“Is it true that drivers like you know a lot of people?” Nguyet said, repeating her question.
“Drivers like me are like migratory birds who live temporarily in different forests,” I said. “Our friends are the roads and the moon.”
I had no clue how I was able to be so poetic all of a sudden.
It was well after midnight by the time we reached the Blue Stone Bridge. By this time the moon had disappeared. We stopped chatting. I turned on the light and said, “From here on the enemy’s planes are often on patrol.”
“Don’t worry,” Nguyet replied. “I know this road well.”
She showed me the way to the underground tunnels. The road was muddy and zigzagging, especially since I had to swerve the truck to avoid bomb craters. I paid close attention and drove carefully. I could feel the truck leaving huge, muddy tracks in the road. A few times the front wheels got stuck in a ditch off to the side, and Nguyet had to get out and help guide me back to the road. I put the truck in high gear and slammed my foot on the accelerator; the cab became heated and the front wheels spun frantically and gave off a burning smell as they slammed against the rocks.
Nguyet looked at the road and said, “The enemy keeps bombing this area. The road is still in very bad condition even though we keep filling the bomb craters with rocks.”
I squeezed my hat in my hand and wiped the sweat from my face. I thought about having to say good-bye to Nguyet.
“Let me know where you want me to stop for you to get off,” I said finally.
She could have gotten off at the first security checkpoint, but she wanted to accompany me until I crossed the river. She laughed. “It’s very kind of you to give me a ride. How could I leave when you still need my help?”
I tried to make my tone serious as I responded, “Even if you had gotten off at the security checkpoint, I would never think you were the type of person to abandon your friends in a difficult situation.”
“How do you know?”
“I just do.”
We continued on. Soon I noticed water up ahead. A few days earlier, torrential rains had flooded the Blue Stone Bridge area; the water was over a meter high. I could hear water bubbling up into the truck’s exhaust pipes. The truck rocked violently back and forth like an aggressive buffalo bathing in a river. The headlights shone on the water in front of us. Then the truck stopped moving altogether. We were stuck.
Suddenly, Nguyet jumped down from the cab.
“What?” I asked, confused. “Is it enemy planes?”
“Let me listen for a second,” Nguyet said. Then she told me to turn off the lights. “The enemy can see the reflections of the lights on the water, even from far away.”
It was dark all around us. I could hear the sounds of water sloshing against the sides of the truck. I tried to drive forward, but the truck just rocked back and forth and the steering wheel locked in place. I noticed then that my clothes were wet. It was an extremely cold night.
Nguyet, meanwhile, waded through the water carrying a rope from the truck, which she tied around the trunk of a tree. After struggling for a while, I was finally able to drive the truck up out of the water and onto a rocky part of the road. We were both out of breath as we stood side by side, coiling the rope.
Then suddenly the enemy planes arrived. They emerged from behind the steep mountains in the distance, giving off a roaring sound. I dropped the rope and ran for the truck, but Nguyet pulled me back and pushed me down into a ditch.
“They are carrying out coordinate bombing,” she said calmly, studying the sky.
A sound like thunder rippled through the air. The ground trembled. In the few seconds of stillness we could hear the gentle sounds of a cricket batting its wings. Then pieces of earth—soil, rocks, plants, branches—began to fall all around us. In the distance, I saw the enemy parachuting from the planes. I tried to pull Nguyet toward me.
“If you get injured,” she said, brushing me off, “you will lose the truck anyway. Just stay here.”
But without hesitation I ran toward the truck. The sound of gunfire was everywhere. My truck was still intact, but the tires were burning. I put out the flames, then started the engine and saw Nguyet come running.
“Get the truck out of here quick,” she said. “They will continue bombing this place.”
“Okay,” I said.
Nguyet had started to cough from all the smoke. I pulled her up into the cab of the truck and closed the door. I kept the headlights turned off and drove on with her help in navigating the dark, cratered roads. It seemed like the enemy was constantly above us, incessantly bombing and shooting. Nguyet continued to give me instructions: “Turn left … There is a crater up ahead … There is a hill and a turn …” When the road descended into total darkness, Nguyet got out and I drove slowly behind her, following her small, bright shadow. After a little while, I stopped the truck and parked it at the base of a tall cliff. I switched on the cabin light, and that’s when I noticed blood on Nguyet’s shoulder. Blood had dripped down onto her blue shirt. She was injured, though I wasn’t sure exactly when she had been hurt. I could feel it intensely at that moment—I loved and admired her dearly. She looked down at her wound and smiled. She was beautiful, though her skin looked pale and she was soaking wet from head to toe. I pulled out a
