Top 10 Best Essays about Soldiers

When you're a young man full of dreams, every time March comes, my heart stirs with nostalgia, and I can't help but remember the simple yet profound lines from the poem 'Bitter Orange Blossom' by poet Nghiêm Thị Hằng: "It's not by chance I remember March/ Remembering you, remembering the orange blossoms/ Petals falling, my heart in turmoil/ A faint fragrance from the village drifting far..."

March arrives, still carrying a chill in the air, wrapping around the skin, lifting the wind, and tossing aside the hurried coats and hats. March feels so poetic, so full of emotion, filled with memories for those who always dream, always feel deeply.

March returns with the golden sunshine, as sweet as honey flowing into the heart. The warmth fills the soul, making us feel its purity and gentleness. After shaking off the dampness of February and the coldness of winter, March blooms with life’s magic. The earth, the sky, everything wakes up, and the trees eagerly sprout new leaves. Life sings with joy again.

March brings with it countless dreams, desires, and the joy of youth, full of hope and belief. It's the month of faith, of compassion, of passion, of hearts that long to contribute. And somewhere, many people still hold dear March with images and names that have great meaning. However, for the young hearts of Hồ Chí Minh's generation, the name “Youth Month” seems to be the most perfect one.

For the soldiers of the sea, March — Youth Month — also fills them with emotions. As a large and diverse force, they are present in all areas, from land to high mountains, to faraway islands, from factories, stations, platforms to ships across the vast seas and islands of our beloved homeland. For these naval soldiers, Youth Month is vibrant, no matter if they are stationed on land or out at sea. These young soldiers have brought Youth Month to life through meaningful actions, promoting study, training, creativity, and giving love and care to the people.

I can already imagine those drops of sweat falling to the ground, leading to fragrant flowers and sweet fruits tomorrow. These drops of sweat will help the young soldiers grow, mature, and become the core force that will protect our sacred sea and island sovereignty under any circumstances.

Under the golden sunshine of March, amidst the windswept training grounds, the young soldiers continue to diligently practice every tactical move. Each soldier is determined to perform their training to the best of their ability, with discipline, readiness for combat, and a commitment to completing their training excellently. Every one of them shows their highest determination to complete their training and become a soldier of the Vietnamese People's Army.

Drops of sweat drench their military uniforms. Sweat runs down their sun-darkened faces on the training grounds. Sweat falls onto every cannon, every machine on the ships and platforms. Sweat falls onto each notebook in the classroom, under the scorching sun and wind. Sweat falls onto the hot sandy beaches on remote islands. Regardless of the blazing sun, the rain, or the exhaustion of sweat, these soldiers remain dedicated, focused, and disciplined. Their faces shine with the spirit of resilience, bravery, and strength. The sweat of these soldiers falls on the training fields, and I admire and cherish their extraordinary efforts. Because every soldier knows by heart the slogan: 'Sweat on the training field, less blood on the battlefield!' This principle shapes the training, the hardships, and the unwavering spirit to protect the skies, seas, and sacred islands of our homeland.

'Youth is like a cup of tea' — these young soldiers have demonstrated their responsibility, skills, and intelligence through their training, work, and service, and they will carry these unforgettable memories in their own youth album. When we talk about youth, we always think of the cherished March...

'March brings waves surging within/ Softened uniforms soaked with sweat/ Training fields blossom with flowers on gun barrels/ The sound of the sea echoes in me...!'

- Mạnh Thường -

Today marks the 68th anniversary of the historic Dien Bien Phu victory. The young soldiers of that time, who fought in the campaign, are now gray-haired, and many have already passed on to the next world.

Some of the soldiers who fought in Dien Bien Phu went on to continue their military careers, while others returned to civilian life.

But the memories of those historic days still remain etched in their hearts. I remember, back in the day, every May 7th, I would prepare some snacks, fruits, and a pot of jasmine tea so that my father and his comrades could gather together and reminisce about the past. The stories were always the same, but every year they would be told again, always ending in a poignant silence shared by their now gray heads. They would talk about the path through Suoi Rut and Cho Bo, constantly under fire, with bombs exploding, and rocks breaking apart like chalk dust. They spoke of grain silos torn apart, rice scattered across the jungle floor. On hot, scorching days, young soldiers would be parched, and the women along the roadside would offer them water, easing their thirst. Then there were the rainy nights in the trenches, surviving on soggy rice cakes, with the scent of blood from fallen comrades lingering in the air. There were soldiers like A and Q, who fell just hours before victory was secured. And there was H, a beautiful young soldier, who, just before he passed, asked his comrades to send a blood-stained letter to his mother. Listening to these stories, I couldn't help but cry. These stories made me realize that no war comes without sacrifice. No victory is without the blood and tears of young men and women in the prime of their lives.

The soldiers who made the Dien Bien Phu victory possible, even after returning to civilian life, carried with them the core values of Uncle Ho's soldiers. The bond of comradeship remained strong, undiminished by the passage of time. Having faced death many times, these soldiers understood the preciousness of life. Whenever someone fell ill, they would take turns sitting by the bedside, pooling their resources to help their comrades. For them, the bond of comradeship was sacred, stronger than even blood ties. I remember when my father fell ill due to an old war wound. For a week, he couldn't eat or move, his body weakening and frail. My mother had to ask my father's comrades for help. Miraculously, just hearing a few words of encouragement and teasing from his friends was enough to get him to sit up and finish the bowl of soup they fed him, smiling as if he had never been sick. The bond of comradeship was like magic, helping my father overcome a severe illness.

Sadly, the historic Dien Bien Phu victory, once a symbol of Vietnam's triumph, is now slowly fading into obscurity. From time to time, I ask people:

- What is May 7th, 1954?

- When did the Dien Bien Phu campaign end in victory?

It saddens me that many no longer remember this significant historical date. A date that was earned through the sacrifice of countless young men and women. Every patch of soil on Hill A1 and in the Muong Thanh valley is soaked with their blood. I can't help but imagine a strange thought: What if those soldiers who emerged from the battle forgot the pain and loss? They wouldn’t have to suffer when recalling comrades who died in their arms just hours before victory. They wouldn’t have to live with the pain of shrapnel still lodged in their bodies when the weather changes.

The soldiers of Dien Bien Phu, now elderly men in their 90s or over 100, are gradually passing away. Every year, one or two of my father’s comrades pass on. Each time we hear of a friend's passing, my father grieves deeply. He knows that this year’s anniversary will be one he cannot share with them. He won’t be able to reminisce with them about the old days. I’ve often heard him, half-forgetful, ask us:

- Why hasn’t uncle X or brother Y come by recently?

We would have to make up a reason for their absence, but deep down we knew the truth, and it was always heartbreaking.

This year, I brought my father a book about the soldiers of the 52nd Battalion from the Tay Tien Regiment. Watching him, his hands shaking as he flipped through the pages, I couldn’t help but feel a pang of sadness. The soldiers, the living witnesses of the Dien Bien Phu campaign, are now few, and the roads they once walked in Tay Tien are now just memories, with my father being the only one left. In ten or twenty years, the next generation may only learn about the Dien Bien Phu victory from textbooks, dry facts, and statistics.

Time may blur many things, but I hope we never forget these crucial historical moments for which our ancestors paid with their blood and lives. Let us not forget the soldiers who endured the battle, for no matter how far time takes us, the memories of their heroic and painful past will always remain alive in their hearts.

Hong Van

Today, young people communicate through mobile phones and the internet. It's a normal thing now. Anyone who still writes letters by hand will surely be considered outdated.

However, for people like us, writing letters and receiving them is something sacred, something we can never forget.

Yes, there are many valuable things in life. But for soldiers who fought in the wars against the French and Americans, a letter from home was an incomparable treasure. It was the longing and hope that kept them going during long nights on the battlefield.

Letters weren't just scribbled words on white paper (or, in the past, yellowed paper) stuffed into an envelope. No, they were so much more than that. They carried the deep affection and unwavering love of the sender. What was packed inside those small envelopes was weighty, profound. It wasn’t just ink scribbles but also the sweat, tears, and hopes of countless people who poured their hearts into those letters… Letters from that time were messengers of longing, of steadfast love.

After the victory of Dien Bien Phu in 1954, the Geneva Accords stipulated that the country would reunite within two years. But the American imperialists had plans to invade and divide our country for a long time. Therefore, people across both regions had to rise up and resist. The Socialist North had to wholeheartedly support the fight in the South. Millions of tons of rice, meat, fish, salt, vegetables, fabrics, clothes, and medicine—along with the strength of the youth—moved day and night toward the front lines. Villages, towns, and cities, along with many young men and women, all headed to the battlefield, under the call, “The whole country is mobilizing...the sound of drums echoing through the bamboo groves…”

From 1966 to 1972, the American war against Vietnam intensified. After suffering defeat in the South, the Americans escalated their bombing of the North in an attempt to stop the flow of supplies to the front. They sent the most advanced planes to bomb military, political, and cultural targets, as well as vital roads and bridges. The famous bridges, ferries, and roads like Hàm Rồng, Đò Lèn, Tân Đệ, and Đồng Lộc became regular bombing sites. Thousands of bombs rained down on these places. The imperialists tried to destroy our land, to turn it into a wasteland, but they failed! The roads, bridges, and ferries stood strong. Under the rain of bombs, convoys of trucks, military vehicles, and even bicycle brigades still made their way to the front. On those vehicles were not only supplies but also letters from home.

Oh, how dear and precious those letters from home were! How eagerly we awaited them!

They were the letters from fathers, working tirelessly in the fields, hoping their children would grow up well. Letters from mothers, working day and night, ensuring their children had enough to eat and a peaceful sleep. Letters from brothers, strong and dependable, encouraging their younger siblings to keep up. Letters from sisters, with the nurturing touch of a mother and the sternness of a father, reminding their brothers of their childhood games. Letters from younger siblings, full of innocence and humor. These letters were full of love, care, and longing.

And there were the letters from the loved ones of the soldiers—letters containing emotions of love, longing, and hope. These weren’t just written in ink, but in the fiery emotions of the writers, filled with unwavering faith and love for the soldiers. Along with the food and supplies, these letters from home gave the soldiers the strength to continue.

Throughout the long years of war, millions of letters from home were sent to the soldiers, bringing them strength and faith. These letters traveled along the same paths as the trucks, bicycles, and soldiers, to the battlefields where they helped make history in places like Ba Gia, Bình Giã, Đồng Xoài, Dốc Miếu, and many more.

Yet, many of these letters never made it. Many bicycles, trucks, and soldiers perished on the roads, at bridges, or on ferries as they made their way to the front. Countless young volunteers, transport soldiers, and others fell along the Ho Chi Minh Trail, both on land and at sea, to ensure that supplies, weapons, and letters reached the soldiers on the front lines.

Yes, no matter how advanced the imperialists' weapons were, they could never destroy the spirit of our people, nor could they break the sacred link of the Bến Hải River or the Trường Sơn Mountains!

Millions of hearts full of love for the homeland and hatred for the invaders, alongside millions of tons of supplies, weapons, and letters, all helped sustain the struggle for over twenty years. This was one of the key reasons we triumphed in our struggle against the American aggressors.

Today, the age of the Internet and smartphones has arrived, and many no longer know or need letters anymore.

But for us, the soldiers, letters from home will always be sacred, never fading from our memories.

Letters—messengers of longing, love, and unwavering faith—will forever hold a special place in the hearts of millions of Vietnamese people who endured storms of war.

Phạm Minh Giang

Nearly half a century has passed, but the memories of April 30, 1975 – we, the soldiers, will never forget.

Our regiment was the Anti-Aircraft Missile Regiment, tasked with fighting alongside our comrades to destroy American fighter jets that violated the airspace of Military Zone Four.

The regiment had four fire battalions: D66, D67, D68, D69, and one technical battalion (D70). The regiment headquarters had a command staff, operations, political, logistics, and technical departments, along with an independent signal company.

In early April 1975, we were ordered to prepare for the mission of advancing to liberate the South.

At that time, I was a soldier in the regiment's operations department. With my limited knowledge, we didn't know how our missile regiment would fight in the southern battlefield in the coming days. But, everyone in the regiment – officers and soldiers alike – were eager and excited to get ready for the journey.

Then, we received the order to head south.

Just a few hours after receiving the order, the entire regiment was ready with weapons, equipment, ammunition, military supplies, medicine, and food. All vehicles – from missile carriers, trucks, tanks, to special vehicles – were prepared and ready to go.

Thousands of soldiers were assigned to each vehicle. Besides missile weapons, each vehicle was equipped with personal weapons for immediate combat if needed.

We traveled day and night. Except for breaks for cooking and eating, the rest of the time was spent with our trucks rolling steadily on the roads. Despite the hot April weather, some soldiers traveled with their heads uncovered, singing songs along the way.

It was strange. Throughout the long journey across the country, we didn't encounter a single American soldier (later we learned that the Americans were retreating, with the last troops leaving Vietnam at that time). We also didn't see any soldiers from the South Vietnamese army (later we found out that except for a small group in Xuân Lộc, the majority of the South Vietnamese forces had already disbanded).

There was no gunfire, no bomb explosions. We only heard roosters crowing, birds chirping, and saw the clear skies, green trees, and the gentle sea waves.

Then we reached Cam Ranh, Phan Rang, Phan Thiết, and approached Saigon (Unfortunately, my unit didn’t make it to Saigon by the afternoon of April 30th). However, when we heard that our forces had broken through the gates of the Presidential Palace and raised the flag of liberation on the roof of the Independence Palace on April 30th, all of us cheered joyfully. A joy that was beyond words in each of our hearts.

At that moment, it felt as though the sky was wider, the trees greener, the sea more alive with waves, and the earth beneath us felt warmer and more alive than ever before.

Thus, our “advance to liberate Saigon” mission felt like a special long march – a show of strength for the SAM-II anti-aircraft missiles (the modern Soviet-supplied weapon that, alongside our heroic air force and anti-aircraft forces, had brought down the B52 “Flying Fortress,” the most advanced US military aircraft at the time).

Although we had full faith in ultimate victory, the historic moment on April 30, 1975, when our forces captured the Independence Palace and swiftly liberated the South, was a moment of great surprise and immense joy – a joy greater than anything we had known in over thirty years of struggle.

Is this real or a dream?

Is this real or a dream?

It is real! It’s real! The Americans have left, and the puppets have fallen.

That is the absolute truth.

From now on, no bombs, no guns, and no chemical weapons will ever disturb the peaceful lives of our people.

From now on, there will be no more falling heads, no more bloodshed, no more separations, no more sorrow across Vietnam.

From now on, the Ben Hai River will no longer be divided, the Hien Luong Bridge will no longer separate the country in two halves. From the north to the south, from the mountains to the seas, Vietnam is united once again.

From now on, the love between couples will never again be interrupted by war.

“When the flower blooms, it must bloom.” Young men and women will now be free to love. Fields, gardens, and trees will thrive, bearing fruit, and spreading golden blossoms of abundance.

From now on, no force will divide us. No force will separate families. No force can stop the rain, the warmth of spring, the freedom and happiness of every citizen.

Peace. Peace. Peace. Peace and Independence, Freedom have arrived on the entire land of Vietnam since the historic April 30, 1975.

*

Some Vietnamese citizens were sad on April 30. Yes, some were (but what can we do?). Because of the war. When the war ends, there must be winners and losers. The winners are the Vietnamese people. The losers are the imperialists and their puppet regime.

It’s sad, because of the circumstances, some people were forced to serve in the imperialist American war machine. (Most were forced by circumstance, but some chose to serve as collaborators).

When the imperialists lost, a significant portion of our people had to share the fate of the defeated (what else could we do?).

However, for those who still hold grudges, bitterness, or even hatred, I ask you to calmly reconsider.

To those individuals: The defeat of the imperialists was inevitable because they waged an unjust war. We followed them (or were forced to) and had to face this outcome sooner or later. Whether it came soon or late, April 30 would arrive. Though it might bring pain for a while, it marks the end of suffering from war, opening a bright new era for generations to come. As Vietnamese, when the country is peaceful and free, we will have the chance to rebuild everything.

On April 30, many were sad. But those who were sad were the minority, a small fraction of our people.

For more than thirty years of struggle, the socialist North worked tirelessly, sacrificing everything for the South, for the nation’s unity. The people of the North gave all they had, whether it was food, land, or labor, for the southern revolution, and for the liberation of our people. The greatest sacrifice was made by millions of mothers and wives who sent their children and husbands to war, waiting for them for decades, through years of hardship and longing, until April 30th marked the end of their sacrifice. How could we not be joyful?

The tears of pain, separation, and longing over thirty years have culminated in the sacred historic day of April 30th.

For those who think this great joy belongs only to the Northern people, they are greatly mistaken.

The people and soldiers of the South, those who endured endless suffering due to the American invasion, who stood bravely under the banner of the National Front for the Liberation of South Vietnam, and fought valiantly in battles from Ba Gia to Cu Chi, to Khe Sanh and more, joined with the entire country in the victorious march toward Saigon, uniting the nation.

Thus, April 30 is a celebration for the entire nation, a celebration for all Vietnamese. No one can deny this truth.

As time passes, we see April 30 shining more brightly in the history of our nation’s struggle for independence and unity.

Pham Minh Giang

I hear the song "My Life is a Marching Tune" in the midst of April's historic days. The tears flow, and I feel the deep longing for my Father!

My childhood memories are filled with the sound of Father's singing every morning and evening, whenever he felt happy. His voice wasn't refined, but the lively tunes of a soldier from the past, who often sang in the "choir" with his comrades, filled the air. From those days, I learned the words and grew fond of songs like "Forest Music" and "Red Leaves." I remember the portable radio playing songs like "The Girl from Sam Nua" or "The Volunteer Soldier and the Lao Girl," and Father would gracefully dance the Lam Vong with a rhythmic flow. Through his deep, passionate storytelling, I learned of places like the Xieng Khouang Plains, the vast fields in the deep purple twilight, and the dances of Lao girls by the warm fires. My Father’s youth remained on those battlefields, those heroic years of Vietnamese soldiers supporting their neighbors across the border.

My soldier Father always carried the noble qualities of a People's Army soldier, even in everyday life. He never hesitated to take on any task to care for our family and help the neighbors. The Veterans Association in our neighborhood has flourished since Father and the other veterans got involved, making meaningful contributions. On holidays, Father would proudly wear his military uniform, medals gleaming on his chest, then busily prepare for the cultural performances, play the flute, and dance the khene. I would see images of those young men and women, vibrant and full of life, as if they were living once more the days of "sharing the burden to save the country" during the war. I, as a child, was too small to understand the joy and happiness of those who had risked their lives and given their youth to the country, yet they could still sing the military tunes amid peace. The songs from memory, for the present and the future.

During his days in the hospital, the radio was Father’s special companion. Amid the pain, whenever he was conscious, he would fumble for the switch to tune into the military program. The red music still played in the hospital, but there was no longer the accompaniment of Father's voice. He lay silent, deeply feeling the lyrics with each breath and each painful movement. The songs kept him here, restoring his hope, so he could fight the illness, enduring 13 years of suffering after two strokes. Miraculously!

Father, do you know? On the day I visited you during the Lunar New Year, I stopped for a long time by the old banyan tree at the edge of the village. That tree has stood there since I was a child, serving as a marker for me, the city-born child, not to forget the way back to our ancestral home. From its cracked, weathered trunk, red cotton flowers bloomed vibrantly, as if holding onto their color, never fading. I thought of you, my soldier Father, like that old tree—though aged, still brimming with life, its sap flowing, and still serenading life’s song.

We are fortunate and proud to be the children of a Soldier, Father!

October

The green of the fading grass has always held a special place in my heart, from the days when I was a young girl singing 'I Love Uncle Soldier' with my friends, to when I was a dream-filled university student, sending letters across distant lands to reach the university campus…

Fate didn’t allow me to become a soldier’s wife, but who can stop me from loving the military green and the songs of the soldiers? One of my favorite songs is 'Forever Singing the Military March.' During this pandemic, as the media and social networks are filled with images of soldiers on the streets of Saigon, watching the young men on guard at every street corner and alleyway, performing ordinary tasks to support the people, how can one not feel moved? I remember during the war against the Americans, my hometown of Vinh was located on National Highway 1, the route to the South, and witnessed many military units marching southward. The young soldiers, around eighteen or twenty, would stop in any village, and that village would come alive with laughter and songs. Children like us were taught to sing by the soldiers, we listened to stories of distant places where they had been, and we copied poems into our little notebooks, a custom most children had back then. And then, a few days later, there would be another farewell, filled with lingering emotions, with young girls, around seventeen, their eyes red, waving their handkerchiefs… Songs like 'Marching Far Away,' 'Uncle is Marching With Us,' and 'No Enemy Can Stop Our March' were taught to us by the soldiers during this time. Perhaps the powerful lyrics of that era deeply etched themselves into our pure, innocent souls, like blank pages, following us through childhood and adulthood. Many of us later followed in their footsteps, continuing the legacy and pride of our nation’s history.

In the late 80s (I don't remember the exact time), while working at Vietsovpetro, there was an event organized by the union, inviting two musicians from the Ho Chi Minh City Musicians' Association to meet with the workers. One was the late composer Xuan Hong, then the General Secretary of the Ho Chi Minh City Music Association, and the other was the late composer and poet Diep Minh Tuyen, former Deputy General Secretary of the Association and Editor-in-Chief of the 'Song Nhac' magazine. I remember Xuan Hong, short and stocky, looked like a simple Southern farmer, telling us many stories from his years in the war zones, his worries, and funny anecdotes related to his songs like 'Spring in the War Zone' and 'Spring in Ho Chi Minh City,' later followed by 'Spring by the Window' with the line 'two people kissing...'. His stories were humorous, and everyone enjoyed listening to them, asking questions, while Diep Minh Tuyen sat quietly with a gentle smile. I remember that year, Diep Minh Tuyen was in his 40s, and my first impression of him was that he had a romantic, artistic aura that made one curious to learn more about him. When introduced, he immediately picked up his guitar and said, 'Let me sing for you!' and then sang passionately without talking about himself. The song 'Forever Singing the Military March' was presented by the composer himself with a warm, emotional voice that still echoes in my heart today.

'Although we prefer roses, the enemy forces us to embrace the rifle.'

As those beautiful lyrics played, I saw the marching soldiers in front of me, the young, bright faces of eighteen-year-old boys who had just left school. They left behind memories of their childhood villages, the first loves, the longing for their parents... leaving when the country called, with no hesitation, and no fear of the dangers that lay ahead.

Decades have passed since the war, and it seemed that the soldiers of peace could now blend into a life filled with roses, warmth, love songs, and the peace that many people enjoy. But the 'COVID enemy' once again called them back to the frontlines. They truly entered into another life-or-death battle, as General Phan Van Giang, Minister of National Defense, said, 'This is a battle we must win or never return.' Once again, after the victory of 1975, Saigon was once again filled with the green of the military uniform—a green that brought comfort and reassurance to the people who were battling the ruthless virus from Wuhan. How deeply I felt for the children, seeing a big city for the first time, filled with tall buildings and tangled streets. How heartbreaking it was to see them, under the blazing sun, carrying rifles, guarding every intersection and corner of the city. Saigon needs them—these soldiers who never hesitate to step up to the frontlines of any battle.

'Forever in our hearts, we sing the soldier's song. Forever in our hearts, we keep singing the military march…'

The military march by composer Diep Minh Tuyen still echoes in my heart, and as I watch the green of the military uniforms on the streets of Saigon, I can still see the marching soldiers, their faces filled with confidence in victory.

Forever, forever in my heart, is the love for the green uniform—a color that brings peace to all!

Nguyen Minh Nguyet

Perhaps Spring has hung the longing memories on the peach tree, once planted by me so long ago. Spring brings with it the yearning and anticipation of a soldier on the island. When I was a child, I would ask, "Mother, what is the homeland and why must everyone love it?" Now, I understand... Where I stand is Truong Sa, the shield that protects us from the storms, the fortress on the edge of the waves. It is where we stand guard, our guns firmly in hand, watching over the night and day. It is where the children of Mother have stained the flag with their blood and sweat. These children have built monuments in the South China Sea with their lives, silent sacrifices, and the unwavering heart of soldiers, for Truong Sa is both Mother and the Homeland.

The day I arrived in Truong Sa, the sun felt softer, the wind gentler, the sea quieter, and the waves seemed to embrace me, guiding my steps. At night, Truong Sa fills me with an overwhelming love for each patch of land, each small wave, each square-shaped fruit of the sea almond tree. The water beneath my feet, or the guiding hand of Mother, leads me, and I wonder at the peace the sea offers. The sound of the waves, or the lullaby of Mother, fills me with warmth. Here, every square almond fruit, every grain of white sand like glass, each sea morning glory growing in the salty waters, from the smallest crabs to the towering oil rigs in the vast ocean, all of these... are the flesh and blood of Mother's children, and she keeps her arms wide open, embracing and protecting us.

Some say Mother is a question mark, but for me, she is an exclamation mark stretching from the northernmost point to the southernmost tip. She shields us from the storms. She spreads her arms to protect us from the poisonous winds blowing from the north, or the southern storms. She is the lighthouse, the divine eyes of the sea. These eyes always see through the wicked designs of the greedy forces trying to seize the South China Sea with their illegitimate claims. She is strong yet flexible, ready to drown pirates in the depths of the ocean, but also compassionate and forgiving. She does not tolerate traitors or those who harm her children, nor those who drain the wealth of her people. But she is willing to forgive those who repent and turn back to righteousness. Her heart is surprisingly forgiving!

She is like the Hai Van Pass, standing tall in the storm, with frail shoulders carrying the weight of the nation. She feels the pain of Central Vietnam as it is consumed by floods. She grieves deeply in the tragedy of Rào Trăng. Her heart bleeds when the children she loves are lost forever in the pursuit of peace. Her tears never stop flowing when so many go hungry, when lives are torn apart. She has deep compassion for the children, for the teachers who carry knowledge up mountains, and for the workers enduring long shifts. She worries for those who climb mountains barefoot in the scorching heat to till the land.

She is a lullaby, a cool autumn breeze gently guiding me into sleep. She lights the lanterns that illuminate my dreams. I can see the white storks hidden in the fog, in the harsh summer sun, under the worn brown coats, with satisfied smiles on the faces of children who have found their way in life. I feel peace in the world at the sight of Mother's smile.

At night in Truong Sa, I hear whispers blending with the waves. Could it be the lullaby from the hammock, where Mother once whispered love into my heart? Is it the voice of Mother, or the sea itself, that fills me with such profound warmth?

Under the moonlit sky of Truong Sa, the vast golden mirror of the sea reflects my dreams. I lay my head on the heart of the Homeland, feeling the pulse echo through the centuries. I listen to the waves crash, as if they carry the soul of the sea with them. I feel the blood flowing within me, a boundless love. I realize that the sea seems both higher and lower than the sky. In that moment when heaven and earth unite, everything feels infinite.

That night in Truong Sa, I see everything... Spring is the peach blossom in Mother's garden, the smile of children returning to school after a long break, the tears of the doctors returning home after the COVID storm has passed, the happy teacher’s lesson plan, the sprouting sea almonds, the essence of the Vietnamese New Year carried by the winds of the distant sea... all of this is Truong Sa. Spring is Mother, and Mother is the Homeland in me.

An Giang

Over 30 years have passed, yet has spring ever arrived on the island to bring the vibrant hues of peach blossoms and the brilliant radiance of apricot flowers?

Oh, Truong Sa..! Has Truong Sa ever known peace, a place always met with storms rising from the depths of the sea, where the hearts of the soldiers mirror the raging waves?

Truong Sa Island, when you look up, it is the sky; when you look down, it is the sea, and even stepping down is just the endless water of the vast ocean... Has our homeland ever felt the ache of longing for the sea? The sea, eternal in spirit, stirs the waves. Who does the sea’s pain stir the waves for? The sea, forever a protector, forever forgiving, forever embracing, cradling the island within its heart so that the homeland can rest its back against it... The love for the homeland sprouts on the salty sand, as the waves swell with emotion, and the sea stirs at every sunset...

More than 30 years have passed, and the memories of the stories from Truong Sa and the image of my aging father remain etched in my heart. My father was the island chief of Truong Sa, and he often shared stories with my siblings and me about life on the island. We would listen quietly, as though each word from my father was to be savored. The stories seemed like something out of a movie, captivating all of us! Year-round, the only companions were the sun and the sea breeze. The days were unbearably hot, as if scorched by fire, and the soldiers’ skin turned dark from the relentless sun. My father was no exception.

My father looked much older than his years, his face thin and worn, and my mother, siblings, and I all felt deep sympathy for him. The harsh environment, inadequate food, even in peacetime, left everything in short supply. The most scarce resources were vegetables (because cultivation was not possible there), followed by fresh water (referred to as 'fresh water' for use on the island), and various medicines. A ship carrying supplies only came once a month, my father told me. The water for daily use had to be conserved, nothing could be wasted. The hardest part was when someone fell ill. The journey from the mainland to the island took at least two days, and that was only when the sea was calm; otherwise, it was a real struggle.

Military discipline here is very strict. Once, a new soldier, not fully understanding the situation, caught an albatross to eat due to the extreme shortage of food. He was discovered and detained for 15 days. “That’s the rule here,” my father said. Thanks to such strict discipline, the soldiers here were rigorously trained in peacetime, serious and methodical, always ready to carry out orders. Every day, without exception, in addition to combat training, defense drills, and martial arts practice, each soldier had to swim at least 15 km. They could stay underwater for an entire day. They trained by being taken far out to sea and swimming back to the island. My father said that was why everyone here was an excellent swimmer.

Despite the hardships of training, the soldiers remained vigilant at all times. Life and training were tough, but they were cheerful, full of humor, and romantic at heart. During their free time, they sang songs and even wrote poetry. On moonlit nights, with the sound of the waves gently lapping... only the sky, the breeze, and the island, all blending into a beautiful melody that echoed the love for Truong Sa!

Though romantic, when the nation called, these soldiers became resolute with hearts of steel and unwavering determination, full of passion in their twenties. Letters were the link between the soldiers on the distant island and their families on the mainland.

Later, my mother let me read the letters she wrote to my father and those he sent to her. Back then, love was mostly expressed through letters, yet they were so romantic and beautiful. The expressions of love between them made me, even as their child, feel envious... “Every evening, when the sun sets over the island... it’s the time when the albatross returns to its nest. Do you think of me, miss me?” Behind a photo of them together, my mother wrote, “Keep the promise of eternal fidelity.”

The soldiers here were very united, like brothers. My father once told me about a time when a soldier lost a family member. The unit, including my father, collected money to help the soldier go home. The bonds they shared on this island were truly admirable. But death and danger were always lurking here, so they could never relax for even a moment, always remaining at the highest level of alertness. My father also recounted many times when enemy commandos were caught. It wasn’t just spoils of war, but even gold... I asked my father why he didn’t take some home. Our family was poor, after all! My voice grew long... filled with frustration. At that moment, I felt so sorry for my mother! She had to manage everything, take care of us three children alone (our grandparents lived far away). We couldn’t help her, and she had it so hard. My father only visited home every two years, and even then, he stayed for just one month.

When I asked why my father didn’t take the gold, he calmly replied, “What’s meant for the heavens will return to the earth, my child.” At the time, I couldn’t accept that answer. It was 1982, and I was about 14. In my mind, my father, as the island commander of Truong Sa, should have had a comfortable life, but the reality was far from that. I was just a child then. Time passed, and my siblings and I grew up amidst the hardships my mother endured, all for the homeland that my father dedicated himself to, alongside the soldiers on the island, day and night guarding every inch of the sacred land. The turning point came on March 14, 1988, when China’s military attacked and occupied Gac Ma Island. In that naval battle, their warships, equipped with artillery and missiles, sank our two ships, HQ 603 and HQ 604, and 64 of our soldiers heroically perished...

The soldiers of Truong Sa gave their lives at a young age, sacrificing themselves while holding our nation’s flag. Their blood enriched the flag of Vietnam. These young men dedicated their twenties to protecting our independence and sovereignty. Their sacrifice will be forever remembered by the people of our country. The sea of Truong Sa became saltier with their blood, and the salt of Truong Sa carries the bitter sorrow of isolation...

We long to lift the clouds to find a space in the sky, where they kept watch over the island. We want to part the sea to bring their bodies to the endless realm, where only love endures... We can never forget the pain caused by China’s military actions. My father had to witness the soldiers he had shared meals and laughter with yesterday, now lying cold and lifeless...

My father is no longer with us... He passed away 20 years ago. When he spoke of Gac Ma, his voice grew hoarse, filled with sadness and a faraway look in his eyes. That was, I believe, the saddest moment of his life. In 1988, he was a lieutenant colonel, commander of the 146th Naval Brigade, commander of Truong Sa and Sinh Ton Islands.

He retired a few years later, and in 2000, he passed away, likely due to the effects of the wars he fought in. Throughout his life, my father dedicated himself to the defense of our homeland. As his children, we have every reason to be proud of him—a life of sacrifice and integrity. Now, whenever anything related to the islands or the nation arises, my heart recalls my father even more...

More than 30 years have passed... Has spring ever come to the island, bringing with it the peach blossoms' color and the brilliance of apricot flowers? I think of Truong Sa, where rare raindrops fall, and the sea morning glories silently reach out to the water’s edge, where Truong Sa stands as a steadfast fortress in the heart of the East Sea.

Le Minh

My love!

Today, on the last day I get to spend with you here in our homeland, I want to take up the pen and write these words to walk alongside you. You'll carry this as you carry me through the long journey ahead. And someday, when you find it on the other side of the border, in this notebook, let it be the first comfort in the lonely days away from home.

That was the beginning of the letter I tucked at the bottom of your backpack on the day I saw you off to Cambodia. And perhaps, our love story began with this very letter.

Back then, you were in your fourth year at the Military Medical University (now the Military Medical Academy). My cousin and I, both of the same age, would often beg you to share stories about school and the academy whenever you visited. You promised to take us to your base during the summer break and lend us two military jackets. But before that promise could be fulfilled, I received my assignment to teach in the remote district of Luc Ngan, nearly a hundred kilometers away. Once I settled in, I wrote to apologize, and from there, our letters began, and our love blossomed without us even noticing. So, every time I returned home, I'd ride my bike 30 km to see you. I was teased by your comrades in your unit: "Are you the little sister of Dong? Doesn't he know you're here, out with his girlfriend?" I calmly replied:

-It’s fine, I’ll wait for him.

- Going out with a girlfriend, who knows if he’ll come back tonight?

- I can wait until tonight...

The young soldiers winked at each other: this girl’s tough.

We ate a soldier’s meal together, which was surprisingly hearty. In the evening, you took me to see a movie. There were nights when we strolled under the trees behind Xa La village. Beneath the gentle moonlight, I chattered about school, about life. At times, we sat in peaceful silence, enjoying the cool evening air, the rustling leaves, the chirping of insects calling to each other, and the breeze brushing my soft hair... everything seemed to conspire to shelter us as our hearts beat in unison. Then you’d take me back to the guest house, set up my mosquito net, remind me to lock the door, and head back to your unit. Your comrades would be puzzled: "Why aren’t you staying the night?" You’d awkwardly scratch your head: "Who would do that..."

Some weekends, you’d cycle more than a hundred kilometers to visit me. My fellow teachers and I would treat you to a simple meal of roasted peanuts, fried tofu, and boiled vegetables. You taught me and Cu how to sing "Tomorrow, I Go to the Frontlines." Your strong, bright voice blended with our young voices, echoing through the school grounds as children ran out to cheer us on. Who would have thought that this would become the song of destiny for us? The lyrics, heartfelt and deep, resonated with us: "... Tomorrow, I go to the front, tomorrow I go to the battlefield. I leave behind the city lights, the sky full of stars, to march toward the enemy... Your hands built the school, your hands sowed the golden rice, sending love to the border, to the endless mountains, full of friends and comrades... Like orchids waiting, the rain and sun do not wither..."

And so, after two years of letters back and forth, you graduated and we got married on a beautiful autumn day in 1981. Our simple wedding—a soldier and a teacher—was truly humble. The bride wore black silk trousers and a lilac blouse, and the groom arrived on a worn-out bicycle, traveling nearly ten kilometers. Our honeymoon was in a small thatched house, its walls made of unbaked bricks stacked on top of each other. The next day, you took me to school since I had only three days off. Just two weeks into our marriage, you received orders to go to Cambodia for the war. I was shocked, lost, and filled with sorrow... But as a young wife, my tears couldn’t keep you from your duty. Duty, responsibility, and military discipline wouldn’t allow you to stay.

Nine years in a foreign country, with only four visits home, we had two children. Our once romantic love gradually shifted into the responsibilities of motherhood, of being a wife and daughter-in-law without a husband. There were sweet moments, but also bitterness, loneliness, and pain during cold nights. Yet, above all, there was love and faith between us. The letters we sent back and forth, without borders, filled the distance. We shared stories about work, family, and the military. We comforted each other, enduring the hardships of life, the brutalities of war. Most of all, we faced the fragile line between life and death, unable to distinguish between civilians and enemy forces. When you missed home and me, you poured your feelings into your letters and poetry. You wrote a collection of poems for me, filling a thick, self-bound notebook. One of the poems was about our birthdays, both of us born in April, just four days apart:

Blue shirt, sweat-soaked
In the quiet room, you sit writing letters
How I love the heat of April
The month both of us were born
No gifts for my birthday
Just a longing sent from far away...

April is the month of love
Let the sun shine, don’t be sad, my dear.
(APRIL IN SAM RONG - Khac Dong)

After nine years, I welcomed you back, safe and sound, overwhelmed with joy on the day we were reunited. You smiled brightly in your military uniform, your epaulettes shining. While some of your comrades never came back, others returned with pieces of themselves left behind. I truly believe our love and faith carried us through the harsh trials of time...

After retirement, you reconnected with your old comrades, and twice, you took me back to visit the battlefields of the past. We were welcomed by General Nixo Van, a member of the Central Committee of the Cambodian People's Party, director of the Cambodian Military Medical Institute, and deputy director of the Cambodian Ministry of Defense, along with your comrades. I was astonished that a serving general would take the time to show a retired colonel and his wife around the landmarks of Cambodia. We visited the old field hospital, now a provincial hospital in Siem Reap. The beautiful country of Cambodia had miraculously recovered after the genocide. The farewell at Phnom Penh Airport was filled with emotion and tears as we hugged and shook hands. I will never forget what General Van said: "Our country and people will forever be grateful for the unconditional sacrifices of the volunteer soldiers and the Vietnamese people. We will never forget."

Forty years as a soldier’s wife, and more than ten years as a soldier’s mother (our children have followed in their father’s footsteps). Looking back, I feel proud and fortunate to have the life I do today: not perfect, but not lacking. People have asked me, "Do you regret being a soldier’s wife?" I smile and reply, "I have no regrets."

Tran Tinh

My father is nearing 70, yet he remains remarkably strong and healthy. His hair has begun to show a few gray strands, his skin still tough, and his booming voice continues to carry. Above all, his face always radiates a lively and cheerful energy. This is partly because my siblings and I are all grown up, with our own families, and our parents no longer face the hardships they once did. But more importantly, it's because my father continues to embody the spirit of a soldier, with his discipline and positive habits that keep him youthful.

In his youth, my father was an active member of a local work brigade, helping to construct canals and embankments along the Ma River. Later, in 1973, he joined the military, becoming a Liberation Army soldier who fought in the 1975 Spring Offensive to free the South and reunify the country. The only surviving artifact of his glorious past is a well-worn black-and-white photo of him in uniform from his younger days. That photo alone is enough for my siblings and me to admire and deeply respect him.

After the war ended, my father returned to our small village, surrounded by rice fields and familiar tasks of farming and fishing. His military service had instilled in him a relentless mindset: “No task is too difficult, no obstacle is insurmountable, and no enemy is unbeatable.” Even in peacetime, he carried this soldier’s spirit, never shying away from hard work, whether tilling the fields or running a small business. Thanks to his tireless efforts, my siblings and I grew up well-fed and clothed, nurtured by the love of our mother and the sacrifices of our father.

Despite the difficult life we led, my father always maintained an optimistic and vibrant outlook, much like a young soldier still full of passion. He once said, “After seeing so much bloodshed on the battlefield and witnessing the sorrow of war, I truly value the peace we now have.” He also shared his thoughts on life: “In my time, the greatest honor was to fight for our country. But for you, it’s your turn now. You need to study well and work hard. If you do your best, everything will be alright.”

Living in peacetime, even though our family is no longer struggling, my father still holds onto the simple, soldier-like lifestyle. He doesn’t ask for extravagant meals—he’s just happy to eat at home with us. His house doesn’t need to be fancy; it just needs to be spacious and comfortable. One of his favorite things is wearing his old military uniform and helmet. He says they are practical, durable, and remind him of his time in the army. But I know that it's more than that—he still feels deeply connected to the life of a soldier.

His habits of cleanliness and orderliness have remained intact, much like his time in the military. From the house to the yard, everything is always neat and tidy. His bedding is neatly folded every morning, towels are washed and carefully folded, and all items are placed exactly where they belong. He even continues the habit of waking up early to exercise. As children, my siblings and I often found his strictness annoying, but as we grew older, we came to appreciate it.

This is my father—steadfast, optimistic, and full of the soldier’s spirit. Loving the soldier within him, my siblings and I have come to cherish the image of the “Uncle Ho’s Soldier” he embodies.

Author: Thu Đình