When people are unconscious time has no meaning. When I finally awoke, I had no idea how much time had elapsed, nor did I know where I was. The brightness shining in through the windows and the trees standing tall outside made it clear that I was no longer at Warehouse No. 203. A young woman, mouth covered with a surgical mask, expressed surprise and happiness at my awakening; her accent made me think that I had returned home. She told me I hadn’t, however. Rather, this was the military hospital near Hanoi; I had been here a couple of days already. She pulled down her surgical mask and spoke. ‘I’ve seen your records. I know you’re from Lạc Sơn; I’m from Duy Phổ.’

Her home town wasn’t even ten kilometres from my own. It boasted a well-known zoo; every child in Lạc Sơn had visited it. Before the war, I actually had an older cousin who worked there. When I told her his name she broke down in tears. It goes without saying that she knew him, and that he had died in the fighting. Apparently he had fallen during what the Americans called the Easter Offensive. Two months earlier they had actually been part of the same convoy, and that was when they got to know each other a bit. War brings all kinds of people together and forges friendships; now I too had become her friend … her name was Ngọc.

Ngọc made sure that I was well looked after, that I received proper treatment for my illness. At her behest, a doctor by the name of Blanchet, the son of British parents, checked in on me every couple of days, repeatedly adjusting my treatment. Blanchet was the head doctor of the hospital and so he was responsible for looking after a great number of patients. More and more came every day, all returning from the front, all wearing uniforms adorned with various insignias of rank, all having served in the most difficult of circumstances … And then there was me, a regular tuberculosis case; no doubt Blanchet’s concern for me was the result of Ngọc’s efforts.

Besides ensuring that I was well looked after, Ngọc also made sure to combat my loneliness. Because I was suffering from tuberculosis, very few people wanted to be near me – in fact, they had placed me in an isolation ward. During the cold winter days, this particular ward was boiling hot, but even that couldn’t drive away my dreary solitude. Only Ngọc could do that. She’d often come round to chat – day after day we’d talk of home.