Taking position on a dominant hill about three hundred yards from the enemy, we lined up the guerrilla relatives in plain sight on the edge of a precipice. The Viet Minh commander did not seem to care much for his own family, but his companions did. The shooting around the stockade stopped abruptly; there was a frozen silence, then we heard savage yells and arguments; the enemy camp exploded in a bloody mutiny. The terrorists whose families we were holding began to kill their own superiors and commissars, along with everyone else who wanted to fight on. Then they surrendered.
Our action saved the lives of twenty-four French prisoners and relieved the fort. The hostages were allowed to return home, but all the guerrillas who had surrendered to us were executed on the riverside and their bodies were thrown into the water.
Never in the past had the Viet Minh experienced a similar rebuff, not even under the Japanese. Our swift and stiff action had its effect. For weeks afterwards the terrorists lay low and when we moved into a village there was silence. When we asked questions they were answered without hesitation. The guerrillas held back, measuring us, contemplating, trying to determine the best way to oppose us.
They did not appreciate our kind of warfare.
We were ordered to escort a convoy of trucks with supplies for a beleaguered North African garrison near Tuyen Quang, a hundred and twenty miles from Hanoi. It was the sort of action which ordinary regulars could call a "kamikaze sortie," because in those days to convoy a train of heavy vehicles across Viet Minh-controlled territory could rightly be called a suicide mission. The vehicles had to traverse jungles and valleys with a visibility of fifteen yards on either side; they had to pass a hundred places where a few hidden mines and machine guns could blow everything to smithereens. The French had already tried to rush a convoy through the same route. It had been destroyed by the guerrillas at a jungle section marked in our operational maps as Point 206.
"The convoy must get through," said Colonel Houssong. "Should the guerrillas blast you, we may write off an entire brigade along with a dozen relatively loyal villages."
We had a conference over the maps and aerial photos of the area, but from whichever angle I surveyed the situation, the project appeared grim. I discussed the mission with my officers and we came up with a feasible plan. Since I could not well present our plan to Colonel Houssong, I only stated that I could guarantee the arrival of the convoy only if I was to have a free hand to do the job by whatever means I saw fit.
"Do it, then," Colonel Houssong consented, giving us carte blanche. "The convoy must get through. And not only five trucks but the whole convoy."
I said, "We will take the whole convoy through, mon colonel—or we will never return."
Forward!
At a steady fifteen miles per hour, sometimes even slower. We sat on the leading tank, Schulze and I, surveying the jungle. Behind us came an armored troop carrier but it transported only four soldiers.
The rest of the passengers were civilians. Following the troop carrier came, under the command of Bernard Eisner, a half-track with four mounted loudspeakers. Behind the half-track a column of sixteen trucks loaded with ammunition, food, and other supplies. On the crates more civilians: the families of the local Viet Minh. Many of them we knew by name. They had not been harmed, and we had tried to comfort them with food and water. Of course they were crying, lamenting, but so were all those women and children whose breadwinner had been executed by the terrorists for no worse offense than a refusal to join them.
"The convoy must get through!" the colonel had said. We were resolved to take it through. We were also resolved to stay alive in the process—two hundred men against more than a thousand enemy in the area. The enemy was holding all the trump cards, save for one strong ace that we were holding—their families!
Ahead of us lay the jungle, and traversing the jungle, a dirt road. On either side dense underbrush, a treacherous green sea of weeds that had swallowed up many convoys and many men. When we entered the first Communist-controlled village, we had found only old people, women, and children at home. Every man of military age —husbands, fathers, brothers, and sons—had been absent. We had known where they were—not very far away. A large army convoy represented plenty of booty for the guerrillas. When they saw us coming, they had grabbed their weapons and had withdrawn into the woods.
My earphone crackled. Eisner was reporting: "We shall be at point two-o-six in five minutes."
Point 206, where only ten days ago the guerrillas had exterminated another convoy, blowing up twelve trucks and killing ninety men. Afterwards the enemy had withdrawn into the jungle, taking everything that could be removed. The "Paras" went to search the villages but could find no trace of either guerrillas or of the stolen army hardware. Of course the Paras had known only too well where the culprits were; at home in their villages, tending the fields, milking cattle, or carting vegetables to the markets of Hanoi. The stolen goods and the guerrilla weapons had been safely hidden to be used another day.
Searching the villages would never do much good. The Viet Minh had known better than to leave incriminating evidence lying about. The French High Command had been frustrated. The generals could not order the arrest of the entire male population of a dozen villages and cart them off for investigation.
Point 206, "Massacre Valley," as the Paratroops had called the place. Eisner's loudspeakers came to life, calling the hidden terrorist leaders.
"Commissar Thiu Xhan . . . Commissar Thiu Xhan. Your wife, Lha, is asking you not to attack the convoy. . . . Your children, only ten, eight, seven, and five want to live and grow up. Can you hear us, Commissar Thiu Xhan? . . . Your wife and children are riding on truck number four. They will be released unharmed when we arrive at our destination...."
Forward!
At a steady fifteen miles per hour. The road disappeared around a bend. As though we were riding inside a tunnel of creepers, frontal visibility was fifty yards; to the left or to the right—nil. The turret hatch of our tank was open with Schulze and I riding astride; our closest companions were three Viet Minh prisoners; two of them former propagandists, the third one a Viet Minh company leader. We had fastened them to the turret. The prisoners belonged to the same terrorist outfit which we expected to encounter on the road to Yen Bay.
We rode in plain sight. It was like a game of poker between professional gamblers on either side of the table. But our table was two hundred square miles of jungle. The stakes: three hundred lives. We were playing out a strong ace which our partners had not taken into consideration.
The loudspeakers blared constantly.
"Manh Ghiu . . . Manh Ghiu . . . Think of your wife and children, traveling in the second truck. They are safe as long as you hold your fire."
The convoy must get through!
In those days the guerrilla setup was somewhat different. Viet Minh units which terrorized a district did not come from any other part of the country but operated within a twenty-to-fifty-mile circle around their own villages. We based our plans on that very fact. Entering the first hostile locality we had rounded up all the guerrilla relatives and loaded them on to our vehicles, then we rested for fifteen minutes, giving time for the Viet Minh runners to spread the news.
The convoy rolled and the loudspeakers blared, calling every known or suspected guerrilla by his name.
"Huo Tanh . . . Huo Tanh . . . Your wife and three children, Sue, Tan, and Minh, are begging you not to shoot at the convoy. They are traveling in the number seven truck-----"
"Pam Phu from Nguyen . . . Pam Phu from Nguyen ... At this very moment you may be sighting a machine gun.
. . . Shoot well, Pam Phu, for your father Hanh and wife , Shiri are with us in the troop carrier!"
The convoy must get through. We will take it through!
"Ming Ghue . . . Ming Ghue ... we don't know where you are but we do know where your sons are, Ming Ghue. . . . They are riding in truck number six! Are you going to kill them, Ming Ghue? Then fire your gun. . . . Fire y
our gun and they will all die. Can you hear us, Ming Ghue?"
Forward!
Another bend. Behind the bend a dozen large logs blocked the road—the usual terrorist preparation for ambush. The convoy stopped. It was now or never. With the engines cut, silence fell on the stationary vehicles. I could hear the sharp clicks as my men bolted home cartridges. I could hear my heart throbbing.
We took no cover. One should display confidence in a battle of nerves. No shooting yet. ... A woman was speaking through the loudspeakers. Her faltering voice was choked with emotion and fear. .
"Commissar Thiu . . . Thiu my husband . . . There are eighty women and fifty children in this convoy, among them our own children. . . . We were not harmed and the soldiers gave us food. They will release us near Yen Bay. ... If you fire on the convoy, you will shoot us too. ..."
Five minutes went by, yet no attack came. Our ace was holding good. It was a very mean card, but in a very mean war one cannot play the fair gentleman or one will perish. The convoy will arrive. Not only five trucks but the whole convoy. There will be rewards. I could already imagine the headlines of L'Humanite in Paris: "SS killers at large in Indochina, slaughtering innocent civilians." The living hostages will be "slaughtered civilians" in Paris and in the leftist press. And, of course, they were innocent. Always innocent, even while blazing away with mortars or machine guns. Those who shot poisoned arrows into the backs of the sentries or the guerrilla wives who had once tried to plant cholera-infected human refuse into the wells of a garrison—they, too, had been innocent The Communists are always innocent.
The roadblock had to be removed.
"Commissar Thiu . . . Can you hear us Commissar Thiu? We are going to remove your roadblock. . . . Our men will carry no weapons and if you kill them, we shall consider it cold-blooded murder. For every one of them killed, three of your own will pay with their lives. We are not North Africans, Commissar Thiu. We are Germans! You have surely heard of us in the Soviet schools. You have never met us before but you will soon find out that we are not beginners. We were fighting Communist marauders long before you learned how to load a rifle. We shall give you bomb for bomb, bullet for bullet, and murder for murder. ... Do you hear us, Commissar Thiu? We are removing your roadblock and we are moving on...."
Karl Pfirstenhammer and twenty men began to work on the logs, roping them to the tank one by one. The engine roared and the logs moved. Fifteen minutes later the road was clear. We had won the first round.
Forward!
The valley widened and we came upon the charred skeletons of the vehicles of another convoy. We passed the graves of those who had traveled in them.
More woods—more bends. No one could tell what might be waiting for us beyond a bend. Our tank churned around the bend.
Halt!
A lone guerrilla was standing on the road waving a white flag. For a second time the convoy stopped bumper to bumper. The guerrilla spoke fluent French. "You cannot move on," he said, his face full of hatred. "The road is mined. We had no time to remove the mines."
I glanced at Erich Schulze. He began to laugh, loudly, hysterically. "Wonderful," he mumbled, dropping from the turret. He leaned with his head against the armor shaking with laughter. "Hans, you have pulled this one all right. . . . Don't ever tell it in Hanoi or they'll call you the bloodiest liar who ever lived."
I walked up to the guerrilla. He was a young man, maybe thirty years old, wearing a gray canvas overall and a pair of French army boots. His bearing told me that he was of some rank. We stood for a while sizing up each other. I could see no fear in his eyes, only hatred, defiance, fanaticism—the well-known symptoms of the "Red Malady."
They had mined the road but had changed their minds.
"We need thirty minutes to free the road," said he and the muscles in his face twitched. The man was nervous, outplayed, frustrated.
"Tres bien, man ami," I replied quietly. "Do it fast." I jerked a thumb toward our three captive guerrillas prominently roped to the turret of the tank. "Your comrades are not very comfortable up there and we have yet a long way to go."
"It will be your last ride, you swine!" he sneered, his eyes ablaze with savage courage. "We will skin you alive for this!"
"You may swear as much as you like, mon ami," I shrugged. "You are holding a flag of truce."
"Yes!" Schulze interposed, stepping to the guerrilla. "Would you mind putting it down for a moment? Just long enough for me to smash your face, you little yellow ape, you jungle midget. We have eaten bigger boys than you are for breakfast in Russia."
"Hold it, Erich!"
The guerrilla fixed his eyes on me.
"You are in charge here?"
"It could be___"
"You have my wife and children with you."
"Most unfortunate."
"I want to see them."
"At your beautiful little town of Yen Bay—let us hope."
"I want to see them now!"
"If you wish to surrender," I suggested, lighting a cigarette, "you may even join them on the truck. The ride is free."
He spat contemptuously, barely missing my boots. A tough one!
"I shall never surrender," he hissed, his voice full of malice. "I shall see you all dead and rotting in the jungle."
"The Russians wanted the same and they had a great deal more bullets than what you have, mon ami," Schulze sneered. "And they were the masters. You are only little apprentices. That little." He showed it with his open
fingers. "If you want to see us dead, you will have to kill us nine times over."
Standing in the bend we could see a dozen camouflaged men working on the road further down, digging up mines, filling ditches, removing more logs.
"Where is your esteemed Commissar Thiu?" I spoke to the terrorist. 'This is a good time for mutual introduction. I would like to see him."
"You will see him soon enough," said he. "Thiu always inspects the enemy corpses!"
A witty one as well.
Schulze stepped right up to him. The frail form of the five-foot Viet Minh seemed to shrink even more against the background of Erich's muscular shoulders and six-foot-two-inch frame.
"Your Thiu spent a long time in Russia, learning the Communist ways of setting the world afire." He spoke slowly but his voice was a long spell of threats. "You will soon learn that we have also attended some classes in Russia. Thiu won't be the first Red commissar whom we have hanged."
"That I can believe," the guerrilla sneered, pursing his lips in contempt. "Using women and children to shield your tanks. Great fighters are you—you Germans! The French must really be hard up to have needed you here to fight their wars."
Schulze smiled. "You don't like our kind of warfare, do you? But you will see more of it, worse than what you are seeing now. The days of your hide-and-seek games with the Legion are over. You may have played your killing games with the apprentices, my friend, but now the professors are coming, the experts. Do you know what the Russians used to call us? The headhunters! That's right. And we know the rules of all your games. We have played them before a thousand times against those who taught you. You may run into the jungle when you see us coming but beware when you see us leaving, for you may find no village to go back to."
There was a yell, and the guerrillas vanished from the road.
The emissary glanced at his watch. It appeared an expensive one, probably taken from the wrist of a French officer. "You may start in ten minutes," he said. "We shall let you pass here. We have no choice. You leave our people at Yen Bay."
"Don't worry, friend. We always keep our part of a bargain."
He snapped. "Don't call me a friend. It is an insult!"
"I will remind you of that when we meet another day," I replied.
"I hope we will meet." '
"So do we."
We drove on and reached the next village without trouble. There we released some of our hostages and took new ones. Knowing the Viet Minh, I doubted if they would care much about a
dozen strange civilians from a distant village. I decided to keep our involuntary cargo up-to-date all the way.
It was getting toward noon and the sun began to blaze in earnest. Riding abreast the tank turret, the three Viet Minh chieftains really suffered. Schulze released them during our rest in the village and gave them food and water. One of the guerrillas, the former company leader, had had enough. Having come from the neighborhood, the man appeared increasingly distressed when the time came to get on the road again. While he was being escorted back to the tank, he told his guard that he wanted to speak to Schulze (Erich had comforted him with a few cigarettes during the morning ride). "I want to talk to your commander," he whispered. "I must see him alone."
"So be it," Schulze nodded without demanding an explanation. We had heard similar requests before. When a guerrilla decided to say something it always had to be in private. I walked a few dozen yards into the jungle and Erich brought the man over.
"What's up, Tan Hwan?" I spoke to the man without preliminaries.
He glanced around nervously, making sure that we were well out of sight and hearing; then he said with great urgency in his voice, "You cannot go on this road to Yen Bay. . . ." He broke off abruptly as though still not quite decided how much to tell. "It is ... it is...."
I offered him a cigarette. "What is wrong with the road, Tan Hwan?"
"Everybody will die. You, the women, the children."
"The others have not been hurt."
I was becoming a bit impatient with his long prologue before getting to the point. "What is it, then?" I snapped. "Say what you want to say."
He said, "Lieutenant ... I have been studying in France. I am an engineer—"
"To the point, Tan Hwan!" I cut in sharply. "I am not curious about your life story."
"I've decided to quit this senseless war," he went on quickly. "I want to see my country free but not at such a price. Intelligent people do not shoot at each other. They talk. This is becoming more and more senseless, more and more out of hand."
Devil's Guard Page 9