THE LOVE STORY OF AN AMERICAN SOLDIER AND A VIETNAMESE GIRL

A memory kept quiet for half a century, and still echoing through time.

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A Message Beneath the Photo

Last week, I posted a picture from a bike ride over the misty curves of Hải Vân Pass. Beneath it, a quiet comment appeared.

It was from R.I., an American who had once crossed that very road—in the 1970s—when he was a young soldier stationed at Monkey Mountain Microwave site in Đà Nẵng.

When He Was 21

Back then, he was just 21, far from home, serving in a war no one really wanted. And there, amid duty and dust, he met H., a local housekeeper.

He remembers her not just with fondness, but with a kind of reverence.

Because once—on a night thick with danger—she saved his life.

While he slept, a fellow soldier, gripped by addiction, stabbed him with a bayonet.

H. found him. She screamed. She called for help. She stayed.

And from that night on, she stayed in his heart.

Letters Across an Ocean

In 1971, he was transferred south, then sent home. But the letters continued—words carried across oceans and years. Until 1975.

That year, the thread broke.

The last letter he ever received from her bore a name and an address:

“N.T.H … Dong Kinh Nghia Thuc, Da Nang”

In it, she had written only one plea:

“Come back and take me with you.”

He wrote back. Many times.

Every envelope returned unopened.

Fifty Years in Silence

Today, R.I. is 72, living in Hana City, Illinois.

He says their love was innocent—gentle, never crossing the line—but it has haunted him.

Should he have told someone? Should he have looked for her?

Is she still alive?

Is she still waiting?

If he could find her, he said, he would do what he can to help her now.

I told him: sometimes, memories are sacred. If it feels too heavy to share, keep it safe—as a beautiful story only the heart knows.

Days passed. Then came his answer:

“Yes.”

A simple word. But I could feel the weight behind it.

A Trail of Traces

• The Son Tra Signal Station still stands, not far from the DRT Tower in Đà Nẵng—about 250 meters to the right.
• The road once called Dong Kinh Nghia Thuc is now Ngô Gia Tự Street.
• If H. is still somewhere in Đà Nẵng, she would be over 70 today—perhaps still near Chi Lăng Stadium, or maybe she returned to her hometown after 1975.

A Promise Kept

For reasons of privacy, I’ve shared no photos—neither of R.I., nor of H., nor of the envelope that carried her final words.

But I did send this English version of the story to R.I., and he gave his blessing:

Yes, let the story be told—

With names abbreviated, faces hidden, and memories handled gently.

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Mr. Old Man, 12/2022