Running in the lead is Ve Quoc Quan, the commander. He was about twenty-three, twenty-four, of medium build, broad-shouldered, broad-chested, his hair in a bun in a donkey’s hooves, and a shiny nickel-plated whistle dangling from his neck. That morning it was freezing cold, he was only wearing a white umbrella and tight blue shorts And the young team dressed in haphazard fashion. More than half wore the clothes of the National Guard, shortened. Many of the children swam in large defensive vests like tunics. There were more than a dozen deer wearing “green-tuya-rong” leather belts, with large brass buckles and bullet bags. Heaven knows what was in those scarred, distorted bullet bags! The street along the roadside was closed with bolts and bolts. People in this area have been evacuated since the first night of the resistance war. Dozens of dogs lost their owners, gathered in packs running around on the street, competing to sniff at the piles of garbage to find food. Which one has narrow hips, high ribs like he’s swallowed dozens of baskets into his stomach.