Devil's Guard- The Complete Series Box Set

by Eric Meyer

  “Very well, Jurgen, we will all die here together.”

  She pulled the trigger. There was a loud click, then another, and another. I turned around and gently took the pistol from her hands. She was too shocked to resist.

  “What happened?” she whispered.

  “While I was in the radio room, I took the bullets out of my gun. I suspected something was badly wrong. Why would the Viets leave two prisoners alone in a room where they could damage a valuable radio transmitter? It was obvious to me that one of you was with the Viets, and the only question was, which one? You have helped me immensely, Mai, thank you.”

  “You bloody Nazi bastard, you, you…” she started beating me with her fists.

  “Corporal Dubois,” I called, “take her back into the radio room, and make sure she never betrays us ever again.”

  “No, no!” she screamed. “Jurgen, please no, don’t let him kill me!”

  I nodded to Dubois. “Make it quick.”

  He put a meaty hand over her mouth to silence the screams as he dragged her into the radio room. He kicked the door shut, and we waited in silence. After less than a minute, he came back out and looked at me meaningfully.

  “So you’re going to kill us all?” Trinh asked me. His eyes blazed with hate, but still no fear was apparent on his bloody and bruised face.

  “We’re taking you back, Trinh, you and your men. Our intelligence people will be happy to chat with you.”

  Just then, Petrov arrived.

  “You need a big bang, Jurgen?”

  “Big as you can make it, Nikolai. Men, start moving these prisoners away. We’ll take them back to Hanoi. Watch they don’t try any funny business. Two of you carry Thien out, and be careful, she’s had a hard time. I smiled as Manfred carefully supervised the stretcher party with his girlfriend. We made our way to the surface, leaving Petrov to set his charges.

  Outside we met one of our men.

  “Did you find Mai as well?” he asked.

  I looked at him stone faced. “She’s dead.”

  I told him what happened.

  “There was no doubt then, she was working for the enemy?”

  “No doubt at all.”

  “Fucking Viets,” he spat out.

  He gave me a scathing look and stalked off to help supervise loading the prisoners on the lorries. With the survivors on the surface, we had twenty-three in all. We were going to be packed in, but our masters in Hanoi would be delighted at the haul. A major Viet Minh base operating under our noses completely destroyed and a bunch of prisoners, including at least one high-ranking Commissar, to be interrogated.

  Their information would be priceless, providing the right people handled the interrogation. People who would value the lives of thousands of French soldiers higher than their repugnance at having to beat up a few Viet Minh, to prise out the information they needed to save the lives of those French soldiers.

  “The Captain says we’re ready to move out,” Sergeant Bauer came to inform me.

  “Leforge is deliriously happy with the success of the operation. I think he wants some kind of a triumphal entry into the Hanoi barracks, hail the conquering hero.” he grinned.

  “I don’t think Karl-Heinz would have been impressed, Friedrich. Does Leforge know the full story about Mai?”

  His expression changed. “I see what you mean. I’ll go and tell him.”

  We finished off loading our truck, drove a short distance and stopped. Petrov dismounted and walked back to observe the former Buddhist temple. There was not long to wait before the shattering roar as the underground structure exploded, hurling smoke and flames high into the sky. The temple shook and it literally imploded on itself, falling into the ground and utterly obliterating the Viet Minh tunnel complex.

  There was a loud cheer from the men. The distasteful business about Mai aside, it was a great success, and a mission to be proud of. An hour later, we were sitting in Colonel Joffre’s office, where he had opened a bottle of Cognac.

  “It’s not just good, men, it’s unbelievable. We’ve been under a lot of pressure to get results, especially against the local insurgents. This will certainly give them something to think about.”

  “Do you mean the Viet Minh, Sir, or our High Command?”

  Joffre laughed. “Good point, Sergeant Hoffman, truly a good point. I would say both, wouldn’t you?”

  He raised his glass. “Damnation to the Viet Minh, gentlemen.”

  “And to the High Command,” I added.

  We touched glasses. Damnation indeed, to all of them. I had another drink and then made an excuse to leave. I went to the infirmary and found Manfred sat at the side of Thien’s bed. She was awake.

  “This is progress, Manfred. She looks much better.”

  Thien looked up at me.

  “Thank you, Jurgen, for all you have done. They would have killed me, you know.”

  “But they didn’t, Thien, so you can put that behind you.”

  I bid them goodnight and went back to my quarters. I stripped off, took a shower and lay on my bed, nursing a bottle of Scotch whisky that I kept for these occasions. I lit a cigarette and lay there smoking, thinking about all that had happened. Was I wrong to let Giap go?

  On reflection, I would have done the same thing again. These people were beasts, animals, and not fit to inhabit the world of men. To slaughter men indiscriminately, as they did, would reduce me to their level. Certainly, I had killed other men, probably hundreds of them, directly or indirectly. But there has to be a sound reason, other than pure sadism or following orders; the excuse that our concentration camp guards and Einsatzgruppen gave for murdering countless numbers of Jews and Gypsies. There has to be a moral imperative, otherwise I might just as well put a gun to my head and shoot myself.

  I lay there drinking and lighting one cigarette after the other. Then there was a soft knock at the door.

  “Enter,” I called.

  The door opened. It was Helene. I saw a smile on her face, looked down and realised I was still naked.

  “Damn, I’ll find something to put on, Helene.”

  “No, I like you just as you are, Jurgen. Stay right there.”

  She turned the key in the door and came to me. She bent down and kissed me long and passionately. Then she stood up and began to undress.

  “You’re not too tired, my brave Sergeant?” she asked, amusement in her voice.

  “Try me and see, Helene. You can be the judge.”

  “Certainly, Sergeant, I will obey your order.”

  She laughed out loud and pulled off the last of her underwear. Then she came to me, and our bodies melted together.

  I felt the tension, the wretchedness of the whole Indochina war slowly seep out of me as we made slow, sensuous love. Afterwards, we both lit cigarettes.

  “Have you thought any more, Helene,” I asked her, “about the future for us?”

  She looked up at me.

  “Not really, my darling. I want us to always be together, but marriage?” She shook her head.

  “I will be yours forever, Jurgen. But I will not marry you while you’re fighting this war. Ask me when it’s over, or you have left the Legion. For now, let’s just enjoy what we have, each and every day.”

  Two weeks after the mission, I received a long letter. I was sitting in a bar with Friedrich and Nikolai Petrov when a young Viet came in, carrying a package. We were immediately wary, and our hands dropped to our guns, but we relaxed when he asked for Sergeant Hoffmann. He handed me the package, which contained a letter, and disappeared out of the door. I looked at the package.

  “It’s too thin to be a bomb,” I remarked.

  “For God’s sake, Jurgen, open it. It’s just a letter,” said Nikolai.

  I opened the package and read the letter. It was from Vo Nguyen Giap. The letter was simple, a message from one soldier to another. He thanked me for sparing his life. The letter was quite simply to repeat his offer of a job, on his staff.

  “I s
ay, honestly, Sergeant Hoffmann, that you are one of the most resourceful soldiers I have ever encountered. If you will join me, and my struggle for freedom for the peoples of Indochina, I can offer you the immediate rank of Senior Colonel, with enhanced pay of $750 per month. You would be able to bring Miss Baptiste with you, and we can give you a substantial villa for both of you to live in. In the event that Miss Baptiste accepts your proposal of marriage, you would find a good career and a prosperous and happy life working for the next People’s Democratic Republic of Vietnam.”

  How the hell did the cunning sod know so much about my personal life? I wondered. The letter went on.

  “Should you decline my offer, and I do understand the loyalties you have expressed to me, the same sum of money will be placed as a bounty on your head. You are a soldier, and you know the rules of the game. I would prefer you to fight on my side, but if not, I will do my utmost to have you killed. Think carefully, Sergeant Hoffmann. You know that the French occupation is doomed. It would be better to avoid being on the losing side for the second time in your life. You will be contacted during the next four weeks for a reply. Giap.”

  I showed the letter to the others. They laughed. “Better take it to Colonel Joffre, Jurgen, and tell him you want a rise, or else,” Friedrich said.

  “Or they’ll put a bullet in your head to prevent you joining the enemy,” Nikolai warned.

  There was a candle burning on our table. I used it to set fire to the letter and burnt it in the ashtray. For a brief moment, I thought about it. Colonel Hoffman, aide to Vo Nguyen Giap, second in command to Ho Chi Minh; and the Colonel’s lady, Helene. It was some fantasy. I must have been dreaming, because I suddenly heard Friedrich shouting.

  “Jurgen, what happened? You went into a trance. Thinking about all that money?”

  I shook my head.

  “Sorry Friedrich, what did you say?”

  “I asked you about Giap’s comment, that we would lose the war,” he said, puzzlement in his voice.

  “Do you remember Russia, the communists, and the way they fought, with no regard for human life? The sheer numbers of them, we could kill a thousand, and ten thousand would come to take their place. Do you remember all of that?”

  “Yes, of course I do,” he replied.

  “So what’s different here, the fight against the Viet Minh?”

  He thought for fully a minute. Then he replied.

  “Nothing.”

  THE END

  Devil's Guard VIETNAM

  By Eric Meyer

  PUBLISHED BY:

  Swordworks Books

  Devil's Guard Vietnam

  Copyright © 2011 by Eric Meyer

  DEVIL'S GUARD VIETNAM

  Foreword

  Vietnam – a name that conjures up so many things to so many people. To the Americans, it was a horrific war that saw a great many of their people dead and wounded, brave soldiers whose lives sometimes seemed to be callously thrown away for little or no gain, their incredible courage sacrificed in the name of political expediency. To the world at large it was perhaps the first war of truly modern technology, from the weapons used to fight it, the complex fighter and bomber aircraft used to wage war on the communists to the broadcast media that brought it to our television screens as it happened. And to the Vietnamese people, a war of liberation or a war of enslavement, depending on your fate after the last bullet had been fired in 1975.

  Yet this is not a story of nations, it is a story about one man, a personal story of a man who hacked his way through the slaughter of the Eastern Front during World War II, through the jungles of Indochina during the first French Indochina war, only to be sucked into the killing machine again when he thought his fighting days were over. As in my previous book Devil’s Guard – The Real Story, some might ask the question ‘did this really happen?’ The answer would have to be yes and no, unfortunately. The main characters certainly existed, although some of the names have been changed to protect their identities. I have told Hoffman’s story as it was given to me, with certain alterations and a few literary enhancements to make it read more fluently.

  Yet essentially most of the events in the story did happen, as they are described. After the end of the French Indochina war many civilians and combatants stayed on in the Republic of South Vietnam. Some did get caught up in the American war, having so much local knowledge to offer of both North and South Vietnam. And the American approach to war is just as depicted, the bravery of the soldiers on the ground often merely a tool to be used in the name of Realpolitik and government expediency, whether for the benefit of the US, the Republic of South Vietnam, The People’s Republic of North Vietnam, the Soviet Union or China.

  That the French government welcomed former SS veterans of the Eastern Front to the ranks of the Foreign Legion is a matter of public record, at least until 1947. So is the nickname ‘Devil’s Guard’, as it was applied to the Foreign Legion Units that some of these men fought in, although contrary to popular belief, there never were Foreign Legion units comprised only of former SS and German soldiers. All foreign legion units were a mix of nationalities, without exception, led by French officers. The records of French nationals who stayed on in Vietnam are fragmented at best. Hoffman was one of those who did stay behind and make his home there and common sense dictates that anyone who had fought and survived the bitter savagery of the Eastern Front and the endless jungle warfare in Indochina would quickly find their fighting knowledge of the communist enemy becoming highly valued by the new arrivals, the Americans.

  How much of this story is true and how much exaggerated will never be known. What is known is that it all happened, almost every bomb, every bullet, every death, and every deceit. What is also known is the indisputable bravery of those soldiers of all sides who fought in the Vietnam War. The world will never be the same again after their sacrifice.

  Eric Meyer

  * * * * *

  Introduction

  It was a long journey from the hell of the Russian Front during World War II, through the jungles of Indochina fighting for the Foreign Legion to the modern reality of the Vietnam War. Yet it was a journey that Jurgen Hoffman had survived. With his beautiful wife Helene and his partner, former SS-Totenkopf Sturmbannfuhrer Paul Schuster, they set up a ramshackle civilian airline to serve the fledgling Republic of South Vietnam.

  The arrival of the Americans and the inevitable escalation of the war as the communists infiltrated more and more fighters into the South meant that they would not be left in peace. The services of the two men, experienced, skilful and brutal fighters in every theatre of warfare are increasingly called upon by the American military. Once more their SS training and toughness is needed to survive the risky charter contracts they are forced to accept by the American military and their shadowy counterparts, the CIA.

  An innocent charter to carry two Americans to Hue develops into a full blown clandestine rescue mission into the North. A combination of bureaucratic stupidity and CIA treachery results in a debacle that can only be unravelled by once more unleashing the vicious, cold killing skills of the SS. Even in peace, the Devil’s Guard are once more at war. This is their story.

  * * * * *

  Chapter One

  ‘The confidence of the Kennedy team prevailed through the early months of 1963, even after South Vietnamese Army units, supported by US helicopters, had failed to destroy a far smaller Viet Cong force in the ARVN's first pitched battle, at Ap Bac.’

  CIA and the Vietnam Policymakers

  We were in serious trouble even before our wheels left the runway. Heavily loaded with a mixed cargo of military equipment and various boxes and crates we were transporting for a civilian contractor, we had only just begun our take-off roll when the starboard engine started to misfire. Normally I would just abort the take-off and taxi back to the terminal so that we could take the time to remedy the problem. Paul had already reached forward to cut power, anticipating my command, when the first mortar shell hit the tarmac
yards away, showering us with debris and shell fragments. We both looked out of the windows but there was nothing else to see, no sign of any attacking force.

  “Do we abort or go?” Paul asked.

  Calm as ever, it was as if he was asking me the time of day. Schuster was a veteran of the French Indochina War and before that the Eastern Front during World War Two, an officer in the Waffen-SS. A survivor.

  It was my decision as pilot in charge, and a tricky one at that. We could abort and become sitting targets for another mortar strike, or we could continue and find ourselves having to crash land the aircraft with a faulty engine. We were approaching take off speed and I had only seconds to decide. In the event, the decision was taken from us, two more mortar shells hit the runway one hundred yards ahead of us and we had to swerve away to avoid our wheels falling into the shell holes or the tyres being shredded by debris.

  “Reduce power to both engines,” I ordered as I wrestled to hold the aircraft straight, bumping as we hit the first of the debris from the two explosions. “We’ll go around again, I want to get out of here, this could be the start of a major attack.”

  I threaded the C-47 carefully around the fragments and shell holes and cut across the grass to the taxiway, heading back for our take off point. Another explosion hit the runway and then two more shells fell directly on a fuel dump, causing a vast pillar of smoke and flame to jet up into the sky. Behind the roiling black smoke I could see armed men rushing through a gap in the perimeter wire, Viet Cong, brightly illuminated by the burning fuel. We both worked calmly to keep the aircraft headed towards the end of the runway, we’d both been under fire enough times to ignore any threat that wasn’t immediate and concentrate on getting out of trouble. We were taxiing at high speed, a hazardous activity on the bumpy taxiway, but the alternative was even more hazardous. Eventually we arrived back at our start point and I put on the brakes. Paul got out his binoculars and scanned the runway ahead of us.