Red Plateau
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two former enemies meet by accident and become close friends. one of the friends, a former north vietnamese soldier, asks the other, a former united states marine, to write his story. the story follows a path of extreme hardship and sadness as it tells of life in french colonial Indochina and the growing dissent of a people wanting to be free of french, japanese and finally american occupation. the soldier is conscripted into the army and spends over nine years fighting in what was south vietnam. the prose is poetic and paints with word pictures the futility and frustration conjured from close combat in rain forested mountains.
John Edmund Delezen
born and raised in Florida.
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Red Plateau - John Edmund Delezen
Red Plateau
John Edmund Delezen
Copyright 2005
ISBN- 978-0-9754983-1-6
Published on Smashwords
Formatted by eBooksMade4You
* * *
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Table of Contents
Acknowledgements
Introduction
The Encounter
The Journey
The Boy
The Teacher
The Summon
Buffalo Boy
South
Base Area 611
Assault
Sanctuary
The Stork
Ribbon of Sorrow
Da Krong
Death and Defiance
Futile Thoughts
Ambush
Ta Con
Withdrawal
Disbandment
Tchepone
Retaliation
Reflections
Conclusion
Tribute
Chronology
Glossary
* * *
Preface
This book was first published by Corps Productions in 2005. I had reluctantly given the manuscript to the fledgling publisher as they had a dream that I also believed in. When released, I was saddened to see how badly the book had been edited. Through no fault of their own, the publishers lacked the funds to market Red Plateau through the distributors that maintain a strangle hold on the industry; consequently, within a short period, the company folded. I had planned to let the book disappear as I had moved on to another project but due to the vast correspondence I received from readers of previous work, I began to consider a revised edition. After I regained the rights to the book, I decided to self-publish. The previous edition of this book is available as a used copy on most literary websites but I have given no one permission to sell new copies of this work. This revised edition is actually the original manuscript.
I would like to thank the many people that offered their encouragement as I debated re-publishing this work. Special thanks to my wife Kelly whose clarity and sound judgment is my guiding light. I also want to offer my sincere appreciation to Ms. Adele Cowan of Fairbanks, Alaska and to Mr. George Jung, presently residing in Fort Dix, New Jersey for their support; both are artists in their own right whose advice and encouragement is always appreciated. I would also like to thank my dear friend Tuan’s widow, Ms. Nguyen Hang of Vietnam, for her support and for helping me to understand the futility of seeking the questions to answers already written. The proceeds from the sale of this book go directly to her and will be distributed at her discretion.
* * *
Introduction
I was asked to write the memoir of my close friend, a school-teacher that lives in an obscure mountain village in the central region of Vietnam. Although honored that I was the recipient of this difficult task, I was not as confident with my abilities as he. We had met numerous times and had shared correspondence for many years; in time, I was allowed to read the diary and letters that he and his family saved throughout the American War. Yes, he had once been my enemy and I his but those days were now a turned page in history. As time passed we seldom spoke of the terrible years and though we lived on opposite sides of the earth, we each grew dependent on the other for reassurance while finding strength through lengthy letters and my countless visits to his home.
In the end I agreed to record his story; the narrative of a young man that was thrust into a lifetime of adversity... an existence of suffering that is incomprehensible to those who have never known the pain summoned from an accepted, uncertain, destiny.
In later years, with trust well entrenched, I was allowed to meet with a number of others with whom he had shared those days. Sitting in a small serene garden near a Buddhist Temple, I was introduced to the pitiful, yet proud, remnants of an infantry battalion who, as young enthusiastic warriors, left as a group to expel the invader from their homeland; each contributed to the eventual success of the endeavor by providing accurate anecdotes as well as diaries and letters so stained and tattered that at times the translation of these pages was all but impossible.
I am indebted to the many people who have assisted in completing this effort, each fearlessly risking reprimand from their government or possibly worse and each tirelessly eager to help convey their history to those who are mired within the depths of misconception.
No, these were not professional warriors spawned within the depths of rain-forested mountains, but rather young men and boys from cities, towns and farms; their resemblance to their former American adversaries became quite apparent in the very beginning. Although their narrative was the focus of our endeavor, so many times during an interview or while translating old scraps of diaries, sheepish questions would cautiously arrive, inquiries about the American boys that they had met only in battle; as I would reply I could see sincere concern, perhaps remorse in the eyes of these humble souls who harbor no resentment but only concern for a former enemy.
Perhaps there were as many questions asked of me as I asked of them and in the end I have come to suspect that by telling their story, they may have learned a facet of ours as well.
* * *
The Encounter
I first met Nguyen Van Tuan in the city of Hue, Vietnam; as fate would have it, this fortunate meeting would in time change the lives of many, while introducing the catalyst that quickly bonded two former enemies as friends, and later, into brothers.
Our encounter occurred near the Trang Tien Bridge, perhaps you may know this place, a structure of such beautiful lights; it is the eastern-most link that traverses the Song Huong Giang, the Perfume River, which connects the old city on the north bank with the new city on the south bank.
I had walked from the west bridge to the east that morning to sit on the concrete quay and enjoy the morning sun. Although it is a place that I visit frequently when in Hue, our coincidental meeting was in all probability, an arrangement orchestrated by destiny.
Everyone has special havens where thoughts are allowed to form and run free; for me, the concrete quay is one of many retreats. This particular morning was no different than most others; I had been on the Phu Xuan Bridge, the west bridge, a few hours earlier to jog, practice tai chi with the locals and to greet the sun.
Hue comes alive each morning at four o’clock when the trucks and carts begin to offload fresh produce at the market located at the north end of the bridge; it is almost tragic that the sweet, pungent ambiance created by piles of ripe fruit disappears with the sunrise. As the heat comes, the discarded and damaged produce begins to create a sour odor that attracts hordes of flies; the serenity quickly flees as the west bridge becomes congested with the traffic of motorcycles and trucks that create an uninterrupted din punctuated only by horns and bells that emerge from a fog of eye-watering exhaust fumes.
To the east the sun was now preparing to ascend above the low buildings; it is always an enjoyment to witness the subtle conflict that occurs during the brief moment of transition, when the cool of night reluctantly relinquishes the space it shares with the heat of day and though each ultimately overcomes the other in turn, neither is the vanquisher nor the vanquished.
The cyclo boys who sleep in their tricycle-cabs wake and immediately begin to pedal lazily along the riverfront searching for the illusive fare that will fill their rice bowl. Knowing that I do not like to ride, they merely wave and smile as they pass; later, I will meet many of them near the causeway that crosses to Thon Vy during the noon siesta and buy everyone a round of cafe lanh.
It is here that I learn new words and share thoughts with the poor-est of the poor, most of whom were once either South Vietnamese or Viet Cong soldiers. As we enjoy the shade and conversation, the familiar street children
who have befriended me, seem to always materialize from the visible waves of heat that now overwhelm the city; I treat them to a cold glass of nuoc mia.
Though ragged and homeless these are not beggars, but children who have become as independent as the packs of stray dogs that cautiously roam the city; and just as the dogs, they are lean, resilient, clever, possessing the same desperate canine eyes that ask for nothing, and accept their lot in life. They prowl the markets searching for discarded produce or perhaps an unguarded stalk of bananas; taking only what is needed to subsist from one day to the next, sharing each scrap, protecting the ill and young. I have learned to respect their code of ethics and admire their perseverance.
Many times they have bought a glass of nuoc mia for me with rumpled, filthy notes earned or scavenged from within an existence that is most often cruel and uncaring. And each time, having squandered these few notes, they merely sit smiling; this is a priceless gift, this beautiful display of friendship from those with desperate canine eyes that have given all they possess to a friend, for whom they will now endure, hunger. With each sip, I am torn between guilt and appreciation; my emotions struggle to remain concealed from the smiling faces that gather so closely, watching my every move and finding enjoyment in my exaggerated contentment. Such gifts are rare, something that perhaps few in this life will be blessed to receive; when offered, these treasures must be cherished, their memories protected and placed within that part us that nourishes compassion and trust.
Usually the children have nothing, and to save face, offer unconvincing boasts that they have shrewdly taken the tourists money, which was spent foolishly; and though their story is not true, the hunger that lurks in their eyes does not lie, for it is the stark cold truth of reality. I act detached from their hardship, and order rice, herbs, and fruit for each of them, this must be done carefully as to not show disrespect toward their prowess to survive; living within the parameters of their unwritten code, they will never ask with words, to openly seek charity is considered an acceptance of defeat, and weakness.
As a child, I was also once abandoned and I know the pain of uncertainty and the fear of trust; perhaps they know this, do they recognize this in my eyes? I am not treated as an intruder, but as a friend and perhaps in some small way, I am accepted within the outer periphery of their band.
With the arrival of the dawn, like a creature of habit, I move from the west bridge to the east to escape the flies and traffic as well as relax, drink cafe and most important, to think.
Sitting on the concrete quay, I search aimlessly into the murky depths, contemplating the flow of the ancient river that has found its way from the high mountain grottos of cloud-enveloped rain forest; my mind drifts with the bronzed glass-smooth flow of ribbon that will shortly enter the deep blue of the South China Sea. I ponder my realization that life is much the same and each creature is an individual river that will eventually enter something greater than themselves, blending into other rivers to create a vast single entity; and though the entity is one, each river remains distinct from the others due to the unique knowledge it has absorbed during a solitary flowing journey.
Out on the river a sampan, overloaded with gravel, strained noisily to maintain steerageway; the crew working calmly to coax the old, worn teak hull away from the concrete and steel bridge pilings. Long, deep gouges in the hull were evidence that there had been mishaps in the past, yet the crew continued their passage with no apparent worry. It was only then that 1 noticed the man who had joined me on the quay; together as spectators we watched the drama unfold.
As the boat approached the bridge, black smoke poured from the old single-cylinder Chinese diesel that strained and shuddered, threatening to come apart, each of us offered words of encouragement that were inaudible above the straining engine. Then as if fate had intervened, the entire package of teak and gravel slid effortlessly through the lethal pilings leaving a fog of oily black smoke that lingered beneath the bridge and mixed with the early morning haze. Together we stood and applauded as if watching a sporting event; the smiling crew waved to us as they continued on downriver to deliver the cargo.
Without the noise of the sampan to create a mutual interest, we sat in an uncomfortable silence for some time before speaking. I initiated the conversation using very rudimentary Vietnamese. The man, perhaps in his early sixties, gleamed as I spoke his