Well, at least we've got a change of scenery. The sound in the background is a jet that is going by. I can hear some bombs in the distance. The sky is lighting up, so something's going on somewhere. It's Thursday morning, quarter of eight, and we're going off to see Nam Tien Street, Nam Tien District, where the bombing was extremely heavy the last couple of nights, and to see the site where B-52 was downed. Oh, my. A woman is crying in the background. Oh, my son, where are you? Oh, my son, where are you? Oh, my son. Oh, my son. Oh, my son. Oh, my son. Oh, my son. It's walking to the battleground that always makes me cry. I've met so few folks in my time who weren't afraid to die, but dawn bleeds with the people here, and morning skies are red, as young girls load up bicycles with flowers for the dead. An aging woman picks along the craters and the rubble, a piece of cloth, a bit of shoe, a whole lifetime of trouble. A sobbing chant comes from her throat and splits the morning air. The single son she had last night is buried under her. They say that the war is done. Where are you now, my son? An old man with unsteady gait and beard of ancient white, bent to the ground with arms outstretched, faltering in his blight. I took his hand to steady him. He stood and did not turn, but smiled and wept and bowed and mumbled softly, Danke Schoen. Children on the roadsides of the villages and towns would stand around us laughing as we stood like giant clowns. The morning bands told who they'd lost by last night's phantom messenger, and they spoke their only words in English, Johnson, Nixon, Kissinger. Where are you now, my son? The siren gives a running break to those who live in town. Take the children and the blankets to the concrete underground. Sometimes we'd sing and joke and paint bright pictures on the wall and wonder if we would die well and if we'd loved at all. But I prefer the action of the nights before than this night when you are waiting. Because when you are running from here to the shelter and from the shelter to here, the time passes much faster than when you are like now waiting for the attack. I know. I know. We are not afraid to the attack. If we die, that's all. We die. We are going to die only one time. Anyway, we are going to die now or a little after. You cannot be afraid of any situation. I can't. After you get the custom. It's very easy. Que sera, sera. It will be, will be. Oh, ***. Thank God you seem good. Take him down. I'm taking my guava. I'm taking with me the wonderful guava, as in the bone, guava bone. This you can relate. It's a quite distinct possibility. Are you recording the conversation? Yes, I am. This is something that we can enjoy later on. Look Ian, who do we have here? Smiling cheerfully with his pants undone in the doorway. Mr. Cuban. How do you do? I do okay, and you sir? Yes. Well, the mood of the evening is definitely up. It's a discourse between the Indian and the Pole. It's causing the joviality. Why did you come back? He hugged me. Thank you. No more bombing Lord, Kumbaya. No more bombing Lord, Kumbaya. Oh Lord, Kumbaya. Save the children Lord, Kumbaya. Save the children Lord, Kumbaya. Save the children Lord, Kumbaya. Oh Lord, Kumbaya. Someone's praying Lord, Kumbaya. Someone's praying Lord, Kumbaya. Someone's praying Lord, Kumbaya. Things have quieted down considerably here in the shelter. The conclusion being that the siren was broken, so people kind of filtered out. It left one Cuban, two Indians, Mike sprawled out on the floor, Barry and myself. But I'd rather stay here than get stuck in the mosquito net in my bed. The helmetless defiant ones sit on the curb and stare at tracers flashing through the sky and planes bursting in air. But way out in the villages, no warning comes before a blast that means a sleeping child will never make it to the door. The days of your youth were fine. Where are you now, my son? From distant cabins in the sky where no man hears the sound of death on earth from his own bombs, six pilots were shot down. Next day, six hulking bandaged men were dazzled by a room of newsmen. Sally, keep the faith. Let's hope this war ends soon. Tall, sweet, southern-looking boy with a couple of bandages. It showed around a circle of people, his baffle, and he looks as though he's pretty sore. I mean, the bone is sore. Christ. He's just lost, that's all. Lost. The cameras are going. My name is Richard Thomas Kim. Captain of the United States Air Force. Service number is 2506660. This is our boss. He's a blonde boy. Look at the mustache and the little scar. Looks absolutely dazed. I'm here in North Vietnam. I'm Captain Franklin. I'm a B-52 aircraft. I was born in a military by the Vietnamese people. He looks utterly dazed. In a damaged prison camp where they no longer had command, they shook their heads. What irony. We thought peace was at hand. The preacher read a Christmas prayer and the men kneeled on the ground. Then sheepishly asked me to sing, they drove old Dixie down. Yours was the righteous God. Where are you now, my son? We gathered in the lobby, celebrating Christmas Eve. The French, the Poles, the Indians, Cubans and Vietnamese. The tiny tree our host had fixed sweet and familiar psalms. But the most sacred of Christian prayers was shattered by the bombs. We're one. We're one. Bonjour. Vous êtes nés aujourd'hui dans une ville d'arrivée et de chômage. Voici la marque que vous devez faire à votre enfant. Vous trouverez un petit enfant où le bébé de l'an est couché dans une crèche. Amen. Bonjour. Bonjour. Bonjour. Be quiet, John. Go on, John. It's nothing. It is a matter of time. On continue, on continue, on continue, John. John's gone. Just gone. Amen. Amen. Amen. Amen. Amen. John, you're going to see it. You might as well see it, John. We just heard a jet in the background. No, maybe it was just my stomach. We've decided to go down into the shelter. So back into the shelter where two lovely women rose. And with a brilliance and a fierceness and a gentleness, which froze the rest of us to silence as their voices soared with joy, outshining every balm that fell that night upon Hanoi. Outshining every balm that fell that night upon Hanoi. With bravery we have sung, but where are we now? Where are you now, my son? Oh, people of the shelters, what a gift you've given me. To smile at me and quietly let me share your agony. And I can only bow in utter humbleness and ask forgiveness and forgiveness for the things we've brought to pass. The black-pajamaed culture that we tried to kill with pellet holes and the rows of tiny coffins we've paid for with our souls have built a spirit seldom seen in women and in men and the white flower of Bac Mai will surely blossom once again. I heard that the war is done. Then where are you now, my son?