Patriotism, Sacrifice, and Skepticism Theme Analysis

One southern soldier behind a tree fired hastily and the full magazine of thirty rounds from his AK exploded loudly around Kien, but he had walked on unharmed. Kien had not returned fire even when just a few steps from his prey, as though he wanted to give his enemy a chance to survive, to give him more time to change magazines, or time to take sure aim and kill him.

The name, age, and image of someone who’d been every bit as brave under fire as his comrades, who had set a fine example, suddenly disappeared without a trace.

Except within the mind of Kien. Can’s image haunted him every night, returning during the night to whisper to him by his hammock, repeating the final, gloomy lines he’d spoken by the stream. The whisper would turn into a suffocating gasp, like the sound of water blocking the throat of a drowning man.

He recalled the standing orders from the political commissar: “It is necessary to readjust, rectify, and re-establish the rules, the morals and behavior of your men, when there are breaches.” Of course that would have meant pulling the soldiers out, snapping them out of their romantic spell. Kien’s heart would never allow him to truly discipline those boys. It begged him to keep silent and sympathize with the young lovers. What else could they do? They were powerless against the frenzied forces of young love which now controlled their bodies.

The future lied to us, there long ago in the past. There is no new life, no new era, nor is it hope for a beautiful future that now drives me on, but rather the opposite. The hope is contained in the beautiful prewar past.

“No. I mean it. That slob gave us a sort of warning: Don’t criticize others. Be sure of yourself first.”

Kien frowned, then walked away. “Be sure of yourself first, what a joke!” Kien said to himself. He recalled Oanh’s death a month earlier, the morning his regiment attacked the police headquarters at Buon Me Thuot.

“There’s no other night like this. You’re offering your life for a cause so I’ve decided to waste mine too. This year we’re both seventeen. Let’s plan to meet each other again somewhere at some future point. See if we still love each other as much as we do now.”

But at the last moment, as he was about to press the trigger with the gun aimed directly at them, he gave them a reprieve.

It was not because of their pleading, nor because of prompting from his colleagues. No, it was because Phuong’s words had come to him like an inner voice: “So, you’ll kill lots of men? That’ll make you a hero, I suppose?”

Not one of them asked about Hoa. At first he found it disagreeably strange. Then, with its acceptance, he too began to forget about her. Was it that such sacrifices were now an everyday occurrence? Or that they were expected, even of such young people? Or worse, that they were too concerned worrying about their own safety to bother with others?

It all seemed so long ago, and because he couldn’t even find the head-shaped rock—it had been blown apart or washed away—it seemed a touch unlikely that it had ever happened. Of course it had, but not even finding the clearing where he had last seen her allowed him that escape into such possibilities.

What remained was sorrow, the immense sorrow, the sorrow of having survived. The sorrow of war.