Medic in MIG 21 cockpit, Hanoi Air Force Museum, Hanoi, 1995

The Price of Admission

Outside the Hanoi Air Force Museum, a converted airplane hanger-admission fifty cents-thick vines creep up the skeletal remains of deactivated SAM missiles pointing skyward, frozen in the act of launch.

Inside, directly past the entrance, a jet fighter canopy, the name PARKER stenciled in red paint, lays mute on the smooth cement floor. The walls are dotted with crudely framed black and white war photographs, by captured M16s shackled held in place by thick iron nails. Large wood and glass cabinets hold typed documents and assorted war regalia.

Not far from the fighter canopy, sprawled on the floor, lay rows of upright ejection seats. It feels like the pilots have just bailed out. Nearby, a half dozen green flight helmets, their visors flipped up, sit like obedient skulls waiting to tell their stories. Six silk parachutes splay across the floor like giant deep sea squid.

I take a seat in the cockpit of a striped down MIG 21. After Seth snaps the photo, a young American enters the museum. While the two of them talk I wander away.

Medic on LZ Ramada after forty-six days in Cambodia. Vietnam, 1970In a dark corner on the far side of the museum, I spot a dusty stack of M16s. Kneeling, I pick one up, wipe off years of soot, sit down cross-legged, cradle the weapon as if it were long lost friend, go back in time. How long before Seth arrives I don’t recall. He listens patiently while I jabber:

“You see this button?” I tell him. “You push it to split the rifle in half.” And I push the button and the rifle cracks in half. “You see this one? You push that to release the ammo clip. This little thing here, that’s for the retractor rod. Pull it backward, let it fly.” And I do that, and the spring loaded rod rams swiftly to place. “Now you’re locked and loaded.”

I turn the weapon sideways, exposing the perforated black belly of the plastic barrel grill.

“Here, in the holes, we kept a tooth brush to clean the breach. Only problem, they melt in fire fights. Now watch this.”

I pry open the stock latch. Out slides a slim metal cleaning rod, a white plastic bottle of lubricant.

“That’s LSA. You squirt it on cotton patches to clean the bore. Once a week. Otherwise, she’ll jam.”

I keep chattering, strange words jetting like rockets from my middle age mouth. Then once, twice, from far off, someone calls my name.

“Marc, put the gun down,” he says. “You need to put the gun down.”

Childlike, I look up at Seth, place the weapon on the cold cement floor, and I sob, and sob, for quite some time.