By Allen Smallwood
The spring of 1967 found me as a 19-year-old Marine rifleman
in an infantry platoon halfway around the world. I had been “in
country” since the previous December and sometime in late March
or early April (you lost track of the time over there) my unit
was out of the “bush” and was engaged in what amounted to glorified
guard duty on a small perimeter on the extreme north end of the
Chu Lai Marine Air Base. We were on a narrow peninsula that jutted
into the south China Sea called Tam Ky. At that time, that peninsula
had been virtually untouched by the war and passed for the closest
thing to a “rear area” as you could find. We regularly ran patrols
through the half dozen or so small villages dotted throughout
the peninsula. We knew there had to be Viet Cong in those villages,
or close by. But for the odd mortar round lobbed inside the perimeter
every other night or so, it was really pretty quiet. I don?t recall
firing my rifle the entire three weeks we were there.
The first morning we were preparing to go on a
small squad-sized patrol through the nearest village
when I noticed a young man who appeared to be no
more than seven or eight years of age
(4 feet 9 inches tall, maybe 65 pounds) approach
and wave. While we were used to seeing kids in
the villages, I don?t recall ever seeing a child
this small approach a group of fully armed infantrymen by himself.
It was one of those moments in your life when you, for some inexplicable
reason, immediately make an almost visceral contact with another
human being. I said “hi,” he smiled and said something in Vietnamese
I did not understand. I was struck by the deep
bullfrog croakin g voice that came out of such a small body. One
of the guys in the unit said to ask him if he could get us some
beer or Cokes. He did not appear to understand, and as we were
leaving on the patrol, we kind of shooed him away. I figured that
would be the last of him.
Shortly after daybreak the next morning, he appeared
with two 8-ounce, old Coca-Cola bottles full of
what were marginally cool Coke and a couple of
cans of Filipino Tiger Beer. He gave them to me
and said in English, “Hi, pack a Salem?” It was obvious
that he was bartering the Cokes and beer for a pack of Salem cigarettes,
which I quickly secured from a buddy who smoked
menthols. I think the cigarettes were actually Kool?s, and not
Salem?s, but it didn?t appear that the kid knew the difference.
Impressed with what appeared to be an overnight learning of at
least a few words in English, I began to talk with him. He obviously
understood virtually nothing that I said initially, but on each
succeeding day, his English vocabulary increased by dozens (and
sometimes hundreds) of words.
I met with him regularly right after daybreak as
my watch during that period of time began at 2
a.m. and lasted until sunrise. Everyone was awake
at sunrise, but I generally was the first one to
greet him as he approached the perimeter where we were lightly
dug in. The nearest village was only a quarter of a mile away,
and while I never saw him there, I assumed that?s where he lived.
He never arrived with any other people who appeared to be family
or friends—he was always alone and always seeking me out. However,
he obviously had a place of leadership among his peer group. I
remember once we were entering a village on an offensive patrol
after we had been hit with a few mortar rounds the night before
and fully expected to receive sniper fire sometime during that
patrol. The kid and some other youngsters came running out to
us, and I motioned and yelled for them to get out of the way for
fear they might get caught in a crossfire.
The kid yelled something to them in Vietnamese,
which they immediately obeyed
and all disappeared.
On probably the second day of my relationship with
this kid, he asked me my name. I told him “Allen,”
and in reciprocation, I asked him what his name
was. He said “Y O U.” I smiled, shook my head,
and I said, “No, not me,” thinking when he said
“You,” he was meaning “me.” “What is your name?”
I repeated, and he once again said “You.” We went through this
Abbott and Costello “who?s on first” routine for a couple of minutes
until, with a disgusted look on his face, he drew in the wet sand
with his right big toe (I never saw him with sandals or shoes)
the English word “Y O U,” pointed to himself and said, “My name,
You.” Obviously, “You” was the sound of his name in Vietnamese,
and he had somehow figured out how to transliterate the Vietnamese
sound of his name into the English second person singular or plural
pronoun in the nominative or objective case (I didn?t know that
at the time but learned it later in an English grammar course).
I knew then I was dealing with an extraordinary human being in
a tiny package.
The photo of me and “You” was on one of the few
rolls of film I was able to send home. I had completely
forgotten about it, and the first time I saw it
was when I returned to the states in the spring
of 1968. My father had it developed and framed,
where it stayed on his desk until his death in
1970.
My relationship with “You” continued to grow, and
he appeared to be able to find virtually anything
that we wanted, whether military ordinance, food,
beverage, as long as we could come up with “pack
a Salem.” On one occasion he even offered me the
services of his 14-year-old sister in exchange
for a “carton a Salem” (not a pack). I mysteriously
declined this offer, and that?s when I learned
he was in fact 13 years of age. At some point in time, my platoon
commander learned of my interaction with “You” and urged me to
bring him in so we could pump him for intelligence for the location
of any Viet Cong in the area. I somehow managed to avoid that
for “You” as I simply felt that would have been a betrayal of
my friendship with him.
I also learned some interesting Vietnamese history
that I only fully appreciated after taking a southeast
Asian history course several years later in college.
During one of our conversations, he was referring
to things which were “number one,” or good, as
well as things which were “number 10,” or bad.
We were coming up with subjects and labeling them
either number one or number 10, and I said, “Ho
Chi Minh number 10.” His eyes grew big, and his
bullfrog voice croaked with the veins sticking out in his neck
as he said, “No, no, no! Ho Chi Minh number one.” As you might
suspect, that caused concern to me, but I let it pass thinking
maybe he had misunderstood me. Only later did I learn that most
of the Vietnamese, whether north or south at that time, had a
reverence for Ho Chi Minh because he had kicked the French out
of Indochina some 12 to 13 years earlier. Ho Chi Minh may have
been a communist, but he was a nationalist first and most Vietnamese
other than the hardcore members of the Republic of South Vietnam
recognized that.
Inevitably, as occurs in combat situations, we
got the word at 2 a.m. one morning to “saddle up”
and by daylight our entire unit had disappeared
from Tam Ky—never to return.
I?ve often wondered over the years how many days
“You” came to the perimeter looking for me before
finally concluding that he had been callously abandoned
by his new American friend. I?ve also often wondered
what ultimately happened to “You.” The Ho Chi Minh
reference could very well have been a latent, but
as
yet unrealized, desire to join the insurgency.
I doubt that because “You” was too strong willed,
independent and driven to succeed to submit himself
to that kind of authority. “You” would be 56 today.
If anybody could have survived that slaughterhouse,
it would have been him. Possessed of what may very
well have been genius-level intelligence and language
skills, coupled with scrounging abilities without
equal, I have always felt that “You” survived the
war and became successful at whatever he chose
to pursue. Of course, my rose–colored, 43-year-old
memory likes to think that “You” made it to America
and is now a multimillionaire.
So my young (old?) friend, if by some miracle you
made it to America and are reading these words,
you?ll know how to find me. I have an old photograph
I?d love to show you.
About the author
Allen Smallwood is the 2010 president of the Oklahoma
Bar Association.
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