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 said goodbye to Hanoi University and went to war. He entered the battlefield with the aspiration to become 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 known 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 added to the 37mm anti-aircraft artillery unit of the 308th Division when the entire infantry division was rushing to Quang Tri. As soon as I joined the unit, my feet were wet and I hadn’t had 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 north in a shirt. 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 artillery. - 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 clothes huddled together, 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 string of prisoners regained their composure and stood up to continue walking, another gunner in the company, a tall man, left the gunnery rope, stepped to the side of the road, quietly put some Tam Dao cigarettes and a tobacco stick into the prisoner's hand. "Share 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, stamping his feet in the mud. - And that again? - The political commissar glared at his soldier - You are a learned man but your perception... is still... giving the enemy a spear. The tall gunner frowned slightly and sighed: - Commander, please calm down! First of all, that is not a spear, but tobacco, smoking to relieve the cold. Second, that is not the enemy 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 slapped 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 need to know. 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 regiment 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 group 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 the 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 pointed. It was an old sim tree that had been slashed to shreds 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 and had become a brave bird. But this morning, when I climbed up to see the nest, I found out 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? - Occasionally throw a bag of rice onto the empty land by the stream. I see that whenever a bomb hits, 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 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, picking it up from the ground. The food must be dirty and smell of mud. - You must write a lot of poetry, right? - I asked. Hearing me switch to poetry, his innocent, mischievous eyes suddenly darkened, deep. - Actually, I love poetry very much, but I rarely write poetry. I heard you are a student of the General Literature Department, right? I also studied there. In my opinion, if you intend to write anything, you should write prose, write stories. Poetry, after all, is still a monologue, a language of the heart. But this war is so magical, so fierce that it is difficult to understand. It needs a language, complex, multi-voiced 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 matter 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 matter were revealed, many people would consider it a silly matter, and the unit’s political commissar would have a heavier prejudice against a “vague 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 actually limited the American air force, providing a safe cover for our friendly unit. By five 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 late, our company commander ordered the breech blocks of the two guns to be removed, cleaned, and prepared for the next day's battle. But his order was a serious mistake. Angry at being blocked by the four 37th artillery pieces all day, around five 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 blindingly. The forest fire was rolling 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 nearly 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 impatience when he learned that the gunner who replaced him was shooting poorly, he struggled and shouted. “How can you hit a target like that!” 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, chased the gunner who was replacing him into the bunker and sat neatly in seat number 2, leisurely like 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 kept spraying bullets arrogantly, 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 hilltop, two F4s dived one after another, dropping two series of bombs. Vu Dung's cannon was suddenly thrown out of the fortification and fell upside down on the hillside. The sound of the cannon stopped. Five minutes later, the enemy planes happily retreated. The survivors and I from the tunnels and streams crawled up to help 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 from the common pile of bones and flesh that had just been collected, took out a body part with the two largest thighs, 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 the absent people. Everyone went to collect the martyrs' backpacks to preserve and send them 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 out loud for the first time in my soldier's life. But I cried loudly without being able to hear myself 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 cooing from the direction of the battlefield. The sound of the night birds kept ringing out in mournful waves...