A Journey From War To War

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During the summer of 2003, the insurgency had not really begun in earnest, and Victor's time there was quiet. His unit, the so-called 3/5, part of the 1st Marine Expeditionary Force, was based in Diwaniyah, and during its three-month tour was in only one firefight. The highlight for him came when an angry Iraqi attacked the 3/5's unit commander with a knife. At 1.9 m and well over 90 kg, Victor stopped the assault, then lifted the assailant overhead and dumped him into a nearby river. "He was an incredibly strong dude," says Derrick (Doc) Griffin, who served in Lu's unit.

When Victor returned home three months later, his parents were thrilled—and privately hoped he would not have to go back. The Lus were so elated that they even threw a celebratory barbecue in the small backyard of their home in a pouring rainstorm. For the next year, as Victor trained with his unit at Camp Pendleton just north of San Diego and the insurgency in Iraq intensified, the specter of the U.S.'s failures in Vietnam was not something that anyone in the family would discuss. Victor knew he was going back to Iraq—he told his family, and that was the end of it. "It's not something that my parents would ever talk about," says Nanci. "They were supporting Victor. That is what they saw as their role."

More than ever, Victor was true blue, relishing the job that lay ahead. At a party just before he left, recalls neighborhood friend Fematt, Victor told him he believed in the idealistic justification for the Iraq war. "We're bringing freedom to people who deserve it," he told Fematt.

Victor's parents concede their concern about his well-being had only escalated as the fighting intensified in Iraq. His mother, Fematt says, was particularly upset. But Victor's father says their worries were not rooted in the past, in the memory of the war that ravaged the country in which he had been born. It was, simply, the love of a mother and father for their son. "Victor was happy, we could see that. He loved the Marines. But, of course, we were concerned for him."

On Sept. 11, 2004, Havoc 2 headed back to Iraq. By the first week of November, the unit had mustered outside Fallujah, readying for one of the most pivotal—and most lethal—battles of the war. Victor's buddies had taken to calling him "Buddha"—a big, gentle Asian presence with god-like strength. He liked the nickname and scribbled it on the back of his Kevlar vest.

On Nov. 13, Havoc 2 was clearing out one of the most heavily defended areas of Fallujah. At the second house they entered early that morning, Victor used his bulk and enormous strength as a battering ram, knocking in a front door that was locked. Just as he did, three Iraqi insurgents inside opened fire. Before he could get a shot off in return, Victor was hit with eight or nine rounds. He fell at the feet of his close friend Griffin, who returned fire and tossed a fragmentation grenade in defense. Two other Marines joined in, killing the insurgents, and Griffin started administering first aid to his friend. Within 30 seconds a humvee had come to get Victor to a medevac. "I knew it was bad," says Griffin.

The next day, at their base outside Fallujah, his Havoc 2 comrades nailed together a small wooden cross and stuck it into the sun-baked dirt. They placed Victor's helmet on top, and wrote on the cross simply, IN MEMORY OF VICTOR LU. REST IN PEACE.

The Lus know all the questions that still swirl over America's war in Iraq; they know that its harshest critics believe it is Vietnam all over again. The legacy of this war—for Iraq, the Middle East and the United States—still hangs in the balance. Devastated by the loss of their son, they say they do not question the cause for which he gave his life. Having migrated from Vietnam a quarter-century ago only to lose their eldest son in Iraq, the Lus believe the best outcome would be an Iraq that works—a country better than it was under Saddam Hussein. And if that requires U.S. troops to be there a while longer, so be it. That would make Iraq different from Vietnam.

For the Lu family, this is not a political position—Xuong insists he has never had any interest in politics, either in Vietnam or in the U.S. It is, instead, a deeply emotional one, the outcome that their son had wanted. "We don't view Victor's life as a tragedy, because he died doing what he wanted to do," his father says. "His life just ended too soon, because he had much more to do." As his wife Nu quietly weeps, Xuong Lu says, "We are very sad now, but still so proud of our son. He was a very good American boy."