MASSACRE AT MY LAI

The memorial statue in My Lai

I’m walking down a quiet path of a rural village, when I hear the sound of a bird unlike any that I’ve ever heard before. The sound of this bird wasn’t a song, and it wasn’t a chirp. This sound was a shriek of terror.

As I turned towards the sound, I caught sight of a bird of prey. It had swooped down from the sky, attacked the smaller bird I had heard, and was now grasping it’s victim in its talons. The smaller bird shrieked and struggled, as the larger bird carried its prey down to the ground, and out of sight in the tall grass. The smaller bird continued to shriek, and shriek, and shriek. Then the shrieks grew fainter.

Then they stopped.

I had never seen a bird kill another bird before. It was the strong, killing the weak, and it was a violent, and cruel sight. It’s especially eerie that I see this attack happen in the place where I’m standing right now. I’m in a village called Son My, and in March of 1968, death descended here from the skies above. What happened in this farming village, came to be known to the outside world as the massacre at My Lai.

Arriving by helicopter on that fateful morning, were 120 soldiers from Charlie Company, from the 23rd Infantry Division. These US Army soldiers were on a ‘Search and Destroy’ mission, and since they were told the village was a Viet Cong stronghold, they were expecting a fight. As the G.I.’s swept into the hamlets, they encountered no armed resistance at all. Despite the lack of resistance, the soldiers began killing the village's civilians.

The soldiers forced the villagers from their homes, gathered them together in groups, and shot them. Other villagers were shot in the back as they fled. Some were forced into their family bomb shelters, and grenades were tossed in after them. Still others were stabbed and slashed to death with bayonets. More than one woman in the village was raped.

It's hard to believe that this tranquil village was once the scene of horrible violence.

Most of those killed were women, children and old men. There were few men of fighting age in the village that morning. By the time the soldiers left four hours later, hundreds of Vietnamese civilians were dead, and the houses of My Lai were burning to the ground.

The current Vietnamese government claims that 504 people were killed here. The American military claims that 347 died here. The actual number of those killed is probably somewhere in between. For the Americans, there was only one casualty. One soldier had been shot, but it was only from a self-inflicted wound. The young soldier had shot himself in the foot to avoid taking part in the bloodbath. Some of the soldiers refused to take part in the killing, but most did.

Throughout history, the US Army has had many honorable victories. Yorktown, Gettysburg, Omaha Beach, and more. But what happened here wasn’t a victory, it was the killing of civilians. The My Lai massacre became a stain of disgrace, on the reputation of the US Army.

As I walk through this somber place, I find the village to be the saddest place I will ever encounter in Vietnam. Part of the massacre site has become a memorial to those who died here, and the mood is truly melancholy. Heading down one walkway, I pass the statues of three women and a baby. The green statues are all frozen in macabre poses. Each figure is depicted at the moment of their death. It’s as though they are stopped in time, caught in the moment that they were struck by gunfire. 

Although the village was destroyed in the massacre, one house has been rebuilt as part of the memorial. A grey haired gardner is tending the yard, and she smiles at me as I approach. I step into the home of what was once a simple Vietnamese farming family, and it looks much as it did before the destruction of that terrible morning. The house is a simple two room farmer's home, with basic wooden furnishings, and a small Buddhist altar. The thatched rooftops of this and the other homes, made it easy for the soldiers to burn down the entire village using little more than  cigarette lighters.

Once destroyed, this family's home has been rebuilt

Nearby, are more disturbing re-creations. Two homes were reconstructed to look as they did immediately after the attack. Where once there were two humble Vietnamese homes, left in their place are the shells of two burned out ruins.

In front of one destroyed house, a sign states the following: “House of Mr. Do Phi’s family restored after being burnt down by US soldiers on March 16th, 1968. Five of his family members were killed.” The sign also lists their names and ages. 

Do Thi Hiep              57
Nguyen Thi Tuong    23
Do Cu Bay                  9
Pham Cu                    4
Do Cu                         1

Surrounding the grim ruins are more family home sites, built only to their foundations. All have a sign posted, listing the names and ages of the family members killed that morning. Sign after sign, family after family, the numbers of the dead add up.

Even the footpaths have been marked to remember that day. No longer just bare ground, the paths have been covered in concrete that is painted to look like dirt. Embedded into the concrete, are eerie tracks. Like the remade ruins, the paths have been recreated to appear as they did the day the massacre happened. They are  marked with the footprints of bare feet, made to represent the villagers. There are the tracks of bicycle wheels, which were so common in those days. Finally, there are the distinct imprints of army boots, like those worn by the soldiers.

Ha Thi Quy, survivor of My Lai

Finding shade by the thatched roof house, I sit on a bench to get comfortable. Seated next to me, is the gardener I saw trimming plants by the house. My translator introduces me, and I receive a heartfelt greeting. With greying hair, the older woman has few teeth; she appears to be in her 80's. She has to be the oldest gardener I’ve ever met. It turns out there's far more to this woman than meets the eye. This friendly senior citizen, is not just a gardener. I’m shocked to learn that she's also a survivor of the My Lai massacre! As we converse, the woman’s dramatic story unfolds. Her name is Ha Thi Quy, and she was 43 back when the massacre happened. 

“I remember it like it was yesterday,” she tells me, and those few words hit hard. As she begins to tell me her story, her friendly face totally changes. She becomes somber, and her eyes have a very deep, faraway look. This look has also been called, ‘the thousand yard stare’. It's a look common to people who have witnessed traumatizing events.

Ha said that the soldiers gathered up more than 100 villagers that day, and forced them together into a ditch before they opened fire. The ditch she speaks of is only yards away from where she is speaking to me now.

“I was shot in the leg,” Ha tells me, and she shows me her scar. The soldiers fired on the crowd repeatedly, and they returned later to finish off those wounded. Two of her children were killed there. Ha survived in the ditch by playing dead, with other bloodied bodies lying on top of her. She remained there until the soldiers had gone. One of her children survived, as well as Ha’s husband, who was away working the fields that day. After burying their two children, there was nothing left for them in their village.

“Before the massacre, my family was fine financially,” Ha said. Afterwards she was left destitute. The family house had been burned to the ground, and they lost all their possessions. “We moved away and lived with other relatives,” she said.

The war and the massacre have taken so much from Ha and her family, that she still hasn’t recovered. In her old age she should be retired, but her government pension isn't much, so she continues working here as a gardener. Ha has shared her painful story with me, so I feel the urge to help her in some way. Before I leave her, we walk together around the corner of the house. Out of sight from the other staff, I quickly place twenty dollars into her unexpecting hand.

Ha looks up at me, and her face lights up all over again as she shakes my hand enthusiastically. Twenty dollars is not much money to an American, but I’ve just given her the equivalent of a week’s pay. It’s the very least I can do.

I’ve been to many memorial sites before, but this is the first one I’ve ever been to where survivors of a massacre are present. The presence of eye witnesses here, and their first hand stories, makes my time in My Lai even more mind blowing. Memorial statues can be lifelike, and signs can list the names of the dead. But when it comes to communicating the horror of what happened here, there is nothing more effective, then to see a survivor’s face as she tells their personal story. 

Life size figures displayed in the museum graphically depict the massacre

Also in the village is the Son My Museum. I enter, and as one would expect it’s a depressing place. Visitors are so moved by what they see here, that they view the displays with a silent reverence. On the walls are shocking photos taken during, and after the massacre by US Army photographer Ron Haeberle. His graphic photos of civilian corpses became the most damning evidence of the massacre. Haeberle’s photos ended up on the front pages of newspapers around the world, exposing the massacre to millions. Some  photos are so bloody and graphic, that they couldn't be shown in the American press. That didn’t stop the museum from displaying the gruesome photos here.

A chilling exhibit on display has life sized plaster figures, depicting a scene of the killing. Two soldiers are shooting five Vietnamese dead, four of them women and children. Another soldier pulls a woman by the hair to join them. In the painted background, bodies lie in the bloodied ditch. Smoke and flames rise from village huts as they burn.

Up on one wall are post-war photos of five American GI’s that took part in the massacre. None have them have ever been convicted of murder. The Army investigation of My Lai was a whitewash, and although 26 soldiers were charged in the massacre and subsequent cover-up, almost all were cleared of wrongdoing in military courts. Even Capt. Ernest Medina, the commanding officer present in My Lai who took part in the killings, was declared innocent. In the judicial farce that followed the massacre, there were was only one conviction. Lt. William Calley became the scapegoat for the entire massacre. In 1971 he was found guilty of 22 counts of premeditated murder. Although Calley was sentenced to life imprisonment and hard labor, even this feeble attempt at justice was foiled. Soon after his conviction Calley’s sentence was reduced by President Nixon. He served only a few days in jail, followed by 3 ½ years of ‘house arrest’.

A large museum plaque lists those who died here

This massacre caused many anti-war protestors to label US soldiers in Vietnam as ‘baby killers’. Average American citizens back home almost couldn’t believe it. They wanted to know how a group of average American young men had been turned into cold blooded killers of civilians. There were no simple answers. The Viet Cong wore civilian clothing, so US soldiers often couldn't tell if Vietnamese were friend or foe. The vast differences in language and culture compounded the problem. Other soldiers of Charlie Company had already been killed or wounded by landmines and booby traps. Add to that the recent death of a popular sargeant, and the massacre could be interpreted as a revenge attack. But the biggest reason for the killing seems to be that the soldiers were ordered to do it by their superiors.

I exit the museum, and come to the main memorial sculpture. The grey stone statue stands two stories high. It’s a grim image; two surviving women among a group of lifeless bodies. One stern faced woman holds a dead child in one arm, while her other arm points skyward in a fist. The killings didn’t bring defeat to the Viet Cong here. If anything, this massacre strengthened their resolve to fight on, and led other civilians to join their cause.

With the opening of the museum, the number of visitors to My Lai has grown. Visitors can take photos of anything they want here, but the press is still tightly controlled in Vietnam, so professional media are kept on a leash. For this reason, two foreign visitors drew a great deal of attention a few years ago. On that day, Vietnamese staff noticed an American with a professional video camera, accompanied by an older American. Since the pair didn’t have official permission to film a documentary, they were brought into the museum office. There they were questioned by the director, Pham Thanh Cong. As a young boy, he had also survived the massacre here. After questioning, the older American eventually confessed to being one of the soldiers of Charlie Company who took part in the massacre that day.

This survivor later became the museum director

“Why did you kill my family?” the director yelled at him. “How could you do such a thing?” The war veteran sobbed, and gave the same excuse given by other soldiers that had killed civilians in My Lai. “I was ordered to do it.”

The old veteran is lucky that he wasn’t arrested for war crimes. Fortunately for him, the policy of the current Vietnamese government is not to dwell on the wars of the past. In the interest of continuing positive relations with the American government, he was released, but not before his unannounced visit made the local papers.

One film director interested in this little village is Oscar winner Oliver Stone. A Vietnam veteran himself, Stone recently visited My Lai, aiming to film a movie about the massacre. After Stone went through all the official channels, the Vietnamese government withheld their blessing, and rejected his request to film his movie about My Lai within Vietnam. It seems that the government prefers that the massacre, like the rest of the war, should be left in the past. Like so many Vietnamese I’ve met, they prefer to focus on Vietnam’s present and future. 

Ha and another friendly survivor, Thi Lien, continue their daily work of gardening on the grounds of the memorial park. I’m amazed that these two ladies have the fortitude to work on the same land where they lost their family members. I’m further amazed that both of them were so easily able to smile and wave at me, an American.

“After the war ended, the government gave me a small house,” Ha said. She had another child, and her surviving family moved back near My Lai. She now has grandkids as well. Although she still mourns the loss of her two children, she isn’t consumed by hatred. “I don’t hate American people,” she told me. Ha’s forgiveness is admirable.

As for the soldiers who took part in the killings, after they escaped justice, most of the  Charlie Company infantrymen left the army as soon as they could. A couple soldiers had chosen to make the army their career, but they were later forced out of the service.

This woman escaped the massacre, because she was at the market that day

None of them can forget what they did here. After the ex-soldiers returned home to civilian life, many continued to be haunted by the memories of those that they had killed at My Lai. This left them with a new foe to confront: Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Many of the ex-soldiers struggled with drug or alcohol abuse.

One of the soldiers who took part in the massacre, former Specialist 4 Robert T’Souvas, ended up homeless in Pittsburgh. He was later murdered in 1988, shot in the head by his homeless girlfriend over a bottle of vodka.

Another soldier, former Private First Class Varnado Simpson, became very remorseful over his part in the massacre. He admitted in a documentary interview that he had killed at least 25 villagers. Years later, violence would plague his own family as well, when his young son was shot to death near his house. Simpson took multiple medications to control his PTSD, and attempted suicide several times. In 1997, he finally killed himself with a shotgun.

As for the convicted Lt. Calley, after he was paroled from house arrest, he returned to Columbus, Georgia. There he worked for years at his father-in-law’s jewelry store. He had one son, and later divorced. For decades, Calley refused to speak to any journalists about the massacre. He repeatedly tried, and failed, to get a large cash advance in exchange for an exclusive interview. It wasn’t until 2009 at a Kiwanis Club meeting, that he finally gave a public apology for his role in the massacre. It took Calley more than four decades to publicly declare remorse for what he had done. Other soldiers who took part in the killings continue to bear guilt for the My Lai massacre. They live with their own personal demons.

Beyond the boundaries of the Son My memorial park, the rest of the surrounding hamlets that were destroyed that terrible morning have long ago been rebuilt. If you walked through those surrounding villages today, you would never guess that such a horrifying, evil episode could ever have taken place here.

But the awful truth is, it did happen. What happened here should never, ever be forgotten. What happened here in My Lai should forever be remembered, so that it will never, ever happen again.

LADY BAR OWNER IN VIETNAM

Bartenders spin flaming bottles in a Danang bar

Chau is an attractive, friendly Vietnamese woman, with a wide smile and a kind voice. She speaks English well, and at 30 years of age, she’s already the owner of her own business in downtown Danang.

“I have this bar two year,” she says proudly from behind her dimly lit bar. Tonight's a rare occasion when she’s wearing tight clothing, and it complements her womanly figure. This gets more than a few looks from her male customers. Some are Vietnamese, but most are western men. But unlike less reputable places, this isn’t a bar for working girls. In Chau’s bar, (name is withheld), she doesn’t allow prostitutes. “When they come in, I ask them to leave,” she says.

Chau isn’t from Danang, she’s from a village outside the city. She may be a businesswoman now, but capitalism wasn’t always popular with her family.

“My father was Viet Cong,” she confesses to me. “He no like Americans. He still hate Americans. Many VC, still hate Americans. But most of them are dead now.”

Back in the war years, Chau’s hometown was a Viet Cong stronghold. Her father’s side may have won the war, but his family paid a high price. “His two brothers died. His mother and father died,” Chau tells me. Her father was also wounded by a US bomb, and his old injuries bother him in his old age. For the first time, I’m hearing about a Vietnamese that still hates Americans. Given all that the war did to her father’s family, I’m not surprised. Fortunately his hatred didn’t spread to his chipper daughter, who seems to enjoy chatting with me. 

Chau says her father doesn’t understand her. “He ask me, ‘how can you talk to Americans’? I tell him, that (the war) was long time ago. That finished,” Chau says. “I don’t have a problem with Americans.”
Chau first came to know Americans as a tour guide, when she traveled extensively doing tours for returning US veterans. “Most of them nice. Some of them not so nice,” she says, giving her view of the vets. 

She traveled with them all over the region, from Danang, to the former De-Militarized Zone, and even to the infamous site of My Lai.

“What was it like with them there?” I asked.

“They cry,” she says. “They feel bad. They talk with lady there who tell them what happen. She tell (them) their story. Another lady was a child (then). They cry.” 

Chau's village endured fighting during the war

Chau also brought the veterans to an orphanage, where children continue to arrive today with deformities attributed to Agent Orange. The vets cried there too. Now that Chau owns her own bar, she doesn’t travel with vets anymore. But she’s still happy to translate for American medical teams that come to Danang, who treat the sick in poor communities for free.

Chau likes the American doctors, but there is another group she despises. “The old American men, they come back Vietnam. They marry young Vietnam lady. I don’t like,” she says with disdain. She allows these old men with young brides to come into her bar and drink, but that doesn’t mean that she approves. Nightlife is more relaxed in Danang than in Ho Chi Minh City, so she's had few problems with customers.

“Have you had many bar fights?” I ask, remembering the brawl I had witnessed in the former Saigon. 

“Only one time,” she answered. Predictably, the bar fight involved an American, although he didn’t start it. “It was old American man in the war.”

During an evening at Chau’s place, an American Vietnam veteran was talking with a twenty-something English teacher from England. They both had their share of drinks, when the subject of the war came up. Among other things, the burly young teacher told the veteran that he thought the Americans were baby killers. It went downhill from there.

“The English man, he know boxing,” Chau said. Being bigger, younger, and a trained fighter, the Englishman wasn’t afraid to back up his words with his fists. Chau kicked the brawling pair out, but not before a lot of blood was spilled in the bar. The American got the worst of it.  But that wasn’t the end of it. The American lives in Danang, and he got the last laugh. The Englishman had a well paid job at an international school, and the American found out which one.

“The American, he have Vietnam wife,” Chau told me. “They call the school where he work. Teacher fired.” Out of a job, the English 'boxer' was soon out of the country.

I ponder over this conflict. During my whole time in Vietnam this is the only fist fight I’ve heard of that involved a disagreement about the war, and no Vietnamese were even involved. The two pugilists were from two countries that are supposed to be allies.

Chau tells me later of a fight in a different bar, that ended tragically for her family. Some years back, one of Chau’s brothers was killed. He was just a university student then, out for a night with his friends when the fight broke out. He tried to break it up, and was stabbed fatally in the melee.

The new river front walkway in downtown Danang

The perpetrator was tried and sentenced to a long prison term, but he wasn’t behind bars for long. Less two years after her brother’s death, Chau’s family found out that the killer had already been released. He was long gone, and nowhere to be found. It turns out that the prisoner’s father was a powerful figure in the government. Chau’s father also worked in local government and was a war veteran, but that wasn’t enough power to guarantee justice for his murdered son. In the end, he didn’t have anywhere near the clout that the father of the killer did.

These days, Chau is doing very well. Her parents have retired, and with her pub thriving, she earns enough money to support them. She’s even saved enough to do some traveling. Unlike most Vietnamese, Chau has seen a lot of the outside world, and has traveled throughout Southeast Asia. She’s even flown to New Zealand and her favorite, Australia.

“I would like to go see America some day, but it very far,” she tells me.

I ask her if she would like to go work in America, but she doesn’t see the need. “Here I do what I want,” she says. “I’m free.”

I suppose it’s all very relative. Freedom of speech and freedom of the press don’t concern her. Chau enjoys the freedoms that she wants the most. She has the freedom to travel, and the freedom to run her own business. In her case, that’s all the freedom that she needs.

ATTACK OF RUBBER SNAKE ON MARBLE MOUNTAIN

Buddhist temple on 'Marble Mountain'

It's a new morning, and I'm just south of the central Vietnam city of Danang. I’m climbing stairs up a long hill of bedrock. Step after step, I go up and up, until my legs begin to ache. My quads are going to get a good workout today.

Buddhist statues guard a cave inside the mountain

My guide Khanh has brought me to this place that in Vietnamese, translates as ‘Water Mountain’. Climbing higher, I discover that the rock that makes up this place is mostly marble, hence the nickname American soldiers gave this place: ‘Marble Mountain’. It really should have been named ‘Shrinking Mountain’, since the village next to it had been quarrying marble off of this mountain for generations. They were supplying local artisans, who made their living carving marble sculptures. As the artists continued to turn out their creations, the mountain shrank and shrank. Finally, they started importing their marble from China, and the mountain was saved from shrinking further.

I finish the long set of steps, which were somehow carved out of this mountain more than 200 years ago by Buddhist monks. Arriving at a leveled part of the mountain, I see the monk’s temple and surrounding buildings. There are still 15 monks living up here today.

Rising above the nearby coastline, Marble Mountain has a few natural caves, and Khanh and I head into them to explore. Most aren’t much to look at, until I walk into Huyen Khong Cave. Passing through an arch, an old stone sign translates as, “Cave heaven good hell.” Khanh leads on, and we enter the eerie place. Walking deeper into the mountain’s interior, it grows darker. We reach four Buddhist statues guarding an inner entrance, as though they are sentinels. “Two of them are good, two of them evil,” Khanh informs me. In the dim light, all four figures look rather menacing.


Descending further, the cave opens up into a large natural room. There is a bit more light in here. I look upward, and see holes in the cave ceiling, opening into the morning sky. Through the dim light, a large statue of Buddha is barely visible on the far side. Carved right into the cave wall, the statue didn’t always look down on Buddhist monks. In wartime this cave was controlled for years by the Viet Cong.

“In here was VC hospital,” Khanh tells me. Deep inside marble mountain, surrounded by solid rock, this was one of the few places where the guerrillas were reasonably safe from aerial bombing. As a hospital it couldn’t have been very sanitary though, since the cavern is damp, and not well ventilated. For years the Viet Cong occupied these caves, and ran the hospital deep within the mountain. Leaving the cavern, we walk towards the other side of the mountain. Reaching a narrow point of the walkway, we pass through an old stone arch. Looking closer, I see that both sides of the arch are pockmarked with countless bullet holes. This was a scene of a fierce firefight.

A bullet scarred arch marks where a fierce gun battle occurred in 1968

“American soldiers come, fighting here,” Khanh tells me. During the US military build up in Danang in the 1960's, the Americans decided to force the Viet Cong from Marble Mountain. There were heavy casualties in the fight to take this mount, and US troops prevailed. They held the mountain until they departed in the 1970’s.

Walking around the Buddhist temple complex, we enter a hillside garden. I find a sign within, with these notable below words of Buddhist wisdom. Wise words indeed. 

Through all of the conflict over the decades, the Buddhist monks have remained on the mountain, and their rebuilt complex has expanded. The monks were here before the war, during the war, and after the war. Finally, the mountain belongs to them alone. There are old legends that the monks guarded royal gold hoarded in the caves, but it hasn't been found. 

Further ahead, Khanh points to the mountain’s peak, and tells me that US soldiers had a lookout point up there. The marines called this observation post, ‘the Crow’s Nest’.

View looking south along the coast. On this peak US troops had the 'Crow's Nest' lookout post.

“They come on helicopter”, Khanh says. Back then, rather than climb the mountain as we did, the forward observers were picked up and dropped off by air. With my legs weary from the climbing, I’m wishing I had a helicopter right now. But I still have some energy left, so I decide to climb to the top for a look myself. I don’t know it yet, but I’m going to regret it.

I start my way up another staircase, recently installed for visitors like me. Eyeing up the steps, they look very steep, and not particularly safe. Khanh goes ahead, and I start my climb up slowly.

Workmen stare down at me, after the hose burst right in front of me

Up ahead, I hear a jackhammer pounding away, breaking up heavy rock at the top. As I continue my ascent, I pass a noisy air compressor, with a rubber hose running up the steps. Must be for the jackhammer, I think. A few steps on, I pause on the staircase and pull out my camera. That’s when it happens.

POW! There’s an explosion, right in front of me. Then I hear a loud hissing noise. I duck, and cover my head with my arms, managing to not fall backwards down the steep steps. The hissing continues, and I peer briefly between my arms, to see a fantastic sight. The black rubber hose from the air compressor is flailing around wildly, right in front of me, inches from my face. Blowing out steam from the end, it looks like some giant, mad snake, breathing smoke as it fights for its life. Gradually, the hissing quiets down, and the hose finally collapses to the ground.

I catch my breath. That was a very close call. I have just been attacked by a rubber snake.

The workmen above heard the explosion, stopped their work, and are now standing at the edge of the peak, staring down at me. I pause a few moments to gather my thoughts and thank my maker. Then I have a look at what caused the mishap. A poorly fashioned hose connection had ruptured, apparently from a weak clamp. If that clamp or the hose had hit me in the head, I could’ve tumbled right back down the mountain.

I continue the rest of the way to the top, and the workmen continue to just stare at me. There are no apologies. For many Vietnamese, to apologize after a mess like that would have been a loss of face to them. One workman makes a weak attempt at a joke. I don’t laugh.

Looking around the peak, there are chunks of marble lying everywhere, the results of the jackhammer’s work. Apparently the workmen are installing some kind of visitors platform, but at this point there’s nothing but rocks and brush. The workmen return to their mission of attacking the mountain’s marble, this time  with safer hand tools. At least now I don’t have to put up with the noise of their unsafe jackhammer. After regaining my composure, I take in the scenic view of the surrounding coastline. It’s a very commanding view. I take a deep breath, taking it all in. I can see why the Viet Cong had fought so hard to try and keep this mountain, you can easily see for miles in every direction.

Nearby are a few smaller mountains, and at the base of the mountain is a village. Decades ago there were more shacks down there, now it’s a thriving community of rowhouse homes crowded right up to the mountain’s base. Highway 601 cuts between through the village, heading further south of Danang. I had heard about the southern area from my buddy Kenny, the former US marine who was based there in the 60’s. During the war, villages further south were aligned with the VC. When they fought with the marines, many artillery shells fired by both sides never exploded, since they landed in soft sand.

A view of the neighborhood surrounding 'Marble Mountain'

An Australian engineer I met was working on that sandy land now, supervising construction of a new tourist golf course there. When I passed by it on the highway, I saw his bulldozers pushing sand about. I asked him if they had found any unexpoloded munitions while they were digging.

“Loads and loads”, he said. “artillery, rocket propelled grenades, used bullets.”

Talk about a golf hazard.
 
He told me how some of the Vietnamese construction workers would find this unexploded ordinance, and then play with it. “They would toss it back and forth, and they’d be laughing,” he said. The workers were playing a dangerous game of hot potato. Through some kind of miracle, none of them had been killed. Yet.

To the opposite side of the peak, in the far off haze to the north, is Danang itself.

“There airport,” Khanh says, pointing north up the coast. In the distance, I can make out the runway of the old Marble Mountain Air Facility, built by the US military. Half-cylinder cement hangers are now empty, and the remains of the former American base are now quiet. Part of the base is still polluted with deposits of Agent Orange. It will become prime real estate if it ever gets cleaned up.

Other parts of the old air base however, are already being developed. Next to the ocean, where the base used to have barbed wire fences and guard towers on the beach, I now see huge new hotels under construction. With the need for hotels rising, the base’s beaches weren’t going to remain in the hands of Vietnam's military for very long. The profits of peace are bringing more and more construction into Danang these days.

TYPHOON, AND US NAVY RETURNS TO VIETNAM

Houses ruined by Typhoon Xangsane

I’m looking at an uninhabited, heavily damaged house. The windows have been blown out, and the rooftop torn away. Only the cement and brick walls are left. Walking down a path, I find another wrecked house, and then another. They all look the same; they’re now only empty shells of what they once were. Weeds are growing inside, as nature is taking over.

There are no bullet holes on these ruined buildings, and no scorch marks from fire either. They weren’t wrecked in the war. These coastal houses were laid waste by a powerful force that still destroys property, and kills people every year in Vietnam.

Weeds grow inside the ruins

“It was typhoon,” says my guide Khanh. Typhoon Xangsane hit Danang a few years ago, wrecking this seaside resort. Between Vietnam and the Philippines, the deadly storm killed 169 people. I recall other damaged houses I passed on the beach on the way here, and I wonder how many of those were wrecked by the same typhoon. 
 
As if tropical storms weren’t enough, environmentalists have said that flooding from the typhoons and the rainy season has worsened in central Vietnam in recent decades. The biggest culprit is from inland logging, much of it illegal. Fewer trees are soaking up less water from the rains, bringing higher flood waters to low lying areas.

I’ve seen some of this phenomenon myself. I recall riding on another road further south, when my xe om driver stopped unexpectedly. A river ahead had overflowed its banks, and the road was flooded, along with several houses. Some homes had three feet of water flowing through their door. 

We leave the ruined resort, and Khanh hands me a helmet. He starts up his motorbike, and we head back towards Danang along the coastal road. On the way, Khanh tells me about another American he brought through here.

“He was soldier in the war. His friend died here on the beach, from landmine,” Khanh told me. The soldier had been very distraught over the loss of his buddy, and he never forgot it.

Flooding in central Vietnam is now common

“He come back,” Khanh said of  the old veteran, who returned to Danang decades later. He managed to bring himself to finally walk back out onto that same beach where his buddy had been lost. It was a healing moment.

Leaving the beach, we pass the King’s Hotel, and I snicker at the name. The small, narrow hotel, looks like it doesn’t have any more than 10 rooms. It would only host a very small king. I’ve seen other lodgings in town, with English names such as the Sun River Hotel, and the oddly named Plenty Hotel. With foreigners returning to Vietnam, some businessmen give their hotels English names, hoping to attract foreign visitors with more money.

Khanh turns through some neighborhoods, and pulls onto a main road. Khanh points and says, “That built by Americans.” It’s a tall concrete water tower, constructed for the port. Built by military engineers with sturdy materials, it still works today, supplying water to the surrounding community and nearby port. 

US built water tower still works today

Motoring on, we begin to pass buildings inhabited by the Vietnamese Navy. There are roomy, modern barracks with curved rooftops decorated with an Asian flair. These are almost new, built by the current government. A lone sailor guards the gate. He may be carrying an AK, but his navy uniform looks like something out of the 19th century.

As we drive further along the base, I see other buildings from all different eras. Beyond the new barracks, old shutters hanging from windows mark the aging French colonial buildings. Over the thick walls, are the faded but sturdy concrete structures built with that 60’s American look. An old spotlight on a rooftop points skywards. A rusted ‘No Trespassing’ sign hangs on a wall.

I am entering what is now called Tiensa Port, but American sailors remember it as the Port of Da Nang. At its peak, this was the largest overseas shore command in the US Navy.

As a deep water port, these waters were once filled with hundreds of vessels from the American and South Vietnamese Navies. The docks here worked overtime, since most of the war material to fight the Vietnam War arrived in the country not by air, but by sea.

These days, the current Vietnamese Navy is far smaller. Looking through a gate as we drive by, I count seven small navy ships docked closely together. They look vacant and unused, and the two largest vessels look no bigger than a destroyer. The Vietnamese have never been known as a major naval power, and that weakness at sea still haunts them today. 

Old spotlight on former US Navy base

East of Danang out at sea, lie a group of small, nearly uninhabitable islands known as the Paracels. 

USS Lassen visited Danang. Are US military & Vietnam getting friendly? (photo USN)

Although far from China, this body of water isn’t called the South China Sea for nothing. Even though they have little strategic value, the Chinese claim these islands, and fought a brief battle there in the Paracels in 1974, forcing out the small group of South Vietnamese troops still stationed there. With their claim to the Paracels established, the presence of Chinese troops not far offshore has been a thorn in the side of Viet-Sino relations ever since.

Further south, is another group of remote and barren of islands called the Spratlys. There is nothing of use on those 100 or so tiny islands, but there are fertile fishing grounds, and the possibility of something even more valuable beneath the sea floor: oil. With this in mind, the Spratlys are claimed by not only the Vietnamese, but also the Chinese, the Philippines, Taiwan and Malaysia. Strangely, all of these countries have small military contingents based on different islets here.

In 1988, the Spratlys were the scene of an unlikely conflict, a sea battle between two communist navies. With the Chinese looking to assert their control over the Spratlys, their larger navy sailed south to meet the Vietnamese. Vietnam’s navy was put to the test, and the results weren’t good. When the brief battle had ended, two Vietnamese Navy ships had been sunk, with 60 sailors killed.

In recent years, opposing navies continued to harass each others' fishing boats in the Spratlys, so the conflict is far from solved. If oil is ever found out there, there may one day be another naval battle fought over those islets.

For now, commerce and capitalism are much more important to both countries than a few barren islands, and the Tiensa Port unloads a great deal of Chinese imports from freighters and container ships. Even big cruise ships make occasional stops at Danang, dumping hundreds of invading tourists, who head for the beaches.
 
Continuing on Khanh’s motorbike along the port road, we pass numerous parked trucks waiting for their cargos to clear customs. Nearing the dock access gate, Khanh pulls to a stop in front of a café. Stretching my legs, I invite him inside for a cool drink. We take a seat outside, and I survey the scene.

Like any seaport throughout the world, there are many businesses around the gate hoping to take money from the world’s sailors that make this a port of call. There are other cafés, restaurants, barber shops, and of course, a few seedy massage and karaoke places. The authorities may have cleaned up My Khe beach, but they haven’t cleaned up everything in Danang.

My sweet green tea arrives, and I kick back for a chat with Khanh. He speaks English better than most of the translators I’ve had, since he learned it in university. Like many southerners, he grew up in difficult circumstances. His father died during the war, but he wasn’t in the military. He was killed in 1970 in a construction accident in Saigon, while working for an American construction firm.

Ex-Vietnamese refugee Le returns to Danang commanding US Navy destroyer(photo USN)

As we sit outside the port’s gate, a few foreign sailors are milling about, mainly Chinese and Malaysian. This is a far cry from the days when thousands of American sailors were based here. But there is one notable case of an American who found his way back to Danang.

In 1975, an unknown five year old refugee named Hung Ba Le fled Danang by sea with his parents. They later settled in the states, and he eventually became a US citizen. In 2009, Le returned to Vietnam, also by sea. This time, Le was an officer in the United States Navy. He happened to enter Danang’s port, returning to the country of his birth, as the commander of a US Navy destroyer! As a sign of improving relations between Vietnam and the USA, Le’s ship, the USS Lassen, had come into port on a goodwill visit.

Le’s case was certainly a unique homecoming. I wouldn’t call Le’s visit a triumphant return, but it was certainly a cause for celebration.

CHINA BEACH

Traditional Vietnamese fishing boats on 'China Beach'

I’m walking along a quiet, lonely beach, and a sprinkle of rain is falling. Peering down the coast, I see few other beachgoers this afternoon. A small group of Vietnamese men play barefoot soccer on the sand. A few off duty Vietnamese soldiers clown around nearby, taking photos of each other. Besides me, there are no foreigners at all.

This is My Khe beach, which basically translates as, “American Beach”. Since this beach is closest to central Vietnam’s largest city, Danang, this is where many American G.I.'s came to relax back during the war years. The soldiers who spent their off time here gave this seashore their own nickname: “China Beach". A 1980's American TV show of the same name, was based on fictional Hollywood war stories from this place. But I'm standing on the real deal.

The wind picks up, and I head past the new beach walkway towards beached boats. With the rain and cooler weather, this is the off season for Danang’s coast. But the more turbulent weather brings

'Monkey Mountain' overlooks the beaches

heaving waves, which are churning up sand, giving the coastline a brownish tinge. This is prime weather for that very American sport: surfing.

A few nights ago I ran into Ian, an English teacher I know from Saigon. Like some of the soldiers back in the 60’s, Ian is a surfer, and he comes here every year over Christmas. 

“How’s the surfing?” I asked him.

“The best it’s ever been,” he replied. The stormy weather made for excellent waves, good surfing. American surfers who have to wait their turn on overcrowded beaches of California would absolutely drool at the sight of China Beach's empty breakers. Often, there isn’t a soul out there to take advantage of the awesome surf, since few Vietnamese enjoy the sport. It may be only a matter of time before surfers find their way back to Danang, to ride some of the best waves in Asia. Until then, the lucky few like Ian will have these fabulous waves all to themselves.

Fishing boats lie at anchor off of China Beach

It was at another of Danang’s nearby beaches where the United States Marines first landed in Vietnam back in 1965. Landing craft carrying marines pulled up to Red Beach just north of here, marking the entrance of the first US ground combat unit to join the war. This was no dangerous landing like Iwo Jima. On wading ashore, the marines were met not by gunfire, but by journalists, and Danang’s mayor. A group of young Vietnamese women handed them flowered leis. 
 
As I stroll past beached fishing boats, I see vendors are renting out hammocks. Crowded near them are traditional Vietnamese beach shelters and beach side eateries. I opt for a seafood restaurant across the road, and that’s where I meet a China Beach fixture named Maryann.

Maryann, on China Beach since 1960's

“Americans number one,” Maryann tells me with a smile. She’s wearing oversized rings with oversized stones, and a big necklace with oversized pearls.




Her eatery is, “Maryann’s Restaurant”, and she’s been in this beach business since the early 1960’s. Maryann had countless American soldiers as her customers, and she remembers those days well.

“Many American love me,” she tells me reminiscing. “Many American want to take me to America. I don’t want (to go.)” I wonder just exactly what she meant, when she said, “Many American love me.”

Back in those years, with all the free spending American soldiers, business on the beach was even better. Maryann remembers few problems, and can’t remember ever seeing a single fight on the beach. The soldiers she encountered here on leave were already seeing plenty of fighting in the countryside.

Chatting away, Maryann recalls her conversations with homesick soldiers, “Americans say, ‘I want go home. I want go see (my) mother (and) father’. They go fight in the mountains, many die, (their) friend die, they tired. They want go home America.”

In Maryann’s case, she remained in Vietnam. She married a Vietnamese man, had eight children, and now has grandchildren. She still operates this restaurant with her family. Her restaurant used to be right on the beachside, but due to government  redevelopment she had to close it four years ago and relocate it. In recent years, she’s had American tourists as customers again, even staff from the US Embassy have come to enjoy her fresh seafood by the beach. 

Buddhist bodhisattva overlooks Danang's fishing fleet

 Back in the day, China Beach referred to a very long stretch of Danang’s coastline, but with that name officially off the map, the shore now bears the names of several different beaches. The beach itself has also changed. One section has a modern brick walkway, with transplanted palm trees, and there are the usual changing rooms and public showers.

During wartime, there used to be seedy bars down here, but since then, most of them have been torn down. The government has been totally redeveloping My Khe, whether the current landowners have agreed to it, or not. I've seen that some of the land by the coast developed into small, new hotels. Other houses have been bulldozed and now lie vacant, awaiting redevelopment. 

I look northeast of the beach, and I can see far off Monkey Mountain, so named by the G.I.’s for it’s noisy residents higher up. The Vietnamese call it Son Tra, which means Tree Mountain. It’s well named, since it’s a protected park and covered with green forest.

A new feature stands out from the mountainside; the tallest Buddhist statue I’ve ever seen! Even though I’m miles away, I can easily make out the massive outline of the Bodhisattva Kwan Yin. Located next to a new pagoda, the huge female statue is under construction, and surrounded by bamboo scaffolding. Big as the Statue of Liberty, she looks out over the bay, watching over the fleet of Vietnamese fishing boats anchored off the beach.

To Buddhists, a bodhisattva is much like an angel, an enlightened being who has given up nirvana out of compassion, in order to save others. In this case, the bodhisattva is here to save and protect Danang’s Buddhist fishermen. When the ships set out for the open sea, this is who the sailors and their families pray to, for their safe return to their loved ones.

PEDOPHILE FIGHTER OF NHA TRANG

Nha Trang street scene, near the beach

One night I was out dining in a restaurant in the south, when the largest Vietnamese man I had ever seen approached me.

He asked,  “Would you take our picture?” 

I obliged, and taking his camera, snapped a photo of him and his wife, a beautiful blonde American. He had to be one of the tallest, most muscular men in all of Vietnam. I had no doubt that he was Vietnamese, but he spoke perfect English. I recognized him, but decided not to intrude on his privacy. I had just encountered Vietnam’s most famous refugee of today. The burly man was Dat Nguyen, former linebacker of the Dallas Cowboys in the National Football League.

The Vietnamese have a name for former refugees like Dat, that have returned to Vietnam. They call them Viet kieu, which means ‘returning Vietnamese’. Most of these refugees have returned in the years after the economy liberalized. Some like Dat Nguyen come back only to visit, while others move back for the long term and invest in local business. The Vietnamese who never left tend to view these returnees suspiciously, although they still do business with them.

In Nha Trang, I met a very unique returning refugee named Kim. She was one of the Viet Kieu who came back and stayed. Being of Chinese descent, her family fled as refugees in 1980, after the border war with China. At  the time the Vietnamese government was repressing the country’s ethnic Chinese.

“I lived in Canada,” Kim told me, but her stay there wasn’t permanent. After reaching adulthood, she returned to Nha Trang in the 1990’s as a teacher, and later opened a bar. Settling in for the long term, she became part of the community.

One day outside a pagoda, she was speaking to a Vietnamese street child, and was horrified to learn that the youngster was a child prostitute. Investigating further, she came to learn that child prostitution in Nha Trang had become a serious problem.

By 2002, Nha Trang had become a seedy location for pedophiles to meet their victims. The beach was littered with syringes, used condoms and other rubbish. The town had become a foreign pedophile magnet.

Unbelievably, local police paid little attention to the problem, even though some of these children were human trafficking victims. They had been brought down from a poor village in the north, forced to sell postcards in Nha Trang. When Kim tried to have some of the pedophiles arrested, the police told her, “What do you care? They’re not your children.”

Frustrated at their unwillingness to pursue these perverts, Kim and her Australian boyfriend began fighting the pedophiles themselves, sometimes literally. In more than one instance, they physically attacked these men.

“The police started calling me ‘Crazy Kim’, she told me in her pub. “That’s why I call this Crazy Kim’s Bar.”

'Crazy Kim' speaks to the children at her annual Christmas Party

As she sought to have the pedophiles prosecuted, she fed information to the local police, foreign police, and even to Interpol. Her Australian boyfriend helped with her crusade for a while, but he eventually left. The lack of action by local police was frustrating. Still, there was some progress. Two pedophiles who had been visiting Nha Trang, were convicted and imprisoned in Germany.

International media eventually brought the problem of foreign pedophiles in Vietnam to the world’s attention. In 2005, the infamous rock star Gary Glitter made headlines when he was arrested and convicted for abusing two underage Vietnamese girls in Vung Tau, another beach town further south. He was convicted, and spent two years and nine months in prison before being deported in 2008.

As Kim got to know the street kids better, she learned that none of the children were attending school. So she expanded her assistance to include education, and she opened a room adjacent to her bar as a one room schoolhouse.

Crazy Kim’s Bar also began selling t-shirts, emblazoned with the warning message, “Hands Off the Kids”. Some of the street children began wearing the shirts as well.

Seeing my interest in Kim’s work on behalf of the children, Kim said to me, “Next week we’re having a Christmas party for Nha Trang children. Would you like to come?”

How could I refuse? Most Vietnamese are Buddhists, but the spirit of giving at Christmas isn’t just for Christians. It’s a time to share with everyone, especially with children in need such as these.

I came to the party, and what a sight it was. The children packed the bar’s back room for the festivities. As I greeted Kim, one boy who looked about eight walked in, and immediately approached her. He gave Kim a big hug, before joining the party. As he walked away, Kim told me his situation. “His mother is a prostitute.”

Nha Trang's children enjoy themselves at Crazy Kim's Christmas party

Not all of the children attending were street kids, this party was inclusive. For the children from tough backgrounds, today was a day they could forget about their problems. Kim left me to attend to the party, and I watched the celebration in amazement. The children received Santa hats, and donated presents. Older children helped the younger kids with food and refreshments. For entertainment, they had a DJ, karaoke, and a hip-hop dancing show. The children ate it all up. A good time was had by all.
 
In recent years Nha Trang's beachfront has been mostly cleaned up, both of trash, and the pedophiles. Now it’s clean, suitable for family vacations. The beach is popular with foreigners and Vietnamese alike. 

With Nha Trang’s public image vastly improved, the beach town hosted the 2008 Miss Universe Pageant. Won by Miss Venezuela, the event was broadcast worldwide. With that kind of exposure, it’s no surprise that Nha Trang has become the most popular beach destination in all of Vietnam

Through Kim’s work protecting the children, and through her efforts to draw  public attention to the problem, the number of foreign pedophiles visiting Nha Trang has declined drastically. Today, her classroom continues teaching the kids, only now many of those attending are not just abused street children, but also kids from poor families.

Now in her 40s, Kim has put on a few pounds since those early years. She doesn’t have any children of her own, but one thing is certain. Kim’s efforts to protect Nha Trang’s street kids have saved countless Vietnamese children from sexual abuse. Vietnam's foreign pedophile problem has not been totally eliminated, but thanks to Kim, it has been reduced.

Who says that one person can’t make a difference?