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Thursday, September 9, 2010 |
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Vietnam trip starts in Hanoi
Published July 14, 2010
Editor’s note: This is the first in a series of dispatches sent by Seguin’s John Gesick who has returned to Vietnam for the first time since the war— this time with his son Patrick.
Patrick and I were taken by Ed, a Chomorro friend and neighbor of Patrick’s and Jennifer’s, to Guam’s International Airport at 4 a.m. on the 11th, which was fifteen hours ahead of Seguin (Central) time on the 10th. Jennifer and the grandchildren celebrated our departure the night before with a super dinner downtown along the sea. It was exciting as all the fairs and related activities were beginning to open for the annual Liberation Day celebrations that will go on until October. Abigael and Blaise had a blast.
Our flights took us from Guam to Manila to Hong Kong and finally Hanoi, Vietnam. I was impressed by the security at each of the international airports. The details are too much to go through here but at each airport there were variations and the levels practiced were very impressive and consistent in their applications. My advice to any traveler in Asia is to be prepared for polite but thorough procedures in searches of baggage including carry ons and identity checks such as passports, visas, etc. Although a little frustrating at times such as trying to make connections and not being told where to go next for your connecting flight, everything was highly professional and effective. Like in anything new or not exposed to in a long time it was a learning experience. Patrick took it all in and was equally impressed.
The final flight into Hanoi was a revelation and a contradiction. The weather was clear, and like America’s East Coast, undergoing a tremendous heat wave with temperatures steadily above 100 during the days. Yet, it was still tolerable, humidity and all.
The Red River, coming from China and flowing through northern Vietnam and Hanoi is huge, wide, and serpentine. The country side revealed modern four lane highways and abundant traffic. Hills and mountains dotted the approach into Hanoi and it was easy to pick out the patterns of the rice paddies undergoing harvesting as well as nurturing by the farmers and their water buffalo. Rice farming techniques continue today as they have for centuries and remain just as effective. I felt reunited in a sense when we passed these fields going into downtown Hanoi.
As we reached our final desecent I began to pick up on contrasts. And even more so as we drove the 15-20 miles into the Old Quarter of Historic Hanoi. Tall modern buildings could be seen with their modern box like architecture right along side the more narrow and vertical structures of centuries gone by. What impressed me most were the number of cemeteries that dotted the countryside going into the airport. They were so easy to see from the sky and made me wonder how many were from the bombings of the Vietnam War era. And, as we began the final descent and taxiing to our terminal I couldn’t help but look at the evolution of the airport with its ever increasing heights of the various control towers, abandoned guard towers and in some cases what looked like the remnants of heavy and small arms pock marks on the concrete bunkers. Today the airport is truly international and the new Air Traffic Control Tower will soon open. The current airport will become an Air Force Base and the new Airport will be right across from it.
The current airport was different from any I have experienced in some time. It was quiet, and almost deserted until you completed the immigration process. There was little talking, not much air conditioning, stifling in humidity, and yet everything seemed to work. Passports were thoroughly scruitinized and cross checked with computers with two military officials at each of four processing kiosks. Sometimes questions were asked but but no smiles were exchanged and it was all business. Once through the process we were allowed to go to pick up our luggage which took quite a while and then we could and were on our way. And then things began to lighten up.
My impression on the immigration process is that they are very professional and will do what it takes to ensure their visitors and travelers are who they say they are. I had no problem with that.
Construction is booming in Hanoi today. The Japanese are among the biggest investors as are the South Koreans. Cannon, Toshiba, concrete, steel, and timber and anything else that goes along with a building and business boom are present everywhere going into Hanoi. The Japanese are the engineers and architects as are other foreign businesses but employment is up and growing everywhere one looks.. The future looks very bright as Hanoi once again reestablishes itself and begins to balance its 1000th year birthday during this year with its remarkable historic past and journeys into the future.
Which leads us to downtown. Our first three nights are in Hanoi, in the Old Quarter. This thirty six block or slightly larger area, is the old part of Hanoi. This was where the Thang Long Royal Citadel was established in the 11th century and from where Hanoi emerged. The Old Quarter was the site that the early emperors allowed their craft district and guilds to ply their trades. Originally there were 36 guilds thus 36 streets but those later increased to 74 streets today. Each street originally was for families of each guild.
Patrick and I stayed at the Golden Land Hotel right in the middle of the Old Quarter, just off Hang Gai Street. Open air stalls, quaint restaurants both open air and closed with air conditioning, people bargaining, scooters and mopeds scurrying about in hordes, horns honking from cars competing for space, and pedestrians challenging all forms of motorized movement created a rich cacophony of a symphony in movement and it all worked and works. It was good to again see shoppers well into the night bargaining, families of several generations eating dinner out on the side walks talking with friends, taking time out to work with a customer, and then continuing their evening sidewalk dinners. Teenagers were all over the place, young and old, foreigners and locals mixing as if time had not changed in thousands of years in the human dynamic. It was a reassuring and warm experience to let the senses soak in the ageless story of people from all walks of life coming into contact and merging in commerce in one form or another, each person seeking and hopefully finding what they were looking for. And the gracious shop keepers of the Old Quarter let their centuries of cultural experiences make all of us feel like a part of that drama.
We had a simple yet great dinner at a corner restaurant, The Little Hanoi, and spent several hours just being a part of all the shoppers and tourists. It was neat – dodging the traffic (two or three or four wheeled) and it was a little late when we finally crashed for the night. Tomorrow, Monday the 12th, begins with a visit to the Hanoi Hilton and more of Hanoi. The next day we will visit the Mausoleum of Ho Chi Minh and then prepare for our next visit to the ancient city of Hue.
Monday, July 12, 2010:
Patrick and I enjoyed a casual early morning Vietnamese breakfast of boiled rice with vegetables, light French bread with butter and strawberry jam, and sliced water melon along with a small cup of latte coffee. We then began a very personal journey in life that I wanted to share with him. This particular segment of the journey is where the beginning of the personal side of the trip is actually the end of this personal journey. Allow me to elucidate a bit here as that may seem or sound a bit convoluted but really isn’t. Sometimes the end is really the beginning.
Sunday’s paper closed with my last combat operation in Vietnam. We were contacted to link up with another A Team in Lam Dong Province south of us and infiltrate a highly contested area where few survived. Had it not been for Willie Wilbanks being shot down and killed I’m not sure we ever would have been sent in.
We took who I considered to be our best warriors among the Tribes, plus SFC Jimmy D. Boyer, and MSG “Ho Chi” Minh from our counter part Vietnamese Special Forces A Team collocated with us at An Lac; A-234. We were flown down on the Army Caribous to the Lam Dong A Team where we received our mission, made the necessary introductions between the officers, NCOs, and our counterparts and Tribal members. Silently we exfiltrated at night and stayed at a prearranged tea plantation for another day to rest, check and recheck our equipment and maintained complete radio silence. Early the following morning we silently moved out of the area and made our way into our new area of operations for ever how long it would take to see what really was going on.
Nothing much happened for the first week out. We picked up on trail movements, places of possible encampments, and fewer signs of animal activity. At that my senses began to pick up a bit. I’ve always believed that the absence of something was as important if not more important than the presence of something. Jimmy did too. We exchanged observations and put our men on heightened security and moved into tracking mode. After several more days things got quiet. Too quiet.
And then the first indication we were on to something. We had sent out an ambush patrol the previous night. The rest of us remained concealed until we heard a certain number of clicks on our radio. Just about mid morning shots rang out and then silence. Then, more shots, a brief exchange and then silence. An hour later our ambush party revealed the remains of a ranking officer. Our suspicions were confirmed and we moved quietly out of the area. Several days later, as we penetrated further we came to an exceptionally rapid river. The currents were strong, almost too strong, and there was a thick bamboo curtain on the other side.
We sent out a reconnaissance team who made it to the other side, secured it and both Teams made it across. That was the first and last time our two teams were together. After crossing we froze. On the other side of the thicket were Vietnamese, not Montagnard, voices. We held still for about two hours and then whoever it was moved on out.
Slowly we did too and spent a restless night. The next day we checked and rechecked all of our equipment and foodstuffs and were doing okay. We were now out of radio contact and any hope for any kind of quick reaction support.
The next night we sensed something was up. It was too quiet, too nebulous to define. It was almost like looking at a heat penetrated road with all the little heat wiggles dancing in the sunlight. I slept with my boots on for the first time in my operations. My feet burned like hell with the socks on. I did not sleep well, nor did Boyer. And then, about 2am it all broke out. It was carnage. We held, somehow. The choppers refused to come in for evacuation of the wounded due to the battle’s intensity. Hand to hand, knife to knife became the last effort on both sides. I was dying, I knew it. Out of life experiences do exist and I felt no fear of dying. Boyer constantly returned to my side and gave me a briefing and asked my input. He tried to get the choppers in on his zippo lighter. No deal. These were seasoned pilots who didn’t trust anyone with a zippo. But somewhere, I don’t know when, they did come in and I came to as the chopper lifted off. Boyer stayed until the last chopper to make sure all the wounded and several dead were loaded.
I came to again and again at the aid station, and the first thing I told the medics was they weren’t going to cut that flap of skin holding what was left of my arm. Later I said the same thing to each of the doctors from Vietnam to the Philippines to Japan and Fort Sam. Even when I was told that arm would never make it.
Fast forward now, to 1973 and the end finally revealed itself. I was recovered by now and although I had limited use of my right arm it was still there. My new assignment was to teach at the Intelligence Center to the Senior Foreign Officers from around the globe as well as career officers and Non Commissioned Officers on unconventional and guerrilla warfare as well asdifferent types of Intelligence operations. One day I was sitting at my desk when I received a message to sponsor a Captain who had been released from a Prisoner of War Camp in North Vietnam. He was landing in Tucson and would I please pick him up.
I did and we met and talked and I helped him process on through and got him settled in. His wife had left him while he was a prisoner: captured in 1967.
We traded stories and I shared with him the story about Willie and the contested area. He looked at me and said “Oh my God John, if you had only known!” And then he told me.
He had been on an intelligence mission, got separated and was captured. He was taken to an assembly area of other prisoners in the province and were put in bamboo cages. The area was thought to be fairly impregnable and apparently their captors felt the same way. He said the prisoners could hear the battle that night. We had stumbled onto a prisoner of war camp in Vietnam. I was dumbfounded. I never knew. None of us did. But it helped explain away a lot of things. I asked him what happened after that and he said they were removed from the cages and force marched to North Vietnam. He never said where but I don’t think, after today, it was at the Hanoi Hilton, or more specifically the Maisson General. (More on that at the end of this story)
But, I looked for him in the Prison’s booklet of photographs of the prisoners. They were all Air Force and Naval Air. But I paid my respects anyway to all of our men both dead and alive. Patrick and I talked a lot this afternoon. We both will never forget what we saw and to me, what we did not see too.
Nineteen sixty seven, 1973, 2010. The loop is tied now but there is still more to visit and see that will bring home the answers to a number of things I’ve wondered about.. Especially our Montagnards and the Central Highlands.
As a post script, our A Team Operations Sergeant made a visual reconnaissance of the area after that battle. He was a former Marine Corps Infantry man who fought in the Korean War at Khe Sanh and some other places. He became a bit bored after the War in Korea (I have trouble with the word “Conflict.” War is war is war no matter what the experts try to candy coat that word with). He felt he needed some more constant challenging and qualified for Special Forces, thank goodness. He later told me, after I had stabilized and was strong enough to be evacuated out of Vietnam, that our battle had been as bloody if not bloodier than anything he had ever experienced. Later I learned that there were successful Army combat operations sent into that area.
THE HANOI HILTON/HOA LO/MAISSON
That was the first of three stops on our itinerary this morning. It is a jail. It always was during the French Colonial Period and after the French were defeated at the Battle of Dien Binh Phu in 1954, it continued to be a prison. It was always a prison, for both men and women. Under the French it was, by today’s standards, pretty brutal. Cell blocks were dank, concrete, poorly ventilated. The prisoners were expected to work nine hours a day every day. Food was meager although the kitchens were vast. Torture was common for those Vietnamese who fought against prison rules and the French. To put it another way the prison, with its heavy iron bars was a dungeon of the first magnitude. Gender did not determine treatment but rather it was behavior that was the determinant.There was even a guillotine with a common bucket placed at the bottom to catch the severed head. Manacles in the prison cells were used, cemented into the concrete and unmovable. Little light filtered into the cells. One can only imagine the diseases that manifested themselves.
After the French removal from Vietnam the prison continued to be used for those who protested Ho Chi Minh’s philosophy of Communism. Although he supported the Allied efforts and the United States against the Japanese during World War II he remained a student of communism. Ho studied in Paris, extensively, and adopted Lenin’s communist teachings when he studied in Moscow. Yet, after sensing betrayal by the Americans and the OSS after World War II it seemed as if he might still turned away from commujnism. He didn’t and eventually his trusted and faithful Lieutenant Ngo Giap and Ho agreed to adopt Maost philosophies on Guerrilla Warfare and Government philosophy. Those who fought against him were captured and imprisoned. Later so too were the American pilots and crew members. The same cells were used that had been used by the French against those who fought against them. Existence in this prison was only for those who could withstand the unspeakable solitude and pressures of being at the mercy of others. Bravely America’s fighters withstood the rigors and demands of their captors. Most made it to their release, but not all. For many the remembrances are as dark and dank as those prison walls and cells.
Today the prison is a museum. Not all of it exists any more as part has been sold for economic development. But the French story and the early insurgents’ story is still there as is the story of North Vietnamese independence from the French and the Vietnam War era. The Museum does justice to telling the whole story and for every man and woman who has been there against their will it will forever be a story seldom fully told to the outside world. If only those cell walls of anguish could only talk. But, perhaps it is better they can’t and won’t.
Later we learned that a new prison facility is being built. It will be located in the country side, near Hanoi but not as accessible to the public as the current prison for security reasons. Perhaps in a way that is better. But may the lessons and remembrances be preserved by the continuation of the prison as a museum.
CONFUCIOUS – K’ung Fu ‘Tzu. The visit to the Temple of Learning and Shrine in the heart of the French Quarter was very special.. But, it was more than special in many ways. Confucianism is the fount of teaching in Vietnam yet Taoism is also recognized. The Temple or Shrine is not only of Confucius but of the Three Founding Emperors of Hanoi as well and all four are profoundly recognized by the public. It took several hours to go through the Temple. Patrick was forever finding photo ops and I can’t wait to see his pictures.
A number of things touched me in the Temple: First were the names of the Masters engraved, in ancient Chinese, on the monuments and protected by ornate oriental roofs. In the ancient days the Masters had to take three major examinations: From the village, from the Region, and from the Nation. It was not until then that the student would then be recognized by the King. The King then allowed the Masters’ names be engraved on these huge tablets and put on display for the public. The Master’ are not unlike our Doctors of Philosophy in our own modern society.
The statues of the three early emperors were magnificent. A large brass bowl of incense burned before each in their own separate temple and many Buddhists and everyday people paid their respects, bowing, praying, and quietly moving to the next.
And finally, we learned the tradition of learning continues to this very day. In a covered pavilion behind the Three Emperors and Confucius there were a number of elementary students. Each had recently passed their matriculation exams to go to the next level and their teachers and parents were rewarding them with a visit to the Temples and a free lunch and presentation of awards. They were as excited as any youngsters should be and the proud parents and relatives unabashed in their youngsters academic achievements.
Following this visit was one more for the day. Patrick and I were going to have a free afternoon which we enjoyed because then we could explore on our own.
We were taken to a small store near the ancient French Quarter which we will visit tomorrow in greater detail. But it was this small store that will remain in my heart and mind forever. As Patrick and I walked in we were quietly greeted by a young man. He motioned in the most graceful way of the Vietnamese host for us to enter. What gripped me was something I nor Patrick had expected. Ever. There were young children sitting at desks, no more than two to a desk. There was something different about them. One young girl, perhaps preadolescent, had the thinnest arms. She was emaciated but like the others very functional. Her nose was barely there, the fingers on her hands not obeying her minds directions as she would like. She couldn’t talk but she could motion. She was drawing a picture. So were each of the other boys and girls, all in all about eight of them with a mentor at each table. They used their own hand signals and some laughed and giggled, but all were drawing.
We were then taken into an adjacent room where these children’s art work was on display. And then it was revealed to Patrick and me that these were the progeny of the toxic chemicals from the War. This revelation gripped me for many reasons. But it dawned on me as to how many generations (and these are the first or second from the War) will these defects from Agent Orange and whatever else was used continue to be passed on. I was aware that the United States provides aid to the Vietnamese Governments to help cover the costs. But, I had never envisioned this. I was shaken. Patrick went outside and waited until I came to join him. It was not out of pity that I bought a painting by this little girl. It was out of a cauldron of feelings and I don’t want to forget those feelings nor memories of having seen and listened to this chapter in our history. Her picture was rolled up for me and it will be framed when I come home and hung where I will always remember that moment, those children and those before and after them and their parents and their parents parents.
The rest of the day Patrick and I were on our own. We explored and explored and enjoyed our own innocences at what we didn’t know. For one, we stumbled upon what seemed to be an ancient Catholic Church. It was a mixture of true Gothic and Asian architecture. Tall, faded by hundreds of years perhaps and it gave the appearances of being locked. A stone pillar outside was inscribed in Latin announcing the name of Our Lady of Peace. We wanted to go in so we began exploring. Turned away by a locked gate and at another turn by an impregnable fence. We went around and found an unlocked gate and went down a cobbled street. We were both awed by its raw majesty and obvious tolerance of hundreds of years of human travails. At its very end there were small steps leading to an open door. We went up and then in. Only one other church has inspired me as much from its physical and raw beauty in my life – the Sistine Chapel. We went in and put our cameras aside. Patrick and I agreed it would almost be sacriligeous to take a photo. And we didn’t. We just sat in a pew, each of us having our own thoughts, our own curiosities, and wonderments at such majesty and display of spirituality. On our way out I spied an ancient marble tablet. Time worn out much of the inscribed wrting in the marble, but I could make out the year 1658 and ancient Vietnamese characters along with some Latin. What a gift to the preservation of faith amidst all the foibles of human kind.
Our last stop was the cacophony of an internet café – Hip,loud, chic, young and middle aged yuppies with their computers, and good looking young ladies and mistresses or wives all from around the globe. Awesome. What a remarkable day from past to present and so many lessons learned. Chaucer would have been proud to know that the tales of humankind continue to be told in their own ways.
At seven pm we were picked up by our host, Tuyan, the owner and CEO of Viet Travel Service. It was through Tuyan that we were able to cobble this itinerary into something that would be doable for not only us but for his Agency. Tuyan was born and raised near Hanoi. His father is dead now and his mother in poor health. He provides for her and although he enjoys all of Vietnam and is proud of it he knows the north is his home. His girl friend joined us and she is a TV reporter and editor for national TV. Pretty, petite she was a gracious hostess throughout our very Vietnamese dinner.
Tuyan made a special effort to meet us. We became internet buddies and enjoyed each others’ sense of history and humor yet were and are very respectful of the others’ cultures and traditions. This was further evidenced in our setting. We were taken Hoan Kiem Lake where an under water statue is being crafted of Senator John McCain.
The setting was beautiful. It was warm, humid and the lights dim. We were seated on small stools where our knees were higher than our belly buttons. These small seats were not made for people with big derriers (read butts here). The table was communal in every respect. We shared bowls of small clams, fresh snails, fresh crab, mussels and various more than hot spices. Holy Cow I couldn’t help but laugh when I coughed after eating one of the hot sauces everyone had a good laugh, including me. I had met my match. We shelled everything with our hands or the vise and ate with our hands. The beer could not have been better and our conversations covered any number of topics: From government and business to religions and philosophy to values and ethics and of course the intercourse of international business and the role of capitalism and free enterprise living side by side with socialism and democracy. It truly was one of the most down to earth real world discussions of philosophical differences and yet shared common needs by the peoples of our respective cultures. There is little question that capitalism is needed and looked for and that Asian governments are adjusting, in their own ways and time, to the economic needs of their respective peoples and settings. It indeed was a special and most memorable evening and Patrick certainly was an avid participant in our discussions. East and West did meet over dinner and Rudyard Kipling’s observation that “East is East and West is West and never the ‘twain shall meet” was suspended last night. Nice.
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