Going Back … Going Forward

Vietnam. It almost goes hand in hand with the lives of today’s older baby boomers. It was traumatic for us all, but none more than the servicemen and women who were there. Now-retired police officer Bob Hall is one of them, and only last year did he figure out how to soften the long-festering trauma of the war. With the help of his wife Karen, who wrote this story.

My husband, Bob, is a Vietnam veteran. Bob has long fought his ghosts and tried to rationalize the war experience. Unfortunately, these spirits keep creeping back from his past. Bob needed to find that elusive piece of himself that he left behind in 1969, and that led us in March, 2007, to the decision to go back — back to Vietnam, back to find who and what he left behind after his year long tour in Hoi An. That decision was the catalyst for what became the voyage of a lifetime.

I met my husband in 1971, several years after his service. We were married in 1973 and have four children, now adults. I knew some of the details of his tour of duty as a medical corpsmen in the Navy. We had often talked about him trying to find the Vietnamese medical civilians with whom he worked. We started exploring the idea of going back after the kids had grown, but excuses like the long plane ride, the weather and the language stopped us quite a few times. I had a strange intuition though that 2007 was the year Bob was supposed to return.

He enlisted in the NAVY in 1966 and volunteered to go to Vietnam. A corpsman in the Navy is combination doctor, nurse, and combat sailor. He was sent to Hoi An, about 25 miles south of China Beach, near DaNang, to serve with a military medical “Milphap” team. The team’s function was to join forces with the South Vietnamese civilian hospital in Hoi An and help the hospital personnel learn modern-day medical techniques and social values. They taught sanitation procedures and infection prevention and control, as well as other medical measures. As a result, more Vietnamese civilians who were injured in the war survived without fear of serious complications from their wounds.

Bob worked hand in hand with the nurses and doctors on the male surgical ward. His team also helped improve the hospital surroundings by painting and cleaning the hospital wards in their off-duty hours. He had to learn the Vietnamese language in order to communicate with the nurses and doctors. He became very friendly with some of the medical nurses and doctors and as a result, often was invited to their homes. His team was sent back to the US in 1969 after completing its one-year tour of duty. Before leaving, Bob took pictures of three nurses with whom he was friendly and vowed to return one day after the war to find them.

Bob also befriended a wounded orphan boy by the name of “Ky” (Pronounced Kee). Ky was brought in to the hospital one morning wounded after both his parents were killed in an attack. Ky was about three years old and after his wounds healed, he was sent to the Catholic Orphanage two blocks from Bob’s base camp. Bob supported Ky at the Orphanage for $10 a month. He visited Ky often and they became very close. Bob would bring Ky clothes and food and just hang out with him. Leaving Ky at the orphanage was heart-wrenching and to this day causes him mental turmoil not knowing what happened to him. He has never forgotten Ky and has often wondered if he survived the fall of Saigon after he left Hoi An. He has pictures of Ky and on many occasions has shown them to our children.

Today Vietnam is very civilized compared to the war-torn country of 38 years ago. I learned from the travel agent that most toilets are clean and restaurants are safe. What a relief ! We were originally booked only to go to Hoi An where Bob was stationed, but due to conflicting air schedules we had to stay one day and night in Ho Chi Min City (Saigon) before returning to the United States. This unplanned excursion became the catalyst for another meeting later in the story.

March 2007 arrived and with three suitcases in hand we were off to our destination. Never could I have imagined going to a third world country like Vietnam, yet here I was flying more than twenty hours so my husband might find some peace that had eluded him since the war. We left on a Friday night and finally arrived at a lovely resort on the Thu Bon river on Sunday night, two days later. The heat was instant; thick stagnant air intermingled with tropical flowers and foliage. Hoi An is a very small, quaint, old town. Tan Son Naut airport was a scene out of a 1975 movie. There were hundreds of people outside the main gate shouting and waving, trying to find their relatives getting off the planes. If you have transportation waiting for you, you must wade through the throngs of relatives and find your agent with the sign with your name on it. After navigating the chaos, we were in Hoi An.

It was around 8 o’ clock in the evening when we finally arrived at the resort. It boasts magnificent views of the rice paddies across the river. It is hard to believe there was ever a war here in the midst of the tropical ambience. Yet, here and there on the way in from town, we did see shreds war: a jeep here, a uniform there. Hoi An still retains much of its charm. In the midst of decaying homes and stores is a bustling business center geared towards the tourist trade. English is spoken, though at times difficult to comprehend, and the American dollar rules.

Air conditioning is sporadic since the Vietnamese infrastructure is still struggling with electrical and plumbing issues in a fast-growing tourist economy. Construction is everywhere and foreigners can now own land, to the delight of developers. Everywhere you go in Vietnam, north or south, city or country, driving or walking, requires the negotiation of a mixed flow of bicycles, motorcycles, cars, carts, and buses. Cyclists are not expected to confine themselves to any one lane and continuously weave back and forth between lanes. The motor vehicles, some of which have all the acceleration of a grocery cart, are not about to lose precious momentum by slowing down unnecessarily and they all keep going, stopping and merging with unremitting horns blaring. I felt like we were in a travel documentary, but realized that as long as our taxi didn’t do anything the rest of them couldn’t possibly anticipate, like come to a stop, they would simply weave us into their traffic pattern.

Monday morning, after a decent night’s sleep in a lovely room, I decided to relax on our balcony with my usual cup of coffee and watch the water buffalo across the river. Apparently, it was time for his morning bath. Reality check, yes, I grasp, I’m really sitting here in Vietnam, watching the rice paddies wave in the breeze with a water buffalo prancing around in the river. Bob went outside to check out the resort layout and get his morning java. Ten minutes later, Bob appears at the door of our room with one of the gardeners from our resort. “This is Hung,” he says, “I started talking to him and he may know the nurses I’m trying to find.” “Excuse me?” I say. Hung is now bowing and trying to talk English. “I see picture, I can tell” he says. In disbelief, I watch as Bob shows Hung the pictures from 1968 of the nurses at the hospital. Hung says, “I was born in 1968. I live near Hospital and Orphanage.” Hung is now talking very fast and gesturing with his hands and neither of us can understand him. He is pointing excitedly to Bob’s pictures and we are realizing he may know some of nurses. Maybe? Bob and Hung make an effort to communicate, more or less, but unsuccessfully. We finally grasp that Hung will get back to us by evening with some information on the nurses.

What was the probability of Bob meeting a stranger who barely speaks English, born the year Bob was in Vietnam, who works at the resort where we are staying, and may know the nurses Bob worked with in 1968? Eerie, to say the least.

Into Hoi An we go to see if anything has changed from what Bob remembers. What a shopper’s paradise! Hoi An town is a thriving, bustling tailors’ village. All types of clothes, purses, shoes, and scarves are made to each person’s exact specifications from exotic silks and leather. They show you hundreds of different types of materials from which you can choose your garment. Then they measure you and you come back to get the clothes within a few hours. The clothing is extremely affordable; one dollar is equal to 16,000 VD (dong). We went crazy trying to calculate things but all the merchants have calculators. I had heard the Vietnamese negotiate prices on everything, but they have taken haggling to an art form! No way can anyone get away from the “market ” without buying something. I love to haggle so I felt right at home, but it was still a unique experience.

We had lunch in town at a small restaurant on the river called “Brothers Café.” The French had occupied Vietnam for many years before the American war and I noticed the French influence in restaurants. In the middle of rundown buildings with no or little exterior décor or paint, every restaurant still had its own ambience. Every café we visited had a white linen tablecloth with linen napkins and fine china. The waiters put the napkins on your lap as in a fine French restaurant. The glasses are refilled immediately and the plates are removed instantly after you are finished. The other custom was that every dish served had charming vegetables formed into floral shapes as a garnish; a disparity to the surroundings. During our shopping expedition, we had passed the old hospital. There is now a new building with the crumbling ruins of the old hospital behind it. Passing the old hospital brought back harsh mental flashbacks for Bob; he could not go near it.

It was now around 4pm and the phone rang. It was the front desk calling. “Please meet Hung out front” the clerk says. We walked out to meet him and he motioned for us to get on the back of his motorized scooter and his friend’s scooter. Okay, should we trust this unknown gardener or not? It just seemed okay, a gut feeling. Off we go on the back of very small motorbikes with two strangers. Where we were going, I had no idea. This has been one bizarre day already and getting more wacky all the time. We arrived at a stucco house which belonged to Hung and his sister and her husband. He took us inside to meet his sister Ly (Lee) who speaks (thank goodness) better English. He parked his bike inside the home on the marble floor across from the sofa we are now sitting on. We are immediately served tea. When you are a guest in any Asian home, you are always served tea first — a very watered down version of green tea. Several hand gestures and language attempts later, it is determined that Hung knows someone from the hospital. Hung calls him on his cell phone. In Vietnam, almost everyone owns a cell phone, a TV, and a motorbike and that is basically it. There is also no carpet — only marble, tile, or wood flooring in the majority of homes. They own very little else — no refrigeration or hard-line phones or washing machines, no modern conveniences as we are accustomed to having everyday in our homes. Houses are stucco or wood and most are not painted and have little décor if any.

Roughly 15 minutes later a motorbike pulls up with an older man, I’d say in his late 50’s. Bob immediately recognizes him. Through tears and several chaotic dialogues, I identify this man as the anesthesiologist with whom my husband worked 38 years ago in the hospital. I was astounded and stunned that we had actually found this person from that long ago in a country that had gone through a complete political regime change. I was astonished that someone who had worked with the U.S. military had actually survived. Not only survived, but here he was in front of us. Wait, it gets better. Cell phones start ringing and up comes another bike with a different man and women on the back of the bike. In walks one of the floor nurses and her husband! By now, Bob’s mind is in a maze of current times and past. His emotions are on a roller coaster that wouldn’t stop. He is having a difficult time speaking what little Vietnamese he can remember, but with Hung’s sister, Ly, communication is achieved, to a degree. The nurse is crying, everyone is crying and laughing. The nurse and her husband in their late 60s are retired now after surviving a traumatic life. They had been sent to the re-education camps like many Vietnamese after the war. The anesthesiologist never married and also survived the re-education camp. The nurse and her husband have four grown children. Bob shows them the pictures from 1968 with the three nurses. “I remember,” she says, “You smoke pipe.” They laugh. “Yes, I did,” Bob says, “I still do.” Bob takes pictures to show everyone back in our town how his story unfolded and we vow to send them copies after they are developed.

Bob tries to establish if they know where the other nurses are. More chaotic discussion, hands going back and forth between the anesthesiologist and Hung. Hung tells us with a smile, “I call, I try to find by tomorrow.” He promises to see them again before we leave Hoi An. What a day! We are both worn out and back we go, on the motorbikes to the hotel. Addresses have been exchanged for future letters. I fall into bed and sleep; however, Bob is way too excited and wakes up at least every two hours.

One piece of the puzzle has been solved but the emotional distress sustained in a war never really goes away. Call it Post Traumatic Stress Disorder or anything else, the pain is always just under the surface. Going back for Bob may help settle some concerns and raise other questions. I get up the next morning to find him sitting on the balcony in tears. Holding his hand was all I could do, because I have never felt the terror that comes with working a year in a war zone and trying to make sense of it after it is over. One minute he may have been helping piece together a wounded soldier and the next moment shooting at someone coming through the concertina wire with a grenade in his hand. And in his war, that grenade may have been attached to the hand of a child.

We got up the next morning and decided to go to the orphanage. Ky is still a missing piece of the puzzle. The orphanage still looks the same and Bob has to stop before entering to collect his thoughts. It is still the exact same building but now run by the Communist government. The Catholic Church is still next door and well preserved. The orphanage is rundown. There is almost no paint on the walls and almost all the rooms are open with no doors. I assume this is to let air pass through from the stifling heat. The regular children are in classes while others who are disabled with things like cerebral palsy are in assorted phases of physical therapy. Volunteers do most of the therapy. They are from various charitable organizations that send doctors and physical therapists at sporadic times of the year to help the children.

There is no formal program for disabled children — it seems as if they are tolerated. The government gives the orphanage supervisor $10 monthly for each child, which barely feeds the children. There were 53 children at the time of our visit. There is no money for repairs to the crumbling building. We have brought with us several hundred toothbrushes, which are desperately needed. We have also brought some toys and coloring books and crayons. Bob tries to communicate with the supervisor about Ky, but it does not appear there are any records from the war. We are escorted through several rooms and allowed to give the children the gifts and spend a short amount of time with them. We are allowed to take pictures of the children but cannot video the facility. We leave after 45 minutes. We come away with a very peculiar assessment of the orphanage. Bob and I just stood across the street and stared — a feeling of satisfaction eluded us. These children almost seemed like throw-a-ways.

We then walked around town a bit. The historic area has a strong communist presence and we saw guards every 4 feet or so sitting and watching everyone. The Communists are wary about anyone who may try to take away historic objects from the temples. We had lunch and then took a taxi back to the hotel. After a brief dip in the pool, we went back to the room and the phone rang again. It was the front desk: “Please meet Hung at 7pm next to Brothers Café” the woman says. Off we go again, this time in a taxi, to meet him. Next to the café, apparently oblivious to us earlier, was a historic home from the “Trung” dynasty that many charter tours visit. We are introduced to a professor of math from the university in town. He is the brother of the head nurse in my husband’s picture! We are served tea and are motioned to sit on two very hard but exquisitely carved low wood chairs. The professor speaks English very well but in sporadic clips. “She die,” he says. “She go on boat to Cambodia with our parents and die in typhoon April 1975 when Communists take over our country,” he says.

Bob is shocked and saddened. Tears begin to fall. This nurse was the head nurse with whom he had become the most friendly. The nurse had apparently tried to escape with her parents as the Communists entered Saigon — all three perished in a typhoon some time after Saigon fell in 1975 to the Communists. No bodies to bury, no grave to visit, just gone, lost at sea. Lost, like many other “Boat People” who tried to escape the horrors that awaited them after the war ended. Countless Vietnamese perished in the rough seas, fell victim to pirates as they tried to escape, or starved from lack of food, but the alternative of staying under the Communist rule was worse.

The professor tells us more details and then he allows Bob to place incense at his sister’s alter which is in the home, as an offering to her memory. All homes in Vietnam have altars to their deceased relatives and they believe their spirits live on to help the remaining family left on earth. The professor provided new insights into her story. She had married in 1970 and had a daughter in 1972. According to the professor, her husband stayed with the child when Saigon fell. The husband was sent to the re-education camp and the professor raised his niece until the father was released from war camp. The child is now a teacher at the high school in town.

Bob has now located two of the three nurses in his picture. The professor discloses to Hung where the third nurse is. She is in Saigon living with her daughter. Hung tells us he will try to find a phone number and call her. Remember, I said we were not originally supposed to go to Saigon. Our itinerary changed right before we were due to leave for our trip and we were then scheduled to stay one day and night in Saigon before we leave Vietnam to come home.

Back to the hotel and no sleep again for either of us that night. This bizarre trip is affecting my sleep pattern now. Next day, we get a phone call. It’s from the brother of the third nurse in Saigon. She lives outside of Saigon and is retired and living with her daughter. Bob agrees to call him when we get to Saigon the next day so he can bring her to our hotel or to meet somewhere. By now, the avalanche of emotions is both exhilarating and exhausting

6 a.m. Saturday — we are getting in the taxi and are amazed to suddenly see the anesthesiologist and the husband of the nurse standing at the gate. They had gotten up very early to see us off and came all the way in from town to our resort to see us leave. BIG HUGS and tears and off we go to Saigon.

Saigon! What a city — it may as well have been New York City. Saigon has lots of noise, traffic, and skyscrapers. We get through the airport scene again and are whisked off to our hotel on the Saigon River. We called and left a message for the brother of the other nurse advising him we were at the hotel. We then made a short hiatus to the local flea market in the center of town; another mish mash of assorted merchandise with lots of haggling. We came back to our hotel and up to the rooftop pool to have cocktails. Then dinner. Finally, the phone call came but it was not what Bob had expected. The brother had been delayed at work and he and his family could meet and talk with us at the hotel but he would be unable to bring his sister with him for the visit since she lived too far from town. That was fine; Bob was still amazed he had found her at all. They met us in the lobby of the hotel. There was now a string quartet playing classical music, which made the whole experience like another scene from a movie. Bob and the brother talked for about an hour while I tried to make small talk with his wife … not easy with the language barrier. The nurse’s brother then called his sister on the phone and with varying degrees of success, Bob finally was able to talk with the third nurse. It was another emotional visit but it still helped to cement the bonds after the war. This nurse and her brother have family in Massachusetts. Bob promised to call and inform them that he had spoken to their family in Saigon. Bob and his new friend exchanged emails and addresses and also supplied addresses for later communications.

We left the next morning for the long flight back to the United States.

There is great comfort in connecting the dots of the past and bringing them forward into the future. The search for one’s identity is ongoing throughout life and Bob is now better able to accept the past and move on with his future. I appreciate Bob’s struggle and why he needed to go back. I feel I have a enhanced understanding of the connections that are formed by war. I can’t escape the oddity or “karma” of how all these people came together so easily during our trip. Everything and everyone just fell into place, and it was an amazing adventure for both of us.

I was also able to see what a beautiful country Vietnam is today and Bob was able to see how far it has come since the war. I can better appreciate the wonderful country we live in and how lucky we are. We have good plumbing and electricity that we take for granted. We have refrigeration and washing machines. We have modern cooking appliances and safe food and water. Yes, I did have a slight tinge of “You should not have tasted that tea” syndrome since we had tea with Bob’s Vietnamese friends made with water from their homes. To refuse the tea would have been considered rude.

This is a story I felt compelled to recount. I feel all who read it will gain by our exotic and chaotic trip. In future generations, I’m sure, there will be other veterans replaying this scene, but in a different country. I hope they, too, will be able to rationalize their experience.

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