Laughter in the Shadows

by Stuart Methven

  I didn’t know it at the time, but I would keep crossing paths with Anton many times as we plied our respective trades along the trail. The last time I saw him, we were standing again outside the Snow Leopard Inn. Behind us stood the aging biplane, which by then I had christened the Spirit of Xieng Khuong. The thud of mortar rounds could be heard off in the distance announcing the beginning of another battle for La Plaine. Anton clapped me on the shoulder. “Plus ca change, mon ami. Nothing changes. Another battle beginning that will change nothing. I hope les emmerdeurs don’t hit the inn and spoil the best bouillabaisse in Southeast Asia! Salut!”

  Ban Ban

  The ride to Ban Ban was scary and gut wrenching. Spring rains made the road slippery, causing the jeep to slide along the edges of steep embankments and crash into thickets of vines and bamboo. The crankcase kept scraping over deep ruts, clogging the exhaust pipe and causing the engine to sputter and cough. At times the road disappeared entirely, the driver crashing blindly through the jungle until finally the road would reappear.

  Sharp embankments offering ideal ambush sites loomed on either side as we drove deeper into the mountains. Bernard had told us after lunch about a convoy that had recently been ambushed by the Pathet Cham along this same road, which was probably the reason the two Cham had suddenly became silent, nervously scanning the ridges for a possible ambuscade.

  Their fears were contagious. I felt butterflies in my stomach and began to sweat, even though it was getting colder the higher we went. And my unease was made worse knowing it was of my own making. I had been too nonchalant and blasé about the trip to Ban Ban, announcing cavalierly that I was “off to see the montagnards.” I hadn’t left an itinerary with the Station or bothered to have Oudone advise the local military commander we would be in the area. However, I was no longer feeling cavalier, bouncing along in a jeep and sitting behind two skittish Cham soldiers who had one carbine between them.

  Even with the best of preparations, the case officer in the field often feels alone and vulnerable. His only companions are often only local counterparts or indigenous village chiefs and villagers on whom he has to rely for company and security. Unlike his military colleagues, the case officer has no backup, no cavalry or gunships standing by to come to his rescue.

  Nevertheless, case officers thrive on their independence and freedom of action, on being able to use their initiative and operate on their own. He can take action and make decisions, knowing the Station will back him up. With that independence, however, comes loneliness and vulnerability, and riding deeper into the mountains, I began to feel both.

  The butterflies and cold sweat disappeared when the jeep finally broke out onto a winding gravel road. A bullet-pocked concrete marker read ten kilometers to Ban Ban, and a half hour later the jeep pulled up in front of the Operation Brotherhood clinic.

  The OB team greeted us with a warm welcome and invited us to stay with them. They prepared a barbecue that evening in our honor and invited the district chief. When he arrived, the wild boar was still turning on the spit. I introduced myself to Wang Si, who told me Colonel Oudone had sent a message about my visit. He invited me to call on him at his office in the morning.

  The barbecue was followed by a Filipino songfest and dancing the tinikling, at which Wang Si was surprisingly adept, stepping effortlessly in and out of the clacking bamboo poles. I was not as agile as Wang Si, which my black and blue ankles attested to the next morning.

  The district chief was waiting in his office when I arrived. Wang Si was a Black Thai, descendant of the tribal group that emigrated centuries earlier from the Black Thai river basin area in China. He was short, wide shouldered, and dark skinned, with a wrinkled forehead and squinting eyes. Wang Si’s face brightened when I presented him with a “petit pistolet.” He ran his hands over the barrel and then began pointing the pistol at various targets in his office. I was glad I had held back the box of cartridges.

  Before talking to him about meeting Pang Vao, I asked Wang Si if he would be interested in an airport for Ban Ban. The idea had come to me as we drove into the town before arriving at the OB clinic. I didn’t relish the idea of more jeep rides like the last one if it turned out I needed to make more trips to Ban Ban to meet with Pang Vao. I had seen a soccer field outside of town, a field that could serve as an airstrip for the Station’s newly acquired helio.

  The helio, or heliocourier, had been designed and developed in St. Louis, Missouri, by two airplane mechanics. Designed for short takeoff and landings (STOL), one of the first helios produced in St. Louis had been sent to Viensiang for use in our up-country operations. Ban Ban would be an ideal destination for its inaugural flight.

  Wang Si jumped at the idea of an airport in Ban Ban. “Magnifique!” he declared.

  When I suggested the soccer field as a possible site, Wang Si immediately agreed and said he would speak to the commander of the military outpost near the field. He would ask him to have his soldiers remove rocks and stumps along the sides and at either end of the proposed runway.

  Having settled the question of the airport, I asked Wang Si if he could arrange for me to meet Captain Pang Vao. Wang Si replied that Pang Vao was “like his brother,” and he would have no trouble arranging a meeting. He said he would immediately send a message asking Pang Vao to come to Ban Ban to meet me.

  Wang Si hadn’t asked why I wanted to see Pang Vao and didn’t mention having to obtain the approval of the province chief or regional military commander, which would be normal in arranging a meeting between a Cham officer and a foreigner. It seemed that Wang Si ran his district with little outside interference, and I attributed this to the isolation of his district. In the case of Pang Vao, he pointed out that he was a “fellow montagnard.”

  I met Pang Vao three days later in Wang Si’s office. The Meo captain was short, like Wang Si, but much thinner and wirier. Pang Vao had high cheekbones, slightly slanted eyes, and a ruddy complexion. Although he had been walking for two days to get to Ban Ban, he didn’t seem tired. Pang Vao had a reservoir of restless energy and was constantly shifting back and forth on the balls of his feet as he talked.

  After introducing me to Pang Vao, Wang Si left us alone in his office. I told the captain I had heard a lot about him. I had looked forward to meeting him so I could discuss a project with him concerning the montagnards. I was about to continue, but Pang Vao cut me off. Pang Vao’s habit of interrupting was one I would have to get used to.

  He said he had been waiting for a long time to meet someone from the American embassy. He wanted to discuss the current situation concerning his Meo, a situation that was grave, tres tres grave. We could discuss my project later.

  Pang Vao spoke in rapid French for almost an hour. He began by berating the French. He said that after they lost the Indochina War, they disarmed the thousands of Meo they had recruited as maquis to fight the Vietminh and help the French control the highlands. Disarming the Meo, according to Pang Vao, was a big mistake, because taking a Meo’s rifle is like taking his soul. A number of Meo had hidden their weapons from the French, but they were all still bitter about having been betrayed.

  Pang Vao would keep coming back to the betrayal, which had deeply embittered him against the French.

  Getting back to the “grave” situation, Pang Vao said the Meo desperately needed help. The Cham government didn’t care about the tribal people and couldn’t or wouldn’t help them. The Cham had appointed a “token Meo” as minister of Montagnard affairs, but he became corrupted by Cham politicians and had done nothing to help his fellow montagnards.

  Pang Vao said the Meo depended heavily on their opium crop, which they bartered for rice, blankets, and cooking oil. This year’s opium crop had been almost wiped out by heavy rains along with having to suffer through a harsh winter. Also, Vietnamese marauders had been increasing their raids across the border to steal their livestock.

  With another winter approaching, the Meo were becoming desperate. Pang Vao said his people needed my h
elp.

  The Meo leader had caught me off guard. My proposal for integrating his montagnards into a nation-building program would ring hollow. Pang Vao wanted tangible help for his people, who were in desperate straits. Offering civic action kits and community radio sets wasn’t going to cut it. At the same time, I didn’t want to raise false hopes with a man who had a strong memory of false promises. I had to come up with something.

  I told Pang Vao how much I admired the Meo and could sympathize with their plight. Unfortunately, my agency’s resources were limited. We didn’t have magic fertilizers to revive the opium crop or hybrid seeds to start a new one. We couldn’t feed the entire Meo population, and as for their depleting livestock, we couldn’t provide arms for cross-border raids against North Vietnamese rustlers.

  Pang Vao was obviously disappointed. His face fell but lit up when I said we might be able to offer some relief for his people. We could, for example, supply four or five tons of rice for Nong Het, several hundred blankets, and forty or fifty medical kits. We could also supply some carbines and pistols for his village chiefs, plus a community radio for Nong Het.

  It didn’t compare to Pang Vao’s wish list, but the Meo leader was pleased with my offer and even asked me to repeat the list so he could take notes. When he finished jotting down the items I had mentioned, he looked up and smiled. Pang Vao said he knew we would help his people.

  I wasn’t off the hook, however. Pang Vao added that he had a “special request.” He wanted une enclume for Nong Het.

  I tried to think. Une enclume?

  Seeing that I was puzzled, Pang Vao drew une enclume in the air. Horizontal and flat at one end, vertical and rounded at the other. It was about two feet high and very heavy. I finally got it. Pang Vao wanted an anvil. He explained that the Meo were skilled metal craftsmen, who made their own tools, flintlocks, and the famous Meo silver neckpieces. The only anvil in Nong Het had cracked and later broken in half. They desperately needed a new one.

  I told Pang Vao we would try to get him an anvil, and before he could think of any other requests, I asked him to sit down at Wang Si’s desk so we could work out a plan for an airdrop.

  Pang Vao knew all about drop zones, smoke signals, and “Ts,” so it didn’t take long to draw up a plan. When we finished, we poured two glasses of sum-sum from the bottle on Wang Si’s desk and toasted to the beginning of our relationship, a relationship that would one day lead to the White House.

  The Helio

  And when I go away from here, this will be the midpoint, to which everything ran, before, and from which everything will run.

  —A. S. BYATT, Possession

  Pang Vao went back to Nong Het, and Wang Si and I went to work on the airstrip for the helio. Soldiers behind teams of water buffalo rooted up trees and dragged off boulders. White lime was poured into the furrows dug along the sides of the runway and into the “Xs” at either end.

  Using the OB radio, I sent a message requesting the helio. I advised our people in Viensiang that the Ban Ban airstrip was clearly marked and secure. A return message advised that the helio would arrive at noon on the following day.

  The next morning a crowd of Cham villagers and montagnards gathered at the airstrip to await the arrival of the “big bird.” An honor guard from the fort practiced marching up and down the field. Local merchants passed out rice cakes and bon-bons. Village elders followed with gourds of the local “white lightning.” Wang Si, as official greeter, was wearing a coat and tie for the occasion.

  The crowd became quiet when they heard the droning noise off in the distance. The droning became louder until finally a silhouette appeared over the horizon. When the silhouette was directly overhead, it took on the form of a big silver emu. The helio had arrived.

  The plane circled, dropped down, and came in low above the airstrip past the red and white windsock. I saw the pilot peering through the window, trying to decide whether or not to try to land. He apparently decided against landing, because the helio suddenly nosed back up and circled over the town until it dove down again toward the airstrip, coming in just above the trees. The helio hit the strip as the wing flaps banged down and roared past where I was standing. I could just make out the contorted face of the pilot fighting to keep the skittish jackdaw from veering off the runway and then lost sight of the plane as it disappeared into a cloud of red dust and white lime powder.

  When the cloud lifted, the “big bird” sat vibrating, with its landing gears straddling the white “X.” If it had gone an additional ten feet, the helio would have plunged into the ravine. When the shaken pilot finally stepped down from the plane, two OB nurses ran out holding a “WELCOME TO THE LINDBERG OF BAN BAN!” banner. The village chief’s wife draped a lei of frangipani around his neck, Wang Si toasted the “great aviator” with a glass of sum-sum, and the honor guard passed in review.

  The crowd surged onto the field to get a better look at the big silver bird. The scene would have made those St. Louis mechanics proud.

  When we left the next morning, a smaller crowd was there to see us off, along with a bleary-eyed Wang Si. We taxied down the airstrip and lifted off almost straight up. Once we had leveled off and were heading back to Viensang, “Lindberg” turned and wagged his finger at me. “STOL, short takeoff and landing. But from now on, not that short, OK?”

  Five Thousand Sweaters and an Anvil

  As time went by our need to fight for the ideal increased to an unquestioning possession, riding with spur and rein over our doubts.

  —T. E. LAWRENCE, Seven Pillars of Wisdom

  A grumbling Al Incolingo left for Bangkok with Pang Vao’s request for an anvil. The following day he sent a message saying he couldn’t find any “high quality” anvils in Bangkok and he would have to go to Singapore. He could be reached at the Raffles Hotel.

  At the same time, an all-logistics message to all stations was sent requesting any surplus supplies of blankets. Okinawa came through with an unexpected dividend, having located a U.S. Army quartermaster warehouse stocked with a surplus of army blankets available in thousand blanket lots at a dollar per blanket. The same warehouse was having a “fire sale” on GI sweaters left over from the Korean War: five thousand sweaters for five hundred dollars.

  Viensiang ordered the entire stock of blankets and sweaters plus four tons of triple-sacked rice and asked Okinawa to ship the supplies to Viensiang on the next available C-46. The message also requested authorization to use the C-46 for an airdrop into Nong Het.

  Incolingo returned with a “high quality” anvil packed in oilskins attached to a red and white silk parachute. The blankets, sweaters, and rice arrived later in the week on a C-46 cargo plane.

  The pilot was “Shower-Shoes” Wilson, who along with the late “Earthquake” Magoon, had gained fame as a CAT (China Air Transport, predecessor to the Agency’s Air America) pilot, dropping supplies to the beleaguered French garrison at Dien Bien Phu. Dien Bien Phu was not that far from Nong Het, so Wilson knew the area. Spreading out his aerial topographic map, Wilson pointed to Nong Het. It sat on a mountaintop surrounded by sharp ridges and limestone escarpments.

  Wilson ran his finger along the spiny “horn-toad” ridges. “Dropping into Nong Het will be a real ‘sphincter test,’” he said. “The only way in is through the Tai Lap Pass. Winds funneling through that pass will toss the plane around like St. Vitus’ Dance. And Nong Het won’t be any picnic either. If your timing is off, the winds will carry that anvil and its parachute over into North Vietnam!”

  Wilson said he intended to fly in low over the DZ, so we could “free-fall,” with no parachutes, the bundles of sweaters, blankets, and triple-sacked rice. If any bundles broke open, it wouldn’t matter, because sweaters and blankets were not fragile. As for the anvil, he would drop down to three hundred feet, just enough altitude to allow the parachute to open before hitting the ground, but not enough so it would drift into North Vietnam. Timing was everything.

  I sent a message to Pang Vao to prepare
for the airdrop.

  Another case officer and I were the two “kickers” for the airdrop. We clambered in over the bundles as Wilson filed a phony flight plan for Bangkok in case there were Pathet Cham spies in the tower. Once we were airborne, Wilson altered course for Nong Het. An hour later we broke out of the clouds and Tai Lap Pass was dead ahead.

  Wilson hadn’t exaggerated. The minute we flew into the pass, winds began buffeting the plane. Wilson had to fight the controls to keep the wings from scraping the scabrous cliffs on either side. The whine of the engines was deafening when we entered the natural wind tunnel, and I had to cover my ears, already popping from the sharp change of altitude.

  When we broke out of the pass, I went up to the cockpit to get a better view. The Annamite mountain chain running from North Vietnam down through Cham was below us. The area looked uninhabited until I spotted a clearing on a mountaintop. Once we got nearer the clearing, I could make out clusters of stilted huts: Nong Het.

  Perched precariously on a steep promontory, Nong Het from the air looked like a toy village that had been lowered onto the mountain by a gigantic crane. Goats and sheep were grazing on patches of slash-and-burn stubble that backed up to terraced yellow poppy fields. In the middle of one of the patches was a white “T,” marking the drop zone.

  A white grenade had just been thrown out on the drop zone to indicate the wind direction and signal that the DZ was secure. The whorls of white smoke dancing around the DZ recalled Wilson’s warning about the unpredictable wind currents in Nong Het.