GOLDEN TORTOISE, THE

The Pass Above the Clouds

56 Quartermaster’s Memory Once a month without fail beneath the green canopy beneath layers of sticky tape inside boxes inside boxes I had to bayonet open— fresh Wonder Bread and a note, “Love, Dad.” R My Hoi An days recede as we climb the coast-hugging mountain road snaking north. Monkey Mountain rises out of the Eastern Sea, a green explosion from an aqua bed. My bus stops at a summit called The Pass Above the Clouds. We seem poised on a precipice between north and south, past and present, grief and hope. The Pass Above the Clouds Old gun emplacements and watchtowers, built by the French and used in both their war and ours, line the horizon. I peer through machine gun slits that shrink the verdant vista to a peephole. Concrete bunker riddled with bullet holes — the smell of buffalo dung One companion is a student of military history. Like so many old warriors, he joins his story to those who struggled before him and draws one inevitable conclusion: American veteran pointing out the positions of the dead French 57 Edward Tick Another vet, in a lighter mood, has bought from a vendor and joins us on the ridge. Beneath the power line and the abandoned grave munching his Pringles Today younger as well as adult vendors meet our bus. My wife Kate befriends a young woman who dreams of college. School holiday — trudging up the long hill to sell trinkets Vets, civilians, Vietnamese stand together on the ridge overlooking valley and sea, as if we can survey the scope of history and destiny we finally share. Scanning the mountains where rustling leaves meant danger purple wildflowers R My companions depart to buy or take cover from vendors and sun in our bus. But I push on to explore the high ridge. I wander among now-silent bunkers and forever-bursting flowers. ...