by Tom Wilson
Let us toast the Mee! the three surviving Vietnamese pilots had said.
Getting to Vietnam hadn't been easy. Discrimination against them was open, and there seemed no way to gain passage home in the face of French outrage over the loss of their colony. Finally Tho had made arrangements on a freighter bound from Marseilles to Saigon. Each day of that voyage they'd anticipated their return, to pluck the heady fruits of victory.
Instead they returned to find only turmoil.
When the British had arrived to accept the Japanese surrender officially, they'd declared martial law and used that pretext to release the Vichy French and even some Japanese troops from their prisons to restore order.
In Saigon, Quon found the situation desperate. As British Gurkha troops fought vainly to keep peace in the streets, various bands of nationalist groups, criminal gangs, and just-freed French legionnaires wandered about, looting, fighting each other, and hunting down sympathizers of Ho's government. Old mandarin families, Viet Minh appointees, and French administrators vied for control, creating more confusion. In the north Chiang Kai-shek's troops crossed the border to convince Hanoi to change from their communist ways. The new French government, anxious to regain their Indochinese Empire, informed Washington that they were supporting a communist regime. Recoiling, the Mee had withdrawn support and began turning over surplus war materials to the French. Ho Chi Minh's pleas to Moscow and Washington went unanswered, and his coalition government was left without support.
For Quon the personal tragedy was complete. His father had disappeared without a trace. His mother's family had sided with the Viet Minh in 1944 when Giap's men had attacked the outposts of the Vichy French. One by one they'd been hunted down and assassinated.
He'd stood watching the flames of a fire started by a drunken legionnaire and realized that only through subjugation to the Lao Dong party would his people be able to cast out the French oppressors. Then he'd walked northward, abandoning Saigon with no backward look. During the trek he assumed his mother's ancestral name of Quon and dedicated his life to their revenge. When he reached Hanoi, he offered his services to Ho Chi Minh and the party.
Now General Tho commanded the People's Army Air Force, and Quon the air regiment at Phuc Yen. Quon carried the authority of a colonel, or perhaps even a general, but disdained badges of rank. It was a part of his mystique, so admired by the readers of Nham Dan. Now he hunted Yankees rather than Germans or Frenchmen, and his weapon of choice was a sleek MiG-21, silver but with a special splash of red on the fuselage. According to Nham Dan he had destroyed countless numbers of Yankee pirates.
Quon's only son had just graduated from pilot training in Russia, as Quon had done twenty-three years before. A recent issue of Nham Dan had featured the story of the avenging father-son team. Quon the elder, and Thanh the son, valiant protectors of the Republic.
Each time the inspirational saga was printed in Nham Dan, young men clamored to be accepted for pilot training. Quon was a national asset, thought Nguyen Wu. He wondered how much of the heroic accounts were truth, and how much invented for the purposes of the party.
Since taking his seat, Wu had tried to speak with Quon, for he was a good man to know, but thus far his friendly words had been thoroughly ignored. Was that the way of the famous pilot, or was it disdain for the political way Wu had been promoted?
Nguyen Wu's aunt was one of the powerful who directed international activities at the Ministry of External Affairs, soon to become the newest member of the Central Committee of the Lao Dong party. It had been at Li Binh's insistence that the Lao Dong party had urged the Army to promote him.
He remembered General Luc calling him in and telling him of the promotion with a bewildered air, obviously uneasy that he would fill such a critical position. But Nguyen Wu felt relatively secure. Day-to-day control of the People's Army was exercised by General Van Tien Dung, the man for whom they now waited. The wily general had seemed pragmatic about Wu's promotion, and no one was likely to change things without his approval. Nguyen Wu's aunt had told him that, and she knew of such matters.
Li Binh was highly regarded for her ability and widely feared for her ruthlessness, both with just cause. That fear kept even the boldest wolves from challenging him. A few grumbled about incompetence, but they did so quietly. Still, Nguyen Wu knew he must tread cautiously and not anger the generals. Their mentor was General Vo Nguyen Giap, and Giap was tremendously powerful. He was Minister of Defense, Chief of Staff of the People's Army, trusted advisor to the Enlightened One, a founder of the Lao Dong party, and a ranking member of the Central Committee. With a single word from Giap, regardless of his family connections, Colonel Nguyen Wu would find himself a humble foot soldier . . . or worse.
I must not tarry long in this position, he told himself. There were too many jealous colonels, too many watchful generals.
On Nguyen Wu's left sat Colonel Trung, who controlled the country's antiaircraft and antiship artillery units. Trung was twenty years older than he, a traditionalist who openly disdained him. But everyone knew old Trung distrusted sophisticated weaponry as much as he disliked the young colonels promoted to control them, and his grumbling was often ignored.
General Luc turned in his seat, spoke pleasantly to Trung, then regarded Nguyen Wu. He was still uneasy around his newest colonel. Finally, "How is your aunt faring, Colonel?"
As always, Wu tried to search for hidden meanings in the general's words before he responded. "She is doing well, considering her grief, comrade General. As you know, she just left for Paris to attend important talks."
Luc nodded. "And Colonel Xuan Nha?"
Wu's uncle was a Hero of the Republic. Educated in physics and electronics, he was one of few senior Vietnamese officers who understood the complex new systems supplied by the Soviet Union. It had taken such a man, with his technical knowledge and acceptance by the generals, to establish the networks of radars and surface-to-air rockets. But a month before, Xuan Nha had taken control of one of his rocket batteries and engaged a group of Mee warplanes. Severely wounded by Mee bombs, he was now a bundle of splints and bandages languishing in the sprawling Bach Mai hospital.
Xuan Nha was an official dichotomy, admired by the generals because he got results, distrusted by the party because he'd allowed foreigners, Russians and North Koreans, to control Vietnamese defenses. The generals wanted him to recover and return to duty. The party hadn't yet decided how to handle him should he recover.
Wu spoke in a woeful tone. "Xuan Nha is alive, comrade General Luc, but that is all. We hope for his recovery, but . . ." He shrugged helplessly.
Following his uncle's misfortune, Wu had moved into his beloved aunt's villa. He said he was there to help console her. That was certainly true, and both he and his aunt were delighted with the arrangement. Li Binh had gone to see Xuan Nha only once and reported he was a vegetable hidden within a swath of gauze. She had not returned.
"We miss Xuan Nha's technical wisdom," General Luc observed. "He had a special understanding of radars and guided-rocket systems, and how to get the most out of them."
Was it a thrust at Wu's competence? The results Nguyen Wu had thus far provided were discouraging, for the rocket batteries had not yet recovered from the battering they'd taken when the generals had thrown in everything to stop the Mee at the Thai Nguyen steel mill. Wu knew he must improve the rocket force, but the key to that goal had been elusive. In the meantime, while he sought solutions, he must stall for time.
"We work relentlessly to rebuild," he told General Luc, "and often I ask my staff, 'What would my uncle have done in this circumstance?' "
"Yes," said General Luc, "you should do that." He raised an eyebrow as he paused meaningfully. "The Mee are increasingly successful. During yesterday's raids on the power plants here and in Haiphong, we lost much of our electrical generating capacity."
"We shot down three air pirates," said Wu. Actually Trung's artillery had shot down two Thunder planes, and his cautious rocket commande
rs had made an unfortunate error.
"That was what I was briefed," said Luc drily.
Did the general know he'd altered the report? Nguyen Wu hastily started to explain, "My rocket batteries at . . ."
Quon interrupted, his voice as emphatic as the crack of a pistol. "One of my interceptors was lost to your fornicating rockets! He was closing with a Phantom north of Hanoi, and your rockets hit the wrong target. Could that be one of the aircraft you are claiming?"
Nguyen Wu was startled at the outburst, and it took a moment for his thoughts to settle. He didn't wish to antagonize Quon, but neither could he allow himself to be criticized before the generals. "Let us speak about it later, comrade Quon," he hissed in a low voice.
Quon persisted. "I demand to know why your radar operators cannot identify our aircraft! We fly with transponders turned on, yet your people still confuse us with the enemy."
Wu wanted to ignore the question, but he realized that the generals were looking on and waiting for his answer.
"In the heat of battle," he reasoned, "the radar operators at the rocket batteries sometimes make mistakes. They are increasingly under attack themselves, and . . ."
"Perhaps you should do something about it and not simply make excuses," Quon snapped, staring directly at Wu.
Nguyen Wu's anger flashed. "Perhaps you should train your pilots better. Your MiGs were flying in an area assigned to my rockets."
A smile flickered at Quon's lips, happy that he'd elicited the outburst. He continued his baiting. "Send your radar operators to visit my pilots at Phuc Yen," he said, "so we will be able to recognize our other enemy."
Wu looked sheepishly toward the generals. "I apologize for our outburst, comrades."
Quon snorted. "I do not apologize, Colonel Wu. I demand that something be done. When Colonel Xuan Nha controlled the long-range radars, he operated them under a centralized control center for both our pilots and his rocket operators. We all got results. We all shot down many enemy fighters, and there were no mistakes like this one. Since you have taken over, there has been only confusion. Your radar controllers provide my pilots with poor instructions and often simply ignore us. It cannot continue."
Nguyen Wu looked to the generals for support, then realized there would be none. He sputtered, "The control center was damaged and had to be dismantled, and we are still reorganizing. But"—he tried to puff himself out importantly—"I have taken control from the foreigners and returned it to our people."
General Tho spoke to General Luc, ignoring Nguyen Wu. "Quon believes we should bring both of the long-range radars back under the People's Army Air Force. Since they are located at our MiG bases, it would be a simple matter. Our interceptors must be able to operate in harmony with the rocket and artillery batteries without being threatened."
General Tho explained further, "The Russians refuse to supply us with more fighters until they reequip their own units. We may get a few more MiG-19's from the Chinese, but that is all. We cannot afford to lose more aircraft needlessly."
"I must retain control of the long-range radars," Wu tried to interject. "Only my people have the technical training required to pass information to the rocket batteries."
"The radars must be returned to the People's Air Force," Quon said doggedly, "so we can be assured the controllers will work with our interceptors."
General Luc knew to listen. Tho and Quon were favorites of the general staff and not to be ignored. He mused silently for a moment longer, then he and Tho turned forward again.
Shaken, Wu felt a wave of helplessness. He opened his mouth to argue further, but judiciously closed it. A sideward glance showed that Quon was smiling.
Was the pilot trying to disgrace him?
For a moment he was consumed with worry; then he began wondering how he might deal with the fighter pilot. Perhaps his aunt? Not possible. She'd be away in Paris for weeks, and he might not have that much time.
General Dung's aide hurried through the door. "The general arrives," he announced.
Chairs scraped as the officers stood and bowed sharply as Van Tien Dung entered and stood by his chair at the head of the room. He wore an immaculate white-dress uniform, and each epaulet was adorned with three gold stars.
Ho Chi Minh, Vo Nguyen Giap, Le Duan, Le Duc Tho, Pham Van Dong, and the remainder of the Lao Dong party's vanguard sprang from affluent parentage, conspiring as students while attending French schools. The exclusion of the poor from their group was not by design, only because none were within their circles of trusted friends. The Workers' Party, the Lao Dong, was begun and thereafter controlled by the children of the privileged.
Van Tien Dung, with his peasant's roots and crude manners, had become the exception, and was living proof of the Lao Dong's commitment to The People. Despite his obscene jokes and loud guffaws at the most improper times, Dung had prospered in their ranks. After the Viet Minh had attacked the French garrisons and then fled into the Viet Bac mountains north of Hanoi in 1947, Dung had become their chief logistician. In early 1954 he'd been a critical factor behind their decisive victory at Dien Bien Phu. At the end of the great War of Liberation, he'd been Giap's right hand, and there he remained. Now, in the War of Unification, Giap worried about grand strategies and interfaces with the party, while Dung provided day-to-day control of the People's Army.
Van Tien Dung was methodical, wary of bold moves and given to conservatism. Always a survivor, he was a master at manipulating people and situations. He stood for a moment, quietly surveying the men in the room. For a split second Nguyen Wu felt the gaze resting on him. He could not quell an inner shudder, for the eyes had been hard.
Then Dung sat and did not wait until the others took their own seats before he said, "I have received reliable information that the Mee will soon begin bombing our bridges."
1210 Local—HQ Seventh Air Force, Tan Son Nhut Air Base, Saigon, South Vietnam
Lieutenant Colonel P. S. Gates, Assistant Chief of Plans and Programs at the headquarters, was far more important to the war effort than his humble title described.
Since its inception in 1947, superbly capable men had been assigned at all levels of the United States Air Force. Unfortunately, the skills of many were never realized. This was particularly true within the middle-management ranks, where competition for promotion was fiercest. Of the officers who entered the Air Force, fewer than half would be selected for lieutenant colonel. Only a third of those would make colonel. Less than five percent of those would wear stars. It was called the "up-or-out" system, and you were either promoted or left in the dust with your friend's toe in your eye as he scrambled over you.
Due to the competition for promotion, superb fighter jocks who could hardly write their own names without feeling uncomfortable, asked to be transferred to high-visibility positions at headquarters. Too often their flying duties were then assumed by pilots who were uneasy with flying, but who, given the chance, would have been very good staff officers. Thus the anomaly of superbly coordinated officers manning fifty-dollar desks at headquarters, while awkward bookworms flew multimillion-dollar aircraft about the sky.
Yet there were happier truths. Within each flying squadron there was one junior pilot who was a natural entrepreneur, who should have been placed in charge of the squadron snack bar. His efforts were seldom applauded, but were appreciated by thirsty squadron pilots who found plentiful supplies of chilled Coors and Heineken in snack-bar refrigerators on bases that had not received a beer shipment in weeks. Similarly, in every headquarters there were thorny and difficult problem areas, and for each of these there was an officer who could quickly and accurately interpret the vast regulations and written guidelines, relate these to the real world, and advise the generals what they should or should not do. Successful general officers searched for and found these men, nurtured and listened closely to them, and were seen to make superb judgments. Stupid ones did not.
Richard J. Moss, the three-star commander of Seventh Air Force headquartered in
Saigon, was not stupid. Among the experts to whom he listened was Lieutenant Colonel P. S. Gates.
P. S. Gates had been stuck with the nickname of "Pearly" since he'd been an ROTC corporal. He'd resisted it, for he was from a proud and old Philadelphia family, and his namesake grandfather had been a rather famous state governor. Regardless, Pearly remained "Pearly." Few of his Air Force friends knew that the P really stood for Phillip, and fewer yet gave a shit about politicians.
At the Seventh Air Force headquarters in Saigon, Pearly Gates was the Out-Country (meaning out of South Vietnam) expert, who knew more about OPlan ROLLING THUNDER, the bombing campaign against North Vietnam, than anyone.
When Pearly had been assigned as Assistant Chief of Plans and Programs, he'd been as bored as any human would be with the dryly written conventional war plans, operations plans, contingency plans, supplements, and addenda. But someone had to become familiar with them, and he felt it should be someone who understood the consequence of a poor interpretation, who realized that a single screwup transmitted from the Tactical Air Control Center to the flying units could cost the lives of good men and destroy the careers of men who deserved better. So Pearly had taken a deep breath and thrashed through the reams of type-adorned paper until he could navigate deftly through the tomes filling the safes and cabinets of the back rooms and the Top Secret tank.
Assistant Chief of Plans and Programs was not a coveted position at any headquarters, but since Pearly Gates's assignment the desk at Seventh Air Force had become a powerful one. On paper he worked for a full bull, who worked for a one-star, who worked for Lieutenant General Moss, who was boss at the headquarters that supervised the air war in Southeast Asia. The brigadier general, the Deputy Commander for Plans, spent his time attending mandatory staff meetings and answering the mail. The colonel, the Chief of Plans and Programs, was immersed in the rules concerning the air war in South Vietnam. They both deferred to Lieutenant Colonel Pearly Gates to answer the general's tough questions about North Vietnam.
