A Frontline Nurse for the Vietcong

As told to Tong Thi Xuyen

March 21, 2017

For many in Vietnam, memories of what took place remain vivid. I recently visited Nguyen Thi Do, a former

nurse with the National Liberation Front, also known as the Vietcong. After 10 years of wartime service, Ms.

Do moved to Qui Nhon, a beachfront city in her home province on Vietnam’s Central Coast.

When I was 17, National Liberation Front recruiters came to my village, Lo Dieu in the Hoai Nhon District

of Binh Dinh Province. People in the region called Lo Dieu, about 130 miles south of Danang, a “cradle of

revolution” because everyone there was so devoted to the cause. They were enlisting everyone my age, and

so on Jan. 1, 1966, I became part of the revolution. I was so young and naïve that the only thing I could do to

help was to cook meals for officers and wounded soldiers at the military camp in the jungle nearby. The pot

was too heavy for me to carry, and when I cooked rice, I had to use a big shovel to stir it. But I did a good

job, so my boss decided I was ready to become a nurse.

After a few months of training, I was assigned to the 22nd Regiment. Even though my main job was

delivering first aid, I also hauled rice, and sometimes joined battles, fighting just like an actual soldier. No

matter who you were, your mission was to be devoted to contributing in every way to the revolution.

During the 1968 Tet offensive, the other nurses and I were on the front lines with the soldiers, treating

wounded fighters and civilians right in the middle of the battle. I’ll never forget seeing my comrade, a 22-

year-old medic from Yen Bai, die right in front of my eyes when an American bomb exploded in our small

bunker. He was just a foot ahead of me when shrapnel from the bomb ripped him apart as the roof collapsed

on us. A piece of the bombshell lodged in my head, and I lost consciousness. Someone must have found me

and taken me to the field hospital for treatment. My wounds healed, but I will never recover from the wound

in my heart whenever I think about my friend.

Once I recovered, I went back to working as a nurse, this time in a hospital behind the front, so I didn’t have

to go into battle. There was never enough food for our unit and our wounded veterans. Some days we had

nothing to eat but a fistful of roasted dry rice. We drank as much water as we could to fill our stomachs even
though we knew the Americans’ release of toxic chemicals like the defoliant Agent Orange had poisoned our

streams and groundwater. The alternative was to die of thirst.

After the Tet offensive, the war was so intense. At one point, 1,000 reinforcements joined our unit. But after

two days of fighting, all of them had been killed.

When my unit ran low on medical supplies, I was sent out alone on a daylong journey through the forest to

pick them up. My comrades at the warehouse gave me the supplies and two tapioca roots for dinner. On the

way back the rain poured. As it grew dark, I heard loud noises that I knew must be a large animal. I was

scared to death and stood motionless until it left. Then I walked on, my heart still beating fast.

Around midnight I hung my hammock just before another soldier on a mission appeared. But as we talked, I

began to worry. I was alone in the middle of nowhere with a stranger who had been away from his wife for a

long time. I raised my voice and began talking to him about moral values. “You are a woman,” he said, “but

so abrasive.” When a group of troops came marching past at dawn, I was relieved to be able to follow them

back to my unit. It’s hard to believe how strong I was back then.

The next day, after completing my mission, I was admitted into the Communist Party.

In 1972, I was chosen for a three-year doctor-training program. My companions and I walked for three and a

half months up the Ho Chi Minh Trail to Hanoi.

The leeches were the worst. There were so many of them, all along the way. We didn’t feel them sticking to

our bodies and would notice them only when they were so full of our blood they fell off.

It’s embarrassing saying this, but we didn’t even have enough clothes to wear. Everyone had two pairs of

dark clothes. We walked through the forest all day, and at night, we stopped to bathe in streams or rivers.

Then we changed and washed our clothes, trying to squeeze them dry so we could use them as blankets to

stay warm. Our body heat also helped them to dry more quickly.

Female soldiers didn’t even have underwear, let alone sanitary pads. We were so embarrassed every month.

Whenever we came to a river, we waited for the others to cross first, so we could stop and rinse off as best

we could.
We were hungry the whole way there. Sometimes we had to eat leaves, or roots. Our route took us past

communication posts where we were supposed to be able to find food for the next leg of the journey. But

often there was no more than tapioca roots. Once, in Quang Binh Province, we got a pack of dry food the

size of two fingers instead of just tapioca. I remember thinking, Life is still so beautiful.

When we finally made it to the relative peace of the North, we were greeted as southern brothers and sisters,

and everyone treated us so kindly. We were fed with shrimp, meat and vegetables every day.

During my third year of training, the South was liberated. I was so happy, I just wanted to go home right

away. My fiancé wrote to me telling me not to worry about finishing the course — just come home. This

time, I was able to take the bus instead of walking. The school paid me 50,000 dong, which is now only

worth $2.50, but at the time, it was so much money that I didn’t even know what to do with it.

It was only after liberation, when I saw Americans celebrating on television, that I learned that people in the

United States had protested against the war. Nowadays, more and more American veterans are returning to

Vietnam. Our two countries have had normalized diplomatic relations for years. Many Americans regret

what they did. I don’t have any feelings of revenge. I think national reconciliation is the most important

thing.

However, there is a problem that makes me concerned. The young generation in Vietnam now doesn’t care

about history, or about what their parents and grandparents did in the past. My 39-year-old son is an officer

in the military, but he has never asked about my story or shown any interest in it. I worry that when my

friends, my comrades and I are all dead, our history and our stories will die with us.