(A News and Sentinel Op-Ed - Photo Illustration - MetroCreativeConnection)

This memoir was written by my Vietnamese late wife of 46 years, in 2000. Her home was in Go Cong, RVN, located in the Delta region, and these memories are probably from about 1943. Presented here is a perspective never found in the history books.

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The Japanese friend

I do not remember when it happened or how the men came to my little home town. I was in the second grade.

One morning when I came to school, I heard strange noises coming from the building behind my school; noises of strong feet stomping on the earth and noises of angry shouting. I ran to my classroom, to the opened windows.

Across the yard, beyond the well-trimmed green hedge, a myriad of men in some sort of uniform were doing some type of military drill. By that time, several or maybe all of my classmates crowded around the windows. We were dumbfounded watching and whispering, eyes big like dinner plates.

The men were lined up in rows in the courtyard on the front of the building, which was used before as a town center for local government meetings. After lining up in straight rows, they started turning left, turning right in unison yelling something we did not understand.

One man who stood apart in front looked different — his uniform was better and on his shoulders and the collar he wore colorful “stuff.” He chanted while one man in the group stepped out, tied the flag and raised it up. The red round huge plate in the middle of the white flag stood out in the blue sky, fluttering in the breeze.

The men did some more yelling, chanting and stomping, then dispersed into small groups talking among themselves. They spoke some kind of language which we never heard before. Later our teacher explained to us that those are the Japanese soldiers who took the building and set it up as their command post. They’re the enemy invaders and to stay away and not even look at them.

I was intrigued by those strangers who looked like us, “orientals” but must be from a “far away country” and speak “funny words.” I was a real tomboy then and my curiosity surpassed my fright and I forgot my teacher’s warning. During breaks, I often watched those men going in and out of the building and especially in the mornings when they raised their flag. The red plate in the center of the flag sometimes looked like the morning sun. Later I read in a book about the Japanese that they are very proud of themselves because they are sons and daughters of the “sacred sun.”

Twice a week, after raising their flag, the soldier would come out into the yard to practice some sort of stick fights. Men wearing white jumpsuits, metal masks on their faces, and helmets on their heads paired off and used long wooden sticks with both ends covered with thick pads. They jousted each other and tried to hit their competitors with their “broom handles.” Their games mesmerized me. I thought they were smart to use wooden sticks instead of real sabres — those hits could hurt them. One man stood out among them. Whenever he saw me watching, he smiled, waved and said something. He was the man with the fancy stuff on his uniform. I learned later from the cook, who was Vietnamese, that he was an officer.

Not long after, I found myself crawling through the bushes and ran to meet this nice man with friendly smiles. He showed joy in his face and I thought he was glad to see me.

The cook was the translator, but every so often he had to use gestures and facial expressions to get his point across. The officer “told” me that he has a daughter about my age back home and he missed her so much. From then on, I visited him regularly and finally I even invited him to my house and introduced him to my family. He taught me some greetings in Japanese and brought me toys and candy. He told us he was homesick and missed his family. My parents felt sorry for him and ignored the neighbors whispering about us associating with the “enemy.”

Then World War II came to an end. In Europe, the allies gained back countries which were occupied by Germany earlier. In the East, the Japanese surrendered after two atomic bombs were dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. My father explained to us afterward, my friend and the other soldiers laid down their arms (weapons) and marched out of town under the watchful eyes of allied (French) soldiers. My parents said many Japanese would kill themselves because they had lost the war and they were too proud to be captured as prisoners.

I was confused. Too young to understand wars, to understand the brutalities and the many ugly faces of wars. All I could think of was that suddenly I lost a good friend, a nice family man who had to be separated from his loved ones to serve his country for a mission he may not have wanted to accomplish.

I pray that he was not going to kill himself, and returned to his family and his homeland.

Kieu Ngo Hickel