TWO

 

 

Granier woke a few minutes later and saw Hoagland’s face above him. Smelling salts stung his nostrils, and he jerked his head trying to move away. Pain bolted through his head. He winced. “Shit,” said Granier.

“Relax, Buck,” said Hoagland. “You’ve got a mean bump on the side of your head.”

“The girl that hit me…?”

“You mean the woman that saved your life?” said Hoagland pointing to the woman collecting weapons, ammunition and ransacking the pockets and packs of the dead Japanese soldiers.

“Viet Minh?”

“Yeah. About a hundred of ’em. They had set an ambush for the Japanese. We walked right through it and almost spoiled the whole game. They wanted the radio you shot. They’re not too happy about that.”

“Are they the right group?”

“Yeah. They were sent to find us when they stumbled upon the Japanese patrol. Their camp is a good day’s march. We’ll leave as soon as you feel fit.”

“I’m alright,” said Granier climbing to his feet, taking a few steps then almost falling over like he was dizzy.

“Give it rest. You’ve got a concussion. She whacked you pretty hard,” said Hoagland grabbing Granier, helping him to sit on the ground again. “We’ll leave soon enough. There’s not enough time to make it back before nightfall anyway.”

“Alright. Maybe a minute or two,” said Granier as lightning flashed behind his eyeballs with head-splitting pain.

He lay down in the long grass. “That-a-boy,” said Hoagland. “I’ve got to tend to their wounded. I’ll be back to check on you.”

Hoagland moved off. Granier closed his eyes. It didn’t help much. The lightning kept flashing in time with the beat of his heart. After a few moments, he sensed something and opened his eyes. The woman that had hit him was standing over him, three Japanese rifles cradled in her arms and a half dozen ammunition belts slung over her shoulder. He already knew she was strong, judging by the lump on his head. She looked down at him. He looked up at her. Their eyes met. She spat on him. “Hey,” said Granier wanting to jump up and smack her but knowing he would fall down and make a further fool of himself.

She let loose a string of angry words that made no sense to Granier and shook her fist at him. She made the motion of a rifle with her hands, and he understood. She was mad that he had pointed his weapon at her after she had saved his life. She turned in a huff, and he watched her move off. Her skin was dark and beautiful. He figured she was from the Northern hill tribes, maybe the H’mong, Dzao or even Black Thai. Probably spoke some dialect, maybe a little Vietnamese. It didn’t matter. He didn’t know any Vietnamese beyond a couple of phrases, and he sure didn’t know any of the tribal dialects. A barbarian, he thought. More savage than civilized, more animal than human. Lightning struck. His head whirled. He collapsed and fell unconscious.

 

 

It was late in the afternoon. The air was cooling. Granier could smell the sweet, trampled grass. The lightning strikes behind his eyes had dissipated into a dull throbbing throughout his head. It was painful, but he’d survive. A good night’s sleep probably wouldn’t hurt. Not an easy thing in the field. He and the other members of the Deer Team were sandwiched between the Viet Minh troops following a trail. The company was divided into three sections, each taking a different path in the same direction, each within supporting distance of the others in case they encountered the enemy.

Granier wasn’t worried about boobytraps or mines. If there were any, the Viet Minh would trigger them long before he or the team members reached them. But the Viet Minh seemed to know what they were doing. They certainly fought better than he had imagined. He wondered who taught them or whether they just learned by experience. They were brave too. They moved forward when they heard gunfire, not back.

The Spitting Woman was not with his section. She was a scout, like him. She traveled far ahead, sometimes a mile or two, then came back to report to the Viet Minh commander. Granier wondered why his mood lightened when he saw her. Not the usual reaction of a man that had been spat on by a woman, but Granier was no ordinary man. He imagined she knew these hills like the back of her hand, that she knew the signs of a nearby enemy and the safest place to make camp. It was comforting and a little irritating. He wasn’t in control. She was. That was unusual for him and ground on him like sand in a boot.

 

 

The company made camp just before sunset. Sentries were posted, and scouts roamed the surrounding terrain. Spitting Woman came back thirty minutes later. Granier could tell she was tired by the way she plopped down on the ground, not caring much where she sat. She pulled out a hand-carved pipe, filled it with something that looked like a dried weed, and lit it with a match. The smoke was thick and brown. Even at a distance, Granier could smell it. It wasn’t pleasant but did make his headache recede a bit, or at least he didn’t seem to mind the throbbing as much. Either way, it was welcome.

There were other women in the company, but they seemed more subservient – fetching water, making the evening fire, cooking. Spitting Woman was treated as an equal among the Viet Minh men. He even saw her smack a fellow soldier in the balls when he made what seemed to be a crude remark about her. She didn’t hurt him. Not really. But from that point on, the fellow soldier avoided her when possible. Not the sociable type, Granier thought.

Granier waited until dinner was finished before approaching Spitting Woman. He felt like they had gotten off on the wrong foot, and he wanted to make things right. Normally, he didn’t care what others thought, but Spitting Woman was different for some reason. He wasn’t sure why, but her opinion of him mattered as he walked over to her. She watched him, seeming a bit wary like he might attack her. He knew she wouldn’t understand his words, but he hoped she could recognize his intent by the tone of his voice. “Hi,” said Granier. She said nothing. “I just came over to apologize. I didn’t know who you were when I shot at you. You probably saved my life, and I’m grateful. Anyway, thanks, and have a good night.” She still said nothing. Granier shrugged, turned, and walked away.

With his back turned to her, she climbed to her feet, ran over and kicked his back foot mid-stride. He tripped and fell to the ground. He turned over, angry as hellfire. “God damn it, woman,” he said, climbing to his feet.

Her eyes went wide as he marched toward her. He outweighed her by double and towered over her small frame. She wasn’t afraid. She was angry. She kicked at his crotch. He grabbed her foot mid-air and twisted it. She spun around to keep him from breaking her ankle. He yanked her leg upward, and she lost her balance. She flew up into the air and came back down like a board tossed from a pickup truck landing facedown with a thud. She didn’t move. Granier wasn’t sure what to do and looked around as if hoping for a suggestion. Everyone had stopped what they were doing and watched like they knew what was going to happen next and that it shouldn’t be missed.

Spitting Woman climbed to her feet, turned and pulled out her knife like she was going to gut him. “Seriously?” said Granier a bit surprised. He considered pulling out his knife but then thought better of it. Things had gone far enough. He had been in enough knife fights to know that they never ended well. It was only an apology, he thought. She moved in the opposite direction of her hand holding the knife. He countered, moving in the same direction, keeping his distance. “I’m done with your shit. If you don’t put that down, I’m going to shove it up your ass,” he said.

She replied with a barrage of words in her dialect. He didn’t understand the words, but the tone was clear. She wasn’t backing down.

They danced for a few moments more, then she lunged. He pivoted, grabbed her wrist, and pulled her forward. She almost lost her balance but recovered. She used her nails on her free hand to scrap his forearm. He bled. He accepted the pain. He brought his knee up and smacked her wrist holding the knife. She released the knife, letting it fall to the ground. She put her foot between his legs to tangle them. He put his boot behind her leg. They both fell. She on top of him. He rolled her over. Him on top of her, their faces inches apart. He looked into her eyes. She seemed to be beckoning him. He lowered his head closer to her. She raised hers … then she bit him on the upper lip. He jerked away, tearing flesh. Blood flowed. “Ah, shit!” he said, raising his fist, ready to pummel her.

“Buck!” said Dewey. “Enough.”

Another voice barked out orders in Vietnamese. They came from the Viet Minh commander standing beside Dewey.

The two belligerents stopped fighting. Granier rolled off Spitting Woman. They both climbed to their feet. “This is not our mission,” said Dewey and Granier understood.

More Vietnamese shouting came from the Viet Minh commander. Spitting Woman hung her head in shame, then stomped off. Strangely, Granier wanted to go after her and explain that he just got carried away, that he didn’t mean it. He was confused. He never really cared what anyone thought, let alone a Southeast Asian aboriginal. Why was she different?

 

 

The next morning, the column of soldiers snaked its way through the hills and valleys of the highlands. They picked up the pace when crossing an open hilltop or a treeless meadow. They did not want to be spotted by the Japanese reconnaissance planes that often patrolled the area. They were more relaxed when in the morning fog or when the sky was heavily overcast. The rain was always a welcome relief, offering respite from the heat, refreshment, and cover. It made the long grass and fallen leaves slippery, but the Viet Minh were surefooted and enjoyed the break in the monotony of walking. They took pleasure in simple things like raindrops and cool running streams. Their bellies were full from the supplies pilfered from the Japanese. They asked for little more.

They formed human chains by holding hands as they crossed rivers. Some did not know how to swim and were fearful of the fast-moving water even when shallow. The strong helped the weak. Loads were shifted and shared when one person tired, no questions asked. They carried everything. There were no animals to carry the burden of weapons and supplies. All of their animals had been slaughtered for food long ago. Waterfalls offered a quick shower and freshwater. They would soak their neck scarfs to cool their shoulders and heads while walking. Reeds growing in the water along the shore were cut and used to clean the rice and bits of fish from their teeth as they walked.

The Viet Minh would not drink from the American canteens when offered. The stupid Americans put tablets in their canteens that made the water sour. The Americans also wasted perfectly good food, rejecting fish heads and chicken feet. Americans were strange. Many Viet Minh blamed it on their strange god, others on their wealth. Their skin was strange too. It was pink and sometimes red when in the sun for too long. Some of the Americans had light-colored hair which the women found interesting and would save after a haircut in little wooden boxes hung around their necks for luck.

 

When the sun hung low across the verdant mountain tops, the column of soldiers descended a steep trail into a narrow valley. Limestone cliffs cast long shadows that cooled the air. A stream divided the valley and formed turquoise pools like liquid steps in a descending staircase. Vines grew in every direction like a giant web across the forest canopy, some reaching down for a sip from the slow-flowing water.

According to Dewey’s map and compass, they were only a few miles from the Sino-Vietnamese border. The Chinese had been providing some logistical support to the Viet Minh before the Japanese invasion of their mainland. Now, the weapons and supplies had slowed to a trickle. The path they traveled on was covered with freshly cut grass to mask the tan dirt from Japanese reconnaissance aircraft.

The Chinese had finally fought the Japanese to a standstill. The Chinese were deeply concerned with Japanese troops crossing the border from Vietnam to reinforce their troops in Southern China. On the other hand, the Japanese were worried about Chinese troops invading Vietnam. The Viet Minh were caught in the middle. Their numbers were growing, making it more and more difficult to stay hidden from the Japanese.

The valley of Pac Bo in Cao Bang Province was the home of the Viet Minh. On first look, the entire valley seemed void of civilization. No smoke from fires was visible during daylight hours. Cooking fires were only allowed at night and only in an area where the flames could be completely hidden from view.

The Deer Team passed a half-dozen women using knives to cut grass and gathering it in baskets that they had woven. Young boys were using hand nets to catch fish in the stream. Women used knives tied to the ends of bamboo poles to cut fruit from trees. There were light machinegun positions set up and manned by the Viet Minh on both sides of the trail and shielded overhead by grass-covered mats. Everyone wore dark pajamas with conical hats made of straw and camouflaged with local leaves and grass. Concealment from the Japanese seemed the highest priority.

The Americans smelled the village far before they could see it. It was sour and rank. Slit trenches had been dug and surrounded with grass mats for privacy in an attempt to control the sewage produced by the two thousand inhabitants, but most of the villagers just relieved themselves behind the closest tree or bush. The young children had a bad habit of urinating and even defecating in the stream – the village’s only freshwater supply. This primitive method worked alright in the hill villages which were usually occupied by less than a dozen families, but it was a major health problem in a village this size.

Hoagland was deeply concerned as he saw more of the villagers. Many had dark circles under their eyes and looked tired. Their skin was drawn and jaundice. “Amoebic Dysentery,” he whispered to Dewey.

“I see. Make sure you warn the men to stick to their canteens and use their Halazone tablets for purification,” said Dewey.

The majority of the Viet Minh lived and slept in dozens of caves carved in the sides of the limestone cliffs. The few community huts that had been permitted by the commander were used for a school, meeting house, and hospital. They were well camouflaged with newly cut grass on their thatched roofs to blend with the surrounding trees and foliage. Secrecy was the ally of the Viet Minh. What the Japanese couldn’t spot from the air, couldn’t be hunted on the ground. The Americans were impressed by the Viet Minh’s ingenuity at keeping so many people hidden for such a long period of time.

The majority of the villagers were the families of the rebel fighters. There were no crops being grown or animal pens like most Vietnamese villages. Nothing that could be spotted from the air. The village produced no commodities or crafts to sell or trade. They were warriors. Violence is what they offered.

The majority of the men were assigned to forage for food. They could not scavenge from nearby villages. That would be a dead giveaway to the Japanese and invited betrayal. They were forced to travel long distances, sometimes fifty miles or more. While the Viet Minh claimed to have over 600,000 followers scattered around Indochina, the group with the Americans were the only rebels actually fighting the Japanese. They were the bravest and had the most experience in warfare. They were given the best arms available – stolen weapons from the Japanese. But even the warriors would scavenge for food when available. Daily survival was a constant struggle for the Viet Minh.

The Americans watched the Viet Minh as they walked through the village and the Viet Minh watched the Americans. Many of the villagers had never seen a foreigner, not even a Frenchman. They were suspicious and wondered what omens the Americans might bring with them. Hoagland was particularly disturbed by what he saw and moved up next to Dewey. “They’re starving,” he said.

“What’s that?” said Dewey.

“The children’s bellies are swollen, and their skin is translucent and drawn. They’re starving to death, and they don’t even know it.”

“How’s that?”

“When the stomach is empty, it recedes in size. They stop feeling hunger and grow weak. Do you see any children playing?”

“No. No, I don’t.”

“That’s not normal.”

“I suppose not.”

“They’ve been reduced to a primitive society. All their efforts go into foraging for food. It’s no wonder they’ve shown so little progress in fighting the Japanese.”

“So, what do we do?”

“I would suggest feeding them. Slowly at first. Too much, too fast could overwhelm their systems.”

“Will they recover?”

“Yes, in time.”

“How much time? We have a war to fight.”

“I don’t know. A week or two for some, others longer.”

“Well, we’ll do what we can.”

“We could share our rations. They won’t make a dent in the entire village, but they might save some of the extreme cases.”

“Alright. But we must leave enough for ourselves until the first supply drop. We cannot afford to get sick or be unable to defend ourselves if attacked.”

“Okay. Half rations should be enough for us to stay healthy.”

“You must only distribute food to those that you are sure will survive. I know it’s cruel, but you must triage.”

“Of course, Commander. I understand.”

 

The Americans were led to an open structure with a thatched roof in the center of the village. This was the Viet Minh headquarters. French military maps were spread across a rough-hewn wooden table. Several rebel commanders were listening to Vo Nguyen Giap, the Viet Minh military leader, as he reviewed a battle plan for their next raid. He was only thirty-four years old and already considered a respected rebel leader. He saw the Americans approaching and stopped the meeting. Hoagland, the only Deer Team member to speak Vietnamese, greeted Giap. Giap responded in English, “Welcome. We have been looking forward to your arrival. My name is Mister Van.”

Dewey stepped forward when Hoagland introduced him as the team leader and shook Giap’s hand. He introduced the other members of the Deer Team and Giap, in turn, introduced his commanders. “If I may inquire, do you have medical supplies?” said Giap.

“Some,” said Hoagland. “More will come with the supply drop.”

“I am afraid we cannot wait that long. Commander Dewey, may I borrow your doctor?”

“Of course,” said Dewey.

“I’m not a doctor,” said Hoagland.

“You are in my country if you have medicine. Please follow me,” said Giap and led the way.

 

Hoagland followed Giap to a nearby cave. The entrance was small, unlike the other caves, the entrance covered with a blanket. They entered. It was dark inside. Only the light from a small fire boiling a pot of water to create steam lit the smoke-filled room. Several Vietnamese women were hovering around an older man, slight of build, lying on a cot in the corner of the cave. He was delirious, moving in and out of consciousness, sweating profusely, his skin drawn and jaundiced. The women took turns tending to him as if it was a privilege, dabbing his forehead, exposed chest, and arms with wet clothes from the nearby stream. The women were tender and loving. “This is Mister Hoo,” said Giap. “If you can help him, I will personally be grateful as will all Viet Minh.”

“What happened?” said Hoagland.

“As a matter of equality, he will only drink the water and eat the food that his fellow Viet Minh consume. I am afraid his sense of ethics has taken its toll.”

“I see. May I examine him?”

“Of course.”

Hoagland moved to the side of Mr. Hoo and gently examined him, checking his eyes, listening to his labored breathing, feeling his weak pulse, his muscles and stomach, which were sore when pressed. “Dysentery and malaria, I think. Maybe Dengue Fever. I don’t know,” said Hoagland to Giap.

“Oh, dear,” said Giap. “I feared as much. Can you help him?”

“I will be honest. He’s pretty dehydrated. I will do what I can.”

“Thank you. You will be in my thoughts, good doctor.”

“I’m not a doctor.”

“You are all we have.”

“Very well then. Let me get to it. I will keep you informed.”

Giap moved to Mr. Hoo’s side and picked up his hand, “Not yet, my friend. There is still work to be done. Not yet.”

Mr. Hoo stirred slightly on hearing Giap’s voice. His eyes flickered open for a moment; then he fell unconscious once again. Saddened, Giap left, leaving Hoagland to try to save the life of Mr. Hoo, also known as Ho Chi Minh.

 

 

Late in the evening, Hoagland emerged from the cave and stretched. He walked back to where the Americans were gathered. “What were you doing in there?” said Dewey.

“There is a man. Mr. Hoo they call him. He’s very sick. Maybe dying,” said Hoagland making himself a plate of food and drinking from his canteen.

“You don’t have to go into a cave to find the sick and dying.”

“No. But this man… he’s special. They revere him. I believe he’s their leader.”

“Is he the one that sent the letter to Donovan?”

“I don’t know. He’s been in and out of consciousness. I haven’t been able to talk to him.”

“I see. I suppose we would fare better if you keep him alive.”

“Yes. But I am not sure that is possible. He’s pretty far gone. Dysentery and malaria for sure. Maybe other conditions, too. I can’t be sure without blood tests.”

“So what do you do?”

“Quinine for the malaria. Sulfa for the dysentery. Keep trying to get him to eat and drink. It’s not easy. He’s on the verge of a coma. Once that happens, I believe he will be lost.”

“Then what?”

“I don’t know. But Mr. Van realizes he’s very sick. I doubt there will be repercussions if he dies.”

“Let’s hope not. You should get some sleep. It’s been a long day.”

“Yes.”

“Perhaps you should stay in the cave. You must appear to be doing everything you can.”

“I am. But you’re probably right. I will.”

“We’ll bed down nearby… just in case things take a turn for the worse.”

“How’s the rest of the village?”

“It’s as you said. The people are weak from lack of food and dysentery. The entire place smells like an open sewer. I don’t imagine you have enough sulfa to treat everyone.”

“No. I don’t. We need to rethink what we are doing here.”

“In what way?”

“Our training mission has turned into a rescue mission. These people can’t fight in this condition.”

“I realize that. The good news is that some of them are very good fighters. They’re brave and aggressive, and they know how to use the terrain to their advantage.”

“Their weapons?”

“Lacking, but surprisingly well maintained. They’ve made good use of what they have. Their intelligence is excellent. They know where the Japanese are based, how many troops they have, and their supply routes. If we can get them back on their feet, I think we can make a real difference.”

“We’re going to need medicine. A lot of it. And food with Vitamin D. I feel the current supply drop will be far from adequate.”

“Yes. We’ve already discussed it. Without the radio, we’ll have to send a messenger on foot. I’m sending Buck back over the border to explain the situation in person to Colonel Patti.”

“That’s risky. The Japanese will be watching the border for Chinese troop incursions.”

“It’s worth the risk. Mr. Van has agreed to send one of his scouts to avoid the Japanese outposts. Buck thinks he can cover the distance in two days.”

“And if Buck doesn’t make it?”

“Then we’ll just have to make do with what we are given.”

“And what about Buck…and the scout?”

“They know the risks better than most. I wouldn’t send them if it weren’t vitally important.”

“Okay, I’ll make a list of what we need.”

“And Hoagland… I’d like to see Mr. Hoo as soon as he’s able. There is much to discuss.”

“Of course.”

 

 

Off by himself in the woods, Granier knelt on a blanket. His rifle laid before him, disassembled. Each part had been meticulously cleaned. He studied the layout of the pieces, each in the position that allowed him to quickly reach for the part when he needed it. He was ready. He glanced at his watch. When the second hand reached four seconds before the hour, he closed his eyes and took a breath. He didn’t need to see the second hand click to twelve. He could feel the length of four seconds. He began reassembling the rifle, with his eyes firmly closed. Working from memory and touch, he picked up the parts and slid them together, some big, like the barrel assembly, others small, like the gas cylinder lock. His motions were well-rehearsed, smooth but certain.

When he’d finished, he cycled the action twice to ensure it was working properly then locked it in place. He glanced at his watch – one minute, twelve seconds had passed. It wasn’t his best time, but it wasn’t bad either. He would practice later when he was out of the field. He knew that a well-cleaned rifle did not require a lot of gun oil. There was no dirt or even dust to cause friction and wear down the metal. He oiled the parts that needed it sparingly, using a small can from his tool kit.

Once he was satisfied his rifle was ready, he went to work on the ammunition. He had selected seventeen bullets to replace the rounds he had expended during the firefight with the Japanese. He inspected each round, using a small piece of sandpaper to remove any metal burrs and scratches on the shell. Then he wiped each bullet down with a clean piece of cloth to eliminate any grit left behind from the sandpaper, before carefully loading the bullets into two clips and placing them in his ammunition belt. It was a ritual. It gave him confidence.

 

From a distance, Spitting Woman, unseen and silent, watched the American.

 

 

It was early morning. A heavy fog rested over the village, protecting it from prying eyes. Granier lightened his pack to the bare essentials and checked his weapon. Dewey and Giap approached with Spitting Woman. “You can’t be serious,” said Granier. “I’d be better off alone with a compass and a map.”

“Apparently she’s the best scout they have,” said Dewey.

“I’ll be lucky if she doesn’t cut my throat in the middle of the night.”

“She’s been ordered not to do that.”

Granier grunted. “You would be wise to trust her,” said Giap. “She knows the border area well and will get you through the Japanese lines.”

“I guess I don’t have any say in the matter,” said Granier, resigned, turning to Spitting Woman. “Try to keep up.”

Giap said something to her that Granier didn’t understand. She frowned but nodded affirmatively. Granier slipped on his pack, picked up his weapon, and headed off up the trail. Spitting Woman clucked her tongue twice like she was trying to get the attention of an animal. Granier stopped and turned back, annoyed, “What?”

She turned and walked in the opposite direction. “Shit,” said Granier, and he followed her.

 

Granier and Spitting Woman hiked through the jungle at a brisk pace, legs pumping, climbing, never slowing, never resting. They stayed off trails and wound their way through the trees and foliage. When the vines and undergrowth got too thick, Spitting Woman used her aranyik – a traditional machete of the highland tribes – to cut a path. Her frame was small, but she was strong and sturdy. Granier followed, impressed, but giving her no indication.

 

They came to a fast-flowing mountain stream, the water clear and clean. She knelt on the muddy bank, drank with her hand, and refilled her water bag. Granier filled his canteen, slipped in a purification tablet, swooshed it around and drank the bitter water. She watched and shook her head in disgust. Granier considered, spat out the canteen water and drank with his hand from the stream. She was right. It tasted much better, fresh.

A mosquito landed on Granier. She slapped his neck without warning. Granier jerked around, angry. She opened her hand and showed him the dead mosquito. He nodded a disgruntled thanks. She scooped up a handful of mud and smeared a thick layer on her arms, hands, and face, showing him. She made a hand motion and shook her head to communicate that mosquitos can’t bite through the mud. She looked hideous. Granier held back a laugh to a just a smirk. She pointed to the mud along the stream. He followed her example and smeared a thick layer on his exposed skin. She tried to smear mud on a spot he missed. He batted her hand away like he could do it himself. She frowned. He shrugged and relented. She covered the exposed patch with mud. Satisfied they were both protected, they rose and continued to trek through the forest. Granier had been hoping for a longer break, but he was surprised by her endurance. Not willing to show his weakness, he rose and followed her.

 

After a half-mile hike through the forest, Spitting Woman slowed and motioned to Granier to stop. Granier moved up beside her. “What?” he whispered.

She motioned for him to be silent. She climbed slowly, quietly, up a small rise with thick undergrowth. As she reached the top, she dropped silently to her hands and crawled, then dropped further and belly-crawled slowly, quietly, careful not to move the foliage to attract attention. Granier followed her example. She stopped. He slowly moved up beside her.

She scanned the surrounding forest until she found what she was looking for. Then she pointed slowly, deliberately. Granier followed the direction of her finger. At first, he didn’t see it. He squinted and glared harder. There was a slight movement in the distance – one hundred yards, in a tree, barely visible. It took a moment for him to recognize it – a Japanese soldier, his rifle cradled in his arm, sat on a lookout platform high in the tree, completely camouflaged. He was facing in the opposite direction, toward the Chinese border and didn’t spot them. I would have walked right by him and never noticed until a bullet hit the back of my head, Granier thought, a bit embarrassed.

They studied the sniper for a few moments, then surveyed the opposite side of the forest and saw nothing. That was the way they would go. They belly-crawled backward down the hill, disappearing into the safety of the undergrowth.

 

 

Hoagland entered the cave. He was surprised to see Mr. Hoo awake and lucid. “You are awake. That’s good,” said Hoagland in Vietnamese.

“You’re American,” said Mr. Hoo, weakly in English.

“Yes. My name is Hoagland. I’m with the OSS. There are six of us. I’m the medic. Do you mind if I examine you?”

“Of course not. I think you may have saved my life. I’m grateful.”

“You’re welcome,” said Hoagland feeling Mr. Hoo’s pulse, checking his pupils, listening to his chest with a stethoscope. “You’re breathing is much better. I had the women move the fire outside. The steam was a good idea, but the smoke wasn’t helping.”

“You’re Vietnamese is good, better than my English.”

“I still have trouble placing the accents in the right places.”

“It’s not an easy language.”

“How are you feeling?”

“I’m alive. That’s what is important. There is still much to do.”

“I’d like to keep you that way, but you need to eat.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have much of an appetite.”

“Regardless. You need to eat… and drink. You’re dehydrated.”

“I will do my best.”

“Good. I like cooperative patients.”

“My head hurts.”

“It’s the malaria. The quinine will help, but it takes time to build up in your system. You will feel a lot better tomorrow, especially if you take fluids.”

“Some tea perhaps.”

“I’d like you to have some broth if you think you can keep it down.”

“I make no promises.”

“But you will do your best?”

“Of course.”

Hoagland called one of the women over and asked for her to prepare tea and a fish broth. She went to work, happy that Mr. Hoo was going to try and eat. “When you are up to it, I’d like you to try and eat some rice. It will help with the diarrhea.”

“Then I shall eat rice. My ass feels like it is on fire.”

“It’s the dysentery. I have some ointment in my pack that might help soothe the burning.”

“It would be welcomed.”

“I will get it,” said Hoagland rising. “My commander would like to see you when you are able.”

“And I, him. But I would like to be more presentable. I feel I smell like an outhouse.”

“I’m sure he won’t mind.”

“But I will. Politics is a delicate game.”

“Right. Of course. Tomorrow, perhaps?”

“Yes. Tomorrow.”

“I’ll get that ointment,” said Hoagland moving off.

 

 

The forest was pitch black. Night had fallen. Granier and Spitting Woman sat near a large tree, eating the food they carried in their packs. Their eyes had already adjusted to the darkness, and they could see even without flashlights or fire, both too risky this close to the border.

Granier looked at her while he munched on canned meatloaf using his fingers as a spoon. She was eating a dried fish and rice wrapped in a leaf. She looked back at him like maybe he wanted something. She looked at the fish and offered him some. He didn’t want to be rude. He took the piece of fish flesh from her fingers, popped it in his mouth and chewed. He swallowed hard and smiled with a shrug as if he liked it. He didn’t. He offered her two fingers full of meatloaf. She took it, popped it in her mouth and chewed. She gagged and spat it out on the ground. “Hey. That’s good. Don’t waste it,” he said.

She rolled her eyes and finished her fish and rice. He finished the last of his meatloaf, took a swig of the water from his canteen. It made him miss the freshwater from the stream. He pulled a thirty-foot coil of cord from his pack, pulled out a mosquito net, and ran the cord through the top. He tied the cord between two trees, making a mosquito net tent. He rubbed his hands all over his clothes and mud-caked skin to ensure that no mosquitos or bugs were lingering, then crawled inside the tent and zipped it up. He grabbed his pack through the netting and placed it under the tent on one end as his pillow. Then he laid down and closed his eyes.

Spitting Woman shook her head like white people were so complicated. She laid down using her pack as a pillow. A mosquito landed on her arm. She swatted it. Then another and another. She kept swatting. Granier looked over and shrugged pity. “You want to come in here with me?” he said motioning with his hands.

She shook her head and gave him a look like he was stupid for even asking. He turned away from her and closed his eyes. “Savage,” he said to himself.

More mosquitos and more swatting. There was no evening fire to generate the smoke that kept the mosquitos away. She would get eaten alive once she fell asleep… if she fell asleep. Granier turned back over and motioned to her. “Stop being stubborn and get in here. You can’t fight the Japs if you get malaria.”

She didn’t understand the words, but she caught the drift of what he was saying. She picked up her pack, slipped it under the netting, and waited for him to unzip the tent. “No. Clean yourself off. One mosquito gets inside, and we will be his snack all night,” he said, motioning what to do.

Frustrated, she mimicked his movements and made sure there were no mosquitos on her. He unzipped the tent and let her crawl in. She laid down beside him. There wasn’t much room in the tent meant for one. They turned their backs to each other and closed their eyes. Two minutes later, he heard her snore like a very large bear. His eyes opened. He was wide awake. “No way,” he said, listening to how incredibly loud she snored.

He gave her a little shove, hoping to wake her. Nothing. He poked her side. She stirred a little, swatted at his hand, and went back to sleep, snoring. He rolled over again and closed his eyes. It was going to be a long night.

 

 

Spitting Woman was the first to wake as the sky began to brighten, just after sunrise. Granier has his arm around her and his hand on one of her breasts. She jumped up, unzipped the tent, and tumbled out on to the ground. Granier woke and spoke in a hushed voice, confused, “What’s wrong?”

She spat out a string of curse words in her dialect. Granier was lost. “What did I do?”

She motioned where his hands had been. “Oh, come on. I didn’t mean anything. I was sleeping.”

She pointed to the erect penis in his pants. “That’s nothing. It happens to men when they wake up. It’s involuntary. It doesn’t mean anything.”

She spat at him. “With the spitting again. Really? You ever hear of manners?” he said as she stomped off into the forest. “Don’t worry. A snake won't bite you. I ain’t that lucky.”

 

 

Hoagland entered the cave, followed by Dewey. Ho was sitting up in bed. Two bamboo chairs were placed nearby as if he had been expecting them. “Welcome, gentlemen,” said Ho. “Please come in and have a seat.

“Mr. Hoo, this is our unit commander, Lieutenant Colonel Dewey,” said Hoagland.

“I would offer you my hand, Colonel, but I fear I may still be contagious.”

“I appreciate the thought, but I think if I was going to get something I probably would have caught it by now,” said Dewey, offering his hand.

“Still, just to be safe…” said Hoagland, motioning for Dewey to withdraw his hand.

“Alright. Later. When you’re feeling better.”

“Which we all hope is soon,” said Hoagland.

Hoagland and Dewey sat. Two women brought in tea and biscuits. “I took the liberty of having refreshments prepared,” said Ho.

“You’re very gracious,” said Dewey.

“It is our culture,” said Ho. “I appreciate General Donovan accepting my invitation, Colonel Dewey. There was some question as to whether he would.”

“Please call me, Mr. Dewey. We don’t like to use rank in the field.”

“Of course.”

“I will be honest, Mr. Hoo, there was some question on our end as well.”

“I’m sure. The French are your allies. They will not be pleased if you assist us.”

“I think you may underestimate the French. They too want the Japanese out of Vietnam.”

“Yes, but for very different reasons.”

“True.”

“We see both the French and the Japanese as invaders.”

“Perhaps, but I think we would all do better to focus on the Japanese and leave the French problem for a different time… after the war.”

“Very well… as long as the issue will be addressed.”

“I assure you it will.”

“I have your promise then?”

“Yes.”

“And your government?”

“They have no interest in seeing colonialism continue in Southeast Asia if that is what you are asking.”

“I thought as much. Our interests are aligned.”

“Yes. Now for the problem at hand… With the surrender of the Germans and the Italians, America and its allies are now free to focus on the Pacific and Asia. If we want the war to end quickly, we must keep the Japanese in a box. They cannot be allowed to expand further, especially into China. The Japanese use Indochina as their rice bowl. Their army cannot survive long without rice. If we can sever their supply line with Indochina, their army will be forced to withdraw. Once contained, it is just a matter of time before the Allied forces overrun all of Japan and force their surrender. If you are in agreement, it is our job to help you sever the Japanese supply lines.”

“We are in agreement.”

“Good. How many men can you put in the field against the Japanese?”

“Given time and the right support, an entire division.”

“I appreciate your optimism. But we must be more practical. How many men can you put in the field within the next two weeks?”

“Our problem is food, gentlemen. The Japanese take everything we grow to feed their troops. Our people are starving.”

“Let’s assume for the moment that we can solve your food problem and you are no longer forced to scavenge. How many men?”

“Hmm… I think five hundred within two weeks is a doable number.”

“That’s good. Would they be the same quality as the troops that accompanied us from our drop zone?”

“No. Those that picked you up are our best soldiers. The increased numbers would need some training and experience in battle before they could fight like our core unit. What I can promise you is that they will be brave and fight hard.”

“I appreciate your honesty. If the additional troops support the current unit, I believe they will gain the experience you talk about. Our team can help with the training.”

“And the weapons and ammunition we need?”

“Of course. You will be given all that is required.”

“Very well. We shall be allies and kill the Japanese,” said Ho with a smile.

“With your permission, I would like to coordinate with Mr. Van for an attack on the supply train from Hanoi to Lang Son.”

“A worthy target. I will inform him.”

Dewey had what he needed and decided not to push his luck. He finished his tea and asked to be excused. Hoagland stayed with Ho. “You look much better today,” said Hoagland.

“I feel better. My appetite is coming back slowly. I eat more with each meal.”

“Plenty of rice, I hope?”

“Yes with the broth.”

“Good. May I examine you?”

“Yes. Please.”

Hoagland began his examination. “May I ask you something?” said Ho.

“Of course.”

“Do you believe Mr. Dewey was speaking for the Americans when he said ‘They have no interest in seeing colonialism continue in Southeast Asia,’ or was he speaking from his own perspective?”

Hoagland considered for a moment. He wanted to be honest, but he also had a loyalty to his commander and country. “I don’t know. But what I can tell you is that Mr. Dewey is an honorable man and that America is an honorable country. You know our past. We threw off the shackles of colonialism in our war with the British. We haven’t forgotten our roots. Our Declaration of Independence reminds us of that.”

“Nothing is more precious than independence and liberty.”

“I must say that sounds a bit strange coming from a communist.”

“It is patriotism, not communism that inspires me,” said Ho. “Communism is a means to an end. A way to redistribute wealth the French have stolen from us over the years.”

“And you can’t do that through capitalism?”

“Capitalism is what the French brought to our land, and it has been proven to be harsh. I feel it is time for our people to find a new path to equality.”

“And democracy?”

“Democracy is for the educated. Most of my people do not even read. We can hardly expect them to rule themselves. They can be easily swayed by smooth-talking politicians that seem to have all the answers but in reality, seek only to enrich themselves.”

“For a man of vision, you have little confidence in your followers.”

“I am a realist and must be honest.”

“I appreciate that.”

“The Vietnamese are a gentle people with good hearts. If anything, they are naïve and innocent.”

“I’ve seen them fight. They are hardly innocent and definitely not naïve.”

“Some, yes. But most are just simple farmers wanting to raise their families. They don’t know violence.”

“I see.”

Ho fell silent for a moment as if deep in thought, then said, “Do you think it would be possible to examine a copy of your Declaration of Independence?”

“It may take a little doing, but I don’t see why not.”

“My people will be forming a nation one day soon. Such a document could come in useful.”

“I hope you do… form your own nation soon. And there are no better words than those of our founding fathers.”

“I believe you, Doctor.”

“I’m not a doctor,” said Hoagland with a shy smile.

“That’s why I believe you,” said Ho Chi Minh.

 

 

Granier and Spitting Woman trudged through the forest at a good clip, their anger at each other pushing them harder. They came to a small clearing. In the lead, Spitting Woman entered the clearing first. She stopped and froze. Granier seeing something was wrong, slowed, and moved up beside her, his rifle at the ready.

An Asiatic Black Bear, splitting a rotting log open with his paws to search for insects, turned and stared at the two creatures in his territory. “Oh, shit,” said Granier.

Granier had seen larger bears in the wild, but never this close. The bear’s arms were long, as were his claws. He had a white, v-shaped patch on his chest. The bear snorted his displeasure at the interruption. Granier aimed. It was an easy shot, and he was sure that one or two .30-06 bullets would take the animal down. The problem was the noise. They were still close to the border with its Japanese outposts. Spitting Woman placed her hand over the barrel of Granier’s rifle and pushed it downward. She slowly motioned for Granier to stay put as she moved to one side of the clearing.

The bear was now facing threats from two different angles. The creature rose up on his hide feet and belched a menacing roar.

Unafraid, Spitting Woman raised her hands over her head and took a step closer to the beast. The bear took a step forward to meet her. Granier had had enough. He raised his rifle, aimed at the bottom of white, v-shaped patch figuring that is where the bear’s heart would be and slowly squeezed the trigger. Spitting Woman clapped her hands together twice to create loud snapping sounds. Surprised by the strange noise, he turned and ran into the bushes, disappearing.

Spitting Woman was pleased with herself. Granier was surprised by the bear’s sudden retreat. “Pat yourself on the back later. Let’s get the hell out of here before he comes back,” said Granier moving in the opposite direction from the bear. Spitting Woman followed.

They ran several hundred yards through the forest. It was rough terrain. Granier laughed relieved. Spitting Woman laughed back. It was the first time either of them heard the other happy. Granier didn’t think twice when they crossed a trail in the direction they wanted to go. He took it. Spitting Woman followed. “I gotta admit… that was impressive. And don’t give me some bullshit about you knew what you were doing the entire time. Nobody knows how a wild animal will react, especially a bear,” said Granier, ignoring the fact that she didn’t understand a word he was saying.

She blurted something back that Granier didn’t understand, but imagined it was some sort of brag. “Yeah, yeah. You scared a black bear. Big deal. Now if it was a grizzly…”

Granier didn’t notice the tripwire across the trail. It had been coated with a thin layer of dark grease and dirt, making it almost invisible. He was still moving at a pretty good clip. The wire caught the eyelets of his boot. He lost his balance, tripped, and fell forward. The wire yanked the safety pin from a Chinese grenade attached to a tree next to the trail. Its timer had been set to zero. It exploded instantly. Granier was lucky he had fallen flat and that there was a fallen log paralleling the trail. The grenade’s shrapnel hit the log and flew over him. “Jesus Christ!” he said. He rolled over and felt up and down his body for wet spots and looked for holes in his uniform. Nothing. He rose to his feet and said, “It’s okay. I’m still in one piece. No damage.”

He saw Spitting Woman and smiled. She didn’t smile back. There was pain in her eyes. He looked down at her hands, holding her thigh. She groaned in pain. Granier ran to her, panicking. “Oh, God. Oh, God. Show me.”

He pulled her hands away. Smoke rose out of a quarter-sized hole in her black pajamas. The red-hot shrapnel inside the wound was burning her. He ripped open the hole in her pants to expose the wound. Smoke poured out of it. It smelled of cordite and burning flesh. He pushed his index finger and his thumb into the wound, trying to reach the shrapnel. She yelped. His fingers were too big. He pulled out his knife and cut the edges of the wound making it bigger. She groaned again. Blood flowed. Again, he reached inside. He felt the burning shrapnel burning the tips of his finger and thumb. It hurt like hell. He pushed further into the wound to get a hold of the metal. He jerked out the shrapnel through the wound’s entrance and flung it to the ground, ripping off the skin on the tips of his finger and thumb. “Ah, fuck,” he said, looking at his fingers, the tips raw, the flesh torn.

He looked back at her wound. Blood was flowing out. He whipped off his pack and reached into a side pocket to retrieve a bandage and a packet of sulfide. Ripping the packet open with his teeth, he poured the powder into her wound. He placed the bandage over the wound and wrapped the cloth bands around her leg. The pad of the bandage turned red, filled with blood in just a matter of a few seconds. He pressed down on the bandage over the wound, hoping to restrict the flow. Blood seeped through his fingers. She was still bleeding. “Damn it. It must have nicked something,” he said, his mind racing for a solution. He reached into the back of his pack and pulled out the cord he used for the mosquito netting. He cut off a five-foot piece and wrapped it around her leg above the wound. He tied it like a constriction bandage so he would not cut off all blood flow but restrict it. “I’ve got to get you to a doctor. It can’t be more than ten or fifteen miles to a Chinese village.”

He pulled off her pack and picked up her rifle. She grunted her objection at her weapon being taken. “Relax. I’ll come back for it,” he said, hoping his tone would reassure her.

He set the rifle and pack next to his pack in the bushes. He removed her water bag from her shoulder and opened it. “Drink. You need to stay hydrated.”

She drank. When she was finished, he drank as much as he could. He sealed it back up and tossed it next to the packs and rifle. He still had his canteen on his web belt in addition to his ammunition clips.

He covered everything with foliage. He took a quick look around and found a strange-looking tree stump that would be his marker for when he returned. He picked up his rifle and slung it backward, so it hung on his chest. “This is the hard part,” he said, moving to her side and placing one of her arms on his shoulder. “Climb on my back and hang on.”

She didn’t understand but got the gist of what he wanted. She grabbed his shirt and pulled herself around to his back. He helped her up by reaching under her butt with his hands and lifted her up and around. It was awkward, and she groaned in pain. “Ready?” he said, stabilizing her.

She tapped him on the top of the head. He took off down the trail, running the best he could. She was light but still weighed over a hundred pounds. He tried to keep his hand holding her leg away from the wound as best as possible. He knew that the trail would take less time but was riskier. His eyes stayed focus on the path ahead, searching for more tripwires. As he ran, she groaned. He could feel her leg throbbing. He didn’t want her to go into shock, but he didn’t want her to fall asleep because of blood loss either. As long as she was groaning, she was awake and alive.

 

 

Granier was drenched in sweat from running and carrying Spitting Woman. He was exhausted and stumbled more than usual. It was a huge effort to pick up his feet to keep them from dragging across the ground with each step. His legs were burning, and his chest was heaving for air. He was angry that his body was failing him. He felt Spitting Woman loosen her grip around his neck. “Hey, wake up!” he said.

She snapped awake and tightened her grip. “It can’t be that much farther. It just can’t,” said Granier, hoping.

Granier saw a small stream in his path. He increased his speed using all his remaining strength and leaped over the flowing water. He cleared the stream and landed on the opposite bank with a thud. Spitting Woman groaned in pain. He was surprised when his legs collapsed, and he crumbled to his knees. He tried to steady himself. He was on an incline and leaned forward as much as possible. It wasn’t enough, especially with the extra weight on his back. He could feel the weight carrying him backward. He fell backward into the water landing on top of Spitting Woman. Water flowed over her head as she struggled for breath and gulped for air. He rolled off her and grabbed her by the shoulders, lifting her. She gasped, the wind knocked out of her. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he said, almost in tears. “This is all my fault. I wasn’t paying attention. I should have seen the tripwire. It’s not like me. I don’t know what’s wrong.”

She regained her breath and could see he was suffering. She patted him on the shoulder and nodded like it was okay. He chuckled, “We’re a sorry pair, aren’t we?”

He looked down at the stream. The water was red. Whatever clotting had slowed her bleeding had been knocked loose when she fell. Blood was flowing. “God, no,” said Granier as he tightened the cord around her thigh. She winced. He scooped up a handful of water and offered it to her. “You’ve got to drink. You’ve got to stay hydrated.”

She smelled the water and pushed his hand away. “What’s wrong? It’s bad?” he said.

He opened his fingers and let the water drain from his hand. He pulled out his canteen, opened and offered it to her. She refused, pushing it away. “You have to drink,” he said, pushing it back toward her. “You don’t drink, you die.”

She nodded and drank from the canteen. It was sour in her mouth, and she grimaced. “Just drink it,” he said.

She took several swallows and finally pushed it away. “Alright,” he said and took a couple swallows himself. “We gotta go.”

He put her hands around his neck and lifted her from the stream. By carefully pushing and pulling, he maneuvered her onto his back. Then he climbed the embankment. His rifle was wet and covered in mud. “Sorry, Baby,” he said to his rifle. “I’ll give ya a good cleaning first chance I get.”

He climbed to the top of the embankment and started to run again. It wasn’t far before the run turned into a trot and then a walk. He was beyond exhausted and could feel himself getting dizzy. Knock it off, you pussy, he thought to himself. She deserves better. She deserves the best of you. He shook off his dizziness and kept moving.

 

 

The sun set. The forest darkened. Granier looked down and saw his pants wet with Spitting Woman’s blood. He doubted she would live until morning at the rate she was losing blood. There was no time to rest. He kept moving, one foot in front of the other, stumbling, catching himself, using his rifle as a walking stick when he needed it. His legs burned beyond any pain he had felt. His pride was gone. He did whatever he needed to do to keep going — giving himself pep talks. He could feel the woman’s grip lessening again. “Hey, none of that,” he said.

She let go and fell to the side of the trail. He stopped and knelt beside her. She was unconscious. He pulled out his canteen and sprinkled the remaining water in his hand, then patted it on her forehead and cheeks. “Wake up. You have to stay awake,” he said.

There was no response. She was out cold. “Hey, don’t do this. Wake up. You have to wake up,” he said, shaking her. “Come on. I need your help. I need you.”

Desperate, he slapped her hard on the cheek. Nothing. “No, no, no…” He raised his hand again. Her eyes blinked open, and she looked up at him like she was hurt that he had hit her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know what to do,” he said, leaning back, falling on his butt in the bushes. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to save you,” he said, helpless.

She smiled a little. “Yeah. You okay?” he said, cheering up. “You gonna be okay?”

She nodded toward the trail in the direction they were headed. “Yeah, we should get going. I know it can’t be far. We can make. I’m sure of it. We just gotta keep going,” he said, reaching for her hand to wrap around his neck.

She pulled her hand back, refusing. “What’s wrong? We gotta go,” he said, confused.

She motioned to herself and shook her hand flat like she wouldn’t go with him. “No, no. It’s not that much further. We can make it together.”

She pointed to him, then the trail. He was too tired to argue. “Alright. I’ll go. You stay here and rest,” he said as he checked the cord around her thigh. “Keep the cord tight.”

He handed her his rifle, “You take care of my rifle, okay?”

She took it, but the weight was too much for her to hold. He laid it beside her in the bushes. “Don’t shoot me when I come back, okay?” he said. “I’m going.”

He got up, released his web belt, and set it down beside her. Everything was lighter now. He felt different, freer. He started to walk down the trail leaving her. She watched him go, a sadness in her eyes. He picked up the pace into a jog. He could move again; the extra weigh gone. He broke into a run. His eyes were combing the dark path ahead. He could barely see in the twilight. He knew it would get better after the sun’s afterglow was completely gone and his eyes were adjusted. There was no time to wait. Her life depended on him reaching the Chinese. He kept running, stumbling over rocks and roots, catching himself.

He had run almost two miles up a hill when he came to the crest of the trail and looked down into the valley below. He thought he saw a flickering light in the distance. A village, he thought. I can get help. She’s gonna be okay.

Even that little flicker of light had closed his retinas a bit, making it hard to see. He didn’t want to wait until his eyes adjusted. It’s downhill. It will be easier, he thought. I just gotta keep going. It’ll be over soon enough.

He started down the hill moving sideways, using his legs as brakes, twisting from side to side. It was working well, alternating. He picked up speed. He was making good time. The village was getting closer. The trail steepened. He decided to slow down. He straightened his legs more, using them as brakes but they didn’t cooperate. He kept moving downhill, picking up speed. Whenever he tried to slow, his knees gave out, and he stumbled. He couldn’t stop himself. He just went with it, moving faster and faster down the trail. It was impossible to see. He felt his boot hit something hard. A rock or root, he didn’t know. His momentum carried him forward. He was flying downhill headfirst trying to regain his footing. It was no use. He was at the mercy of gravity. He pushed his arm upward to protect his head. He landed with a thud and bounced. His legs toppled over him, and he somersaulted down the trail, landing, bouncing back into the air, landing again. At one point, he landed on his feet again, but they could not hold his weight, and he tumbled again. There was nothing he could do but ride it out, hitting roots, flattening bushes, scraping across the ground.

Near the bottom of the hill, he finally rolled to a stop. He groaned. His entire body hurt, and he wondered if anything was broken. He waited a few moments to catch his breath before struggling to his knees. He felt something tapping his shoulder. He turned to see a long bayonet. It startled him, but he didn’t move. He slowly pushed his hands out in front of himself to show he was unarmed. He turned to see the face of a soldier looking down at him. It was an Asian face, round, skin light. The eyes weren’t Vietnamese or Japanese. They were Chinese. A soldier, scared, like he was looking at something that he didn’t understand. “American,” said Granier, opening his eyes wide to show they were different. “Nothing to worry about here. We’re on the same side.”

The soldier frowned, not understanding. He shouted something in Mandarin and motioned for Granier to get up. Granier rose to his feet carefully, the pointed end of the bayonet’s blade easily within striking distance of his vitals. He could see the soldier was young and didn’t comprehend the idea of an American. Probably never seen an American, thought Granier. Maybe from a farm, no newspapers or magazines to show him the outside world.

“It’s alright. I’m a good guy. We both fighting the Japanese. I’m on your side,” said Granier in a reassuring tone.

The soldier wasn’t buying it. He motioned for Granier to continue down the trail first. “I’d like to do that, but I have a friend. A woman (motioning breasts.) She’s hurt. Grenade (motioning explosion.) Shrapnel hit her leg (motioning shrapnel flying and hitting his leg.) She’s back up that trail a couple of miles (pointing in the opposite direction.) She needs help. She needs a doctor. You can go with me and help carry her (motioning to carry her.)”

The soldier wasn’t having it. He grew angry and pointed down the trail in the direction of the village. “There’s no time. She’s hurt bad. We need to go back,” said Granier standing his ground.

The soldier pressed his bayonet against Granier’s chest. “Alright. God damn it. I’ll go,” said Granier moving to walk down the trail. As Granier moved past the soldier, he pushed the rifle away and elbowed him in the face. The soldier dropped his rifle and grabbed his broken nose. Granier grabbed the rifle and pointed it at the soldier. “You’re coming with me. We’re going back,” said Granier in the meanest tone he could muster.

The Chinese soldier nodded his compliance and walked up the hill. Granier followed close behind with the rifle pointed at the soldier’s back.

 

They made good time going back. They found Spitting Woman unconscious, her breathing imperceptible. Granier knew there was no time to waste. “Pick her up,” he said motioning to the guard.

The guard shrugged like what’s the point. “Pick her the fuck up, or I’m gonna stick you like a wild pig,” he said, angrily.

The soldier nodded and picked her up, cradling her in his arms. Granier motioned for him to head back toward the village. The soldier started back down the trail. Granier picked up his sniper rifle and followed the soldier.

 

Granier was careful not to let the soldier pick up too much speed as they hiked down the hillside. At the bottom, they encountered a squad of Chinese soldiers on the trail. Granier immediately set down both rifles and let them take Spitting Woman and him captive. They hiked toward the village.

 

 

In the village, a Chinese lieutenant questioned Granier as the platoon’s medic tended to Spitting Woman. She was still alive, but barely. With hand motions and tone of voice, Granier explained he needed to find the Americans and give them a message. The lieutenant nodded his understanding and radioed his headquarters.

 

 

After the medic rebandaged Spitting Woman’s wound and made her drink some freshwater, she came around. Granier knelt beside her. “Hey, you scared the shit out of me. I thought you were a goner for sure.”

She smiled weakly and said something in her dialect. Granier didn’t understand the words, but understood the meaning and said, “You’re welcome.”