I didn't want to go to South Vietnam nor did I have any fantasies of filling dumpsters with dead Viet Cong. I was drafted and sent there. I had a job to do, after which I hoped to return to the states in one piece.
But, something was to happen that haunts me to this day. I was manning the desk at the MP station, outside of Nha Trang when a humble South Vietnamese man walked in, bowed respectfully and waited for assistance. Through our interpreter, we learned that his 10-year-old daughter had been wounded by shrapnel and he was told that the girl was evacuated to the 8th Field Hospital for treatment. That hospital was minutes from where I sat. The man had spent all the cash he had for a commercial airline ticket on Air Vietnam from somewhere in the north to Nha Trang, a coastal city 100 miles north of Cam Ranh Bay.
So, we called in a patrol and had them take papa-san to the hospital. They returned twenty minutes later and reported that the girl in question had not been received at the hospital. As it was getting late, we took papa-san to the mess hall, got him fed, then rigged up an empty detention cell for him to spend the night.
The next morning, while papa-san was at the mess hall, I started calling various MP units, asking them to check local and American medical facilities for the girl. Gradually, reports started coming in and there was no record of this girl having been evacuated to any American facility. She had simply vanished.
My search lasted three days while papa-san remained controlled and stoic. We had exhausted every option we had and we had not found his daughter. Through the interpreter, we explained the situation to him, we then all chipped in and gave him whatever Vietnamese currency we had in our pockets, then arranged for an Air Force flight to take him back to his home city. As he turned and left, I found myself getting emotional for the first time in country. I felt that I had failed. To be sure, communications were fractured at best, and I also feared that perhaps an MP, assigned to check the local field medical unit near him, may not have bothered and simply called in a negative report.
This incident happened 46 years ago, just after the Tet Offensive. I returned to the States and my job with the Treasury Department and I pushed my Vietnam memories aside as I became a husband, a homeowner, a father, and took on increasing responsibilities with Treasury. Yet, the haunting image of a misplaced and wounded little girl refuses to leave me, as does the memories of a sweet and respectful pap-san who had spent his last piaster in search of his daughter. I'm sure we all would have done the same.
To me, trying to flush these memories from my mind does not give me the closure I would want. I do hope that this girl eventually was found and reunited with her family. Thanks for allowing me to share and thanks for listening.
But, something was to happen that haunts me to this day. I was manning the desk at the MP station, outside of Nha Trang when a humble South Vietnamese man walked in, bowed respectfully and waited for assistance. Through our interpreter, we learned that his 10-year-old daughter had been wounded by shrapnel and he was told that the girl was evacuated to the 8th Field Hospital for treatment. That hospital was minutes from where I sat. The man had spent all the cash he had for a commercial airline ticket on Air Vietnam from somewhere in the north to Nha Trang, a coastal city 100 miles north of Cam Ranh Bay.
So, we called in a patrol and had them take papa-san to the hospital. They returned twenty minutes later and reported that the girl in question had not been received at the hospital. As it was getting late, we took papa-san to the mess hall, got him fed, then rigged up an empty detention cell for him to spend the night.
The next morning, while papa-san was at the mess hall, I started calling various MP units, asking them to check local and American medical facilities for the girl. Gradually, reports started coming in and there was no record of this girl having been evacuated to any American facility. She had simply vanished.
My search lasted three days while papa-san remained controlled and stoic. We had exhausted every option we had and we had not found his daughter. Through the interpreter, we explained the situation to him, we then all chipped in and gave him whatever Vietnamese currency we had in our pockets, then arranged for an Air Force flight to take him back to his home city. As he turned and left, I found myself getting emotional for the first time in country. I felt that I had failed. To be sure, communications were fractured at best, and I also feared that perhaps an MP, assigned to check the local field medical unit near him, may not have bothered and simply called in a negative report.
This incident happened 46 years ago, just after the Tet Offensive. I returned to the States and my job with the Treasury Department and I pushed my Vietnam memories aside as I became a husband, a homeowner, a father, and took on increasing responsibilities with Treasury. Yet, the haunting image of a misplaced and wounded little girl refuses to leave me, as does the memories of a sweet and respectful pap-san who had spent his last piaster in search of his daughter. I'm sure we all would have done the same.
To me, trying to flush these memories from my mind does not give me the closure I would want. I do hope that this girl eventually was found and reunited with her family. Thanks for allowing me to share and thanks for listening.
