Four Perspectives

It's 1968. A Viet Cong soldier lays dead on a dirt road surrounded by jungle. The soldier responsible, the lieutenant of the company, a small child in the distance, and a fellow Viet Cong soldier hiding in the bushes are present at the scene.

Lê Thủy Anh (Small Child):

It was always so dark in the tunnels. Whenever the Americans made loud noises above us the ground would shake, cracks would form and dirt would fall. All I have is memory of the tunnels, the cold, damp dark. I never got comfortable underground, these past 7 years have felt like I was suffocating, like I was buried alive with no way out. I always wanted to venture above and breathe in the fresh air, but since there was a war going on it made things difficult.

 I tried to understand what the older men would say about what was happening above us, and since it was always so easy to eavesdrop in these tunnels I heard a great deal of what they were planning. I couldn't make sense of it though, why Vietnam? Why are they even here? From what I could tell, they were the one's destroying our livelihoods, our country, our home. What did we do to offend them?

I was always so curious. I wanted to see what was happening up there. I wanted to help fight.

I crept down the tunnel, holding my breath, following the voices ahead of me. My father had just left with one of his buddies. They were headed for one of the southern entrances, the closest one to our home. I saw a bright light ahead of me, something I've never seen before, and watched them climb up a ladder from the shadows.

Leaning against the wall, I shuffled toward the opening, aware of every sound around me, and slowly climbed up the ladder and pushed open the hidden door.

It was really bright outside, and before I could take in my surroundings I heard a shout in a language I didn't understand. I turned and watched my father get blown off his feet by a power unknown to me that violently shook the ground, throwing me off balance. All I could do was stare, wide-eyed and fall back down the hole, back into the tunnels.

Time stood still. A powerful force hit me and burned through my chest, I started to cry. I wanted to scream.

How dare they take away my father, pillage and kill. Don't they know how it feels? All we want is to get out of this hole. I don't understand. Why did this happen to us?

(Emily Parker)

Jackson Lowe (Soldier responsible):

I pushed myself up and sat on the dirt road. I wiped the sweat off my brow, only to smear mud in its place. My bag had been thrown on the ground and my hands were empty. It took me a moment to realize what I had done.

I remember the explosion, Lieutenant Harrison yelled and we jumped off to the side. Covering our faces, we guarded against the shrapnel and smoke but no barricade could guard against the guilt that began to overwhelm my body.

I could see myself the day before, sitting around the fire playing cards and talking smack about Lieutenant Harrison. Day after day we made the best of where we were and anticipated the day we could return back to our old lives, if we were that lucky. I wasn't a killer; I was just a guy who had been swept up along in somebody else’s battle.

As I stood on that dirt road I tried to convince myself that the man laying in front of me was the enemy. That he wanted me dead and I had to protect my troop and myself. As much as I needed to be able to hate the man lying on the dirt road, in my heart I knew that he was just like me. Like me, he had a family who loved him, a livelihood he was anxious to return to, and a wish for peace. He was just like me except one thing was different. I was alive and he was dead. I had killed him.

(Julia Khoury)

Lieutenant Butch Harrison:

This worthless grunt. Can’t even kill a man without getting leaky. When Lowe finally focused his eyes on the dead gook lying face up in the path, he quickly averted his gaze. Too soft to even look at what he had done. 

This is war and Nam is the enemy. The gooks hide among the bush and conceal themselves in the boonies. Like raving savages they attack from behind. Cowards. America is in a noble war for a noble cause. It is our obligation to protect civilized countries from contamination by the Reds.

Yellow-bellied pansies like Lowe give honorable soldiers a bad name. But more and more frequently the FNGs they send over are getting flaky.

I straightened from my protective crouch at the edge of the trees, briskly brushing the dirt and shrapnel from my fatigues. As I prepared to reassemble my platoon, I scanned the jungle for any remaining VC. Those slants were as rampant as the rats, but they could disappear like phantoms. I placed a hand on Lowe's shoulder to commend him on his first, albeit cowardly, kill. 

“Soldier time to move out.”

I kicked the wasted VC as we continued to hump up the path.  
(Joelle Bruckert-Frisk)

Hoàng Văn Tông (Viet Cong Soldier):
The smoke clears and I see him lying there, his face unrecognizable, and one arm missing. After a few seconds I spot it a few feet down the path. Had it really been only minutes ago that he flashed his famous grin at me? I am frozen for what seems like an eternity as I try to remember what it looked like.

Then I hear voices. My body tenses as a couple of Americans climb through the trees, towards his body. I don’t know what they are saying, but the younger one, no more than 20 years old probably, has a look on his face that I will never forget. A mix of shock and horror. The other man, a little older, has his hand reassuringly placed on his companion’s shoulder. No, he’s thumping him on the back. He’s commending him. They approach the body and the younger man falls silent. My legs ache from crouching but I remain still. If I’m discovered they will surely kill me too.

For a few minutes, the younger man doesn’t say a word. He just stares at his hands, his eyes avoiding the body. Then, the older man pulls him away, throws a kick, and they disappear down the path. I slowly come out from my hiding place, shaking with anger and fear, and face the direction the men went. Suddenly, I become aware of the weapon in my hand. The weapon, that months ago, I had barely been able to pick up without cringing. And now, there’s a part of me that wants to use it, chase after the men that took my friend’s life, and seek revenge. The thought sends a shiver through my body. Instead, I turn around and approach my fallen friend.

I can’t bear to look at his mangled face. Instead I take his hand. I imagine him holding hands with his wife, picking up his little girl, tousling his son’s hair. The calluses and scars show the hard work he’s put towards creating a life for his family. The smooth parts are evidence of all he had left to give. Everything he had taken from him. Is this worth the fighting?

(Emilia Anderson)