A War Too Far

by David Lee Corley

  A boat floated down the river next to the radio station. A French soldier with high-pressure tanks on his back rose up and unleashed a stream of fire from the nozzle of his flamethrower. The side of the radio station caught fire, and the blazing liquid rained down on the Viet Minh positions beside the building. Soldiers caught fire and ran for the river only to be met with more inferno from the flame thrower.

  Spitting Woman shot the French soldier with the flamethrower. The tanks on his back ignited and exploded in a ball of flame, engulfing him. He tried to make it over the side of the boat but couldn’t see where he was going. He fell into the bottom of the boat and died. The burning boat continued down the river.

  The explosions below in the square brought Granier out of his thoughts. The assault was beginning. Laurent opened fire on the Viet Minh positions at street level, killing several soldiers.

  Granier chambered a round and aimed at his first target. The moment when he first met the young Viet Minh soldier flashed into his mind. He drove the thought away, focusing on the task at hand. The soldier was opening fire at the French. Granier placed his crosshairs on the man’s head and slowly squeezed. The rifle fired with a jerk. Granier realigned the telescope just in time to watch the soldier slump over his rifle, dead. He repeated the procedure on the second target, killing him. Then the third, dead.

  He moved his sight to the fourth target. Spitting Woman had not noticed that her three comrades were dead. She was focused on her targets in the street below behind the station. She fired again and again, her empty cartridges flipping into the air. Granier knew that at that range, her aim would be deadly, and every second he waited was costing French lives. His pack was dying. He chambered another round in his rifle. He placed the crosshairs in the telescope’s reticle over her head. He slowly squeezed the trigger, then… stopped.

  The thought of her beautiful head exploding bothered him. She had children. He didn’t want them to see that when her body was returned home. He moved the crosshairs to the left side of her back above her heart. The results would be the same. She would be dead. That’s what he wanted. Justice. He again squeezed the trigger. And again he stopped. “Don’t be such a pussy,” he said to himself. “She’s just a target.”

  But he knew that was a lie. She was far more than that. He released pressure on the trigger. He didn’t know what to do. He thought about firing next to her to get her attention, but that might cause her to fire back, and he would have no choice but to kill her. That… or sacrifice his own life for hers. The idea was not abhorrent. His anguish would cease, and she would live.

  Laurent looked over and saw that Granier was not firing. “Why the hell aren’t you firing?” said Laurent, angry. “Our men are dying.”

  Granier didn’t respond. Laurent looked at the rooftop and saw the woman shooting. “She has a rifle, and she is using it. Kill her and move on,” said Laurent.

  Still, Granier did nothing. Laurent aimed with his rifle. It was a bad angle, and his rifle lacked a telescope. With his hard sight, it was a long shot. He fired anyway. Granier heard the crack of his rifle and watched through his scope. Oh, god, no, he thought. The bullet bounced off the low wall on the edge of the roof. Spitting Woman immediately knew she was being targeted. The angle of the bullet meant that somebody was shooting from a nearby rooftop. She looked around.

  Granier looked over as Laurent chambered another round and took aim. Granier swung his rifle around and hit Laurent in the head with the butt of his rifle at the same moment he fired. Laurent fell unconscious. Granier looked through his telescope at the station rooftop.

  He found Spitting Woman. She had seen the flash of the second shot. It had missed her. Her rifle was pointed straight at him. He smiled. She was alive. She fired. The bullet ricocheted on the edge of the rooftop in front of where Granier was laying. He wondered if she had missed on purpose, then realized she had no way of knowing that it was him. It was too far to see his face. Like Laurent’s, her rifle didn’t have a telescope either. In a firefight between snipers, she was like a sitting duck. She was in his crosshairs. He could easily kill her before her next shot.

  Instead, he stood up, leaving his rifle on the ground. His entire body was exposed. It would be an easy shot for her. He closed his eyes and thought of her as he did before. Her eyes. Her skin. Her smile. A long moment passed… and nothing happened. He opened his eyes and looked across the distance at her. There was no way she could see my face, he thought. Why don’t you shoot? I’m the enemy.

  But she didn’t. Instead, she lowered her rifle.

  He couldn’t see her face, and he didn’t want to scare her by looking through his telescope. He imagined that she knew it was him. That he was with the French. That he had betrayed her and the Viet Minh just like he had been accused. He was the enemy. And yet… she couldn’t bring herself to kill him. He wondered what that meant. Did she still love him? Was that even possible after everything that had happened? Could it all just be forgiven and they could go back to the way it was before?

  The French pressed their assault. Soldiers advanced in a staggered line, firing their weapons, keeping up a constant barrage, hammering the enemy.

  Thirty Vietnamese militiamen and woman charged the advancing French line. They were armed with hoes and knives. Two Frenchmen using their light machineguns mowed them down before they could reach them.

  When the French troops had closed enough distance, they threw dozens of grenades into the Viet Minh and militia positions around the radio station.

  The stacks of sandbag became a deathtrap preventing the Vietnamese soldiers from fleeing when a grenade landed nearby. The grenade explosions torn into the soldiers, killing a dozen more. The Viet Minh and the militia had taken heavy losses and were pulling back, abandoning the radio station. There wasn’t much time until the facility was overrun.

  Granier could see that if Spitting Woman was to escape, she had to go now. But she wasn’t moving. Her eyes were fixed on him. He didn’t want her to die. He wondered if she even realized the danger she was in. He thought she might not leave while she could still see him. He sighed, picked up his rifle and pack. He took one last look at her and turned away. He walked to the access doorway, opened the door, then… disappeared from the rooftop.

  On the opposite rooftop, Spitting Woman stood, tears running down her cheeks. She picked up her pack and rifle. She took one final look at the opposite rooftop and left the radio station through the rooftop doorway just as the American had done.

  She arrived at the bottom of the stairwell as the last of the Viet Minh pulled back from their firing positions. She followed them down a street and disappeared into the city. The Viet Minh had just lost their first battle with the French.

  Within just a few days of World War Two ending, the First Indochina War had started.

  Granier kept out of sight as best he could as he traveled through Hanoi. Technically, the Americans were not at war with either the Vietnamese or the French. But he knew the Vietnamese would only see the color of his skin and assume he was French, especially since he was armed.

  He didn’t have a plan. Things had just unfolded. He was alone without a pack. He wasn’t frightened. He could defend himself if it came to it. But he lacked purpose, and it gave him an empty feeling.

  He wondered if Laurent was okay. He had hated to hit him, but he didn’t have much choice. He couldn’t go back to the French, and he didn’t want to anyway. To them, he had been just another rifle and was now a traitor.

  The Viet Minh were still his enemies and would hunt him if they learned of his whereabouts. Things had changed so fast. His options had narrowed. He knew he had to get out of the country. There were no trains and only a few roads to Laos or Cambodia. Both the French and the Viet Minh would be watching them for possible incursions. The Chinese were to the north. They were Allies with America and would probably welcome him. He thought about sneaking aboard a cargo ship. Hai Phong Harbor was a good distance from the
city, and he would need to cross a lot of open land to get there. Not a good idea. He thought he might be able to bribe a taxi driver, but he would still need to contend with any roadblocks. He realized the odds of escaping by ship were slim. He considered finding a supply truck convoy heading north but then realized that with the war with the Japanese over, it was unlikely the Vietnamese would be shipping any supplies to the Chinese. It was more likely the Chinese would send supplies to the Vietnamese, who were starving.

  He decided that Hanoi airport was his best chance at escape. He couldn’t just steal a plane. He didn’t know how to fly one. He would need a pilot. Feasibly a cargo plane heading north or maybe a smaller plane. He didn’t care where the plane was going as long as it was leaving Indochina.

  Gia Lam Airport was east of the Red River, and he was still on the west side. He would need to cross Paul-Doumer Bridge which almost assuredly would have checkpoints by either the French or the Viet Minh, depending on who controlled the structure at the time he wanted to cross. He could swim across, but the river was wide and the current strong. It would be risky. Bribing a boat pilot would not be too difficult, but he had no money. He might be able to trade if he could find something valuable. He would need to travel at night and stick to the shadows when possible so as not to be recognized as a foreigner.

  Granier hid in an alley behind a laundry and watched. He waited until the owner was finished hanging out customers’ clothes to dry on several clotheslines. When the owner of the laundry disappeared back inside, Granier went shopping. He snagged the largest set of dark pajamas he could find. They were still several sizes too small and barely made it over his well-developed muscles. They were a bad fit but would serve their purpose.

  A street vendor rode by on a bicycle with two baskets filled with brooms on the back. Granier watched from an alley as the bicycle approached. He knew it was unlikely that the vendor would ever leave his bicycle unattended. He also knew that stealing that bike might mean the vendor and his family would lose their main means of financial support. It couldn’t be helped. Traveling through Hanoi with a sniper rifle on his back was a sure way of being caught or killed. The brooms would hide his rifle. He needed that bicycle. He reached into his pocket and took out his grandfather’s gold coin. He looked down at it. I’ve shed blood for that coin, he thought. Screw it. He put the coin back in his pocket, unslung his rifle, and chambered a round.

  As the street vendor pedaled closer, Granier stepped out and leveled his rifle straight at the man. The man stopped. Granier motioned with his head that the man should leave. The man tried to turn his bike around. Granier reached out and grabbed the handlebars preventing him from riding off with the bike. The man’s expression showed that he understood he was being robbed. He shouted at the foreigner, cursing him, drawing attention from others on the street. Granier stood his ground and motioned once again that the man should leave. The man wouldn’t abandon his livelihood.

  Granier thought about shooting him, but couldn’t bring himself to do it. He liked that the man was putting up a fight. He had moxie. Granier pressed the barrel of the rifle against the man’s chest right where his heart would be. Still, the man wouldn’t give up the bike. People started to gather at a distance, watching, some shouting from across the street. Granier wasn’t worried about the angry civilians. One or two bullets fired in the air would scare them off. But he was concerned that they might attract any Viet Minh or French troops that might be nearby. He had had enough of the argument. He reslung his rifle. The vendor’s expression brightened, believing that the thief was giving up. He wasn’t. Granier grabbed the man by his shirt, lifted him off the bike, and threw him to the ground. He mounted the bike. The man scrambled to his feet and grabbed the foreigner stealing his bike. Granier punched him in the nose, and he fell back to the ground. A bloody nose is better than a bullet, thought Granier, pedaling off down the street, people shouting at him as he rode past.

  Once clear of the rabble, Granier pulled into an alley and stowed his rifle in the basket. He arranged the brooms to hide it. The brooms would serve a dual purpose, both hiding his gun and hiding him from anybody watching him from behind. His face was his biggest problem. He looked nothing like the Vietnamese. Passing a woman with a conical straw hat, he reached out and grabbed it off her head. She cursed him as he placed the hat on his head and rode off.

  As the sun set on the horizon, he pedaled through Hanoi toward the Red River. His new disguise worked well. He was still bigger than most Vietnamese, but with his face hidden by the shadows of the hat, people didn’t give the overly tall broom vendor too much thought.

  It took Granier two hours to make it to the Paul-Doumer Bridge stretching over the Red River. As he suspected, there was a three-man Viet Minh checkpoint at the mouth of the bridge. He imagined there would be another checkpoint on the opposite bank. Even if he killed the Viet Minh on this end, he would surely face the Viet Minh stationed on the other end of the bridge when they heard the shots. Crossing the river by the bridge was very risky. On the bridge, places to hide or retreat would be greatly limited.

  He decided to explore other options. He pedaled the bike upriver along the bank. There were plenty of boats tied up along the shore, but most were filled with families cooking their evening meal. Generations of Vietnamese fisherman and their families lived on their boats. It was cheaper than paying rent, especially in a big city like Hanoi, where the rents were beyond the means of most families.

  He found a round basket boat flipped upside down on the shore, hidden in some tall reeds. He lifted it and found a paddle underneath. The one-man boat was made out of bamboo, and he wondered if he could fit the bicycle with the broom baskets. He flipped it over and decided that he and the bike would probably be too much weight for such a small boat. Its spherical structure made it less stable than flat bottom boats. He didn’t like the idea of capsizing in the middle of the river. He could lose his rifle, which was far more important than the bike. He left the bike, slung his rifle on his back and dragged the boat to the river’s edge. He stepped inside the boat and almost flipped it before sitting in the center which seemed to stabilize it.

  He paddled out into the river's surprisingly strong current. The little boat moved quickly. He realized he had made a mistake cycling upriver. The bridge with its heavy pylons was quickly approaching. He maneuvered the boat to pass between two of the support pylons. There was a guard in the middle of the bridge, smoking a cigarette and watching the boat traffic around the bridge. Granier knew that his paddling skills would not pass muster with the guard or anybody else that knew anything about boats. He had no choice but to hope for the best. Granier kept his head down and tried not to look too obvious. He let the current do the work and tried to steer the boat rather than propel it. It worked. The guard was more interested in his cigarette than the little round boat passing directly beneath him.

  Once past the bridge and out of sight of the Viet Minh guard, Granier paddled the boat to the far shore. Climbing out was just as tricky as climbing in. He stepped out on what he thought was the shore and sank deep in the mud. He almost fell into the water which would have meant his rifle would have gotten wet, but he was able to keep his balance. When he pulled his foot out of the mud hole he had created, he was missing his sandal. He was still several miles from the airfield and wasn’t sure if he could make it barefoot. The Vietnamese had a bad habit of discarding broken bottles and open cans with sharp edges. It was dark, and he wouldn’t be able to see the ground well. He longed for the forest where his biggest concern was a tripwire or a punji stick, things he knew to search for. He reached down into the water where he thought he had stepped. He found the hole in the mud, but it still took him several minutes to retrieve the sandal.

  He pulled the boat to shore and flipped it over. Hopefully, in the morning, the owner would see it from the opposite bank and retrieve it. He climbed up the embankment and looked around to catch his bearings. The east side of the river was much dar
ker and less populated than the west side. He could see the floodlights of what he thought was the airfield in the distance. He imagined the Vietnamese would keep the airfield well-lit at night to deter saboteurs. Since he no longer had the bicycle, he decided to head cross-country and aim straight for the bright lights. He would need to be careful of barbed wire fences, but he figured that would be safer than running into a French or Viet Minh patrol on the road.

  As he walked through the darkness, he could hear gunfire and an occasional explosion from the city behind him. The Viet Minh and French were still going at it. Hanoi was burning.

  He wondered if Spitting Woman was okay. Knowing her, he was sure she would be part of the fighting. She was a furious warrior. He doubted he would ever find a woman like her again. He determined not to try. He was done with women or at least relationships with women. He would seek comfort when needed, but never allow his emotions to get involved. It would be easy. He just wouldn’t lie and would never commit beyond the moment. Any woman that chose to spend time with him would quickly realize that he had no interest in her beyond sex. She would lose hope and discard him. That’s what he wanted — no more attachments.

  It took Granier most of the night to reach the airfield. When he arrived near the main gate, he saw two Viet Minh guards both armed with rifles. He unslung his sniper rifle and crawled onto a berm. He was well-hidden by the surrounding vegetation and mostly out of the glow from the airfield’s floodlights. Taking them out wouldn’t be a problem. His telescope made the job more difficult because they were so close. He considered removing it but decided against it since he did not know what he would encounter once he entered the airfield. He would kill both the soldiers within two seconds. He would sprint through the main gate and find cover near the edge of the airfield before anyone came to investigate the shots. Then it was just a matter of finding a plane that could carry him out of the country.