by Barry Sadler
He was feeling expansive now from the praise heaped upon him by Giap for the courage and resolution it had taken for him to make an example of his own sister. Giap had confirmed the value her death would have on any who might think to betray them. It proved to their friends, and enemies alike, that there were no favorites in their ranks who had immunity by reason of rank or birth. To all, this great act of sacrifice and pain on the part of Thich was uncontestable evidence of the party's fairness in all things.
By the time Thich was able to return to the tunnels to continue his questioning of Langer, "Operation Hirondelle" had been started and finished by the French, who'd dropped three parachute battalions on some of their bases near Long Son. Giap had refused the gambit and did not commit any of his main forces to an engagement. It was not yet time. He still needed to husband his strength a bit longer. He had learned his lesson the previous year when he had ruined one of his prized regular divisions while attacking Na San in the Black River valley. The French had been reinforced and supplied by air. They'd held out and he had lost an entire division. He knew he could have taken Na San, but the price for it was too high. There were a couple of other actions which General Navarre, the commander of French forces in Asia, thought might draw the Viets out into an open battle where they could be beaten in a conventional manner, but Giap refused all offers; he was patient and his sources, especially those of his loyal Comrade Thich, had whispered in his ear of a new French plan more to his liking. Navarre had believed that when the rains ended, Giap was going to launch a major operation from Laos. To guard against this, he decided to build an airhead in the border hills from which he would be able to interdict any such operation on the part of Giap. The location whispered for the proposed airhead was the valley of Dien Bien Phu.
If the French did as he expected, then this would be where he would at last commit his divisions in full strength for the telling blow against the colonialists. This was not to be like Na San. Here the prize would be worth any cost and here he would have his big guns. He was glad he had listened to the council of Comrade Thich and had not given in to the temptation to use his precious artillery battalions in lesser contests. The number of his guns, and the amount of munitions he had in reserve for them, would be his Queen in the next contest; and, as any good chess master knows, it is not wise to play your Queen too early in the game.
Huang Nguyen Thich was not overly fond of travel. But there was no other way for him to contact, and deal with, the number of agents in his control. Sometimes it was just not possible for one of his men to be away from their jobs for any length of time without the French getting suspicious. They were such fools anyway. They employed hundreds of thousands of Vietnamese in their offices of government and trade, on the shipping docks, and inside their military installations. Cleaning women, cooks, houseboys, barbers, merchants and prostitutes all gathered information for him. A bit here, a rumor there, when put together with a hundred other seemingly unrelated items, gave him advance warning of what his enemies were going to do.
He often thought of himself as the master spider who spun hundreds of webs, webs for his flies to fall into. Now he wished to question further his scar faced fly in the tunnels above the valley of Dien Bien Phu. The man had not been far from his thoughts since their first meeting. He wished to find out the reason for his own fascination with the soldier. The man was of no import, merely a common thing who fought for hire, as were all the murderers of the Legion. Perhaps he could turn him over to his side, make him into a tool that he, Nguyen Thich, could use. The thought was tantalizing, but he suspected that he would not have any great success in that direction, not with one such as this. He did have some French who had willingly betrayed their own kind, but they were communists of the old school who had gone underground before the liberation of France. What was it they were called by the intelligence community? Moles. Yes! That's what they were. They stayed in their jobs and offices, or served in their regiments and divisions, until they received orders. He wished now that he was the one who was able to give them their orders, but that privilege was reserved for Moscow.
While he was away, the work on the mountain tunnels went on around the clock, their depth and sophistication growing greater with each cycle of the clock. When it was done it would be large enough to house thousands of men and their equipment. On his return there would be an important meeting held with all of his agents who could get free of their other duties to attend. Normally they would have met in their strongholds in the mountains around Bak An, which was to the north of Hanoi, but lately the French had stepped up their security operations in the region. Thich had no desire for any of his people to be caught in a random roundup.
It would be better for them to meet at the new safe site near the Laotian border. He valued his men highly. It had taken years to prepare and train them and they must not be wasted. They would be vital to the cause; even when the war was over they would be needed. It was up to them to keep the military informed of the possible course of future events. It was also up to them to weigh and judge the value of information, to eliminate by assassination, or torture those whose activities merited it. When the final victory was theirs, they would be the real controllers of the country and its people. Already they had acquired massive file cases on tens of thousands of their countrymen. These would ensure the party's success when they took power. He, Thich, knew who needed to be eliminated, re-educated or merely shipped to labor camps. There were others who could bring millions in gold into the coffers of the new regime, simply by permitting them to live and in some cases leave the country to join members of their families in France or elsewhere. Communists were frugal businessmen and practical ones. If an undesirable person was worth more alive than dead, then by all means sell him to the highest bidder.
Langer swore at the water seeping through the walls of his cell, turning it into a miniature quagmire. Every day at the same time, the rains came and with it the tunnels turned into damp, slimy, stinking pits. There were drainage ditches and holes to let the worst of the waters flow out to lower levels, but the rains came through the ceiling, seeping through cracks in the tin sheeting or wooden planks. The floors of the larger tunnels were covered with boards but his dirt hole had no such luxury; the ground was constantly wet and slimy. He took his boots off and set them up as high as he could in a niche that he had scratched out in one of the walls with a stone he'd found in the floor. After three weeks, his uniform had started to decay on his body, the seams rotting. Even the thick tough material of the pants and tunic began growing mold cultures of their own, which slowly dissolved the material. Even worse was the particularly stubborn breed of fungus, which had taken up residence in his beard. He felt that if it rained much more he would not have to worry about escaping; they'd never be able to find him. All that would be left in the cell would be a large piece of greenish gray slime with caporal stripes. Once every five or six days he was handcuffed and taken outside to stand in the rain and rinse off. This kept the worst of the rot away, but his hands and feet were still pale white, wrinkled, and bloated from the constant damp.
The only item of interest, other than the constant digging going on, was a steady stream of new faces and voices that he'd noticed in the tunnel in the last few days. Something was going on that was important. Peeking through the cracks he saw the new arrivals. In most cases they were civilians to whom the guards showed great respect. Something big was going on.
Thich arrived shortly after the afternoon rains had ceased. He noted immediately the improvements made in his absence and nodded approvingly to his subordinates before he went to his quarters to change into a clean, tan colored uniform, modeled in the Mao style. Once he had refreshed himself, he ordered that Langer be brought to him. Once more Langer stood before Thich. His appearance had deteriorated greatly since their last meeting. At first Thich thought about reprimanding the complex commandant, but quickly changed his mind. Perhaps the last weeks of discomfort had made his guest more plia
ble. However, the smell emanating from the Legionnaire proved too much. He sent him back out with orders for him to be given soap and clean clothes then returned to him in an hour. During Langer's absence, he held a short meeting with his cell leaders, stressing the necessity of their acquiring more intelligence about French troop movements: their supply capabilities, their numbers and types of vehicles and aircraft, and whether they were expecting to get any massive amounts of American aid. American aid to the French had been a sore spot with all the Viet Minh leaders since the day Japan had capitulated. This old sore was still eating at him when he returned for his meeting with Langer, who looked much improved, though a stubborn patch of fungus still stuck to his face.
Tea was ordered. Thich was going to try and reason with his prisoner to make him see the justice of their cause. He still didn't know why he held this compulsion to talk to the scar faced man. But he did! And who knew, there was always the chance, remote perhaps, but still a chance that he might be able to turn this one if he could find out where his weaknesses were hidden or what his dreams were.
He prided himself on knowledge of men and the things which made each what he was. Find the right key and anyone could be made to sell out his father, mother or country. What could it be that he could use to turn the Legionnaire? This man had been in the German Army. Perhaps he could find a common ground with him by making him aware that the Allies he once fought against were now the enemies of the Vietnamese people.
His thoughts were interrupted by Langer 's entrance into his office. Thich indicated he should sit. Sipping his steaming tea with both hands, he leaned back, lit a cigarette and offered one to Langer. "I have something to tell you that not many of your race or the world outside of these lands have heard. Then, I think, you will better understand why we must continue our struggle for freedom against the French colonialists, or any others who come to our land unbidden." Thich paused to see if he had his guest's attention. He did and continued on with his story.
"The last months of the Japanese occupation were a most confusing time with the shift in power bases taking place daily. The Japanese had disarmed all the French, who had been ruling in the name of the Vichy government. But once France went openly to the side of the Allies, the Japanese put most of their soldiers under barracks arrest and imposed curfews on all civilians. The Japanese puppet government of Premier Kim was a farce.
“The only true resistance to the Japanese came from the different nationalist groups, such as the Viet Minh, or the Hoa Hoa or Cao Dai. These and a dozen others all had one common goal: Liberation of their country from all foreigners. Beyond that, all the ideologies were much different. Only against the Japanese was there any cooperation, and that was seldom coordinated. Each group acted as it wished, without any central leadership, that is, until Ho Chi Minh returned and established the Central Committee of the Communist party and called for a People’s Congress where all views and opinions could be heard without fear. We of the Viet Minh were the best trained and organized. All groups knew they would have to deal with us at some point, for we had too much support from the peasants. Only we, of the Viet Minh, would be capable of maintaining order once the Japanese were thrown out. We never believed that the western powers would give our lands back to France.
"Time and again we made concessions to avoid civil war. We agreed to form a coalition government, where each political and religious faction would have a voice which would be fairly heard all this, when we already had control over the greatest part of the country. Hanoi was in our hands as was Saigon. Yet the Potsdam Conference of July 1945 gave us away like we were chattel.
"The real war began in Saigon when the British, your old enemies, came in and turned the control of the Saigon arsenal and the ports over to the French, who had come in with them bringing eighteen hundred men on the British ships from Calcutta. The English general, Gracey, ordered that all Vietnamese were to turn in their weapons and submit to French authority. He even ordered the Japanese, who he was supposed to have taken into custody, to assist the French in enforcing his demands, even to the point of firing on Vietnamese nationals who refused to obey his orders. The French and the English told the Japanese to kill Vietnamese!"
Thich 's voice rose to a nearly hysterical level, and then he fought to gain control of his emotions.
"We had no choice but to resist. After all the years we had been under the heel of foreign oppressors, we were not going to bow our necks again. This time we will fight and we will win. It is our destiny. You know that your masters have no rights in this land. Let them go home and the killing will stop at the same moment."
Thich continued in this vein, telling Langer of the things which had led to their being at this place at this time. He knew that Thich was speaking the truth as he saw it. In many points he agreed with him, but not on the ones that counted most. When Thich at last finished, he leaned back in his chair, brown eyes steady on the gray blue ones of the Legionnaire. "Now tell me, what do you think of what I have said? Do you believe me? If so, what does it mean to you?"
Langer took another smoke from the pack and tried not to choke as he inhaled the acrid fumes. `I believe that much of what you have said is true, and if it were not for one thing, I might even be on your side in this fight."
Thich was exultant; his words had struck home and had a tremendous effect on the scar faced soldier.
Langer butted out his cigarette before he finished what he was saying. "That one thing is, I hate communists! I know you are sincere in what you say and believe, so was Hitler, Stalin, Mao and Mussolini. You are all sincere men who have one thing in common besides your sincerity. You will lie, steal, cheat, kill, and mutilate for the sake of your cause. I have fought communists too long though to be taken in by a story such as yours. As I said, I'm sure you're telling me the truth. However, there are many shades of the truth; nothing is an absolute. When you say you would be masters in your own land, I think not. For every bullet or rifle the Russians or Chinese send to you there will be a price tag attached that will never be marked paid in full. The coalition government you say you want to form would last only until you had the power to remove the communists when they were no longer needed. Communists are pigs who eat their own and say it is for the greater good. As you also said, I too believe the French will not be here much longer, but maybe we can hurt you bad enough so you don't get to eat everything on the table. That's reason enough for me to fight. Or, to put it more simply, I just plain don't like you."
Thich was furious. To be mocked in his own quarters in a camp where he had hundreds of soldiers at his beck and call by this, this ugly thing!
When Langer was returned to his cell he had to be dragged down the hall. A beating with split canes of bamboo was worse than a cat o' nine tails. The bamboo could strip the meat from a man's back as handily as a straight razor. But they received little satisfaction from him for their efforts. The only sounds he made were involuntary grunts as the canes peeled the flesh away from his ribs and back. As he had told Thich, he'd endured much worse things in his time.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Gus had just about enough of Sergent chef Herman's bullshit. Since the raid on the mansion he had drawn every shit detail in the Legion and had been busted back to private again. Not that the loss of rank bothered him; he was used to that. It was Hermann. Now that Langer was gone, he felt he had more control over his company again and the company commander, Captain Sarrault, was on his side for a change. He would have preferred to have had Gus put in front of a firing squad but even he had to admit the big former Panzer man was a hell of a fighter, and handy to have around when things got tight. So the worst he could do was to make Gus's life as miserable as he could in every way. His latest ploy was to have a houseboy in his employ tell him of each and every time Gus visited his favorite whore at Madame Collette's house. It was one of the few such places that had been placed off limits to enlisted men, but Gus had a passion for a young thing of mixed French and Chinese blood. He just
couldn't stay away from her, and every time Gus showed up to see her Hermann gave him just enough time to get in a compromising position then he would race up the stairs, pounding on the door, crying out for Gus to give himself up so he could be properly court martialed.
Gus had no desire to go on any more of the mine clearing details or experience any other such punishments that would be waiting for him if he was brought in. Therefore he had to take the only other course open to him and avoid the situation by jumping out of the second story window of the whorehouse into the rice paddy at its rear. This was usually done in varying stages of nudity. Either he was carrying his clothes on top of his head or wearing his pants and boots, which usually curled up at the toes and cracked when they dried. He began jumping right after Langer had been taken prisoner and by the next month, from landing in the same hole, he was up to his waist in the fragrant waters of the paddy.
Hermann would stand in the window with his whore and laugh at the sight of the naked, hairy back and buttocks wading through the waters enriched by human manure. Gus swore vengeance. He spent hours of each day plotting the best way to get back at Hermann. Death was too easy, though the thought of tying a fragmentation grenade to the sergent-chef's genitals did have a pleasing texture to it.
Gus screwed up his bushy eyebrows in deep concentration, straining to come up with something truly creative. In this attitude he resembled a monstrous camouflaged beetle. Doing his best to be analytical, he tried to put in order the things that Hermann liked best. He liked to be a bully, he liked his drink, and he had an ex-bar girl that he was keeping house with. He paid her bills and watched her like a hawk. Beyond being a bully and a drinker, the girl was the only thing Gus could think of that might become a proper payback. But how to get to her? He had hustled her when she was still working at Francine’s, before Hermann took her away and made her his private stock. Even then she wouldn't go to bed with him for any amount of money, saying, "I may be a whore but I have not gone down so far as to bed with apes!" That had come close to hurting his feelings.
