A quick note on purpose and intent:

It never hurts to look at a story from a fresh perspective. Here is another take on the Vietnam War--Sam's war, Al's war, Titi's war.

I probably will not update this one as frequently as I do my others. For several reasons, it is much more difficult to write.

A quick note on form and function:

"Dialogue written like this" indicates spoken Vietnamese, translated to English in the same way the narration is. Emphatic vocal inflection is placed on the word written like "this".

"Dialogue written like this" indicates spoken English as heard (or spoken) by the Vietnamese protagonist. Emphatic vocal inflection is placed on the word written like "this".

Any other tongues used (French; oh, say, Italian…) are written in the actual language.

That being said…

Ap Bac was not a beautiful village. It was not a prosperous village. It was not an important village. It was, however, Tuyen's home, and it was here that she wanted to die.

She had known when the pains woke her before the dawn that she was going to die. Giang had only laughed fondly when she said this. "All women think they are going to die," she had said. "When Bian was born I was certain I would."

Giang did not know. She had not seen the blood these last weeks, blood where there should be none while her belly was distended with the small human inside of it. Giang did not know of the pains deep inside, long before the first birth-spasms shook her. Tuyen was going to die, whether her friend believed her or not.

Giang didn't take Tuyen's words seriously, but still she helped her. A woman had a right to give birth where she wished, especially a woman without a husband. So Giang helped her friend dress, found her sandals, and went with her, staying at her side all the long walk through the jungle from Ap Tan Thoi to Ap Bac.

It was not really a great distance: two miles at most. It was a long walk because with each contraction Tuyen fell to her knees, shaking and moaning. Women were meant to be strong, but the pain was so great. Here among the trees there was no one to see her weakness anyhow. No one but Giang, who would not hold it against her, and little Bian, who tottered behind the women and did not understand what was happening.

As she made her last pilgrimage Tuyen thought about the child she was carrying. Through the pregnancy she had hoped she bore a boy. It was said that the woman who bore a boy to the man who had fathered Tuyen's child would be honored above all others. Perhaps, for the one who bore a boy there would even be marriage. Now, now when it was plain to her that she would not live to see another dawn she prayed that it was a girl. A girl Giang could raise with Bian. A girl, who would be a burden to no one and unnoticed, as her half-sisters were, by her great father. Better for the mother to be exalted by the stern warrior, but better for the child to be invisible.

When at last they reached Ap Bac Giang brought Tuyen to the house of the wise old woman who served as midwife, physician, apothecary and archivist for the village. The elderly lady scolded Tuyen for her foolishness at first, until Giang had explained the girl thought she was dying. Then the midwife muttered a charm against evil spirits and hung an amulet around Tuyen's neck.

Hours dragged by. The hut was insufferably hot and the agony in her contracting abdomen threatened to drive Tuyen mad. Bian stripped off her little breechclout and sat down, naked, to play with the midwife's cooking pot. Giang wanted to do the same, but she contented herself with removing her tunic and crouching by her friend and sister in affliction with her skirt trailing in the dust of the floor.

At last the midwife drew forth the child, an undersized, wrinkled red baby with thick dark hair. She slapped the infant's backside and a thin, indignant cry tore the air. Bian looked up from her game, her three-year-old eyes enormous at the spectacle.

The wailing woke Tuyen from her delirious swoon, and she cried out for her baby, her voice thin and fretful. The midwife laid the child at its mother's breast, then went about the work of cutting the cord.

Tuyen looked down at the tiny mouth suckling at her nipple, and then at the wrinkled body. A daughter. She lifted up a silent prayer of thanks. A daughter.

"Little," she whispered. "Little."

"Yes," Giang agreed gently. "She is a very little baby."

"Little, little," Tuyen murmured. There was no longer any pain. She let her eyes drift closed.

"A name!" the midwife said as she worked. The blood was flowing freely. The girl had foreseen her own death. "What name does she want for the child?"

"Tuyen!" Giang said sternly. "Tuyen, wake up!"

Glassy, vacant eyes opened hesitantly. "Little, little, little," Tuyen breathed.

"What do you want to name her?" Giang asked.

"Little…" Tuyen murmured. Then the eyes closed again and her weary heart halted forever.

"Little, little," Giang whispered, stroking the cheek of the still-feeding baby. "Titi," she said. "Titi. Her name is Titi."