Authors:
Historic Era: Era 9: Postwar United States (1945 to early 1970s)
Historic Theme:
Subject:
February/March 1998 | Volume 49, Issue 1
Authors:
Historic Era: Era 9: Postwar United States (1945 to early 1970s)
Historic Theme:
Subject:
February/March 1998 | Volume 49, Issue 1
The sun scorches down on the car, baking the black vinyl seats. They feel pliant as new tar. Tank top and shorts—the uniform of choice—offers no respite, and my bandanna is soaked in minutes. Sweat stings my eyes. The wind through the car’s open windows feels like a steady breeze from an oven: constant, unbearable. This is Vietnam in mid-July.
I am on my way to visit the site of the 1968 My Lai Massacre during the American war. On that day, March 16, soldiers from Charlie Company spent four hours firing and slashing away at the villagers of Tu Cung in what the Americans called Pinkville in Quang Ngai province. At the same time, in the nearby hamIet of Co Luy, members of Bravo Company were murdering dozens of civilians. A total of 504 unarmed people were killed.
I am an American traveling with an Australian couple three hours by car from Hoi An south to My Lai. I met them days before on a boat trip in Nha Trang, and, as often happens with travelers, our paths crossed again, in Hoi An. After telling them of my plans for the following day, they asked if they could split the cost and accompany me on my journey. We booked a car for seven the next morning, hoping to drive before the worst of the midday heat began. We were promised an English-speaking driver.
“Hello,” he said when we climbed in the car. We’d arranged to be picked up outside Hoi An, in an alley where authorities wouldn’t see foreigners climbing into a car that wasn’t government-authorized. If caught, the driver would be heavily fined.
I greeted him, then asked how far it was to My Lai.
“Yes, My Lai,” he said.
“How far?”
“Hello,” he said.
I hadn’t specified how much English was required.
For three weeks, I had been in Vietnam, partly through wanderlust, but mostly because I had taught Vietnam War literature for nearly three years. I’d researched the topic in graduate school. At first, the romance had appealed to me: innocent, doomed young men following the orders of a wrongheaded government, but gradually, the romance slipped away, and my interest became academic. And personal. I wanted to be an expert on Vietnam War literature, but I also wanted to experience a Vietnam outside books, a Vietnam before capitalism changed the country’s face entirely.
Vietnam has two seasons in July. The far south, beginning at Ho Chi Minh City (Saigon) through the Mekong Delta, and the far north, beginning at Hanoi up to the Chinese border, are in the midst of the rainy season, with heavy monsoons pelting down on buildings, people, and trees every afternoon and often all day. Even rain gear can’t keep you dry. Sometimes, it rains so hard that you