Students go to war.

Having just finished their second semester exams, university students in Northern Vietnam were undergoing health checkups for military service, preparing to enlist. Most university students were already 18 years old and eligible for military service, so there was no need to "lend their age to the country." However, many students had to "lend their health." Many short, lightweight students had to add stones to their pockets or ask healthier friends to examine them, "cheating" on their weight and height. For every student enlisting, there was a volunteer application, many of which were written and signed in blood. While writing volunteer applications, deep down, most students couldn't help but regret their studies. University entrance exams during the war against the US had extremely strict selection criteria, almost "one in ten." Therefore, after being admitted to university, most students wanted to study continuously to earn their degree. But because the homeland called, "the enemy forced us to take up arms," ​​and a general mobilization order was issued, all students selected for military service were ready to "put aside their studies and go."

New recruits enlisted in September 1971.

Before enlisting, I went home to tell my mother, "I'm going to the South." I guessed that maternal love would make her worried and sad. But no, I looked at her face, waited, and she didn't shed a single tear. She only uttered a casual remark: "Going to war is a man's duty in times of war." That night, I cried silently. I thought: Mother has sold her son to the country. I resented my mother, but I didn't know that on the other side of the wall, she was also crying silently. Later, I learned that my mother had known about my military conscription beforehand, so she tried to appear strong so that her son could confidently go on his way.

We enlisted during the rainy season. The Red River was rising, threatening to flood the entire capital city. My future comrades and I moved the entire library of the Faculty of Literature at Hanoi University from the first floor to the fourth floor to protect it from the floodwaters. As we carried stacks of books up, we felt a pang of anxiety as we held the unread textbooks against our chests. So many books we hadn't read, so many final-year textbooks we hadn't had time to study. We entertained the idea of ​​sneaking a few books into our breast pockets and taking them to the battlefield. We knew the librarian had closed her eyes and turned her back, creating an opportunity for us to "steal from the public." But then, no opportunistic embezzlement occurred. We knew that our backpacks to the battlefield had to prioritize weapons and ammunition. The library books at that time were valuable assets and needed to be kept intact for our friends who remained to continue their studies.

6971 alumni of Hanoi University

To reassure those going to war, universities announced they would preserve students' academic records. Final-year students were granted special graduation status, even though they hadn't defended their theses or had yet to have their diplomas printed. Their transcripts were retained, awaiting their return to continue their studies. Of course, their academic results were preserved, including any "poor" grades. Some students, naturally "allergic to foreign languages," who failed their Russian language exam, joked with each other: Going to war was also a way to postpone retaking the Russian language exam. And if they died, it would be killing two birds with one stone – they wouldn't have to take the Russian language exam again.

Our academic results were preserved, and our transcripts remained unchanged, but for some subjects, we weren't informed of our scores. This was the case with Professor Nguyen Van Khoa's Western Literature course. The school at the time allowed Professor Khoa to violate regulations by not informing students who were going to join the army of their academic results. Professor Khoa was a platoon leader in the Military Intelligence platoon during the Dien Bien Phu campaign. This veteran of the war against the French was given preferential treatment by the school, as he was not allowed to return the exam papers to students going to war. Before the students who were enlisting to say goodbye, the teacher declared: “I will keep all your exam papers, not submit them to the academic office, until you return victorious. Rest assured, you will all receive extra points. These points are beyond Western Literature grades. They are ‘life points.’ Because you have studied the most important subject, the most important curriculum, the subject of love for the Fatherland, and you deserve a perfect score of 10 for going to war. I will keep your exam papers separately on my bookshelf, waiting for your victorious return.” We still remember his words today. By keeping our exam papers and not returning them, he created a protective charm for us, preserving our faith and hope for our return to the rear while we were fighting on the front lines. We never imagined that after the complete liberation of South Vietnam, when we returned to school and met him, we would find that we didn’t have enough papers. Some of the top-scoring papers, which didn't require any "bonus points," went unclaimed. Teachers and students wept together. Our friends had perished on the battlefield.

The monument pays tribute to the faculty and students of Hanoi University who enlisted in the army and participated in the resistance war against the US to save the country.

In the army that went to war, we also had our teachers with us. They were older soldiers, a few years older than us, but easily recognizable by their glasses and guitars slung over their shoulders. Leaving the lecture halls, the teachers from various universities were organized into a concentrated company of teaching staff. This company had the highest intellectual capacity and was very rich in artistic talent. This teacher company even formed a light orchestra, thanks to dozens of amateur artists who were talented men going to war.

September 6, 1971, went down in the history of Vietnamese universities as the largest mobilization event among universities in the North. The night of September 5th and the morning of September 6th that year were sleepless autumn nights for many universities. The enlisting students received from their girlfriends embroidered handkerchiefs with blue chrysanthemums, notebooks with commemorative messages, and stacks of envelopes and "120-cent" postage stamps – not knowing if they would ever use them all in the battlefield. To overcome sentimentality, regret, and sadness, everyone focused on talking about the Fatherland. And everyone empathized with the very fresh verses of the war poet Pham Tien Duat:

It's not too early for us to leave today.
The country has been on a march for decades.
It's not too late for us to arrive today.
The country is still fighting wars.