I then saw the captain draw his pistol and shout something to the lieutenant, who turned back toward the captain. Nothing more was said, and the captain shot the lieutenant in the front of his head. The lieutenant’s helmet flew into the air, and the man was thrown back and lay dead on the floor among the rubble.
I was so surprised at this that I failed to react as the captain ran out of the building. I waited to see if the sound of the pistol would bring enemy soldiers, but there was much gunfire and explosions around the city, and this single shot was not heard above the others.
I lay there and looked down through the hole until nightfall. Then I descended the staircase and went to the body of the dead American. I took his canteen of water, some cans of food, his rifle and pistol, his wallet, and other items from his body. He had a fine watch, which I took, but as you know, if I were captured by the Americans with this watch, or any other American items, I would be shot. So, I will have to decide what to do with the things I have taken.
I thought you would be interested in this occurrence, though I can attach no meaning to it.
Have you heard from our parents and sister? I have heard from no one in Tam Ki for two months. Our cousin, Liem, has written to me and said that they see trucks filled with our wounded comrades passing through each week, and long columns of healthy comrades marching south to liberate our country from the American invaders, and from their Saigon puppet soldiers. Liem says the American bombers have increased their activity in the area, so, of course, I am worried about our family. He says the food in Tam Ki is sufficient but not plentiful. The harvest in April should provide ample rice for the village.
I have not heard from Mai, but I know she has gone to Hanoi to nurse the sick and wounded. I hope she will be safe there from the American bombs. I would have liked her to remain in Tam Ki, but she is very patriotic, and goes where she is needed.
My brother, may you be safe and well, and may this letter find its way to you, and then to our family. If mother, father, and sister read this, I send my greetings and my love. I have much faith that I will be out of Quang Tri in a day or two, in a safe place so that I may fully recover, and continue with my duty to free our country. Write to me and tell me how it goes with you and your comrades.
(Signed) Your loving brother, Vinh
I refolded the letter and thought about what I’d read. This letter, written to a soon-to-be-dead brother certainly gave me a different perspective of the war. Yet, despite the stilted translation, and the patriotic tag-ons, I thought this was the kind of letter that could have been written by an American GI; the subtext of loneliness, homesickness, fear, concern about family, and, of course, the barely hidden anxiety about Mai, who I guessed was a girlfriend. Girlfriends working in military hospitals in the big city were certainly subject to some temptations and pressures the world over. I smiled.
I felt that I could relate a little to Tran Van Vinh, and I realized that we’d once shared the common experience of war at the same time and place. I might even like the guy, if I actually met him. Of course, if I’d met him in 1968, I would have killed him.
As for Lee, remarkably our paths may also have crossed. My battalion of the First Cavalry Division, after the action at Quang Tri in February, was airlifted to Khe Sanh in April to relieve the siege there, then airlifted into the A Shau Valley in May. We were an air mobile unit, meaning that wherever the shit was hitting the fan, we’d go in by helicopter. How lucky can a guy get?
Well, enough pleasant reverie. I re-read the letter, concentrating on the details and circumstances of the alleged murder. First, it certainly did look like murder, though that might depend on what the argument was about. Second, it was a strange and interesting occurrence, as Sergeant Tran Van Vinh said.
I began from the beginning of the letter — a government building within the Citadel. Many Vietnamese cities had citadels, built by the French in most cases. The Citadel was the walled and fortified center of the city that contained government buildings, schools, hospitals, military headquarters, and even residential sections. I knew the Citadel at Quang Tri because I was ordered to an awards ceremony there in July ’68, out on the parade ground, where the Vietnamese government was handing out medals to American soldiers for various battles. The Citadel was half in ruins, and I realized now that I must have been standing somewhere in the vicinity of where this incident had taken place six months earlier. I received the Vietnamese Cross of Gallantry, and the Vietnamese colonel who pinned it on me had, unfortunately for me, been trained by the French, and he gave me a kiss on both cheeks. I should have told him to kiss my ass, but it wasn’t his fault I was there.
In any case, I could sort of picture where this incident took place. I tried to picture, also, these two American officers coming into the half-ruined building within the Citadel, while the battle raged around them, and Tran Van Vinh lying there with his itchy trigger finger on his AK-47, bleeding from an American artillery shell burst.
The American officers were definitely not combat infantrymen, or they’d have their troops all around them; these guys were undoubtedly rear echelon types, most probably MACV advisors, and, as I recalled, they had their headquarters somewhere in the Citadel. Somehow they’d gotten separated from whatever South Vietnamese army unit they were attached to, or the South Viets had taken a powder, which they sometimes did. This was partly speculation on my part, but it was the most logical explanation of how two American officers wound up alone, without troops, in a city that was garrisoned solely by the South Vietnamese army.
So, these two guys are caught in the middle of a slugfest between the North and South Viets, the city is a killing zone, and these two find the time to go off on their own and have an argument about something that leads to one guy blowing away the other guy. Strange. And I agreed with Tran Van Vinh—“I can attach no meaning to it.” But I had a feeling that whatever that argument was about was what this whole thing was about.
I glanced at the letter again: the captain ran out of the building. Tran Van Vinh, smart survivor that he is, doesn’t move until nightfall, then he goes down to the body of the lieutenant, has some water, which is his first priority, then takes the dead American’s C rations, and rifle, and also his pistol — probably a Colt .45—his wallet, and “other items from his body.” Such as what? The dog tags undoubtedly. This was a big prize for the enemy and was proof that you’d killed an American, and it got you a piece of fish or something. But as Sergeant Tran Van Vinh noted, if he were captured with any American military items, he’d be shot, Geneva Convention notwithstanding. So, he had to decide what to do with these items, these war trophies.
Maybe he kept them, and maybe, whether or not he was still alive, they were proudly displayed in his little family hut somewhere. Maybe.
So, what was missing from the translation of this letter? The phrase and other items from his body may have been substituted for Vinh’s actual words.
But I could be reading too much into this, and maybe I was more suspicious than I needed to be. A little suspicion and speculating are good; too much and you start to outsmart yourself.
I realized that we were almost on the ground. A few seconds later, the 747 touched down, rolled out, and taxied toward the terminal.