Part 7 – Three Paths That Crossed Once
May 1965 – Southern edge of the Annamite Mountains, near the Laotian border
The jungle crackled with tension.
The dry season had broken early. Leaves lay brittle under boots, and the wind carried whispers of things about to happen.
Private James Riley had been cleared for limited duty — but he wasn’t the same soldier who’d dropped out of a plane weeks earlier.
He walked with a slight limp now. Carried fewer assumptions.
And carried more silence.
When asked where his dog had gone, he only said, “Back home.”
No one knew that meant a patch of earth behind a mango tree, across enemy lines.
Then the orders came:
A recon unit had gone missing near Hill 327. The jungle was too thick for choppers. Boots had to go in.
James volunteered.
“I know the terrain,” he said.
The CO hesitated. “Your leg—”
“I can do it.”
They handed him a map. A compass. And two Vietnamese guides.
What they didn’t know:
Hill 327 was less than five kilometers from the clearing where Nhàn once hid him.
And Dusty once slept with his head across James’s chest.
They moved at dawn.
Thick fog clung low to the roots.
Every shadow felt like memory.
Every snapped twig could’ve been a rifle cocking.
By midday, the guides stopped.
Smoke. Faint. Recent.
James crouched. Took out his binoculars.
And saw them.
Three figures — one wounded — sitting under a camouflaged tarp. Brown uniforms. Viet Cong.
His blood chilled.
Then his breath caught.
One of them — the tallest — turned slightly.
James didn’t need the glasses to recognize the scar across the brow.
Quân.
The guides looked at James. Waited.
He didn’t speak.
He scanned the area. They were outnumbered if more VCs were nearby.
He could leave. Return with firepower.
Or…
He looked at Quân again.
No weapons in hand. A bloodied shoulder. The other two were barely conscious.
He thought of Nhàn.
Of taro and French grammar books.
Of Dusty’s bark splitting the silence between them.
He made his decision.
James rose from cover.
Lifted his rifle.
And shouted.
“Đừng bắn! Không bắn!”
(Don’t shoot!)
Quân jerked his head up, instinctively reaching for a weapon — but then froze.
His eyes locked onto James.
Recognition flashed like lightning.
Then came the silence.
The other two Viet Cong stirred weakly.
James took one slow step forward, rifle lowered, hands open.
“I’m alone,” he said. “I’m not here to kill.”
Quân narrowed his eyes. “Why come?”
James paused.
Then said:
“For her.”
They stared at each other.
No jungle. No flags.
Just two sons of mothers with tired hearts.
Quân took a long breath.
Then dropped his rifle.
James dropped his.
They didn’t shake hands.
But they didn’t raise their weapons either.
Dusty was nowhere in sight.
But somehow — they both felt him there.
In the wind. In the dirt.
In the invisible thread that pulled them back into each other’s lives.
That night, James didn’t return to camp.
He stayed in the jungle with Quân, dressing wounds, boiling water.
No one spoke of ideology.
Only of pain. And of people.
Before sunrise, Quân spoke first.
“She never knew. About me. I lied to her. Every time.”
James said, “She knew.”
Quân looked at him.
“She knew, and she loved you anyway.”
Quân’s voice broke. “I’m not what she deserved.”
“Neither am I,” James said.
They sat together. Silent.
The war raged miles away.
But here — for one breath of time — there was peace.
When the sun rose, they went separate ways.
James left behind a water canteen.
Quân left behind a folded leaf with something inside: a sliver of Nhàn’s handwriting. A torn corner of a letter.
Just four words.
“If you live — live.”
James returned to base alone.
When asked what he saw, he said,
“Trees. Fog. Nothing else.”