A War Too Far

by David Lee Corley

  “Our instructions preclude us from being directly involved in combat with anyone but the Japanese. We can advise, but beyond that, we have to sit this one out.”

  “Look, the French must know they will eventually lose Indochina.”

  “I’m not so sure they do realize that. They’ve held on to it for almost two hundred years. It’s never been easy, and this is not the first uprising they’ve had to deal with.”

  “Why are they here? What do they want?”

  “Money, of course. A return on their investment. Especially now that they need to rebuild their homeland. France is broke. Indochina is their cash cow. They’ll drain it for everything that it’s worth.”

  “But surely a war will be more costly?”

  “I have little doubt, especially if the French lose. But the politicians won’t say that. For many, war is a profitable business.”

  “So, why don’t we offer a compromise? Let the French keep their plantations and factories, but give the Vietnamese their freedom. The new Vietnamese government could guarantee French property rights.”

  “Communists guaranteeing property rights? I don’t think the French are that stupid.”

  “Alright. So, maybe not forever, but just until France is rebuilt. Say… ten years.”

  “If the French are allowed to stay for another ten years, they’ll never give up Indochina. Both Ho Chi Minh and Giap are smart enough to see that. Your ideas are just delaying a war that will happen anyway. Face it, Hoagland, we’re warriors. Not diplomats.”

  “But we should at least try. America is the only honest broker. We have no dog in the fight. We could save tens of thousands of lives if we can avert war.”

  “Giap is not going to listen. He sees war as the only way to settle this argument.”

  “But Ho might listen. He’s a reasonable man. He can be convinced if he believes it will benefit his people.”

  “Perhaps. I suppose I could try.”

  “With all due respect, Commander. I think Ho would respond better if I were the messenger. He listens to me.”

  “You did save his life,” said Dewey, taking a long moment to consider. “Alright. You can try to broker a ceasefire with peace talks to follow. But be careful, Hoagland. Do not promise what you are not sure you can deliver.”

  “Of course.”

  The Viet Minh headquarters were located in an office building in downtown Hanoi. It was buzzing with activity as messengers came in and out with reports. The Viet Minh did not have enough radios to stay in contact with all their unit commanders, so messengers on bicycles were used. Although slower than radio, it was a surprisingly reliable method of communicating.

  As sporadic fighting broke out, civilians cleared the streets. The French were indiscriminate in distinguishing between combatants and civilians. Everyone was a target. A hundred messengers became a second set of scouts traveling through the city that could report on enemy troop movements and skirmishes.

  Hoagland approached the command headquarters. He was well known by the Viet Minh but less so by the militiamen that were now being used to support the Viet Minh. He was stopped at gunpoint by the guards in front of the building. One of the Viet Minh officers saw the American and scolded the two militia guards. It was difficult for most Vietnamese to tell the difference between a Frenchman and an American, especially if they were not familiar with the languages. The Viet Minh officer escorted Hoagland inside.

  Hoagland was taken to Ho, talking with community leaders in a conference room. Ho stopped the meeting and asked for a few minutes alone with the American. The leaders left. “You and your men are safe, Good Doctor?” said Ho.

  “Yes. Thank you,” said Hoagland. “The guards you sent are doing an excellent job of protecting us.”

  “Good. Would you like some tea?”

  “No, thank you. I’ve come to talk with you about the French. This conflict you are starting is unnecessary and counter-productive.”

  “We are not starting the conflict. We are merely protecting ourselves. It is the French that are attacking my people, not the other way around.”

  “I understand that, but only you can defuse the situation.”

  “And why would I want to do that?”

  “To save lives.”

  “Why is Commander Dewey not here?”

  “He… We both thought it would be better if you and I spoke first.”

  “Ah… politics then. So, where does America stand? Will they support us?”

  “We have not been given orders one way or the other. For now, we are neutral.”

  “That is unfortunate. If there were ever a country that should understand our plight, it would be America.”

  “And I agree with you. But some things take time. Right now, our leaders are focused on the peace negotiations.”

  “You mean the Allied leaders are busy dividing up the world, don’t you?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not a diplomat.”

  “And yet here you are proposing diplomatic solutions.”

  “The thought of good men dying… I had to do something.”

  “Of course. I would expect nothing less of you.”

  “What if we were able to get the French to call a ceasefire and negotiate?”

  “I doubt the French would agree. They are determined to gain control of Hanoi. We cannot let that happen. We have them outnumbered one hundred to one. We will fight.”

  “And you may lose. You have no idea what a well-trained western army can do.”

  “I have some idea. After all, you Americans trained us.”

  “The training we gave you was to fight an enemy in the countryside, not a city. The French have been fighting in cities for centuries. They know the advantages of the territory far better than you do. They will use it against you to great effect.”

  “We will adapt as we always do. Westerners continue to underestimate our people and their determination. You have little faith in us. We defeated the Japanese; now, we will defeat the French.”

  “Perhaps, but at what cost?” said Hoagland. “Thousands will die on both sides.”

  “A small price to pay for freedom, don’t you think?”

  “Not if you could avoid it.”

  “Doctor, this battle is a long time coming. We knew it would happen. The French knew it would happen. It is inevitable.”

  “Are you saying that compromise is not possible?”

  “Compromise is always possible if both sides are reasonable. But that is not the current mindset of either side. We must settle our differences. I am afraid things are going to get much worse before they can get better.”

  “Would you allow me to at least try and find a path for peace?” said Hoagland.

  Ho considered for a long moment. “If you can get the French to agree to a ceasefire, we will agree to negotiate in good faith. But I fear you are wasting your time.”

  “Thank you, Uncle,” said Hoagland showing his respect.

  “Of course, Good Doctor,” said Ho. “I shall provide an escort.”

  “No, thank you. I believe I would have better luck with the French if I appear not to take sides.”

  “That could be very dangerous,” said Ho. “The city is in chaos.”

  “I realize that, but it is our best chance at peace. I believe it is worth the risk.”

  “Then let me at least write a letter giving you and the other team members safe passage through the city.”

  “Thank you. That would be appreciated.”

  Ho got out a piece of paper and wrote in Vietnamese. He signed his name as Ho Chi Minh and handed it to Hoagland. Hoagland folded it and placed it in his shirt pocket. “Good luck, my friend,” said Ho offering his hand.

  “And to you, my friend,” said Hoagland, shaking hands before leaving.

  Hoagland returned to report to Dewey. Dewey was on the rooftop of the building, watching and listening to distant explosions and gunfire in the c
ity. “I’ve got news, Commander. Ho has agreed to a ceasefire with the French if it can be arranged.” Hoagland removed the letter from his pocket. “He gave us a signed letter that should help protect us as we move through the city to find the French commander.”

  “Well done, Hoagland. But I’m afraid it’s too little too late,” said Dewey, downtrodden, examining the letter from Ho, placing it in his shirt pocket.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Commander Patti radioed while you were gone. We’ve been given our marching orders.”

  “What?! Why?”

  “He wants us out of the way when the shit hits the fan.”

  “We can’t do that. We’re on the verge of a breakthrough that could save lives, thousands of lives.”

  “It’s done. A transport plane will pick us up first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “We’re gonna just leave? Without saying anything?”

  “What are we gonna say, Hoagland? Sorry, your country is on the wrong side of the world, and nobody gives a damn? That the French are more strategically important to America than the Vietnamese?”

  “If we leave like this… If we just abandoned them, they’ll never forgive us.”

  “Probably not, but we’re soldiers. We did our duty and accomplished our mission. The rest is left to diplomats and historians. Pack your gear. We leave at first light.”

  Hoagland left, crestfallen.

  Granier and Laurent pried open the back door to a tall apartment building. Each carried a rifle and backpack with ammunition. They entered cautiously and climbed the stairs leapfrogging – one providing cover while the other advanced up the stairs, then vice versa. After six flights of stairs, they came to the rooftop access door. It was locked. Laurent kicked it open and exited the stairwell. Granier followed.

  There was a clothesline filled with well-worn underwear, white bedsheets, and a blanket drying in the sun. Granier pulled down the blanket, folded it, and rolled it up.

  Careful not to give away their position, Granier and Laurent duck-walked, then crawled to the edge of the roof and looked over.

  The apartment building on which they were located was not directly in front of the radio station. Instead, it was located a block away. It had a very good view of the front entrance and one of the sides of the radio station. More importantly, it was several stories higher, overlooking the rooftop of the radio station and all of the firing positions now being built around it. It was far enough away that they didn’t need to worry too much about return fire from the Viet Minh troops below them. Laurent had done his homework in picking out the superior location and Granier was impressed. He liked working with experienced professionals.

  Laurent smiled, pleased with himself. He knew a fellow sniper would appreciate how clever he had been in selecting this particular building.

  Granier set the rolled-up blanket on the edge of the rooftop. When the time came, he would rest his rifle’s stock on it, giving him a stable shooting platform. It wasn’t fancy, but it would give him an extra fifty yards of accuracy. Granier wanted to survey the battlefield, but he didn’t want to reveal his rifle. He removed the rifle’s telescope and peered through it at the radio station.

  Many of the Viet Minh defending the station were men he knew. He had fought with them side by side. He had defended them, and they had defended him; right up until they betrayed him. He wondered how they could turn on him. They had been his pack. He thought about the times they had eaten together and when they had played pranks on him. Now, they were just traitors… the enemy. It made him melancholy.

  He thought about just getting up and walking away. Nothing was stopping him. He knew Laurent wouldn’t do anything. But deep down, he felt the need for justice. He couldn’t just let it go. The scales had to be balanced.

  He picked out and prioritized his targets – the key firing positions. It didn’t matter who occupied them. They were dead men in his mind. It was just a matter of timing – one moment alive, the next dead. The more he thought about it, the calmer he became like being prepared for a test in school. It was simple. He liked simple.

  As Granier finished his shooting plan, Laurent watched the station and said, “Looks like we have company. Rooftop.”

  Granier shifted his telescope to the rooftop. He watched as three Viet Minh snipers exited the access doorway to the station’s rooftop. He knew all three. He had picked them out and trained them personally. He fought his emotions, burying them deep. They were like all the others. They had taken the side against him when he was betrayed. They deserved no mercy. His justice would be even and swift. They each took up a firing position on the corners of the rooftop. They were in good positions to pick off any French soldiers assaulting the station from below. He would see that they never got the chance. They would be his first targets. He was resolved. The doubt gone, until…

  The access door opened again, and another sniper stepped out on to the rooftop. Granier’s heart sank on seeing Spitting Woman. She had a rolled-up blanket tucked under her arm. In the other arm, she carried her rifle. She walked to the back of the building, set her blanket on the edge, and laid down. An air vent obscured her legs, but her torso and head were in clear view. She was in range and uncovered. It would be an easy shot. “You gonna need some help?” said Laurent.

  “No. I got ’em,” said Granier.

  “Good. I’ll focus on the front and the left side. You do the rooftop and the right side. Deal?”

  “Yeah. That’s good.”

  Granier’s mind was racing as he attempted to deal with his emotions. The assault would start at any moment. He had to be clear about what he was doing. Indecision would cost French lives. He owed them more than that. They were his new pack. He tried to calm himself. He thought about his list of priorities. Spitting Woman was at the back of the building. She would be fourth. Fourth, he thought. That’s all she is. A number on a list. She had made her decision, and now he would make his. Fourth. A squeeze of the trigger and she would be gone forever.

  Their relationship flashed through his mind like a film projector of captured moments – the first time he saw her running across the field and killed the Japanese soldier that was going to kill him, the first time she spat on him, the time she saved him from a boobytrap, when he carried her on his back, then in his arms, as she laid in bed in the Chinese hospital begging him not to leave her, her smile when they jumped together from the plane and parachuted down into the forest, the first time they kissed and made love. Fourth. She was to be the fourth.

  In the square in front of the radio station, a Vietnamese milkman rolled a cart full of fifty-liter metal milk jugs. Seeing hundreds of Vietnamese militia and Viet Minh troops pointing their weapons at him, he abandoned his milk jugs and ran away, leaving the cart in the square.

  The Viet Minh commander studied the cart. He didn’t like it. He picked up a rifle, aimed, and fired a round into one of the metal cans. A stream of milk flowed from the bullet hole. The Viet Minh and militia laughed.

  A French fighter, shouldering a PIAT anti-tank launcher, rose from his hiding place in the center of the milk jugs, aimed and fired. The rocket shot across the square and crashed into a Viet Minh machinegun position. The explosion blew open the sandbags protecting it and killed the entire gun crew. The French gunner ducked back down before the surprised Vietnamese could return fire. The metal jugs protected him from small arms fire like a homemade tank. He reloaded and prepared to fire again.

  Nearby, a French man carrying a wooden mallet and two wedges trotted up to the front door of the building in which the Vietnamese militia was hiding. He placed a wedge at the bottom of each of the front doors and gave them a whack with his mallet. His mission accomplished, he ran for cover down an alley.

  Inside the building, the Vietnamese heard the two loud whacks at the front door. A militiaman tried to open the doors. They were stuck shut fast. There was a knock at the back door of the building. Two militiamen went to inve
stigate with their rifles at the ready. One opened the back door and was gunned down by a spray of machinegun fire. The other militiaman returned fire out the open doorway, firing frantically at nothing. After a moment, a satchel charge with its fuse already lit flew through the doorway and skidded across the tile floor. The back door slammed shut. There was another whack from a wedge. The militiaman ran to the back door and tried to open it. It too was wedged shut. A militiaman in the center of the room yelled for his comrades to open the window shutters. He picked up the satchel charge and flung it toward the open window. The iron bars on the outside of the window blocked the satchel charges path, and it bounced back inside the room. The explosion killed everyone on the first floor and took out the supporting columns. The building collapsed in a heap of brick and wood crushing those to death on the upper floors.

  Two more satchel charge explosions collapsed two more buildings nearby. In a matter of less than a minute, the French had killed one-third of the Vietnamese protecting the radio station. They knew urban warfare well.

  The French soldier on the cart surrounded by milk jugs popped up again and fired another PIAT taking out another Viet Minh machinegun position. A Viet Minh sniper on the radio station rooftop shot him in the head. He fell against the milk jugs and toppled them into the square with a loud clatter. He was dead.

  The French kicked open the back doors and charged into the remaining buildings surrounding the square. They took up firing positions at all the available windows on every floor and occupied the rooftops. They were now fighting the Viet Minh and militia on an equal footing, both firing from covered positions. The French set up their light machineguns on the higher floors and opened fire.

  French mortar teams fired shells over buildings from alleys and back streets. Mortar shells rained down on the Vietnamese positions and the radio station rooftop. The explosions shattered the Vietnamese troops’ morale. There was no safe place to hide anywhere. Just mayhem. They felt trapped in the city and longed for the forest where they knew how to fight and could easily retreat, if necessary.