by Barry Sadler
Gus agreed that Giap was a first rate general who made the most of his situation and doubted if the French could hold the country much longer. But, with the true spirit of the Legion, he remarked dryly, "Still, old friend, this the only war we have that's worth a damn now and, if we are lucky, it might be two or three more years before our little Asian friends kick our fat asses out of here. " He sighed deeply at the thought of losing a place as comfortable as this and having to return to the scant pleasures of North Africa.
Gus had served with the 2nd BEP ever since it had arrived in February of 49 and had made several combat drops in operations in South Annam and Cambodia. He had been sent back to Sidi bel Abbes twice for wounds, but each time, as soon as he was able to make his presence known, his unit commanders in Africa were more than glad to grant his request to leave their company and return to the Orient for another round of service with the 2nd BEP.
The 2nd BEP had been on the go since they'd first set foot in Indochina, being sent out on one operation after another, from Ke Sat to Dong Trieu, Nam Dinh and Kontum. There were battles at Hoa Binh and a dozen others whose names he couldn't recall anymore. Now there was this thing in the wind he had heard called "Hirondelle Operation." Just what it was he didn't know yet, but would within the week as soon as General Salan made up his mind.
Until then, they just wanted to take it easy and enjoy the pleasant weather of the north before the monsoons set in with the winter. Hanoi was a clean city, filled with temples of the hundred faiths of its peoples. Buddhist and Cao Dai sat side by side with the Catholic cathedrals of their colonizers. Everything in the country was touched with the special mixture that France always brought to its colonies, the blending of cultures from all its territories. Moslem Algerians and Moroccans, black Somalians and Thais mingled freely with Vietnamese of the Indigene battalions and the Europeans of every nation. Each brought a bit of its flavor to the simmering pot that was Southeast Asia.
Langer enjoyed the variety. The very differences made the country exciting and fresh. He only wished that he didn't have to pull guard duty with Gus at the former summer residence of a Tonkinese merchant who had been executed for paying blackmail money to the Viet Minh. To the merchant, the blackmail money meant that he could continue doing business as usual, not that he was a sympathizer with the communist cause – few wealthy merchants were. It wasn't that guard duty was that bad, but he knew this was one of the places where many Vietnamese went in on their feet and came out in sacks. It was not a pleasant house to spend a night in. The interrogators of the French intelligence teams and their Vietnamese counterparts could have learned nothing from the Spanish Inquisition of the pious Torquemada. Langer didn't like those that inflicted needless pain, no matter what their reason.
Colonel Thich hated them all. All these ugly foreigners who infested his country, draining it of its individuality, trying to force their ways on them, even to making French the official language in the schools.
The French could be beat. That was firmly believed. He had seen it done when the Japanese occupied the land. It had pleased him greatly to see the once high and mighty French perform kowtow to an Asian. Even if the Japanese were worse masters than the French, they were still Asians and had beaten the French and the British. If it hadn't been for the Americans, the forces of Imperial Japan would still be in power. But once they had gone, the French wanted to regain their favored status, making the rightful people of the land their servants and slaves.
This would not be tolerated. This was not the same Vietnam of 1941. This was a new time and the future was theirs, as was the future of all oppressed peoples who wore the yoke of colonialism on their necks. They would rise up in their millions and claim what was rightfully theirs, though the struggle took a hundred years. That was what they had that the colonialists could never deal with. They had history past, present and future on their side, and they would prevail. If not this year then the next, or the next, until they bled the French dry and sent them back to their own lands to leave Asia in peace.
In effect, the curfew did little to keep those with urgent business off the streets of Hanoi. A million flickers of light gave mute testimony to those who lay awake on their straw mats or sat behind tables graced with fine crystal and the best the vineyards of France had to offer. Those who concealed themselves in the shadows of the darkest places and moved only when they were certain that none could see them were the night stalkers of the city. Some were thieves or simply killers; others went through the night streets and alleys for more important purposes than stealing silver from the houses of rich foreign exporters or killing an unwary soldier. They were out to steal a nation and kill thousands in the process.
Thich was accompanied by his three special agents from the Hac Sa Black Snake section of his covert operations section in Hanoi. They were good steady men who knew their craft well. The four of them stood quietly in the doorway of a jeweler and watched the whitewashed front of the building where the French Security Police kept political prisoners of the utmost importance.
His sister was in there. That had been easy to find out. She had been taken there the same day that the attempt on his life had failed. He knew that if she had given him up to the enemy it had not been an easy thing for her to do. He was very familiar with the techniques the French would have had to use against her. No matter what she had done, she was his sister and he still loved her.
The entrance was secured by a mixed guard mount of two Vietnamese and two Legionnaires. Inside, there would be more, both Viet and French. Thich and his men knew every closet hall and cupboard in the house, where every man slept and every prisoner was kept. His sister was not in the basement. She was being held on the second floor in a room where the Tonkinese merchant had once entertained his mistresses and street women.
Thich idly wondered when he would have word of the scar faced one? For some reason he couldn't fathom, the man fascinated him. He felt a compulsion to look him straight in the face, eye to eye.
CHAPTER FIVE
Langer stood at the locked doorway leading to the rooms on the second floor. Below, in what had once been the cellar, Gus kept an idle eye on those prisoners who required the most "attention." It was quiet now. The guests were sleeping, trying to gain some strength for the next day's ordeal. For Gus, it made no difference whom he fought or why. As for the treatment of the Viet prisoners, as far as he was concerned, they weren't being treated too badly. If they had been in Russia, the first stage of an interrogation by the Conmmissars probably would have begun with a brass cartridge case being hammered into their kneecaps, just to get their attention. After that, they would have been treated to some definitive methods of interrogation.
Langer lit up a Gauloise, tearing the blue pack open to get one out, wishing he had some of the American Lucky Strikes instead. He preferred his station to that of Gus. Up here there were only three "guests" in residence. In the first rooms were two Vietnamese officers who had defected to the French, giving themselves up with many of their former comrades in exchange for amnesty, and the promise they would be sent from Vietnam to France, where they would be safe from their brothers. The other guest was Lin, the sister of Thich. Langer had seen her only once. Lin was a perfect example of the best that the women of Indochina had to offer. Tall for her race, Thick, soft, raven hair that hung to the middle of her back when let down. She was slim and well formed with high breasts and a proud, erect manner to her that gave instant notice when she would enter a room. She still carried herself like an aristocrat, but Langer could see it was not easy for her. Her almond shaped eyes were full of pain and the bruises on her face were not yet completely faded.
This was one of the worst parts of the business of war and revolution. He didn't like it. War should be between grown men, not women and children. It was difficult not to feel sympathy for one who looked so beautiful and frail, but he knew that she had been directly responsible for the deaths of several hundred French soldiers. The information she had passed
on to her brother had killed the French soldiers as certainly as if she had pulled the trigger herself. Therefore, he had to consider her a combatant and a willing instrument of those he was fighting against. If this had been just a national movement for freedom, and not one taken over by the communists, he might have even fought on their side. But he was much too familiar with the communists and what happened to those they ruled not to resist them wherever and whenever he could. He had too many memories of Berlin and the Ukraine, Hungary, Czechoslovakia, Estonia and Latvia, where soldiers and civilians by the tens of thousands had been butchered, women nailed to the doors of barns and children slung against walls with their brains smashed out. The communists of Southeast Asia were even more brutal than those of the Soviet Union. So, even though he could feel some slight sense of regret for the beautiful, fragile Lin, she was as guilty of the horrors her comrades in the Liberation front had inflicted on their own people as surely as was Ho Chi Minh, Giap, or her brilliant brother, Colonel Thich. He wondered if he would ever get another shot at him.
The Vietnamese sentries on duty with the French guards at the entrance to the villa had checked their watches several times in the last few minutes as their French counterparts traded lies about who was the best lover or fighter. The smaller Vietnamese soldiers merely smiled and bobbed their heads pleasantly at the banter, keeping one eye on the dark shadows across the street. A brief flicker of light came from one of the doorways at exactly 0300 hours, then winked out.
The Viets moved casually behind their French associates, talking to each other, laughing as if at some secret joke. The two Frenchmen never learned what the Viets were so amused about until it was too late. Bayonets made at the foundries of Lyon severed their vocal cords and carotid arteries. Before the two hit the ground, Thich and his three men were crossing the street. Silently, they slipped over the sandbag barrier and knelt down where they couldn't be seen by any watching eyes from inside the villa.
In hushed voices, Thich gave his orders to the sentries, who nodded in obedience to his wishes. They had waited a long time to be put to such service. From beneath his black tunic, Thich removed an oilcloth wrapped package as did his other men. Opening them, they removed four .45 caliber Colt automatic pistols. There was one for each of the men present, including Thich. The weapons looked strange, oddly long because of the silencers attached to the snouts of each of the heavy handguns. The .45 caliber pistol was preferred because the heavy slug was already subsonic and therefore much easier to silence than the faster rounds of the 9mm family or the Russian and Red Chinese 7.63mms.
The Mats 49s of the dead guards were taken and given to two of Thich's men, who quickly checked them out making certain there were rounds in the chambers and the weapons were ready to fire. They hung the submachine guns around their necks by the straps so the pieces hung in front of their stomachs, ready for use if needed. For the next few minutes they all hoped that the silenced .45s would be all that was required to accomplish their mission.
Thich pointed to the entrance of the villa. Inside the double doors were two more guards from the 2nd BEP, drinking coffee, bored with the dull routine of doing nothing more than trying to stay awake. The watch officer and sergeant of the guard were in what had once been the drawing room but was now converted over to a communications center. There they waited, taking turns walking the sentry posts, while one stood watch by the radio.
Lieutenant Henri Chauvin was on his first tour of duty in the Orient, having just arrived from Sidi bel Abbes two weeks before to serve as adjutant for Captain Villon.
The two Viets who had killed the Legionnaires at the sandbags left Thich and his three men there. They headed casually for the double doors of the mansion, their weapons shouldered. Entering the double doors they smiled at the Legionnaires like good, simpleminded coolies. One of them asked the time, a normal question for someone on guard duty who wanted to get off so he could get some sleep or go to his house where his wife was waiting.
"Quelle heure est-il?"
The Legionnaires automatically looked down at their watches. Before they had a chance to tell their smaller Asian allies the time, the Viets had blown off their faces. The heavy, slow slugs from the silenced .45 caliber pistols splattered the walls behind them with red-gray pulp. The rattle of the Legionnaires hitting the polished marble floor brought Lieutenant Chauvin from the communications room. Stepping out in the hallway, he started to ask what the noise was when his lower jaw was blown off. He would have screamed if the second shot hadn't removed his vocal cords and, in the process, a large portion of the spinal cord in the back of his neck. The sergeant of the guard, a twenty year veteran of the Legion, had his weapon coming up when both Viets emptied the remaining rounds in their pistols into his chest and face. Quickly one of them returned to the doorway and signaled for Thich and his men to come on in.
The black, pajama clad figures raced inside the mansion on silent sneaker clad feet. They all knew the layout of the house as if they had lived there for years. The door leading to the basement was the only way out for anyone downstairs. There was no one down there important enough for them to take the time to dispose of, so the door was securely barred from their side with an oak chair wedged against the doorknob. Whoever was on guard below would remain there. That left only the single guard upstairs and they were more than enough to take care of just one dumb Legion parachutist. Still, Thich took no chances. He left the two Viets in uniform behind to watch the door, taking with him only his three personal men to finish their mission.
The hallway was lit by a single lamp at each end. Langer stood near the first door, his back to the stairs. From his post he was not able to witness what had just occurred below him. He had heard some movement on the ground floor but attributed it to the regular guards. The thin shuffling of rubber soled feet on Thich carpets turned his head around in time to be met with the steel stock of a Mats 49 submachine gun. He went to his knees. It took two more strikes to knock him out. The only reason he had not been treated the same as the other Legionnaires was that Thich wanted to take at least one prisoner back. And a paratrooper from the 2nd BEP could provide valuable information. And if he was not mistaken, he had seen this one before, but he had no time to dwell on the matter. More important concerns were pressing him.
Thich nodded for his men to continue as they had been briefed. Each of them went to one of the doors where a guest was being detained. The .45s made short work of the locks. Only one thin cry of terror reached the hallway before it was silenced. Each of the guests had been terminated. They went to handcuff their prisoner, leaving the last room for Thich to deal with, the room where his sister was.
Her lock was blown off to permit him entry. From her room there was no cry of fear or terror. The interior was lit by a single lamp on her dresser. Thich entered and looked at the face of his sister. She stood in the center of the room, wearing blue silk pajamas which seemed to be a bit too large for her. Her hair was loose, hanging down to the small of her back as she waited for her brother's judgment.
It was a heavy sense of weariness that Thich felt as he looked at his sister. She had been with him from the beginning. Her advice and council had always been good and wise, and she had spared herself nothing. Not even her own flesh had been above the needs of the revolution. Now he had to make his decision. Life or death? Which would serve the party's needs the greatest?
Lin spoke softly, eyes looking straight at her brother. "You must make up your mind in a hurry. Soon the guard mount will be changed. You must be far from here by then."
Thich nodded. "I know exactly how long I have." There was no recrimination in his voice as he asked simply, "Why did you try to turn me over to them? Was it that you were not able to endure the torture, or was there another reason? I have to know before I can act."
Thich moved to sit where he could keep an eye on the doors and windows outside the room. His men were impatient to be gone. They didn't like this delay. There was always top much of a chance of
things going wrong, something unexpected taking place.
Lin ran a hand through her hair, a slight tremor betraying the first indication that she was feeling anything akin to fear. "I have no excuse. I simply was not strong enough. They used drugs and pain with great expertise. I told them everything they wanted to know and would have told them more if it would have made them stop what they were doing to me."
Thich nodded in understanding. He knew full well that everyone had a breaking point and secret fears that once found would make the strongest of men betray their own blood.
It was a difficult thing to decide. What should he do? His self-questioning was interrupted by a crash from downstairs.
Gus had started to come up to see if he could get a cup of coffee and found the door barred. He was perhaps not brilliant, but he knew when something was wrong. Without hesitating, he hurled his two hundred and eighty pounds at the door, smashing it free of its hinges and locks. His Mats 49 was at the ready as he burst into the open. The bodies of Lieutenant Chauvin and the other sentries provided him with all the reason he needed to cut down the two Viets in front of him. One of them got off a single round which tugged at Gus's camouflage tunic before he ripped the Viet apart. The other Viet merely stared in shock during the split second that separated him from the living and the dead before his head was literally blown off. Gus wasted no time. Before their bodies hit the ground, he was bounding up the stairs yelling for Langer.
Thich had no more time for consideration of his sister's case. When her head turned to the sound of the firing below, he made his decision. Without her knowing his decision had been reached, he placed a carefully sighted bullet behind her left ear.
Gus had to pause to reload before reaching the top of the stairs. When he did, the combined fire from the raiders forced him back down to where he had some cover. Thich rejoined his men in the hallway. He had made a mistake and taken too long. Now they were trapped. There was no other way out except for the front doors. All the windows and exits on the top floor were barred. They would have to go out the front, and do it soon, before the relief guard made its appearance. He still had one card to play. The Legionnaire on the stairs had called out a name. Perhaps this man was his friend. If so, then perhaps they could strike a bargain. He yelled downstairs to Gus. "We have your friend up here. Fire one more shot and he dies."