The unpoet

For the past twenty years, every April, when the capital’s streets are red with Chinese flags, jubilantly celebrating the day the South was completely liberated, mixed with the general joy, I feel a deep sadness. That sadness is associated with the memory of a comrade who left Hanoi University to go to war. He entered the battlefield with the aspiration of becoming a poet, but his aspiration was not fulfilled, he sacrificed himself. Why? Because he was living and obeying the logic of reality: The Fatherland needs heroes, before it needs poets.Actually, I don’t know much about him. But the little I witnessed is enough to understand a person. Because what I know is what I know in war – a war like a furnace that has exposed everything that can shine. It is truly a test of fire, distinguishing gold from brass, clearly proving the true value of each individual before the national community. I was assigned to the 37mm anti-aircraft artillery unit of the 308th Division when the entire infantry division was rapidly marching to Quang Tri. As soon as I joined the unit, I had no time to get acquainted with anyone when I was pressed into my hand with a three-sided wooden block to block the artillery wheel. The road to the front was steep, with many passes, pouring rain, and muddy ground. The “scraper” vehicles were not strong enough to pull the artillery over the passes. All the gunners had to turn around and pull the artillery with the vehicle. One rainy afternoon, my company was pulling the artillery along the road when they encountered a line of puppet prisoners being escorted in a shirt in the opposite direction to the North. The group of emaciated people were strung together with a loose rope through each wrist. Seeing an old prisoner, wounded in both his hands and head, Bien - a gunner in my company asked with concern: Where are you from? Before the prisoner could answer, the company's political commissar shouted from behind the cannon. - Bien! We are not brothers with them! Where is the revolutionary stance to address them like that? Hearing the shout, the whole group of people in camouflage shrank, pressing their backs against the cliff. They were right to be afraid. Who knows, the commander's anger might turn into a barrage of bullets. But when the prisoner regained his composure and stood up to continue walking, another gunner in the company, a tall man, left the gunner's rope, stepped to the side of the road, quietly put a few Tam Dao cigarettes and a tobacco cake into the prisoner's hand. "Share it and smoke it!" The tall gunner whispered to the prisoner and immediately returned to his position. But that action could not escape the political commissar's eyes. From the end of the line, he rushed forward, stomping his feet, splashing mud. - And that again? - The political commissar glared at his soldier - You are a learned man, but you still... give the enemy a spear. The tall gunner frowned slightly and sighed: - Commander, please calm down! First of all, those are not spears or spears, but tobacco, smoking to keep warm. Second, those are not enemies but prisoners. They have been disarmed and are in our hands, so we can see them as... human beings. The commander was silent for a long time. Finally, he slammed his hand on the beam and walked away, muttering: "What an intellectual vagueness". Curious, I turned to ask a gunner: - Hey, who is that person who seems so tough? - You don't know? - My comrade seemed surprised - That should be the first person you should know. That's Vu Dung! Gunner No. 2 of Battery 4. This company had many students from Hanoi University, but he was the only one who had graduated. And he was the best gunner, having “played” dozens of battles without a single injury. Everyone respected him. The political commissar was a new person from the regimental headquarters who had been transferred a few weeks before him, so he had not yet grasped the “temperature” of each person… From that day on, the image of the “vaguely knowledgeable” gunner remained in my mind as a senior, an idol. But I was really unlucky! Because I was an infantryman, had not received any training in anti-aircraft artillery techniques, and had a “docile” personality, I was assigned to the feeding team so I rarely had the opportunity to talk. One day, I was carrying a gun, carrying a sack to find green vegetables and hunt wild animals when I heard someone calling me back. It turned out to be Vu Dung. He told me to try to find him some rice to feed the birds. Partly because I liked him, partly because I was curious about the anti-aircraft soldier's bird cage, I searched the "strategic hamlet" and then wandered three or four kilometers through abandoned rice fields, and finally brought him a bag of broken rice. - Where is your bird cage? - I asked. - I don't have a cage - he replied - If we can't raise caged birds, we'll raise wild birds. Do you see anything on that bombed sim tree? I looked in the direction he was pointing. It was an old sim tree that had been slashed to pieces by the bomb. On top of the tree was a bird's nest. This hill was bombed, all the birds had flown away - he whispered mysteriously - Only one turtledove remained. That was its nest. Yesterday, I guessed that either the bird had been deafened by the bomb, or it had become accustomed to the sound of explosions, becoming a brave bird. But this morning when I climbed up to see the nest, I found out that it was incubating eggs. The nest contained three eggs. It turns out that it stays here with us to fulfill its motherly duty. - You are so romantic! - I clicked my tongue and commented - So, how do you plan to raise it? - Every now and then, throw a bag of rice onto the empty land by the stream. I see that whenever a bomb hits and it is startled, it often flies towards that side. This species has very sharp eyes. I am a "field crab person" so I understand this species of bird very well. This species of bird does not like ready-made food. Even if you hang this bag of rice next to the nest, it will not eat it. It likes to work, to pick it up from the ground. The food must be dirty and smell of mud. - You must write a lot of poetry, right? - I asked. When I switched to poetry, his eyes, which were full of innocence and mischief, suddenly darkened and became deep. - Actually, I love poetry very much, but I rarely write poetry. I heard that you are a student of General Literature, right? I also studied there. In my opinion, if you intend to write anything, you should write prose and stories. Poetry, after all, is still a monologue, a language of feelings. And this war is so magical, so fierce that it is difficult to understand. It needs a language, complex, multi-vocal to appear on paper… Listening to his abstract philosophizing, I felt embarrassed. With the literary capital of a first-year student, I was not foolish enough to get into an argument with him. I pretended to return to the topic of raising birds. After chatting for a while, he and I agreed to take turns cutting leaves to cover the bird’s nest. Because sooner or later, this bombed sim tree would die. Who knows, maybe the bird’s eggs would hatch and one day, we would hear the bird cooing… Cutting leaves to camouflage the bird’s nest had become my and his private business. We didn’t say it out loud, but we both knew that if the story got out, many people would consider it a silly thing, and the unit’s political commissar would have a stronger prejudice against an “unclear intellectual”. But then, neither of us had time to do that silly job. At nine o'clock the next morning, the neighboring ground artillery battalion opened fire, firing heavily at the Dong Ha stronghold, supporting our infantry in the attack. American planes came to bomb the ground artillery battalion. It was our turn, all four 37th artillery pieces had to shoot down the planes, protecting the ground artillery unit so that it could "work" with peace of mind. During the entire day of fighting, although our company did not shoot down any planes, we had really limited the American air force, providing a safe cover for our friendly unit. By 5 o'clock in the afternoon, the sky was suddenly quiet. All the American jets had withdrawn, leaving only one OV-10 plane languidly hovering in the clouds. Seeing that it was getting late, our company commander ordered the two guns' breech blocks to be removed, cleaned, and prepared for the next day's battle. But his order was a serious mistake. Frustrated by being blocked by the four 37th artillery pieces all day, around 5 o'clock, American planes suddenly arrived to drop bombs in revenge. Because the two cannons were still being disassembled and cleaned, our position was left with only two guns to face dozens of jet planes. It was truly an unequal battle, a desperate battle. Bombs, rockets and shells rained down on the position from four directions. The hills were burning blindly. The forest fire rolled like ocean waves, licking one hill after another. The battle was turning tragic at every moment. Our two 37mm cannons were like two skinny poles, rising alone to fight back against dozens of American jet planes swarming from four directions. After firing dozens of rounds, Vu Dung had his right arm almost severed by a bomb. After bandaging his wound, he could have been helped off the position and retreated like a brave soldier who had completed his mission. But he did not do what a “bad” person would do. Lying in the first aid bunker, he kept grinding his teeth, thinking his jaw would break. Partly because of the pain, partly because of the impatience when he learned that the gunner who replaced him was shooting poorly, he struggled and shouted. “How can you hit a target with that kind of shooting?” Suddenly he screamed and grabbed the nurse’s chest and shook her hard. Pushing the company nurse over, he jumped off the ground and rushed to the artillery bunker. “Get down!” He shouted, chasing the gunner who was replacing him into the bunker and then sat neatly in the number 2 seat, as leisurely as a driver holding the steering wheel. Because he only had his left hand, he had a hard time adjusting the sight. But the series of bullets he fired were fierce and determined. The experienced bullets made the American pilots not dare to dive too low. His gun barrel arrogantly sprayed bullets, becoming a sharp thorn in the eyes of the sky bandits. However, they were still brave enough to use all their weapons to destroy the only target on the bare hilltop. After a bomb attack that killed almost all the people on the hill, two F4s dived one after another, dropping two series of bombs. Vu Dung's cannon was suddenly thrown out of the bunker and fell upside down on the hillside. The sound of cannon fire stopped. Five minutes later, the enemy planes happily retreated. The survivors and I crawled out of the tunnels and streams to treat the wounded and look for the bodies of our comrades. After searching for a long time, we finally found traces of Dung's body. Based on his tall stature, we chose a piece of his body with the two largest thighs from the common pile of bones and flesh that had just been collected, wrapped it in a sack, and wrote his name. We had to divide the remaining bones and flesh into dozens of sacks, writing the names of those who were absent. Everyone went to collect the martyrs' backpacks to preserve and send to the rear. As for me, I tried to find Vu Dung's notebook. I knew there were many poems he had just composed. There he recorded many things he had witnessed and wondered about the current war. Digging in the hot soil until two in the morning, I still could not find the two notebooks. I sadly left the battlefield. I felt sorry for him, and cried the first cry of my soldier life. But I cried loudly without hearing my own cry. A moment later, I realized that the bombs and artillery had deafened me. After walking a distance from the foot of the hill, I suddenly stopped. I did not know if it was a dream or reality? I did not know if my ears had stopped ringing or if it was just a sound coming from my memories: In the cold space of the early morning, in the silence of the desolate battlefield, I clearly heard the sound of a dove calling from the direction of the battlefield. The sound of the night birds kept ringing out in mournful intervals...