Always a Soldier

by Amber Douet (United States of America)

Making a local connection Vietnam

It was just supposed to be a quick stop, a night in between destinations that were otherwise too far apart. We didn’t intend to see anything as it was in the middle of nowhere, and we certainly didn’t expect to make a connection that had us questioning moving on so quickly. We had arrived late and gone straight to sleep. In the morning, we had time before our transportation passed by; so, we decided to hang out in the dining area, visit with people, and try some of their “World Famous” spring rolls for lunch. We had learned that every region does spring rolls a little differently, and we were intent on trying them all. As we looked around the dining area, we checked out the guestbook. Everyone who stayed in this slightly shabby guesthouse seemed to love it. On every page people wrote their thanks for a great time and great food and drinks. Based on the enthusiastic reviews, we were questioning our need to move on so fast. People left warm wishes for the proprietor on every line. He seemed loved, but we hadn’t met him yet. The language everyone, from every country, used was a little foul; and I was a little taken back by the language used to address the proprietor. We sat waiting for our spring rolls and in walked Hoa, the proprietor of our one-night accommodations. Dressed in long shorts, a white button-down shirt, and sandals, he looked to be in his late forties to early fifties. He warmly greeted everyone in the dining area individually. Noticing that we were new, he came over and introduced himself and welcomed us to his place. When he found out we were Americans, he immediately grabbed a beer and pulled up a seat to our table. This was a little surprising as we were not used to being welcomed so openly as Americans in this region. Plus, a beer at 11:00 in the morning isn’t standard in every corner of the world. Hoa recommended we try the local brew. There was something about the way he joined us that made us think beers were not only appropriate, but necessary, for us to share with him. “I’m a marine,” he said. “Served with the Americans.” This was a little confusing as he certainly wasn’t old enough to have been in the same conflict as my textbooks taught. “When was this?” I asked. “Oh, back in the 60s.” “How old were you?” “Oh 8, maybe 10.” A boy soldier. He immediately started reminiscing about his time with the U.S. marines during the war. He considered himself a U.S. marine. “We had to share beds. There wasn’t enough room for nothing else. Those boys…,” he said shaking his head. “I learned so much from them. Taught me English. Fuck. Fuck…that was the first word I learned.” It didn’t take long for everything to make sense. The warm welcome, the foul language, the beer at 11:00 am. I’d use that language too if I learned English from soldiers. “We would just sit around at night shooting the shit. I miss those fucking guys.” He paused. “They still remember me. Some of them have come back and visited me. Stayed here even. Despite it all, it was the best time of my life. Those were my buddies.” Our spring rolls arrived, and Hoa showed us how to roll our own. They were undeniably delicious spring rolls, and I’m sure all his buddies who visit go home and rave about them, indeed making them “World Famous.” We continued to enjoy our spring rolls and beers as we listened to Hoa’s stories. Hoa teared up thinking about the guys with whom he had eaten, marched, and fought a lifetime ago. Hoa’s place was different from the places we had thus far stayed. Hoa welcomed everyone warmly. He seemed, however, to hold a special place in his heart for Americans. Reminiscing about his marine buddies, he sent a message of camaraderie across cultural lines. Hoa was sad that we couldn’t stay and shoot the shit for longer. We were, too. Our conversation, though, would stay with us for far longer than our brief connection.