I was born in Hue, but I grew up in Hanoi in an intellectual family. My father was Dang Ngoc Khue, a surgeon, and my mother was Doan Ngoc Tram, a lecturer at Hanoi University of Pharmacy. I was the eldest child, followed by three younger sisters and one younger brother. Both my sisters and I shared the same given name "Tram," differing only in our middle names (Dang Phuong Tram, Dang Hien Tram, Dang Kim Tram). Therefore, friends and relatives often called me "Thuy" to tell us apart.
I was once a student at Chu Van An High School in Hanoi and was known as one of its outstanding vocalists, as well as at Hanoi Medical University. Through songs such as The Song of Hope (by Van Ky), The Willow Tree (a Russian song), Sullico, and others, I won dozens of medals in cultural and artistic competitions across the capital. Alongside my dedication to study and my willingness to help friends in need, I actively participated in the school's poetry and literature club. Many of its members later became well-known writers and poets, such as Nguyen Khoa Diem, To Nhuan Vi, and Vuong Tri Nhan.
Together with my classmates Le Van Kiem, Hoang Ngoc Kim, and Duong Duc Niem, I formed a group striving to join the Communist Party. Following my family tradition, I passed the entrance exam to Hanoi Medical University, specializing in ophthalmology. Because of my excellent academic performance, the university allowed me to graduate one year early so that I could go to the battlefield.
With my outstanding graduation results, I could have stayed in Hanoi to teach, or worked at a hospital or medical institution, especially since my parents were respected professionals with many connections in the medical field. However, because the man I loved had gone to the battlefield years earlier, I volunteered to go south immediately after graduation. In 1966, I volunteered to serve in Battlefield B. After three months of marching from the North, in March 1967, I arrived in Quang Ngai and was assigned to be in charge of Duc Pho District Hospital—a civilian medical station that primarily treated wounded soldiers. I was admitted to the Communist Party of Vietnam on September 27, 1968.
On June 22, 1970, during a mission from the mountainous area of Ba To to the lowlands, I was ambushed by the enemy and sacrificed my life at the age of not yet twenty-eight—only two years as a Party member and three years into my medical career.
In my diary, I wrote about the man I loved using the initial "M" (for Moc). His real name was Khuong The Hung, born on September 18, 1934, in Hoi An Town, Quang Nam Province. He was the third child of the veteran poet Khuong Huu Dung. "M" was the first letter of Moc, and Nguyen Moc was his pen name on the battlefield.
In 1966, when I entered the battlefield, I met him at a time when his body already bore many wounds from war. In a letter dated February 15, 1968, sent to my friend Duong Duc Niem, I wrote about him:
"Now he lives a very simple life. He dreams of nothing more than destroying as many American enemies as possible. He asks for nothing for himself—not even love or a career. Toward me, his affection is sincere and respectful, and he admires my faithful love. But that is all. His heart no longer holds deep romantic emotions, tender love poems, or soaring songs of dreams."
He deeply respected my devotion, yet his heart ached for the suffering of the South and for his comrades who fell day after day for the independence and freedom of the nation. In a letter to his younger sister, he wrote about the devastation he had witnessed during the war—burned villages, poisoned fields, and innocent civilians who suffered unspeakable losses.
Yet, he wrote, for the people of Quang Ngai, every crime committed by the enemy and their collaborators only poured more fuel onto the fire of hatred, strengthening their determination and fighting spirit for independence, freedom, peace, and national reconciliation.
In 1970, when I was killed, he was also seriously wounded and had to be transferred back to the North. The following diary entry was written after he learned of my death:
"You were so gentle, never speaking harshly to anyone. Yet you were so brave. When the enemy burned secret shelters, you remained calm while treating the wounded. You rode your motorbike straight past enemy lines to rescue critically injured soldiers. Bombers roared overhead, ground troops surrounded you, yet you stayed composed—bandaging wounds and leading the injured out of danger.
The people loved and protected you. The mothers called you 'daughter.' The children called you 'sister.' Young soldiers called you 'Venus Star.' Poets claimed you as one of their own. Writers argued that you belonged to them, nurtured by Chekhov. And yet, you fell. You did not even recognize me.
You became the wind circling above my head, above my life—turning into a voice calling me forward. I thought then: that is the love of a soldier…"
Khuong The Hung passed away on November 13, 1999, after many years of struggling with wounds and illnesses caused by the aftermath of war, at the age of sixty-five.
His younger sister, Khuong Bang Kinh, preserved the letter I wrote to him on March 17, 1969, which he had kept tucked inside his diary..