I dreamt of my farmhouse in Virginia; a light snow was falling outside my window. I awoke at dawn to a different reality.
Susan was awake and said to me, “If we went back to the States together, I think we could put all this behind us.”
I said, “Let’s get back to the States.”
She took my hand and said, “And when people ask us how we met, we can say we met on vacation in Vietnam.”
“I hope this is not your idea of a vacation.”
“Or we can say we were secret agents on a dangerous mission, and we’re not allowed to talk about it.”
I sat up. “We have to get moving.”
She squeezed my hand and said, “If something happens to me, and you get out of here, will you visit my family and tell them about this? About . . . the last few weeks . . . ?”
I didn’t reply. I’d made that promise to three Boston area guys in ’68, and one of them didn’t make it back, so when I’d gotten home, I kept my promise and visited the parents in Roxbury, and it was the longest two hours of my life. I truly would rather have been back in combat than there. Mom, Pop, two younger brothers, and one sister, about four years old, who kept asking me where her brother was.
“Paul?”
I said, “I will. Do the same for me.”
She sat up and kissed me, then got out of bed and went into the bathroom.
I got dressed, then squared away all our gear, and stuck the pistol in the small of my back.
Susan came out of the bathroom. As she got dressed, she asked, “What’s the plan?”
“We’ll be Canadian tourists and take a look around.”
We left the motorcycle in the room and walked out of the motel onto the street, which was the road we’d come in on.
It was cool and partly overcast, and in the daylight, I could see that most of the buildings were French colonial, set among lush vegetation. There were dozens of people walking and bicycling on the dirt road. The men wore pith helmets, like the North Viet soldiers had in ’68, and those helmets still sent a shiver down my spine. The Viet women wore conical straw hats, and the Montagnards, who seemed to make up the majority of the population, wore the traditional garments of at least two distinct tribes.
Judging from the distance of the surrounding mountains, this valley was bigger than Khe Sanh or A Shau.
We walked down the road and passed a small hill on the left, atop which was an old French tank. We continued on and passed an army museum and a big military cemetery, then turned right at a sign that showed crossed swords, the international symbol for battlefield.
As we walked, I saw a bunker with a wooden sign in French, Vietnamese, and good English. The sign read Here is the bunker of Colonel Charles Piruth, commander of the French artillery. On the second evening of the battle, Colonel Piruth, realizing he was surrounded by overwhelming Viet Minh artillery, apologized in person to all of his artillery men, then went into this bunker and killed himself with a hand grenade.
I stared at the bunker, which was open, and I assumed they’d cleaned up the mess.
Susan said to me, “I don’t think I get it.”
I replied, “I guess you had to be here.”
I looked at the hills that ringed this valley, and thought maybe I got it. The French were looking for a set-piece battle, like the Americans at Khe Sanh, and they came here, in the middle of nowhere, to lure the Communists into a fight. They got more than they bargained for. Shit happens.
Susan took a photo, and we continued on. We crossed a bridge over the small river that flowed through the valley. On the other side of the bridge was a monument to the Viet Minh casualties, built on the French stronghold named Eliane.
Small groups of Western tourists were walking around, all of them with guides.
We followed a group, who made a left turn on a rural road. A few rusting tanks and artillery pieces sat in vegetable fields, and there were a few markers in French and Vietnamese.
We came to a big bunker around which a group was standing. The sign near the bunker said Here is the bunker of General Christian de Castries, commander of the French forces, and the site of the French surrender.
A Viet guide was giving a talk in French to ten middle-aged men and a few women. I wondered if any of them had been survivors of this place. One older guy, I noticed, had tears in his eyes, so I guess that answered my question.
A young Vietnamese man came up to us and said something in French. I said, “Je ne parle pas français.”
He seemed surprised, then looked us over and asked, “American?”
I replied, “Canadian,” which I’d been taught is good cover for Americans in certain parts of the world where Americans aren’t fully appreciated. Thank God for Canada.
The guy spoke English and asked, “You come to see battlefield?”
Remembering my many covers, I replied, “Yes. I’m a military historian, a botanist, and a naturalist. I collect butterflies.”
Susan was smiling rather than rolling her eyes. I think she had missed the old Paul Brenner and was happy he was back.
The guide said, “You please give me one dollar, I tell you about battle.”
Susan gave the guy a buck, and it was like putting quarters in a jukebox. He began a rap that was barely comprehensible, and when he was stumped on an English word, he used French, and when French became a problem, he used Vietnamese.
The long and the short of it was that in early 1954, ten thousand soldiers of a French army including Foreign Legionnaires and about three thousand Montagnard and Vietnamese colonial troops set up a string of strongpoints in this valley, all named after women who had been mistresses of General de Castries. There were seven strongpoints, and I was immediately impressed with the French general.
The Viet guide made what was probably a standard joke and said, “Maybe more mistresses, but he no have enough soldiers.”
“Good point.”
The guide went on awhile, and the whole sorry episode sounded like a replay of Khe Sanh, except the French didn’t have the airpower to neutralize the overwhelming force of fifty thousand Viet Minh soldiers led by General Vo Nguyen Giap, the same guy who’d planned the Siege of Khe Sanh, and the ’68 Tet Offensive, and who I was starting to dislike, or maybe admire.
The guide said, “General Giap men carry many hundred cannon through hills and surround Dien Bien Phu. Shoot many thousand cannon shell at French. French colonel kill self when thousand cannon shell fall. He very surprised.”
I looked at the hills I’d driven through the night before. I’d be surprised, too. I’d barely gotten the motorcycle through here; hundreds of artillery pieces would be a real challenge.
There was something about the Vietnamese that made them incredibly patient, plodding, and persevering. I thought of the Ho Chi Minh Trail, the Cu Chi tunnels, dragging hundreds of huge artillery pieces over terrain that was barely passable on foot. I asked our guide, “Did they dig tunnels and trenches here?”
“Yes, yes, many, many kilometer—les tranchées. See there? Les trenchées. Viet Minh soldier dig close, attack Eliane, Ann-Marie, Françoise, Dominique, Gabrielle, Beatrice, Claudine.”
I said to Susan, “I’d name a fortress for you. Strongpoint Susan.”
The guide understood and smiled politely. “Yes? You name fort for this lady?”
Susan was back to rolling her eyes and didn’t reply.
The guide informed us that the French dropped another three thousand paratroopers into Dien Bien Phu to try to save the besieged army. In the end, however, after two months, all thirteen thousand French and colonial troops had been killed, wounded, or captured, and the Viet Minh, according to our guide, had lost half their fifty thousand men, but won the war. He said, “French people have enough war. French soldiers go home.”
This story had a familiar ring to it, like it was 1968 instead of 1954, and since no one in Washington had learned anything from Dien Bien Phu, I suppose you could say that the American war in Vietnam started righ
t here.
The guide said, “Two thousand French soldiers lay here—” He made a sweeping motion with his arm to encompass the vegetable fields where water buffalo walked and women worked with hoes. “French people make monument there. See there? Many French come to see here. Some American come, too. I never meet Canada people. You like?”
I thought I’d seen enough battlefields in the last two weeks to last me the rest of my life. Notwithstanding that, I felt a bond with the men who’d fought and died here. I said, “Interesting.”
Today was Thursday, and by Sunday, I should be in Bangkok. I was feeling like most short-timers feel with four days left and counting: paranoid. I recalled what my platoon sergeant was nice enough to say to me a few days before I left the field to go home: “Don’t get your hopes up, Brenner. Charlie still has seventy-two hours to fuck you up.”
Susan gave the guide her camera, and he took a photo of us near General de Castries’s command bunker. The photo album should be titled My Worst Winter Vacation Ever.
The guide asked us, “You want see all battlefield? I take you. One dollar.”
I replied, “Maybe tomorrow. Hey, what do you do for fun in this town?”
“Fun? What is fun?”
I was wondering about how to get Tran Van Vinh to Hanoi on a motorcycle built for two, assuming he was alive and was going to stay alive— and also assuming I actually needed to take him to Hanoi, which I didn’t know, though Susan knew. It occurred to me that maybe Susan would be riding alone, and I didn’t need to worry about this. Nevertheless I asked, “What’s the best way to get to Hanoi?”
“Hanoi? You want go Hanoi?”
“Yeah. Is there a train? Bus? Airplane?”
“Airplane. Bus very dangerous. No train. French people go plane. Plane no go tomorrow, go samedi. But maybe no place for you. Biet?”
“How about car and driver?”
“No. Tet now. No driver go Hanoi. Lundi driver go Hanoi. You want driver?”
“Maybe. Okay, thanks for the history lesson. Viet people very brave.”
He almost smiled, then pointed to himself and said, “Ong die here. You understand? Grand-père.”
“I understand.”
We left the guide and walked up the dirt road, back toward the town. We passed a gutted tank and a few French bunkers overgrown with weeds. I observed, “This is somehow quieter and more dignified than Cong World or DMZ World.”
Susan replied, “The north is more somber and less commercial. Plus, they’re dealing with the French here, who are a little more dignified and solemn than some of our compatriots at Cong World or Apocalypse Now.”
I said, “I’m Canadian.”
She informed me, “I barely understood that guide’s Vietnamese. They speak a different dialect up here.”
I had the suspicious thought that Ms. Weber was setting me up for some juke and jive if we got to speak with my star witness. I said, “The written language is the same. Correct?”
She hesitated, then replied, “Mostly.”
“Good. Bring a pen.”
We kept walking, and she asked me, “What’s the plan now?”
“Our mutual rendezvous person in Hue, Mr. Anh, suggested I go to the market and chat with a few Montagnards. Didn’t he tell you that?”
“Yes, he did.”
“That’s the plan.”
She inquired, “Are you concerned about what may have happened to Mr. Anh?”
“I am.”
“Do you think he’d crack under interrogation?”
“Everyone does.”
She didn’t reply.
We turned onto a street at the edge of the town. There were enough Westerners around so that we didn’t stand out, and they were mostly middle-aged or older people, and no backpackers, which was a treat. I saw the bus station to our left; an old stucco building with two incredibly dilapidated buses in front of it.
She saw me looking at the buses and asked, “Why did you ask the guide about transportation to Hanoi?”
“I might want to take my witness to Hanoi. I can’t take the motorcycle unless you’re willing to stay behind.”
She changed the subject and said, “You need to tell me now the name of the village we’re looking for.”
If I believed her, this was the one thing she didn’t know, and if I told her, then she didn’t need me any longer. But the time had come, and I said to her, “It’s called Ban Hin. It’s about thirty kilometers north of here.” I added, “If something happens to me, you push on.”
She didn’t reply.
We got to the market, which was a partially paved area covered by roofs in long rows.
As we walked through the market, I noticed that no one was badgering us to buy anything. I remarked on this to Susan, and she said, “The merchants in the north are not aggressive or pushy. As a businesswoman, I find the North Viets hopeless.”
I said, “You can drop your cover, Ms. Weber.”
“I have to stay in practice for the next guy I do this with.”
I looked around the market and noticed lots of porcupines hanging, along with weasels, red squirrels, and other tasty wildlife. I asked Susan, “So, what’s our story? We have relatives in Ban Hin? A pen pal? Looking for a retirement spot?”
She said, “I’ll take care of it.”
There was a whole section of the market taken up by Montagnards and their wares, and we walked through this area. Susan said to me, “Meet me in Aisle 8, paper products and light bulbs.”
I looked around to see if the aisles were actually numbered, and she laughed at me. “Go find the tea section. I’ll find you there.”
I kept walking, then glanced back and saw Susan sitting cross-legged on a blanket, talking to some Montagnard women and handling some ladies wear while she smoked a cigarette; the salesladies smoked whatever was in their pipes. Maybe they were less pushy because they were stoned out of their minds.
I found the covered stall where tea leaves lay on the ground in wicker baskets. The vendors were mostly Montagnards of the same tribe, and they were brewing tea, so I got a bowl of hot tea for two hundred dong, about two cents, and sipped it. It was awful, but it was hot and I was cold.
This was a weird place, and I was sure that nearly all the Westerners were with organized groups. Only an idiot would come here alone.
Four soldiers with AK-47s came into the tea area, and they gave me the eye, then ordered bowls of tea.
They stood not ten feet from me, drinking tea, smoking, and talking softly. One of them kept glancing at me. Do I need this shit?
If it weren’t for the Colt .45 stuck in my belt, I wouldn’t be too concerned. Yet, when you’re carrying, and you’re not supposed to be carrying, the fucking gun seems to get bigger and bigger under your clothes, so that in your mind, it’s the size of an artillery piece.
The four soldiers finished before I did and walked away.
I stood there listening to my heart beat.
Susan appeared and put down a large plastic bag filled with brightly colored clothes. She ordered tea, sipped from the bowl, and said, “That feels good.”
“How’d you make out?”
“Pretty good. Ban Hin is about thirty kilometers north of here.”
“I know that. How do we get there?”
She said, “These Montagnards are all Tai and H’mong, and they live in the north hills and walk into Dien Bien Phu with their wares, or sometimes they take a pony, or the once-a-day bus, and the rich ones have scooters or motorcycles.”
“Is that a fact? How do we get to Ban Hin?”
“I’m getting to that. I found a lady who lives near Ban Hin.”
“Good. She draw you a map?”
“No. But I got directions. Problem is, she and her people use a lot of trails and shortcuts, so she wasn’t clear on the road route. Plus, I couldn’t understand half her Vietnamese. The Montagnards have a worse accent than the North Viets.”
“Go back and get the directions written out.”<
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“They’re illiterate, Paul.”
“Then get her to draw a map.”
“They don’t understand the concept of maps. Maps are abstract.”
“To you and her maybe. Not to me.”
“Take a break. I think I can follow her directions.”
I thought about all of this. Mr. Anh had been very clear about not asking an ethnic Vietnamese anything because they’d run off to the cops if they thought you were up to something. Montagnards were all right because they kept to themselves. But Mr. Anh failed to mention that they spoke differently, took trails instead of roads, were illiterate, and had never seen a map in their lives. Minor problems, but Susan thought she knew the way to Ban Hin.
I asked her, “What did you tell her about why you wanted to go to Ban Hin?”
“I said I’d heard there was beautiful jewelry made there.” Susan added, “It’s a girl thing.”
I rolled my eyes, but I don’t do that well, and Susan missed it.
She said, “She mentioned that Ban Hin was a Vietnamese village, not Montagnard, as we probably knew, and that the Vietnamese made bad jewelry, plus she never heard of jewelry being made in Ban Hin.”
She finished her tea, then went around to other stalls and bought some bottled water, rice cakes, and bananas. I looked for a taco stand.
We left the market carrying plastic bags and walked toward the motel, a hundred meters up the dirt road. We went into Unit 7, packed our stuff in the BMW’s saddlebags, and I wheeled the bike out of the room and down to the reception office.
Inside, we checked out early, and got our passports and visas back. I hoped they hadn’t yet faxed copies to the Ministry of Public Security, but I wasn’t going to ask.
There was a guy behind the desk, and he asked me, “Where you go now?”
I replied, “Paris.”
Susan said to him, “We drive Hanoi.”
“Ah. Big water, Road 6. You go only Son La. You wait Son La. Two day, three day.”
I said, “Thanks for the traffic and weather, sport. See you next season.”
We left the office, and I said to Susan, “Am I to understand that Route 6 is blocked by floods or mud slides?”
“Sounds that way. Mr. Anh said this was common, but they usually get bulldozers and open it up in a day or so.”
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