A stone from the Spratly Islands
He never dared to imagine this: Now, he can "visit" Truong Sa every day. This is thanks to people bringing silver-colored coral stones from Truong Sa to the provincial museum. And he, whenever he wants, can come here, admire and reminisce about this sacred land in the far east of the Fatherland, which holds so many memories of his youth. He was a naval soldier, and had been away from the sea and the distant archipelago for more than two decades.
Twenty-one coral stones stood lined up like a troop of soldiers on the display platform... They were silent, but to him, each stone was a story, a life full of storms and hardships. This is Fairy. This is Truong Sa Lon, Truong Sa Dong, that is Phan Vinh. And here are: Nam Yet, An Bang, Co Lin...
He remembered a May afternoon long ago. His group of young naval soldiers were the first to land on a submerged island.
The waters of Truong Sa are incredibly blue. Sunlight shines down on the shimmering coral reefs. Stepping from the large ship onto the submerged islands, barely above the sea surface, our backpacks were soaked by the waves during high tide. We young soldiers, unfamiliar with the ocean and the sharp edges of the barnacles clinging to the coral reefs, stumbled and fell. And we laughed...
From then on, the most arduous and difficult days of their lives began. They had to carry each coral rock, stack them high, mix mortar, drive piles, and brace the pontoons. After three months of struggling with the ocean, a reinforced concrete floating house was almost taking shape when a storm struck... After the storm passed, only a few supporting pillars of the floating house remained. His entire platoon, from the platoon leader to each soldier, hugged each other and wept! The tears of these men fell into the Truong Sa sea, mingling with the salty taste. Then they started again. Carrying rocks, driving piles, mixing mortar, assembling formwork, bracing... His shoulders were calloused, his hands were calloused, and his feet were scarred by barnacles and coral cuts.
He placed his hand on the warm coral rock he'd brought back from Truong Sa. It seemed to be stirring... He heard the southerly wind. He heard the sound of the waves. And, oh dear, was he hearing things? Was it Minh calling? That afternoon, on the floating house, he heard the call fading into the distance, mingled with the sound of the sunset waves: "Help! Brothers! Help me!" The entire platoon rushed to the railing of the floating house: Out at sea, about 200 meters from the house, Minh, the unit's best swimmer, was being swept away by the current. He called, he waved... The tide was receding, sweeping Minh away even faster. Minh's shouts faded. In those days, our soldiers were still lacking in equipment; on the submerged islands, they didn't have a single boat or canoe. He rushed to the corner of the house, emptying his reserve water can, letting the water gush over the containers of water spinach. Then he and two other comrades grabbed plastic cans and rushed out. But it was too late. Minh had been swept far away, his arms flailing in the waves. The night sea descended. The platoon leader shouted for the men to return, and immediately drafted an urgent telegram to send out.
We stood slumped on the railing of the floating house, shouting until our voices were hoarse, tears streaming down our faces: "Minh! Minh! Minh!" The vast, deep ocean responded with the indifferent sound of waves. From that day on, every afternoon, after cleaning our weapons and watering the vegetables, we would stand on the railing of the floating house, gazing out at the sea, dozens of young men's eyes searching the horizon, nurturing hope... Many nights, in the middle of the night, I would startle, thinking I heard Minh's voice calling, and I would jump up and run to hug the plastic container.
Even much later, after leaving the army, returning home, getting married, and having children, he would occasionally have that dream again. He would jump up, rush to the corner of the house, sometimes even grabbing his wife's cooking oil can, intending to dash out the door. His wife would laugh: "Honey, it's not a combat alert! You've completed your mission, come here to me!"
But he thought: My mission isn't over yet! Because the promise to visit Minh's hometown and mother (they had agreed to visit each other's homes when they returned to the mainland) had remained unfulfilled from that day until now. Amidst the hardships and difficulties of everyday life, there were moments of stagnation, making him yearn for Truong Sa, his comrades, the moonlit nights of Truong Sa, or simply the longing for the mainland...
Twenty-one white coral stones stood solemnly on a pedestal covered with crimson velvet in the museum. Twenty-one stones, exactly the number in his platoon. And as if an invisible command came from the Trường Sa Islands thousands of miles away, he quickly walked to the end of the line, joining the ranks of these sacred stones symbolizing the nation's sovereignty. If each person were a small stone, the nation would forever remain strong, untouched by any storm!
The gray-haired man told me the story, explaining that after hearing that the coral stones representing the sovereignty of the Truong Sa archipelago had been brought back and placed at the Nghe An Museum, he had been "ideologically" persuading his wife to sell their pigs to raise money for travel expenses to "revisit Truong Sa"—as he put it. Afterward, he would take an express bus to Khanh Hoa, fulfilling his promise to visit the home of his old comrade Minh, who had died years ago. He promised to tell me the whole story when he returned...
Tran Hoai
