Over thirty years later, I went back to Kontum with four other brothers in the unit to visit the resting place of our compatriots. In 1972 and 1973, our unit lost over two hundred lives at this place to hold on to the front end, the main gate to the Highlands where the Division headquarters was not far below, in Pleiku. As we stopped at the foot of ChuPao, I recalled numerous fierce battles against the enemy troops who, chained to the rock caves, desperately tried to hold on to the hotspots set up along National Road 14, the arterial road that connected Kontum to Pleiku, to break it into fragments. I thought of the faces of those who would never return, whose bodies disintegrated in the jungles. I owed them a big debt, a debt of flesh and bones that I could never repay. During that time the fighting was so fierce that some lost their lives as soon as they were sent in to reinforce us, even before the military data clerk had time to register them. Most of them were very young, single, whose families were too far away to care for their graves. It had been over thirty years! A lot had happened; a lot had changed! Most military cemeteries in town had long been removed. If they were relocated somewhere, their new graves would probably not indicate the units they served before they fell. We came to relive some memories and to somewhat ease our misery. The chance of finding our compatriots’ graves was a slim one.
Kontum had changed all over. We had great difficulty finding old localities. The B12, B15, DakPha Citadel, Morning Star Hill, Field Hospital. Places named after our brothers, our friends who had fallen to protect Kontum: Võ Anh Tài, Đặng trung Đức, Trần Công Lâm… We went in search of people we knew. They were all gone. Most of the people we met were North Vietnamese. Kontum’s own people of yore were probably spread all over. Pity those unfortunate Kontumese! Amid the atrocities of war, sometimes thousands of rockets falling on them in a single day, the people still remained side by side with us to preserve the town during the most ferocious times. Alas, in Mid-March of 1975, the town was abandoned nevertheless when there was no enemy around. The soldiers were ordered to persevere, to hold off enemies from the tri-border frontline in order to assist Pleiku’s evacuation. I was told tales of heroic suicides during the 25th hour when Kontum fell to the enemy. Such thoughts drew sobs from within and sent tears to my eyes.
As expected, all the cemeteries in town where my friends were laid were gone. The new government confiscated them to build government buildings and recreation centers.
We went to the Bishop’s residence, also a place we shed quite a bit of blood to reclaim during the Fiery Summer. An old priest welcomed us warmly. He informed is that graves from old cemeteries were moved to a new location along the 9th kilometer, on the way to Tân Cảnh. However, only those moved by their own families had gravestones. He did not know about the rest. He was kind enough to offer to take us there. The 9th kilometer, near the Non Nước Base, where over numerous times I fought alongside the heroic Tank Battalion 1/8KB to push back the sea of enemy troops and protect the gate to Kontum.
We took almost two hours to roam around the cemetery but did not find any names we knew. Many graves had no stones. We saw the bishop back to his residence, thanked him and departed. It was past noon, so we looked for a place for lunch. We thought of the Bạch Đằng or Thiên Nam of the past, whose owners were nice ladies, where we used to come after long months on operation in the mountains. One of us asked for direction to those places. However, the diners were closed and people of the past had dispersed elsewhere. We agreed to head to bank of the Dakbla River, on the way to the Tân Hương Village, where there were a few cafes where we used to pass time on days that were relatively peaceful. There we had coffee and looked at the river flow against the current, a legend at the time, and thinking of wives and kids, or lovers who were far away somewhere, and then parting, not knowing who will survive and who will be gone afterwards. Along the river bank now were restaurants, inns, and mansions belonging to VIPs. At last we found a low-priced cafe that was pretty clean in the shade of a fish roe (muntingia) tree.
-Business is slow in the afternoon. The owner said smilingly.
We selected a small table near the river bank. On the other side of the river was the charming Phương Hòa Village, nesting among trees. Looking at the dikes at the edge of the village, I was reminded of the death of our hero Phạm văn Thặng. I was eye witness of this heroic feat. He was leader of the mission by two AD-6 planes, bombing where there were anti-aircraft machine guns. He plunged his plane as low as possible and shot precisely, destroying the targets, causing a burst of flames and subsequent explosions then rose from the flames. On his way back, he discovered a slew of shots coming from another area. He turned back, dropped all of his remaining bombs, and then picked up again. At that precise moment he was shot. The right side caught fire. His assistant pilot urged him to jump out. We on the ground were all ready to rescue him. However, he refused, saying that if he parachuted out of the plane, it would crash on residential areas in town. He tried to fly over to the other side of the river, crash landed on the rice fields below. He was a master in his maneuvers. However, as his plane had been struck, it did not obey his maneuvering. It crashed into the dikes and exploded. Phạm văn Thặng died a hero’s death. What was more touching was, when the Division’s representative paid respect at his funeral, he found out how poor the family of an Air Force lieutenant colonel was.
-You’re from out of town? Are you looking to start some business? Otherwise this town does not have much to offer in term of tourism.
I was startled by her question. The others kept silent, looking at me as if to delegate me as the spokesman for the group.
-Oh no! We were looking for people we knew but did not find them.
-Where are they? Do you have their addresses? Let me see. I can help you. I’m from here.
I smiled.
-They were in the town’s Cemetery. But they were moved, and we don’t know where to look.
The owner stopped short by the reply. She put down the foods, looking at me in surprise:
-In the cemetery? How come?
-Because they were dead. As far back as in 1972, I said sadly.
-So you all were our ARVN soldiers? What unit were you in?
The words “our ARVN soldiers” brought me closer to this woman. I became more friendly:
-We were in Division 23, Regiment 44.
-I see! Any of you were in the recon troop?
-No, we were in the battalion and regiment.
After a short silence, she ventured:
-I had some friends who were in recon. They used to be at the town’s Cemetery. However, when the order to relocate was given, I transferred them to the 9th kilometer.
The café owner became friendlier and changed her pronouns.
We were all surprised and touched. After clearing the table and serving tea, she pulled over a chair, sat down, and opened up.
Turned out she was girlfriend to Bình, who was in the recon troop under Captain Minh’s command, then later captain Mạnh’s. Bình was killed in battle in 1972. She was a student at that time, but the school had closed because the war was getting more fierce every day. She helped her older sister run a café. Her sister was a close friend to Mạnh, who was still second lieutenant at that time. Bình usually came with Mạnh to the café and they became friends. After Bình’s death, she usually came to his grave to burn scent and tidy up his gravesite and those of his compatriots in the town’s cemetery.
In 1978, the communist government ordered relocation of the cemetery. She went around raising funds for the work, but could only move 20 graves of the recon troop to the new location. Most of the remaining graves were razed down. We were very touched. During the times when friendship and relationship could hardly survive, when one saw plenty of abandonment or betrayal, turning from the defeated to follow those in power, there were still Kontumese who were loyal to ARVN soldiers.
At our request, she took us to visit Bình and his recon compatriots. Over twenty graves were built with stone, simple, lining next to each other on the eastern side of the cemetery. What was noteworthy was there was a TS engraved on the stone. (TS: abbreviation for Trinh Sát, reconnaissance. Translator’s note). We burnt scent at each gravesite. Turning around, we saw her sobbing in front of Bình’s grave. She wiped her tears and stood up.
-I feel so sorry for him. He tried to cross the fence to shoot at the VC tanks that just entered the hospital’s premises.
Yes, I recalled the ferocious battle. When the VC launched the second attack on Kontum to take revenge on their defeat at the northwest front, where over an infantry regiment and a tank battalion from their Division 320 were wiped out by us. This time they used M113 tanks confiscated from our Infantry Division 22 from our Tân Cảnh defeat. Their T54 and T59 tanks were led by our own tanks to deceive our recon planes and infiltrated our Field Hospital #2 next to DakPha Citadel, approximately 800 meters from the airport belt. They had the despicable intention of blending in with residents and our wounded soldiers to attack us. Battalion 4/44 led by Major Võ Anh Tài fought a very tough battle with the enemy force three times larger and their T54 tanks. Their tanks snaked along the walls of the hospital. To destroy them one would have to come very close to use M72 guns in the most effective manner. Tài and the recon troops led the way and found ways to cross the fence around the hospital. He was killed by our own mines planted in the fence. The big brother of the battalion, a graduate from Class 16 of the renowne Đà lạt National Military Academy, sacrificed his life to pave the way for his unit to rescue the hospital, where people and his compatriots were being used as a shield in the enemy inhuman plot. The recon company who was protecting the regiment command was sent as reinforcement to attack their flank. Recon 44, a company with well-known achievements since the times of Captain Trần Công Lâm, Phan Công Minh and eventually Đoàn quang Mạnh, performed a knockout feat, burnt and destroyed many of their tanks, chased the remaining troops out of the hospital, and kept the town on our side one more. This recon company, under the brilliant leadership of Second Lieutenant Phan công Minh, had fought a lightning melee combat with only hand grenades and rescued a battalion of rangers besieged on the ChuPao peak. Minh was wounded but continued to lead his troops. He both broke the siege and freed his compatriots and wiped out the last posts of the enemy, clearing National Route 14, letting the Armored Calvary Squadron advance to reinforce the battlefield and escort the supply convoy for the first time. General Trần văn Hai, formerly Commander of the Rangers, was then deputy commander of the Second Corps, joined the Commander of the Corps to the Pleiku Hospital, and gave a bear hug to the brave company leader Phan công Minh as soon as he was transported to the hospital. The general personally pinned his Captain’s insignia together with the Vietnam gallantry cross medal with palm on his uniform. Minh was only twenty-five years old at that time.
– Do you know where Captain Mạnh is nowadays?
Her question interrupted my thoughts. I replied:
-He died in reeducation camp in 1978.
After a brief moment, I heard her sobs.
-Hà, Mạnh’s girlfriend, also died in 1975 when Kontum fell to the VC. Her grave was just ahead of us.
She led the way to that site. The photo on the stone reminded me of the young woman named Hà at a little café at the back of an orchard, over thirty years ago.
This cemetery was not very far from Trung Nghĩa Village. I asked her to join us on a visit to the village and the church area, where the parish priest had fought side by side with us to protect his devout congregation. I was told he was tortured to his death in the reeducation camp.
Beyond the cemetery to the North, there used to be green forests, albeit with breakage and scorches from artillery. Today, however, they looked so bare and distraught. When I asked Bình’s girlfriend, she drew a deep sigh:
-Corruption destroys more than the war did.
I thought of recent tribunals that brought high rank cadres to court. Mrs. Thao Y Bình, party secretary of Kontum, stole almost 140 billion đồng from the poor people, and Mr. Trần văn Thiên, chairman of the People’s Committee of district Dak Glei, had illegally sold substantial amount of precious wood.
On the way to Trung Nghĩa Village, my mind wandered back to the battle on the Northwestern front. My unit struck an outstanding victory, breaking most of the 320 Division proudly claimed by the enemy as the steel division. The victory led a continuous series of many more that kept Kontum and the Highlands from the enemy reach.
Right on the Vietnamese New Year’s Eve in 1972, when preparing the end-of-year party for the units at Sông Mao Rear Camp after their yearlong serving in the front, Regiment 44 received order from General Ngô Dzu, commander of Corps II, to move to An Khê to replace the US Airborne Division 101 that just withdrew to repatriate. As soon as we arrived at An Khê on the afternoon of the New Year, we joined forces with the 3rd Armored Calvary Squadron in a battle to ease the enemy pressure from their besiege of a number of posts by the Korean Tiger Division along An Khê on National Route 19. It was pretty calm by then, the Korean units were freed up, and NR 14 was cleared. We were tasked with maintaining security on NR 19 from Pleiku to Bình Khê, and also with re-establishing artillery posts and defense posts. The name An khê reminded one of Mang Yang Pass and An Khê Pass, together with their “death spirals” that almost erased the whole battle-savvy French Legionnaire who was caught in ambush along thoses passes.
On April 24, 1972, Tân Cảnh was taken when the command of our Division 22 was overwhelmed. Colonel Lê Đức Đạt, the commander who did not win the approval of the king maker John Paul Vann, American advisor from Corps II and the 2nd Tactical Region, refused an offer from the Division’s advisor to board the plane when the defense was broken by the enemy’s numerous T54s. He stayed on the fight and perished there. With Tân Cảnh defeated, Dakto lost, a Division command fallen without a single act of support from the Allied Forces, plus the death of a noble, heroic commander, all that spoke volumes to the tragedy of the ARVN’s abandonment by its US allies who pledged protection of South Vietnam, the forefront of the free world.
The fall of the forefront, dragging along the chaos of a division that had been in control of the tri-border regions for decades, had opened the door for the enemy to push down to surround Kontum.
Regiment 44 received order to move fast to the Pleiku Airport to be airlifted to Kontum. Kontum itself was unstable, because the VC was already present in a number of places and regularly fired rockets to the airport. A few planes were harmed by the rockets and were out of combat. Unit by unit, we were airlifted during the night by the C130 plane. As we approached the airbase, the plane turned off all lights, circled around a few times, made a hasty landing to drop us off at the end of the air strip, and hurriedly lifted again in the dark night.
Battalion 1 and 2 of Regiment 44 were transported straight to the northwestern front to replace a regiment of rangers that had suffered heavy losses. The two remaining heroic and gallant battalion commanders were graduates of Class 19 of the Đa Lạt National Military Academy: Captains Đặng trung Đức and Nguyễn xuân Phán. As soon as we were assigned to our positions, all of us, from the battalion commander to the plain soldier got together to set up our front, especially anti-tank trenches.
Around 5 a.m., the fading moon was still sending soft light behind the mist, the front forces spotted enemy tanks pushing south. All units were ordered to jump into trenches and took down all poncho tents to prevent discovery by the enemy. On the radio communication, all was ready. The enemy focused on Captain Nguyễn Xuân Phán’s front, Battalion 2. They did not know that a new, fresh, battle-savvy unit had just been sent in to reinforce this front. After a succession of pre-attack rockets, they sent in their T54s forming horizontal lines advancing first, followed by foot soldiers. Although this was the first time we fought against the enemy tanks, we were not disturbed. Among the sounds of heavy chains grinding on earth, Captain Phán calmly ordered artillery rounds to stall them, divided our troops to surround their infantry units, and at the same time gave orders for our guns to fire at the approaching T54s. The precise aim of the M72s, our only anti-tanks weapons, together with the B40s and B41s previously confiscated from the enemy from the An Khê battle, were all put to use. That was a bold but brilliant move. The first T54 was rendered useless by the battalion deputy commander, captain Nguyễn xuân Hướng. Right after that, slews of enemy tanks burst into flames. The whole battalion went on offense and advanced. Taken by surprise, the VC turned around to retreat. One whole T54 crashed into the battalion command bunker and both tank and soldiers were captured, including a company commander. Battalion 1 of Regiment 44 under Captain Đức became the efficient pursuit unit, attacking them from the flank, leaving the enemy no choice but to drop their weapons and surrender. That victory certainly belonged to everyone, but it would be a big oversight not to mention Major Ngô văn Xuân, the commander who graduated from Class 17 of the Đà lạt Academy, a mild mannered person but whose gallantry had no peers. With a calm composure, Bá Hòa’s voice (his nickname) reassuring, instructing, encouraging over the radio communication inspired and reassured his troops. That very morning, before the smoke and fire were put out, General Nguyễn văn Toàn, the newly assigned commander of Corps II to replace General Ngô Dzu, flew up to inspect the front. He was still wearing a ranger’s black beret, stood on an M113, and then walked along the battle field, shook hands with each of us, and celebrated his first victory with us and pinned the new insignia on the regiment commander’s lapel to promote him. People had said a lot of things about him, but few knew the general’s valor on the front.
This outstanding victory started a series of subsequent others by all units engaged in defending Kontum and held it firm on our side throughout the whole Fiery Summer of 1972. President Nguyễn văn Thiệu paid a visit to Kontum to celebrate our victories. As his helicopter landed at Post B12, headquarters for Infantry Division 2 command, VC rockets kept on firing at us, but the Commander waved away a bullet proof vest offered by the colonel in charge of the Division. At least he showed the courage of someone who was once a soldier. During this visit the President pinned a major general’s star on Colonel Lý Tòng Bá, commander of the Division. All the battalion commanders were promoted to the next rank. The quiet regiment commander, Ngô văn Xuân, was promoted with a separate decision later. He was transferred to be head of the Division’s Bureau 3 and became one of the best regiment commanders of the ARVN.
Kontum today did not retain any traces of the war, but wherever I turned, I saw shadows of my old compatriots, the young, brave soldiers of yore. Đặng trung Đức sacrificed his life at the end of the 1972 summer, as soon as he was helicoptered to the North of the Non Nước Base. The command headquarters of the division was named after him. His wife and children had moved to France; however, Mrs. Đức passed in 1982, and the children were raised by their grandparents. Đức’s old mother, a widow who had Đức as her only son, also passed about a year after Đức’s death. Trần công Lâm, my dear classmate, the valiant soldier who had yet tasted any defeat, who would refuse to return from an operation if he had not meet with enemy force, was commander of a renowne recon company before taking charge of Battalion 3 of Regiment 44, also rested on the desolate, windy Ngok Wang Pass in 1973. Nguyễn xuân Pháp is now living in a small town in Washington State after years of imprisonment. He is very active in community events. Every now and then he came down to San Jose to meet up with old friends, gulping down drinks in single shots with us, and was as funny and charming as always. He said only when he was drowned in drinks among friends could he ever forget the pain. Phan công Minh lived a quiet life in a small beach town in the suburbs of New York City. After a dozen years of working 2 and 3 jobs to take care of his children’s education, he drinks occasionally to forget. As he has free time now, he teaches combat skills to his son, who just enlisted in the US Marine and was currently on duty in Irak. Ngô văn Xuân was spent and sick after thirteen years in prison. However, it seemed that physical wounds from the war that still were on his body did not hurt him as much as the wounds in the heart. They were the pains of a man who devoted his life to a soldier’s calling, only to have his weapons broken mid-life. He now lived a quiet life somewhere near San Jose City; wrote Buddhist Hoa Tâm poetry, studied meditation and Buddhism. Other compatriots were scattered in some unfortunate places in our country with permanent wounds on their bodies. Some had fallen, leaving their bodies somewhere in the Kontum jungles or deserted cemeteries, their graves either still standing or razed down. I think their spirits were still around here. I burnt the rest of the scent and divided them among the graves. Bình’s girlfriend also joined in. We stood solemnly bowing in all directions. May the spirits of old compatriots come to nirvana. Please forgive us, those still living who could not pay back their debt to those of you who died, not even a small fraction of it.
We could not sleep that night. We recounted numerous memories on the battlefields, reciting every single name, portraying every single face. We had lengthy discussions on the war and the loss of our compatriots, and felt the burden of pain and injustices.
The next morning, the café owner, Bình’s girlfriend, treated us to breakfast and saw us off at Dakbla Bridge. She stood silent. Seeing tears running down her cheeks, we tried to nurse own misery in our heart. Looking at the Dakbla running against the current under the bridge, I felt as if I was also running against something, to somewhere, to old battlefields, where our compatriots were still there. They each had lived a very worthy life.
