An Untold Story on the Afternoon of April 30, 1975: The Story of Brother Trần Đình Thế

The following translation is part of the book ‘Những Trích Đoạn Của Các Anh’ (Excerpts Of The Soldiers) by author Phan Thúy Hà, born 1979 in Hà Tĩnh, now lives in Hà Nội. English translation by Ngô Xuân Hiền. The featured photo includes (from left) Mr. Út Ngon, Mr. Thế, and Mrs. Sáu, in front ò Mr. Út Ngon’s house in Củ Chi, about 1 km from where the mass grave is.

Brother Thế was not fully two years old when the war ended, and I was born four years later. We are the generation that grew up after the war and bound by that war, sharing the same emotional link with it.

Having read the drafts that I had just completed, brother Thế made an appointment to meet me. “I have a story to tell, too”.

And today, inside a coffee shop, I kept silent through an afternoon, listening to him.

***

Around mid-March 1975, mom took a bus to visit dad at the battalion command unit stationed near the Cambodian border. Dad, Uncle Xường, the deputy battalion commander, and three soldiers whose names mom didn’t know, walked out to welcome mom. Mom brought half a grilled pig as a present. Looking at the grilled pig, dad smiled: “Buying pig at an intense moment like this is for what? Brothers here have raised fish, moreover, food is not a problem now.” At that time, in Saigon, there were evacuations. Dad said: “I know Saigon is chaotic now, but you should be assured, I will lead my men to return on time.”  Mom said: “Generals have fled one by one, you should go back.” Dad said: “I can’t leave my brothers at the moment. You’d better go home and take care of the kids and grandparents, I will be home later.”  When dad said that sentence, Uncle Xường who sat nearby, wept. Those sad, determined words, were like dad’s personality.

Throughout the afternoon of April 30, mom was waiting for dad to come home. By the evening, she hadn’t seen dad nor had any news of him. Around eight p.m., dad’s chauffeur appeared in front of the house. He kneeled down before mom: “They’ve already killed the Major.”  Uttering that sentence, the chauffeur wept loudly.

“At Trung Lập Hạ school, you should go there and ask people.” He told mom some further information, then he went away.  Since then, mom hasn’t heard from him.

The following morning mom went to Củ Chi. Trung Lập Hạ primary school, which was now used by a military management committee.

Mom went to look for her husband’s body but didn’t dare to say his name. Mom just said vaguely that she was a soldier’s wife. They pointed at a pit out in the rice paddies.

The pit was so shallow that mom used only her hands to scrape the dirt slightly, then saw the dead bodies piled up together. Mom turned up one body after another. Dad wasn’t here. Mom filled up the pit, and went home.

Two days later, mom’s dad borrowed a vehicle from the hospital’s morgue. Going with mom were dad’s parents, Uncle Tư and her dad.

“Troop or officer?” asked the guerillas. “Telling the truth will help.”

“Headstrong evils.” “Kill them all.” Many villagers surrounded dad’s parents, cursing.

Mom hid in the vehicle.

Dad’s mom talked to the guerillas: My son’s name is Trần Đình Tự.

Ah, that man was Tú, whose head was quite tilted, wasn’t it?

(On dad’s uniform, T.U was embroidered.)

Dad’s body lied in the pit next to the red pepper field.  There were three corpses in the pit, already swollen. Dad’s mom recognized her son lying on top. Dad’s dad wasn’t sure if it was his son. Uncle Tư walked to the vehicle calling mom.

Mom recognized dad, first by the T-shirt she had bought. (Dad was always wearing T-shirts, like many men in the North). Mom bared his teeth, right, they were his very beautiful teeth. On one leg he wore a sock. The sock on the other leg was used to wrap his wrist. Mom unwrapped the sock and saw his wrist hanging to his hand by a tendon fiber. In his body, there were five bullets. One in the corner of his eye.

After April 30, the family was in hell. Grandma cried so much that her tear glands were damaged. Grandpa looked bewildered and drank alcohol all day long. He had stopped caring about his life since his son’s body was brought home.

The grandparents had four sons, all of them had enlisted in the army. The youngest uncle died of malaria in Đồng Đế. The eldest uncle served as a military medic, who underwent re-education camp. He went home, got stuck, and committed suicide. The third uncle after re-education camp fled the country. He took care of his three children and 15 nieces and nephews. I forever remember those dollar notes inserted in toothpaste tubes he sent home.

Twenty people lived in the 40-square-meter house of my dad’s parents. Mom had to bring her three children to shelter at her parents’ house.

Mom’s parents cleaned the pig shed behind the kitchen to make it a room for the four of us. The room was enough for an iron bed and to cook meals. At four o’clock in the morning, mom got up to grind soybeans and prepare ingredients for selling crab noodles. Mom sold crab noodles and soybean milk in front of Nguyễn Văn Học Hospital.

Every day passed like that. For several decades we lived in that way. A mother and three kids slept on the iron bed. Some days we lied vertically. Other days we lied horizontally. When lying horizontally, part of mom’s legs protruded out of the bed.

Mom paid for her children’s studies as much as she could afford.

I got a job as a worker. Uncle Tư sent money home for me to enroll in an evening English class.

In 1997, I read a recruitment announcement in a newspaper: they were seeking staff to work at Tân Sơn Nhất Airport – in security screening and luggage checking.

I was qualified. I submitted my application.

“You are Trần Đình Thế, aren’t you?  We inform you that you are qualified to work at Tân Sơn Nhất Airport. Please show up on…for being trained and taking over the work.”

I rushed home telling mom the news. She was cooking. She embraced me tightly and sobbed.

I showed up and attended the training class. Every day when I came home, mom kept asking if there were any abnormalities. I didn’t see any. Only one thing was that my classmates kept asking how much it cost me to get here.

More than one week of training had passed, but mom wasn’t assured yet. That night she told me a few things about dad.  Enough for me to feel numb. Mom and I stayed up all night long. In the morning, dragging my bike, I said to mom: It will be okay, mom. If there was something wrong, they would not have accepted me from the beginning. My application had been submitted so long before I was called to work, which indicated that they had reviewed it thoroughly.

As I expected, I ranked number two when the training results were announced. I was assigned to work at the security screening section.

I had my uniform made and a photo of myself taken for the ID card to be official.

Having received the uniform, I wore it immediately. I cycled home like flying.

Mom had just come home from the market. The bag in her hand seemed to fall on the ground as she saw her son in an aviation staff uniform. The entire family of mom’s parents was surprised. Probably there hadn’t been any other moment in her life when mom had been so moved. She held me, tears falling from her eyes. Mom said: may heaven bless us.

I started my work.  I was extremely proud. My heart was filled with emotion every morning. From now on, I could help my mom. From now on, my family no longer would endure hardship.

I had worked for almost two months. Two days more would be two months.

“Mr. Thế, we inform you that you will not be able to work at the airport anymore.” The admin staffer gave me the decision note. “Mr. Trần Đình Thế is not to be accepted to work from the date…”

It was because my dad was a combat officer in the old regime.

Cycling home, I cried all the way.   On the new road I had just gotten used to.  The road I had cycled so fast every time, seemed so long today.

Seeing me come home in the middle of the morning, mom perceived something had happened. She knew this day would come. Since I was offered the job, not a single day had passed that mom had not felt anxious.

Dad took responsibility for the things he had done, why did his son have to take responsibility, why? Why didn’t they review everything from the beginning? Why did they accept me to work for two months, then sack me?  Why did they sack me? . . . Mom said nothing, letting me cry.

I was 24 years old then, trying to assert myself.

Who was my dad, whose shadow had affected my life so enormously until today?

I had to know. To have peace of mind, to keep going with my life.

In my family’s life we still found it hard to afford daily meals, however, mom was willing to borrow to buy me a computer and internet connection so that I could learn English. Half a day I worked in a coffee shop, the remaining time I spent learning English. Throughout that year I constantly sought information about my dad.

I read every article about dad’s unit. I read so much that I learned by heart the words that the men wrote about my dad, mentioning him in each of their memoirs.

I gave those articles to my mom. Mom said, this detail is correct, this detail is wrong.

I found the email addresses of dad’s brothers in arms, I contacted them, one email by one email.  I had the answers.

Trần Đình Tự was born in 1943 in Ha Noi. At age eleven, he followed his parents who migrated to the South, and continued his studies at Hồ Ngọc Cẩn Upper Secondary School. After graduating from the 14th class of reserve officers at Thủ Đức Military Academy, he served in the 32nd Ranger Group. In 1968 he was at the top in the military language course, and was sent to the U.S.A. for a swamp ranger course in Kentucky.  In February 1972 he was wounded while fighting in Laos. In the summer of 1972 he was captured on the bank of Mỹ Chánh River, Quảng Trị, and became a POW, released in February 1973.  In late 1973, he commanded the Ranger 38th Battalion, 32nd Ranger Group.

At noon on April 30, dad received the order of the Ranger Group Commander:  President Dương Văn Minh had surrendered, and ordered us to stop marching on the spot, awaiting the other side for the handover. The 33rd Ranger Group was to be dissolved.

After exchanging with Captain Xường, dad gathered his troops, and stated clearly: Who surrenders, stay here with Captain Xường, and wait for the handover. Who wants to keep fighting, follow me!

There were about 40 troops who followed dad, marching to Đồng Dù.  Communications no longer existed, so dad didn’t know that Đồng Dù had fallen on April 29.

Previously dad was an ordinary soldier, too, who would fight when told to do so. Dad had changed since he was arrested and released. After his release, for six months, he had to show up at his unit, write a report, and be interrogated. They were afraid that dad had been brainwashed during his imprisonment. His record showed he was a northern man, which constituted a foundation for suspicion. When he returned to combat, he fought determinedly. Mom said dad wanted to prove his loyalty. Dad said to mom: we left the North to come here, if we don’t protect the South, where we will live.

Dad led his men to Đồng Dù, marching across the guerilla village. It ended there.

One day, I suddenly asked mom:  Long time ago you came to claim dad’s body; I remember the detail of your scrapping earth to see those men, why didn’t you alert their families so they could do the same?

I didn’t know where they were to show them. At the time I only expected to find your dad’s body without having the ability to do it for the remaining soldiers.

Let me go up there and find them.

Are you crazy? To dig up that story for what?  You return there for what? Perhaps they will arrest you.

Mom covered the pit with dirt and went home. The story was closed.

The story had been closed for 36 years.

Until 2011, one noon while surfing the internet, I read a message looking for lost soldiers.  “My family is looking for news of our brother named Lê Văn Tài, soldier number 74/70/428, 1st platoon, 30th Ranger battalion, 32th Ranger Group. Missing while retreating from Tây Ninh.”

I was anxious. After thinking for a long time, I showed mom the message.

That’s right, Uncle Tài was dad’s signaler.

Pausing for a while, mom said, if you find their homes, let them know so they can find the place.  The first location is Trung Lập Hạ School, then a junction of three dirt roads, red pepper field on the left, rice field on the right.  I am afraid that people may have built homes there so finding them is impossible.

I decided to contact Ms. Hương, who posted the message.

I rode my motorbike to Củ Chi.  I stood still for a long time in front of Trung Lập Hạ primary school. I looked deep into the schoolyard.

A strong wind blowing dust to my face woke me. I entered a drinks shop nearby and sat down, calming myself.

Do you know a mass grave near here? Before the shop owner could answer me, two guests sitting at the next table turned around and asked me: “Those soldiers with tiger patches on their shoulders? Each of the villagers here knows about that.” I was startled. The guest went on: “My house is next to Uncle Mười who owns the field in which that grave is located.”  I could hardly say anything when a female fruit vendor passing by stopped her cart to enter the shop, pulled a chair to sit and said continuously. “The mass grave is of tiger soldiers, who were said to retreat from Tây Ninh to here and were ambushed.” “That day was the last fight, there were no more after that.” “Before it was an anti-tank trench, local villagers dragged those bodies down there and backfilled slightly. On rainy afternoons people walking out there found arms and legs exposed, they had to stop to hoe soil to fill it up, later it evolved into a grave.”

The two guests climbed on their motorcycle and left, the fruit vendor pushed her cart away, leaving me behind bewildered. The shop owner now answered my question: “That’s correct, those ranger troops were arrested at Route 2.”

Following his instructions, I walked out to the field of Mr. Mười.

I came to Uncle Mười’s house, asking about the grave. Uncle Mười said, “I grow rice but don’t dare to grow it on the grave. Buffalo herders don’t walk by, cows and buffaloes are not allowed to come there. On full-moon days or Tet, I always buy offerings for these men and wish that their families will come and bring them home. I only know about the grave.  About what happened that day, you can ask Mr. Út, who witnessed it from the beginning to the end.  I didn’t.”

Uncle Mười showed me the way to find Uncle Út’s house.

I didn’t dare to meet Uncle Út immediately. Having had a day full of much emotion, I had to return to Saigon to calm down.  I would go back down the next day.

Uncle Út was then a local guerilla. Being a local guerilla, would he tell me the story even though it happened 36 years ago? I stayed anxious all night.

I decided not to disclose my background, going to meet Uncle Út.

Uncle Út walked out of his house, looking still sleepy and tired.

That’s right, there is a pit, but I no longer remember anything.

I invited him to a coffee shop. I introduced to him that I was an acquaintance of the soldiers, who wanted to expatriate their bodies.

I suggested: It was said that their loved ones died in this area, after retreating from Khiêm Hạnh – Bầu Đồn – Tây Ninh.

Uncle Út tapped his hand on his forehead, uttering: That’s right, that’s right, I remember now, a big, handsome major led that army wing. I do remember because he spoke with a northern accent. Guerillas from many areas concentrated to counter that unit.

When the guerillas deployed their men for an ambush, the army wing, consisting of about 40 troops, was besieged. Guerillas used a loudspeaker to call for surrender. Those men didn’t surrender but fired their guns. They had decided to fight. The fighting went on for about half an hour but both sides suffered heavy losses.

Then the guns fell silent. The guerillas kept on calling for surrender, telling that Dong Du had fallen, if not surrender they would deploy tanks and destroy the unit.

There were no answers from the soldiers. The guerillas found out the unit had run out of munitions and were exhausted.  Only 13 men were left.

I closed my eyes, swallowing each of his words. It was the very thing that I was seeking.

Only 13 men left. The battalion commander major, the signaler, the gray-haired second lieutenant, and ten soldiers. All of them were led to Trung Lập Hạ primary school.

I and some men guarded them.

At the time a quarrel occurred between the guerillas and the major. The major threw a cigarette pack at the guerilla commander. The major’s attitude seemed challenging. Seeing that, I said, now comes liberation, be gallant a little bit, gentlemen.

After a while, some guerillas entered for a consultation. When it was done, they walked out and a group of guerillas led the major to the red pepper field, the other group used fishing lines to tie the arms and legs of the twelve soldiers.

I decided to stop the story and went home. For I wanted to cry.

Upon arrival in Saigon, I provided further information to my mom, hoping that she could recall anything else.

On the next day, I came back to Cu Chi. Back and forth for several rounds.

Feeling everything could be a start, I informed Ms. Hương.

Ms. Hương and Uncle Tài’s younger brother went with me to Củ Chi. Uncle Út uttered when seeing Uncle Tai’s brother: So alike, like the signaler of the major.

He told us more about the signaler. The soldier who carried the signal had a white complexion and sat in silence with his head down for the entire session.

We walked out to the field. Burning incense. Discussing the exhumation. Asking Uncle Út to look after everything. Resting and having meals at the house of Uncle Út.

Uncle Út agreed to help with all the work. He would contact the commune committee, find excavation workers.

On the chosen date, we all went down to Củ Chi to carry out the work.

Uncle Út had prepared the offerings. I tried to contain my emotion seeing Uncle Út knee down before the grave, arranging the offerings and burning incense.

Working men scraped the hay, starting their exhumation. Each of the hoes that touched the ground hurt my heart. When a working man said, coming next was bones, I felt so frozen in the heat of the sun. Everything was dug up. A long leg bone, with an intact sock. A belt made of parachute cloth. The tying rope made of green fishing line. Unable to contain my heart, I let my tears fall.

Uncle Út stood behind, tapping slightly on my shoulders, I woke up. I saw Uncle Út shed his tears many times. I lit a cigarette, asking him, trying to keep my voice calm: What were these people wearing when they were shot by the guerillas?

There were so many people at that time, I recalled that some wore shorts, others wore soldier’s trousers, others with pants were topless.

I turned around to look back, there were thirty to forty people looking on from when I didn’t know. They were talking noisily.  There were laments, there were curses, some said additional things which I wasn’t sure if they were true or not and others swept their tears.

Workers continued their excavation.

A piece of paper – mobilization decision. A “Wound Medal”. A dog tag. An ID card. A nylon bag containing a palm oil bottle “Two Crosses”, a toothbrush, a pen, a wallet with a photo of a soldier with a girl whose face was not clear.

A watch. A wristwatch, its strap was made of black leather.

I picked up the watch and ran toward a canal to wash it. An O was seen, I guessed its model was Omega, those numbers were seen clearly, two hands remained intact. The hands showed 4 hours 14 minutes dated 31. My heart stood still. April 1975 didn’t have the 31st date. The watch’s owner died before he could adjust the date, its hands continued winding for 24 hours and stopped, or – when the body collapsed, the watch contacted water and stopped working? I pressed the watch to my heart. I turned mad. In my head, I visualized the moment these men died. I cried calling my dad’s name in my mind. I sobbed. I had sobbed so much that I didn’t know what I now sobbed for.

***

My dad had the other way to go home safely with his wife and children.

But no, he never said compromise let alone surrender.

Those soldiers wouldn’t have died if my dad had surrendered. They died for my dad’s ideal. They died for allegiance. For a long time, I had lived in soul searching and responsibility. I felt dad was all around. I felt as if I were in the same unit as theirs. I think of the number 13 in whatever I do. Offering 13 bowls of rice. Burning 13 incense sticks.

I no longer bear a heavy heart about the incident at Tân Sơn Nhất Airport. If it weren’t for that, my dad’s image would have disappeared. What happened led me to find my dad.

It took me 10 years to understand my dad.

After that my life turned to a different phase. I cared about my family. I didn’t think much of my dad. I look for wounded veterans, helping them.

One week ago I went down to Củ Chi to visit Uncle Út and Auntie Sáu (Auntie Sáu was the fruit vendor who passed by the drinks shop). Uncle Út was glad to see me again. It’s been ten years.

Did you ever say that you are dad Tự’s son?

I won’t. Speaking out can be better, but, let it be, I don’t want Uncle to think of anything more. And that doesn’t matter anymore.

From left, Mr. Hiền and Mr. Thế in a café shop on Đặng Thái Thân Street behind the Citadel in Huế in January 2022 when they met by chance.