Here's the story: 1966, one of the northern provinces of then South Vietnam, an ambush, many dead Marines, an all-day firefight, reinforcements, air support, a young, dead NVA soldier manning a machine gun covering the retreat of his comrades, a diary resting on his body.
Many years later, the tiny diary in the possession of the veteran who picked it up off the corpse but who now doesn't want to own it but doesn't know what to do with it.
An investigation: confirmation of the details of the fight, the units involved, both North Vietnamese and American, the enhancement of the pages of the diary to maximum legibility, the inventory of other paper--a photo of two girls, an ID document--tucked into the pages, the translation of the texts.
Then, the identification of the soldier, his home village, the account in the diary of his mustering and movement down the Ho Chi Minh Trail, his travails, his battles, his hopes for the future after the war.
Finally, the contact with the surviving children of the soldier, identification of the girls, now old women, who were home militiamen giving the picture of themselves as encouragement, an unexpected portrait of the soldier himself painted from a photo along with other photos of him, a boyish young father, and his wife and three children, a video-taped interview with his surviving son.
Ceremonial diplomatic delivery to the diary to the Vietnamese government and plans to display the it in a local museum.
Here's the point that hits me: a living veteran, albeit old and on oxygen, and a dead combatant 40 years gone. One gets to understand the person he would have killed or been killed by in that terrible war, and the other has a chance to speak from beyond the grave. The terrible losses, the aching lack of resolution, brought to the point of forgiveness: 'You [who return the diary] are a moral man.'
How is it that terror and rage and grief and resentment can end in a recognition of the other as also human with a story understandable and recognizable? A tiny, slim, leather-bound diary as the door way of each into the life of the other. How is it that vast networks of relationship and implication meet and become accessible at a single point, an potential encounter sleeping these many years? How many more are there in our possession, in our vicinity, waiting?
Many years later, the tiny diary in the possession of the veteran who picked it up off the corpse but who now doesn't want to own it but doesn't know what to do with it.
An investigation: confirmation of the details of the fight, the units involved, both North Vietnamese and American, the enhancement of the pages of the diary to maximum legibility, the inventory of other paper--a photo of two girls, an ID document--tucked into the pages, the translation of the texts.
Then, the identification of the soldier, his home village, the account in the diary of his mustering and movement down the Ho Chi Minh Trail, his travails, his battles, his hopes for the future after the war.
Finally, the contact with the surviving children of the soldier, identification of the girls, now old women, who were home militiamen giving the picture of themselves as encouragement, an unexpected portrait of the soldier himself painted from a photo along with other photos of him, a boyish young father, and his wife and three children, a video-taped interview with his surviving son.
Ceremonial diplomatic delivery to the diary to the Vietnamese government and plans to display the it in a local museum.
Here's the point that hits me: a living veteran, albeit old and on oxygen, and a dead combatant 40 years gone. One gets to understand the person he would have killed or been killed by in that terrible war, and the other has a chance to speak from beyond the grave. The terrible losses, the aching lack of resolution, brought to the point of forgiveness: 'You [who return the diary] are a moral man.'
How is it that terror and rage and grief and resentment can end in a recognition of the other as also human with a story understandable and recognizable? A tiny, slim, leather-bound diary as the door way of each into the life of the other. How is it that vast networks of relationship and implication meet and become accessible at a single point, an potential encounter sleeping these many years? How many more are there in our possession, in our vicinity, waiting?
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