In loving memory of more than 130 of our countrymen shot dead by the VC forces in April 1979 at Truong Sa Island (the main island of the Spratly archipelago), and as a lone surviving eyewitness of the crime, I wish to present part of my memoir below. The victims were all freedom seekers, trying to escape on a boat, the Ong Co. Also, I would like to dedicate this writing to my beloved children—Chi Dung, Dong Nghi and Ti Ti. (Nguyen the Eyewitness)
***
“Oh, my Lord! Help me! Help me!” the woman lying next to me screamed in utter pain. Along with that fearful cry, I felt a jet of tepid liquid hitting my face. With reflexes of just one movement of the right hand, I wiped it off; but to my horror, I found my palm painted all red—warm blood from my female companion. To get a better look, I craned my neck and looked to the side—the woman was writhing in agony with a wound on one of her thighs: a bullet had torn the flesh open, with blood gushing in streams. I felt a lot of pity for her, but I couldn’t do anything to help, because I myself had to press my body as flat against the deck as possible to avoid shrapnel spraying all around.
Noises of firearms continued popping all over the place. Moans, screams, cries, wails, groans from the wounded were heard everywhere, creating a symphony of eerie sounds, sounds that marked the line between life and death. So thin was the line that existed just in a blink: one moment one heard cries, the next they sounded dead silent as new bullets hit human flesh. One person thus had left this world for good. Another went on groaning while expecting another round would soon rob him of his life.
Facing this situation, I mumbled to myself, “To survive you must abandon the boat at once!” Thus I quickly tried to get up and look around. The aft part of the boat appeared to sink slowly while her fore, already much damaged by shells, was raised upward. All around me there were blobs of blood and pieces of flesh scattered among countless immobile bodies. It was a real ghoulish scene of utmost fright, one that I had never seen in all my life.
All my nerves were blunted with fear, which almost made me collapse under my own weight. But my instinct for survival urged me to stand up and, as if with sheer inner force, I leapt over the side of the boat and plunged into the sea as an oncoming wave arrived and pulled me away from the sinking craft.
How lucky I was! Because almost at the same time as I hit the water, a mortar shell fell and exploded at the very centre of the boat, halving her in the process. The craft sank with an explosive whoosh, drowning all of what was left of her human freight totaling over 130 souls.
By now there was nothing left of the fatal boat except some flotsam and planks bobbing on the rising sea water. Around me now were bodies of men, women and children, young and old, all floating about. None of them looked unscathed; they were dead, apparently. On this daring sea voyage, I was perhaps the only survivor now struggling for life amid my dead companions.
Blood from the victims trailing their bodies moved and surrounded me as tides began rising higher. I shuddered to think of schools of hungry sharks that were lurking somewhere under the water. Having followed the smell of blood, they would come along with high tides, and reach me in no time. And although I was still alive, I would become a good bait to them, just like the other corpses!
I splashed forward, trying to grasp a plank nearby. Once taking hold of it, I clung onto it as a life buoy. Then with closed eyes I prayed to God while trying to cleanse by body and soul, waiting for Death. In those moments of despair, I instantly thought of my dear family and close relatives at home, all of whom might have never known that I would soon leave this body as food to sea predators. Adieu forever to all!
***
It was 3:00 a. m. The town of Nha Trang was still in its deep sleep. Lights on utility posts lining Nguyen Thai Hoc Street gave out a hazy light, casting my lone shadow onto the pavement. Carrying an inflated car inner tube as life buoy, I pretended to be an early swimmer going to the beach. (To this town’s locals, beach goers for a quick dip at this hour were familiar sights.) I quickened my pace toward the sea, hoping to be at the destination on time. When I reached the sandy beach, I stopped and looked around. It was all quiet; there were no souls about. With peace of mind, I dropped off the shirt I was wearing, keeping just the pair of briefs on. And then I feigned a few body warm-up movements to get myself ready for the swim.
From afar I saw a small fishing boat with her flickering light moving ashore. Again I made another final visual inspection of the surrounding before actually stepping into the cold water. With quite a few quick strokes of crawls I reached the boat, from where a pair of arms extended and pulled me onto the craft—after exchanging our passwords on the spot. Once aboard, I was told to lie low and not ever to sit up lest anyone would see me, until our arrival at our shelter on an island offshore. It then glided swiftly toward the Hon Tre Island.
Hon Tre is a large island, about 6 km offshore from the port of Nha Trang. Its sparsely population consisted of just a few dozen families, most of whom made their living by fishing. It served as a good shelter for fishing boats and fishermen whenever there were storms.
About over an hour later, the boat arrived at the mouth of a cave hidden on the far side of the island which, for anyone unfamiliar with the terrains here, was hard to locate. From outside looking in, I could only see a hole of darkness that the guide’s flashlight from the prow seemed unable to pierce. The boat slowly slid into the cave, and dropped me off on land here, a hiding place where I was supposed to stay until departure for a bigger boat tonight. A group of 5 men, all in the nude, rushed out to welcome me in. (Eventually I would become like them—naked, because of the cave’s unbearably hot and stuffy interior.) They had come here in the previous night, and like me, they had to stay here and wait.
By now the sun must have been up, but from the interior looking out, we just saw traces of weak light illuminating the cave. Thanks to this illumination, we could see each other, rather fuzzily, though. It was really a second-to-none scene of my whole life, seen with my own eyes. Here they were, five grown men, with nary a piece of cloth on their bodies, standing inside a cavernous den exchanging tales in low voice—for fear of outside detection. Actually, had we yelled to one other, nobody would ever hear us, because of the cave’s remote location quite far away from the general population.
The air in the cave became hotter as the sun rose high outside. It made me cast off the last piece of cloth on my body—the damp pair of briefs I had worn until now since arrival, forcing me to become an unwilling member of pre-historic communities, like my companions here at the moment.
Through the exchanges with these men, I learned that this hide-out was used as a secret ship engine oil depot, where the fluid would be brought in bit by bit day by day for this planned sea voyage. The oil quantity thus would increase by the day. As this was the final phase of collecting oil, these 5 men had to remain inside the cave all day to get everything ready for the expected embarkation onto a sea-worthy bigger boat tonight.
I was given a hand-pressed lump of rice and some sesame-salt mixture with which I was supposed to eat to ease my hunger while waiting until tonight. Lying down in the rock-strewn floor of the cave to rest, I pondered hard over the voyage tonight, wishing our Providence would bless me with success for this trip. My heart sank and moved me to tears as I lay here thinking of my far-away family and mulling over my uncertain future.
Night edged in. All of a sudden there were beams of flashlight coming from the mouth of the cave, and voices of men talking. The way they sounded proved that they were not organizers of our journey. All of us held our breath as we managed to press our bodies as flat on the rocky floor as possible without daring to move even our tired limbs a bit. We knew that from outside looking in and without ample light, one would see everything pitch black; we were therefore spared of discovery.
Time seemed to stand still as we lay there, waiting, breathless. We all released sighs of relief when eventually those intruders left without disturbing us anymore. According to a member of our group, they must have been just “night squids hunters.” As if to reassure us he added, “They must be getting lost themselves and just wandering into this area by chance.”
The fishing boat acting as liaison returned about midnight, bringing unwelcome news—we couldn’t be able to leave tonight because of some security reasons. All of us looked clearly dejected as we tried to absorb the news, but we had to resign ourselves to the delay all the same. We then got our food rations for tomorrow and kept on waiting.
Life in the cave in the ensuing day seemed endlessly boring while we waited in anxiety, without anything to do to pass the time. Eating in, sitting up, lying down, pacing to and fro to keep fit, etc., were just a few of our routines at the moment. Talking and conversing were strictly limited for fear of being discovered… One day and one night had thus passed us by; everybody was extremely anxious for news from the liaison guy.
Thick darkness again covered the entrance of the cave when the guy returned. Again with bad news—no departure and more delay. We all looked clearly nervous and anxious while digesting the information. The liaison couldn’t help it himself; he stopped by just to pass the news and bring more food to us and then left.
On the third night, the boat reappeared—in a much more hurry than before. Following it in close proximity were three more similar craft. We guessed our departure was imminent as we watched them filing in.
Our guess was correct for we were ordered first to help load all the collected oil and other necessities onto the 4 boats, and then to go on board, preparing for the trip altogether to the “larger boat” anchored offshore. D-day was finally here, I thought. So we took turns to transfer all cargo into the holds, and then we followed on board. We took up space lying down flat on deck and were covered with a piece of tarpaulin on top. The four craft got out in single file, leaving the cavernous chamber quietly for the big boat. About half an hour later we reached the big vessel that was in dock waiting for us at sea.
This vessel was actually a sea-faring fishing boat used by fishermen, about 15 meters in length and 3 meters in width. It was normally known among fishing locals as “the 3-block silver head,” an expression obviously derived from the power plant having a 3-block engine that ran the craft. All the engine oil was swiftly loaded onto it and we embarked hurriedly afterwards.
The boat weighed anchor and started off, reaching the normal speed of a regular fishing vessel, just like any others doing their job in the vicinity. I climbed on deck, looking for a place to sit. What I saw there startled me to the bone, because perhaps all other passengers had been already there, huddling together all over the deck. What a crowd!
Soon I lost much of my interest in the crowd. It felt much better to me as long as the boat kept on moving toward the open sea and heading for The Philippines. “In March even old women can go fishing offshore” was a literal translation of a popular adage among seasoned fishermen. It could truly applied to this sea voyage of ours tonight, because the sea was calm, glistening like a mirror while sparkling stars were dotting the crystal clear sky overhead.
After leaving the regular fishing area of this region for a long while, the boat took full speed ahead for the open sea. The sun began rising in the east horizon, gradually illuminating the scene on board. From the deck I could take a general look around. The most shocking thing I saw was the sea level as compared to the boat’s side—less than one meter away! Shocking because it meant that the ship was too much over laden. She appeared to labour forward under her own weight, pulling a load much more than what was allowed. There were people everywhere on deck—front, middle, back parts were all occupied.
The sun was rather high now on this early morning. The heat at open sea caused more than just mere irritation to the people here as some of them had already taken off their clothing or made full use of all available means to get some shade under the sun, which by now was shining terribly hard. The only spot that offered some comfort from the heat was the pilot cabin, but it was reserved for the ship’s owner and his family.
All compartments below, normally used to store fish catch, were stripped of their covers and used as heat shields. However, as the atmosphere there was both hot and stuffy, once in a very often while some passengers emerged on deck to get fresh air. Meanwhile some others on deck rushed down for relief down there. These alternate movements went on all the way of this uncomfortable voyage.
Cries of babies were heard here and there; they felt discomfort and thirst, obviously. The trip organizers then ordered water be distributed—grown-ups got 3 lidfuls each, while babies, 6, on the first day. Babies were given their share of water after every hour; grownups had to abstain longer. (Lidful=the amount of water filling the lid of a water can. )
As I joined the boat owner on the roof of the cabin, I had a chance to ask him about this trip. According to him, this sea escape had met with obstacles from the beginning because our point of departure was involuntarily revealed by those who had paid for the trip—with taels of gold. Their relatives got wind of it and kept a close eye on it in order to jump aboard on the sly. That was why we had to spend two days in the cave. On the third night he decided to depart at any cost for fear of discovery.
First the boat intended to stop by the “food store” to pick up paid passengers, whose number was expected to be near 60. However, he was in total disbelief to see, when she docked, people from every crack and cranny on shore rushed out to climb on board! And, not ever wishing the trip to be found out, he had to accommodate all of those unlisted voyagers however reluctantly. The total number of passengers was calculated to reach more than 130 then.
It was late afternoon; the wind brought some cold air in. A pod of graceful dolphins appeared and swam alongside our boat, offering a spectacular view. The red-hot sun soon slowly set at the horizon. Darkness followed, covering everything while the early moon dangled overhead. The boat’s silhouette appeared totally lonely in the vast expanse of the sea; man became extremely tiny and insignificant before Mother Nature.
Someone on board started prayers, which appeared soft at first and then grew louder afterwards. And almost at nobody’s cue, all others joined in, saying prayers in their own faith. The sea was totally blank, for no ships were spotted around as darkness prevailed, giving us some chilling fear. Meanwhile our lonely boat went on forcing her way forward. I was lucky to have the helmsman give me a grease-oil-stained tarpaulin to be used as a blanket. Some others nearby joined me by huddling within this cover to avoid the cold.
On the second day, the heat seemed more intense. The sun seemed to pour fire over our bodies, many of which already showed signs of sunburn. Babies’ cries were heard everywhere. Water, oh water, this liquid now was a prerequisite and needed be rationed. As a result, the trip organizers had to assign 4 able-bodied men to guard the supply for fear of loot. As babies took priority over others, their water amount was increased to 8 from 5 lidfuls; adults’ share fell to just one, though.
Another day had passed as night fell. Praying voices arose anew. Here and there someone’s vomiting sounded among the group of tired passengers who had to flex their muscles to brave the nightly chills at sea. Being subject to heat by day and cold by night, these miserable humans looked haggard as their resistance to the elements seemed to vanish. They passed the day fairly uneventfully, though. But by now they were apparently depleted of their strength. Each remained at his or her spot without caring ever to move around as before; they seemed to accept their fate and let the ship carry them to wherever she would care to.
A storm appeared at noon on the third day, though. Gone was the calm sea as gusts of wind approached in waves. The sky was overcast with black clouds fast coming in from afar while rows upon rows of white-headed waves could be seen rushing toward our boat. She soon lurched amidst strong winds and high waves. Every time a wave came and lifted her upward, an abyss too scary to look down at was born.
Our group on the cabin roof hurried down, because it was really dangerous staying there. It was noon time, yet it looked as though it were night time, because the surrounding was tar black. Perhaps feeling everybody’s anxiety, the ship’s owner reassured us by saying, “This is normal. Just a round of South Winds. South Winds to sea fishing professionals are mere daily meals!” True or false, none of us knew, but we passengers became very scared and moved about in disorderly manners as a result. The boat, already rocked by the waves, thus became more unstable, risking capsizing whenever more waves would hit her. Sensing the danger, the owner shouted at everybody, “You guys, sit still! Lie down! Stay where you are! Or the craft will overturn!”
As she faced up to adverse stresses all around, the ship creaked audibly, causing fear of her breaking into pieces soon. Her passengers, already terrified to death, became even more panic-stricken. Their wails, yells, cries sounded piteous as they gathered themselves into groups to seek common safety and support.
Rain now began pouring down, with increasing intensity. It created a huge milky screen enveloping the whole open sea. The boat kept on floating precariously up and down with the waves, acting as if she had wanted to toss her human cargo into the sea.
Because she couldn’t follow her intended course, she rode along the waves to avoid going under. Her main helmsman, the person holding hundreds of people’s lives in his hands, gripped the helm fast with his two aides’ help, trying hard to keep her steady. Preventing her from capsizing was in itself strenuous work at the moment; as a result, identifying and following correct directions were out of the question. The boat therefore appeared disoriented, letting the savage elements push and pull her about at will. Everybody on board could do nothing except citing prayers, resigning themselves to their pre-determined destiny or good luck.
The storm went on raging until the evening, wobbling our boat round and round on rough waters. Most passengers now had left the deck and climbed back to the hold to avoid being hurled into the surging sea.
The storm stopped as night came. Everybody tried hard to get up, feeling somewhat relieved from fear. Fortunately, all passengers were found safe although they had just been passing such a horrible time during the storm. Despite that, they felt no interest whatsoever to continue this perilous voyage.
“A light! A light! There’s a light over there!” someone shouted with excitement. Several others followed suit, thinking it were just a dream. Indeed, there was a light on the starboard side of the boat; it flickered, appearing off and on following her up-and-down movements. The helmsman steered her straight forward, heading towards the light. It looked so close, yet she took almost two hours to reach it.
As she got closer, her passengers could make out an island with lights on. It meant there were human beings living there. Everybody felt greatly elated, kneeling down to express thanks to God for guiding their ship to her destination safely.
She gained momentum, moving toward the island, but, alas, she stopped short with a loud, dull yet fatal thud! While her engines were revving up abnormally loud we heard the helmsman yell in despair, “A reef! We hit a reef!” He then spent all his skills and techniques to maneuver the ship out of her stranded location, but all to no avail. Breathing hard, he stood watching, with a helpless and dismayed look, as the prow was pointing slightly upward as if it were resting on something. I guessed she was sitting atop a submerged mass of reef. Meanwhile, rounds of powerful waves continued pounding the boat hard, as if they had wished to smash her into thousands of pieces.
Despite that, we all looked expectantly toward the island. From here it looked not too far away, about a few hundreds of meters at most. “We must leave the boat to look for ways to dislodge her,” someone suggested. So about two dozen able-bodied men, myself included, volunteered to debark and swim or wade inland, hoping to find help. We volunteers were then roped and dropped off board; we were supposed to swim with the rope until we could find some foothold, and from there, to wade in. Luck was with us as low tides had exposed visible ground, and we could walk inland. The seabed was covered with all sorts of sea urchins, clams, oysters and other crustaceans, which cut our soles, causing excruciating pain as we stepped on them.
Holding the rope and plodding in line, we reached the beach at last. To take rest we flopped lying down on the sand. While lying here recalling the storm I had just experienced, I still felt utterly frightened, and said quiet thanks to our Supreme Being for protecting and bringing us to safety here. Had it not been for this blessing, we would all have perished under the surging seas, I supposed.
After regaining some strength, we continued our way deeper into the island. As for me, still feeling rather exhausted after this ordeal, I couldn’t hurry to follow the others. I lagged far behind, becoming the last one in line of the group, as a result. All of a sudden, out of nowhere appeared several powerful spotlights pointing directly at our group, almost blinding our eyes. Then followed a human voice shouting, “Who’s there? Halt! What you guys coming here for?”
At first we couldn’t figure out what it meant clearly because of rustling ocean winds; besides, the dialect used sounded unintelligible to us at the moment, making us all mistake it for some foreign tongue, for instance, Tagalog, the language of The Philippines. We felt so happy, as a result, thinking we had reached the destination of our wish. How mistaken we had been then!
With our hands fully extended upward, we made signs telling the islanders that we came with good will as we advanced. The closer we got the clearer we understood that the language we had heard until now was actually Vietnamese, not a foreign one. We hadn’t been able to make it out at first, because the dialect used was Northern Vietnamese, which was hard for us Southerners to understand.
Then there were shouts coming from a loudspeaker, “Hey, guys! Halt now! Or be shot!” Oh, my God! We had drifted back into an island under Vietnam’s jurisdiction! So we stopped on the spot, while our hands were all up. Wishing to lie to the islanders in some way, and consulting with one another beforehand, we told them we were just freedom seekers on this voyage, one that Vietnamese government had semi-officially authorized. In doing so we had hoped that first, they would help us free the boat knowing this trip was sponsored by the state; second, if not giving help, they wouldn’t harass us and left us alone as we managed the move the boat by ourselves. Or worse, they could arrest us and send all inland to waiting prisons, in which case everyone would be safe—and alive. (At the time the VC did organize these trips to get teals of gold from those who wanted to flee to oversea countries, but they never publicly confirmed the fact. That’s why they were then accused of exporting boat people.)
The loudspeaker blared again, “All you guys, stand there! Right there! Wait for further orders!” Time ticked on, suffocating us with feelings of discomfort. About ten minutes had passed when suddenly, out from a dune in front came flashes of orange fire, followed by immediate rounds of machine guns roaring. Fully taken aback by the outburst, I glanced at my companions up front. I felt as if my eyes had been dazzled blind at what I was witnessing: blood spurted everywhere as bodies fell, coupling with moans, groans, cries of raw pain that seemed to upset the tranquility of the night.
“These VC are killing us…,” I thought as I managed to make frantic crawling moves away from our group, and then stood up and ran as fast as I could toward the sea. Some of my companions in the group, apparently wounded, followed suit; others could only make half way before collapsing and maybe dying there.
With all the strength left in me, I ran wildly to the sea, oblivious to cuts and stabs by sea shells as I stepped on them—I felt no sensation whatsoever at the moment. I plunged into the sea when I reached it at last. A few others in our group also made it back to our stranded boat.
We told our fellow passengers of what had happened to us volunteers inland. Of course, they had heard gunfire; they could not figure out what was exactly, though. Whatever it was, they thought, it must have been bad omens.
When we reported our ordeal in greater detail, everybody became frightened and panic-driven. All able men and young adults aboard were enlisted to get off and try to push the boat off the reef. But our effort didn’t much succeed, because whenever we pried the boat a bit away, she was immediately pushed back to her original position by strong waves. How could man’s power fight against Mother Nature’s!
As we struggled to dislodge the boat, there was again gunfire with shrapnel spraying in our direction. “Someone’s shot! Another’s wounded!” cries of fear erupted; followed were all sorts of shouts, yells, wails, putting the boat in a state of total chaos, with passengers each scampering toward any shelter available. But there was no place to protect us from gunfire on the deck of this poor stuck boat at sea, which appeared like a sitting duck to the cruel VC islanders.
Gunfire salvos had stopped, but sporadic pops were still heard. There were occasionally sudden cries for help from someone when his relative got hit. Only by living in this dire situation could one comprehend or grasp the full extent of cruelty, brutality, terror shown by the wicked VC against us, their victims. No pens ever could describe the severity of this inhuman onslaught.
Gun shots were still heard intermittently as we tried our best to move the stricken boat, but to no avail. Total failure it was. We were all dog tired because of hunger; our bodies went purple due to the cold. We then gave up in despair and climbed back on board, leaving our lives to fate or to whatever that might ensue.
Gunfire went on during the night as it claimed more victims. Pathetic cries rose whenever someone got killed. Somewhere farther away we could make out lights on another place, perhaps another island.
Morning gradually arrived as the sun rose in the east. There were wake-up clangs on the island reaching our ears. We looked at it expecting some sort of miracles to spare us further anxiety. The scene inland looked clearly lively with VC soldiers scurrying back and forth as their spouses and kids got out and stood watching our boat being whipped about by ocean waves.
Our women and children were asked to come on deck and kneel down, facing the island to plead for help. Here we wretched Vietnamese were kneeling and begging for pity from a group of other Vietnamese, entreating the latter to stop shooting at their own countrymen. Our beseeching voices could reach the sky above!
Throughout Vietnam’s history perhaps there had never been such a shameful scene like this one. But, oh, there was something, something encouraging and hopeful from there—for we could see hand gestures from the islanders. Such hand movements could be construed as they would welcome us inland; they made all of us here feel being reborn.
So women and children were allowed to leave first. To prevent them from getting drowned or lost at this waist-deep sea, we planned to use a long rope to tie each of them a few feet apart before letting them down to the water. A few young men volunteered to get down first to help with the tying. The first woman in line was supposed to lead this chain of humans as she slogged ashore. As a way to keep the rope duly secure, we onboard stood gripping its other end and releasing it bit by bit as the chain inched closer and closer to the island. We were truly nervous of watching its slow progress.
However, we didn’t see anyone inland coming out to help our people in when the chain was less than 100 meters away. Suddenly, gunfire was heard erupting again. Oh, my God, this time the shots appeared to be targeting the people whose bodies were tied to the rope. They were therefore sure to get hit and killed, because how they could be able to flee while being fastened together by this blasted rope! Apparently nobody survived in this brutal gun play by the heartless VC thugs.
Screams of agony, cries of pain, groans of fear from fathers, husbands reverberated around this scene of death as they witnessed their loved ones being cut down by gunfire. Remaining women and children on board were again asked to perch atop the boat and direct their begging bows, beseeching the gunners to spare their lives. Yet their earnest entreaty was met with other rounds and rounds of explosives. A woman in entreating position was hit and fell off her place into the sea as close by, some children were thrust backwards by sudden impact, dying with convulsions because of incoming bullets. Such atrocious, barbarous acts of violence could never be fully described in words.
By now the sun had risen high overhead. We could see clearly VC soldiers run to what must be a battery emplacement. Yes, there was a cannon there when they pulled away the cover revealing its long barrel, which they then lowered into firing position. The image of this heavy piece of artillery terrified everybody aboard our boat, causing immediate panic. Just one round of this heavy weapon would be enough to turn our boat and her load into ashes. Prayers again arose as we all got ourselves ready to die, because if the gun were fired point-blank at our boat, we all would have been killed instantly.
But then, thank God, the soldiers returned the tarp to hide the cannon while raising its barrel to its normal resting position. However, it seemed that they were about to do something else as they scurried about a lot. Ah, they were trying to assemble the base of a howitzer to its short barrel. Inhuman and cruel were these VC indeed—wishing not to waste a large projectile for this minor job, they opted for a smaller one to play their killing game.
Twang! The first howitzer round fell and burst just a few meters short of the boat’s prow. We had no sooner gotten back our senses than another exploded at her very prow. Human blood and flesh were scattered all over as salvos of other sorts of firearms roared in unison. Arms, legs and other human organs strewn over the deck while other victims convulsed in pain because of injuries. It was indeed a scene of human hell that displayed in front of my own eyes.
After hearing the painful and frightening cries from the woman lying next to me, I got up and leapt over the gunwales, plunging myself into the sea below. As an oncoming wave pulled me away from the boat, another projectile blew up her very middle, breaking her into two, and sinking her at the same time into the sea at high tides at the moment. (This is the scene I have described in greater detail above.) All in all the carnage lasted just less than an hour, counting from the time get-up clangs sounded on the island manned by these barbarous VC murderers.
Floating around me were people apparently dead; those still alive struggled hard for survival as they managed to cope with surging waters. Yet from the island the brutal murderers kept on setting their gun sights at them without any restraints. But thanks to the choppy waters, their heads and mine were not easy targets for those savage killers, thus we were spared as we bobbed about on the sea surface.
There were some survivors making great efforts to swim far away out of the hitting range, but when seeing them floating lifeless I realized that they had died of being shot at or of bearing too serious a wound on their body. By now the tides rose higher and the sea became less bumpy. It was therefore harder for us survivors to avoid becoming easy targets for those ferocious assassins inland. Looking around I couldn’t see any signs of human life—except my own.
Left alone, I strayed farther out of their firing range and became the sole human being fighting quietly for his life on this vast ocean. It was dead quiet all around me now… I closed my eyes as I said prayers, thinking of my family far, far away inland. And imagining that hungry sharks would soon arrive and I would die here of their attack.
The thought about those fierce sea mammals woke me up with sudden panic, forcing me to scan the surrounding. Oh, at a distance, a fishing boat was heading my way. At first, as I thought perhaps those wicked VC on the island had decided to use the craft to chase down and kill up all survivors, I wouldn’t dare to come near her. However, upon closer observation I found that she appeared strangely quiet as there were no signs of any activity whatsoever onboard. Then I felt relieved as I tried to reach her and climb onboard.
Once there I found several people, all in hiding positions. When they realized there was a stranger onboard—me, and mistook me for some VC, they entreated me not to kill them. As a way to respond, I dropped down on my back, sprawling there motionless, looking dead from exhaustion. After gathering back my strength, I asked them about their situation. It turned out that their escape boat had strayed into this area and been shot at as ours.
Theirs left the town of Phuoc Tinh (Ba Ria Province) days ago, carrying 11 men and 2 children—the sister was about 9; her brother, 6. These kids’ father was shot and lying dead with the broken head at the prow. Of victims, there was a young man with fatal wounds on the upper part of his body, to which his two arms were connected only by thin pieces of skin. Looking at him lying and breathing weakly in the boat’s hold, I thought he couldn’t stay alive long with that sort of serious injury.
While the boat, which now became mine too, was floating aimlessly, 4 other survivors from the craft attacked and sunk by the VC previously, The Ong Co, managed to climb aboard. The total number of survivors then, from the two boats, reached 16, while more than 130 other unlucky people were shot dead and buried in the cold ocean.
Our boat went on idly at sea, leaving this dangerous area further. It was about 10 o’clock in the morning. The light helped us make out an island not far away, at her port side. We then realized that we were somewhere in between two islands. This was perhaps the place whose flickering lights we had seen in the previous night, the night of the massacre.
We decided to leave these two islands as fast and far away as possible because of present and expected danger. This move turned out to be a very bad mistake that we had to pay with a high price. (This would be dealt with later on in this writing.)
We had to use oars to propel our boat out into the open sea, because her engine oil tank had been punctured by shrapnel, leaking all of its content, rendering her engine useless. Having changed their directions, sea winds now pushed our poor craft into a seeming indefinite void.
This boat was a small one, 6x2 meters in dimensions, normally used for fishing close to shores. Yet she had been able to carry her original 13 passengers this far, over hundreds of miles to this area—only to suffer the same fate as ours.
Late afternoon inched down in this quiet space. There were no other boats about except our own lonely craft apparently lost in this vast ocean. When night came we made another fearful discovery—the bottom hull of our craft got a leak, letting a lot of sea water in at an alarming rate. We then had to find ways to plug the leak by assigning two-person teams taking turns to keep watch and bail water out continuously. Fate of her 16 passengers seemed to hang on the two on duty; if for some reason they fell fast asleep or became too tired, the craft would sink, taking everybody down with her. But we couldn’t help it, because all of us were all spiritless and exhausted after having passed a very painful event. “May God bless us all,” I said to myself.
Another night full of worries had passed us by as we co-existed with a cadaver, on an area so narrow like this small boat. Common hygiene was then raised—what to do with the corpse lying up front? It was really a pity to look at the dead man’s two children: their insistent wails moved us to tears, asking us not to drop their dear father off into the ocean when we suggested a water burial. We had to go along with their wish for the moment, but on the third day, we did have to send him to his submerged tomb without their knowledge—just for the common good of everybody on board.
When they later found out the truth, they cried non-stop as their faces contorted with teary sadness. All in tears ourselves, we could do nothing but try our best to calm and soothe them down. Meanwhile, the young man’s condition down in the hold deteriorated badly as his wounds became rotten flesh due to lack of proper medical attention. We knew he couldn’t make it, so after taking care of the children’s dead father, we decided to give him a last meal on earth by preparing some hot porridge with some sugar stirred in. It was me who fed him spoon by spoon. During this final meal, he kept on begging me to help keep him alive. Unable to bear listening to him imploring, I wept as I tried my best to console him, saying everybody would soon be saved.
We found him lying motionless the next morning; his body looked deadly pale because of blood loss. As we carried out another unusual burial, we said prayers in hushed voice wishing his soul be welcome in Heavens.
More than a week of living afloat at sea had gone by. It was rather extraordinary that we didn’t see any merchant ships moving about in this area during all that time. We must have been getting lost in a dead sea. What an unthinkable possibility! After our ordeal, a few kilos of rice for simple porridge that could barely sustain life had at last run out, while potable water had dried up since noon. This gloomy situation would surely leave us all in a constant state of demanding thirst and gouging hunger.
One such day had already begun as similar times loomed large ahead, with no end in sight. All we could do now was to pray for the best, but we knew at heart that all human beings’ lives be safely, orderly and fairly pre-arranged by our Almighty God while Man, just an indefinite nothing in the Universe.
Another day of thirst seemed to make our skin burst into smoke, our lips chipped with lines while our minds were always obsessed with food and drink. The two children of course were not spared of this scourge: they went on talking of food their mother used to prepare for them at home and of the favorite drinks they had enjoyed. What a pity watching them! Meanwhile, everybody turned delirious just because of thirst and starvation.
Perhaps our prayers had reached the Heavens as it rained hard that afternoon. Ah, those drops of water, sweet dew from the sky; how refreshing they were! They cooled our bodies and minds as we opened up our mouths to welcome in the precious liquid. Spare cans were taken full use of on deck to collect and save the water.
The rain brought another problem to us, though—our boat was flooded. All hands together helped bail water out, saving her from sinking. Luckily the downpour didn’t last long. And even luckier for us since today until the time we were rescued later, there were short rains every few days.
Thirst thus had been solved. What about hunger, we wondered. We discovered that in reality we had nothing edible left on board. Shortage of food had turned us all into emaciated bodies; so skinny that we became truly skeletons that crept, beings that were unable to walk erect steadily.
One day I sneaked down into the engine compartment, trying to look for something eatable. I found a root-beer bottle that, at first sight, I thought it was some bottle of machine oil or grease left behind by mechanics. But I picked it up all the same and tested its smell. My nose was engulfed at once with a sweet odor that flew up to my brains as my olfactory nerves seemed to dilate to the full to absorb such a wonderful smell, the smell of thick fat that it turned out to be. True, it was a bottle of pork fat that fishermen used to fry food with on board.
I dipped one finger into the fat and sucked it hungrily. Ah, my, what a tasty tidbit, one that I had never had any chance to enjoy. With somewhat total abandon, I went on licking that gooey and delicious liquid until suddenly images of my poor companions on deck, especially of the two pitiful kids, flared up in my mind.
I climbed up on deck with the bottle, without stirring much attention as everyone seemed languishing there in a semi-conscious state. To the two youths I crawled and, using my index, I scooped up a bit of fat and inserted it into their mouths in turns. Wow, just like a dose of miraculous cure, the greasy substance seemed to revive them quickly. Motioning them to calmly enjoy the treat I doled out until they regained some strength, I poured out some of the stuff in to a small plastic bowl and handed it to them. With the remainder in the bottle, I used a chopstick to dip in and then, calling everyone over, I gave it to them to suck or lick. Thanks to this pork fat we all had a yummiest feast in life, after taking turns to consume all of it in the glass bottle.
And thanks to this little nourishment, the small boy could regain some energy to play with the tiny portable radio that had been damaged by sea water. While he was toying with it, it broken open, exposing some pieces of wire. With some ingenuity, an elderly gentleman fashioned the wire into fishing hooks. Using some fishing line readily available on board and barnacles pried off the boat as baits, he tried his hand at angling at sea. The result was a surprising encouragement—he caught two palm-sized fish on his first try. With wood chipped from the broken mast, he roasted them and shared them with us—thank God, we still had a working lighter on board!
Since then we took up the job of chopping wood to keep the fire going while he did the fishing. Whenever he got some more fish, he divided them equally among us, each receiving a substantial piece. Of course, there were days he didn’t catch anything, in which case, we all went on drinking rain water to keep hunger at bay.
By now we had been travelling to nowhere at sea for almost three weeks without spotting any merchant ships nearby. On late afternoons, we would lie down on the prow, expecting signs of ships passing by. Watching albatrosses swooping down for a catch, I felt totally desperate. Never did I imagine my life would soon end in such a tragedy as what I was experiencing now.
The scariest thing was when night approached, with darkness about to cover everything around with its spooky black veil, while Death seemed to lurk about somewhere. Or when there were storms, in which building-tall waves would lift our boat up high and bring her down low, scaring us to death with such repetitive cycles that would go on for hours on end.
Our lone existence on this vast ocean lasted until the third week when we spotted a ship for the first time. Nothing could describe our wild joy when we saw it coming—we yelled, shouted, and screamed for help, thinking the noise would get her attention and then we would be rescued. But, alas, the ship went on cutting waves and moving her way fast, without any heed of our presence, although the distance between her and our boat was quite short. In fact, it was so close we could see sailors gathering on her deck to watch us with curiosity.
The ship having disappeared at the horizon, I experienced a feeling of great disbelief and a sense of total loss. How could this be? How in the world could there be such unscrupulous people? Seeing their dying fellow men without trying to help or save them? All those questions turned round and round in my mind until I fainted of complete exhaustion and sheer disappointment.
Now there was another ship appearing from afar. A few others and I hurried to the top of our boat, signaling our presence, but like the first one, she gave us the cold shoulder and left while we kept on crying hoarsely for help until exhaustion. From then on, we could see tens of merchant ships crisscrossing the area, and yet none stopped to give us a hand. Once we even witnessed a US fleet that was perhaps conducting combat exercises, with jets taking off and landing on an aircraft carrier. I gathered from these facts that we were somewhere near The Philippines.
On the thirtieth day at sea, we all felt burned out from frustration; we had no more energy to cry out for help as several merchant ships passed us by, watching us die rather than helping us. Fed up with expecting naval saviors, I clambered onto the roof of our boat, lay sprawling down, and cast indifferent eyes toward a ship that happened to move past us at the moment. She had Japanese characters on her side and carried giant logs, so huge were these woods that their diameters could reach meters wide. And like many of her predecessors, she overtook us and then moved straight ahead. I couldn’t care less about following her, because I became too tired of this show of nonchalant behaviour of the world.
About two hours later, I was startled to hear a ship siren while watching the sun setting down. The siren reverberated long and loud, stirring up the calm sea at the moment. I sprang up at once and took a look. Ah, the ship laden with wood that we had seen this afternoon returned and headed our way.
Oh, thank Almighty God! When she came closer we could see her sailors busily preparing ropes and life buoys for an important rescue operation. She slowed down and conducted proper maneuvers to avoid overturning our tiny boat with her moves as she came ever closer to us. Using her huge bulk of a ship, she blocked the waves that rolled our way, just like a loving mother that tried to protect her frail child with her warm embrace.
When we were at a proper distance, the sailors threw down a rope, with which we were supposed to tie to our boat. Thanks to this link, they pulled us closer and closer until our tiny craft almost touched her tall side, from where rope ladders were dropped down. And with their helping hands, we all took turns climbing these dangling steps safely on board. Once on her deck, we all plopped down, stretching out, lying motionless, for all our energy had been spent clambering the ladders during almost two hours of physical exertion.
Our puny boat was then pulled along behind this behemoth of a merchant ship; however, perhaps for security reasons, the rope link was soon cut off. Looking at our poor little fishing boat, one that had borne us through all kinds of hardship now sinking into the deep sea, all of us, without any outside prompt, burst out crying and said adieu to her at the same time.
When night came on board the savior ship, we were treated with chilled drinks, a type of regular Korean drinks with a sugary taste. We experienced indescribable feelings as we held the glasses but did not dare to sip their content right away. We became too happy of being rescued to enjoy the drinks, maybe. All of this seemed to take place only in dreams.
The next morning for breakfast we were each given a bowl of thin porridge to be eaten with soy sauce. We ate it as if we had never been able to eat before, but our saviors wouldn’t let us eat much more, lest we would suffer from indigestion. Still, some of us threw up on the spot after eating because of overfilled stomachs.
We learned later that our savior ship was a charter vessel belonging to a Japanese shipping company, with a Korean captain and crew. She was carrying wood on her way from Pakistan to Okinawa, an island on the southernmost tip of Japan. Her pilot then told us of the scenario involving rescuing our boat as follows.
In the afternoon on the previous day when we spotted her, he saw us himself and reported the fact to his captain, asking for a rescue plan. However, the captain said he was not allowed to do anything with boat people, or all of the ship’s crew, himself included, would be fired. The pilot insisted, saying he was ready to get sacked, for he didn’t feel it right when seeing people in distress without making any effort to help them. He added that, according to new meteorological broadcasts, there would be a big storm that night that could for sure sink the tiny craft along with all her passengers.
The captain at last agreed to the plan while trying to contain himself with sobs of pathos. The location of our fishing boat at the time was about 60 km from the island of Luzon, The Philippines. It was worth stressing here that, had we even survived that storm, we would have floated into the Indian Ocean because of changes in wind directions. Once there in that area, we would stand few chances of being picked up, because merchant ships didn’t use that ocean as their regular passages.
We briefed the captain and his crew on board on our fearful and daring sea escape from the VC. Our briefings reminded him of similar accounts from some survivors of this very escape he had heard on the news, urging him to wire inland at once on our saga. It turned out that on that terrible night when we were massacred by the VC maniacs, our 8 men saw lights on another island not far away from our grounded boat, just a few miles off. So, instead of staying waiting for sure death, they quietly took full use of empty plastic can on board, used them as buoys, and swam towards the lighted island, hoping the best.
How lucky they were, for the island belonged to The Philippines! They were rescued and sent inland during that very night. Because the Filipinos stationed on the island had heard gunshot and seen flares throughout the night, they sounded alarms and got ready to rescue more boat people if more were to come. Yet, they could do nothing else to intervene or help as the island where the mass killing took place was under Vietnamese administration. In short, while we on another fishing boat had been floating aimlessly for a whole month, there were 8 others from our same boat, The Ong Co, being rescued thanks to their wise and lucky choice—heading for the Filipino island.
Getting the wire from the captain, the Japanese Ministry of Interiors agreed to let us in when the ship docked at Okinawa. The captain was happy to inform us of the news as he congratulated us on our safe escape.
We reached Okinawa three days later. The first person greeted us on board was a Vietnamese-Japanese interpreter, named Nguyen Gia Hung. He went to Japan as a student before 1975, and at the moment he was working with the Japanese Caritas Program, whose job was to help Vietnamese refugees in Japan.
We were deeply moved, appreciating the fact that we were re-born right here. Loath to say good-bye and ready in tears, we shook hands with all our benefactors on board before leaving for administration offices on land, where we were supposed to fill out forms reserved for refugees. Appearing to suppress their emotions, our Korean rescuers saw us off at the gangway.
There was a mass of people from the Japanese mass media and from international news services present at the wharf waiting for us as we stepped down onto it. A news conference was set up right on the spot by helpers and interpreters from the Free Vietnamese Association in Japan. At this event we tried to answer all kinds of inquiries from journalists, reporters as video crew and photographers busied themselves with doing their jobs.
We were then bused to the refugee camp in Motobucho Precinct, one considered the largest of its type for Vietnamese asylum seekers, where there were at the moment just about 300 residents waiting to be processed and then resettled in a third country.
On the next day, all major Japanese TV networks broadcast news and pictures or video clips of our group while newspapers carried bold headlines on their first pages, accompanied by stories about our frightening sea escape, detailing all the atrocities committed the VC bastards against us, and about our 30-day ordeal living afloat in a weeny fishing boat on rough seas.
Holding a daily and looking at my own picture printed there, I was unable to recognize the man that used to be me. Instead, what I was gazing at was a smiling, full-clad skeleton, whose oversized skull stood out on top, and was adorned with a set of two deep eye sockets above two rows of white teeth! What sadness I felt looking at it! But at the same time I couldn’t stop some drops of quiet tears from rolling down my cheeks. Tears of happiness they were now, for I knew I had survived.
***
Communism is indeed mankind’s gravest tragedy. Since its inception, it is proven that it has killed countless helpless people as their victims. My freedom-seeking sea voyage to escape the VC, one full of terrors and calamities, is just another example among thousands of similar others in their huge collection of crimes against their own people. What concerns me now is that Viet Nam and her people are flooded with all sorts of hardship caused by the present dictatorial and authoritarian communist party of Vietnam, or the VC in short. The only way to save our homeland and her people is to abolish this barbaric party of evil rulers, because it’s no use talking of concord and reconciliation with these communist goons, who are only interested in clinging to and wallowing in their self-proclaimed rights and privileges without ever a care for their own despondent and poor fellow countrymen.