Beneath the Arch of Scarlet Blossoms

Every late autumn, when the final rains drift across the Truong Son Range, the forest dons its cloak of russet hues. Amid that vast wilderness, the scarlet trumpet flowers entwining ancient trunks stand out—radiant and defiant, like tiny flames of life flickering against the endless green.

That image was etched forever in the memory of a twenty-year-old man—a young soldier who once lived and fought through the fiercest years of the American War, along the legendary Route 20 – Quyet Thang (Victory Road).

Back then, the Truong Son winds carried the roar of bombs, the drone of aircraft, and the heartbeat of a generation pulsing in rhythm with the nation.

Today, that same wind blows—gentler, yet faintly scented with the smoke of the past. Along Route 20 now, peace has returned. Beneath the golden sun, convoys of tourist buses hum across the hills, their laughter and chatter drifting through the forest, washing away echoes of explosions long gone. No one could imagine this was once a fire co-ordinate—a place where countless twenty-year-olds became one with the immortal mountains.

Now, a grey-haired man stands beneath the hill, his eyes soft with remembrance. He bows down, placing a bundle of crimson flowers on the rock face. His name is Minh—the same young truck driver of the Truong Son Army decades ago. Over fifty years have passed, yet the memories remain unblurred, as though time itself had merely paused for a breath.

In the rustling breeze, he hears a faint voice calling his name. And then—images return. Faces. Eyes. And the red blossoms of that season…

***

The Year 1971

The war was at its fiercest. Along Route 20, Minh’s convoy had orders to deliver supplies southward—at all costs, they must pass the Ba Thang Slope before dawn.

The night was thick and suffocating. Bombs screamed overhead; soil and stone burst into the air. Minh gripped the wheel tightly as his Zin 157 truck shook violently. Through the smoke, he glimpsed a figure ahead—a girl in a blue volunteer uniform, waving a flag against the storm of dust.

“The road’s clear—drive on, comrade!”
Her voice cut through the thunder of bombs. The ground trembled, a flash lit the night as another crater opened behind him.

He caught only her eyes—bright, fearless, yet as pure as a mountain spring. Then his truck roared onward, leaving the small figure behind, standing motionless in the white smoke, her flag still fluttering against the night.

Months later, driving back toward base, Minh saw her again at a forest crossroads—where clusters of scarlet flowers flamed beneath the sun. The blossoms spilled across the earth, mingling with the red soil of Truong Son—fierce yet tender, like life itself blooming in war.

She sat beneath the flowering arch, beside a faded green hammock. Her long black hair caught the light filtering through the canopy; her small, gentle face glowed with quiet strength. Her eyes—bright, steady—held a warmth that drew him in. Her smile, simple and unguarded, was like a wild blossom in the jungle, or a spark of fire in the night of bombs.

Minh hesitated, then called out:
“You… were the one clearing the Ba Thang road that night, weren’t you?”

She looked up, laughing softly.
“I thought you wouldn’t remember! Your truck horn was so loud—we called you the deaf driver!”

Her laughter was as clear as water running over stone. Amid the smoke and dust, that sound eased something deep within him.

He looked around—the scarlet flowers trembled in the wind, red as blood yet achingly beautiful.
“Even with all this bombing, the trees still bloom,” he murmured.
She nodded, her voice quiet but firm:
“The trumpet flowers are stubborn. Burn them, they’ll grow again. Like us.”

Minh gazed at her—the late light bathed her face in gold, her eyes gleaming with a hidden flame. A strange stirring filled his chest—a tender ache, as though in this war-torn place, he had found something precious and whole.

They sat together beneath the scarlet arch, the forest hushed around them save for the whisper of leaves and the scent of earth. She spoke of her unit, of nights spent marking unexploded bombs, of comrades lost mid-task. He told her of convoys moving through darkness with headlights off, of fear and courage in equal measure.

The talk was brief, yet something unspoken passed between them—a quiet understanding that between life and death lay only a breath, and in that breath, people loved fiercely, urgently, and true.

When they parted, Minh draped his soldier’s scarf across her shoulders.
“Keep it. When the bombs stop, give it back.”
Lan smiled, her hand trembling slightly as she held it. She plucked a spray of blossoms, pinned it to his chest, and whispered:
“To remember… When the flowers bloom, the road is clear.”

His truck rolled on, red dust rising in the waning light. In the mirror, he saw her still standing among the blossoms—blue shirt shining in the sun, her smile burning like fire in his memory.

That night, the Americans carpet-bombed the Ta Lê ford.
The ground shuddered. The forest cried out. Explosions tore open the sky. The smell of gunpowder, scorched earth, and resin filled the air.

After the raid, Lan’s team rushed to repair the road. Amid the chaos, her slender figure stood firm, a torch in her hand guiding the trucks through the darkness.
Minh’s Zin 157 was the last in line.
“Careful! There’s a live bomb on the right!” she shouted.
“Get back! I’m going through!” he answered.

A blinding flash—then silence.
When the smoke cleared, only a red scarf remained, tangled on a half-burnt branch of scarlet flowers.

That night, Route 20 reopened.
But one soul stayed behind—beneath the arch of blossoms blazing in the forest of Truong Son.

***

Every November, the trumpet flowers bloom again. And beneath their crimson canopy, it seems as though someone still waits amid the mist.

Minh, now an old man, returns each year. He lays down a bouquet of red blooms on the rock where Lan had fallen, gazing into the vast forest beyond.

Someone once asked, “Why do you come here every year, old man?”
He smiled, squinting beneath the sun:
“Because once… someone waited for me here. Beneath the arch of scarlet blossoms.”

The Truong Son wind lingers in the quiet air. Petals fall gently upon his shoulders—each one a touch from time itself. He looks up, and in his eyes glimmers the vision of a young girl—her bright gaze, her gentle smile, still sitting beneath the flowering arch.

“Lan… the road is open again. The trucks are through.
Do you hear me, Lan?”

No answer comes.
Only the wind whispers—soft as a promise—from those who never returned.