“No. No, I don’t.”
“That’s not normal.”
“I suppose not.”
“They’ve been reduced to a primitive society. All their efforts go into foraging for food. It’s no wonder they’ve shown so little progress in fighting the Japanese.”
“So, what do we do?”
“I would suggest feeding them. Slowly at first. Too much, too fast could overwhelm their systems.”
“Will they recover?”
“Yes, in time.”
“How much time? We have a war to fight.”
“I don’t know. A week or two for some, others longer.”
“Well, we’ll do what we can.”
“We could share our rations. They won’t make a dent in the entire village, but they might save some of the extreme cases.”
“Alright. But we must leave enough for ourselves until the first supply drop. We cannot afford to get sick or be unable to defend ourselves if attacked.”
“Okay. Half rations should be enough for us to stay healthy.”
“You must only distribute food to those that you are sure will survive. I know it’s cruel, but you must triage.”
“Of course, Commander. I understand.”
The Americans were led to an open structure with a thatched roof in the center of the village. This was the Viet Minh headquarters. French military maps were spread across a rough-hewn wooden table. Several rebel commanders were listening to Vo Nguyen Giap, the Viet Minh military leader, as he reviewed a battle plan for their next raid. He was only thirty-four years old and already considered a respected rebel leader. He saw the Americans approaching and stopped the meeting. Hoagland, the only Deer Team member to speak Vietnamese, greeted Giap. Giap responded in English, “Welcome. We have been looking forward to your arrival. My name is Mister Van.”
Dewey stepped forward when Hoagland introduced him as the team leader and shook Giap’s hand. He introduced the other members of the Deer Team and Giap, in turn, introduced his commanders. “If I may inquire, do you have medical supplies?” said Giap.
“Some,” said Hoagland. “More will come with the supply drop.”
“I am afraid we cannot wait that long. Commander Dewey, may I borrow your doctor?”
“Of course,” said Dewey.
“I’m not a doctor,” said Hoagland.
“You are in my country if you have medicine. Please follow me,” said Giap and led the way.
Hoagland followed Giap to a nearby cave. The entrance was small, unlike the other caves, the entrance covered with a blanket. They entered. It was dark inside. Only the light from a small fire boiling a pot of water to create steam lit the smoke-filled room. Several Vietnamese women were hovering around an older man, slight of build, lying on a cot in the corner of the cave. He was delirious, moving in and out of consciousness, sweating profusely, his skin drawn and jaundiced. The women took turns tending to him as if it was a privilege, dabbing his forehead, exposed chest, and arms with wet clothes from the nearby stream. The women were tender and loving. “This is Mister Hoo,” said Giap. “If you can help him, I will personally be grateful as will all Viet Minh.”
“What happened?” said Hoagland.
“As a matter of equality, he will only drink the water and eat the food that his fellow Viet Minh consume. I am afraid his sense of ethics has taken its toll.”
“I see. May I examine him?”
“Of course.”
Hoagland moved to the side of Mr. Hoo and gently examined him, checking his eyes, listening to his labored breathing, feeling his weak pulse, his muscles and stomach, which were sore when pressed. “Dysentery and malaria, I think. Maybe Dengue Fever. I don’t know,” said Hoagland to Giap.
“Oh, dear,” said Giap. “I feared as much. Can you help him?”
“I will be honest. He’s pretty dehydrated. I will do what I can.”
“Thank you. You will be in my thoughts, good doctor.”
“I’m not a doctor.”
“You are all we have.”
“Very well then. Let me get to it. I will keep you informed.”
Giap moved to Mr. Hoo’s side and picked up his hand, “Not yet, my friend. There is still work to be done. Not yet.”
Mr. Hoo stirred slightly on hearing Giap’s voice. His eyes flickered open for a moment; then he fell unconscious once again. Saddened, Giap left, leaving Hoagland to try to save the life of Mr. Hoo, also known as Ho Chi Minh.
Late in the evening, Hoagland emerged from the cave and stretched. He walked back to where the Americans were gathered. “What were you doing in there?” said Dewey.
“There is a man. Mr. Hoo they call him. He’s very sick. Maybe dying,” said Hoagland making himself a plate of food and drinking from his canteen.
“You don’t have to go into a cave to find the sick and dying.”
“No. But this man… he’s special. They revere him. I believe he’s their leader.”
“Is he the one that sent the letter to Donovan?”
“I don’t know. He’s been in and out of consciousness. I haven’t been able to talk to him.”
“I see. I suppose we would fare better if you keep him alive.”
“Yes. But I am not sure that is possible. He’s pretty far gone. Dysentery and malaria for sure. Maybe other conditions, too. I can’t be sure without blood tests.”
“So what do you do?”
“Quinine for the malaria. Sulfa for the dysentery. Keep trying to get him to eat and drink. It’s not easy. He’s on the verge of a coma. Once that happens, I believe he will be lost.”
“Then what?”
“I don’t know. But Mr. Van realizes he’s very sick. I doubt there will be repercussions if he dies.”
“Let’s hope not. You should get some sleep. It’s been a long day.”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps you should stay in the cave. You must appear to be doing everything you can.”
“I am. But you’re probably right. I will.”
“We’ll bed down nearby… just in case things take a turn for the worse.”
“How’s the rest of the village?”
“It’s as you said. The people are weak from lack of food and dysentery. The entire place smells like an open sewer. I don’t imagine you have enough sulfa to treat everyone.”
“No. I don’t. We need to rethink what we are doing here.”
“In what way?”
“Our training mission has turned into a rescue mission. These people can’t fight in this condition.”
“I realize that. The good news is that some of them are very good fighters. They’re brave and aggressive, and they know how to use the terrain to their advantage.”
“Their weapons?”
“Lacking, but surprisingly well maintained. They’ve made good use of what they have. Their intelligence is excellent. They know where the Japanese are based, how many troops they have, and their supply routes. If we can get them back on their feet, I think we can make a real difference.”
“We’re going to need medicine. A lot of it. And food with Vitamin D. I feel the current supply drop will be far from adequate.”
“Yes. We’ve already discussed it. Without the radio, we’ll have to send a messenger on foot. I’m sending Buck back over the border to explain the situation in person to Colonel Patti.”
“That’s risky. The Japanese will be watching the border for Chinese troop incursions.”
“It’s worth the risk. Mr. Van has agreed to send one of his scouts to avoid the Japanese outposts. Buck thinks he can cover the distance in two days.”
“And if Buck doesn’t make it?”
“Then we’ll just have to make do with what we are given.”
“And what about Buck…and the scout?”
“They know the risks better than most. I wouldn’t send them if it weren’t vitally important.”
“Okay, I’ll make a list
of what we need.”
“And Hoagland… I’d like to see Mr. Hoo as soon as he’s able. There is much to discuss.”
“Of course.”
Off by himself in the woods, Granier knelt on a blanket. His rifle laid before him, disassembled. Each part had been meticulously cleaned. He studied the layout of the pieces, each in the position that allowed him to quickly reach for the part when he needed it. He was ready. He glanced at his watch. When the second hand reached four seconds before the hour, he closed his eyes and took a breath. He didn’t need to see the second hand click to twelve. He could feel the length of four seconds. He began reassembling the rifle, with his eyes firmly closed. Working from memory and touch, he picked up the parts and slid them together, some big, like the barrel assembly, others small, like the gas cylinder lock. His motions were well-rehearsed, smooth but certain.
When he’d finished, he cycled the action twice to ensure it was working properly then locked it in place. He glanced at his watch – one minute, twelve seconds had passed. It wasn’t his best time, but it wasn’t bad either. He would practice later when he was out of the field. He knew that a well-cleaned rifle did not require a lot of gun oil. There was no dirt or even dust to cause friction and wear down the metal. He oiled the parts that needed it sparingly, using a small can from his tool kit.
Once he was satisfied his rifle was ready, he went to work on the ammunition. He had selected seventeen bullets to replace the rounds he had expended during the firefight with the Japanese. He inspected each round, using a small piece of sandpaper to remove any metal burrs and scratches on the shell. Then he wiped each bullet down with a clean piece of cloth to eliminate any grit left behind from the sandpaper, before carefully loading the bullets into two clips and placing them in his ammunition belt. It was a ritual. It gave him confidence.
From a distance, Spitting Woman, unseen and silent, watched the American.
It was early morning. A heavy fog rested over the village, protecting it from prying eyes. Granier lightened his pack to the bare essentials and checked his weapon. Dewey and Giap approached with Spitting Woman. “You can’t be serious,” said Granier. “I’d be better off alone with a compass and a map.”
“Apparently she’s the best scout they have,” said Dewey.
“I’ll be lucky if she doesn’t cut my throat in the middle of the night.”
“She’s been ordered not to do that.”
Granier grunted. “You would be wise to trust her,” said Giap. “She knows the border area well and will get you through the Japanese lines.”
“I guess I don’t have any say in the matter,” said Granier, resigned, turning to Spitting Woman. “Try to keep up.”
Giap said something to her that Granier didn’t understand. She frowned but nodded affirmatively. Granier slipped on his pack, picked up his weapon, and headed off up the trail. Spitting Woman clucked her tongue twice like she was trying to get the attention of an animal. Granier stopped and turned back, annoyed, “What?”
She turned and walked in the opposite direction. “Shit,” said Granier, and he followed her.
Granier and Spitting Woman hiked through the jungle at a brisk pace, legs pumping, climbing, never slowing, never resting. They stayed off trails and wound their way through the trees and foliage. When the vines and undergrowth got too thick, Spitting Woman used her aranyik – a traditional machete of the highland tribes – to cut a path. Her frame was small, but she was strong and sturdy. Granier followed, impressed, but giving her no indication.
They came to a fast-flowing mountain stream, the water clear and clean. She knelt on the muddy bank, drank with her hand, and refilled her water bag. Granier filled his canteen, slipped in a purification tablet, swooshed it around and drank the bitter water. She watched and shook her head in disgust. Granier considered, spat out the canteen water and drank with his hand from the stream. She was right. It tasted much better, fresh.
A mosquito landed on Granier. She slapped his neck without warning. Granier jerked around, angry. She opened her hand and showed him the dead mosquito. He nodded a disgruntled thanks. She scooped up a handful of mud and smeared a thick layer on her arms, hands, and face, showing him. She made a hand motion and shook her head to communicate that mosquitos can’t bite through the mud. She looked hideous. Granier held back a laugh to a just a smirk. She pointed to the mud along the stream. He followed her example and smeared a thick layer on his exposed skin. She tried to smear mud on a spot he missed. He batted her hand away like he could do it himself. She frowned. He shrugged and relented. She covered the exposed patch with mud. Satisfied they were both protected, they rose and continued to trek through the forest. Granier had been hoping for a longer break, but he was surprised by her endurance. Not willing to show his weakness, he rose and followed her.
After a half-mile hike through the forest, Spitting Woman slowed and motioned to Granier to stop. Granier moved up beside her. “What?” he whispered.
She motioned for him to be silent. She climbed slowly, quietly, up a small rise with thick undergrowth. As she reached the top, she dropped silently to her hands and crawled, then dropped further and belly-crawled slowly, quietly, careful not to move the foliage to attract attention. Granier followed her example. She stopped. He slowly moved up beside her.
She scanned the surrounding forest until she found what she was looking for. Then she pointed slowly, deliberately. Granier followed the direction of her finger. At first, he didn’t see it. He squinted and glared harder. There was a slight movement in the distance – one hundred yards, in a tree, barely visible. It took a moment for him to recognize it – a Japanese soldier, his rifle cradled in his arm, sat on a lookout platform high in the tree, completely camouflaged. He was facing in the opposite direction, toward the Chinese border and didn’t spot them. I would have walked right by him and never noticed until a bullet hit the back of my head, Granier thought, a bit embarrassed.
They studied the sniper for a few moments, then surveyed the opposite side of the forest and saw nothing. That was the way they would go. They belly-crawled backward down the hill, disappearing into the safety of the undergrowth.
Hoagland entered the cave. He was surprised to see Mr. Hoo awake and lucid. “You are awake. That’s good,” said Hoagland in Vietnamese.
“You’re American,” said Mr. Hoo, weakly in English.
“Yes. My name is Hoagland. I’m with the OSS. There are six of us. I’m the medic. Do you mind if I examine you?”
“Of course not. I think you may have saved my life. I’m grateful.”
“You’re welcome,” said Hoagland feeling Mr. Hoo’s pulse, checking his pupils, listening to his chest with a stethoscope. “You’re breathing is much better. I had the women move the fire outside. The steam was a good idea, but the smoke wasn’t helping.”
“You’re Vietnamese is good, better than my English.”
“I still have trouble placing the accents in the right places.”
“It’s not an easy language.”
“How are you feeling?”
“I’m alive. That’s what is important. There is still much to do.”
“I’d like to keep you that way, but you need to eat.”
“I’m afraid I don’t have much of an appetite.”
“Regardless. You need to eat… and drink. You’re dehydrated.”
“I will do my best.”
“Good. I like cooperative patients.”
“My head hurts.”
“It’s the malaria. The quinine will help, but it takes time to build up in your system. You will feel a lot better tomorrow, especially if you take fluids.”
“Some tea perhaps.”
“I’d like you to have some broth if you think you can keep it down.”
“I make no promises.”
“But you will do your best?”
“Of course.”
Hoagland called one of the women over and asked for her
to prepare tea and a fish broth. She went to work, happy that Mr. Hoo was going to try and eat. “When you are up to it, I’d like you to try and eat some rice. It will help with the diarrhea.”
“Then I shall eat rice. My ass feels like it is on fire.”
“It’s the dysentery. I have some ointment in my pack that might help soothe the burning.”
“It would be welcomed.”
“I will get it,” said Hoagland rising. “My commander would like to see you when you are able.”
“And I, him. But I would like to be more presentable. I feel I smell like an outhouse.”
“I’m sure he won’t mind.”
“But I will. Politics is a delicate game.”
“Right. Of course. Tomorrow, perhaps?”
“Yes. Tomorrow.”
“I’ll get that ointment,” said Hoagland moving off.
The forest was pitch black. Night had fallen. Granier and Spitting Woman sat near a large tree, eating the food they carried in their packs. Their eyes had already adjusted to the darkness, and they could see even without flashlights or fire, both too risky this close to the border.
Granier looked at her while he munched on canned meatloaf using his fingers as a spoon. She was eating a dried fish and rice wrapped in a leaf. She looked back at him like maybe he wanted something. She looked at the fish and offered him some. He didn’t want to be rude. He took the piece of fish flesh from her fingers, popped it in his mouth and chewed. He swallowed hard and smiled with a shrug as if he liked it. He didn’t. He offered her two fingers full of meatloaf. She took it, popped it in her mouth and chewed. She gagged and spat it out on the ground. “Hey. That’s good. Don’t waste it,” he said.
She rolled her eyes and finished her fish and rice. He finished the last of his meatloaf, took a swig of the water from his canteen. It made him miss the freshwater from the stream. He pulled a thirty-foot coil of cord from his pack, pulled out a mosquito net, and ran the cord through the top. He tied the cord between two trees, making a mosquito net tent. He rubbed his hands all over his clothes and mud-caked skin to ensure that no mosquitos or bugs were lingering, then crawled inside the tent and zipped it up. He grabbed his pack through the netting and placed it under the tent on one end as his pillow. Then he laid down and closed his eyes.
A War Too Far Page 5