by Anton Myrer
Yet he was here at last, in the private living quarters of this sly, ingenuous, epicene, harsh Khotianese soldier who was still watching him politely and implacably. Footsore, half-stupefied with heat and exhaustion, fighting the pain of gastroenteritis with every breath, willing his sphincter to hold, his nausea to subside, he was here nonetheless; and he would not give up on it now. With the quick, unhesitant prescience he had known ever since his boyhood he could sense the importance of this moment—the concurrence of forces bent on a collision course. The civil war intensifying in fury, COMMACK pressing for increased participation (whatever that meant in this wilderness of mountains and delta), those three Nationalist divisions near the border, and this astonishing, mercurial, very determined little man. All these rivers rushing pell-mell together and here he was, in midchannel—in a role for which he was ill prepared, to put it mildly. Bitter tea.
“—I want to find out the truth,” he heard himself say with surprising vehemence.
The Khotianese straightened, raised his chin and looked very hard at him for several seconds. “The truth,” he echoed softly; but there was no mockery in his voice. “Well. And what will you do with that truth when you find it?”
“I will act on it.”
“Even if it should happen to be in conflict with the desires of your government?”
Now it was Damon’s turn to stiffen and stare. This man was not what he’d thought he was at all. “Yes,” he said quietly, after a pause. “If I am convinced that it is the truth. Yes.”
There was a silence, dominated by the squattering thunder of the endless rain. Hoanh’s eyes had not left his face. “Perhaps you would,” he said finally. “Perhaps you do really want the truth. You are certainly a most singular American general … Very well, I will tell you the truth,” he went on rapidly, “some of it. You know a good many things, I imagine. You have been well briefed, and I have the feeling there was not too much that the briefing could tell you. Certain things, that is. You probably know about the war against the Japanese in the Beng Lau and the work of your OSS agents, and the formation of the Hai Minh and the War of Liberation; you may even know that when the Japanese came the big landlords fled to Calcutta and Karachi and Nice—and that when the Japanese left they came back and claimed their holdings.”
“Yes, I knew that.”
“But did you know that they demanded backtaxes of the peasants who had stayed and suffered under the Japanese? Yes!—taxes retroactive to the day they slipped away to comfort and idleness? Make no mistake: I am of the mandarin class, and the peasants were never any of my concern. But I would not leave my country. And when my brother came back and took part in this vicious demand I told him: ‘You are not fit to be a Khotianese. Leave this land in three days or I will not answer for your life.’ And for that I was a traitor to my country. I, who have led an assault on Lap Ke through the rockets and artillery fire, who have hung to the side of a chuluc in the Hong Cua, while my men sank all around me and the water turned pink with our blood … Yes, and did you know that when Vu Khoi came to power, his people rounded up all those who had fought in the War of Liberation and shot some out of hand, and sent others to Dao Ba Mun, to the terrible French fortress where so many of us had died for a hundred years? That is new to your ears, is it not? To have fought the French is treason now. Why? As for me, I dislike the Communists: to give over one’s mind to a series of ideas without question is odious. I was reared to study and reflection and I am skeptical of all panaceas, all quick and easy solutions, from whatever quarter. But some of the things they are willing to die for have an undeniable appeal: Khotiane for the Khotianese. Land to those who till it. I like those thoughts.”
“Yankee-Go-Home,” Damon said.
“Yes—possibly even Yankee-Go-Home.” He smiled, turned serious again. “You say you want the truth. The truth is that what we finally evolve here must be our own. It may not be what you like, but it will be our own, and not Peking’s or Washington’s or Bangkok’s solution. We want to create our own nation, free of any foreign assistance.” Abruptly he said: “You must go to Pao Xieng, General.”
“To see Ch’en Pu Kou?”
“More importantly, his army.” His voice was heavy with irony. “This army in which your own government has placed such high hopes.”
“My government?” Damon asked in surprise. “High hopes?”
Hoanh-Trac nodded rapidly. “Oh yes. The truth is that your government is supplying Ch’en’s people with weapons and uniforms and supplies.”
Damon gazed at him. “It can’t be—I would have been informed …”
“Go and see, then. See for yourself. I can arrange a safe passage for you, if you are willing to risk it. They will seek to hide things from you, but you will see them anyway. It cannot be hidden. You will see why the Burmese drove them from their country four years ago, and why we have appealed to the United Nations, calling for their disarming and extradition. And why I have despaired of UN intervention, and have decided I must take things into my own hands.”
“Will I really see all that?” Damon asked.
“Oh yes. I have great confidence in you.” In Chinese he said: “For him who seeks the truth it will not long be hidden.”
“And heaven will not delay a traveler,” he answered in the same language.
Hoanh-Trac uttered his high, facetious laugh. “You are an extraordinary person: you know strange tongues, you seek out barbarian officers in the rain forest, you want to find out the truth … You would have made a good revolutionary, General Damon.”
“Do you think so?” the American asked, amused himself.
“Oh yes. You have a very rare capacity for empathy, and a deep sense of justice. Like others of your countrymen. Other good revolutionaries. Like Adams and Jefferson and Hancock. Paul Revere. They met secretly, in rooms above coffee houses, I am told; they even belonged to revolutionary cells. The Sons of Liberty, they called themselves. A good name. Sons—of—Liberty … They wanted to get rid of the hated foreign soldiery, they wanted the freedom to control their own destinies, they didn’t want to be exploited anymore. Fair enough, wouldn’t you say? An honorable series of desires. Well, some of us feel we are the Sons of Liberty for Khotiane. Let us hope that we will also achieve it.”
Abruptly he rose, and Damon got carefully to his feet. The change in position sent another series of spasms through his bowels; he wiped his face with his handkerchief.
“Would you like me to arrange for your trip to Pao Xieng?”
“If you would, please.”
Hoanh-Trac nodded. “Good. This has been a distinct pleasure, meeting you, General. You are a courageous man—really courageous. I know a little of what you are suffering at this moment.”
“It will pass.”
“Oh yes. Everything passes, even the venerable dynasties. But that is scant consolation to the beleaguered soul.” He offered his hand, and his slender, fragile face broke into the mischievous smile. “It seems—we were both wrong about each other!”
Damon laughed. “Yes. I know I was.” He paused, said: “Will you hold off action against Ch’en until I have seen him and his people?”
“Yes, General. I give my word.” Again he stared out at the relentless rain beyond the windows. “We have waited over a thousand years: I imagine we can compose our souls for another few weeks.” He turned toward the American again, and his face was grave with entreaty. “I only beg of you to remember one thing: there are many roads to liberty. Many. Not just the high road of the Thirteen Embattled Colonies.” He bowed. “Good night, General.”
“Good night, sir,” Damon said.
“Reports from my field managers have been uniformly alarming,” Lyman Beemis said. He was a thick, bald man with pudgy hands that kept fretting with the reports on the desk in front of him, pushing them back and forth rhythmically; but his voice was calm. “Terrorist activity is increasing, especially in Bac Hoa and Vinh Yen Provinces. Production is virtually stopped.” He looked at t
he other faces around the long table, his lips moving. “I have no hesitation in stating that Competrin is facing a crisis, and a grave one. The spokesman for the French investors’ group has just informed me that they are seriously considering a cancellation of credits.”
“Can’t that be weathered, Bee?” the Undersecretary asked from the head of the table. “I wouldn’t think they’re all that important …”
“It might be weathered in itself,” Beemis replied in the same measured tones. “But as soon as it became known there would be the market reaction. The New York speculators would undoubtedly take a short position on Competrin, with results that are not very pleasant to contemplate.”
“How about the mines? What’s the situation up there?”
“Substantially the same,” a man Damon hadn’t seen before named Frazier answered in a rather hollow, nasal voice. “All operations shut down. The ore is standing in the cars.”
There was a short silence. The Undersecretary consulted the sheaf of papers under his left elbow. He was quite young—forty-six or -seven—but his hair was thinning and a very full, drooping blond mustache and bad posture combined to give him a weary, mournful expression, an aura of indecisiveness only partly offset by the sharply aquiline nose and close-set gray eyes. Yet his face had that look of righteous candor that only the exclusive preparatory schools north of Boston can give a man. His suit was of a British cut, with narrow lapels and double pleats, and his shirt was French, with wide cuffs and a stiff short collar. Customarily he wore glasses, but he never seemed to need them—one earpiece dangled now from the corner of his mouth.
“Well,” he said with an air of vigor, and coughed. “It’s the Secretary’s feeling that a firm line ought to be taken here. But needless to say it behooves us to explore all the possibilities with care.” He looked alertly down the table. “General Damon, is it your opinion that Hoanh-Trac intends to move against the Chinese units in the near future?”
“I would say not, sir. That is if you mean by the near future the next two weeks or so. He assured me that he would not start military operations until this current protest has been brought before the United Nations General Assembly. But I cannot guarantee it.”
“Then there is the possibility of military action.”
Damon stared at him. “Yes sir, there is. But I think it is negligible for the near future.”
“The Generalissimo,” Massengale interjected crisply, “has told me emphatically that he will construe any such action as an act of aggression against the Nationalist Republic of China.”
Damon made no reply. The Undersecretary frowned, which made him look still more mournful. “It’s an extremely awkward situation …”
“In my opinion it’s an unparalleled opportunity, sir,” Massengale rejoined. “General Ch’en Pu Kou’s divisions afford the requisite force for the opening phase of operations. They know the terrain well, they’re superbly trained—as you probably know, many of their officers and NCOs were in the X Force trained by Stilwell’s people at Ramgarh for the Burma campaign in ’44. The Generalissimo himself has assured me that he would consider himself obligated to come to their assistance in the event of a clash between General Ch’en’s forces and the Chinese Communists.”
Damon looked around him in sudden consternation. The problem before them was Hoanh-Trac’s action: how did the Chinese come in here? Opening phase of what operations? But the faces around the table were merely interested, speculative, unperturbed, following the authoritative voice. For the smallest part of a moment Damon had the sensation of having fallen victim to one of those nightmares in which the protagonist, alone of all the grouped participants, senses the approaching catastrophe and tries to warn them all—a series of frantic, futile admonitions through which burns at last the awareness that he alone is the intended and unsuspecting victim, disregarded, helpless, overpowered—
But no: it was no dream. Here all around him was the Staff conference room with its slick cream walls, its portentously draped windows with the air conditioners soughing their muted, fluttering roar. There sat the Undersecretary with his attentive, mournful face, the glasses hanging from his nearly invisible lips, and around him the others, military and civilian, that he had called together for this meeting: all of them clear-eyed, reflective, acquiescent …
“Taipei has assured me that they would be prepared to field nine divisions immediately,” Massengale was saying, “with fifteen to follow within sixty to ninety days. This is an iron-clad guarantee. It lends itself to several very intriguing possibilities.” Rising he moved to the great map of Southeast Asia that covered one of the walls. “For instance, it would be eminently feasible to mount a two-pronged attack, one from Binh Quai into the Lung River Valley, here, and the other as a series of amphibious assaults on Peihai and Anp’u from the Gulf of Tonkin. Preliminary bombardment and covering strikes could easily be undertaken by Admiral Farnham’s carrier force off Trucphong, as well as from the Mariannas and Vietnam bases. The beachhead could be built up slowly and surely across the Yü and Hsün River basins, with the primary objective Luichow, and anchored on the flank points Dong Van and Chap’o, here and here. In effect this operation would be analogous to the Normandy beachhead, with the Luichow Peninsula playing the role of the Cotentin, the core of a powerful buildup preparatory to a major breakout, either toward Kweilin and Changsha, here, or eastward toward Canton and Changchow …”
Except that there will be no Paris, Damon thought, staring, listening to the clear, persuasive voice. No FFI, no local population who will welcome these invaders with open arms and vin rouge; no Soviet armies applying relentless pressure on another front. It would be a good deal easier to try to invade Russia from the Crimea … He caught himself up then with angry amazement. Was this contemplated? Was this assault, invasion—was this war actually and rationally under consideration—?
“The fact of the matter is we’ve got to come to grips with them sooner or later.” Massengale had returned to his seat. “It must come—I think we can all agree on that point without any difficulty. And with that premise, where could a more adroit point of leverage and penetration be found than in a military force that has gallantly refused to give up the battle, that wants nothing more than to fight its way back to its homeland? This Ch’en Force is an inspiring element, and a golden opportunity. To fail them now is to sacrifice thirty thousand supremely loyal troops with counterinsurgency capabilities to the Khotianese insurrectionary forces. We will in effect simply be supporting an ally. I’ve no doubt the ROK and Philippine units could be induced to participate; and there are our units in Japan. Our current capabilities would include eight assault divisions, plus perhaps thirty supporting engineer and other-type battalions. That would be at the discretion of the Joint Chiefs, of course.”
The Undersecretary had taken the earpiece out of the corner of his mouth. He turned to Farnham and said: “What’s your opinion, Bliss?”
The Admiral examined his nails. Unlike Massengale he had aged substantially since ’44, but the change was flattering: his lean, tanned face still looked aristocratic and capable. “I would be inclined to concur, sir. The Fleet is in an excellent state of readiness. Strikes could be coordinated with maximum effectiveness from both the carriers and the Cochin fields. The entire coast from Macao to Tunghsing would be extremely vulnerable to air and naval bombardment.”
The Undersecretary nodded and looked at Brokaw. “Fred, what is your feeling about the extent and intensity of Chinese Communist reaction?”
The CIA man, who had a grave, scholarly look and the shoulders of a fullback, answered easily, “All reports indicate there is considerable unrest in both Kwangsi and Kwangtung provinces, with the consequent breakdown in various civil and constabulary functions. I’d say a military operation of this type would stand an excellent chance of success.”
Again there was a brief pause. The Undersecretary fiddled with his glasses, staring sadly at the papers in front of him. He had obviously come out h
ere prepared to do something momentous and firm; but this appeared to be a bit more than he had bargained for. “This is a very serious undertaking you’ve outlined, Courtney,” he said carefully. “One fraught with a high ratio of risk.”
“Sir, it has been my experience that nothing worthwhile is ever accomplished without taking a few risks along the way.”
“If I may be forgiven for interjecting a note of urgency into the discussion,” Beemis offered in his flat, unruffled voice, “Competrin and Tonkalloy will most certainly go under unless some positive and aggressive steps are taken to control the campaign of destruction and terror carried on by the Hai Minh. It’s obvious that the government forces are totally inadequate to cope with them. A plan such as General Massengale has outlined would afford us the very means for rolling back Communist subversion. If we are to do anything in behalf of our overseas interests here, we must do it now or not at all.”
Damon kept watching the faces. Incredulity had him like a fist. So neat. It was all so neat. Those Kuomintang divisions—if divisions you could call them—up at Pao Xieng; the official Khotiane protest, and Hoanh-Trac’s declaration of intention; Chiang Kai-shek’s ultimatum—a face-saving gesture pure and simple, any fool could see that (how on earth could the Peanut, sitting on his island citadel twelve hundred miles away, insist on a demilitarized zone of ten kilometers width between the tatterdemalion remnants of his army and Hoanh-Trac’s forces, as a final condition? It was patently absurd); Massengale’s flying trips to Taipei to confer with the G-mo; the Ninth Fleet off Trucphong; Brokaw’s twilight operations over the border in China and Thailand; Competrin’s massive rubber and mining interests in jeopardy. Interests—they were compulsions. Trade follows the flag, he had read somewhere long ago; now it seemed to be the other way around—the flag was expected to come fluttering in and wrap itself around the massive interests. Or maybe it always had …