Words

John’s Revival

Chilly air defines the mountain night. It does not seem like we are in the tropics considering the lack of mosquitoes. And with the jungle canopy filtering most of the moonlight, we could just as easily be at any dimly-lit public campground in the US, chatting at any picnic table, rather than in a tribal mountain community in Vietnam. We converse gently because the rest of the trekkers have turned in for the night. The one light in the tiny hut village emanates from a candle on the wooden table below, dancing in a dull, patterned flicker that enlightens only the underside of the seemingly enlarged features of my new veteran friend’s leathery face. This illumination presents angles of facial shadows unknown to me until now. His ringed neck is mostly visible, brawny. From my position he seems to lack teeth, as his chin casts darkness over his mouth, which is only a gaping black hole. Light flashes on the underside of his nose, the shade of which blocks the light to his eyes so that only his brow and a few lines on his forehead are visible. Perfect for telling a ghost story, his face remains so lit unless he changes his position by leaning forward into the candle’s light. Then his eyes suddenly glow and seem to widen, his thick moustache appears, but the wrinkles on his forehead always remain—a topographical map of his age. The crevasses run deep. Like water through rock, his experiences have shaped him. Three decades ago, here in Vietnam, his reality was shaped irrevocably. Even in diminished light, his face does not fail to narrate those stories.

He imbibes heartily from his can of tepid local brew. He has been drinking continually for a dozen hours now. I wait. Even if five minutes of silence passes, I know he will say something; I have not needed to ask a question all night. My attention is all it has taken to sway him to orally relive his past. The sights, sounds and smells of the Vietnamese jungle provide further impetus for recollection. He has spun a three-hour monologue of his impressions of Vietnam, both former and present. Although fragmented, an overall picture has emerged. But no matter how much of his verbal and behavioral cues I consume, I learn no more concrete information about him than I knew when I first met him, his wife and our fellow trekkers at the trailhead this morning. All I know confidently is that he was here once before, fighting in the war, and now he has returned. He says he does not even understand why he has come back. Instead of prying, I merely sit and watch. The whiskey and the beer and the sounds of the dark Vietnam jungle possess him with a frenetic energy so potent that even his most inadequately elucidated memories now feel as though they are my own.

Literature about human warfare tends to come in two varieties. One is the dry, technical account by the historian, who, with little more than two-dimensional maps, arrows, X’s and O’s, plus knowledge of military tactics, can explain why a particular side won or lost a conflict. The other kind is the affective war novel, where, after the establishment of good and evil (war itself often being portrayed as the true evil) and an act of brave heroism, the reader is left to rely on the author’s literal description to depict the realities of war. Often clichéd, the sights, sounds and smells of combat—screaming bullets, fiery explosions and stinging lacerations—are employed to characterize the atrocity, but this treasure trove of sensory experience must be imparted third-hand, from the novelist.

Similarly, veterans of wars often describe battles by relating what affected them the most. The story does not usually proceed as “when the 18th infantry was ordered to come from the rear they overtook our platoon and captured the important hill east of the bridge...” Although such a tactical siege may well have been the turning point in the conflict, entrenched soldiers in the overtaken platoon will not describe the strategy, but rather the smell of the approaching enemy, the sight of a wounded buddy, or the shrill scream of one particular mortar round as the most intense or significant event of their experience. For those who have had the unfortunate circumstance to live through them, the sensory horrors of war are so strongly and traumatically ingrained in their memory that the recollections are sometimes mistaken for reality or revisited via hallucination.
Vietnam has its own share of hallucination. Although aging, its collective memory is wrought by decades of horrifying images—but by none more brutal than during the 16-year quasi-internal conflict of the 20th century, beginning in 1959 and ending in 1975. Called the Vietnam War by Westerners, the deaths of an estimated 900,000 Vietnamese soldiers and an unknowable number of civilians loom fresh in the shared recollection of all were alive during this time. Perhaps worse, memories of each atrocious event haunt the minds of every survivor—even a third of a century later. The aftermath of this war, just one in a string of regional conflicts in Southeast Asia this past century, is something that will never escape this battered population’s psyche.

The Vietnamese were not the only ones to suffer in this conflict. The United States lost more than 50,000 soldiers to the war, with three times that number sustaining injury. Much has been written on the American collective psyche after enduring human losses of this magnitude on foreign soil. This situation begs the question: Which is worse: having lost family and friends in a conflict fought entirely inside your own country—though stoked externally—for the opportunity to enjoy the tangible gains inherent in victory, or to have been thrown involuntarily onto foreign soil by a government interested only in imparting its own political idealism, as was the case with American soldiers who fought in the Vietnam War? Perhaps there is no clear answer; the fog of war often obscures the truth, if there is one. Regardless, though, this costly, bogged-down conflict left a gaping dent in the American consciousness. For proof, one has to look no further than America’s cultural mirror, the media, to see that Vietnam still pervades the collective consciousness of the US. Movies about Vietnam, songs about Vietnam, televised political discussions and popular literature about Vietnam persist. The conflict’s significance has not dwindled.

The proclivity of Vietnam to linger in America’s common soul is likely symbolic of the impact the experience had on the minds of the war’s US veterans. Perhaps this is the reason some veterans are returning to this blood-stained country. Certainly, it is not at the behest of a US government draft; not this time. It seems shocking that an individual subjected to the brutalities of war would ever care to return to the site of such crimes. Similar to a former prisoner revisiting the jail cell where he sat rotting for decades, why would he choose to relive the horrors of his lost freedom? What has come to my attention is that US veterans jettisoned more than just their used MRE wrappers onto the Vietnamese battlefields. Many left their innocence. Some even feel they abandoned their souls. Not one will say he left unaffected. Likewise, soldiers took home more than just shrapnel and dog tags. As much as they may have hated the mission—even to the point of hating the country itself, all Vietnamese, and even themselves—the war played an important role in the veterans’ social and moral development. Even if they choose not to think or speak of the war, deciding instead to banish the memories to the nether regions of their subconscious, Vietnam remains a formative stage of their human palette. An experience that shoved them smack into adulthood. Should a veteran ever decide to rummage through the metaphoric box of folders containing his intentionally classified memories he methodically filed away years ago, or should he ever become curious about what happened to that faraway land where he was once ordered to fight, the news will be bittersweet: yes, Vietnam still exists today; its memories may continue to trouble; yet it beckons veterans like an unfinished puzzle on the kitchen table.

My new veteran friend sits silently, for what seems like hours, over the flickering candles, the light of which plays temporal tricks on my eyes. The continuously flashing illumination functions like a time lapse video of his face, further blurring my concept of time. Finally he speaks, thoughtfully.

“Me and the boys, we were patrolling a dirty swamp; wading in water knee high, thick grass almost up to our heads. We had to push the blades to the side to get through, they were so thick."

His wife sits next to me and dons a quizzical, almost worrisome expression at his sudden narrative introduction. But she knows him well enough not to worry about his mental health, even in this situation. It has been more than thirty years since his tour ended. Surely she has seen everything that can manifest in his behavior. And I doubt she is concerned about my reaction. For the last several hours she has watched me with keen interest while I have attempted to grasp the psychology of her veteran husband. The look in her eye seems to say that we have slogged with him through a mental bog during these past few hours; that we have followed her husband, John, out of a deep, emotionally occluded forest,;, and that we now stand with him on a narrowing rocky cliff. He can see in every direction for the first time, including above and below us. He is finally free to travel wherever he pleases at any speed. None of us can stop him. We can only support his route. On whichever course his newly opened eyes take him, we must follow.

John’s emotional journey is not a unique story. Returning Vietnam veterans make up an increasingly important component of the expanding Vietnamese tourism sector. Since Vietnam and the US reestablished diplomatic relations in 1995, former soldiers have been returning at an increasingly rapid rate. Whether their visit is for closure, curiosity, or remorse; that time has healed their wounds; or to honor the memories of those less fortunate; the vets arrive. Wandering wobbly footed, they are shocked and disoriented by the changes they see. There are, of course, non-mental-health-related attractions. The cities are nearly modern, although fraught with remnants of the past. Certainly, this is not what the old soldiers came to see. Beaches also are popular. But second-time guests usually tire of this activity, too, in light of a pressing issue of great personal importance. There are literally hundreds of tours to take: by motor bike to an ancient ruin, for instance. But the veterans do not relate to the new Vietnam of tourism or to the old one of ancient civilizations. Theirs was a very specific experience.

I continue to see vets here in the mountains. Maybe this is because once they have witnessed the bustling Vietnam of today and confronted their tangible past they are drawn to the facet of the country with which they feel the most affinity: the terrain. There they spent thousands of hours unintentionally learning the lay of the land. Perhaps when they left they knew it better than their Midwestern hometowns. Even if the original averseness to the mountainous, swampy or jungle surroundings never wore off, living primarily outdoors in any place for a couple of years forces lifelong familiarity. The veterans might feel empathy for Martin Sheen’s character, Captain Willard, in Apocalypse Now. After longs stints in the dense jungles of Vietnam, he could no longer live life normally away from them. While awaiting orders for his next mission, he goes on a violent, drunken rampage inside his Saigon hotel room. Similarly, the veterans I continue to meet in the highlands naturally gravitate toward the only element of Vietnam that they understand. It might also be the only element that understands them. Feeling a deeper connection than with the cities, beaches or ruins, they return to the land, where their relationship with Vietnam began and ended.

Local tour guides tempt would-be adventurers with the idea that the experience of hiking up and into the tropical, jungle-covered hillsides to visit native tribes in all their primitiveness is such a novelty that very few Westerners have ever attempted it. Not true, but it sounds nice. They would also have a tourist believe that he is the most courageous explorer to ever venture outside of Hanoi and into the surrounding mountains. Again, ear candy. Although this series of smooth promises is not credible, the guides’ manner is mildly flattering and mostly entertaining. Finally, they tout their trip by revealing a map of the surrounding area, a map they have shown to potential trekkers so many times that the indigenous village where they point their finger is just a blank white spot surrounded by the smudged green inks of the nearby wildernesses. But it is not necessary to strain one’s eyes reading the map to be convinced of the authentic nature of the three-day trek, because one particularly persuasive local guide will have already sold the trip by enthusiastically pushing the following phrase past his wide, jangle-toothed smile, “Rook how crose you be to Rao!” (Look how close you will be to Laos). After witnessing his sincere passion and contagious chortle, one might not even notice that the allegedly authentic hill tribes will be selling beer and potato chips to groups of foreigners that arrive at their mountain village nearly every night of the week.

But tonight in the jungle, despite the Western consumer products, I am learning more about Vietnam from an American than I could ever learn from the chief of this hill tribe.

“You can’t imagine the smell we came upon in the tall grass. Whatever it was, it was the worst, most foul, rotten stench any of us had ever come near. It was unbearable the way it stank up that muggy swamp. On a burning hot day too. There was no wind. We had no idea where it was coming from and the stink just seemed to be getting worse. It was like the odor was raining on us, covering us everywhere. Inside our nostrils, on our arms, in our hair—our teeth were even coated!”

This is the most intense he has been the entire evening. Like a true veteran of war, his sensory recollection is so vivid that it seems to send him back to the moment he describes. All evening he has maintained a sense of calm while recounting splintered details of his time in Vietnam, loosely centering on day-to-day events, not the rare or intense situations. Other parts of the night he has focused on broad-reaching topics rather than describing specific details: his thoughts on the war then and now; his new appreciation for the country of Vietnam versus his close-minded view from the past; the current administration’s policies; his everyday life today and how it is affected by his past. These important, yet specifically vague topics have not sparked even the most remote flash of emotion. He has embarked upon each topic with casualness and good nature, almost finesse.

But compared to a brief instant ago, when he could stare comfortably off into the distance for minutes in peaceful mental solitude, his manner has changed from taciturn to troubled. Now, mere seconds of silence seem long and awkward to him. Even the candlelight bouncing off his face is more perturbed, frazzled. Instead of his head being cocked back calmly, as he stares dreamily off into the distance like he is waiting for an elusive shooting star, he is hunched over looking irritable. Instead of loosely tossing back his beer can to take another pull, he mechanically raises a tool-tightened arm toward his tensed-up face. Arched forward, his eyes are clearly lit by a rigid, yellow light. The lighting diminishes the depth of his shadowy sockets, drawing the conversation into a tight, dimly lit circle around him. His head darts quickly, purposefully.

It is not that John is living through the beginning of an evil flashback, just a realistic memory. I will not be the one to ask him to recount the horrible things he saw during the war. I will not inquire if he is one of the millions of Vietnam veterans who likely suffer undiagnosed Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Far be it from me to attempt to dig into his psyche. But maybe I will not have to. Judging by the intense reaction he is having while telling such a seemingly simple story, I consider that he could be uncovering some subterranean emotional scars. Perhaps he buried all his emotional baggage in a top secret crevasse deep within his subconscious, one that he thought would never be unearthed again. Maybe he does not even remember sheltering it. His reaction is visceral, caused by the powerful sensory information he recalls, so many years later, not far from where the experience actually took place. And it all rekindles on the darkest of nights, with no visual stimulation to preoccupy his brain’s sensory centers. He begins again.

“Then someone finally found out what was causing the damn smell. One of the guys, Shane, stumbled over its tail. And he looked to his right where the swamp grass opened up a little. A giant python lay there. Totally dead. Shane yelled and we all came running over. It was the biggest snake any of us had ever seen – at least 15 feet. At first we thought is was the snake that smelled so bad. But that wasn’t it. The snake had burst the hell wide open. And there was a young water buffalo sticking halfway out of the snake – dead and rotting. That python had tried to swallow the buffalo whole. At some point the snake got too full, and it burst open and died. The stench, it burned our eyes like pouring kerosene inside a closed room. Our guys were throwing up everywhere. It was...terrible.”

Again, the conversation turns to silence. John looks off in the distance.

In the novel The Things They Carried, author Tim O'Brien employs a roundabout method of digging into the psyche of his main characters. O’Brien describes the physical objects Vietnam veterans carried with them as a way of underscoring the emotional burden each carried during their time away from home. For example, one soldier carried the pantyhose of his girlfriend with him, signifying his yearning for comfort and love. Similarly, when veterans recount the gritty details of an intense emotional experience they often draw on the physical and sensory details to fashion the heart of the story, as is the case with John. Perhaps the atrocity of war changes a soldier to the point that he becomes unable to be judged by the common man, developing into a breed with some deeper comprehension of terra firma. He navigates the world differently than the rest of us, guided by sensory clues to understand and deal with the reality he faces. Having learned that the difference between life and death can be as simple as failing to recognize the scent of enemy gun powder from a mile upwind, the soldier has permanently changed the way he views, reacts to and describes the world. Maybe this experiential view hibernates deep within the soldier’s soul until it is reawakened. Vietnam reincarnates the soldier’s instinct. He may not know why he returns. He may say that he is here for his own reasons. One thing is certain: he is not here as a common tourist, but rather for his own mental well-being.

Throughout these hours I have wondered who is the real John? I waited, speculating that at any moment he would lose his mind and go berserk. Somehow he would reveal his dark, war-tormented soul. But instead a revival seems to have taken place inside. He has awakened a part of himself that had been dormant for decades. A part he was missing and did not know he needed to find: his ability to use his senses to navigate and explain his world. As I watch him now, the candlelight still fluttering across his golden face, his eyes and ears are wide open. Suddenly receptive to and cognizant of all sights, smells and sounds, it seems he now realizes why he has returned to Vietnam.