MOTHERS

We started life inside of her,
And joy swept up through all of her,
And love filled all the heart in her;
And then we went to war.

She nurtured us and watched us grow,
Then showed us where and how to go,
Loved deeper than we’ll ever know;
But then we went to war.

I met yours once. I won’t forget
Her heart with pain so deeply set,
All sharp and raw, a tortured debt;
Because we went to war.

Had it turned out in death of me.
The pain of mine you would not see;
But deep as yours would surely be.
Because we fought in war.

My platoon receives orders to go to our battalion’s base camp. We are to patrol back through a large area. The village where my small team was ambushed sits on the route. I am not worried that we will be spotted this time; no doubt the enemy will see us. But the terrain is too wide open to muster and hide sufficient troops to inflict serious damage on us. Still, we patrol silently and alertly.

As we approach the village from which my team was attacked, the platoon spreads out from a single file into a wedge formation. This gives us more firepower to our front. As we get closer, the more experienced grunts sharpen their focus. Our fear of booby traps keeps us concerned. Each man knows to question his actions. Will moving this small stool into the shade get my legs blown off? Vets quietly warn the newer Marines. “Don’t touch or move anything. Ask your team or squad leaders before doing something you think is a good idea.” We move forward alertly.

Vets quietly warn the newer Marines. “Don’t touch or move anything.”

My squad walks on the left side of the formation. Starting outside of the grave mounds we hid behind, we do not reach the huts as quickly as the platoon’s center, but before long we move among the dwellings. As usual, the people we encounter either ignore us completely or look at us and say nothing. We go about our business, searching for signs of the enemy. The villagers are business-like too. Their business is watching their enemy – us – close up. I have been through this tedious routine before, but I do not feel bored. I know that to relax can get me killed. I treat the Vietnamese respectfully.

As I move around a hut, I hear a strange sound to my right. A high pitched Vietnamese voice cuts through the air. Though it intrudes into my consciousness, I keep focused on my immediate surroundings. The voice continues. It sounds female and expresses great emotion. Did one of my men do something to her? No way! Then I hear one of my men say in an uncharacteristically loud voice, “Get Lilly!” Whatever message the woman’s voice communicates, it upsets one of my men. I move in the direction of the voices.

A Marine from my squad walks toward me with an elderly woman. Before we reach each other she begins speaking to me. Her agitation indicates that she is very upset. She “unloads” on me. Standing opposite each other, she continues to talk rapidly and excitedly. I hear pain in her voice rather than anger. To emphasize her point, she raises her right hand just forward of her forehead with her fingertips bunched together. Her left arm bends at the elbow. Her left hand is positioned forward of her stomach. Held palm up and open, its fingers are slightly spread. She quickly lowers the bunched fingers to the center of the palm of her left hand. She excitedly exclaims, “Hoo-fang!” She repeats this, looking to see if I understand. Her eyes are a great reservoir of sorrow. Though I do not speak Vietnamese and would have trouble getting her meaning given the speed, volume, and almost hysterical quality of her voice anyway, I know what has broken her heart.

Two of her words I recognize, cacadao and hoo-fang. The first means “kill” in English and the second is the peasants’ expression for “mortars.” At first surprised, I then want facts. Doubtless she tells me about one, or some, of the enemy killed in the ambush. But I am at the limit of my understanding of Vietnamese. I think she tells me about her son. Suddenly I become aware of her not as an enemy, but as a human being. I have a mother too. Maybe someone will call or telegram to inform her of my death. Believing I face the mother of a warrior I have killed, I somehow relate to this woman. Though I would not change anything I did that caused her pain, I wish I could comfort her.

Two of her words I recognize, cacadao and hoo-fang. The first means “kill” in English and the second is the peasants’ expression for “mortars.”

Inside there are two of me. One is professional. I want to know how many we have killed. Someone made a serious attempt to take my life and the lives of my buddies. I cannot just leave the incident behind like many other unimportant details of the day. Warriors invest too much of themselves not to be compelled to know the results. The other is personal. I retain enough humanity to feel sympathy for this grieving mother. What can I do to alleviate her suffering? I treat her with understanding, respect, and sympathy.

Maybe she sees this humane side of me. The lady grasps me by the sleeve of my jungle shirt and motions to walk with her. Though slight in build, I feel strength in her. Average Vietnamese are smaller than Americans, but their bodies have little or no fat, with dense muscles. She leans and steps. Leaving her take control makes me anxious. Though very uncomfortable, my gut tells me she will not harm me. She desperately wants to tell me something. I go with her. Keenly alert, I walk in tow. She releases my shirt and heads toward a dwelling with her head down. She pays no attention to her surroundings. Her body language indicates that she is not connected to what surrounds us. If an enemy waits nearby to harm me, she is unaware. I get the sense she only wants me to understand her tragedy. I want facts too. I want to learn the fate of the enemy that failed to kill us.

After entering her home, she walks to a wall. I stop at the entrance because my eyes are not adjusted to the dimmer light. She reaches the side of the hut and sees I have not followed; she comes back motioning me to come with her. Though she does not smile and welcome as a host would, I do not sense hostility. Able now to see well enough into the shadowy interior, I join her. My eyes move to a vertical black cloth covering something. They rivet on the black rectangle. It is about twelve inches high and ten inches wide. Standing beside it, she looks at me and says something softly. Then she reaches out and takes the bottom corners of the cloth in two fingers of each hand. She raises the cover and allows it to fall behind a frame. A picture shows someone she loves dearly

The picture does not show a young man. I am surprised to see a young woman. The camera focus is close. A woman maybe twenty years old sits on a chair. Though the chair has been pulled up to a table as if to eat dinner, I can see almost nothing of the table. The shot shows her from the bottom of her rib cage up. Immediately her eyes capture my attention. She looks directly into the camera. Her eyes harbor a penetrating look that makes her seems alive. The eyes seem to meet mine. She has not taken a pose to be attractive. Her face is pretty, but that seems inconsequential to her. She projects a deeper self. Committed to something important, her eyes are mission oriented. I know that look and posture from within me. A warrior looks at me; one who would kill me.

Because I am young and male, the picture does not meet my expectations. I assume that a woman her age would display her beauty, show the world how attractive she is, and advertise her good looks. But her eyes belie my thoughts and reflect commitment. Serious, they are concerned with life and death. They tell me that she died bravely. But she lost her life trying to kill me and four of my buddies. Standing with her grieving mother, I need to show compassion. This loss has cut out her heart. She has to bear the full weight of reality. I feel grateful that thus far my mother has been spared this fate. I live. This young Viet Cong has died. Though I am extremely grateful that events at the ambush did not turn out the opposite, I know I need to treat her mother tenderly. Not knowing what more to do, I walk into the sunlight. The lady follows. I turn. We face each other. I do not stand before her as a Marine, but just another human being. How many mothers on both sides will feel this pain? Will mine? I take her hand, squeeze it gently, and bow my head slightly. I do not know what else to do. I wish you did not have this pain. Ironically, your daughter died trying to give my mother this pain! She has died. I’m alive. That’s just the way it is. With a last look, I turn and walk away.

Scattered around, my squad stands watching. I become concerned that all of us have been distracted. “We need to focus on our job. There may be booby traps and enemy soldiers here. We can talk about this later.” I start to pick up where I left off and concentrate. Pepe approaches. He wants to know what has happened.

“We killed her daughter with the mortars the other day.” His eyes widen.

I add, “I wonder how many we killed.”

He asks, “What about those kids? They were on the target for the mortars” The question stuns me. I had forgotten them. Have we inadvertently crossed another line? Neither of us wants to kill a child. We did not think we would have to do so. We stand facing each other, eyes wide and jaws dropped. After staring blankly for a second or two, we shake our heads and move on.

From the book

Eye of a Boot

by Jerry Lilly