GOLDEN TORTOISE, THE

The Road to Dak To

91 The Road to Dak To We leave a green-shadowed valley. The thick tree line opens. We climb a hill crest on which a small stone church perches. This mound was so fiercely contested that after the battle for its possession the local people dubbed it Skull Hill. Burning incense atop the eye sockets of those who died here Previously the Communist government tried to banish religion. Sometimes, among both the living and the dead, it discriminated against those who had supported the South. Now time and necessity, forgiveness and wisdom fade old animosities. Buddhists and Christians— separate graveyards then— sleeping together now We stroll through the Highlands dust. One vet complains that her heart turned to stone during the war and remains so yet. Another declares that the things he saw should have made him howl; he wonders at his decades of silence. They touch rocks and search for familiar signs of where they served. They gaze at the dipping and rising landscape, caught in a wrestling match between then and now. Singed hills, charred trees, my grin that does not feel— only old photos One vet carries a magazine story of an obscure skirmish at Ben Hat. At its scrubby site we greet Montegnaard farmers trudging home. A vet’s daughter finds spent bullets in the brush and clutches them like holy relics. During the war GIs called patrols “search and destroy.” Now we search and reclaim. Bouncing on the bus our middle-aged bellies, his dripping tears 92 The Golden Tortoise Our young guide helps our chaplain find his former base. It is on a high hill that casts the guide’s home village into shadow. Our chaplain points toward the mountain on which he was stationed, then thrashes through the brush to touch its flanks. Our smiling guide born as he signed the cross over empty boots Much land is still barren, barely sprouting weeds. Many tree lines are new and low. Veterans and locals remember the bombings and sprayings. Tree stumps, shell holes— water buffalo plod beneath rubber trees Farmers tend old scars and new growth, transforming wounds into opportunities . A million bomb craters— cashew plantations, fishing ponds One vet is certain we have arrived at his base. There are no runways or Quonset huts, no choppers flying out or mortars screaming in, to tell him that he has returned. All green now— only recognizing mountains and rain Old farmers, young villagers watch as we gesticulate and tell stories. They approach respectfully and ask “when were you here last?” “Where are you from?” “How many children do you have?” When we pray, they stoop before us to light our incense, then stand with us in silence. Behind every tree I feared who I would meet— now we talk and talk 93 Edward Tick Memories return where they happened, and the fear they carried, and a cleansing. Where I raced my jeep to dodge sniper rounds four girls on a scooter The Vietnamese teach that human beings have seven souls,each one in charge of memory, beauty, will, or another precious trait. When some of our souls leave us we fall ill. In traditional villages, men gather on the roof of a dying neighbor to call his souls back. Our vets declare that they left their souls on these mountain ranges, beside dying friends, fleeing war-fire. We try to aid them the Vietnamese way. “Come home!” we cry to his soul — lightening on the mountain Among these children of the dragon, I cry thanksgiving and beg help from their father-spirit that brings waters and rules with justice. My uniform in this bright heat has become t-shirts made from their cotton and embroidered with their symbols and colors. Emblazoned on my shirt green dragon rising in my heart R Vietnamese researchers call those who develop new Agent Orange diseases and disabilities “victims of time-delayed violence.” Prof. Leibo refers to ongoing damage from old wars as “transgenerational warfare.” The sword unsheathes in unexpected places and shocking forms. We find the site outside Pleiku where an American nurse tended the wounded from all sides in a bustling, blood-soaked field hospital. A small medical clinic stands there today. She is glad it is still a place for healing. But she tells us of the intensive spraying her base endured, of the dead landscape, and of how, later, as a mother, the poisons...