dropped it: even though when I picked it up it was unbroken, it was still dull with scratches. How sad this is. Dear Thuy, please follow the advice of comrade M who you love: you must be determined, if you lack determination for even a moment it will cause many sorrows and results you can never foresee. Please prepare to gain the qualities of a Party member, okay? My life is a journal with all the clean white pages, and all the words written in it are beautiful like a song: please continue to write these words.

Please swear before the court of your heart that you will maintain completely all the precious aspects of a Party member with an education in Socialism, okay?

“Please keep the spirit of Communism, a spirit clear like glass and bright with the thousands of lights of a believing heart…” M asked me: “Am I Vu Khiem* when you are Hung Giang?” How can I answer at this time? The war has taken all my dreams of love: I don’t want and cannot think about that because the life around me will not allow it. So M, please go away, follow the calling of the battlefield, and I will remain here, also given to the war. Promise that on the day we meet again we can talk about love, my dear comrade.

January 7, 1970.

I stand here in the very windy forest and mountains

Rain covering all the trees of the woodland.

I hear the winter wind and the storm blowing here,

My heart feels suddenly very sad.

Oh, all the people that I love far away do you know

This afternoon what I think in the cold wind?

This afternoon…

Who is walking in the lines of trees

On the wide way which is the country’s heart?

Who walks in unity with the Party?

Who looks thinking of the South at the coconut shadow?

And the shadow that I love

Suddenly returns to the heart of Ha Noi

And all those nights at the assemblies by the

Ho Hoan Kiem River,*

Hand holding hand happy to welcome the coming spring.

This afternoon…

Along the peaks of the Truong Son Mountains*

Liberation troops build the road to the front.

Do you think anything my dears

When you look at that southern mountain chain?

The ocean waves are still deep with love

Still moving night and day waving and calling

Still waiting for you with shining medals

And a promise that when the country is peaceful and happy

We will hold your hand again and together

Welcome the spring in happiness.

This afternoon…

In a house in the familiar hamlet

Who thinks of anything but shining eyes?

Rain and sun in your youthful hair

Still cannot fade the most beautiful love in your heart.

Those long nights of duty

My heart was excited when I returned to the old road,

The same road we traveled

When we said good-by with family love.

Everyone knows that if we die

For tomorrow, for Country, for freedom;

Then in our hearts the dream will be complete

And also complete will be our deep love.

This afternoon…

In thousands of thoughts

Which sigh on the worried face

I saw already in the long night

The black eyes not yet asleep

Which worry for the people, and the comrades

Sad when bombs still fall.

This afternoon…

I fly back to be together,

I kiss the people I love and tears come from my eyes,

Tears fall filled with love.

The way I travel is so difficult:

Feet cross the rivers and mountains and keep on.

It doesn’t matter that it is hard,

Eyes look in the direction of tomorrow.

Who knows what will be?

Love has made us take a long view.

January 8, 1970. At the Party review I saw comrades’ mistakes which made me afraid. I won’t ever let the Branch have a meeting to criticize me like that.

This afternoon I sat in a chair in the operating room and suddenly thought of Lien. Here she had lived and died. Her grave is on the mountain top: though I haven’t visited there I think of her whenever I come into this room. Life is so short, but everyday must be a worthy one. Don’t let anyone talk about and be able to criticize your past.

January 9, 1970. I miss you. Who are you, a relative, a comrade, a young man I love or a stranger? What can I say now?

A bunch of long-lived flowers

And a bunch of plum blossoms

Compete with each other to bloom

In the morning sunshine.

What is happening in life Thuy?

January 10, 1970. Today the big Branch meeting had 3 new comrades, one of which was me. I hadn’t thought that the Party was so young, but really in the Revolution people advance so fast and I am myself raised in this strength. The way we go we still face thousands of hardships. I hope that I step strongly up, walking over all the obstacles so to be a worthy Party member.

January 12, 1970. All those days living near him filled my mind with heavy thoughts: if I say nothing it isn’t right, but if I do say anything, what will I say? Everything needing to be said is already said. Oh! How can I say anything when life is still counted by seconds and minutes? I don’t want to think too far ahead: I only want to talk about now. One minute of life is one minute of honor. Ahead of us are thousands of troubles. I hope you will keep our love and take it to lean on for encouragement.

January 13, 1970. M left already! I cannot think about right now. Eight years ago under the tree on the old road I said good-bye to him as he left to go south, with no words of promise and never a tear we said good-bye, then for five years I kept my heart for this Liberation soldier. Then I also came south following the calls of country and love. I met M again and everyone said that nothing could compare to this love. But life has too many troubles. When we were far from each other I called his name every second and every minute, but when we met again I let self-respect control my emotions. M does not belong to me, of course he saves his highest love for the Party and the People, but if he leaves so little for me then… I can’t answer my love-filled heart. I never asked him to stay with me and to marry me, but even through the falling of bombs and explosions of fire I still kept my love. M did not and I had to force my heart to forget all that made my heart alive for 12 years. It is really like he said: I have a kind, deep love but too much self-respect.

Three years have passed and we have only seen each other twice, both of us sad when we thought about love.

Who is at fault? Is it mine or is it his? No-one can answer: everyone discusses it and makes suggestions. I was told that it isn’t necessary to continue to care for someone who is not worthy of that love. A number of people have a better understanding and tell me I should go back to him and not to be so proud. But both of us just laughed in the face of their ideas. No-one really knows what is going on with our love, so the decision is ours alone.

Now he has left without meeting me, just like the letter he left for me said: “With a living love there is no need to see each other, even from north to south, far or near. Anywhere I am it will be the same many years from now as it was eight years ago for us to love each other or to live with each other as the closest people in the world. The decision remains yours”.

That decision is alright. Here I will give my entire life to the Struggle and to work: I cannot have another love, and he cannot have another love except me.

Life gives me this road, so I must try to travel it: when we see each other then we will talk about the future. I hope M, the comrade that I love, will be safe on the way he goes and I send my best love to him, the love of a friend and a comrade.

January 15, 1970. A rainy afternoon in Dong Ram. I returned to Dong Ram after saying good-by to this place on April 28, 1969 when the clinic was attacked. Today, my heart filled with sorrow, I came back and looked at the land and the ruined houses with the trees all burned.

Here are many sad and happy memories of my revolutionary life. Here I was accepted under the Party flag after so many days of hard work. Here I trained to rise from a new student to become a cadre leader with more or less duties as a result. Here I found the purest family love which made me strong enough to bear the hardships of the life. At this river I waited for him every noon, at this tree I sat with him on the day we separated. How many memories one-by-one come to mind... the Pirates took away two of my journals already, but even though I lost those two books I still have a very precious one, my mind: it notes everything that happens in this life.

January 19, 1970. Thank you dear comrade: you came to me with a true affection like a brother’s love. You are a place for me to lean on. Life is so complicated; I don’t know how to satisfy everyone, just like you said. Would it be natural if I was never sad when meeting trouble on the way? I have said many times that life is a colorful picture: next to the main color is red, victory red, and the green of dreams, but there is still the black mourning color and cold and courageous gray. Anyway, I still love life, the life of the revolutionary filled with love and burning with belief in her own strength.

Dear Tan, do you believe me? Please believe me, do you hear?

January 21, 1970. I find that for a few days I have been angry for no reason at all. What has caused it? My friends and I, none of us feels happy. I must not be that way. Please be severe on yourself, train yourself and know how to yield to him, become nice and kind, a responsible cadre, understanding all the people and knowing how to look after their interests above everything else first of all. I must be humble and courteous. Believe that people must bring admiration but that you must not admire yourself. Please be stern and control all your weaknesses.

January 22, 1970. An afternoon with a few people at Hoc Ban.* The CH class of Pho Cuong has already left so there is no-one in the empty houses. I returned and cannot hide my sadness at this place being empty. Am I thinking of anything in particular? I must believe that the people were also sad to leave this place. Oh! Love is always anxious in my heart.

January 24, 1970. Dew makes the night cold, the moon is bright like a mirror and the cold is just like a small knife pricking my skin. Parachute cloth is too thin so I shiver, and the cold won’t let me sleep. It seems that a lively emotion fills my heart. I heard the warm breathing of my beloved comrades and their hearts beat strongly in their chests. This struggle has thousands and thousands of hardships. Yesterday I passed boot prints from the pirates and an army which has yet to be buried just fallen on the road, with the wires of enemy mines all around the road. We went through the pass with no enemy activity, but soon they will return to the attack. Death is so near and simple. What makes us feel that life is still growing strong and that love remains with us… a dream of tomorrow still burning in our hearts and the hearts of all the people in the same unit… is this true beloved comrade?

January 28, 1970. There is hope and sadness shining in those eyes. When will the hope be realized… from a summer day with the fire of war burning the sky… from the night with the moonlight gloomy on the dusty road… from the hardships when the dead lie next to you? My dear Thuy, girl filled with strength and ideas, are you strong enough to extinguish that hope? Like the person planting a tree in the desert, for himself he thinks that only here can the plant be placed, but still there is a picture in his mind, the image of a thin and weak branch with its attractive flowers. No! This branch of flowers can only be planted in a copper vase: it will die if planted in the desert. We must understand that and act accordingly. Only when nature is controlled and fresh water is brought to the desert will the branch of flowers live: I don’t believe that I am not part of that generation!

January 29, 1970. Little Nga is dead: just a few days ago she stood here, her head to one side singing: “I still have the fish that the crab kicks; he lies on the cleft and has 8 small crab legs”*. Nga was born in the forest and mountains, with one hand her mother carried her, with the other hand she carried the sickle, studying and working for four years. The women of Viet Nam have a very hard life, but no-one has had more difficulties than Su: she married and had a child and took care of the baby without her husband’s support because of some misunderstanding. Through four years of hardships she raised the child while studying, looking older than her years. But she was successful: she is a pharmacist, a Party member, a mother with a good child, and a wife patient with her husband. She returned to the delta to be with her husband again and the happy days passed. She took her things back to the province and not a month later her daughter died.

Nga died because of swelling in her lungs which could not be treated because of an enemy attack. No one realized she was sick, so no one came to her house which was close to the attack. I am very sorry for her and her mother though Su is not good to me because she doesn’t understand me. All because of the war… if there was no war a simple disease like this wouldn’t have caused Nga to die.

February 1, 1970. All those meaningless stories are like thorns stuck in my heart. You must know how to protect your honor, please school your character and don’t be sorry about where you are going. From now on I must try to be worthy of M and all the people who believe in me. The way passes deep holes so if I don’t pay a little attention I will fall in. Stay awake and vigilant please!

February 2, 1970. The days are so heavy with hate. The Americans are still here so there are still days like today. On a night with no moonlight I want to see clearly every comrade’s face but I can only make out that there are a number of people. I stand looking at him hoping he is vigilant. Oh who can understand that the price of even a single minute of life today is so dear! One minute alive is a single minute of working for the Revolution. I want to forget it all but cannot. How can I forget when the blood of my comrades still is being lost?

February 3, 1970. Is there some aura in the air surrounding me? Are those the eyes of a face I love, wide with sorrow for an unsuccessful job? Is it the poverty of a family beset by war? I don’t know anymore, I only feel sad. It is someone else’s sadness but why does it weigh on my heart? The New Year is here but what does it mean? Am I sad? Has spring not returned to me? The sun comes out but it’s still cold like last year. The sun shines on the vegetables but I still feel cold because I don’t have the love of the person that I love the most. Now… eight years are over!!

February 6, 1970. It’s New Year’s Eve* and four years away from home already, the forth year away from my family. Dear Ha Noi, tonight the Sword River* people still throng together, the Turtle Tower* still shines with electric lights but I know Ha Noi is still not completely happy. With heart still half bleeding how can you be happy? Tonight everyone has a heavy sorrow, and here there is also singing, flowers and New Year’s cakes, but my heart is only thinking.

For four years I haven’t had a New Year in the delta. Dear Thuy, can’t the love of the delta warm your heart? The smile on your lips is not a smile in your heart!

No, please be happy with the spring; please love every minute of this life Thuy!

February 7, 1970. Another spring night with drops of spring rain wetting my hair. Tonight it’s very dark, the stars’ gloomy light only shows the village’s sandy road. I said good-bye to him, but my heart is heavy with worry: the coming circumstances may become very tense. I went leaving behind a lot of hardships. When will we see each other again? Oh, how hateful it is, war only brings pain and sorrow to us, is this right?? I know that I am wrong when I tell you that I don’t hope for the day I see my parents again. You blame my sadness, but that is the truth. I am not sad. Good-bye, I will see you again for sure, and kiss the black eyes that I love.

February 15, 1970. In those days of living next to you I was happy when I saw our love grow. I believed you just like I believed myself, this faith letting me overcome the difficulties and obstacles which grew and controlled my life. How happy I was when the hardships were over: I always had you to lead me, your care for me increased little by little, you taught me a brother’s love for a younger sister, you took me from being secretary to the village to being a new cadre, then to become a Party member. You took care of me with the love of a person in the same unit who had the same duties in this lifeand-death struggle.

Please keep that, Tan…… ”all that love”.

February 18, 1970. I never hoped that he could go to A, if he goes I will lose in my life a place to lean on, lose a comfort which encourages me, and lose a person who protects me on all sides. But for his future, I hope he can go. The circumstances there now are very dangerous. I cannot but worry when I hear the roar of the enemy trucks over there. All the firing sounds like a knocking in my head. Please try to be vigilant, do you hear me?

February 19, 1970. I saw him again and how happy I was. It seems I am alive again like in the days when we were in the Dong Ram clinic. He came from the delta with a deep affection, but when we saw each other we were natural and seemingly very cold with each other: why?

Tonight at the meeting in the forest house I knew there were eyes looking at me with care and happiness. Oh, how lively and deep is our affection!

Tam heard the news that his mother almost died and that his father was seriously wounded when the enemy took him away. He cried and could not stop: what could I say to him? The heartfelt words hurt him more. There are those who bring up their own sorrows to stop the sadness, but I cannot. So many times I have seen this, yet my heart is still full of sorrow and fears seeing it again. Thuan also tried to say something to him, he looked at me only once but I understood that he wanted to tell me that one year ago this circumstance was his, repeated again a few months later.

Oh God! Love for him also came with tears like that. I felt sorry for him because his family had died and I brought the love of a family to him to warm his heart.

February 20, 1970. I watched her a long time, a girl with a strong body, long hair down to her dress, brown skin and big eyes with a sad smile on her face. When did this sadness appear, from the time her love stopped or from the time her smile destroyed that love? I admire her with the regard of a person standing inside looking out at someone walking in the rain on a cold, wind-blown road… who must keep on because she hasn’t gotten to a stopping-place. It appears that she envies me, not because her love has been lost, but because I am loved by most people. It doesn’t matter, because this is not a romantic love, but it is one with a heavy strength. Life is like that, so complicated: even though you want to live very simply you cannot.

February 21, 1970. Once more I came close to death: a few helicopters and HU-1As circled and fired for close to an hour. Their target was only 10 meters away so deafening bullets and fire struck all around us. We all stayed in the trenches not knowing when we would be struck. We seemed to look at death, but then it all passed away. They didn’t find their targets so after firing for awhile the enemy left. We hurried away from the area, looking back at the beautiful forest trees and our building. My heart ached like it had stopped: after two months of the strength and passion of the ten of us to build this place with our hands and minds, all the cold and raining days with the hill slippery as poured oil we had still smiled and sang as we carried the big lumber to build the place. All the noondays when no-one wanted to nap, leaving their bowls of rice and hurrying with knives, busy to decorate our own place… so much work and effort now like sand poured in the South China Sea… what can I say? When will the wounded soldiers have a place to rest? When will we have a life like before? I am so sorry for my comrades who worked so hard all those difficult days.

February 22, 1970. For all the nights sleeping in the forest… the roof is green trees, the moon is very naughty looking straight down through the leaves at my face, half in laughter and half seeming to understand a cadre of the Revolution in her hard times.

I awoke at midnight unable to sleep. I looked at the moon and thought a lot. Three years in the fire-and-smoke-filled battlefield and I have grown up, lying here I worry for the wounded with no place to be cured. Lying here I worry for the clinic now unfinished after having spent so much strength and effort, my worry that of a person responsible to the Party. And for me, what is the matter? I have already given my youth to the Country so even if I am lost what is worth worrying about? Anyway, I will still die, so must live worthily each day. Honor is precious jade without price so don’t let anyone walk over it no matter how much power they have.

February 24, 1970. I feel like blaming him, why did he do something like that? I only want him to not make the mistake which Le made before and which Met made these last few days.

Please be careful, you with your lively heart filled with strength.

Tonight three of us sat and talked, my heart nervous with sorrow: it may be the last night we are together. Everyone knows this is true, naturally. What can I say? I can only answer that even in the explosions of fire and bombs; even in the heat of burning or boiling I will keep always our true affections. This way we must travel has too many thorns; any other way, including our way together, will be the same. Don’t think that I am mad at you or blame you like today and that I don’t cherish you. Because I care for you so much, I want you to have perfect happiness. I read your diary and know that your care for me more than anyone else, but why do you have something to hide from me? That makes me very angry at you: I want to be very generous regarding your weakness, but I cannot. I have to say that that is also a challenge for you: if you put the love of me first then it is all right; if not then forget about it all… it’s up to you. I always keep the self-respect of the petty bourgeoise and cannot be any different.

February 25, 1970. A leader’s duties are very complicated. It’s very hard; how can I make everyone happy? In every circumstance I must be firm to:

Follow the right principles

Raise the thinking of the People

Be courteous and learn from the People

Understand the entire cadre with all the People

I am still too young, so I must please try hard to learn and to train myself to be a cadre worthy of the Party’s faith.

The conversation also revealed a number of problems: I must be careful the way I speak and in my every action because near me there are always jealous people searching for weaknesses: life is like that! But what can be done? Please live with each other in true affection: these times (already) have millions of difficulties and you are surrounded by the dead; forget the small things.

February 26, 1970. Now I feel so sorry for Chin, a wounded soldier still so young with an arm bandaged and not yet healed, and with legs still trembling when he walks. But he still has to leave the hospital. He smiles and sings, but I know that he is tired. Oh God, who knows that this young boy is a courageous soldier who has killed the enemy Americans and is a very special guerilla from Pho Cuong, one of the best hamlets of the village? My love is suddenly stirred, but why is that? Though when he left I only told him to be vigilant, try to let his arm heal, and then looked at him with friendly eyes.

Well, go, and I wish you a fast recovery and return to your fighting unit.

February 27, 1970. Life is really a colorful painting: I am like an artist just out of school and into practical considerations. In front of me is the mountain chain with some green mountains with white clouds hanging alongside, some of them crumbling from bombs and bullets and scarred red with bomb craters. I have come from far away on a road filled with hardship. The burning sun with the trees dry because of the poisons… the river’s cool water and the roots of fragrant flowers… and the faces I met on the way with shining eyes bright with love looking at me with belief and understanding. Some of the eyes look at me to see what is going on and some eyes to fool me try to hide a jealous light with a false smile.

Dear Thuy, make smart choices, stay smart and calm. You are old enough; hopefully you know now how to be a person: don’t waste your faith, don’t be too narrowminded. You must know how to follow the Party rules. Why, now I am also a leader, developing in the same Movement (my “rally day” was in November, 1968, and I became Branch Secretary in June 1969). But can I get everyone’s support? Is it because of those accomplishments above? Of course no one progresses without weaknesses: I am not afraid of that. If something is wrong then try hard to control that: if something is right then try hard to encourage that, don’t follow others, don’t be too arbitrary or official, don’t be afraid to hurt someone and go against principles. Before doing anything be careful. I am playing a role on stage with so many eyes in the audience examining me. I can do it of course; it is natural because I am an actress. They praise me when I really do well (but I haven’t done that well yet). If I don’t do so well they will criticize, and criticize a lot. How can I be such an actress? Too bad, etc. and etc…

It would be natural if I was in different circumstances, then no-one would say anything, they would feel sorry for and understand a girl far from home, a weak female who had enjoyed a happy life since her childhood but now meeting so many hardships. But today I am different: “Oh this girl whose strengths and contributions to the Revolution are small compared to mine wants to be my leader? After so many years living and dying on the battlefield in the South and now I let her take command?”

No my dear comrade! I also have a job for the Revolution. The Party hands me an important responsibility only because it wants to use all my talents and abilities for the good of the Party. I am honored because the Party has faith in me, but it is not because of that that I am proud. I understand that I can study and learn many ideas over many years of school, but no university is as good as the practical university. I have only been here for three years and of course that is not as good as your comrades who have spent ten or twenty years in the field. So please approach me in the friendship of blood held in common in order to free the country with the love of persons far away from home who look to the family of the Revolution as the only place to learn about life. Please teach me and help me to be a capable cadre working for the Party. As for me I know what I must do: I know my abilities, and I tell myself that I must be courteous to learn from others around me.

February 28, 1970. Today I am missing Hai a lot: her few letters filled with affection leave me excited and confused. Dear Hai, I will never forget: in summer the burning noon sunshine when I sent you on your way, tears and sweat running down your face. I didn’t have courage enough to return but followed you to Thuong’s table and then left, and then you were gone. Those times I returned to see your mother and Lai I was confused and missed you. Lai has grown, taller than me by half a head with eyes and mouth like you. She loves me a lot. The love of a revolutionary has a wonderful strength: it binds people together with a string that nothing can cut. I have never wanted to return to your mother to ask her for this and for that, and have never used love to gain anything: you are the same, and all the people we love are the same sister! There are some who will never understand this kind of emotion.

Dear sister, so far away do you know that I love you so much?

March 1, 1970. Every night when asleep I have seen clearly the likenesses of people that I love. Why? Because those images are impressed deeply in my mind and my heart, and because I am living here, a place where every step is heavy with memories: the pharmacy room, a heavy rainy afternoon in October 1968, the beautiful moonlight on the chair in room number 1, a night of the Branch meeting, a morning going to the stream to wash clothing, an operation hearing the tired breath and burning hands of those assisting me, one late night returning from visiting patients, and all those days bidding good-bye to the ones leaving with the ones staying standing there not knowing what to say… Oh, all those days passed here and anywhere else, it is the same: all carry deep memories! So what Thuy? I know that my emotions are just like that of Jean van Jean* for Codet, the love of a father for a child, the love of an elder brother for a sister and that is all the consolation for love and the hope of life. I am not like Jean van Jean because I am not that lonely, but in one respect I am just like that old man, and they are like Codet, the sorrowful orphan girl who grew up in the deep love of the old man. But no matter how much she loved him, she still had a life of her own: Maricuyt would come to her… that was it! But Thuy, please don’t be like Jean van Jean: you are different; life welcomes you with all the friendly hands, guiding you up to maturity. I have a lot of people’s love: there is not only one Codet, so don’t be selfish. Jean van Jean can be that way because Codet was his entire life, but me I am not like that. I don’t need to be that way. I have to try to be a person with my own ideas in every circumstance.

March 5, 1970. I get confused and think a lot every time I am with that girl. Can she be worthy of his love? I compare her to myself, already believing that he is like me: he has said things which show that. So what is it? Can she guarantee happiness for him or not? Thinking about him I feel sad that there is the same true affection but not as energetic as before, am I right? Before when late at night after work, just getting over a high fever or after barely escaping capture, his image was before me… now it’s different. Maybe the Struggle has taught me to have a strong heart like my M. Last night I dreamed of meeting all the people North and South, and in those images of people I love were eyes that watched me with deep worry.

March 7, 1970. Away from Pho Cuong one month exactly: it’s strange that I half miss it and half blame it that place so familiar to me. There, there are many things which bind us together: familiar roads with muddy water, the young brush on the road-side which stays frayed because of the artillery fire, the smiles of young soldiers, the words “Sister Hai” which are greetings from the friendly people. There are also some unhappy things there, people who make me unhappy, but most of that is my fault. Please try hard, please care for and protect your honor. Of course you cannot make everyone happy, but if there is something not right, then try seriously to correct that.

March 9, 1970. I don’t accept that I must forgive him, but what does that mean?

Because the many nights of no sleep and sadness make him thin am I sorry? Because of the sad sound of his sorrow which I missed in his conversation and did not finish? Because life is so tenuous that this afternoon the bullet of a soldier under the bridge hit a girl in the stomach in front of her house, and that clothing drying on the mountain showed a helicopter pilot where they were so that nine people were killed, twelve wounded, 4 captured with only 2 escaping after the bombs fell. If I hadn’t been making clothes and staying at home then he also would have gone over there to seek shelter. Oh God, because of all of that should I forgive him? No, I already acted responsibly, I already forgave him and let Cuc’s and his love grow, but to forgive him for the lack of his love for me is impossible. Don’t let emotions make me too simple. It’s easy enough to break apart the close affections which you and I vowed to protect forever. Don’t let emotions control life. I must be like Pavel, or the gadfly, or like M. I have to be that way, do you hear me, and do you understand me my dear comrade?

March 24, 1970. I read your letter: I understand and care for you more, Tan. You really cherish me and care for me with an affection which we always talked about: in any circumstance you will always be faithful to our emotions. It’s not that I don’t believe you: I always said that I trust you like I trust myself… but I sometimes still don’t know whether this is right or not. Because of that please don’t blame me when I am angry at you. Actually because of my kind deep care I feel that I am mad at you. If not, a letter like that with those words is very normal for other people. But… to me it is different: I ask from you a special regard for me, the sort of love a brother has for a young sister.

Is that too much to ask? “I already have given all of my only love to you.” If that is true, then it is not too much: that’s it. Please understand a young woman filled with emotion and life. Still very young, I very easily trust people and life is not really worth that trust. I hope you are the one to lead me step-by-step along this hard and dangerous way, but most honorable is the way we have chosen already.

March 26, 1970. All these moments in the life of people doing the job of the Revolution are worth being noted. I am calm listening to the breath from the beloved comrade warm on my hair, feeling his calloused fingers in my hand, then his hands covering my hands to hold me tightly with emotion. “Deep and pure love” day by day is fresher and more green in my spirit. I care for it, respect it, and protect it; no matter what the situation I will guard its perfection. Oh my dear comrade, life around us is so vital and burning with hate so that the spirit of the members of the fighting unit is bound to us in the secret of love. Even if life today still has thousands of hardships and difficulties we hold each other tightly, firmly step out and flatten all the thorns, hardships, and obstacles. We came together through having the same ideas: this emotion is completely different from romantic love, but it also has a wonderful strength which gives us happiness, hope, and helps us forget the sorrow around us. It also is a flame to warm our hearts: warm and vital hearts need to be nourished by a pure, clean, and correct kind of love.

March 27, 1970. It is always the same for people at bases far away from home; I join with others at 4 o’clock in the morning ready to hear that when dawn comes we will carry our bags and leave for the place we have decided to live at. I can’t believe that this area just went through a fierce bombing raid: all parts of the forest are a mess of collapsed houses and fallen trees with the leaves all blown away. When I put down the bags and was quiet, looking at everyone I could see from their eyes that though they were smiling, they worried and were thinking of the jobs which the Revolution continues to bring. In this situation what will happen? Tonight the rain falls on the bags and a pot left over there makes a sort of very sad music. I look at my comrade and my heart fills with sorrow: he looks pale and skinny; his eyes looking out of his pale and shinning face after the many nights without sleep because of the worry and the work. My dear comrade, no matter how much I care for you, I still have no way to protect your health. My situation won’t let me do anything: I think you understand this.

March 28, 1970. The enemy presses the clinic area very seriously: all the HU-1As and helicopters flying around close to the tree-tops throwing grenades, the short rockets and the cannon fire make me deaf. Artillery shells from Chop Mountain explode next to the trench. A large round brought down the trees next to the trench by the operating shelter. My mind suddenly comes up with a question: if the enemy comes here how will we have time to move the wounded men? Thanh and Xuat left to stand guard at the front and haven’t returned. Guns fired in that direction and planes landed there so I don’t know what happened to anyone over there.

Worry weighs heavily on my mind. I think about the question he asked me: “Who told you to come here and to with-stand all these miseries? Why didn’t you stay in the North?” Was he complaining? I know that he doesn’t blame me but that he only cares about me so asked in this way. Two others also asked the same question. From these hardships we come to understand the value of a revolutionary: those who can stand firmly in the fire and boiling water will come to be like steel. As N. Ostrovsky said: “Steel already tempered by fire and cool water will be harder and will have the strength to cut through all the challenges…”

Tonight the trees in the forest are so quiet, quiet but lively. Here I listen for every movement and follow the enemy’s steps and over there you may be following every one of my steps.

March 29, 1970. For the first time I dug a grave to bury a comrade. Every time the pick struck sparks on stone it was like the sparks of burning hate in my heart. Yesterday when Thanh was returning from the front he was killed and fell just at the river’s edge near our house. Xuat was wounded by their fire and was then taken away by helicopter. His pants were torn and left on one side… not even a month yet and our unit has lost 3 people.

The grave was not well made but Thanh was brought back. One day after his death the blood still ran making the dirt red. I didn’t clearly see his face, only his closed eyes and his paleness. When he lived there were many things I didn’t like about him, but when the dirt covered him I couldn’t stop my tears. So, please try to be a help to each other and love each other when alive, so that although you cry and are sad when someone dies, that you cry only tear-drops on unfeeling dirt.

March 30, 1970. It is very sad all the people that I love! What can I say to make you understand what I understand? The way I travel is so very hard, the way of a girl student becoming a leader: something causes me to be different from others. Is it my way of life, a life of love, a life of too much thinking with my heart? Is the way of life of a petty bourgeoise asking for a little too much? What is all of this? That is the real difference from other people. I am sad that around me are all these jealous people who still feel that they remain courteous. Dear Thuy, please stay calm and strong; please accept those weaknesses in order to change them all. Don’t be sad: you understand life already so save those tears until you are once again in the arms of the people you love. They will understand you like you understand yourself and they will make you feel better with their deep affections. Please smile Thuy? Okay?

Oh you girl student, three years on the battlefield, in the fire and the thorns of life… your legs are stronger so be courageous and step out firmly, girl of Socialism now in the South!

April 1, 1970. The anniversary of 10 years since joining the group, 10 years ago a youth, now I am already a cadre strong in the fire. I am never proud but feel that I did only what I swore to do under the group flag on that day.

All the long nights of thinking and thinking Thuy… please be more serious with yourself and don’t let a single question hurt you. Why don’t people understand me? Of course there are bad people with jealous narrow minds, but even if they are like that most people cannot say anything to them. Do like those people, don’t cry… save your tears until you meet the people that you love. Late at night I sleep next to the people in the same unit. They sleep with the same rhythmic breathing while outside the guns fire loudly. Oh my dear comrades… we all breathe together on the same battlefield of fire, so please love one another, and help each other. With life and death so close why must you be jealous?

April 5, 1970. Do I yearn so much because of loneliness? This afternoon Cuc returned to work at his unit and I suddenly felt sadder.

Life is so complicated and why am I such a small girl with a warm heart filled with emotion? Why? Because since I was little I have just been that way. Listening to Hanh’s idea I felt very sad: there are still those who only live with narrow eyes… they cannot have pure and true emotions like other people. With them there are only material values: they only have a body! My God how terrible that is… so stingy!

Are your words right? “Our affections always remain no matter that time or things change”. That means we will live correctly and will step clear of all the obstacles in our way. I will do the same as you do: I will do exactly as I promised you.

April 9, 1970. I had a strange dream of the days through which I have lived in both the North and South. I saw a special class with all the people in white blouses working beside me with all the microscopes before them. There was a beautiful building given to the members to meet in: I went there as I usually go to all the houses I frequent and there I met him with his clothes so neat, still a person who cares for me with every small action, and with him his sad-faced sister still in a simple dress. Oh God is that what tomorrow will bring? Tomorrow when peace returns will I return to the old school like before, with all the people bound to me on the battlefield able to enjoy the happy and peaceful scenes with me?

April 10, 1970. Only part of the dream is coming true. It seems that I am not happy when the things I hope for come to pass. Why? I will have to find out.

April 22, 1970. For a long time I hadn’t re-read the lovely words of his letter, one filled with sadness because he thought I had stopped caring for him. Truthfully, I always keep his image in my heart, but as I told him: love can be bright and shining, but at times is very calm and quiet because we shouldn’t and cannot always show everything. Do you understand that?

April 27, 1970. Thuong was captured!* Oh! The only son of an old mother for whom she worked hard all her life, all her dreams and hopes bound up in him alone, now this dear young man grown up in the Revolution is held in the bloody hands of the enemy.

I think about one of the last nights that I met him… with a moon so gloomy that only his sad face could be seen. He held my hand and said: “Maybe after this time I will not see you again”. I yelled at him: “Why do you talk like that?” But in a low voice he answered: “No, it is not crazy. To work for the Revolution and to sacrifice yourself is natural. I am already lucky to have survived for 10 years. My luck won’t continue like that”.

Oh, why did he foresee that? So that my heart would bleed when I heard that he was captured? Is that all? Will I never see this kind, simple, and nice young man from Pho Hiep again? Sadness and sorrow cannot be shown with tears now: only with the thought of revenge, by the grinding of teeth and by the raising of your head to continue traveling despite the hardships of the road.

April 28, 1970. I should be happy now with all the Southerners I love being near to me. It is hard when we are all together… but happiness is only like a summer wind at noontime shining and burning, not enough for these people in the summer’s heat, people on their way leaving me with two young men. I can’t sleep with an aching heart. Oh, the war continues, and there are still losses and sorrows!

April 29, 1970. What can I tell this young friend after listening to him? I cannot stop crying. If he dies then there will be no-one to continue his family. Thinking of that he wants to get married, but dear young man your love and happiness will have so many hardships waiting. Because I care for him I would like for him to have more of a guarantee of happiness, and because I care I don’t want him to be confused by the question: “Should I follow other people’s thoughts or my own?”

Holding his hand I want to put all my affections and belief in his grasp, but I am not sure how to use my emotions in the best way.

May 3. 1970. The military situation at Pho Cuong has become very dangerous again. I had just left when the tanks arrived, with enemy troops dropping from helicopters right at the place where I have been living. Thuy, Lien, Thuong, and Loi were all captured. I don’t know what has happened to the young man.

Worry makes it hard to breathe and my body feels tired all over. Oh! If there was any way I could protect you, I would do everything even if it meant paying a great price. Kim arrived: I looked into her tear filled eyes and understood her heart. Dear Kim, you are not perfect but I love you because you love my young friend so deeply. Just like me you also worry until your heart burns but we can’t do anything except follow closely the steps of the enemy across our homeland, steps which threaten the people we love. We have no other choice!

May 5, 1970. The War spreads farther across Indochina. The dog Nixon is foolish and crazy as he widens the War. We will have to cope with very difficult circumstances again, but I have already promised my comrades that even if it kills us we will try hard until we break the warlike head of this poisonous snake.

How hateful it is! We are all humans, but some are so cruel as to want the blood of others to water their gold tree. Because of that there is never enough to satisfy the avarice and crazy ambitions of those blood-thirsty demons.

May 7, 1970. Today is the 16th anniversary of the victory at Dien Ben Phu, the historic victory which broke the invading French colonialists. That happened but after 16 years the flow of blood and fall of bones has still not come to an end in the South even with 25 years of war. Dear Country, 25 years in the fire but still strong and patient, still you raise your head to attack. At every step blood from fighting still makes the road red. Is there another country in the entire world which stands so much sorrow as ours? Or are there any peoples as courageous and patient as we are?

This afternoon everyone left for the delta: I don’t know if they can get through or not, and wonder if the enemy fire is still at Xoi Hill on the way. My heart is burning, sad, worried, and so full of hate I cannot breathe.

May 13, 1970. Nghia was wounded in the fighting: he broke his arm. When I was first away from him, I hoped that I could be close even though he was only lightly injured so he could come to the hospital and I could take care of him… now this hope comes true. (My M had dreams of the warm hands of Doctor Thuy taking care of him, but it didn’t happen.) Nghia is thin and older than his 23 years after being away for a long time and the pain in his arm makes him tremble, all of these things stirring me. I wanted to hold him in my hands and touch him, but I could not because everyone would missunderstand our true emotions and our regard for each other. They would think of other reasons.

Very simple the things he brought with him, the underwear that he wears and a pair of undershirts which Thuan handed to me, also a few parachutes and a notebook on duty. I found the souvenir book which I gave him in 1967 when I told him good-by and returned to base. The book is very carefully covered with nylon paper, and my heart is warmed when I realize all of my words still follow him along the road to war. Dear Nghia, please hold our affections forever like they were when we were living together in Pho Hiep. Truthfully, in the time gone by the beautiful picture of our affections has somehow faded because we didn’t take such good care of it: is that because of you, or because of me?

May 19, 1970. I received another letter… dear Mother, your every word and every line is filled with love, so that blood runs back to my thirsty heart. Does anyone understand how much I hope that I can return to live with my family, if even for only a minute? I have understood that since I stepped into the car which took me away to fire and bombs, but I still wanted to go. In these 3 years as I have traveled through the mix of thousands of sounds of war there has always been a nicer sound which was louder than that of the bombs and bullets: that has been the sound of the North, of Mother, of Father, of young sister, of all the people, of the trees on the wide way, of the waves on the Hong Ha River, and all the sounds of the capitol which I never cease hearing.

How many times in dreams have I returned to Ha Noi, to the warm embrace of my parents, the clear laughter of my sister, and to the bright shining light of Ha Noi? Even after 3 years away from home, 5 years away, or however long away, my love would never be different. Someone else may leave for money or for status, but for me only the Party would make me leave home. I am still a soldier in this struggle. The enemy attacks and guns fire, but I still smile calmly and go to my trench. When the enemy attacks I have to hide, sometimes even sleeping in the forest, but I still smile. The smile is still there when helicopters and HU-1As throw grenades near… but when I think of the people I love in both North and South my heart is nervous and sorrowful and sometimes tears flow from my eyes.

Does my heart burn in the fire and bullets yet remain weak? Is it alright to be that kind of revolutionary? I recall the words of Lenin: “The revolutionary is a person with a heart very rich and filled with love.” I am that way already.

May 22, 1970. I returned to attend the group meeting, and while living with the young people I felt very happy. The situation with the enemy was very dangerous: they had already sneaked troops in close to where we were but we didn’t know and continued to laugh and to sing, cutting trees and wood and making noise until a civilian came to say that the enemy was near. Only then did we know: that was lucky. If we hadn’t found out helicopters would have already killed us or we would have died by the army’s fire. Even so we remained happy and smiles stayed on those young faces. At night in the crowded house with all the hammocks full of people, the kidding funny words still brought sounds of laughter which we had to suppress and keep in our hearts.

Did something else made me happy? Yes, the love of the people, Phuong, Tong, Han, Ky, Minh….and all the rest of the warm family.

May 24, 1970. You will go far away, but it seems as if you are far from me already so even though I met with you I still felt the same. Far away! Is that because of time, the air, or something else? I have already asked you about that. If you don’t leave before I go home I will only say one word of good-by to you, nothing else. I am mad at you: that day I ran back to report the enemy situation and asked you to give me some idea about the youths’ problems, you blamed Ky saying that he wasn’t lively enough and that the group members were not smart enough. I told Ky to leave, not saying good-bye or anything to anyone. That night you told Cuc* to tell me to come back and sleep, but I never did: you know my pride. All day I wouldn’t return, and even when you were at the meeting I kept quiet. Until today when we almost said our good-byes: if you hadn’t been leaving I wouldn’t have said a thing and would have returned, but the former affection between us won’t allow me to continue that way so I have to write a short letter.

The letter you wrote before the meeting thrilled me that you might understand me also. But why before you left “the first thing I worry about is you” and yet you said nothing? Why when we weren’t together you waited and missed me, but when we met you remained so quiet? Oh! Why are you so close yet so distant at the same time? I understand and don’t understand: (even you must also have questions about this!) So why?

May 25, 1970. Some things that he knows about me:

• My ideas about the Revolution have become stronger, clearer, and righteous.

• I have improved a lot in every way.

• I need to do more scientific research as I retain bourgeois characteristics.

June 2, 1970. There was a surprising but in war-time a very normal incident at the dispensary: many bombs fell right on the patients’ room and 5 persons were killed. In just a minute everything turned to fire and smoke! After the explosions I became very quiet with fear. Perhaps everyone was dead… but then Lanh yelled that “everyone in Mr. Chanh’s room had perished”. We all ran outside and what a miserable sight it was. Part of the forest had been stripped bare with trees fallen all around. Clothing hung in the tree branches and a few houses were collapsed. We dug up Nien and Buoi and by then it was almost dark. Inside, Thanh who had just had his appendix removed yesterday now had a more serious wound and was almost dead. He looked at us all and said: “Please keep fighting and training so you can avenge me. I will soon be dead”.

Oh courageous comrade, your plea brings a promise from all of those still surviving to live on and fight until the end to gain revenge for all the dead!

For most of the night I couldn’t sleep and the next day when it was almost light we had to leave again. “The resistance against the Americans to save the Country continues. The people will continue to be sacrificed until we become victorious at last.”

Dear Uncle Ho… your determination still sounds in my ears and at this time the words come and drown out the sounds of bullets and bombs. I carry them in my heart and leave.

June 4, 1970. Why weren’t we satisfied when our emotions were still clean, pure, fresh and wonderful in our hearts? I met him and all of the young men after the silent moments with you. We should have held each other tightly in our arms, excited and happy, but we only looked at each other and couldn’t say anything! Oh young man that I love and all of the other young men that I respect… why, why can’t we come to each other in a relationship both beautiful and righteous? In the South the Revolution has many heroes, much history, and also many complications and garbage in society. This is easy to understand as we have to fully concentrate on fighting the Americans and saving the country so cannot focus our strength on building a socialist people, the perfect society which knows how to live for the people, how to live a life of culture.

June 6, 1970. I read Van’s letter on a quiet summer noon, a scrawl of handwriting sent to me with so much care. Dear Van, be proud that we are faithful to each other even when we are apart, not mattering that the times are hard and miserable. Do you know that your friendly words always follow me along this difficult journey and that they have brought warmth to my heart? It has been said that we like each other only for status and money, but what do status and money mean? They are far distant from us. You are only a normal girl in a land of fire and smoke, only different from other girls in that you keep a spirit of sacrifice for the Revolution. You have already abandoned happiness in order to join the cadres suffering bombings, bullets and hardships. More different is that you are very kind and care for the cadres: your highest kindness is your kindness for me. You understand me, care for me, and give me your all.

As for me, to you I am not a high ranking doctor: I am only a normal cadre, a girl who forgot her happiness to go south and to fight with the Southerners on the battlefield. In response to your care I give you my true affection.

That’s it Van, on this hard journey we lean on each other to walk: we will be proud of our friendship so please take care of it and respect it my dear beloved friend.

June 10, 1970. Why am I so sad this afternoon? It’s the last time you can come to see me before you go away, but the time has passed already which means that I will not be able to see you and say good-bye. To say good-bye, all the times when saying good-bye in this war-filled land… who knows what will happen or on what day we will see each other again, so see each other again or not you left and didn’t say anything to me. Dear man that I love, I am sad because of a letter from my mother, a short letter which tries to hide her unhappy worry for me, but which in a few words to which she paid little attention showed me that she is very sad. Dear Mother, I know that your heart aches because I have to throw myself into the fire and bullets. All of my letters and those from young brother tell you only a thousandth of the hardships… but you worry already so if you knew everything we have to go through then what would you say? Dear Mother, if I am lost because of the victory tomorrow, don’t cry too much, but please be proud because we have already been worthy of living. Everyone has to die once.

Of course in my heart I always hope that I can return to you and Father and a North filled with love.

June 12, 1970. I am waiting for something… what? I am waiting for people to return to the clinic to take the heavy responsibilities in the coming days. I am waiting for him to return at the end of this month, waiting for letters from people I love, and my big hope is for peace and independence so I can return to my mother’s heart.

Why in these few days has my mind been so heavy with thoughts? Every night I dream of the North, and in the daytime I also dream and wait… my dear Thuy! The road still has many hardships to face but I continue the journey. Please be more patient and courageous: can you stand this Thuy?

June 14, 1970. It’s Sunday: after a shower the sky is clear and cool and the leaves are all green. In the house the flowers on the table were just changed this morning, those beautiful swaying sunflowers with their shadows on the radio’s shining wood in the center of the house. A record plays familiar music, the Blue Danube Waltz… the sound of visiting friends’ laughter… Oh, it is only a dream, a dream while awake!

This morning is also Sunday and it has also rained. The air is calm: if there was no rough sound of airplanes destroying the sky then the only difference would be the sound of the flowing river water! Where I am living just suffered a bombing. Yesterday afternoon the plane with two bodies flew around firing rockets: hearing the explosions everyone ran for the trenches. Hearing the bombs go off over our heads we thought that they were dropped on the hills, but after four bombings they left. We were all frightened when we realized that they had fallen just 20 meters away. All the trees were stripped bare and the nylon covering the house was all torn to pieces. Every tree was cut down by shrapnel: dirt and stones fell into the trenches, but fortunately no-one was wounded. After the bombing we all knew that this place had been discovered so we hurried to find another place to put up a building to move to.

Anyone with strength enough left, leaving only 4 girls and 5 seriously wounded soldiers who could not move. Yesterday afternoon it poured rain so we took nylon to cover the building, but water still got in everywhere. Inside was all wet: everyone got soaked. We carried the water from the leaks outside but the wounded patients still sat there wet and cold.

I looked at them all and smiled, but tears were close: Lanh asked me: “Does anyone else realize our situation?”

Who knows? Maybe a lot of people know but no-one knows clearly. As for me, I also don’t know how many more miserable situations there are in this terrible Resistance. This book cannot list them all but perhaps they shouldn’t all be written down. In all my letters I have never told anyone I love about these hardships. Why tell them and make them worry? Thuan has already experienced the death of those close to him, so much sadness happening to him, leaving his face full of wrinkles…making him older than his years: but anytime he writes he always worries about me and tells me to be careful, saying “I am very well”. I learn from his spirit. Something presses heavy on my heart: what is it? It’s worry about the clinic. The situation with the enemy is tense and if they come here how can I leave the wounded soldiers? If they bomb then there is no choice but to wait in the trenches for luck or misfortune. The thoughts and hopes of the people I love come to comfort me… all those things press on my heart and fill my mind like the waves on flood waters.

Yesterday after the bombing everyone carried the things to leave. Dat looked at me and half-kidding, half-serious asked me: “Who knows about this? If peace comes they must pity all who have been in these circumstances”. I felt a pain in my heart; I don’t do this for pity: everyone knows my hopes. I answered him: “I don’t need their pity; my only hope is that peace comes so I can go home to my mother… that’s all”.

Indeed I don’t think about the happiness of my youth and never hope that I can enjoy a burning romantic love. At this time I only think of family love, hoping only that, except for the times of my duties to the Party, I can be with my family.

June 16, 1970. I read Bon’s diary. He is a young student from Phu Xuyen in Ha Tay. I was thrilled: his thinking is like mine, we are all living in anxious times. The clinic is destroyed and the enemy continuously threatens us terribly with all kinds of aircraft. Hearing their noise makes my head pulse like a tightly drawn music string. There is no other choice: I have to remain here with the wounded soldiers. It’s very funny that the political cadre for the clinic refused to stay with me in this situation. That is it: fire tests gold, hardship tests strength. I have to withstand these conditions, what else can I do?

These days I miss the North very much: looking at the sky cold and fresh I think of the afternoons with a friend on bicycles going through the garden trees, with all the beautiful fancy flowers like groups of butterflies settling on the ground, the fragrant roses… I recall also the willow trees in the garden and the summer flowers I picked to put in the house. Oh, the North far away… when will I return there again?

June 17, 1970. Today the planes didn’t circle around, the air is very quiet. Sometimes an HU1A comes close to the hill so surely the enemy is close. Only 3 girls remain here with 5 wounded soldiers who cannot be moved. If the enemy comes maybe all we can do is to run away. Can we do that? Everyone has made that decision already, but can I do that? Nien, a young soldier still a boy said in a very truthful way: “Sisters, stay calm and flee if the enemy comes, we will stay and fight until the death”.

Nien is 19. He worked in the district security unit. He is very handsome with high nose, full face, and big eyes under thick eye brows. All the time he was in pain he watched me with eyes full of tears. He was wounded on duty, an arterial wound which hemorrhaged blood. I had just finished the operation and bandaged the wound 3 or 4 days before when the dispensary was bombed. His leg was broken by wood in the trench pressing on it exactly where he had been wounded.

I had taken care of him for 12 days when his leg started bleeding again. If it stays like that it will be very hard to keep his leg well. Today the danger is past, but if the enemy comes again he will die. Will he die? My heart aches: I don’t know what to say and how to protect these wounded soldiers for whom we are working so hard with so much difficulty these days.

June 18, 1970. The afternoon sun went down and its light was very weak behind the far-away chain of mountains. All the jets have stopped their roar. The calm of the afternoon in the forest makes me afraid, with no birds singing, no sound of talking… only the sound of the running river and the radio playing. I don’t listen for the song’s title only knowing that the music is very soft and smooth like a green and soft rice field on a foggy afternoon. I suddenly forget everything; forget all the heavy pressures which weigh on me all day.

Since this morning, except for meal-times all 3 of us have sat in a corner watching for the enemy. I never left my position for a minute but in my mind were scenes of the family together. I will return to them and will build a warm family: I will know how to enjoy every precious minute with them. When you live like this then you understand the value of life. Oh, life changed by blood and bones, by the youth of so many people… how many lives have ended in order to allow other lives to be fresh and green. My dear North, do you understand the heart of the South?

June 20, 1970. Until today no-one has returned yet. It has been almost 10 days since we were bombed the second time. Everyone left and promised they would soon be right back to take us out of this dangerous area which everyone thinks spies have revealed. From the time they left the people remaining here have counted every minute; from 6 o’clock in the morning until noon, from noon until afternoon… one day, two days, and then 9 days have passed. No one has returned yet. All the questions go around in our minds. Why? Why doesn’t anyone come back? Is there some problem? We didn’t think anyone would leave us like this.

No-one answers. We few girls question each other: we are mad, angry and then we laugh, smiling through the tears which almost run from our eyes. Today we have only enough rice for this afternoon. We cannot look at the wounded hungry soldiers. If we leave, one person alone is not safe as the way is very dangerous. If two people go leaving one here and something happens, what can she do? We do not say much. It will soon rain, but if I put up nylon then I worry that the enemy will see us. Finally two people leave: I stand there looking at Lanh and Xang wading through the river’s running water and suddenly tears want to flow…

I read this softly:

“Now the sky and the ocean are wide:

Dear Uncle, do you know the children’s heart?”

No I am not a child: I am grown up and already strong in the face of hardships, but at this minute why do I want so much a mother’s hand to care for me, or really the hand of a close friend, or just that of a person I know who is all right? Please come to me and hold my hand when I am so lonely, love me and give me strength to travel all the hard sections of the road ahead…

Notes

1

In this Vietnamese name, the family name is Đặng, but is often simplified to Dang in English-language text. According to Vietnamese custom, this person should properly be referred to by the given name Trâm. She was known and addressed as Thùy by family and acquaintances due to the fact that her mother and three sisters all had the given name of Trâm.

Content

Dang Thuy Tram’s Dairies

Book One

Book Two

Notes