by Eric Meyer
Michael Forrestal, NSC 1963
Paul and I went into the city to see Helene. Still unconscious, she was already being prepared for a flight to the States. It was late evening by the time we got back to the hangar, I decided to sleep there, I was too sick with worry and grief to go back to the ruined bungalow. Besides, there was work to be done. Johann Drexler was waiting for us, he seemed to live in the hangar surrounded by his beloved aircraft and tools. Strangely, he’d learned to fly during a period of time he spent in South America after the war, but he preferred spending his time up to his armpits in grease. He freely admitted that with poor eyesight he would be a danger to himself and to his passengers if he ever flew. He had gone through the war on the Eastern Front as a Waffen-SS Hauptscharführer in the Das Reich Panzer Regiment. Escaping from the Battle of Berlin with hardly a scratch, he made his way to Bolivia where he was hit by a shell fragment during one of the many upheavals that were a feature of that country’s politics. Besides, he preferred the company of engines and tools, they were much more reliable and less fickle than the shadowy clients for whom we flew cargos and passengers around the country.
He asked about Helene and was visibly relieved that she would be receiving the best possible treatment.
“We had a Captain Cady called round earlier, he said he would be back in the morning to brief you.”
Paul and I smiled at each other. So this fiery young Special Forces Captain with no experience was coming to brief us with his extensive knowledge and experience of North Vietnam. It would be interesting. We sat and drank our way through a few beers. Aircraft took off constantly from the main runway of Tan Son Nhat, Helene would be on one of them, it was reassuring. I thought of her as she lay in that hospital bed, so close to death, then I thought of the woman I knew, lively, vivacious, caring, warm, she was everything any man could want and more. She had to pull through, just had to. I vowed to do everything in my power to make that happen even if I had to go into Hanoi and murder Ho Chi Minh personally. Finally, I made up a camp bed in the office and slept. In the morning, I was drinking a cup of coffee and making some notes on a pad about maintenance schedules when I heard a series of shouts outside the hangar. I went outside and there was Captain Cady lining up his Special Forces troops, five soldiers, festooned with packs, weapons and a heap of stores they were unloading from a U.S. army truck. He was shouting orders at the top of his voice and it was obvious his men were unhappy, all Green Beret sergeants who were trained to act and fight independently. Cady spotted me.
“Good morning, Mr Hoffman, where do you want us to stow these crates?”
I nodded to Cady. “Captain, we are about to embark on a mission that is highly secret. I suggest you get your men and equipment inside the hangar immediately and send that truck away. You’re advertising your presence to the Viet Cong.”
His face darkened, stung by the implicit criticism.
“Hoffman, we are on a friendly airfield, are you suggesting that the communists are operating here?” he laughed. “Jesus Christ, are you gonna be the type that sees a red under every bed?”
I had misgivings before about working with an inexperienced officer, but now my confidence ebbed even further.
“Captain,” I said gently, “in Vietnam, it is safer to assume that every single native is the enemy. That way, you tend to live longer, and I have lived here for almost fifteen years. Please, get everything inside the hangar.”
He sighed and muttered something about “fucking krauts,” but he shouted more orders to his men.
“And Captain,” I continued, he looked at me, his face harsh, “please, a little quieter, let’s keep this mission a secret for a little longer.”
I thought he would explode. His men were grinning to themselves, but it had to be done, this inexperienced fool would get us all killed. They quickly stowed all the equipment inside our hangar and Cady called everyone around to go over the mission briefing. He had a packet of maps and intelligence documents in front of him.
“Ok, our reconnaissance shows that they are being held at an old rubber processing factory near Son Tay. My plan calls for us to go in during daylight, I’m unhappy about night actions. We’ll make contact with elements of the Vietnamese resistance and use them to guide us to the prison. Any questions so far?”
I was astounded, what planet had this soldier been living on? “Captain Cady, tell me more about the ‘Vietnamese Resistance’.”
“Yeah, you should know more about that, Hoffman. When Vietnam was partitioned, a lot of anti-communists were left in the North, we just need to make contact with them to get help.”
Paul and I looked at each other, this was going to be difficult. “Captain, when we cross the DMZ, you must regard every single Vietnamese as the enemy, period. Even south of the DMZ, as I have said, it is little different.”
“Hang on there, pal,” he said angrily, “we have made contact with one of the resistance already, Le Van Tri. He’s offered to help us, we won’t be on our own.”
He sat back, a ‘so there’ expression on his face. Paul and I laughed.
“Le Van Tri is a crook,” I said to him. “We move his shipments occasionally, he’s a smuggler, pure and simple. His main business is taking goods into North Vietnam to beat the communist blockade. I strongly advise you to be careful when you accept his help, there will be a high price.”
He shook his head, he was a hard man to convince. “Not your worry, Hoffman, I’m expecting a message from him shortly, they’ll forward it from MACV, the whereabouts of a good landing zone for our aircraft and his radio operating frequency.”
I shrugged. “As you wish. Next, Captain, there will be no daylight landing.”
He opened his mouth to object, but I hurriedly overrode him. “Captain, when we overfly the North every gun will be turned against us. The second we cross the DMZ during daylight hours, we’ll start taking ground fire. As well as that, every single Vietnamese peasant will be alerting the local party HQ that an aircraft from the South is crossing their airspace. They’ll scramble the MIGs and we’ll be shot down before we even get near Hanoi.”
Once again he opened his mouth to object, once more he was interrupted, this time by one of his own men.
“Cap’n, this guy’s been here a long time, might be worth listening to him,” he looked at me. “Pleased to meet you, Sir. I’m Master Sergeant Tim Beckerman.”
I nodded to him, “Jurgen Hoffman. Captain, perhaps you would introduce your team before we go on?”
Cady wasn’t happy about the interruption, but he gave in with bad grace. “Yeah, I was about to get to that. Hoffman, these are Master Sergeant Beckerman, Communications Sergeant Jack Bond, Abe Woltz, the unit sniper, Chief Warrant Officer Frank Burr, Weapons Sergeant Joe Russo.”
I said hello to each of them. Now that the introductions had been made, they started to hit me with a barrage of questions about the North, but Cady cut them off.
“Can it, men, save it for later. Ok, Hoffman, you reckon on a night landing?”
“It’s the only way, Captain. You can contact Le Van Tri and get him to light the landing field for us.”
He nodded. “Yeah, we can do that. So what about getting out?”
“Preferably the same night, it’s the only way to be certain. Remember, every single peasant is a potential enemy, it would be almost impossible to hide an aircraft during the hours of daylight.”
“Why not fly it back out when we go in and return the next night for the pick up?” he persisted.
“Same problem, the whole North Vietnamese defence system will be alerted during the intervening time. No, it must be done in the same night, in and out.”
He nodded slowly. He was obviously unhappy that his carefully drawn up plans were being torn to shreds, but he at least understood my reasoning. On top of that, his men listened alertly as I spoke, nodding when I made a point. He knew that these were tough, experienced soldiers, the best. He may have led them by virtue of his rank, but with men l
ike these, consensus was just as essential to get them to follow orders. Perhaps more so. One of them spoke to me, a huge, black sergeant.
“Chief Warrant Officer Frank Burr, Sir, you obviously know what you’re talking about,” everyone looked at Cady, who reddened slightly. “What’s gonna be our main problem, what do you see as the biggest obstacle to us successfully completing the mission?”
The men waited quietly for my reply. I considered carefully. “In the German army, we called it the ‘Schwerpunkt’, the hard point. Yes, a good question. The answer is communications. The communists have an extensive early warning and intelligence system. Every farmer, every village has a means of communicating enemy incursions with Hanoi. If one of them, just one, a farmer herding pigs on a hillside, a labourer digging a road, gets the word out, we’re in trouble, we’ll have the MIGs on our backs before we cross back over the DMZ.”
Cady sneered. “You make them sound almost invincible, Hoffman, a bunch of commie peasants and guerrillas.”
I smiled. “You haven’t beaten them yet, Captain. These people have been fighting one oppressor after another for over a thousand years. Just think, hundreds of years before the Europeans discovered America, they were fighting the foreign invader. And they keep fighting, they beat the French and it is by no means certain that you Americans will do better. At Ap Bac they defeated a combined ARVN and American force ten times their size. Don’t underestimate them. That way, we stand a good chance of getting in and out without undue problems. Avoid contact, that’s the real trick.”
The room was quiet, then a soldier rushed into the hangar clutching an envelope.
“Message from MACV for Captain Cady.”
“I’m Cady.”
He took the envelope, ripped it open and rapidly read the message. Then he looked at me meaningfully. “It’s a message from Le Van Tri, did you know about this?”
I shook my head.
“Well,” he continued, “it seems you were right, Le Van Tri has named his price.”
The soldiers looked at me as if I was Merlin the Wizard, but the truth was, I dealt with these people all of the time, there was always a price.
“His son, Le Van Dao is down in the Mekong at a place called Soc Trang. He’s staying with some people called the Binh Xuyen. We’re to pick him up and take him with us and hand him over to Le Van Tri. What do you make of it, Hoffman?”
“Paul, would you explain to the Captain what this means?”
“By all means,” he replied grimly. “Firstly, the Binh Xuyen is a criminal gang, no more, no less. They’re rivals to Le Van Tri’s outfit, both are always trying to carve out a bigger slice of the cake. If Le Van Dao is with the Binh Xuyen, he’s a hostage being held for some reason, maybe ransom, maybe something else. Le Van Tri wants us to go down there and bust him out.”
They all looked at him in amazement.
“Mr Schuster,” Cady said contemptuously, “You’re saying that this fucking smuggler wants to use an American Special Forces unit as his own private army?”
“It looks that way, yes.”
He shook his head from side to side. “No way, no fucking way. We’ll have to do it some other way.”
We were all silent for a moment.
“Hoffman, do you have anyone who can light a landing field for us near Son Tay?”
“Only Le Van Tri, I’m sorry. And if there was anyone else, he’d only kill them to force us to get his son back for him.”
“Jesus H fucking Christ,” he snarled, “one fucking slope peasant holding the U.S. army to ransom. Is there no other way?”
I shook my head.
“What if I could persuade the General to pay this ransom?”
I shook my head again. “It may not be ransom, it could be something else entirely, a squabble over territory, anything.”
Just then, Johann walked over to us, he’d been working on the C-47. “Bad news, Jurgen, that supercharger has finally given up altogether.”
“How soon can you source a replacement?”
He looked mournful. “It’s already on order. Three days, I’m afraid.”
“Is he talking about our plane, the one you said you’d fly us in with?” Cady asked harshly.
I didn’t answer him for a moment. I was sick of this arrogant, corn fed American officer. His men were quiet, watchful, intelligent, obviously tough and competent at what they did. He was a product of wealthy parents, probably an Ivy League college and regarded anyone not as privileged as him as a lesser human.
“It’s ok, we’ll use the Junkers 52, it’s not a setback.”
“Are you talking about that piece of Nazi junk out there in the hangar?” he said incredulously.
I gave them a potted history of the ‘Aunty Ju’, as we called this stalwart of the German armed forces during the war. The Junkers Ju 52, a German transport aircraft, was manufactured from 1932 to 1945. It saw both civilian and military service during the 1930s and 1940s. In its civilian role, it flew with over twelve air carriers including Swissair and Lufthansa as an airliner and freight hauler. In a military role, it flew with the Luftwaffe as a troop and cargo transport and briefly as a medium bomber. The Junkers 52 continued in post war service with military and civilian air fleets up to the present day. Indeed, the Portuguese Air Force, already using the Ju 52s as a transport plane, employed the Junkers as a paratroop drop aircraft for its newly organised elite parachute forces, later known as the Batalhão de Caçadores Páraquedistas. The paratroopers used the Junkers 52 in several combat operations in Angola and other Portuguese African colonies before gradually phasing it out of service in the 1960s. The Swiss Air Force also operated the Junkers 52 from 1939 and was still using them. During the 1950s the Junkers 52 was also used by the French Air Force here in Vietnam as a bomber.
“She may not look much, but it’s a thoroughly reliable aircraft that will get us there and back,” I finished.
I could see his point, looking across the hangar she did look outdated with the corrugated fuselage. But she was also the only aircraft ready to go and one that I would trust implicitly. Cady finally gave in. “Yeah, yeah, if that’s all we’ve got, we’ll have to use it, but I don’t like it, Hoffman. Right, what about this kid Le Van Dao, what do you suggest?”
His men were looking at each other, realising uneasily that their captain was out of his depth. From that moment, he effectively lost control of the mission, although he was almost certainly too arrogant to either admit or even understand it.
“The Binh Xuyen has a warehouse next to the airfield at Soc Trang, it’s almost certain that’s where they’ll be holding him. It should be possible to fly in with a couple of men and free him, they won’t be expecting it. In the meantime, we can get the Junkers loaded, fuelled and ready to go.”
“Yeah, ok, how many men can you carry?”
“It’ll have to be the Cessna,” I replied. “She’ll carry a maximum of four, that’s the pilot, two of your men and Le Van Dao on the way back,” I replied.
“Very well, that’s what we’ll do. Take off this evening for Soc Trang, Sergeant Woltz, Chief Warrant Officer Burr, you will accompany Mr. Hoffman and bring this gook kid back here. Hoffman, I want to be ready to leave as soon as you get back. How long will it take to get us to the North?”
I looked at the clock. “Paul, you’ll need to load extra fuel in the Junkers, we’ll refuel on the ground in the North. We can get you there tonight, Captain, we’ll time it to cross the DMZ soon after dark to give us the maximum mission time.”
“Right, I’ll get things organised here. Good luck, Mr Hoffman. Frank, Abe, you look after Hoffman and this gook, get him back safely.”
Did he mean for them to get me or ‘the Gook’ back safely? Cady’s men were open mouthed at his arrogance and stupidity, but had no choice but to ignore it and get on with their jobs. I talked to Paul about the load for the Junkers, and then set out across the field to the Cessna. Johann had already gone ahead and was unfastening the ground anchors. Burr
and Woltz followed, the sniper was carrying a long rifle fitted with a sniper scope.
“That looks impressive,” I said, looking at the rifle he held carefully, its stock was finished in a dull, matt varnish, the metalwork had that slight sheen of frequent but careful use.
“It’s the Springfield Sniper Rifle M1903,” he said proudly, he went on to describe what was obviously a favourite topic of his. The M1903 was officially adopted as a United States military bolt-action rifle in 1905, and saw service in World War I. It was officially replaced as the standard infantry rifle by the faster-firing, semi-automatic eight round M1 Garand in 1937. However, the M1903 Springfield remained in service as a standard issue infantry rifle during World War II, since the U.S. entered the war without sufficient M1 rifles to arm all its troops. It also remained in service as a sniper rifle during World War II, the Korean War and was still in service, particularly as a specialist sniper rifle in Vietnam.
“It ain’t everyone’s idea of the perfect rifle, but this baby shoots clean and straight every time,” he added, as he wiped the action over with an oily rag.
I left him to clean his beloved rifle and checked over the aircraft, climbed in and the others followed, Woltz carefully fitting the awkward long length of his rifle in the cabin.
“Mr Hoffman, are you armed, you got anything to defend yourself with?” Burr asked me.
I smiled at him. “I have something, yes. Please, call me Jurgen, I didn’t go to West Point.”
He laughed. “Yeah, the Captain is a bit of a pain in the ass, but we manage to ignore him. It’s Frank, this is Abe.” They held out their hands and we shook.
“Frank, would you open the locker behind you, I’d like my weapons out ready to use.” He opened the small door and whistled. “I see you’re prepared for anything, Jurgen.”
“Yes, it’s the only way to survive in Vietnam. Would you pass me the Tokarev and an M2 carbine, there’s a canvas satchel with clips for both guns, I’ll need that too.”