AN: This is something I wrote for an English assignment for school. We read The Things They Carried, and had the option of writing The Sweetheart of The Song Tra Bong from Mary Anne Bell's point of view as part of our project. I hope you enjoy it.
The Song Tra Bong
Freedom is impossible to imagine until you've tasted it. I first tasted freedom when I stepped off of that helicopter. Vietnam was beautiful. The air was sharp and sweet. I was, for the first time in my life, away from home. Away from the dream of the three kids, and the house on Lake Erie. It was...different.
At first, I saw no appeal in the war. The trip was all culture, and dancing, and time with the man that I planned to be buried with. The more questions I asked, the more my interest grew. Every explanation of a piece of equipment was a lesson. Every time I picked up a new Vietnamese word, I learned Vietnam. As I plugged holes in bodies, I saw. The land itself had a pulse. I could feel it with every beat of a soldier's heart as I dove wrist-deep into their injuries. The blood would desperately try to escape to veins that were split open, with nothing but my hand between life and death. It was invigorating and fascinating. Maybe in another life I could have become a surgeon, but not in this one. Every time there was a gust of wind, I felt the land sigh or whistle. Every raindrop was a warm tear. Sometimes my own tears mingled with Vietnam's. Sometimes the tears were of happiness: I felt so free, and I was with the man I loved. Usually, the tears were sad. My dream would come to an end. My freedom would eventually slip away, and I wanted more.
Mark would occasionally suggest that I head home. I'd laugh it off and kiss him gently, telling him that I had everything I wanted. It was true. I loved him, I loved the freedom, and I loved the M-16 that I had just learned to shoot. We would still get married, so I don't see why he wanted me back home. I wanted to travel first. Maybe we'd go to Tokyo, or move to Paris. Did it really matter whether the minister spoke English or French?
Ohio was safe and boring. When I stepped into the war zone, I became alive. It was like a high that you never came down from. War was beautiful, in a way. The rhythmic clicks and symphonic booms of guns; the complex artistry of the fighting. It appealed to me in a way that the house on the lake ever could. I was a new person. I wasn't sure if domesticity was what I wanted anymore.
To this day, I'm not really sure how it happened, but I ended up teaming up with the Green Berets. The six boys became brothers to me, and accepted me into their mysterious little family with a surprising speed. Twice I went out on late night missions with them, and a third time we didn't come back until sunrise. I was exhausted and I had fought all night. The only thing that was on my mind was sleep, but apparently my boyfriend had other things on his mind. We fought. We screamed. He worried. I scowled. He swore. I slapped. He looked...broken. My heart tore in two, and I hugged him. My apology for worrying him was given, as was an 'I love you'. I tried to explain how Vietnam made me feel, and he tried to explain how I made him feel. He proposed because he loved me, and I accepted because I loved him. I changed back into my skirt, and took a shower because that was the me he loved. Unfortunately, love isn't always enough.
Something had changed between us. He became my personal guard dog. I couldn't be more than three feet from him at all times. There were smiles pasted on our faces...but the kind of smile that you put on to convince yourself that you're not going to punch someone in the face. We talked about the wedding, and the flowers, and our love, but it didn't feel real. Eventually, he tried to send me home again. I was so enraged that I couldn't speak. Mark tried to talk to me a few times, but what incentive did I have to listen? I wasn't the shy girl from Cleveland Heights that he fell for, and I could never go back to being that girl. That's why I left with the Green Berets that night.
For three weeks, we did unspeakable things. We were the heart, blood, and soul of the military. We were an unstoppable inferno, burning everything that stood in our way. Nobody could touch us. We slid through the trees like ghosts. Invisibility was our specialty. If we wanted you silent, you were silenced. I took care of that personally. We usually took mercy, and shot anyone that we couldn't deal with. Then we'd send our message. Sometimes they weren't that lucky. Sometimes they would scream as I put the blade in their mouth, and cry as the metal pushed into their tongue. Blood would flow as the incision grew. In my weaker moments, I felt bad. I could almost taste the iron of blood in my mouth, mixing with the taste of my sweat, and the dirt of Vietnam. I pushed on and did what I had to. The weaker moments became few and far between.
For its size, the tongue is the strongest muscle in the human body. It's a challenge to...amputate. Each one removed was a testimony to how far I had come, and it was treated as such. I decided to make jewelry. What better way to symbolize the little girl I had once been? Every time another tongue was added to my collection, I'd string it to a wire, and cook it over a fire or cigarette lighter until it was shriveled and blackened. Now nobody could try to change who I'd become. The necklace was proof, and anyone who thought otherwise could answer to a lick on the cheek from a fallen vietnamese soldier.
We eventually had to return to the base. In one sense of the word, I never really returned. I had been changed. I was Vietnam, and Vietnam was Mary Anne Bell. I went straight to my bunk with Special Forces: Mark was dead to me. I killed his memory when he tried to kill my spirit. I had to do something to complete this whole change symbolically. I needed closure with my old life. I turned on some music, lit some incense, put on my old clothes, my new necklace, and sang. It was no surprise to me when Mark and some of the other men came bursting in. Their eyes widened as they took in my new lodgings. I turned to Mark. I did mourn for the life we might have had once, but that was a long time ago.
"There's no sense talking," I said. "I know what you think, but it's not...it's not bad."
"Bad?" He whispered in reply.
"It's not. You're in a place," I gestured wildly. "where you don't belong." Mark looked confused, and I knew I had to explain. Somethings he would never understand. I had meant Vietnam. I had meant the war. Mark was a good guy, but he didn't see the big picture. There is so much more to life than three kids and a husband.
"You just don't know. You hide in this little fortress behind wire and sandbags, and you don't know what it's all about. Sometimes I want to eat this place. Vietnam. I want to swallow the whole country—the dirt, the death—I just want to eat it and have it there inside me. That's how I feel. It's like... this appetite. I get scared sometimes—lots of times—but it's not bad. You know? I feel close to myself. When I'm out there at night, I feel close to my own body, I can feel my blood moving, my skin and fingernails, everything, it's like I'm full of electricity and glowing in the dark—I'm on fire almost—I'm burning away into nothing—but it doesn't matter because I know exactly who I am. You can't feel like that anywhere else." I explained all of that to him very gently, but he still froze. Rat Kiley had to lead him out the door, and I resumed my singing.
They didn't know that I could still hear them.
"Do something," Mark whispered. "I can't just let her go like that."
Rat thought for a long moment, as if trying to word his answer in the best possible way.
"Man, you must be deaf. She's already gone." I smirked. He had absolutely no idea just how correct he was. Vietnam was a part of me now, fused to my soul. My heart pumped in time with the heartbeat of the land. As the country breathed out, I breathed in. We were in synch.
We were one.