Part 1: Nameless Pages
I don't remember which month it was. In the jungle, months and days no longer matter. People measure time by the number of missions, the number of shellings, the names called yesterday that are now listed as "missing." As for me, I counted by the pages of my notebook stained with blood, with sweat, and sometimes — with the tears of others.
Every time I wrote, I felt like I was holding on to something. Not to tell anyone. Just so I wouldn't forget that I was human.
We were stationed at Bàu Mít Hill, a mound of land nestled between three branches of dense forest, about five kilometers west of the fireline. On the map, it was just a tiny dot. But to us then, it was a fragile spine keeping a corner of the jungle line from being strangled.
Bàu Mít had no jackfruit trees. Only reeds, red earth, and countless roots like dead people's fingernails sticking up from the ground after a long rain.
At night, it was cold as ice. We curled up in hammocks, raincoats no longer waterproof — used only to wrap our legs. The wind howled through the rock crevices like the wailing of lost souls not yet released.
One night, Lam — our squad leader — called me over and pointed at the map spread on a banana leaf:
— New orders. K8 just got hit. The recon team lost contact. The regiment wants us to break through, rescue if they're alive. If not… bring the bodies back.
I nodded, didn't ask anything. I hadn't asked in a long time. Not because I understood, but because understanding changed nothing.
We left at 3 a.m. Six of us. No moon, no lights. Each carried a gun, one canteen, and some dry rice balls from the day before.
The path was full of roots and rocks. One misstep could expose the team. I walked behind Lam, trying to step exactly where he did. The jungle night weighed on my back like soil. The smell of rotting grass and dead animals made me want to vomit. But we were used to it. We all were.
Near dawn, light rain began to fall. We stopped under a small rock ledge. Lam signaled a ten-minute rest. I sat down, leaned against a tree, gripping my rifle.
Next to me, Phuoc — a new recruit from Quang Ngai — sat shivering, lips purple. He pulled out a photo from his shirt and stared at it.
I glanced over: a girl in a white áo dài, standing next to a bougainvillea trellis. Bright eyes, a smile that seemed to wait. Phuoc whispered:
— My girl... She promised to wait... But... I don't know if she can.
I said nothing. I once had someone waiting, too.
When sunlight finally pierced the canopy, we entered Co Gian — where K8 last signaled. The first thing I saw was a helmet stuck into the ground in the middle of a clearing, next to a bloodstain already blackened.
We split into three directions, combing the trees. No one. No bodies, no trace. Only the wind whispering through the trees like someone calling from afar.
Phuoc and I were assigned westward, following a dry stream. After a while, we found a torn backpack, blood-soaked, with a small note stuffed into the shirt pocket: "If I don't make it back, please don't let me be forgotten."
I folded the note and placed it in my notebook.
That afternoon, when we returned to the rendezvous point, only four of us came back. Son had stepped on a mine, losing half his foot. He screamed himself hoarse, then passed out. We carried him more than five kilometers back to the field base.
Phuoc walked beside me, pale as wax. I asked:
— You okay?
He just said:
— I don't know. When I was a kid, I used to trap birds... The trap was just like that mine today. But birds don't scream when they die.
I looked up. The forest trees had all lost their leaves, even though it wasn't winter.
That night, I wrote:
"There is a season without leaves. There are people without graves. There is war without meaning — only survivors trying to remember for the dead."
Part 2: The Death Without Sound
A few days later, the Trường Sơn jungle began to give off a strange smell. Not the usual scent of gunpowder or rotting corpses — but a cold smell, the damp scent of freshly overturned mud mixed with half-burnt ash. Lam quietly said: "Might be enemy units burning old shelters. Or burning people." No one replied.
I sat silently in front of a still-warm mound of dirt, where we had hurriedly buried Son. His rubber sandals, still new, were left beside the grave, because no one had the heart to wear them. The sandals looked like they were waiting for someone to return and walk on.
Phuoc sat beside me, head down. He no longer trembled, but that quiet posture was no longer the same new recruit from three months ago. He didn't ask me anymore, "when are we going back," only occasionally pulled out his lover's letter to read silently.
The next day, our squad received orders to march toward Hà La Valley, near the newly opened trail-line border. Intel reported the area was riddled with traps, mines, and snipers.
I walked in the middle of the formation, rifle slung across my back, eyes glued to every bush. Phuoc followed behind me, now and then bending to pick up old bullet casings or discarded dried noodle wrappers.
We came upon a familiar sign: a small clay pot placed upside down on a pile of rocks, next to a red cloth tied to a tree branch. Our army's signal — meaning: "blood was shed ahead, proceed with caution."
We stopped, then spread out to find a way around.
We hadn't gone more than 200 meters when a "click" rang out — the most terrifying sound in the jungle. I shouted:
— Get down!
But it was too late.
A dry explosion tore through the underbrush. Dirt, smoke, and a throat-tearing scream exploded all at once. When I crawled up, Phuoc lay in the crater, his body no longer intact. His eyes were open, looking at me. No cry. No tear.
I knelt down, held his hand. It was still warm. The letter from his lover had fallen from his pocket, lying in blood beside him. I bent down to pick it up, blood covering my hand without me realizing.
Lam came after me, knelt down, and pulled out his dagger. He silently dug a hole beside the reeds. No one said a word. We buried Phuoc like we had buried Cu, Son, Trung… A cloth wrapped the body, a tree branch marked the spot.
I placed the blood-stained letter in his hand. As we covered him with dirt, I heard my own breath — and thought it was someone else crying inside my chest.
That night, I wrote nothing. Just sat, eyes staring into the jungle night.
Lam came, sat beside me, lit a cigarette. He said:
— Some deaths don't even get a chance to scream. And no one ever knows.
I nodded. Then quietly asked:
— Do you think... we deserve to live more than they did?
He looked at me, his eyes fading in the smoke. Then he said:
— No one deserves more than anyone. It's just… we're the ones left. That's all.
That night, I lay on my side, holding my gun. In my head, one sentence kept echoing:
"No one deserves more than anyone. It's just… we're the ones left."
Part 3: A Dream on the Hillside
Three days later, our unit stopped on the side of a hill near the Tranh stream. The terrain was treacherous, surrounded by reed grass as tall as a man's head, jagged limestone, and moist red earth that made a wet "squelch" sound whenever you stepped down.
We built a temporary shelter. Lam said this was a transit point — we'd be staying a few days to wait for supplies. The guys sighed in relief. One even chuckled, "Maybe we'll finally get to eat instant noodles for the first time this month."
I sat quietly on the edge of the forest, holding a small notebook. Wrote Phuoc's name in a corner. Every name I wrote down felt like a blockade in my chest. The pages thickened with loss — and I didn't know if anyone would ever read them all.
That afternoon, the rain stopped unexpectedly. The sun sluggishly peeked out from behind gloomy clouds, casting a pale yellow light over the hill of reeds — like someone just recovering from a fever.
I saw a butterfly. Large, milky-white, landing on the barrel of the gun I was cleaning. I froze, staring at it as if it came from another world — a place with no traps, no blood, no people calling each other's names before fading into the mud.
Lam saw me staring and softly said:
— You know, there are places where people believe butterflies are the souls of the departed. Flying back to see how we're living.
I nodded slightly. Didn't smile.
That night, for the first time in many months, I dreamed of Thao. In the dream, she stood under a telosma tree, smiling without speaking. Her hair floated gently, and she held a piece of paper. I stepped toward her, about to call out, but my throat closed up. The paper fell. I bent down to pick it up, and she was gone. Only the faint scent of soapberry lingered — like the one my mom once tucked into my backpack.
I woke up in the middle of the night, back soaked in sweat. Outside, it was still drizzling. I sat up, lit the oil lamp, opened my notebook and wrote:
"I dream of the ones who are gone. But I've never dreamed of myself surviving."
The next morning, our unit received orders to leave the hill.
Before we left, I turned to look at where I'd slept. Fallen branches still scattered, my hammock still wet with dew, and on the ground were faint traces of the white butterfly — or maybe I imagined it.
I walked away, without looking back.
Part 4: The Slope of Cold Hands
The slope that day wasn't long, but the mud stuck like glue. Every step dragged the foot down like some hand clinging tightly. I lost count of how many times I had to bend down to free a rubber sandal, scrape leeches off my calves, or push up a soldier who collapsed halfway up. The rain wasn't heavy, but drizzled on and on like an old jungle's sigh that never ends.
Lam led the way, back hunched like he was carrying the whole platoon. He didn't say anything, only turned back now and then, eyes quickly scanning each face. At a curve in the trail, Lam stopped. He lowered his hand. The whole squad stopped.
Up ahead were footprints. Not fresh. But clearly someone had passed through just a few hours ago. Not our men — no pack marks, no traces of digging tools.
Lam signaled: "Spread out. Prepare to ambush."
We lay flat in thick grass. I and a new recruit — named Dinh — were sent to flank. His hands were visibly shaking. I whispered:
— Don't be scared. Just follow my hand. No firing without an order.
Dinh nodded, eyes locked on my finger, barely moving.
Fifteen minutes passed. No movement. Only the occasional sound of wet leaves falling on our helmets, and the pulse pounding in our ears.
Then... a figure slipped through the trees ahead. Two. Three. I saw clearly — American soldiers, fully armed, but walking dispersed. They had no idea we were lying less than thirty meters away.
I tightened my grip on the trigger. No order yet. But Dinh… breathed loudly. One of them turned around. His face wasn't even fully visible when Lam signaled: open fire.
The skirmish lasted just over five minutes. Gunfire burst, then fell silent. The smoke cleared. On the damp ground lay four bodies — and… one of Dinh.
He'd been hit in the chest while pulling back. His eyes were open. I crawled over, lifted his head. Blood poured from his mouth, crimson like someone had spilled ink across a blank page.
Lam said nothing. We dug a hole beside the stream, near where he fell. I folded the paper in Dinh's pocket — it bore the name of a girl: "Ha. Wait for me." No address.
I kept the paper in my notebook.
By dusk, the squad moved on. The slope ahead was slick with stones, we had to cling to roots to climb. I followed behind Lam, and behind me was Nghia — the new soldier replacing Dinh. He was breathing heavily, hand gripping my arm and trembling like he had a fever.
Mid-slope, Nghia slipped. I lunged to pull him back. His hand was ice cold. I asked:
— You okay?
He nodded. But his eyes were red. Not from falling. But from facing death for the first time — not through binoculars, not through someone else's story. But right in front of him. Blood on his hands. Flesh torn beside his eyes. And no one said a word.
At the top of the slope, I collapsed and sat breathing hard. The wind was stronger there, carrying the scent of damp forest and distant smoke. I didn't know where it came from. But I remembered what the old man from the ethnic village said the other day:
"If you can't stop the bleeding, hold the soul instead."
I pulled a bitter medicine pouch from my pack. Looked at it. Then put it back. Some wounds can't be bandaged.
That night, I wrote:
"New soldiers die fast. Because their hearts haven't hardened yet.
Old soldiers live long. But their souls are numb."
Part 5: Those Without Names
We arrived at the temporary base in the highlands of Khe Ngang at dawn on the third day, after a long march through rain, over three rocky slopes, and two small skirmishes. The base was hidden behind a stretch of dense hills, with a few huts roofed with bark, several A-shaped bunkers already filled with water, and a snapped antenna pole. Command had temporarily stationed there for about a week. We were just a small reinforcement group, rotating in to hold the border.
The platoon now had fewer than thirty men.
That first afternoon, I was assigned to go with Lam to patrol the edge of the base. A narrow trail led to a rocky clearing where mortars used to be placed. Now only deep holes remained, full of stagnant water and mosquitoes. Lam sat on a raised mound, silent. He stared off into the distance, chain-smoking.
I sat down next to him, about to say something, but he spoke first:
— Remember that guy Cu from the beginning?
I nodded. Didn't reply.
Lam continued:
— These past months I've remembered a lot of people. But no one remembers us.
He stubbed out his cigarette, then pulled out a small notebook — just like mine.
— I write too. Been doing it for a long time.
I was stunned.
He opened the notebook and showed me a page. The handwriting was rough:
"No longer named, but still remembered."
I handed the notebook back. Didn't ask anything else. The feeling that someone else was also trying to remember — like me — made my heart feel a little lighter.
That night, we received a strange order:
"Be ready to evacuate within three days."
No one explained why. We only knew there might be a large airstrike. This base had once been a long-term post, now about to be abandoned.
I took the chance to walk around the huts, looking at every post, every old wall, as if saying goodbye to something that had kept me alive through many shellings.
Behind one of the huts, I found a small wall pieced together from discarded wood panels. On it, names were carved — with knives, nails, or burnt charcoal:
Cuong, Loc, Binh, Cu, Phong, Dinh…
One plank read:
"This place was home, even if only once."
I stood there for a long time. Then pulled out my knife and carved a new name:
"Trung" — the soldier who had fallen at the signal post a few days ago.
That night, the moon rose. Rare.
Moonlight shone through the slats of the hut, onto the small photo I always kept in my notebook — a picture of my mom and me on the day I left Diêu Trì station. I took out Thao's letter and read it again. The purple ink had faded in some lines. But the last sentence was still clear:
"If you don't come back, I'll still be waiting at the gate."
I gave a faint smile. Not sad, not happy. Just… a smile.
Because war doesn't have a date to return.
And those waiting don't even know what they're waiting for.
The next morning, the unit began to take down camp.
Lam handed each of us an old piece of parachute cord. He said:
— Use it as hammock rope or to tie your pack. But if something happens… use it to mark the body. So no one has to wonder who's lying there.
I nodded.
As my shoulders sank under the weight of bullets and dry rice, I could still hear Lam's voice faintly behind me:
"Dying is easy. Remembering… that's the hard part."