In the months and years that Vietnam was focusing all of its strength on combating the U.S. imperialists, my colleagues and I, a poet, had a burning desire to be present at the frontline to witness the extremely brave and arduous life of the people, like looking into a beautiful mirror to lift ourselves up and blend into life. For such a simple reason, I am very grateful to life for allowing me to become a soldier-journalist, a true opportunity for me.
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The PAN’s reporters in Dong Ha, Quang Tri, 1975 (A filed photo) |
I still remember that 50 years ago, I was a member of the Culture-Art and Literature Team of the Division of Political Affairs (present Division of Party and Political Work) under the People's Army Newspaper (PAN). In that year, the Phuoc Long Campaign started, and for the first time after many years of combat and development, our military completely liberated a provincial capital. The war after the U.S. troops withdrew under the Paris Accords seemed to be developing promptly.
Eight colleagues and I were summoned to have a working session with Editor-in-Chief Nguyen Dinh Uoc. Surely having grasped the very important situational developments, Editor-in-Chief Nguyen Dinh Uoc, a very sensitive and sharp-witted manager, for the first time sent nine reporters to the battlefield at once, who were then divided into three groups to head for Region 6, the Southeastern and Southwestern regions. Two older colleagues Tran Huu Tong and Ha Dinh Can and I were tasked to enter Region 6 (the South-central region with six provinces), an area with few major battles but being unrivaled in terms of hardships and difficulties since it was truly far from both the two main rears, namely the North and the Central Office of South Vietnamand renowned for its remote, rugged and isolated terrains.
On the morning of January 22, 1975, some 20 days before the lunar New Year of the Cat, we got into a Gaz truck, departing the PAN’s headquarters for the South.
Having the habit of diary-writing since I was 14 or 15, I did not miss a single day, a memorable event or a thought during such an important journey without noting them down into the notebooks I brought along. I wrote diary on February 10 and 11, 1975, the last day of the last lunar month in 1974 and the first day of the first lunar month in 1975 after 19 days crossing the dusty Western Truong Son road with many “red leaf” trees.
On February 10, 1975, I reached Station T10. There remained Station 11 to reach Bu Dop, my final destination on Truong Son road. I was in Mondulkiri province, Cambodia. I crossed Laos in five days and might be in Cambodia for several days. That means I was already abroad like many others. Everything at the station was satisfactory, the atmosphere was special even though my health was not good.
At 01:30 on January 1, 1975 according to the lunar calendar, it was a rare New Year’s Eve in Cambodia. “So touched by the meeting of souls, living life to the fullest with everyone.
“Suddenly, after many days without rain, on New Year's Eve, the sky of Truong Son poured rain on the thatched roof, oh my god, the rain of hope was dripping in my heart.
Yes, it is hope!
Ngoc, I wish you a steadfast life, good health, peace, victory and brilliant composition in 1975.
Hello, my fierce 1975.”
Actually, on that New Year’s Eve, we-the reporters and troops gathering at Station T10 were all happy and carefree to celebrate a battlefield Tet like those in the past years. No one would ever think that it was the last Tet of the war.
So, everything before our eyes was still a vague space, a war that was so unpredictable. Each of us had a family, a wife and children, a beloved rear, but we had left them far behind...
What I wrote in the diary was completely truthful, because I consider the diary a private, secret chamber of my soul, of my life, and certainly no one can look into it if I do not want to voluntarily reveal it.
Those lines were hastily written in the last year of the arduous and long war against the U.S. imperialists, the year of PEACE, REUNIFICATION and INDEPENDENCE for our beloved Fatherland of Vietnam.
By Anh Ngoc
Translated by Mai Huong