On the 30th day of April 1975, after 19 years, 180 days,
and up to two and a half million bodies in the ground: the Cold War
ended. It was time to go home. The boys hadn’t been there for over
19 years, hell, Tony still hadn’t been alive for 19 years, but by
God it felt like 19 years.
Ricky was nervous when he got the news.
“They’re not going to like this.” He kept saying that over and
over again.
The boys all piled into an army van and they drove out to meet the
men they generously called their friends. Even unwavering
Ricky was terrified of them.
“They’re not going to like this.”
The gravel road patrolled by men holding machine guns stretched
across the barren land to the abandoned nunnery affectionately named
nơi hy sinh. The buildings were decrepit and the
straw-coloured bricks were but rubble in places. The site was
extensive, multiple buildings built by missionaries and locals but
after a surge of violence destroyed the war-ridden region everyone
moved on or under and now the new inhabitants have taken over.
There were still prayers but the tone was different. Good people
seeking God’s holiness gave way for bad people who were lucky (or
unlucky) enough to get a moment to call out to their maker before
having their blood spilt for their sins. Aptly named, nơi hy sinh
is loosely translated from Vietnamese to Place of Sacrifice.
The boys entered the heavily guarded grounds as they as they had so
many times before, but they had never truly appreciated the name
until then. Despite their service to their country and service to
their father, none of them had known real sacrifice.
Ricky walked in to meet with the
Vietnamese partners. Vincent was at Rick’s heels – as always.
Tony and Tommy stood outside and waited. They pretended to be
comfortable. They chatted with each other, leaned against the truck,
and looked everywhere but at the machine guns. There was no amount of
war that could make a man comfortable with a machine gun in his
immediate proximity.
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