Top 12 Essays Where a Soldier Recalls the Poem 'Dong Chi' by Chinh Huu

I am a soldier who served during the French resistance war. Although many years have passed since the war ended, the memories of those turbulent times still linger in my heart. I came from a poor farming family, just like many other young men in my village. When the war against French colonialism reached its peak, I volunteered to join the army. During my service, I became close to fellow soldiers who were all at the same youthful age as me. They too came from different parts of the country, leaving behind their families and homes to answer the call of the nation. We, who were once strangers, lived and fought side by side, becoming like brothers. Despite the hardships, we shared everything from blankets to food and clothes. Since we spent most of our time in the jungle, we all contracted malaria. Our heads ached, and our bodies were cold and exhausted. Yet, we remained united, loving and supporting each other, always calling each other comrades with deep affection. During night raids on the enemy, we would hold our breath, fight together, and stand side by side, facing life or death under the moonlight filtering through the fog of the forest. Now, I am old and frail, and my comrades from those days have long since passed. We once shared glorious moments, sacrificing for our homeland.

The victory of 1945 had just ended, and I, a farmer from a poor rural area, had not even had the chance to fully enjoy the joy of independence when the French colonizers attacked again. Following the government's call for national mobilization, I left my homeland and joined the resistance, with each of us resolutely determined not to let our country fall into the hands of the French colonists again.

Although I was used to working with a hoe or shovel, tending the fields and gardens, holding a rifle felt awkward at first. Yet, I believed that with my deep love for my country and my firm determination, nothing was impossible. We marched through various battlefields, undaunted by the night, guided by the moonlight. My comrades and I were united by our passion for freedom and independence, and no matter how tough the struggle, we were determined to overcome it.

In 1947, we joined the Viet Bac campaign, alongside other military units. Although we were strangers at first, we quickly became comrades and brothers, sharing both the sweet and bitter moments of war. The bond that held us together was the patriotic spirit within each of us, making us become inseparable, as if we had known each other for a lifetime.

We lived under harsh conditions, even lacking enough uniforms and gear, with two men often sharing a single blanket. The Truong Son forests were perilous, full of mysterious dangers, and once our unit fell ill with jungle malaria, our skin turned yellow, our hair fell out, and we looked like walking corpses. But somehow, we never lost our sense of humor. When winter arrived, the cold cut into our skin like knives, some of us in tattered clothes and others barefoot. Yet, we found warmth in one another, supporting each other to keep fighting and overcoming illness. I remember one night when I spoke with a fellow soldier. He told me how he had left his farm, his aging mother, wife, and young children behind, to fight for the country.

Despite the hardships, we never let go of our laughter. In the vast, chilly Truong Son forests, under the cold sky, we moved silently, guided by the moon. No one said a word, but we could hear the wind rustling through the trees, and it still felt warm in our hearts. The war was long, and we, the soldiers from rural areas, still had more to endure. Although our hearts were heavy with longing for home, whenever we saw the red flag with the yellow star fluttering, all our worries and fears vanished. We accepted every hardship and struggle, just so we could see that flag rise in a peaceful sky. Living and fighting for such a noble cause, there was nothing more fulfilling for us soldiers.

Before we could celebrate the victory of the August Revolution, in 1946, the French colonizers launched their re-invasion of our country. Responding to the call for general mobilization by the resistance government, the people of the nation eagerly joined the fight, determined not to live alongside the enemy. Filled with deep patriotism and a burning hatred for the enemy, I too eagerly enlisted. After receiving my orders at the local level, I was assigned to the Capital Division, part of the 308th Brigade. This was a unit with a proud history. The brigade's mission was to protect the capital, safeguard the government, and help the people evacuate to the resistance areas.

As a farmer, only familiar with plowing fields and gardening, I had no experience with weapons, yet I did not hesitate to endure the hardships of war at the frontline. I believed that, as a man, in times of danger, I must fight for the country and avenge my family, to honor the legacy of my ancestors and continue the glorious history of our people. Even though I had not undergone training, I was confident that the battlefield would teach me. My boundless patriotism motivated me to keep a firm grip on my rifle, knowing that my love for the nation would sustain me in the battle against such a cruel enemy.

In late 1947, I participated in the Viet Bac campaign, alongside other military units. Our task was to fight and prevent the enemy from advancing to the base area. To cooperate effectively, we merged several units to support each other in both combat and daily life. During the day, we organized pursuit operations against the enemy. At night, the units would rest and regain strength. Life in the forests was always strict. Though the enemy was still far away, we stayed vigilant, constantly on guard.

Soldiers from distant regions, united by love for the country and hatred for the invader, came together in one unit. One soldier, from a coastal area, had a dark complexion and rough hands from fishing. He joined our unit after me, during the last recruitment drive. I knew nothing about war, and he was even more inexperienced than I was. It took him more than a month to master the use of an AK rifle and grenades. Our team leader assigned me to guide him more closely.

These young men, who had never been heroes, came from faraway villages. It was our shared patriotism and fighting spirit to liberate the country that brought us together.

The campaign was incredibly tough. In the early days of the resistance, we lacked proper uniforms and equipment. Our weapons were rudimentary, and we struggled with shortages of food, medicine, and other supplies. I myself only had a thin uniform with no hat or shoes. Each time I stepped barefoot on the dry leaves, I would shiver. The Trường Sơn mountains were filled with dangerous wildlife and venomous snakes. The day before, a comrade stepped on a cobra and was bitten. His foot swelled horribly. We rushed to find a local healer to treat him, and he had to stay behind until his wound healed.

Meals were also sparse, as our unit was in pursuit of the enemy. The supply team did their best, but the situation left us with little. Understanding this, no one complained. At night, we sometimes had to sleep on dry leaves with no blankets or mats. The cold mountain air bit into our skin, and to stay warm, we would lie closely together. The warmth of our comrades was a comfort, and I grew to admire and cherish their selfless sacrifice for our country.

The worst was the malaria from the jungle. We could defeat the enemy and overcome many hardships, but the relentless jungle fever slowly drained us. It was a terrible illness, an invisible enemy that posed a real danger. I too contracted it. The fever shook my body, leaving me in agony. Sweat drenched my clothes, and my friend wiped me down with cloth after cloth, his eyes full of concern. I smiled weakly to reassure him, and he managed a faint smile in return.

I thought I might not survive like many of my comrades, but fortunately, I pulled through. I survived thanks to the meticulous care of my comrades. During my delirium, they stayed by my side, tending to me as if I were family. They gave me all their medicine. When I recovered, my friend even went out to find nourishing food for me, bringing me a fragrant dish of wild boar porridge he had hunted.

Words cannot fully describe the strong bond and deep comradeship we shared. It was this strength that helped us endure countless hardships. This sacred friendship kept us focused on our mission, maintaining our fighting spirit. Love, empathy, and mutual respect made us feel like brothers, ready to face death together in battle. Our camaraderie, rooted in our sacred love for the nation, became an eternal source of strength in our hearts as soldiers.

On those nights when we kept watch together, we would share stories to pass the time. My friend spoke of his departure for the resistance. He had never left his home by the river. Now, separated by vast distances, he felt a deep longing. On the day he left, his heart was heavy with sorrow, as he left behind his wife, young children, and elderly mother. But the nation needed him. The country was in danger. The resistance needed him. The people needed him. He entrusted his farm to a close friend and, wiping away his tears, he set out. That night, the rain poured down relentlessly. Sitting in the truck, his tears flowed. Holding his rifle tightly, he promised to return once the enemy had surrendered.

I was just like him, leaving behind a beloved home. I remembered the well by the banyan tree, the tiled roof, the courtyard, and the village shrine. I thought of my young wife, waiting by the late-night lantern, her eyes tired from watching for me. My father had passed away long ago, and my mother was old. She was nearing the end of her life, and I wondered if she would still be alive when I returned victorious.

I stood silently, gazing into the distance. The moon hung high on the mountaintop, silent. The moon seemed to resonate with us, sharing our thoughts. It was the same moon that had illuminated the fields, the rice paddies, and the green riverbanks. My childhood had been bathed in its golden glow. That faithful moon, now traveling with us, shone above us as we fought. The moon would forever be true to the people, just as we would forever remain loyal to our homeland.

The nights in the jungle were long and cold. Hidden in the darkness were countless dangers. But I was never alone. My comrades were always with me, enduring hardship together, faithful and steadfast. I was proud to be here, proud to be part of this fight, and proud to stand alongside my comrades in battle. Looking at the moon hanging above my friend's rifle, I believed in victory. That same moon would shine over the peaceful fields of our homeland.

Every war comes with loss and sacrifice. Many of my comrades have fallen. They did not die; they became one with the land, defending our sacred soil. They are the heroes of this century, and their names will forever be honored by our country. Thinking of this sacred duty, I gripped my rifle tightly, my eyes fixed on the enemy.

“Nine years to make one Dien Bien”

“To form a wreath of red flowers, to create a golden historical legacy”

This must be one of the most striking and memorable verses from our long struggle against French colonialism. To achieve the victory of Dien Bien, our soldiers endured unimaginable hardship and sacrifice. I remember my own experience in the fierce battle alongside my comrades to protect our homeland during those years.

When I heard Uncle Ho's call to the nation to resist, I, along with many other young people, eagerly enlisted to defend our country. For us, being handed a rifle and officially becoming a soldier was an overwhelming joy. I came from a farming family, with nothing but a deep love for my country and an intense hatred for the enemy. I was assigned to a unit that would take part in the 1954 Dien Bien Phu campaign. In my unit, there were many soldiers with backgrounds and situations similar to mine. We were all from poor rural areas, and we quickly became close and shared stories about our hometowns.

It is true that for farmers like us, wearing rough clothes and answering the call of the homeland, leaving behind everything was not easy. Yet, the nation was in danger, and no one could sit idle. We had to leave everything behind, determined to sacrifice for our country and defend our beloved land.

Heading up to the Northwest, famous for its dense forests and deadly diseases, I will never forget the terrifying experience of jungle malaria. Just thinking about it sends shivers down my spine. It's a chilling feeling, the inside of your body frozen, while sweat pours out from the heat. The hardships were immense; more of my comrades died from malaria than from bullets. We marched under harsh conditions, sometimes sharing a single blanket with two soldiers, yet we could still feel the warmth and unity that tied us together as brothers.

In such dire circumstances, we grew closer, sharing our pains and understanding each other’s struggles. In the early days of the resistance, we were in desperate need of international aid. But even with limited supplies, seeing our tattered clothes with patched-up sleeves, we could only laugh and hold each other’s hands, enduring together through the hardships. I also remember marching through the forest without shoes, the bitter cold cutting into our feet, making every step a thousand times harder.

Despite these hardships, the life of a soldier wasn't always bleak; there were moments of unexpected beauty. During ambushes, while waiting for the enemy, I would gaze at the moon above, which made the desolation of the forest feel less lonely. The moonlight, spreading across the world, transformed the dark woods of Viet Bac into something enchanting, almost poetic. As the night deepened, the moon shifted in the sky, casting a calming glow over the entire landscape.

Even though decades have passed since the war, whenever I reflect on those years, I am overcome with emotions that words cannot fully express. To me, it was the strong bond of comradeship, the deep connection with my fellow soldiers, that helped us overcome all hardships and ultimately led to our victory in the national struggle.

"Nine years in Điện Biên

To bloom the red flowers, to create a golden history"

Every time I read that verse by Tố Hữu, a flood of memories from those tough yet heroic years of resistance overwhelms me. I recall the days marching to the battlefield, the gatherings with the local people. But perhaps what stands out the most are the comrades who stood by my side through it all.

Responding to the call of the nation’s fight against the enemy, I, along with many others, eagerly set out for war. Coming from a farming background, my only luggage was my deep love for the country and my burning hatred for the enemy. I was assigned to a unit for the Điện Biên Phủ campaign in 1954, and there, many of my fellow soldiers shared similar backgrounds. We quickly bonded, and the first thing we exchanged was the story of our hometowns. His homeland was a poor, coastal area where farming was nearly impossible, and my homeland was no better—an impoverished, mountainous region with little to offer. Perhaps it was our shared hardship that brought us closer together. Despite just meeting, there was an uncanny sense of understanding between us. Beyond our similar origins, we also shared the same ideals and purpose in fighting. Farmers, who were once only accustomed to tilling the land, now found themselves armed, fighting to protect their homes, their loved ones, and their beloved land. It would be a lie to say we left without any regrets, but the fate of the nation was in jeopardy, and none of us could sit idle. Thus, we had to set aside everything and make the resolute decision to sacrifice for the country.

The North West was infamous for its harsh environment. The dreaded jungle malaria still haunts me to this day; even thinking about it sends chills down my spine. Only those who’ve experienced it can truly understand the feeling of being frozen on the inside while drenched in sweat on the outside. In fact, more of my comrades died from malaria than in combat. At the time, a single blanket had to be shared by two people. Yet, it was that very hardship—the shared meals and the blanket we huddled under—that helped us empathize with one another. The early days of the resistance were incredibly difficult as we awaited international aid. There were days when our gear was tattered—holes in our jackets, patches on our pants—but we could only laugh, hold hands, and push through together. There were times when we marched barefoot through the jungle, and the freezing cold seemed to cut through our flesh, making the march even harder.

Despite the many difficulties, the life of a soldier wasn’t without its moments of romance. On nights when we lay in ambush, waiting for the enemy, I had the company of my comrades and the moon overhead. Gazing at the moon’s soft glow illuminating the world, the jungle, once silent and eerie, now seemed peaceful and poetic. As the night wore on, the moon slowly descended, sometimes hanging over the top of our rifles, making us feel like poets rather than soldiers.

Though the war has passed, every time I look back on those years, an overwhelming sense of emotion fills me. The bond of comradeship, the unbreakable friendship among us, was the strength that helped us overcome all obstacles and achieve victory in the struggle for independence.

"The National Guard once left

Never expecting a return

We left to protect our land and mountains

We left, and would rather die than retreat"

Every time I hear these heroic melodies, emotions I can't describe flood my heart. I, a soldier in the 1954 French campaign, recall the bomb-ridden, starved, and suffering days filled with comradeship and brotherhood. Those were the years that molded priceless memories, deeply etched in my revolutionary heart and memory.

We soldiers came from different regions, answering the sacred call of our country, united under the revolutionary flag. In the beginning, we were strangers, but we greeted each other with sincerity: "Where are you from?" My comrade, who enlisted alongside me, shared: "I come from a coastal village, with poor soil and struggling crops." I too responded with honesty: "I come from a barren land, with infertile soil, struggling with poverty and destruction from war." That simple, heartfelt embrace, full of mutual understanding, erased all distance and made us closer, bonded by the same hardship. The way soldiers get to know each other is simple, humble, and honest.

We came together for the dream of national liberation, unification, and to hope for a life of peace and happiness for all.

Before joining, each of us had dreams, ambitions, and plans for our own lives. But we understood, and deeply desired the word 'Freedom'. Our personal dreams merged into a common goal; we sacrificed our own desires, left behind family, home, and love, and marched off to battle, to fight the enemy. Though we felt sadness and longed for our homes, we clearly understood that "Only through independence can our homeland, family, and loved ones be at peace." This motivation drove the young men to march bravely, full of determination.

Life as a soldier began with immense hardship, sacrifice, and loss. Food was scarce, sleep was rare, and the marches were relentless. I still vividly remember the malaria outbreak in the cold forest that year. My comrades and I faced this terrible disease—dengue fever—without sufficient supplies or medicine. We lay feverish and trembling, fighting both the harsh climate and treacherous terrain. We clung to each other, supporting and comforting one another as we marched through mountains. The sick carried the sick, shared a small bowl of thin porridge, and offered cooling cloths between the struggles. Looking back at those agonizing days of fighting illness and nature, my heart aches. The epidemic claimed many of my comrades, their bodies laid to rest along the march, covered only by a hastily thrown sheet and the sorrowful heart of those left behind. Yet, we continued the journey, still fighting and sharing together.

We shared not only our spirits but also our meager possessions in the harsh life of a soldier. His torn shirt, my patched trousers—don't worry, if I'm warm, you will be too. A single blanket was enough for us both. The howling wind outside couldn’t reach us, for the warmth of our bond remained strong, bright, and enduring.

Soldiers from distant lands, through the trials of nature and hardship, formed the deepest, most meaningful of bonds: the comradeship. The words 'Comrade' carry so much love, meaning, and nobility.

Our defining trait as soldiers was the clasp of our hands. We held hands to encourage each other, to help one another rise again and continue the march on this tumultuous revolutionary path. We held hands to share love, care, and the promise of victory, pledging that one day we would return victorious.

The life of a soldier is simple yet profound. We didn't speak of flowery poems but expressed our hearts through our actions and unwavering commitment.

I will never forget those cold nights on guard duty in the wilderness. The night was freezing, the wind howled fiercely, biting into our faces, but we stood watch, performing our duty. We watched for surprise attacks from the enemy and kept guard while others slept. The moon tonight was bright, casting its light across the land, hanging above our rifles. I thought of the moon of peace, perhaps even more beautiful and full, a symbol of our noble revolutionary ideals and the victory we all hoped for. That image, so beautiful and romantic, remains etched in my mind, reminding me of those long nights of fighting, ambushing, and enduring, and it continues to resonate even today.

The country is now free and united. We return to our homes, but some comrades, some soldiers, have fallen, their sacrifices still honored. The comradeship we shared remains as strong and precious as ever. I am forever grateful to the poet Chinh Huu for capturing my emotions through the poem 'Comradeship'. I hope that future generations will cherish our sacrifices and build a nation that grows ever stronger and more prosperous.

I am a soldier who once participated in the resistance against the French. The poem by To Huu captures a historic and heroic period of our nation's struggle for independence. Every time I read it, emotions well up within me, stirring memories that cannot be easily expressed. Could it be that the bond of comradeship is one of the driving forces behind our victorious struggle for national pride?

We were mostly peasants turned soldiers from poor rural areas. I asked my friend:

- Where are you from?

- My homeland is a lowland area, flooded and difficult for farming!

- I share the same experience. My place is a mountainous region, where life is rough, with barren land and scarce resources.

Perhaps it was this shared hardship that brought us closer. Our class-based empathy created bonds of understanding and solidarity among us.

Not only that, but we also shared a common mission to leave behind our plows and pitchforks. We took up arms to protect the newly-formed government and the independence we had just won. Responding to Uncle Ho's call for a national resistance, we gathered in the ranks of the revolutionary army from all corners of the country…

Life back then was full of hardship and deprivation, yet it was these very struggles that brought us closer. Sharing a meal, splitting a blanket—these small acts of solidarity unknowingly built deep friendships. We became comrades, a simple but sacred term that represented our unity. It affirmed that we stood together in an organization with a shared ideal and mission. This word, “comrade,” encapsulated not only class solidarity but also the bond of friendship and, above all, human connection.

Ah! The sacred call of "Comrade!"

As comrades, we shared our thoughts and longings for home. We, the peasants, treasured our fields, our homes, and the familiar village well. But we all left it behind, for a greater cause. My friend confided: "The house is now empty without the pillar of the family, yet I still decided to leave. If there's life, there's hope for the home." This thought echoed among all of us—not out of indifference, but because we understood the weight of our mission. Though we left behind mothers, wives, and children, our hearts remained connected to them.

As comrades, we also shared the difficulties of military life—our uniforms were worn, our boots were missing, and illness plagued us. I wore a torn shirt, my friend had patched pants. I went barefoot, and he lacked a cap. Despite the cold of the northern mountains, we kept smiling, and our optimism warmed the atmosphere.

More than that, as comrades, we shared the strongest bonds of friendship through a simple handshake—silent but profound. A handshake that conveyed warmth and solidarity, one that gave us strength to endure hardship and face danger. It was a promise to each other: before entering battle, we knew our spirits were aligned, even without words. That bond of comradeship still moves me deeply.

But perhaps the most indelible memory is of the nights spent in the trenches, waiting for the enemy. The weather was harsh, freezing cold, with our fingers and toes numb as though pricked by needles. Yet, my comrades and I held our guns tightly, prepared for any eventuality. It was a moonlit night. The moon hung high, slowly descending, almost as if it were perched on the tip of our rifles.

We fought to protect the moon of peace, to restore tranquility to our homeland. Alongside my comrades, the moon was another companion. The moon illuminated our march, shared our joys and sorrows. Before the first shot, we looked up at the moon in calm. In that moment, I realized how strong and noble we were—our spirits tempered like steel. And perhaps, the moon and the rifle are the perfect comrades, embodying both war and peace, strength and beauty, fighters and poets, all united by a common purpose.

As the war recedes and peace returns, the resistance against French colonialism remains a pivotal chapter in our nation's history. I hope the younger generation today will continue the legacy of their forebears, learning well, and working towards a prosperous, powerful nation, always vigilant against foreign threats.

For revolutionaries like us, the years spent fighting against French colonialism will forever remain unforgettable. The hardships, the pain, and the sacrifices brought on by war are impossible to forget, just as the bond of comradeship and fraternity we shared is equally unforgettable. This spirit of comradeship fills me with pride, and whenever I recall those nine years of the difficult yet heroic struggle for Vietnam's independence, it fills me with emotions.

I come from a rural farming background in a dry, mountainous region where "the land yields nothing but stones." I had never imagined leaving my village, thinking I would live a peaceful life in the quiet countryside. But all that changed when the war broke out. The French invaders disrupted the peace of my homeland and humiliated our people. Awakening to the call of the Revolution, I, like many other peasants, took up arms and joined the fight. I left behind my fields and my crumbling house, taking only the fervor of my revolutionary spirit and deep love for my country.

Upon joining the army, I met many others who, like me, came from humble farming backgrounds. One comrade in particular, from a poor coastal village, shared a similar fate. His family had always struggled with poverty. The shared hardships of our past bound us together in an unbreakable bond. During our time in the trenches, fighting side by side with our guns at the ready, and sharing cold nights under the same blanket, we became true comrades. I will never forget his words:

- You know, at home I still have an elderly father, a sick mother, and a wife with young children... I left them behind, but my heart aches when I think of our well, the old banyan tree, and the friends back home. I miss them so much!

His words mirrored my own, and the feelings of every soldier fighting against the French. I too miss my homeland deeply, but when our country is at war, there’s no room for personal peace. As President Ho Chi Minh once said, we could not tolerate the aggression of the French, and we had to fight for our nation’s survival. Our shared bond as comrades transcended all. We called each other comrades, and those two words embodied the deep connection that bound us together through every hardship we faced as soldiers.

My comrade and I overcame many trials during the early days of the war. I fell ill with malaria, but he tended to me with care, wiping my forehead with a wet cloth to reduce my fever. When I was shivering from the cold, he gave me his only blanket to keep me warm. Later, he too became sick from the same fever, and I returned the care he had shown me. How can I ever forget those days of hardship? Even though our clothes were torn and our shoes worn thin, we kept smiling, maintaining a hopeful outlook. We understood each other deeply. A simple handshake conveyed more than words ever could. Holding hands, we knew we had a comrade by our side, someone to share the burdens with and face the challenges ahead. That gesture of solidarity was more precious than any words.

If anyone asks me what my most cherished memory of comradeship is, I won’t have to think twice. It’s the nights spent waiting for the enemy in the silent forests, standing side by side with my comrades, holding our rifles, our spirits strong, knowing we had each other’s back. The sight of the moonlight in the mountains of Vietnam's northern border, as clear as a silver plate, lighting up the battlefield, is etched in my memory. Our rifles followed the moon's movement, and in that stillness, we were a perfect pair: "the soldiers, their guns, and the moon above." That moment of unity and comradeship gave us the strength to continue the fight, determined to secure victory for our homeland.

My dear comrade, together we have written golden pages in the history of our nation’s defense. From the Viet Bac campaigns to the glorious Dien Bien Phu battle, those two words – "comrade" – echoed through every soldier’s steps. Though the past is behind us, the legacy of that heroic era lives on in the stories of those who fought. It was the spirit of comradeship, born of our love for the country and our shared sacrifices, that led to our victory. This truth, this strength, is what carried us through the struggle against foreign invaders. The bond of comradeship was also vital in the struggle against the Americans, and even in times of peace. These two words, "comrade," hold such deep meaning and evoke strong emotions in me, a soldier who fought in the anti-French resistance.

After the victory of the autumn of 1945, just as we were beginning to savor the joy of independence, French colonial forces launched another invasion into our land. I, a humble farmer from a poor countryside, answered the call of national mobilization, leaving my home to join the resistance, determined not to let our country fall into enemy hands again.

Accustomed to the plow and the soil, it felt strange to hold a rifle in my hands. But driven by an intense love for my country and a fierce resolve, I overcame these hardships, guided by the advice of my comrades, to fulfill my duties with honor. We marched across many battlefields, with the moonlight lighting the way. Though we were inexperienced, I believed that with our patriotic spirit, we could overcome any challenge to secure our freedom.

In 1947, my unit participated in the Viet Bac campaign alongside many other brigades. Strangers became brothers, united by the same cause and the shared hardships of war. Our love for the country formed a bond between us, and we quickly became close comrades without even realizing it.

I met Kien under these same circumstances. He was a farmer from the coastal region, and soon became a dear friend. He confided in me about his longing for home, for his coastal village where saltwater met the fertile soil, a place of hardship and struggle. I shared my own memories of my poor village, where the land was tough and the people worked hard. Both of us came from humble farming backgrounds, with calloused hands and weathered faces. I still remember his kind, simple smile, which brightened even the darkest moments of the war. Despite the hardships, we had become fast friends, sharing everything from meals to our homesickness and dreams of peace.

We lived in constant deprivation. Our military supplies were scarce, and sometimes two of us had to share a single blanket. The Trường Sơn forest was a harsh place, full of sickness and danger. There were times when the entire unit was stricken with malaria, our faces turning yellow, our hair falling out. Yet, we never stopped smiling, never stopped encouraging each other. The cold winter wind cut through our rags, but we kept close, sharing warmth and strength to fight off illness and continue the struggle. On nights like these, Kien and I would often speak of our homes. He told me how he had left behind his wife, his children, and his elderly mother, to fight for the country. He missed the well, the village temple, the ancient banyan tree at the edge of town, and the familiar sounds of his homeland. Hearing this, my own heart would ache, and I could only offer words of comfort, not just for him, but for myself too, as we both longed for the comforts of home.

Despite all the hardships, there was always laughter in our camp. Once, when I was suffering from a bout of malaria, delirious from fever, I could hear my comrades calling for water and saw Kien's worried face beside me. His presence gave me the strength to fight through the illness. In those moments, it seemed that the bonds of brotherhood were the only thing keeping me alive. Eventually, it was because of the care and affection of my comrades that I survived, even though I thought I would succumb to the disease.

"Hey, are you on guard tonight? We'll get another chance to watch the moon together out here in the wilderness!" Kien said with a playful smile.

In the vast and eerie Trường Sơn mountain range, under the biting cold of winter, with frost and mist surrounding us, the shadows of Kien and I were cast by the moonlight. We didn't speak, but the silence was warm, as if the very moonlight was wrapping us in its embrace. We knew the road ahead would be long, and the struggle would stretch far beyond the horizon. But thinking of our flag flying high under a peaceful sky, of the joy of the people liberated by our sacrifice, and especially of the comrades who stood beside us through it all, all the hardships seemed to vanish. To live and fight for such a noble cause was the greatest honor a soldier like me could ever hope for.

With peace restored, my life has settled into a peaceful rhythm, surrounded by my children and grandchildren. However, whenever I reflect on the past war, my heart stirs as if everything happened just yesterday. Recently, my grandchild read me the poem 'Comrades,' and it instantly brought back all the memories of those years.

Back then, like many young men across Vietnam, I was filled with fiery patriotism and hatred for the invaders. Our once prosperous country had been ravaged by foreign forces, leaving us in poverty. My hometown's land was barren, full of rocks. Other villages weren't any better, plagued by saltwater and poor soil. All the young men of our village were drafted into the army to fight, leaving only the elderly and children behind. Joining the military was a dream for every young man at the time. Some even lied about their age just to enlist. Once in the army, I was assigned to a unit and sent to fight in the Việt Bắc campaign. That great battle brought glory to Vietnam, and I felt fortunate to have been part of it.

Those years were marked by intense bombardment and fierce fighting. So many of my comrades were lost. The grief was overwhelming, but I prefer to remember the bonds we formed, the comradeship that tied us together through thick and thin. My fellow soldiers, all from poor farming backgrounds like mine, became my closest friends. Perhaps it was our shared hardship that brought us together. We often spoke of home, of what we had left behind. One friend told me he had entrusted his house and fields to a neighbor before leaving. I wasn't much better off—my mother was old and frail, and I had to leave her in the care of neighbors. I know that now, even though she's gone, she must be proud of me. As young men, we were eager to fight, but deep down, we worried about our families. It was this concern for our loved ones that made us even more determined to fight for victory.

In the military, comrades became family. We shared everything: from the smallest bit of food to a single blanket to keep warm at night. I remember one of my comrades suffering from jungle fever. We pooled all the blankets we had to keep him warm, but still, I couldn’t stop the tears as I watched him shiver with fever. Everything in the jungle was scarce, including medicine, and we had to endure. Thankfully, my friend recovered. Later, he even tore off part of his shirt to patch up my torn pants. I am eternally grateful for that quiet sacrifice. On another occasion, when I was injured in the jungle, he held my hand tightly and encouraged me. That night, my comrades and I stood guard, with the moon hanging high above our rifles. That image remains forever etched in my memory.

Last year, I received news that one of my closest comrades had passed away. The sorrow was deep, but my old age prevented me from going to pay my final respects. Still, through this story, I want to express my gratitude to him. Without him, I wouldn’t be here today.

Friends, the peace we have now is a blessing. I consider myself lucky to be among the soldiers who made it back home after the long and brutal days of resistance, standing between life and death. Today, living in peace and independence, I still yearn to visit the hometown of my friend, my comrade, to see where they grew up.

I am the eldest of six siblings in a poor farming family, where my parents worked tirelessly in the fields, facing hardship day in and day out. I always dreamed that my hometown would one day prosper. As the war broke out, I enlisted without hesitation. Leaving my home, I believed that soon I would accomplish something significant for my country. Could I truly become a soldier, holding a rifle and fighting? The thought filled me with pride and anticipation.

In the army, I was sent to Vietnam's northern frontier—Vietnam’s most brutal battleground. The journey to Việt Bắc was grueling, and it wasn’t until I arrived that I fully understood the hardships endured by the soldiers who had been there before us. Among them was a young soldier, about my age, with a tall, lean figure and an energetic demeanor. I immediately approached him to strike up a conversation.

- Hello!

- Hi there!

He seemed a bit shy, offering a faint smile. It was clear we were both nervous. As fate would have it, we were assigned to the same unit, BK107. That night, unable to sleep, I found myself eager to become friends with this young soldier. I moved closer to him, took a deep breath, and whispered:

- The war is tough, huh?

He seemed surprised by my boldness, but I wasn’t fazed. I smiled to myself, looking at him with wide eyes, hoping for a response. This time, he seemed less reserved.

- Where are you from? Probably from the North?

- Yes, I’m from the south. I want our country to be independent! What about you?

Our conversation naturally flowed, and soon we were fast friends. We shared duties during the day and bundled up under one blanket at night. Standing side by side, looking into the distance, we both longed for peace to return. If not for the war, there wouldn’t have been any bloodshed, no tears, no cries waiting for husbands and fathers to come home.

The first time we met was unforgettable. Today, as we sit together, reminiscing about those tough times, we smile despite it all. In the harshest days of the war, we somehow managed to keep our spirits up. The years have passed, and we’ve grown older, with our hair turning white, but the sacrifices we made were well worth it. I pull out the photo album, reminiscing about our friendship, and we laugh and talk about everything in life. The bond we shared is unbreakable.

Reunited in peace, the friendship we forged during the war fills our hearts with joy. Though the war has long passed, the memories remain vivid in our minds. How could we ever forget each other, or the bond we shared? It’s truly remarkable!

After many long years of struggle, hardship, and sacrifice, the war is finally over. Today, as I sit in my humble home, in the peace of our nation, I look up at the bright full moon in the night sky. That moon reminds me of the nights I spent with my comrades fighting in the forests of Việt Bắc. Those were long, moonlit nights spent with my dear comrade, memories I still cherish to this day.

He and I first met in the battlefield. Both of us were young then, full of passion and energy. His homeland was a place of salty waters and sour fields, while my village was poor and rugged, where the soil barely supported crops. We both came from difficult, impoverished places. With our genuine, hardworking hearts, we quickly became close.

We were strangers at first, yet somehow, through fate, we found each other and became fast friends. Our bond grew stronger as we shared tasks together, side by side in battle. “Rifle against rifle, heads close together,” we went in and out of the most dangerous places on the battlefield. I still remember those nights we shared a blanket under the cold sky. That was the simple but profound friendship between us—true comradeship.

We both had the same goal—leaving our homes to fight for a better future. Despite our different origins, we shared the same dream: a free and independent country. During the nights we spent together, he told me about his village, how he entrusted his land to his best friend to tend while his home was left to be battered by the elements. He spoke of personal things, revealing his innermost thoughts to me. With each passing day, I learned more about him, and our bond deepened.

Together, we faced the hardships of war. At one point, there was a widespread outbreak of malaria in the jungle. Many of my fellow soldiers perished because no medicine existed at the time to cure it. We both suffered from fever, shaking with chills, our bodies soaked in sweat. His shirt was torn at the shoulder, my pants patched in several places. Despite the sickness, we stuck together, helping each other through the toughest times. Exhausted as we were, we kept smiling. Even in the cold, we grinned, not wanting to worry the other. Our smiles became the strength that carried us through. He gripped my hand tightly, encouraging me, giving me the strength to fight through the illness.

Eventually, we recovered and continued our duties. Those long, foggy nights in the jungle, we stood guard side by side, “waiting” for the enemy. Perhaps it was the warmth of our comradeship that kept us going in the freezing wilderness. During ambushes in the forest, we had one other companion: the moon. The rifle and the moon seemed distant, yet they complemented each other, much like our bond. In the biting cold, our rifles and the moon stood side by side, with the rifle ensuring the safety of that peaceful moon.

Now, our country is independent and peaceful. I can live without the fear of war. But at times, I find myself thinking back to those days in the trenches, thinking of him—the comrade who shared all those hardships with me. Everything I overcame as a soldier, I owe to the bond of comradeship. It is a time in my life I will never forget.