Ho was in a tough spot, facing pressure from several quarters—from Sainteny and the French, from his Chinese occupiers who counseled moderation, and from Vietnamese nationalist parties (notably the VNQDD and the Dai Viet) who accused him of preparing to sell out to France. The signing of a Sino-French agreement in Chongqing on February 28, in which the Chinese agreed to return home in exchange for significant economic concessions from France, reduced his maneuverability further—the agreement, Ho knew, paved the way for a French invasion of Tonkin.
And indeed, the French were about to launch Operation Bentré, a secret plan for the reoccupation of Indochina north of the sixteenth parallel. Hatched in Leclerc’s headquarters some months earlier (and named for a town and province at the mouth of the Mekong River), the plan had several elements but centered on landing a sizable force at the port city of Haiphong and, in coordination with a smaller force arriving by plane, proceeding to capture Hanoi. Over a period of three days starting on February 27, the French Ninth Division of Colonial Infantry and Second Armored Division—a total force of some twenty-one thousand men, most of them wearing American helmets, packs, fatigues, and boots—boarded warships, and on March 1, a fleet of thirty-five ships sailed from Saigon north along the coast. Because of the movement of the tide, the landing would have to occur on either March 4, 5, or 6, or it could not occur again until the sixteenth. An early objective: to rearm three thousand French soldiers who remained interned at the Hanoi Citadel—and who, Bentré planners surely knew, would be in a vengeance-seeking mood.17
The French hoped that the arrival of the troops, following fast on the heels of the Chongqing agreement, would compel Ho to agree to a deal on French terms. But the risks were huge. What if the Vietnamese chose instead to stand and fight? And of more pressing concern, what if the Chinese refused to offer their support to the troop landing? That is what occurred. French general Raoul Salan secured permission from the Chinese to have the vessels “present” themselves in Haiphong’s harbor on March 6 but not to disembark any troops. Chinese leader Chiang Kai-shek, anxious to secure his southern flank at a time when his struggle against Mao Zedong’s Communists was heating up in northeastern China, had no wish to become embroiled in a Vietnamese war of liberation. When the French ships entered the Haiphong harbor on the morning of March 6, the Chinese batteries in the cities began firing. The ships returned fire, and the fighting continued until eleven A.M., with both sides suffering casualties. Chinese negotiators, meanwhile, leaned hard on both the French and the Vietnamese to come to an accord. Strike a bargain, they in effect ordered, or you may find yourselves fighting us as well as your main adversary.
The blackmail tactic worked. In the afternoon of March 6, the two sides, under intense Chinese pressure, signed a “Preliminary Convention,” wherein the French recognized the “Republic of Vietnam” as a “free state” (état libre) within the Indochinese Federation and French Union; the Vietnamese agreed to welcome twenty-five thousand French troops for five years to relieve departing Chinese forces; and France in turn agreed to accept the results of a future popular referendum on the issue of unifying the three regions.18 The new National Assembly in Hanoi, which had been elected in January, approved the deal, with the understanding that it was preliminary and that additional negotiations would follow in short order. Some Vietnamese militants condemned the accord as a sellout, but Ho reiterated his conviction that the first order of business was to be rid of the dread Chinese. “As for me,” he told aides, “I prefer to sniff French shit for five years than eat Chinese shit for the rest of my life.”19
Not an appealing notion either way. The Ho-Sainteny deal was hardly what Viet Minh leaders had anticipated in the glorious days of the August Revolution, or what any close Indochina observer could have predicted one year earlier, in March 1945, at the time of the Japanese coup de force. That action, after all, had formally ended French dominion over Indochina and had revealed just how hollow colonial control had become. French forces had put up embarrassingly little resistance. Yet now, twelve months later, France was back, well on the way to reclaiming control south of the sixteenth parallel and seemingly ready to do the same north of the line. Little wonder that when Sainteny, after the signing ceremony, raised a glass and exulted to Ho that they had ended the possibility of major war, the veteran revolutionary demurred. “We are not yet satisfied because we have not yet won complete independence.” He paused, then added, “But we will achieve it.”20
To Western visitors, Ho Chi Minh in this period offered both conciliation and determination. He told American intelligence officers Frank White and George Wickes of his fond memories of living in Boston and New York and of his admiration for American principles as enshrined in the Declaration of Independence, then asked the two men to convey to Washington his high hopes for U.S. support for his nation’s quest for independence. And to a senior British diplomat, Ho condemned what he saw as d’Argenlieu’s effort to create a separatist movement in Cochin China (80 percent of southerners wanted union with the north, he insisted, notwithstanding some age-old regional frictions) but admitted that his people were as yet unprepared to assume their full duties of citizenship. That was why Vietnam was eager to get advice and counsel from France, from Britain, from the United States—provided it was granted in a spirit of cooperation and not in the form of “master” to “slave.” The French seemed to want to retain their full sovereignty over Vietnam, and this, Ho vowed, nationalists in his country would never accept.
The visitors came away impressed. “When you talk to him he strikes you as quite above the ordinary run of mortals,” Wickes wrote in a letter home. “Perhaps it is the spirit that great patriots are supposed to have. Surely he has that—long struggling has left him mild and resigned, still sustaining some small idealism and hope [that war can be avoided]. But I think it is particularly his kindliness, his simplicity, his down-to-earthness. I think Abraham Lincoln must have been such a man, calm, sane, and humble.” To the Briton, meanwhile, Ho was an “outstanding character” with “excellent idiomatic English.” “I came away with the impression that I had been talking to a sincere patriot though obviously imbued with all the characteristics of a convinced revolutionary.… There is no doubt in my mind that he is prepared to go to any lengths to attain his object.”21
III
WHICH TELLS US SOMETHING ABOUT HOW THE MARCH 6 ACCORDS should be interpreted in history: as a mere pause in a struggle that had already begun. The agreement raised hopes in some quarters that a peaceful resolution was at hand—notably in Washington, where numerous officials saw it as proof that France had come to embrace the need for far-reaching, fundamental changes in the Franco-Vietnamese relationship—but it may in fact have had the opposite effect, making large-scale fighting more likely. For while Paris recognized Vietnam’s “independence,” it also won entry for French troops into the north, which gave it the means to revoke what it had promised. The Viet Minh, meanwhile, secured precious time to build up their military strength. No less important, through her recognition of the “free state” of Vietnam, France in effect made the DRV the sole legitimate Vietnamese voice in the entire country.22
Sainteny, to be sure, was sincere—if perhaps naïve—in his toast on March 6. He hoped the deal might be the basis for a genuine settlement. Nor was he alone among French analysts in expressing this view. Indeed, one finds in the internal French record in early 1946 a fascinating fluidity in official thinking about the best course of action in Indochina—though fascinating in part because it remained circumscribed, with virtually all analysts holding to the view that Indochina ought to remain within the empire. The January resignation of Charles de Gaulle, it’s clear, gave a boost to those, like veteran colonial official Henri Laurentie, who believed that the old colonial order could not be restored in toto, that the world had changed, that it was now essential to give substance to the vague promises of liberalization made during the war. The decision made around this time to give the Colonial Ministry a
new name—the Ministry of Overseas France (Ministère de l’Outre-mer)—is one sign of the changed atmosphere. In the military, meanwhile, it was no longer anathema to argue that negotiations involving mutual concessions had to be part of French strategy. A growing number of officers thought there were simply not enough boots on the ground to stake everything on a military solution, and little prospect that more could be found.23
The shakeup in French domestic politics following de Gaulle’s departure also gave a boost to the forces for reform and diplomacy, at least temporarily. Though the empire was a low priority for both the public and politicians in this period, all three political parties that dominated the scene voiced at least rhetorical backing for greater autonomy to Indochina and other parts of this reconstituted “Overseas France.” The Socialists (Section française de l’Internationale ouvrière, or SFIO) professed support for greater self-rule for imperial territories but were split internally on how quickly changes should occur. The Communist Party (Parti communiste français, or PCF), as we have seen, counseled moderation and generally sought to steer clear of colonial issues but claimed to stand for far-reaching reform in Indochina and elsewhere. Even the Mouvement républicain populaire (MRP), the centrist Catholic party that was destined to dominate Indochina policy during much of the decade that followed, and that would in short order adopt a hard-line stance, made noises in February seeking a revamped French Union that would allow more autonomy for the Indochinese and other colonial peoples.24
But whatever fluidity existed in Paris did not exist where it may have mattered most: in the high commissioner’s office in Saigon. Here, paradoxically, de Gaulle’s departure may have had the effect not of boosting the forces of reform, but of thwarting them. Admiral d’Argenlieu and his staff had considerable freedom to maneuver in implementing policy directives from Paris, and that freedom now increased, as political maneuvering preoccupied many officials in the metropole. What’s more, d’Argenlieu, ever the loyal Gaullist, very likely took the general’s departure as a license to clamp down harder in Indochina, in order to affirm the Gaullist line until such a time as de Gaulle could return to power. D’Argenlieu initially professed to support the March 6 convention, but privately he grumbled, with clear reference to Leclerc: “I marvel at France having such a fine expeditionary force in Indochina, and that her commanders prefer to talk rather than fight.”25
Little by little the admiral set about retracting the concessions France had made. In mid-April, in talks with Vo Nguyen Giap at Dalat—a mountain resort known for its elegant villas and its comparatively cool weather—he refused to discuss a provision in the March 6 Accords calling for joint Franco-Vietnamese efforts to end hostilities in the south (skirmishes there continued, despite an official cease-fire), or to act on the matter of the referendum regarding whether Cochin China would reunite with the north. D’Argenlieu and Giap also clashed on the future status of Vietnam as a “free state.” For Giap, the DRV’s position in the French Union would be as an essentially sovereign state, but the Frenchman countered that the French Union was a federation, which meant that each free state within it must relinquish part of its sovereignty to the central authority and specifically to the high commissioner appointed in Paris, that is, himself.26
It all set an ominous tone for the next round of negotiations, set to take place in France later in the spring. On June 1, a mere twenty-four hours after Ho left Vietnam bound for Paris, d’Argenlieu, in clear violation of the March 6 Accords and without informing Paris, “recognized” the autonomous “Republic of Cochin China” in the name of France. The idea was to present both Ho Chi Minh and the Paris government with a fait accompli, for if there was an autonomous republic in the south, there could be no question of holding a referendum on territorial unity. Never mind that d’Argenlieu had no authority to recognize a Cochin Chinese republic even if it had been legitimate; and never mind that the scheme had minimal support among the southern populace.27 Ho, upon receiving the news, said there must be a misunderstanding—surely the high commissioner would not do such a thing—but there was none.
Upon arriving in France, Ho spent two weeks at the beach resort of Biarritz, in the southwest, while some in his delegation went ahead to Paris. Sainteny was sent to keep him company. Ho fumed at d’Argenlieu’s antics and threatened to return to Hanoi at once, but the Frenchman convinced him to give the upcoming talks a chance—and to try to enjoy himself while he waited. The two men attended a bullfight and a pelota tournament across the border in Spain, went fishing, and visited the Catholic sanctuary at Lourdes. Ho asked people what it was like to live under German occupation and attended a commemoration of de Gaulle’s June 18, 1940, call to resistance, held at the memorial to the dead of the Biarritz resistance. After one festive meal at a restaurant in the small fishing village of Biriatou, Ho signed the guest book with the words, “Seas and oceans do not separate brothers who love each other.”28
HO CHI MINH AND JEAN SAINTENY WITH OTHER MEMBERS OF THE VIETNAMESE DELEGATION IN BIARRITZ, FRANCE, IN JUNE 1946 (photo credit 5.2)
Whenever he ventured out among people, whether in Biarritz or in Paris, Ho enjoyed a warm reception. He charmed most everyone, not least the press corps. Reporter after reporter found him engaging, witty, and winningly self-deprecating. To women journalists, he presented flowers. “As soon as one approaches this frail man,” commented one scribe, “one shares the admiration of all men around him, over whom he towers with his serenity acquired from wide experience.” Other observers compared him to Confucius, to Saint John the Baptist, to the Buddha. Everywhere people commented on his savoir faire, his open love of children, his asceticism—he refused to drink—and his attire: the simple, high-buttoned linen suit that he wore on all occasions, formal and informal. Ho won praise as well from the France-Vietnam Association, which included among its members Emmanuel Mounier, Pablo Picasso, Paul Rivet, and François Mauriac.29
No one was more smitten than Jacques Dumaine, director of protocol at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. When Ho was invited to sit at the official podium during a ceremony on July 14, Bastille Day, Georges Bidault, the newly invested president of the Provisional Government, instructed Dumaine to place Ho’s chair a little bit behind his own. Dumaine did as told, but grudgingly. “Ho is playing the role of Mahatma,” he noted admiringly, “and his simplicity is quite genuine.” Dumaine subsequently invited Ho to lunch and wrote of the encounter: “We had an intimate lunch with Ho Chi Minh. One has to admire the mastery of this self-taught man, his language skills, his ability to make his views accessible, to make his intentions seem moderate, and his politeness. His entourage is nervous, fanatical, and reckless, while he plays the wise and insightful one.”30
To those concerned about his Marxism, Ho offered soothing words. Maybe in fifty years, Vietnam would be ready for Communism, he told a group of journalists in Paris the week before, “but not now.” Any change to the economic system would be gradual, and the Vietnamese constitution—modeled, he emphasized, on the American one—contained safeguards for private property. “If the capitalists come to our country, it will be a good thing for them,” he added. “They will make money, but not as it was made in the old days. From now on it is fifty-fifty.”31
Ho knew that this personal success and his reassuring rhetoric would count for little in the end. The bilateral negotiations were what truly mattered. When at last the talks were set to begin, southeast of Paris at the famed palace in the forest of Fontainebleau, playground for generations of French royals, he was dismayed to see no prominent figures in the French delegation, merely midlevel colonial officials and three obscure politicians, all of them unsympathetic to the Vietnamese position. The roster reflected the results of an election in France in early June, which shifted the balance in the Assembly to the right and, generally, to those who shared d’Argenlieu’s views. The new government, under the MRP’s Bidault, saw no reason to compromise with the Vietnamese, and it took this firm position in part because of a letter to M
RP chairman Maurice Schumann, dated June 8, from none other than Philippe Leclerc. The general, it seems, had shifted his position dramatically. France, he now wrote, had practically won in Indochina, having in the spring months secured most of the vital points. She therefore should not concede much at Fontainebleau, particularly to Ho Chi Minh, a man who sought only to throw the French out of Vietnam altogether. “I think, under these conditions, that it would be very dangerous for the French representatives at the negotiations to let themselves be fooled by the deceptive language (democracy, resistance, the new France) that Ho Chi Minh and his team utilize to perfection,” Leclerc wrote.32
IV
AND SO LECLERC, NEVER AS FAR FROM D’ARGENLIEU’S HARD-LINE position as some authors have claimed, now stood more or less right beside him. The French move into Tonkin following the March 6 Accords had gone reasonably well, Leclerc reasoned, with the first units coming ashore at Haiphong on March 8. The French population of Hanoi and Haiphong was giddy with joy at the arrival of its long-awaited army, and at the French forces’ occupation—over the vociferous objections of the Vietnamese—of the Governor-General’s Palace in Hanoi two weeks later. (“It seemed the return of Vietnam’s colonial enslavement,” recalled Bui Diem of watching the French troops reenter Hanoi.) In subsequent weeks, the French strengthened their posture in various spots north of the sixteenth parallel, and though huge tasks remained and fighting continued in the south, the French commander may have noted the progress made and opted to see the glass as half full.33
Whatever its source, Leclerc’s perspective meshed well with that of Bidault. A former history teacher who had studied at the Sorbonne, Bidault had been active in the Resistance during the Nazi occupation, then had served as foreign minister in de Gaulle’s Provisional Government beginning in August 1944. He founded the MRP and served as foreign minister in Félix Gouin’s government in early 1946 before now taking the presidency himself. To Bidault, who would be at the front line of French policy on Indochina for much of the next eight years, and to many of his ministers, war was unthinkable, but the alternative, giving away independence to the “yellow men” (les jaunes), who in the past had been so easily dominated, was even more unimaginable. Bidault accordingly instructed the team at Fontainebleau, led by Max André, a die-hard believer in the empire with close ties to the Bank of Indochina, to adhere to a firm posture in the talks, which got under way on July 6. The head of the Vietnamese delegation, Pham Van Dong, meanwhile, was less inclined to compromise than the Giap delegation at Dalat in April had been.34
Embers of War: The Fall of an Empire and the Making of America's Vietnam Page 17
