The old man walked the streets, restless and cursing his decision to come back. The hot humid night air hung heavy, and his shirt was sticking to his back. The street were alive with people, young and old, and music was drifting out of the clubs filled with the evening party crowd. But the old man didn't feel like partying. He was questioning his sanity for coming back to Vietnam, even though it had now become the "in" thing for old vets to re-visit the country. His family had urged him to go, and even his therapist at the V.A. hospital where he was going for depression, had thought it maybe a good idea. So he had signed up for a tour group, and went along. He was sorry he came.
"Sometimes old ghosts need to be confronted." she had told him.
Now, the old man walked the street at night, listening to the music from the clubs, the shouts of the street vendors selling wares from push carts, the noise of the traffic. Hordes of small motorcycles and scooters buzzed around. He wished he'd just stayed at the hotel and taken a sleeping pill to get to the dreamless drugged sleep that he knew too well. Looking for a quiet refuge from the noise, he wandered into a small park, lit by lanterns, and overseen by an ancient bronze Buddha, almost green with tarnish of years. The screen of bamboo and trees muted the noise of the traffic, and the music was faint on the night air that was scented faintly with jasmine. Taking a seat on a bench, he eased out his right leg and set his walking stick down. He'd needed a cane ever since he'd got out of Walter Reed army hospital all those years ago. He'd lived a lifetime since then, married with kids, and then grandkids, but sometimes the memories of that helicopter crash came back unbidden. Now he just sat in the park under the watchful eyes of the bronze Buddha, and wished he was back home. He closed his eyes for moment, savoring the soft night air, and the peace of the little park.
A faint sound made him open his eyes, and he saw an old man walking slowly into the park, coming toward the bench. He was dressed as many Vietnamese men of his generation, baggy black pants, loose white shirt and sandals. He was carrying a paper wrapped bundle in his hands, and the old man cursed to himself at this intrusion. But he didn't say anything to the old Vietnamese man as he sat down next to him. Looking around, the old American saw that this was the only bench in the little park, and felt a bit ashamed at his attitude. He fumbled in his pockets and took out his pipe and tobacco pouch, and began to fill the bowl of the pipe, but noticed with annoyance that the pouch was near empty. It was only then that American man glanced over and saw something that stopped him.
The whole left side of the old Vietnamese man's face had the skin wrinkled and shrunk into a parchment covering. Old burn scars covered his face on one side, and then he noticed the arm and left hand was the same. The old Vietnamese man had been burned badly at one time long ago, and the old soldier from America has seen burn scars like that before. Napalm. The old Vietnamese man looked over at the American and smiled a crooked smile, and looking at his pipe, nodded.
"This is a nice spot for a quiet smoke, Yes?" he said in a hesitant accented English. "I come here often when I can't sleep, to think and relax. A pipe is a good thing."
With that, the old Vietnamese man took out a beat up old brier pipe from a pocket, and worn tobacco pouch and started to fill his own pipe. The tobacco was a long thin stringy cut that the old American man remembered from long ago. Seeing the glance, the old Vietnamese man offered his pouch to the American. The American filled his pipe and gave the pouch back, and took out his Zippo lighter, getting his pipe going, and offering his lighter to the old Vietnamese man. The old Vietnamese looked at the military insignia on the worn lighter, got his pipe going and handed the Zippo back.
"You Vet? Come back to tour" the old burn scarred man asked.
"Yes, but it was a mistake. I should never have come." the American replied shortly. Then looking over at the Vietnamese man, gestured at the old burns, "The war?"
"Yes. My company was caught in an American air raid. Some F4's bombed our position. I was one of the lucky ones." he said, then gestured at the American's cane, "The war?"
"Yeah, the chopper I was in was shot down, and I got my leg pretty busted up in the crash. I was one of the lucky ones."
The two old men who were once soldiers, sat in silence and smoked their pipes. The American enjoyed the earthy taste of the Vietnamese man's tobacco, and it brought back memories, not all of them bad. For the first time in a long while, he began to relax. A street vendor passing the park glanced in and saw the two men sitting and smoking yelled something, and the old Vietnamese man shouted something back, and the vendor pushed his cart into the park.
"Sometimes I drink tea while I think, would you join me?" the old Vietnamese man asked the American.
Two large paper cups of tea were poured, and the vendor moved off toward the entrance to the park, and set up station there. Outside people came and went, but inside the park all was quiet. The Vietnamese man unwrapped the paper bundle and reveled a large mango. He offered to share with the American. He took out a knife from a pocket and opened the blade. The American watched now, with great interest. The knife the old Vietnamese man used was one very familiar to him, but he had not seen one in many decades. The knife had a leaf shaped blade that folded out from a slim handle vaguely shaped like a banana, and a copper lanyard shackle on the butt. He sliced up a few pieces of mango and then offered the knife to the American. But now the American had pulled a knife out of his pocket and opened the blade. His old Camillus MIL-K knife was in good shape, after sitting in his drawer for a few decades. It had been used for a few years after his return from the war, but then it had been stashed away with the bad memories attached to it. He sliced off a piece of mango and set the knife down on the paper that had wrapped the fruit.
"Ahhh, the American demo knife. They were much prized in the old days. " the old Vietnamese man said.
They sliced up the mango and drank tea and talked.
"Sometimes I still dream about the war," the old American said, "The guys I knew that never made it home sometimes come back to me in my sleep, like ghosts. How about you?"
" Yes, the war left many ghosts for many people. I too think of some of my friends. Ones that never came back." the old Vietnamese man said. "Sometimes I am not sure that the lucky ones came home. Sometimes I can't sleep either. Then I come here and think think. "
The sat quietly for a bit, eating some mango and sipping tea.
"It must have been horrible to be bombed by friendlies like that." the American said.
"Oh, they were not friendlies, they were the American Air Force." the old Vietnamese man said.
The American was in mid-swallow and almost chocked as the implications of that statement hit him. He looked over at the old Vietnamese man and suddenly realized that he had just presumed they had been on the same side. Then he laughed. The irony of the situation made him laugh like he hadn't laughed in a long time. The old Vietnamese man saw the situation, and he too began to laugh. The tea seller at the entrance to the little Buddha park looked over at them curiously. Finally the two old men stopped laughing, and looked at each other.
"One heck of a thing, isn't it?" the American said.
"Yes, the war was a terrible thing, but we fooled them, you and I. We came back. We had a life."
The American glanced down at the leaf shaped blade on the bench, and gestured. The old Vietnamese man nodded. The American picked up the knife he recognized from so long ago. Many of the Viet Cong and N.V. A. dead had been found with a similar knife on them. It was a bit crude, with old hammer marks on the blade, and some Chinese figures stamped into the steel. The wood was dark with the patina of years, as was the blade. The copper staple that held the lanyard had a beautiful branded lanyard that had been made with interwoven red and black cordage. It had been beautifully done.
"My granddaughter made that for me," the old Vietnamese man said. "She likes to weave and make things. " he said. then gestured at the demo knife on the paper wrapping. The American nodded. The old Vietnamese man picked up the Camillus and looked it over in admiration.
"These were like silver bullion in the old days. Once in a while we would come on one, and lots were drawn to see who would get it. " he said as he looked at the knife, then saw the date on the tang. "You were here for Tet?"
"Yeah, you guys hit us pretty good. Got rough for a bit."
They sat admiring the pocket knives that represented such diverse cultures. The old Vietnamese man gently felt the edge on the Camillus and nodded at the finger print grabbing sharpness. The old soldiers had kept their liking of a good knife on hand. Then they talked of many things. They gestured for the tea seller and refilled their cups, and talked some more. The old Camillus knife and the Chinese leaf shaped knife were used to slice up the rest of the mango and the two old soldiers began a friendship.
"Look" said the American, " I can get another of those Camillus knives a lot easier than you. Why don't you keep it."
The old Vietnamese man looked stunned, but recovered fast and told the American. " Only if you accept my old knife as trade. We'll trade pocket knives, you and I."
They traded knives, and the American looked at how to get the beautiful red and black braided lanyard off the knife to give back t the Vietnamese, but he was stopped by him.
"No, please keep the braid. I can get my granddaughter to make me another one for my American knife. But keep that one as a symbol of a new friendship between old adversaries. Maybe it will put some old ghosts to rest for both of us."
They shook hands and then drank more tea and finished the mango. They talked late into the small hours of the morning, under the watchful gaze of the green tarnished bronze Buddha. And somewhere in the jasmine scented night, with the faint strains of the music from the clubs on the street, and admiring their 'new' pocket knives, old ghosts were put to rest for two old soldiers who had once been enemies.
"Sometimes old ghosts need to be confronted." she had told him.
Now, the old man walked the street at night, listening to the music from the clubs, the shouts of the street vendors selling wares from push carts, the noise of the traffic. Hordes of small motorcycles and scooters buzzed around. He wished he'd just stayed at the hotel and taken a sleeping pill to get to the dreamless drugged sleep that he knew too well. Looking for a quiet refuge from the noise, he wandered into a small park, lit by lanterns, and overseen by an ancient bronze Buddha, almost green with tarnish of years. The screen of bamboo and trees muted the noise of the traffic, and the music was faint on the night air that was scented faintly with jasmine. Taking a seat on a bench, he eased out his right leg and set his walking stick down. He'd needed a cane ever since he'd got out of Walter Reed army hospital all those years ago. He'd lived a lifetime since then, married with kids, and then grandkids, but sometimes the memories of that helicopter crash came back unbidden. Now he just sat in the park under the watchful eyes of the bronze Buddha, and wished he was back home. He closed his eyes for moment, savoring the soft night air, and the peace of the little park.
A faint sound made him open his eyes, and he saw an old man walking slowly into the park, coming toward the bench. He was dressed as many Vietnamese men of his generation, baggy black pants, loose white shirt and sandals. He was carrying a paper wrapped bundle in his hands, and the old man cursed to himself at this intrusion. But he didn't say anything to the old Vietnamese man as he sat down next to him. Looking around, the old American saw that this was the only bench in the little park, and felt a bit ashamed at his attitude. He fumbled in his pockets and took out his pipe and tobacco pouch, and began to fill the bowl of the pipe, but noticed with annoyance that the pouch was near empty. It was only then that American man glanced over and saw something that stopped him.
The whole left side of the old Vietnamese man's face had the skin wrinkled and shrunk into a parchment covering. Old burn scars covered his face on one side, and then he noticed the arm and left hand was the same. The old Vietnamese man had been burned badly at one time long ago, and the old soldier from America has seen burn scars like that before. Napalm. The old Vietnamese man looked over at the American and smiled a crooked smile, and looking at his pipe, nodded.
"This is a nice spot for a quiet smoke, Yes?" he said in a hesitant accented English. "I come here often when I can't sleep, to think and relax. A pipe is a good thing."
With that, the old Vietnamese man took out a beat up old brier pipe from a pocket, and worn tobacco pouch and started to fill his own pipe. The tobacco was a long thin stringy cut that the old American man remembered from long ago. Seeing the glance, the old Vietnamese man offered his pouch to the American. The American filled his pipe and gave the pouch back, and took out his Zippo lighter, getting his pipe going, and offering his lighter to the old Vietnamese man. The old Vietnamese looked at the military insignia on the worn lighter, got his pipe going and handed the Zippo back.
"You Vet? Come back to tour" the old burn scarred man asked.
"Yes, but it was a mistake. I should never have come." the American replied shortly. Then looking over at the Vietnamese man, gestured at the old burns, "The war?"
"Yes. My company was caught in an American air raid. Some F4's bombed our position. I was one of the lucky ones." he said, then gestured at the American's cane, "The war?"
"Yeah, the chopper I was in was shot down, and I got my leg pretty busted up in the crash. I was one of the lucky ones."
The two old men who were once soldiers, sat in silence and smoked their pipes. The American enjoyed the earthy taste of the Vietnamese man's tobacco, and it brought back memories, not all of them bad. For the first time in a long while, he began to relax. A street vendor passing the park glanced in and saw the two men sitting and smoking yelled something, and the old Vietnamese man shouted something back, and the vendor pushed his cart into the park.
"Sometimes I drink tea while I think, would you join me?" the old Vietnamese man asked the American.
Two large paper cups of tea were poured, and the vendor moved off toward the entrance to the park, and set up station there. Outside people came and went, but inside the park all was quiet. The Vietnamese man unwrapped the paper bundle and reveled a large mango. He offered to share with the American. He took out a knife from a pocket and opened the blade. The American watched now, with great interest. The knife the old Vietnamese man used was one very familiar to him, but he had not seen one in many decades. The knife had a leaf shaped blade that folded out from a slim handle vaguely shaped like a banana, and a copper lanyard shackle on the butt. He sliced up a few pieces of mango and then offered the knife to the American. But now the American had pulled a knife out of his pocket and opened the blade. His old Camillus MIL-K knife was in good shape, after sitting in his drawer for a few decades. It had been used for a few years after his return from the war, but then it had been stashed away with the bad memories attached to it. He sliced off a piece of mango and set the knife down on the paper that had wrapped the fruit.
"Ahhh, the American demo knife. They were much prized in the old days. " the old Vietnamese man said.
They sliced up the mango and drank tea and talked.
"Sometimes I still dream about the war," the old American said, "The guys I knew that never made it home sometimes come back to me in my sleep, like ghosts. How about you?"
" Yes, the war left many ghosts for many people. I too think of some of my friends. Ones that never came back." the old Vietnamese man said. "Sometimes I am not sure that the lucky ones came home. Sometimes I can't sleep either. Then I come here and think think. "
The sat quietly for a bit, eating some mango and sipping tea.
"It must have been horrible to be bombed by friendlies like that." the American said.
"Oh, they were not friendlies, they were the American Air Force." the old Vietnamese man said.
The American was in mid-swallow and almost chocked as the implications of that statement hit him. He looked over at the old Vietnamese man and suddenly realized that he had just presumed they had been on the same side. Then he laughed. The irony of the situation made him laugh like he hadn't laughed in a long time. The old Vietnamese man saw the situation, and he too began to laugh. The tea seller at the entrance to the little Buddha park looked over at them curiously. Finally the two old men stopped laughing, and looked at each other.
"One heck of a thing, isn't it?" the American said.
"Yes, the war was a terrible thing, but we fooled them, you and I. We came back. We had a life."
The American glanced down at the leaf shaped blade on the bench, and gestured. The old Vietnamese man nodded. The American picked up the knife he recognized from so long ago. Many of the Viet Cong and N.V. A. dead had been found with a similar knife on them. It was a bit crude, with old hammer marks on the blade, and some Chinese figures stamped into the steel. The wood was dark with the patina of years, as was the blade. The copper staple that held the lanyard had a beautiful branded lanyard that had been made with interwoven red and black cordage. It had been beautifully done.
"My granddaughter made that for me," the old Vietnamese man said. "She likes to weave and make things. " he said. then gestured at the demo knife on the paper wrapping. The American nodded. The old Vietnamese man picked up the Camillus and looked it over in admiration.
"These were like silver bullion in the old days. Once in a while we would come on one, and lots were drawn to see who would get it. " he said as he looked at the knife, then saw the date on the tang. "You were here for Tet?"
"Yeah, you guys hit us pretty good. Got rough for a bit."
They sat admiring the pocket knives that represented such diverse cultures. The old Vietnamese man gently felt the edge on the Camillus and nodded at the finger print grabbing sharpness. The old soldiers had kept their liking of a good knife on hand. Then they talked of many things. They gestured for the tea seller and refilled their cups, and talked some more. The old Camillus knife and the Chinese leaf shaped knife were used to slice up the rest of the mango and the two old soldiers began a friendship.
"Look" said the American, " I can get another of those Camillus knives a lot easier than you. Why don't you keep it."
The old Vietnamese man looked stunned, but recovered fast and told the American. " Only if you accept my old knife as trade. We'll trade pocket knives, you and I."
They traded knives, and the American looked at how to get the beautiful red and black braided lanyard off the knife to give back t the Vietnamese, but he was stopped by him.
"No, please keep the braid. I can get my granddaughter to make me another one for my American knife. But keep that one as a symbol of a new friendship between old adversaries. Maybe it will put some old ghosts to rest for both of us."
They shook hands and then drank more tea and finished the mango. They talked late into the small hours of the morning, under the watchful gaze of the green tarnished bronze Buddha. And somewhere in the jasmine scented night, with the faint strains of the music from the clubs on the street, and admiring their 'new' pocket knives, old ghosts were put to rest for two old soldiers who had once been enemies.
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