Son and Le were both young artillery soldiers during the resistance war against the Americans. They met by chance when Son was assigned to serve in Le's unit.
At first, Le didn't think much of him. To his eyes, Son was just a pale-faced boy from Hanoi - the kind of only child from a well-off family, brought up in comfort and far from hardship. How could someone like that possibly last out here? Le doubted Son's endurance, his skills, and frankly, resented having to work with him.
But as days passed and battles wore on, something in Le began to shift. The irritation slowly melted away. The frown he once wore around Son faded without notice. In its place came a quiet sense of ease. Working together no longer felt forced - even became something he looked forward to. Son had a way of lifting spirits, tossing out jokes whenever the mood began to dip.
Then one day, Le and his comrades received news that Son had been seriously wounded and taken to the Military Hospital for treatment. From that moment on, Le was never at ease. He felt like he was sitting on burning coals — restless, unable to calm down. More than once, he lost focus while preparing the artillery for targeting. Mr Mai, growing impatient, said:
- If you're not focused, how can we fire the cannon properly? Keep spacing out like this and the shot's going to miss.
Hung chimed in:
- That's right. And if you don't finish your part, the commander won't let you visit Son.
Hung probably knew Le was anxious about Son's injury, so he said that just to help him stay on task. Hung was the youngest in the group, but he was a quick learner - curious, book-smart, sincere, and deeply considerate. He once had a girlfriend - a sweet, gentle girl who meant the world to him. But fate was cruel. On a day like any other, she set out with letters pressed to her chest - and never returned. Captured. Violence beyond words. Torture without mercy. And in the end - death. She was only sixteen. When the news reached Hung, the sky cracked open. His chest - hollow. His hands - trembling. Life blurred. Nothing made sense anymore. But even in grief, he feared. Feared that more faces he loved would vanish into smoke. Feared that if he crumbled now, his homeland would fall with him. So he chose to live. Not for himself but for the people. For the country. And for the girl who could no longer walk beside him. He wrote a petition with trembling hands. He would volunteer for the front lines. His eyes lit with fire. His voice steady: "If there's wind, I'll block it. If there's hardship, I'll bear it." Bold. Too bold. The kind of courage that doesn't burn out - but burns on. Steady. Forward. Unshaken. The commander saw that in him. And so, Hung was assigned to assist the seasoned men at the gunlines. To carry, to watch, to learn. One night, someone caught him huddled in a corner, bent over artillery manuals. His fingers traced the curves of barrel sketches. His lips moved in a low whisper: "Range. Weight. Direction." As if every number was a thread to hold, every line — a life to save, every figure — a shot to shape. He was not told to. No one asked him to learn. But the fire in him needed form - needed something to anchor the ache. Impressed, the commander transferred him to Captain Ha's artillery unit - a place of precision, of thunder, of iron and discipline. And there, he met Le. A man not yet old, but already worn by war. Sharp-eyed, stern, and at first, silent. But war has a way of welding souls together. And soon, they were no longer strangers, but brothers under the same sky of flame.
Three months later, Son returned to the unit and saw his comrades again. Le's face lit up like sunshine after weeks of rain. His heart danced like a fish in flood season - alive, sudden, bursting with joy. But this time, fate had other plans. Le was being sent north to Hanoi, Son's hometown. And Son would stay behind in Nghe An, to defend the soil where Le was born.
- "Farewell!" Le said with a smile, his voice trying to stay light. "Take care of yourself... and don't you forget me."
Son grinned.
- "Me? Forget that grumpy face of yours? Not a chance."
Le's ears turned red. Before he could speak again, Son cut in:
- "When peace comes, I'll find you. Don't try to hide. Wherever you are - I'll come."
Something twisted inside Le. Longing. A pull in the chest. Warmth, deep and dizzying. He turned to leave with his unit. Then, as if the words had waited at the edge of his throat, he turned back and shouted:
- "I'll wait for you!"
They parted. Son watched Le walk away until he was nothing but a shadow, then gone. Only then did the tears come. Quiet at first - then flooding, like a river breaking loose from the hills. His chest ached
like a fish stranded on dry land. And truly, how could the world be bright when the heart was heavy? The sky grayed. The grass wilted.
Even the birds sang with a sorrow that clung to the trees. That day,
Le carried on his back a rifle, a promise, and a longing too big to name. And Son - Son folded all his feelings for Le into a corner of his heart, sealed, and kept. For months, Le waited. Not a day passed without him hoping for news of Son. At first, there were still scraps - a word or two,
a short note from someone who'd crossed paths with him. But then,
the war grew crueler. Bombs tore the ground apart. Too many were lost. And slowly, the messages stopped coming. Then, nothing. Le waited in silence. But silence never answered back. And somewhere far from that silence, Son was still alive - clinging to it, fighting in the blaze. In Le's hometown, Son stood among fire and thunder. The sky above Nghe An was never still - always streaked with ash, trembling with the roar of B-52s, the ground beneath his boots refusing rest. On nights when the shelling felt endless, when his lungs burned with smoke and the blood dried too fast on wounded hands, he closed his eyes and thought of Le. That smile, that voice, the way he'd said "I'll wait for you!" - it was all still there. Soldiers like him didn't fear death.
They had made peace with it. They fought not for survival, but for the land beneath their feet. But Son he still feared not seeing Le again. So he fought to stay alive, not just to defend, but to return. To find those eyes again. That face. That home.
- Hey—why are you here?
The voice came from behind, raw and cracking. A young soldier staggered toward Son, dragging what remained of his body. His left arm—gone. His right hand—shattered. Blood streamed down his face like sweat, soaking through what was left of his uniform.
- "I'm the gunner. Of course I'm here," Son said quickly, his voice tight. Then he saw him—really saw him. "God... What happened to you? Where is everyone? I'll call for help"
- "No." The boy gasped, breath catching like wire in the throat. "Don't guy. I don't have long. I don't know where the others are. I only saw you..." A grimace twisted his mouth. Blood poured steadily from the stump of his shoulder. His eyes shut tight against the pain, teeth grinding through it.
Son knelt beside him, frantic.
- "Stay still. I'll stop the bleeding. You'll get infected if we don't close it up."
His eyes darted around. Nothing. Ash. Ruins. Smoke. Then, there - caught on a jagged branch, a scrap of pink silk, flapping like a lost signal. He leapt for it, tearing it loose.
- "Got it!" he shouted.
And just as hope found a breath
BOOM.
BOOM...
CRACK—
A Message from the Author: The Hoang Sa and Truong Sa archipelagos are under the sovereignty of Vietnam.