War often steals youth in ways that words fail to capture, but sometimes a single memory lingers, stronger than all the rest. For Lieutenant Barry Devita, that memory is of water—of a river in Quang Tri, Vietnam, that washed over his uniform, carried away the dust of battle, and momentarily gave him back his humanity.
It was 1968. Barry was just 23 years old, commanding C Battery, 2/94th Artillery. His unit had spent weeks pounding enemy positions with relentless howitzers, their thunder shaking the mountains. Days blurred into nights, and the red dust from Khe Sanh clung to their bodies, thick and suffocating. His men were exhausted, their faces hardened by the endless shelling and the fear that lived in every hour.
On a Sunday, Devita stepped into the Quang Tri River. The water was cool, the current strong, and as it rushed around him, he felt the grime, sweat, and blood lift away. On the shore, his men laughed and teased—“Sir looks almost human again!” one of them called out. Devita smiled, letting the river carry away more than dirt. It washed away a piece of the war’s weight, if only for a moment.
For those soldiers, the river became more than water. It became a sanctuary, their church in the middle of hell. Every Sunday, they would step into its currents, scrubbing away the dirt and pretending, even briefly, that they were back home. The ritual was less about cleanliness and more about survival of the soul.
But the war always pulled them back. Devita led his men with the courage expected of a young officer, yet inside he bore the same fear and weariness. Each artillery round fired was a reminder of the cost. Each name crossed off the roster was a scar he would carry for life.
Fifty years later, Barry Devita still dreams of that river. Now in his seventies, he recalls it not with bitterness, but with a strange reverence. “We left boys in that water,” he says softly. “Came out old men.” The words hold the weight of a lifetime. In his mind, the Quang Tri River remains not just a place, but a witness—to fear, to fleeting peace, and to the transformation of boys into soldiers.
His story reminds us that war is not only fought with weapons, but with the fragile spirit of the young who endure it. For Devita and his men, baptism didn’t happen in a church. It happened in combat boots, in the muddy waters of Quang Tri, where they cleansed themselves not of sin, but of war’s suffocating grip, if only for a few stolen hours.
The river flows on, long after the artillery has fallen silent, carrying in its current the echoes of laughter, fear, and resilience. Devita’s memory is proof that even in the darkest of times, humanity searches for something—anything—that feels like home.