The mention of Indochina piqued Tommy’s interest. “Indochina…you mean like Vietnam and places like that?”
“Damn right. We’ll be touching down in Vietnam late afternoon tomorrow…Hanoi, to be exact. We lay over there for a day and then do it all in reverse the day after that.”
Tommy asked, “Do you have room for one more passenger? I might have a little bit of business in Hanoi.”
Cantrell smiled and said, “Oh, yeah? What’s her name?”
*****
When Tommy told the maintenance squadron commander—his temporary boss during the acceptance checks of the F-84s—of his request to take a three-day joy ride on the diplomatic shuttle’s airplane, the colonel just shrugged and said, “Well, Moon, it’s not like I’ve got anything for you to do around here for the next few days. Just remember to get yourself put on the crew manifest and bring some civvies, unless you want to live on the damn aircraft. You don’t want to be wandering around civilian areas in uniform in any of those countries.”
“Already got the civvies packed, sir.”
“Well, then, see you in a few days, Moon. Have a nice trip.”
*****
After a stop in Manila, the diplomatic shuttle was headed west across the South China Sea toward Hanoi. It was mid-afternoon; the leg from Tokyo had been a long and boring eight hours. This leg to Hanoi would consume another six hours.
Slouched in the aircraft commander’s seat while his co-pilot flew the ship, Case Cantrell said, “If we didn’t have to make that stop in Manila, we could’ve cut some time off this Hanoi run by going nonstop. The old girl’s got the range and then some. But you fly awfully close to Red China. A couple of our guys had to dodge chink fighters on that route, so the brass said to knock it off. They didn’t want any international incidents while we’ve got this mess in Korea going on.”
Tommy asked, “Really? How the hell does a slow ship like this dodge anything?”
“It’s simple…just head straight out to sea. Those chink fighter jocks don’t seem too thrilled about flying way out over open water, so if you go farther out…well, you know what I mean. You fly single-seat ships.” Cantrell pointed to the rear of the cockpit, where the navigator was hunched over the chart table, deep into his calculations. “Without somebody like ol’ Whiz Wheel there, it’s real easy to get lost when you’re over the drink.”
“Yeah, you’ve got that right,” Tommy replied.
“You sure you don’t want to get a little stick time?” Cantrell asked. “She handles like a real pussycat.”
“Thanks, but I’ll pass. She’s a little tame for my tastes.”
Tommy made his way back to the cabin. The only other passenger after the Manila stop was a middle-aged CIA man named Whitechurch who had slept the entire leg from Tokyo. He was wide awake now, though, and while pretending to read some papers was giving Tommy a surreptitious once-over.
“I thought you were a pilot,” Whitechurch said, “but I don’t see you doing any flying.”
“I’m just along for the ride, sir.”
“No need to call me sir, Major Moon.” Yet everything about Whitechurch—his bearing, his cropped, graying hair, his command voice—labeled him as one who once wore a high officer’s rank. “It’s just you, me, and all these crates full of foreign aid sitting in this cabin. We can be informal, right?”
“If you like, sir.”
“Please, call me Howard.”
“Sure. My name’s Tommy.”
“I know. I read the manifest.”
“These crates, Howard…this stuff you call foreign aid. It’s really weapons, isn’t it?”
The CIA man replied with just a knowing smile. That was all the confirmation Tommy needed. But that smile sent a chill up his spine all the same.
Whitechurch asked, “Why are you going to Hanoi, anyway, Tommy? It’s not the place American officers usually go to relax. And there is a war going on there, you know.”
“Yeah, I know,” Tommy replied. “The French, the Viet Minh…just another guerrilla uprising.”
“Oh, it’s far beyond that, Tommy.”
“Maybe you’d better fill me in, then.”
Once again, Whitechurch replied with only that disquieting smile.
Tommy shifted in the hard bucket seat, fighting a losing battle for physical comfort. Thanks to his fellow passenger, he’d already lost the battle for emotional comfort as fear for what Sylvie was doing in Vietnam took hold of him all over again.
“Why are you going to Hanoi, Tommy?”
“I have a friend there working for Uncle Sam. Well, she’s more than a friend…”
“Really!” Whitechurch replied, sounding almost bubbly. “A woman working for the US government! She must be with the agency, then, correct?”
Tommy got the sinking feeling that he’d already revealed too much. If he’d learned anything from his time with Sylvie, it was that you never—never—revealed the identity of an operative.
Whitechurch persisted. “You’re talking about Frenchie, aren’t you?”
Now he knew he’d said too much. He’d never been a convincing liar. Or even an unconvincing one. But he needed to slam the door shut on this line of questioning immediately.
“Look, Howard…Mister Whitechurch…I don’t know any Frenchie, okay?”
With an approving nod, Whitechurch replied, “All right then, Moon, not badly played. Not entirely credible, but…” Then he went back to studying his papers.
For Tommy, the thunderous silence that fell between them drowned out even the numbing drone of the C-54’s engines. That silence persisted for over an hour, until the CIA man said, “By the way, good luck even finding Sylvie Bergerac. She spends most of her time at the French outposts in the north, near the border with China. That’s a combat zone, you know. Getting there could prove quite a difficult—and dangerous—proposition for you.”
*****
It was just after 2100 hours when the flight crew cleared the French military checkpoint at Hanoi’s Gia Lam Airfield. Then they piled onto a French Army truck for the quick ride across the Red River to the hotel where they’d spend the night. Tommy had little intention of staying in his room, though. In civilian clothes now and armed with a crumpled Michelin street map, he set out to find Sylvie’s flat at 127 Rue Paul Bert.
He was relieved to realize the address was just a few blocks from the hotel. As he walked briskly down broad boulevards still crowded even at this late hour, the sound of people speaking French was everywhere. He rubbed shoulders with Vietnamese, French civilians, and soldiers of the French Foreign Legion enjoying an evening off duty. Some were casually strolling, others relaxing in the many bars and restaurants. Taking in the architectural style, cloaked in the mysteries of night but still resplendent with its ornate facades and balconies overhanging the sidewalks, he felt he could’ve been walking down a street in any number of cities in France, or even the French Quarter of New Orleans.
This place feels just like France, he told himself, with a lot of Asians thrown in.
But there was one big problem: he couldn’t find a number 127 on Rue Paul Bert. Number 125 was the last building before an intersection. Beyond that intersection, the buildings began with number 131.
He approached a lone legionnaire on the street corner. In the rusty French he’d barely used the last few years—and then only when he and Sylvie wished to have a private conversation in the midst of Americans—he asked, “Where can I find number One-Two-Seven Rue Paul Bert?”
In English, with the accent of one from the American Midwest, the legionnaire asked, “New York or Jersey?”
“New York. Brooklyn. It’s that obvious?”
“The moment you opened your mouth, pal.”
Then he took Tommy to the entrance of number 125. The door opened to a long corridor, a passageway through the building’s first floor. “Try going all the way through,” the legionnaire said. “They number things real crazy around here. One-Two-Seven is probably just the
back side of One-Two-Five.”
“Gee,” Tommy said, “you think they’d put up a sign or something.”
“Nah, that would be too easy. You know how the French are. They like to be… qu’est-ce que c’est? Mystérieux.”
Tommy thanked him and headed down the corridor. The legionnaire called after him, “Hey, what are you, anyway? Army? Navy?”
“Just a tourist.”
“Bullshit. But you have a nice night, anyway, whoever she is. Hey, one more thing…watch your ass on the street. The Minh aren’t just up in the hills, you know.”
Number 127 was right where the legionnaire said it might be. There were four names printed on the wall at the bottom of a narrow staircase. One of the names was S. Bergerac, chambre 3.
That’s her.
Climbing the stairs, he could feel his heart pounding and his breath growing short. Every step closer heightened the dread that disappointment would be the outcome of this impulsive trip. He couldn’t stop telling himself, If that Whitechurch guy is right, she’s probably not even here.
But as he stood before the door to chambre 3, he could hear music playing softly.
American music. That’s Nat King Cole, for cryin’ out loud.
His hand quivering, he knocked with more force than he’d intended.
Shit. That sounded like cops getting ready to raid the place.
A few seconds later, her strident voice demanded, “Identifiez-vous!”
Identify yourself.
He’d barely gotten out the words, “C’est moi, Tommy,” when the door flew open and the pajama-clad Sylvie pulled him into the tiny flat with one hand and kicked the door shut with her bare foot.
In her other hand was a snub-nose .38-caliber pistol; he didn’t realize it was there until their deep kiss and vice-like embrace finally ended. By that time, Nat King Cole had long finished singing Nature Boy and the phonograph needle was scratching over and over again across the record’s play-out grooves.
Still clinging to him, she spoke softly into his ear: “What on earth are you doing here, Tommy?”
“Aren’t you happy to see me?”
“Of course I am, silly boy. How long do you have?”
“Two nights, one day. But what’s with the gun?”
If she had her choice, she would never want him to know just how dangerous a place Hanoi—in fact, all of Vietnam—could be. But the pistol had given her away.
“A girl can’t be too careful, you know,” she said. Then she smothered his mouth with hers, praying it would be enough to flush his fears away…
At least for tonight.
It worked; there would be little talking that night. There was simply no need for words.
*****
He hadn’t noticed them in the shadows and passion of last night, but they were impossible to miss in the light of morning: hanging on the wall were garments that looked very much like safari clothes. Or military fatigues, perhaps.
From the cut of the cloth, they were something a man would wear. Just like the pair of workman’s boots stashed in the corner.
“Of course they’re men’s clothes, Tommy,” Sylvie replied after he’d seized on their presence, casually deflecting his implied accusation that a man might also reside in chambre 3. “But they’re mine. I have no choice. There is no such thing as women’s utility gear around here.”
That only explained one of the burning issues on his mind. He asked, “Since when do you wear a uniform, Syl? Is the CIA part of the military now?”
“Tommy, have you ever seen rural Vietnam?”
“Of course not.”
“Then trust me. It’s not a very pleasant environment. Quite primitive, in fact. And very dirty. There’s shit everywhere, animal and human. Those clothes are the only practical things to wear. Even if I need a belt and suspenders to hold up the trousers.”
He saw something on the shirtsleeve that made him bolt from the bed for a closer look. It was a smear of blood.
“It’s not mine,” she said, as if that simple statement would end his sudden obsession with it.
Then she rose from the bed, snatched the shirt from his hands and threw it, along with the rest of the soiled clothes, into a pile near the door. “We’ll need to drop these at the laundry on our way to breakfast,” she said.
“Does that pistol come with us?”
“Mais oui,” she replied.
But of course.
*****
If it hadn’t been for the Vietnamese waiters, the café would’ve seemed exactly like the many places they’d shared meals in France during the last war. The clientele was exclusively French, equal parts civilian and military. Many of them knew Sylvie; they wished her bonjour while curiously eyeing Tommy.
She could tell he had a million questions to ask her.
Most could never be answered.
“I’m so glad Sean is okay,” she said. “Give him my best, please.” She paused and then asked, “Does he even know you’re here?”
“Nope. This was a real spur of the moment opportunity.”
“I see. And you met my colleague Whitechurch on the airplane. He was an old Asia hand in the OSS. His life in the agency now revolves around the conviction that losing China to Mao’s communists was the greatest calamity ever to befall the United States.”
“So I guess that’s why you’re here, Syl? To help prevent the communists from taking over Indochina?”
“Of course. It’s all part of the same mistake that’s sent you to Korea.”
She was glad they were seated away from the other patrons. Conversations such as this one, whether in French or English, were best not overheard.
He leaned close and asked, “Are the French winning against the Viet Minh?”
Looking around to make certain that no one could hear, she replied, “Winning? No. But they’re not losing at the moment, either. They’re asking for more serious military aid from the US now—airplanes, artillery, and such. Without it, they’ll lose in less than a year. With it, a French defeat is still inevitable but will take a little longer.”
“Why would it be inevitable if they’re getting US support, Syl?”
“Why? Because the French are desperately trying to cling to an empire they no longer have the means or the will to oppress.” Her eyes swept the café as she added, “Look at all these deluded fools, thinking they can turn back time merely because they will it.”
Her voice took on an exasperated tone. “Paris—and most of Washington, too—doesn’t understand their struggle with this breed of Asian communism. It’s not merely a political fencing match like it is in the West, where the goal is to take control of existing power structures. Here, it’s an umbrella beneath which nationalists of many stripes gather to demolish the imperialist power structures they’d lived under for decades. Fighting them is like trying to make water flow uphill. So yes, the French will leave Indochina in defeat. And then the Americans will come and take their turn trying to beat down the communists.”
“Like we’re trying to do in Korea?”
“Like you’re failing to do in Korea, Tommy.”
“Gee, Syl…is that really the CIA line?”
“It’s my line, Tommy. Case officers like myself merely observe and report. Politicians decide the policies. Usually badly. I’m not in Korea, of course, but I see all the same mistakes being made there.”
It was hard for him to imagine her as one who merely observed and reported. Not Sylvie Bergerac, the ex-French Resistance fighter, ex-French Army agent of the Affaires Civiles in Germany during the war’s closing months, ex-OSS operative for the Americans in the early post-war days, and a CIA operative ever since. She was more a warrior than most of the soldiers he’d known.
And she was in the fight again. The blood on the sleeve had been an ominous reminder.
He was still totally in awe of her.
And in love with her more than ever.
“Do you have to be somewhere today?” he asked.
&nbs
p; “No. I’m at your disposal, Major Moon.”
As they strolled back to her chambre along the noisy, teeming rues of Hanoi, he said, “There’s talk all over Pusan that MacArthur’s gearing up for some big thing to turn the tide against the KPA. A lot of GIs—my brother included—think he’s going to drop an atom bomb in Korea.”
Disagreement was written all over her face. “Don’t be ridiculous, Tommy. Washington would never allow it. There’d be too much of a chance of drawing China, and maybe even Russia, into the war. That would turn the miscalculation in Korea into a catastrophe of colossal proportions.”
“Okay, I’ll buy that, Syl. But what’s your take on the big thing?”
She considered her answer for a few moments. Then she said, “I don’t know MacArthur well, but he strikes me as a carbon copy of de Gaulle, who I’m very familiar with. They’re both self-absorbed actors pretending to be God. Whatever his big thing is, it’ll be all theatrics and hubris masquerading as strategic brilliance.”
She paused before adding, “But in the long run, it won’t change a damn thing.”
Chapter Thirty
For 26th Regiment, their second night on the Pusan Perimeter brought more attempts by the KPA to attack across the Naktong River. Unlike the night before, none of those attacks took the Americans by surprise.
And none of them had resulted in a North Korean foothold on the river’s eastern bank.
As the new day dawned, Jock and Patchett stepped outside the CP, surveying the Naktong valley winding below them. After a few moments of pensive silence passed, Jock said, “Our guys did a pretty good job last night. But I think a lot of credit goes to you, Top. I suspect you had the locations of the KPA assembly areas figured out damn near perfectly. Our artillery must have screwed them up badly before they could even think about getting their feet wet.”
Patchett shrugged it off. “Hell, sir, figuring out where they’re gonna be assembling ain’t no step for a stepper. After all, we have been fighting these gooks for over two weeks now. If you ain’t learning, you’re dying.”
Combat Ineffective Page 33
