A War Too Far

by David Lee Corley

  She regained her breath and could see he was suffering. She patted him on the shoulder and nodded like it was okay. He chuckled, “We’re a sorry pair, aren’t we?”

  He looked down at the stream. The water was red. Whatever clotting had slowed her bleeding had been knocked loose when she fell. Blood was flowing. “God, no,” said Granier as he tightened the cord around her thigh. She winced. He scooped up a handful of water and offered it to her. “You’ve got to drink. You’ve got to stay hydrated.”

  She smelled the water and pushed his hand away. “What’s wrong? It’s bad?” he said.

  He opened his fingers and let the water drain from his hand. He pulled out his canteen, opened and offered it to her. She refused, pushing it away. “You have to drink,” he said, pushing it back toward her. “You don’t drink, you die.”

  She nodded and drank from the canteen. It was sour in her mouth, and she grimaced. “Just drink it,” he said.

  She took several swallows and finally pushed it away. “Alright,” he said and took a couple swallows himself. “We gotta go.”

  He put her hands around his neck and lifted her from the stream. By carefully pushing and pulling, he maneuvered her onto his back. Then he climbed the embankment. His rifle was wet and covered in mud. “Sorry, Baby,” he said to his rifle. “I’ll give ya a good cleaning first chance I get.”

  He climbed to the top of the embankment and started to run again. It wasn’t far before the run turned into a trot and then a walk. He was beyond exhausted and could feel himself getting dizzy. Knock it off, you pussy, he thought to himself. She deserves better. She deserves the best of you. He shook off his dizziness and kept moving.

  The sun set. The forest darkened. Granier looked down and saw his pants wet with Spitting Woman’s blood. He doubted she would live until morning at the rate she was losing blood. There was no time to rest. He kept moving, one foot in front of the other, stumbling, catching himself, using his rifle as a walking stick when he needed it. His legs burned beyond any pain he had felt. His pride was gone. He did whatever he needed to do to keep going — giving himself pep talks. He could feel the woman’s grip lessening again. “Hey, none of that,” he said.

  She let go and fell to the side of the trail. He stopped and knelt beside her. She was unconscious. He pulled out his canteen and sprinkled the remaining water in his hand, then patted it on her forehead and cheeks. “Wake up. You have to stay awake,” he said.

  There was no response. She was out cold. “Hey, don’t do this. Wake up. You have to wake up,” he said, shaking her. “Come on. I need your help. I need you.”

  Desperate, he slapped her hard on the cheek. Nothing. “No, no, no…” He raised his hand again. Her eyes blinked open, and she looked up at him like she was hurt that he had hit her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know what to do,” he said, leaning back, falling on his butt in the bushes. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to save you,” he said, helpless.

  She smiled a little. “Yeah. You okay?” he said, cheering up. “You gonna be okay?”

  She nodded toward the trail in the direction they were headed. “Yeah, we should get going. I know it can’t be far. We can make. I’m sure of it. We just gotta keep going,” he said, reaching for her hand to wrap around his neck.

  She pulled her hand back, refusing. “What’s wrong? We gotta go,” he said, confused.

  She motioned to herself and shook her hand flat like she wouldn’t go with him. “No, no. It’s not that much further. We can make it together.”

  She pointed to him, then the trail. He was too tired to argue. “Alright. I’ll go. You stay here and rest,” he said as he checked the cord around her thigh. “Keep the cord tight.”

  He handed her his rifle, “You take care of my rifle, okay?”

  She took it, but the weight was too much for her to hold. He laid it beside her in the bushes. “Don’t shoot me when I come back, okay?” he said. “I’m going.”

  He got up, released his web belt, and set it down beside her. Everything was lighter now. He felt different, freer. He started to walk down the trail leaving her. She watched him go, a sadness in her eyes. He picked up the pace into a jog. He could move again; the extra weigh gone. He broke into a run. His eyes were combing the dark path ahead. He could barely see in the twilight. He knew it would get better after the sun’s afterglow was completely gone and his eyes were adjusted. There was no time to wait. Her life depended on him reaching the Chinese. He kept running, stumbling over rocks and roots, catching himself.

  He had run almost two miles up a hill when he came to the crest of the trail and looked down into the valley below. He thought he saw a flickering light in the distance. A village, he thought. I can get help. She’s gonna be okay.

  Even that little flicker of light had closed his retinas a bit, making it hard to see. He didn’t want to wait until his eyes adjusted. It’s downhill. It will be easier, he thought. I just gotta keep going. It’ll be over soon enough.

  He started down the hill moving sideways, using his legs as brakes, twisting from side to side. It was working well, alternating. He picked up speed. He was making good time. The village was getting closer. The trail steepened. He decided to slow down. He straightened his legs more, using them as brakes but they didn’t cooperate. He kept moving downhill, picking up speed. Whenever he tried to slow, his knees gave out, and he stumbled. He couldn’t stop himself. He just went with it, moving faster and faster down the trail. It was impossible to see. He felt his boot hit something hard. A rock or root, he didn’t know. His momentum carried him forward. He was flying downhill headfirst trying to regain his footing. It was no use. He was at the mercy of gravity. He pushed his arm upward to protect his head. He landed with a thud and bounced. His legs toppled over him, and he somersaulted down the trail, landing, bouncing back into the air, landing again. At one point, he landed on his feet again, but they could not hold his weight, and he tumbled again. There was nothing he could do but ride it out, hitting roots, flattening bushes, scraping across the ground.

  Near the bottom of the hill, he finally rolled to a stop. He groaned. His entire body hurt, and he wondered if anything was broken. He waited a few moments to catch his breath before struggling to his knees. He felt something tapping his shoulder. He turned to see a long bayonet. It startled him, but he didn’t move. He slowly pushed his hands out in front of himself to show he was unarmed. He turned to see the face of a soldier looking down at him. It was an Asian face, round, skin light. The eyes weren’t Vietnamese or Japanese. They were Chinese. A soldier, scared, like he was looking at something that he didn’t understand. “American,” said Granier, opening his eyes wide to show they were different. “Nothing to worry about here. We’re on the same side.”

  The soldier frowned, not understanding. He shouted something in Mandarin and motioned for Granier to get up. Granier rose to his feet carefully, the pointed end of the bayonet’s blade easily within striking distance of his vitals. He could see the soldier was young and didn’t comprehend the idea of an American. Probably never seen an American, thought Granier. Maybe from a farm, no newspapers or magazines to show him the outside world.

  “It’s alright. I’m a good guy. We both fighting the Japanese. I’m on your side,” said Granier in a reassuring tone.

  The soldier wasn’t buying it. He motioned for Granier to continue down the trail first. “I’d like to do that, but I have a friend. A woman (motioning breasts.) She’s hurt. Grenade (motioning explosion.) Shrapnel hit her leg (motioning shrapnel flying and hitting his leg.) She’s back up that trail a couple of miles (pointing in the opposite direction.) She needs help. She needs a doctor. You can go with me and help carry her (motioning to carry her.)”

  The soldier wasn’t having it. He grew angry and pointed down the trail in the direction of the village. “There’s no time. She’s hurt bad. We need to go back,” said Granier standing his ground.

  The soldier pressed his ba
yonet against Granier’s chest. “Alright. God damn it. I’ll go,” said Granier moving to walk down the trail. As Granier moved past the soldier, he pushed the rifle away and elbowed him in the face. The soldier dropped his rifle and grabbed his broken nose. Granier grabbed the rifle and pointed it at the soldier. “You’re coming with me. We’re going back,” said Granier in the meanest tone he could muster.

  The Chinese soldier nodded his compliance and walked up the hill. Granier followed close behind with the rifle pointed at the soldier’s back.

  They made good time going back. They found Spitting Woman unconscious, her breathing imperceptible. Granier knew there was no time to waste. “Pick her up,” he said motioning to the guard.

  The guard shrugged like what’s the point. “Pick her the fuck up, or I’m gonna stick you like a wild pig,” he said, angrily.

  The soldier nodded and picked her up, cradling her in his arms. Granier motioned for him to head back toward the village. The soldier started back down the trail. Granier picked up his sniper rifle and followed the soldier.

  Granier was careful not to let the soldier pick up too much speed as they hiked down the hillside. At the bottom, they encountered a squad of Chinese soldiers on the trail. Granier immediately set down both rifles and let them take Spitting Woman and him captive. They hiked toward the village.

  In the village, a Chinese lieutenant questioned Granier as the platoon’s medic tended to Spitting Woman. She was still alive, but barely. With hand motions and tone of voice, Granier explained he needed to find the Americans and give them a message. The lieutenant nodded his understanding and radioed his headquarters.

  After the medic rebandaged Spitting Woman’s wound and made her drink some freshwater, she came around. Granier knelt beside her. “Hey, you scared the shit out of me. I thought you were a goner for sure.”

  She smiled weakly and said something in her dialect. Granier didn’t understand the words, but understood the meaning and said, “You’re welcome.”

  THREE

  The American commander sent a jeep to pick up Granier. Granier insisted that Spitting Woman goes with him, even though she was still weak. “I ain’t leaving her,” he said to the corporal driving the jeep. “She goes where I go.”

  The corporal drove all night to an airbase where the Americans were headquartered. The base doctor treated spitting Woman. She was given transfusions to replace her lost blood. Her wound was cleaned and rebandaged again. Granier stayed by her side until he was told the OSS commander had arrived and would like to see him as soon as possible. Granier explained to Spitting Woman with hand motions that he would be back soon and that she should sleep if she could so she would become strong again. She looked worried that Granier was going to leave her in this strange place. He tried to reassure her with a smile. It didn’t help. He left.

  Granier, mud still caked on his torn and battered uniform, sat in a room with Lieutenant Colonel Archimedes Patti, the commander of OSS Operations in Vietnam. Patti could see that Granier was exhausted, but he needed the information only he possessed. He ordered a large pot of coffee and some biscuits in hopes of keeping Granier attentive. “Where is Colonel Dewey?” said Patti.

  “Pac Bo in Cao Bang Province near the border. It’s the Viet Minh headquarters. Dewey was wounded during the drop. Not bad, but couldn’t make the trip himself. He sent me,” said Granier.

  “Then Dewey made contact with their leader?”

  “Yes. His name is Mr. Hoo. He’s very sick – Dysentery and Malaria. Hoagland’s tending to him.”

  “And their military leader?”

  “Yes. They call him, ‘Mr. Van’.”

  “And how is he? What’s he like?”

  “He’s smart and confident. His men respect him.”

  “That’s good. How big are their forces?”

  “The camp has about two thousand men, women, and children. But only one hundred soldiers.”

  “Why so few?”

  “Most of the men are forced to forage for food and supplies. They can’t grow or make anything for fear of being spotted by the Japanese reconnaissance planes. Everything has to be brought in. Even with most of their men scavenging, their people are starving and sick.”

  “I see. How bad is it?”

  “Very. They’re barely a fighting force. But those that can fight are brave and capable.”

  “Capable enough to take on the Japanese?”

  “After we landed, we stumbled on a Japanese patrol – fifty well-armed soldiers. The Viet Minh ambushed them and took them out. All of them.”

  “Really? Then they can attack the Japanese supply routes?”

  “Maybe after we get them some food and medicine.”

  “We’re not running a charity.”

  “I understand that, but they’re too few and too weak to take on the Japs in force.”

  Patti considered for a moment and then asked, “If we were to supply the Viet Minh what they need, how many men could they put in the field?”

  “Five to six hundred, maybe more. Their women fight too. Some just as good as the men. The woman that helped me get here, she’s one hell of a scout. I’d fight alongside her any day.”

  “How long before they would be ready?”

  “If we get them medicine and supplies, I would guess two weeks. They fight good just the way they are, but we’d need to train them in tactics, especially if we are going after the trains.”

  “And you believe they would be successful?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I suppose we could augment the weapons and ammunition drop with food and medicine.”

  “Yeah, about that…”

  “About food and medicine?”

  “No. Weapons and ammunition.”

  “I assure you, we are sending the latest weapons we have.”

  “That’s the thing… you shouldn’t.”

  “Why in the devil not?”

  “If you send them new weapons, they’ll need to learn how to use them. Almost everything they have was stolen from the Japanese during raids. They already know how to use and maintain the Japanese rifles.”

  “You’re not suggesting we send them Japanese weapons?”

  “I am. It makes sense. We don’t need to train them. They already know how they work. They will also be able to resupply their ammunition by stealing it from the Japanese shipments they raid.”

  “Where are we supposed to get five hundred Japanese rifles with ammunition?”

  “At the rate we’ve been capturing Japanese on the Pacific Islands, I would imagine we have tons of them stashed someplace.”

  “I suppose it’s possible.”

  “Look. You want the Viet Minh up and running as soon as possible. This is the way to do it.”

  “Yes, but what about heavy weapons – mortars, machineguns, recoilless rifles?”

  “Heavy weapons are a mistake. The two biggest advantages the Viet Minh have are stealth and mobility. If you give them heavy weapons, I can assure you they’ll take them. But they carry everything. They don’t use pack animals, let alone any vehicles. Heavy weapons will weigh them down. They’ll need to rest more. The thirty miles they can currently travel in a day will be cut in half.”

  “They can travel thirty miles in a day through jungle?”

  “It’s not really jungle. It’s more like dense forest. And yes, they can travel thirty miles using their Japanese weapons.”

  “That’s incredible. They’ll at least want a few mortars, won’t they?”

  “Japanese knee mortars would be best. They’re light-weight and don’t require a heavy base plate. Plus they’re simple to use and can be set up and ready to fire in under fifteen seconds.”

  “Yes, but they use grenades, not mortar shells. There’s no punch to them.”

  “They don’t need punch. They’re not fighting tanks or armored cars. They’re fighting men. With knee mortars they can take better advantage of
the terrain. When you’re fighting in the forest you can’t see beyond one to two hundred yards. A 60mm mortar would overshoot most enemy positions.”

  “Alright. Knee mortars then.”

  “They could also use fifty Japanese light machineguns.”

  “Type 96s?”

  “Yeah. And lots of ammunition.”

  “Of course. Alright. You shall have your Japanese arms. I must say this actually averts a potential problem with our allies.”

  “How’s that?”

  “We’re arming rebels. The French will not be too happy about it if they find out. Giving the Viet Minh Japanese weapons decreases that possibility. The French still believe Indochina is theirs to control after the war.”

  “And is it?”

  “If it were up to me… no. And I think most officers agree with me. We’re here to fight the Japanese, not to support colonialism.”

  “So, what will happen when the shooting stops?”

  “Who says it’s going to stop?”

  “I’ll need to coordinate the supply drops. The Viet Minh don’t want them anywhere near their base camp.”

  “The Air Force is General Chennault’s wheelhouse. I’ll see that they assign someone to meet with you. Now get some rest. You only have four days before the first supply drop. I’m sending you back.”