anh hùng
It was raining. Big, fat, dark droplets of rain poured down relentlessly, painting the world in a blurry shade of gray. The sky was unforgivingly black and murky without even a slight trace of a cloud. I’ve only seen two kinds of rain so far in Vietnam. Rain that forebodes catastrophe and rain of hopelessness and surrender. This was the latter. Droplets were pounding down from the dark sky, steadily pooling up into trenches, soaking into camouflage patterned trousers. They mixed with red on the ground to form puddles of a pretty shade of rose. I stood there for a moment, a plastic box gripped tightly in my trembling hands. Slowly the world turned quiet and I shut my eyes tightly, forcing my feet to move forward step by step. Suddenly, a harsh nudge to my shoulder woke me from my state and I swiveled around in surprise. I almost cried in relief to see a familiar face in all the mess of terror and chaos. Marsha Four was my mentor, my companion, and safe haven. I stared up at her ...