1858: Da Nang, where the first shots were fired

Da Nang Bay today is a place where people go to enjoy the evening breeze. But this is also the place where the French colonial invasion of Vietnam began.

On September 1, 1858, the Franco-Spanish allied forces opened fire and attacked Da Nang. They chose this place because the calculation was very clear: the bay was deep, large ships could enter, and from here to the imperial capital of Huế was just over a hundred kilometers. The plan is to strike quickly, seize Da Nang as a launching point, then advance straight to Hue to force the royal court to surrender.

That plan didn't work out.

The royal court appointed Nguyễn Tri Phương to take command. He chose not to deploy troops in a direct confrontation with the naval artillery — something the Nguyễn army had no way of resisting. Instead, he ordered the construction of long fortifications, dug trenches, and established defense lines to block the road to Huế, while implementing a scorched earth policy to prevent the enemy from obtaining provisions on the spot.

That tactic left the expeditionary army stranded right on the beach. They seized a few positions along the shore but couldn't push further inland. Then the rainy season came, and disease — dysentery, malaria — began killing more soldiers than bullets did.

After being confined for about half a year, the French forces abandoned their plan to attack Huế and redirected their efforts toward Gia Định. Da Nang could not be held indefinitely, and the war eventually ended in the way we all know. But at that time, the landholders here managed to do something that the opponent's plan had not accounted for.

A thing rarely mentioned: most of the people who fell during those months were not regular soldiers, but militia from the surrounding villages — people who went to build ramparts, people who carried provisions, people who held spears to guard the trenches. Da Nang has memorial cemeteries gathering the remains of righteous soldiers (nghĩa sĩ) from this period, established and cared for by local residents across many generations.

That's the detail I find most memorable. Erecting a stele for those who died in battle wasn't the business of some distant royal court — it was the work of the people living right there, done by themselves, and carried on for over a hundred years.

Standing on the shore of the bay now looking out, it's hard to imagine. But once you know, the next time you go to the sea, it'll look a little different.