by Eric Meyer
Paul smiled at him. “Captain, we’d like nothing better than to go home, but in this weather we have no choice but to wait it out.”
The American looked cold. “Sir, you don’t understand. You are to return to Tan Son Nhat, my orders are to make sure you leave immediately.”
Paul looked at me. I tried to reason with the soldier. “Captain Forester, you can see the weather outside. If we try and take off now it is quite likely that we will not even clear the airfield. That won’t help anyone if you have a crashed plane littering your field.”
“Nevertheless, Sir, I have my orders. You will take off from this airfield within the hour or your aircraft will be impounded and become the property of the U.S. government. Either whole or in pieces,” he smiled thinly.
I could see Paul beginning to glow bright red with anger and I hurried to head off a violent confrontation.
“Paul, leave it. Captain, we will take off as ordered.”
“Very well, have a safe flight,” he grunted ironically as he left the cockpit.
“What the hell, Jurgen, it’s impossible, we’ll never get off the ground, we’ll lose the plane.”
“Maybe. I’ve been watching the weather, it swirls in with torrents of rain, then the wind and rain eases for perhaps a minute or two, a tiny weather window. If we can catch that moment, we could make it.”
“That’s crazy,” he said angrily.
“No, not at all. Would you have us walk home and give the C-47 to the U.S. government?”
He was thoughtful for a moment. “Ok, perhaps that’s not much of an alternative. We’ll need to be throttled up ready to go as soon the weather is about to ease, it’ll be touch and go.”
“When has that ever stopped us?” I asked him.
We pre-flighted the plane and started the engines. We taxied to the end of the short strip, head to wind, and waited with the brakes on. It was impossible to see more than fifty yards in front of us, the rain smashing against the windscreen. When I thought the window was approaching, we throttled up, the engines screamed and then nothing. The rain lashed against the aircraft, shrouding the field in wet mist. After a minute, Paul shouted across to me over the noise of the engines. “Jurgen, we’re going to overheat, we’ll need to throttle back.”
“Another few seconds, just wait.”
I could see him looking at the gauges, the starboard engine was already in the red, the port engine nearly there. The engines continue to scream, the gauges rose, and then something, some sixth sense, told me that the moment was about to happen.
“Go, Paul, brakes off, let’s go!”
With a look of astonishment on his face as if I’d just told him to jump off a cliff, he released the brakes. The engines were still screaming and the rain beating down on us as we hurtled along the field, gathering speed. To his credit, Paul made no further objections, trusting in my judgement, but I wondered if his trust was misplaced. We reached takeoff speed, he looked over to me, but I kept going. Suddenly the wall of green jungle loomed in front of us, I wrenched back on the column, we left the ground and the rain suddenly, magically eased. Paul began retracting the undercarriage and added his weight to the control column as we fought to gain height to clear the trees. We weren’t going to make it, then I saw a slight gap in the tree line, I banked the plane over and kicked the rudder bar to take us towards it. We edged nearer the tree line, I banked over more steeply and we were in the gap. We gained height and within seconds The C-47 was soaring over the jungle.
We flew on in silence, Paul throttled back slightly to stop the engines exploding and we continued to slowly gain height. We looked at each other and burst out laughing.
“Gott im Himmel, Jurgen, you’ve taken five years off of my life.”
I laughed, we’d made it. At six thousand feet we burst out of the clouds and rain into clear sky. Provided we didn’t run into a wayward MIG or trigger happy ARVN fighter jock, we’d be back at Tan Son Nhat by afternoon.
“How about some music?” I said as we eased the throttles back to cruising speed and the intense racket of the engines became more bearable. He turned on the radio already tuned to AFN. It was playing 'The Wanderer' by Dion and the Belmonts. It seemed appropriate for the two of us, lost forever to wander the skies over the dank, hostile jungles of Vietnam like the tale of the Flying Dutchman that became one of Wagner’s most famous operas.
“What made you start the take off roll before the weather window arrived?” Paul asked.
I shrugged my shoulders, not wanting to share the moment with him. In truth, I didn’t know for sure myself. We had faced death many times over the years, the grim reaper always seemed to be waiting for me with open arms. I could swear that at the blackest moments I’d seen him, hideous in his hooded black cape, grinning at me with his skull like face. So it was at Lang Vei, yet this time I’d clearly seen Helene standing next to him, her hand outstretched. If I told Paul, he’d have me checked out by a doctor, so I kept quiet. The mind played strange tricks on you.
When we landed at Tan Son Nhat, two American civilians, probably CIA, were waiting outside the hangar for us. As we taxied in and stopped, they walked over to the aircraft. Almost certainly they were behind our being forced out of Lang Vei, I wondered what the hell they wanted that was so important.
******
‘A revolutionary must be thrifty, be resolute to correct errors, be greedy for learning, be persevering, adopt the habit of studying and observing, place the national interests above personal interests. . . be little desirous of material things, and know how to keep secrets’
Ho Chi Minh
The men glared at each other, Giap wondering how Pham Van Dong, Chairman of the Council of Ministers of North Vietnam, dared to criticise Ho. The President of the Democratic Republic of Vietnam had made it clear that they were becoming far too dependent on aid from China. Yet Pham Van Dong objected, coming out strongly on the side of the Chinese. Ho tried explaining once again.
“For a thousand years this country belonged to China. On a dozen occasions during that period, the residents of Vietnam attempted to expel the ruling officials and soldiers by force of arms. Many of the rebels had even been born in China or descended from Chinese ancestors, but they did this out of a desire for power or freedom from the oppressors. The final revolt in 939 ended with Vietnam receiving vassal status from its massive northern neighbour, which entailed the payment of tributes to China in return for our autonomy. They were replaced by the French, who we drove out. Now we have the Americans, who we will also defeat in the course of time. Are we to replace these invaders with the Chinese, invite them back for a further thousand years?”
Le Duan nodded emphatically to agree with the President’s word, Giap added his own weight.
“Let the Chinese in, Chairman? That way is madness, we have fought hard for the first victory of our struggle for independence. Now, before we have beaten the Americans, you talk of opening the door to the Chinese once again. Would you have us paying tribute for another thousand years?” He sneered as he finished. He had not shed blood to forge his professionally trained army into becoming servants of China.
Pham was calm and refused to be flustered. “Comrades, all that you say is true. But listen, in the past we took arms from the Americans, has it made us vassals of America? No, they will suffer inevitable defeat at the hands of our loyal army,” he nodded towards Giap. After Ho, Giap’s favour was not to be discarded lightly.
“But listen, we already have the Russians on our side, even as we speak their guns and munitions are travelling down through Laos to reinforce the struggle in the South. Are we their vassals, their client state? Of course not. Is there any rule, any law that states that we cannot accept the generosity of more than one patron? I say take everything the Chinese have to offer us. They think we are fighting their war against the imperialists for them, as do the Russians. Let them think so, when our country is free of the foreign invader we will send them the bill for fighting their war. We wi
ll owe them nothing, they will owe us everything. But to achieve victory, we need guns.”
They all nodded, it was a strong philosophy.
“So you make no agreements, Comrade Pham, no promises?” Giap asked.
The Chairman shook his head. “None, nor would I ever commit to making any kind of agreement.”
Ho overrode them, it was time to move on.
“So it is agreed, we accept the arms from both China and Russia and make it clear they are all in our debt for fighting their war for them. Agreed?”
They all nodded.
“Excellent. Now what of these two Americans being held at Son Tay? How can we use them to our benefit?”
Le answered him.
“Propaganda, Comrade President. One of them is certainly a CIA spy, we will put them both on trial. Perhaps the American public would like to see that their government is sending spies to invade foreign nations.”
“I have heard there may be a rescue attempt,” Giap said abruptly.
Ho looked at him sharply. “When is this due to take place?”
“It is being planned now, Comrade Ho. We had word from Saigon to expect someone to try and break them out of prison. As yet, we have no further details.” Giap paused, as if he wanted to add something, but he continued. “I have sent a company of soldiers to reinforce the local militia, we expect to prevent any attempt at a break out.”
“You have given orders to shoot the invaders on sight?”
Giap nodded slowly.
“Excellent, Comrade Giap, keep me informed,” Ho said.
“Now, about the rice harvest for this year. How can we distribute sufficient to feed our army and yet prevent the peasants from starving?”
“Perhaps they will just have to starve, the army must take priority,” Le Duan said.
“Will you then give them your rations, Comrade?” Pham Van Dong asked.
Giap let them bicker, he was thinking about the rescuer from the south, and one of them in particular. He made a note to get clarification from his contact in Saigon.
* * * * *
Chapter Three
‘We believe that Communist progress has been blunted and that the situation is improving. . . . Improvements which have occurred during the past year now indicate that the Viet Cong can be contained militarily and that further progress can be made in expanding the area of government control and in creating greater security in the countryside.’
NIE 1963
We shut down the engines and slumped for a moment in our seats, still astonished that we had got off so lightly at Lang Vei and made it home safely. When I had drawn breath I got up and walked back into the cabin and opened the door. The two men were stood there waiting for us.
“Mr. Hoffman, we’re glad you got back safely, could we talk to you for a moment?”
Paul and I climbed down the ladder to the ground. “You’d better come into the hangar and I’ll find some cold beer,” I said to them.
“That’s ok, Sir, we don’t need any beer, we instructed the base commander at Lang Vei to order you back so that we could have a talk, we have a new contract for you.”
Paul spoke angrily to them. “Your stupid order to get us to take off from Lang Vei in a storm almost cost us the aircraft, we certainly do need a cold beer, so your business will have to wait a little longer.”
He walked to the port wheel, there was a tangle of foliage around the leg. He looked at me and smiled, then pulled a small branch out from the leg and gave it to one of the men.
“Here, this is yours, government property, part of your field at Lang Vei.”
They looked at it without understanding and followed us into the hangar. Johann was grinding pieces of metal, the broken wheel leg was on the bench. He waved to us and carried on and we went into the office. We took an ice cold bottle of beer apiece and sat down.
“Now, gentlemen, how can we help the CIA?”
Why were these people always surprised that they were so obvious. Just like Miles Anderson, these clean-cut American WASPs could not be anything else in their middle class American clothes and middle class American faces that were now looking at me with surprise. Perhaps they thought that ordinary well dressed American businessmen came to airfields in the war zone of Vietnam to charter ramshackle aircraft to carry anonymous cargoes around the country.
“We’d better introduce ourselves, I’m Milton Burns, and this is Robert Anderson.”
We shook hands, I thought that Anderson looked familiar. “Mr. Anderson, are you by any chance related to Miles Anderson?”
He nodded, “Yeah, Miles is my older brother.”
“So you both went into the same line of business?”
He smiled. “It seemed like a good idea, they were actively recruiting at Harvard, so when I graduated I just followed Miles into the Agency.”
Milton Burns leaned forward. “And you, Mr. Hoffman, we understand you had a military career before starting your own airline?”
I waved my hand around the hangar. “Not much of an airline, I’m afraid. A Douglas C-47, a Cessna 170B and a tired old Junkers JU52. Hardly any competition for your Air America.”
“It’s not ours, Sir, Air America is a purely civilian operation, a commercial airline like yours.”
Paul nearly choked on his beer, at least Anderson had the grace to go pink with embarrassment at the transparent lie.
“As you wish,” I replied gravely.
“However,” he continued, “I was asking about your military career. Where did you serve?”
“I was a Senior Sergeant in the French Foreign Legion, here in Indochina, or Vietnam, as it is called these days.”
“So you’ve seen plenty of action against the communists?”
“Some, yes.”
“And before that?” He was looking at me keenly.
“Mr. Burns, I’m sure you have a file on me, the CIA has files on all foreigners in Vietnam, does it not?”
“It is true, we do keep files, but they don’t always tell the full story. You fought in the Second World War?”
“As you know, Mr. Burns, I was an officer in the SS, I fought on the Eastern Front.”
“Yes, so I understand. Tell me about your service in the Foreign Legion, did it ever take you behind enemy lines?”
I was suddenly very wary. Paul and I looked at each other, we had both taken part in a highly secret mission up on the Chinese border, before partition. It was still classified secret by the French government, I didn’t like the way this was heading.
“How can I help you, Mr. Burns?”
He sighed, understanding that I wouldn’t discuss it with him. “Ok, it’s like this. Miles, my brother, he’s been captured. He was with Lieutenant Colonel Goldberg. They left Hue overland for Quang Tri to meet up with some of the ethnic tribes. They never reached Quang Tri and we had word yesterday evening that they were snatched by the Viet Cong. They’ve been taken to a small prison outside Hanoi, called Son Tay. Have you heard of it?”
I resisted the invitation to become embroiled. “That is most unfortunate. Are you planning a rescue mission?”
They looked at each other, Burns spoke first. “Diem’s government won’t agree to it, they’re worried about upsetting Hanoi. Diem is looking pretty shaky at the moment, he won’t do anything that may make things worse for him. So officially, the answer is no.”
I knew exactly where this was going, we all did in this room. I looked across at Paul and he gave a small shake of his head. We both knew it would be absurd to even consider going on a military mission behind enemy lines.
“Well if there’s anything we can do to help you, this side of the DMZ, of course, do let us know. North of the DMZ is of course a foreign country, that would be an invasion, as you are aware. Sorry, gentlemen, we cannot help you there.”
Robert Anderson stood up, his expression so woebegone and desperate that it was almost a caricature. Almost. “Hoffman, they’ll torture him, maybe kill him.”
I inclin
ed my head, “That does occasionally happen, yes, this is a cruel war.”
“Cut the crap, Hoffman,” Burns snarled, revealing his true colours. “You know what we want, there’s no one else who can do it, even our black operations guys have to have some sort of official clearance and that isn’t going to happen, Diem has closed the door. You’ve carried out missions behind the lines before, certainly in Vietnam, although we don’t have the details. Probably in Russia, too.”
So they didn’t know about our assassination mission. At least that was something, they wouldn’t be asking us to go and shoot the enemy generals in their sleep.
“Gentlemen, all that was in the past, I was younger then.” I smiled and showed them my palms so that they could see how open I was being with them. “Now I have a business, this airline, as you call it, and a wife. It’s just not possible, sorry.”
“How much?” Burns asked abruptly.
“How much? There is no price because we will not be going,” I replied firmly.
My refusal only seemed to spur him on.
“I am authorised to offer you one hundred thousand dollars, cash, half in advance, half on completion of the mission.” He sat back, waiting for me to absorb the amount on offer.
“I’m sorry, but we cannot do it.”
“Two hundred thousand dollars, and your commercial permit will be guaranteed to be renewed for the next five years.”
“What the hell are you talking about, there’s never been a problem with our permit before,” Paul shouted.
Burns shrugged. So that was the way it would be, a large sum of money and our permits renewed, or the possibility of being grounded next year.
“A dirty trick, Mr. Burns,” I said coldly.
“Maybe, but we’re in a dirty situation. For Christ’s sake, this is my brother you’re talking about here, not some gook rickshaw driver,” Anderson said loudly. “Mr. Hoffman, I’m begging you, will you at least consider it?”