A War Too Far

by David Lee Corley

  Granier reloaded. He was fast, but the Japanese soldier sprang into a dead run leveling his bayonet. Granier saw the soldier’s shadow and reacted pitching to one side, falling onto the butt of his weapon. The bayonet plunged into the ground between Granier’s arm and side. The Japanese soldier withdrew and prepared to stab again. Granier tried to bring his rifle around. It was awkward. He was laying on his rifle. The Japanese soldier lunged with his rifle but then fell sideways before he could complete the attack. A bullet had hit him in the shoulder and spun him around. The soldier landed on the ground. He wasn’t dead. He struggled to bring his weapon around. Granier pulled out his knife and thrust it into the soldier’s upper leg. The soldier screamed in pain.

  Granier saw another soldier running toward him from a different angle, a bayonet on the end of his rifle. Granier again reached for his rifle. The soldier on the ground swung his rifle barrel around. Granier saw it and lunged backward to avoid the wounded soldier’s bayonet. Again, Granier stumbled awkwardly. His weapon out of position to fend off the new threat, the old threat still alive and trying to kill him.

  The new soldier yelled like a samurai and plunged the bayonet into the chest of the wounded soldier, killing him. Granier, confused, swung his rifle barrel around ready to fire at the new soldier. And then he saw something that confused him even more… a slight shadow below the new soldier’s chest. Breasts, he thought. He looked up and saw a woman’s face below the camouflaged conical hat. Her eyes weren’t Japanese. They were Vietnamese. She pulled her bayonet from the dead soldier and swung her rifle barrel around toward Granier, hitting his rifle with her bayonet. His finger jerked against the trigger and his gun fired. It missed her, but just barely. She scowled in anger and swung the butt of her rifle into the side of Granier’s head, knocking him out. Everything went black.

  TWO

  Granier woke a few minutes later and saw Hoagland’s face above him. Smelling salts stung his nostrils, and he jerked his head trying to move away. Pain bolted through his head. He winced. “Shit,” said Granier.

  “Relax, Buck,” said Hoagland. “You’ve got a mean bump on the side of your head.”

  “The girl that hit me…?”

  “You mean the woman that saved your life?” said Hoagland pointing to the woman collecting weapons, ammunition and ransacking the pockets and packs of the dead Japanese soldiers.

  “Viet Minh?”

  “Yeah. About a hundred of ’em. They had set an ambush for the Japanese. We walked right through it and almost spoiled the whole game. They wanted the radio you shot. They’re not too happy about that.”

  “Are they the right group?”

  “Yeah. They were sent to find us when they stumbled upon the Japanese patrol. Their camp is a good day’s march. We’ll leave as soon as you feel fit.”

  “I’m alright,” said Granier climbing to his feet, taking a few steps then almost falling over like he was dizzy.

  “Give it rest. You’ve got a concussion. She whacked you pretty hard,” said Hoagland grabbing Granier, helping him to sit on the ground again. “We’ll leave soon enough. There’s not enough time to make it back before nightfall anyway.”

  “Alright. Maybe a minute or two,” said Granier as lightning flashed behind his eyeballs with head-splitting pain.

  He lay down in the long grass. “That-a-boy,” said Hoagland. “I’ve got to tend to their wounded. I’ll be back to check on you.”

  Hoagland moved off. Granier closed his eyes. It didn’t help much. The lightning kept flashing in time with the beat of his heart. After a few moments, he sensed something and opened his eyes. The woman that had hit him was standing over him, three Japanese rifles cradled in her arms and a half dozen ammunition belts slung over her shoulder. He already knew she was strong, judging by the lump on his head. She looked down at him. He looked up at her. Their eyes met. She spat on him. “Hey,” said Granier wanting to jump up and smack her but knowing he would fall down and make a further fool of himself.

  She let loose a string of angry words that made no sense to Granier and shook her fist at him. She made the motion of a rifle with her hands, and he understood. She was mad that he had pointed his weapon at her after she had saved his life. She turned in a huff, and he watched her move off. Her skin was dark and beautiful. He figured she was from the Northern hill tribes, maybe the H’mong, Dzao or even Black Thai. Probably spoke some dialect, maybe a little Vietnamese. It didn’t matter. He didn’t know any Vietnamese beyond a couple of phrases, and he sure didn’t know any of the tribal dialects. A barbarian, he thought. More savage than civilized, more animal than human. Lightning struck. His head whirled. He collapsed and fell unconscious.

  It was late in the afternoon. The air was cooling. Granier could smell the sweet, trampled grass. The lightning strikes behind his eyes had dissipated into a dull throbbing throughout his head. It was painful, but he’d survive. A good night’s sleep probably wouldn’t hurt. Not an easy thing in the field. He and the other members of the Deer Team were sandwiched between the Viet Minh troops following a trail. The company was divided into three sections, each taking a different path in the same direction, each within supporting distance of the others in case they encountered the enemy.

  Granier wasn’t worried about boobytraps or mines. If there were any, the Viet Minh would trigger them long before he or the team members reached them. But the Viet Minh seemed to know what they were doing. They certainly fought better than he had imagined. He wondered who taught them or whether they just learned by experience. They were brave too. They moved forward when they heard gunfire, not back.

  The Spitting Woman was not with his section. She was a scout, like him. She traveled far ahead, sometimes a mile or two, then came back to report to the Viet Minh commander. Granier wondered why his mood lightened when he saw her. Not the usual reaction of a man that had been spat on by a woman, but Granier was no ordinary man. He imagined she knew these hills like the back of her hand, that she knew the signs of a nearby enemy and the safest place to make camp. It was comforting and a little irritating. He wasn’t in control. She was. That was unusual for him and ground on him like sand in a boot.

  The company made camp just before sunset. Sentries were posted, and scouts roamed the surrounding terrain. Spitting Woman came back thirty minutes later. Granier could tell she was tired by the way she plopped down on the ground, not caring much where she sat. She pulled out a hand-carved pipe, filled it with something that looked like a dried weed, and lit it with a match. The smoke was thick and brown. Even at a distance, Granier could smell it. It wasn’t pleasant but did make his headache recede a bit, or at least he didn’t seem to mind the throbbing as much. Either way, it was welcome.

  There were other women in the company, but they seemed more subservient – fetching water, making the evening fire, cooking. Spitting Woman was treated as an equal among the Viet Minh men. He even saw her smack a fellow soldier in the balls when he made what seemed to be a crude remark about her. She didn’t hurt him. Not really. But from that point on, the fellow soldier avoided her when possible. Not the sociable type, Granier thought.

  Granier waited until dinner was finished before approaching Spitting Woman. He felt like they had gotten off on the wrong foot, and he wanted to make things right. Normally, he didn’t care what others thought, but Spitting Woman was different for some reason. He wasn’t sure why, but her opinion of him mattered as he walked over to her. She watched him, seeming a bit wary like he might attack her. He knew she wouldn’t understand his words, but he hoped she could recognize his intent by the tone of his voice. “Hi,” said Granier. She said nothing. “I just came over to apologize. I didn’t know who you were when I shot at you. You probably saved my life, and I’m grateful. Anyway, thanks, and have a good night.” She still said nothing. Granier shrugged, turned, and walked away.

  With his back turned to her, she climbed to her feet, ran over and kicked his back foot mid-stride. He tripped and f
ell to the ground. He turned over, angry as hellfire. “God damn it, woman,” he said, climbing to his feet.

  Her eyes went wide as he marched toward her. He outweighed her by double and towered over her small frame. She wasn’t afraid. She was angry. She kicked at his crotch. He grabbed her foot mid-air and twisted it. She spun around to keep him from breaking her ankle. He yanked her leg upward, and she lost her balance. She flew up into the air and came back down like a board tossed from a pickup truck landing facedown with a thud. She didn’t move. Granier wasn’t sure what to do and looked around as if hoping for a suggestion. Everyone had stopped what they were doing and watched like they knew what was going to happen next and that it shouldn’t be missed.

  Spitting Woman climbed to her feet, turned and pulled out her knife like she was going to gut him. “Seriously?” said Granier a bit surprised. He considered pulling out his knife but then thought better of it. Things had gone far enough. He had been in enough knife fights to know that they never ended well. It was only an apology, he thought. She moved in the opposite direction of her hand holding the knife. He countered, moving in the same direction, keeping his distance. “I’m done with your shit. If you don’t put that down, I’m going to shove it up your ass,” he said.

  She replied with a barrage of words in her dialect. He didn’t understand the words, but the tone was clear. She wasn’t backing down.

  They danced for a few moments more, then she lunged. He pivoted, grabbed her wrist, and pulled her forward. She almost lost her balance but recovered. She used her nails on her free hand to scrap his forearm. He bled. He accepted the pain. He brought his knee up and smacked her wrist holding the knife. She released the knife, letting it fall to the ground. She put her foot between his legs to tangle them. He put his boot behind her leg. They both fell. She on top of him. He rolled her over. Him on top of her, their faces inches apart. He looked into her eyes. She seemed to be beckoning him. He lowered his head closer to her. She raised hers … then she bit him on the upper lip. He jerked away, tearing flesh. Blood flowed. “Ah, shit!” he said, raising his fist, ready to pummel her.

  “Buck!” said Dewey. “Enough.”

  Another voice barked out orders in Vietnamese. They came from the Viet Minh commander standing beside Dewey.

  The two belligerents stopped fighting. Granier rolled off Spitting Woman. They both climbed to their feet. “This is not our mission,” said Dewey and Granier understood.

  More Vietnamese shouting came from the Viet Minh commander. Spitting Woman hung her head in shame, then stomped off. Strangely, Granier wanted to go after her and explain that he just got carried away, that he didn’t mean it. He was confused. He never really cared what anyone thought, let alone a Southeast Asian aboriginal. Why was she different?

  The next morning, the column of soldiers snaked its way through the hills and valleys of the highlands. They picked up the pace when crossing an open hilltop or a treeless meadow. They did not want to be spotted by the Japanese reconnaissance planes that often patrolled the area. They were more relaxed when in the morning fog or when the sky was heavily overcast. The rain was always a welcome relief, offering respite from the heat, refreshment, and cover. It made the long grass and fallen leaves slippery, but the Viet Minh were surefooted and enjoyed the break in the monotony of walking. They took pleasure in simple things like raindrops and cool running streams. Their bellies were full from the supplies pilfered from the Japanese. They asked for little more.

  They formed human chains by holding hands as they crossed rivers. Some did not know how to swim and were fearful of the fast-moving water even when shallow. The strong helped the weak. Loads were shifted and shared when one person tired, no questions asked. They carried everything. There were no animals to carry the burden of weapons and supplies. All of their animals had been slaughtered for food long ago. Waterfalls offered a quick shower and freshwater. They would soak their neck scarfs to cool their shoulders and heads while walking. Reeds growing in the water along the shore were cut and used to clean the rice and bits of fish from their teeth as they walked.

  The Viet Minh would not drink from the American canteens when offered. The stupid Americans put tablets in their canteens that made the water sour. The Americans also wasted perfectly good food, rejecting fish heads and chicken feet. Americans were strange. Many Viet Minh blamed it on their strange god, others on their wealth. Their skin was strange too. It was pink and sometimes red when in the sun for too long. Some of the Americans had light-colored hair which the women found interesting and would save after a haircut in little wooden boxes hung around their necks for luck.

  When the sun hung low across the verdant mountain tops, the column of soldiers descended a steep trail into a narrow valley. Limestone cliffs cast long shadows that cooled the air. A stream divided the valley and formed turquoise pools like liquid steps in a descending staircase. Vines grew in every direction like a giant web across the forest canopy, some reaching down for a sip from the slow-flowing water.

  According to Dewey’s map and compass, they were only a few miles from the Sino-Vietnamese border. The Chinese had been providing some logistical support to the Viet Minh before the Japanese invasion of their mainland. Now, the weapons and supplies had slowed to a trickle. The path they traveled on was covered with freshly cut grass to mask the tan dirt from Japanese reconnaissance aircraft.

  The Chinese had finally fought the Japanese to a standstill. The Chinese were deeply concerned with Japanese troops crossing the border from Vietnam to reinforce their troops in Southern China. On the other hand, the Japanese were worried about Chinese troops invading Vietnam. The Viet Minh were caught in the middle. Their numbers were growing, making it more and more difficult to stay hidden from the Japanese.

  The valley of Pac Bo in Cao Bang Province was the home of the Viet Minh. On first look, the entire valley seemed void of civilization. No smoke from fires was visible during daylight hours. Cooking fires were only allowed at night and only in an area where the flames could be completely hidden from view.

  The Deer Team passed a half-dozen women using knives to cut grass and gathering it in baskets that they had woven. Young boys were using hand nets to catch fish in the stream. Women used knives tied to the ends of bamboo poles to cut fruit from trees. There were light machinegun positions set up and manned by the Viet Minh on both sides of the trail and shielded overhead by grass-covered mats. Everyone wore dark pajamas with conical hats made of straw and camouflaged with local leaves and grass. Concealment from the Japanese seemed the highest priority.

  The Americans smelled the village far before they could see it. It was sour and rank. Slit trenches had been dug and surrounded with grass mats for privacy in an attempt to control the sewage produced by the two thousand inhabitants, but most of the villagers just relieved themselves behind the closest tree or bush. The young children had a bad habit of urinating and even defecating in the stream – the village’s only freshwater supply. This primitive method worked alright in the hill villages which were usually occupied by less than a dozen families, but it was a major health problem in a village this size.

  Hoagland was deeply concerned as he saw more of the villagers. Many had dark circles under their eyes and looked tired. Their skin was drawn and jaundice. “Amoebic Dysentery,” he whispered to Dewey.

  “I see. Make sure you warn the men to stick to their canteens and use their Halazone tablets for purification,” said Dewey.

  The majority of the Viet Minh lived and slept in dozens of caves carved in the sides of the limestone cliffs. The few community huts that had been permitted by the commander were used for a school, meeting house, and hospital. They were well camouflaged with newly cut grass on their thatched roofs to blend with the surrounding trees and foliage. Secrecy was the ally of the Viet Minh. What the Japanese couldn’t spot from the air, couldn’t be hunted on the ground. The Americans were impressed by the Viet Minh’s ingenuity at keeping so many people hidd
en for such a long period of time.

  The majority of the villagers were the families of the rebel fighters. There were no crops being grown or animal pens like most Vietnamese villages. Nothing that could be spotted from the air. The village produced no commodities or crafts to sell or trade. They were warriors. Violence is what they offered.

  The majority of the men were assigned to forage for food. They could not scavenge from nearby villages. That would be a dead giveaway to the Japanese and invited betrayal. They were forced to travel long distances, sometimes fifty miles or more. While the Viet Minh claimed to have over 600,000 followers scattered around Indochina, the group with the Americans were the only rebels actually fighting the Japanese. They were the bravest and had the most experience in warfare. They were given the best arms available – stolen weapons from the Japanese. But even the warriors would scavenge for food when available. Daily survival was a constant struggle for the Viet Minh.

  The Americans watched the Viet Minh as they walked through the village and the Viet Minh watched the Americans. Many of the villagers had never seen a foreigner, not even a Frenchman. They were suspicious and wondered what omens the Americans might bring with them. Hoagland was particularly disturbed by what he saw and moved up next to Dewey. “They’re starving,” he said.

  “What’s that?” said Dewey.

  “The children’s bellies are swollen, and their skin is translucent and drawn. They’re starving to death, and they don’t even know it.”

  “How’s that?”

  “When the stomach is empty, it recedes in size. They stop feeling hunger and grow weak. Do you see any children playing?”