Well, at least we've got a change of scenery.
The
sound in the background is a
jet that is going by. I can hear some bombs in the distance. The sky is lighting up, so
something's going on somewhere.
It's Thursday morning, quarter of eight, and we're going off to see Nam Tien street, Nam
Tien district, where the bombing was extremely heavy the last couple nights, and to see the
site where B-52 was downed.
Oh, my. A woman is crying in the background. Oh, my son, where are you?
It's walking to the battleground that always makes me cry.
I've met so few folks in my time who weren't afraid to die, but dawn bleeds with the people
here, and morning skies are red as young girls load up bicycles with flowers for the dead.
An aging woman picks along the craters and the rubble, a piece of cloth, a bit of shoe,
a whole lifetime of trouble. A sobbing chant comes from her throat and splits the morning
air. The single son she had last night is buried under her.
They say that the war is done. Where are you now, my son?
An old man with unsteady gait and beard of ancient white, bent to the ground with arms
outstretched, faltering in his blight. I took his hand to steady him. He stood and did not turn,
but smiled and wept and bowed and mumbled softly, Danke schön.
The children on the roadsides of the villages and towns would stand around us laughing as we stood
like giant clowns. The morning bands told who they'd lost by last night's phantom messenger,
and they spoke their only words in English, Johnson, Nixon, Kissinger.
Now that the war's been won, where are you now, my son?
The siren gives a running break to those who live in town. Take the children and the blankets
to the concrete underground. Sometimes we'd sing and joke and paint bright pictures on the wall
and wonder if we would die well and if we'd loved at all.
But I prefer the action of the nights before than this night when you are waiting,
because when you are running from here to the shelter and from the shelter to here,
the time passes much faster than when you are like now waiting for the attack.
I know, I know. We are not afraid to the attack. If we die, that's all, we die. We're going to
die only one time. Anyway, we're going to die now or a little after. You cannot be afraid of
any situation. I can't. After you get the custom. It's very easy. It will be, it will be.
Take it down. I'm taking my guava.
I'm taking with me the wonderful guava, as in the bomb, guava bomb. This you can relate.
Are you recording this conversation?
Yes, I am. This is something that we can enjoy later on.
Look, Ian, who do we have here, smiling cheerfully with his pants undone in the doorway?
Well, the mood of the evening is definitely up.
It's a discourse between the Indian and the Pole. It's causing a joviality.
Why did you come back?
Thank you.
Come back.
Oh, Lord, Kumbaya, save the children, Lord, Kumbaya, save the children, Lord, Kumbaya.
Save the children, Lord, Kumbaya. Oh, Lord, Kumbaya.
Someone's praying, Lord, Kumbaya. Someone's praying, Lord, Kumbaya.
Someone's praying, Lord, Kumbaya.
Things have quieted down considerably here in the shelter.
The conclusion being that the siren was broken, so people kind of filtered out.
It left one Cuban, two Indians, Mike sprawled out on the floor, Barry and myself.
I don't know, but I'd rather stay here than get stuck in the mosquito net in my bed.
The helmetless defiant ones sit on the curb and stare at tracers flashing through the sky and planes bursting in air.
But way out in the villages, no warning comes before a blast that means a sleeping child will never make it to the door.
The days of your youth were fun. Where are you now, my son?
From distant cabins in the sky where no man hears the sound of death on earth from his own bombs, six pilots were shot down.
Next day, six hulking bandaged men were dazzled by a room of newsmen.
Sally, keep the faith. Let's hope this war ends soon.
Tall, sweet, southern looking boy, a couple of bandages.
He showed around a circle of people, his baffle, and he looks as though he's pretty sore. I mean, bone sore.
Christ. He's just lost, that's all. Lost.
Cameras are going.
My name is Richard Thomas Simpson.
I am captain of the United States Air Force.
My service number is 2-5-0-6-6-6-6-0.
He's a blonde boy with a mustache and a little scar. He looks absolutely dazed.
I am captain of the United States Air Force.
I am captain of the United States Air Force.
I am captain of the United States Air Force.
He looks utterly dazed.
In a damaged prison camp where they no longer had command, they shook their heads.
What irony. We thought peace was at hand.
The preacher read a Christmas prayer and the men kneeled on the ground.
Then sheepishly asked me to sing, they drove old Dixie down.
Yours was the righteous gun. Where are you now, my son?
We gathered in the lobby, celebrating Christmas Eve.
The French, the Poles, the Indians, Cubans and Vietnamese.
The tiny tree our host had fixed sweetened familiar psalms.
But the most sacred of Christian prayers was shattered by the bombs.
The French were singing along to the refuses of Thanksgiving.
It was when you froze in front of the fire.
The distance from the fire was far enough that a huge cloud entered.
You was going to get your last Christmas gift from it.
It will be, however, a subject for another day.
You are here today, in the middle of life,
and on the day of your death.
Here is the hand that will open the door to heaven.
You will find a little child in the middle of the tree,
lying in a bush.
Amen.
Father, which art in heaven,
hallowed be thy name.
Thy kingdom come,
thy will be done,
on earth as it is in heaven.
Father, which art in heaven,
hallowed be thy name.
Give us this day our daily bread.
Father, which art in heaven,
hallowed be thy name.
Lead us not into temptation,
but deliver us from evil.
Amen.
Go on.
Be quiet, John. Go on, John.
It's nothing.
It is a matter of time.
Continue, John.
John, go on. Just go on.
Go on.
John.
You're going to see it. You might as well see it.
John.
We just heard a jet in the background.
No, maybe it was just my stomach.
We've decided to go down into the shelter.
So back into the shelter where two lovely women rose
with a brilliance and a fierceness and a gentleness
which froze the rest of us to silence
as their voices soared with joy
outshining every balm that fell that night upon Hanoi.
With bravery we have sung
But where are you now, my son?
Oh, people of the shelters, what a gift you've given me
to smile at me and quietly let me share your agony
and I can only bow in utter humbleness
and ask forgiveness and forgiveness
for the things we've brought to pass.
The black pyjama culture that we tried to kill with pellet holes
and the rows of tiny coffins we've paid for with our souls
have built a spirit seldom seen in women and in men
and the white flower of Bac Mai will surely blossom
once again.
I heard that the war is done
Then where are you now, my son?
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