THREE

 

 

The American commander sent a jeep to pick up Granier. Granier insisted that Spitting Woman goes with him, even though she was still weak. “I ain’t leaving her,” he said to the corporal driving the jeep. “She goes where I go.”

 

The corporal drove all night to an airbase where the Americans were headquartered. The base doctor treated spitting Woman. She was given transfusions to replace her lost blood. Her wound was cleaned and rebandaged again. Granier stayed by her side until he was told the OSS commander had arrived and would like to see him as soon as possible. Granier explained to Spitting Woman with hand motions that he would be back soon and that she should sleep if she could so she would become strong again. She looked worried that Granier was going to leave her in this strange place. He tried to reassure her with a smile. It didn’t help. He left.

 

Granier, mud still caked on his torn and battered uniform, sat in a room with Lieutenant Colonel Archimedes Patti, the commander of OSS Operations in Vietnam. Patti could see that Granier was exhausted, but he needed the information only he possessed. He ordered a large pot of coffee and some biscuits in hopes of keeping Granier attentive. “Where is Colonel Dewey?” said Patti.

“Pac Bo in Cao Bang Province near the border. It’s the Viet Minh headquarters. Dewey was wounded during the drop. Not bad, but couldn’t make the trip himself. He sent me,” said Granier.

“Then Dewey made contact with their leader?”

“Yes. His name is Mr. Hoo. He’s very sick – Dysentery and Malaria. Hoagland’s tending to him.”

“And their military leader?”

“Yes. They call him, ‘Mr. Van’.”

“And how is he? What’s he like?”

“He’s smart and confident. His men respect him.”

“That’s good. How big are their forces?”

“The camp has about two thousand men, women, and children. But only one hundred soldiers.”

“Why so few?”

“Most of the men are forced to forage for food and supplies. They can’t grow or make anything for fear of being spotted by the Japanese reconnaissance planes. Everything has to be brought in. Even with most of their men scavenging, their people are starving and sick.”

“I see. How bad is it?”

“Very. They’re barely a fighting force. But those that can fight are brave and capable.”

“Capable enough to take on the Japanese?”

“After we landed, we stumbled on a Japanese patrol – fifty well-armed soldiers. The Viet Minh ambushed them and took them out. All of them.”

“Really? Then they can attack the Japanese supply routes?”

“Maybe after we get them some food and medicine.”

“We’re not running a charity.”

“I understand that, but they’re too few and too weak to take on the Japs in force.”

Patti considered for a moment and then asked, “If we were to supply the Viet Minh what they need, how many men could they put in the field?”

“Five to six hundred, maybe more. Their women fight too. Some just as good as the men. The woman that helped me get here, she’s one hell of a scout. I’d fight alongside her any day.”

“How long before they would be ready?”

“If we get them medicine and supplies, I would guess two weeks. They fight good just the way they are, but we’d need to train them in tactics, especially if we are going after the trains.”

“And you believe they would be successful?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I suppose we could augment the weapons and ammunition drop with food and medicine.”

“Yeah, about that…”

“About food and medicine?”

“No. Weapons and ammunition.”

“I assure you, we are sending the latest weapons we have.”

“That’s the thing… you shouldn’t.”

“Why in the devil not?”

“If you send them new weapons, they’ll need to learn how to use them. Almost everything they have was stolen from the Japanese during raids. They already know how to use and maintain the Japanese rifles.”

“You’re not suggesting we send them Japanese weapons?”

“I am. It makes sense. We don’t need to train them. They already know how they work. They will also be able to resupply their ammunition by stealing it from the Japanese shipments they raid.”

“Where are we supposed to get five hundred Japanese rifles with ammunition?”

“At the rate we’ve been capturing Japanese on the Pacific Islands, I would imagine we have tons of them stashed someplace.”

“I suppose it’s possible.”

“Look. You want the Viet Minh up and running as soon as possible. This is the way to do it.”

“Yes, but what about heavy weapons – mortars, machineguns, recoilless rifles?”

“Heavy weapons are a mistake. The two biggest advantages the Viet Minh have are stealth and mobility. If you give them heavy weapons, I can assure you they’ll take them. But they carry everything. They don’t use pack animals, let alone any vehicles. Heavy weapons will weigh them down. They’ll need to rest more. The thirty miles they can currently travel in a day will be cut in half.”

“They can travel thirty miles in a day through jungle?”

“It’s not really jungle. It’s more like dense forest. And yes, they can travel thirty miles using their Japanese weapons.”

“That’s incredible. They’ll at least want a few mortars, won’t they?”

“Japanese knee mortars would be best. They’re light-weight and don’t require a heavy base plate. Plus they’re simple to use and can be set up and ready to fire in under fifteen seconds.”

“Yes, but they use grenades, not mortar shells. There’s no punch to them.”

“They don’t need punch. They’re not fighting tanks or armored cars. They’re fighting men. With knee mortars they can take better advantage of the terrain. When you’re fighting in the forest you can’t see beyond one to two hundred yards. A 60mm mortar would overshoot most enemy positions.”

“Alright. Knee mortars then.”

“They could also use fifty Japanese light machineguns.”

“Type 96s?”

“Yeah. And lots of ammunition.”

“Of course. Alright. You shall have your Japanese arms. I must say this actually averts a potential problem with our allies.”

“How’s that?”

“We’re arming rebels. The French will not be too happy about it if they find out. Giving the Viet Minh Japanese weapons decreases that possibility. The French still believe Indochina is theirs to control after the war.”

“And is it?”

“If it were up to me… no. And I think most officers agree with me. We’re here to fight the Japanese, not to support colonialism.”

“So, what will happen when the shooting stops?”

“Who says it’s going to stop?”

“I’ll need to coordinate the supply drops. The Viet Minh don’t want them anywhere near their base camp.”

“The Air Force is General Chennault’s wheelhouse. I’ll see that they assign someone to meet with you. Now get some rest. You only have four days before the first supply drop. I’m sending you back.”

“What about the woman that came with me?”

“She’ll stay until she is recovered from her wound.”

“Then what?”

“I don’t know. I suppose we’ll jump off that bridge when we get to it. In the meantime, we’ll see that she is well cared for,” said Patti, seeing the concern on Granier’s face. “Why is she so important to you?”

“She’s a good fighter and a scout. I’d hate to lose her. We need her.”

“We’ll drop her with some supplies as soon as she is well enough.”

“She won’t like that. I doubt she’s ever even seen a plane up close, let alone jumped from one.”

“There’s a first time for everything.”

“Of course. I’ll let her know.”

Patti called in a sergeant, “Sergeant, make sure this man has something to eat, a hot shower and a cot. A new set of fatigues might also be appropriate. His are a bit worn. See to it he visits the quartermaster.”

“Yes, sir,” said the sergeant, saluting.

Granier saluted and followed the sergeant out.

 

Wearing a new uniform and freshly shaven, Granier sat outside watching planes take off and land while sipping a coke. A jeep pulled up. Mc Goon stepped out. “Oh, shit,” said Granier to himself.

“You, Granier?” said McGoon, unhappy.

“Yeah,” said Granier.

“You mean ‘yes, sir,’ don’t you… Sergeant?”

“Yes, sir,” said Granier standing and saluting. “Sorry, we don’t have much use for rank in Special Services.”

“Well, this ain’t Special Services, Sergeant.”

“My mistake.”

“See you don’t repeat it. It ain’t my call, but you and I are gonna need to work together if things are gonna run smoothly supplying the Viet Minh. I do my best thinking over a cold beer. You got a problem with that?”

“No, sir. A beer sounds good.”

“I gotta report in. I’ll meet you at the officer’s club in fifteen.”

“I ain’t an officer.”

“Tell ’em Captain McGovern sent you.”

“Alright.”

“And tell ’em to make sure our beers are cold. Nothing worse than warm beer. Don’t know how the Brits put up with it.”

“Barbarians.”

McGoon laughed and moved off toward headquarters. “Don’t let them hear you say that. They’d give ya a thirty-minute lecture on western civilization,” said McGoon without turning around.

 

Four empty beer bottles sat on the table in the officer’s club. Two more half-empty bottles were being consumed by McGoon and Granier. “My brain is now properly lubricated to solve your problem,” said McGoon. “You don’t want the Japs figuring out the location of the drops or the Viet Minh camp. So, each time we need to change the drop zone, and we need to make sure there is no discernible pattern. That’s easy enough. The problem is communicating the drop zone location without the Japs cracking the code. We have to assume they will be listening to every radio transmission.”

“If we use an American military code, it is only a matter of time before the Japs break it. Once that happens, they will know the time of the drop and our location. They’ll attack the Viet Minh with overwhelming force,” said Granier.

“Got it. So, we need to use our own code. Something the Japs ain’t gonna use lots of resources to break cuz it’s only about supplies and it ain’t that important.”

“Right.”

“We need something that we are both familiar with, but the Japs ain’t.”

“So, what are you thinking?”

“I am thinking… we need another round.”

“Good thinking.”

McGoon motioned for the bartender to bring two more beers. “What about baseball?” said Granier. “We could use runs as miles and the bases to indicate compass direction.”

“Japs like baseball. They might figure it out.”

“Yeah, right. I like hunting and fishing. How about that?”

“Maybe, but it doesn’t really lend itself to numbers.”

“I suppose.”

“I’ve memorized the measurements of all the movie stars. You know… Ava Gardner 34-20-33, Rita Hayworth 37-24-36, Veronica Lake 35-22-35. How about you?”

“Haven’t got around to it.”

“Shame. That one’s kinda fun just thinking about it.”

“How about cars? Do you know engines?”

“Of course.”

“We could talk about engines. Things like horsepower, cylinder displacement, and flow rates of carburetors.”

“That’d work. I doubt the Japs follow American cars. What would we use for direction?”

“I don’t know. Maybe the gear shift – first for south, second for north, third for east and reverse for west.”

“That works. But let’s mix ‘em, so they’re not in order.”

“Alright. I could make a list.”

“Okay, but ya gotta memorize it. No documents that could fall into the enemy’s hands if you get caught.”

“Agreed.”

“Now, the next problem… food is bulky. If we’re gonna be dropping foodstuffs, it’s gonna take some time getting it all out the aircraft door. I can take the plane into a hard banking turn, so everything is dropped in the same location, but any Jap patrol in the area is gonna be able to figure out where the drop zone is located. You could be in a world of hurt if they move in on ya while you’re weighed down like that.”

“Yeah. You’re right. But it’s a risk we’ll have to take. They need food and medicine more than they need guns and ammo.”

“Well, you OSS boys seem to know what you’re doing. I’ll leave it to you.”

 

 

Granier walked into the base hospital. Spitting Woman was awake and sitting up with an IV in her arm. The nurses had been pumping her full of fluids. She looked surprisingly good. “You look pretty chipper for a woman that almost died,” said Granier. “Tough as nails, I guess.”

She was happy to see him. He was the only person she knew in this strange place. She started to get out of bed as if she was going to go with him. Granier put his hands out to stop her, “No, no. You’ve got to stay in bed. The IVs. You need fluids.”

He helped her get back in bed. She didn’t like it. He used his hand motions to explain his words, “Look. I’ve got to go back with the supplies and report to Dewey. You’ll stay here and get better. Get strong again. I’ll send someone back and get you. They’ll bring you back to your people.”

She did not like the look of him leaving her. She climbed out of bed again and pulled at the IV tubing in her arm. “No. Wait. Stop. Don’t that. You need that,” said Granier panicking.

He tried to push her back into bed, but she wouldn’t go. “You can’t go with me. I’m jumping from a plane. You’re wounded. You’ll get hurt,” he said.

She again reached for the tubing, and he stopped her, “Okay. Okay. If you stay in bed and let them treat you, you can go with me. We still got a couple of days. Just get better.”

She calmed down. “I’ll come back and get you when it’s time to go,” he said, turning to go.

She reached out, grabbed his shirt, and pulled him back. “What? You don’t trust me?” he said, angry. “If I give you my word, I’m gonna keep it. I’m not a liar.”

She wouldn’t let go of his shirt and pulled him down to sit on the bed. She said nothing but seemed to be happier that he was near. “Alright, fine. But I ain’t sleeping on the floor. Maybe they got an extra cot or something.”

 

McGoon was doing his preflight check when Granier showed up with Spitting Woman in tow. She had recovered, apart from a limp. Granier wore a parachute and carried his leg pack and rifle case. He had a coil of rope over his shoulder. “Who the hell is this?” said McGoon.

“She’s jumping with me,” said Granier.

“You only got one chute.”

“Yeah, well. I got rope. I’ll just strap her on.”

“Oh, that sounds like a real good idea. What about your reserve chute? Ya can’t pull it if she’s sitting on it.”

“That’s a risk we’ll just have to take.”

McGoon shook his head, “Ya ain’t got the sense God gave ya.”

“Nope. None at all. But believe me… it’s better than fighting with her.”

“Has she ever been in a plane?”

“I doubt it.”

“You better keep plenty of barf bags on hand then.”

“Roger that. Permission to come aboard?”

“It’s against my better judgment, but yeah. Permission granted.”

Granier helped her walk up the stairs and through the open doorway. The plane’s hold was filled with supply containers with parachutes attached. Granier climbed in. “You sit over here,” he said motioning to a seat next to the cargo crew. She sat across from the open doorway.

 

McGoon and Smitty started the plane’s twin engines, taxied the plane onto the runway and stopped. It was a short runway, and he was carrying a heavy load. He set the brake and throttled up the engines. The aircraft shook, straining against the brakes.

 

In the hold, Spitting Woman’s eyes went wide. “It’s okay. It’s supposed to shake like that before we take off,” shouted Granier, trying to reassure her. She didn’t understand a word.

 

McGoon released the brake.

 

The plane lunged forward and sped down the runway. Spitting Woman watched out the open doorway as the grass rushed past and the plane accelerated. She had never traveled faster than a canoe in a fast-flowing river. This was a lot faster than that. She was frightened and exhilarated. She reached over and grabbed Granier’s hand. “You’re alright. You’re okay. You might wanna close your eyes for this next part.”

He closed his eyes to show her what to do. She didn’t understand and kept watching out the doorway.

The plane hit its rotation speed. McGoon lifted it into the air.

Spitting Woman watched in horror as the plane tilted and the ground fell away in the distance. “Oh, well. Too late now,” said Granier with a bit of a smile. “That’ll teach you to be ornery with me.”

She looked at him for assurance. He laughed. She smiled and relaxed a little. Short of being shot at by the Japanese, this was the most exciting thing she had ever done.

 

 

Dewey, the Americans, and the Viet Minh waited in the forest below. They could hear the plane’s distant engine. Dewey wanted visual contact before popping smoke. The C-3 disguised as a Japanese Showa appeared over the mountain. “That’s them,” said Dewey. “Pop smoke.”

Green pulled the pin on a smoke grenade and threw it into a small clearing in the forest. The smoke rose.

 

In the cockpit, McGoon spotted the smoke below. “That’s them,” he said, pointing, as Smitty flipped the signal switch to green.

 

In the hold, the cargo crew saw the light change from red to green. They pushed the supply containers, their static lines already connected to the overhead wire, out the open doorway as fast as they could.

 

The containers’ parachutes opened as they dropped and they floated gently down to the forest canopy.

 

Dewey and his men kept their distance and watched. Dewey called out a number and pointed to each container as it descended. Each man or woman in the group took note of where their assigned container fell.

Once the last container crashed through the forest canopy, the Viet Minh took off, each searching for their assigned container hidden among the trees like a giant Easter Egg hunt.

 

McGoon banked the plane and came around for a final pass. He watched the terrain passing below and timed his signal so Granier would hit his drop zone near the small clearing.

 

Inside the hold, Granier finished tying Spitting Woman to his harness. He checked his knots and tugged at the rope to ensure it was secure. Hooking his static line to the overhead wire, he waddled toward the open door.

Spitting Woman was facing him with her arms around his neck as he had shown her. She glanced over her shoulder and saw that he was backing her toward the open door. She panicked. He was trying to kill her. She was sure of it. She grabbed both sides of the doorway. “No. You can’t do that,” said Granier pulling her hands away. “You said you wanted to jump with me. This is how we do it. It’s gonna be okay. Trust me.”

She didn’t listen and grabbed again for the doorway. The light turned green. Granier kicked his leg bag with rifle bag out the doorway, grabbed her hands, and leaned forward. She yelped as she fell backward out the door with Granier.

She screamed in terror as they fell. The static line pulled the parachute out. There was a flurry of white cloth and suspension cords. She didn’t know what was happening. Everything was coming apart as they fell. The parachute popped open with a jerk, and they were floating downward. Slower. Granier was relieved, knowing he would never be able to reach his reserve chute if the main had failed. She looked around, then up at Granier’s face. “I told ya it was gonna be okay, didn’t I?” said Granier with a reassuring smile.

She relaxed and looked around. She was flying like a bird. Her head jerked from side to side as floated down. She wanted to see everything. She laughed.

It was that moment that Granier knew he was in love with her – a savage – like him. He, showing her the world, she, enchanted like a child on a merry-go-round for the first time. He didn’t care what other people thought; only her thoughts were important. He wanted to make her happy.

They crashed through the leafy canopy, and their chute caught on a tree branch dangling them twenty feet above the forest floor. He released the line holding his leg bag, and it dropped a few feet to the ground. He carefully unwrapped the rope as Spitting Woman held onto his neck. He threw one end of the rope around a nearby tree branch and tied it off in a knot. He handed the rope to Spitting Woman. She knew what to do and lowered herself to the ground. Granier released his harness and lowered himself to the ground using the same rope. “You made it,” said Dewey appearing through the trees.

“We did. Barely,” said Granier.

Dewey could see Spitting Woman limping. “Is she okay?”

“Yeah. She’s fine. Just a little mishap with a grenade.”

“A grenade?”

“Yeah. No big deal. She’s tough.”

“And the supplies and weapons?”

“As you ordered, plus food and medicine. There will be a weekly drop.”

“Excellent.”

“Commander Patti wants that Jap supply train stopped.”

“As do we all. So, let’s not disappoint him.”

 

 

The Viet Minh did not open the containers, even though they knew there was food inside them. They were disciplined and knew they needed to get out of the area before the Japanese showed up. They unhooked the parachutes and carried the parachutes and containers back to the village. Dewey was fairly certain his efforts to collect and return the chutes to headquarters would be thwarted once they returned to the village. The Viet Minh liked the way the parachutes felt and would make good use of the material. The way Dewey saw it, the parachutes would be a small price to pay as long as the Viet Minh stopped the Japanese supplies from crossing the border.

 

 

The people in the village feasted on the supplies delivered by the Americans. The aroma of rice once again cooking in their pots replaced the sour smell. The people seemed more energetic, even playful. Hoagland dispensed medicine to those that needed it, which was most of the Viet Minh. “How long before they recover?” said Dewey.

“Not long. A week for some. Longer for others. The food will help build up their immune systems. It’ll give them a fighting chance,” said Hoagland.

“And Mr. Hoo?”

“He’s doing much better. He should be up and around in a few days. He could use the fresh air. That cave is like a tomb.”

“And is he still onboard?”

“I think so. He hates the Japanese for what they have done to his people.”

“His people?”

“Well, they are. I’ve never seen such loyalty. They revere him like a god.”

“I suppose that’s good… as long as he’s on our side. Honestly, Hoagland, you’re beginning to sound like a fan of Mr. Hoo.”

“I suppose I am. He’s very intelligent and genuinely cares about his people.”

“He’s a communist.”

“Yes, but I don’t think it is as much about the ideology as a way to feed his people. I think that is what is important to him. He may be convinced there is another way if it can accomplish his objectives.”

“Honestly, I don’t care what they believe as long as they help us stop the Japanese. We’re fortunate we are soldiers. We can leave the politics to the diplomats.”

“He asked me for a copy of the Declaration of Independence.”

“I don’t see the harm. Give it to him.”

“It might do some good.”

“You’re a dreamer, Hoagland.”

Hoagland smiled at the thought.

 

 

With a bowl of rice in her hand, Spitting Woman sat down near Granier. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to. Just the fact that she chose to sit near him gave Granier hope. He smiled shyly. She smiled back. He wondered if it was possible to have a real relationship without ever speaking. How could they share their past experiences? How could they explore their common beliefs? He was sure they had figured out how to argue. He knew when she was mad… and even how to calm her. They communicated in their own way, and it worked for now. That was enough. It was a beginning.

 

 

The Viet Minh fought well in small fire teams of three or four, especially if the other members of the team were from the same tribe. They could communicate effectively, and they never left a wounded comrade on the battlefield. But the Japanese usually fought in larger units – platoons, companies, and even battalions.

Dewey understood the need to train the Viet Minh as a fighting unit at the company level. They had been lucky in their assault on the Japanese platoon. The Japanese were outnumbered and taken by surprise. Granier’s killing the platoon commander at the beginning of the firefight gave the Viet Minh a decisive edge. But the placement of the Viet Minh forces was unimaginative. They were positioned in one line hidden in the trees. There was no flanking force or reserve. That was a mistake. If the Japanese had survived longer than they did, they could have outflanked the Viet Minh and turned the tide of the battle.

Most Viet Minh were farmers and tradesmen; they knew little about fighting. The idea behind the training was that this core group could teach the other Viet Minh the skills and techniques they had learned – the student continually becoming the teacher until an entire army was trained and ready to fight the Japanese. Dewey was unsure how long the war with the Japanese would last, but he would carry out his orders in this little corner of the world to the best of his ability.

Dewey put himself in charge of training the Viet Minh unit commanders. He would teach his classes under the forest canopy near the village, drawing diagrams in the dirt with a stick to show correct unit formations and tactics.

Giap paid particular attention and translated for the commanders in the group. He had no formal military training and yet was the military leader of the Viet Minh. He had read many historical military books on tactics but most involved much larger armies than the Viet Minh force currently available. As he listened to Dewey, pieces of a puzzle snapped together in his head. His questions were pointed and probing. He caught on quickly, and would often walk back to the village with Dewey after the class to ask more questions. “What determines victory from defeat?” asked Giap as he walked with Dewey.

“Many things. But it is important to remember the goal of battle. It’s not to wipe out the enemy entirely. It’s to eliminate his will to fight. Battle often gets down to will. Who is willing to continue fighting when all is lost. There are many stories of battles that seemed lost but were eventually won because the soldiers would not give up,” said Dewey. “When you fight, and both sides are thrashing each other, remember that your opponent is suffering just as you suffer. They may seem strong in one moment only to become weak and fatigued a few moments later. Victory is won in moments. Sometimes, one final push is all it takes.”

“Then, one should never retreat or surrender?”

“No. I wouldn’t say that. At times it is better to survive to fight another day. That’s what makes a great leader – the ability to know when to press on and when to call it a day and save what you can. You must be brave but also use your head. Always be measuring and calculating. The commander must not fight, but think for his men.”

“You have fought in many battles?”

“No. Not many. I served in Europe in the early part of the war. My unit parachuted behind enemy lines during the occupation of Paris. We worked with the French underground to disrupt the German lines of communication and supply. We had a few scraps with the Nazis, but mostly we just skulked around trying not to be discovered while we blew things up. To be honest, war is mostly boredom punctuated by a few moments of terror. At least mine was.”

“When the war is won, where will you go?”

“Wherever they tell me. Back to the States, I would imagine. No sense in keeping millions of soldiers on the payroll with no war to fight. And you… when the war is over?”

“I would like to go back to teaching history. But we must defeat the French first if they chose to fight. Do you think they will fight us once the Japanese leave?”

“I don’t know. I know they feel Indochina is still theirs, but the war has taken a great toll on France. They may have more important things to tend to… like rebuilding their country.”

“I hope so. War is a terrible thing. But we will fight if we must. Independence must be won before I can return to a normal life. We may not get another chance.”

 

 

Dewey had put Granier in charge of weapons training. Each day he would march one hundred Viet Minh five miles away from the camp, so the practice gunshots would not lead the Japanese to the Viet Minh. Guards were posted in all directions while he instructed them on how to properly fire and maintain their rifles.

Granier showed them how to strip down, clean, and reassemble their rifles. He made them practice the procedure until it was second nature. He would have preferred to blindfold each soldier, so they learned how to disassemble and reassemble their weapons in the dark, but there wasn’t time.

There were a lot of Viet Minh to train. Each man was allowed twenty practice shells to improve his accuracy. Granier ensured that the precious ammunition was not wasted. He taught them the five keys to accurate shooting – determining the distance to target, lining up the iron sight while properly adjusting for distance and wind, proper breathing techniques, keeping both eyes open, and squeezing the trigger rather than pulling or jerking it. He broke them into groups of five and watched closely as each soldier took his practice shots. He taught them to quickly clear jams and load their weapon, tapping the shells in a clip on a hard surface to align them properly.

Granier was not a gentle teacher and often cursed at them, but his instructions were clear and correct. By the end of his mini-course, his students knew the basics and could practice on their own. He made himself available whenever anyone had a question. He knew that his life and the lives of his team members would depend on his pupils properly firing their weapons. He wasn’t taking any chances.

Soldiers with the best accuracy were singled out for further training as snipers. He had requested seven sniper rifles with scopes to be delivered in one of the upcoming supply drops. In the meantime, he let them practice with his rifle and made damn sure they didn’t damage it or drop it in the dirt. Mishandling of his rifle was punished by a swift kick in the ass with his boot. The Viet Minh learned quickly to respect their firearms.

 

Green taught courses in self-defense and knife-fighting techniques. Santana instructed them in hand signals and small unit tactics. Hoagland trained them in basic first aid and picked out several of the better students to receive further training as medics. Davis broke off a group of what seemed like the most intelligent Viet Minh and taught them in the use of explosives and simple engineering techniques. They would become a team of sappers. And everyone participated in teaching the Viet Minh to march correctly. They were drilled for an hour each morning and an hour at night. Drilling taught them to maneuver as a group, discipline, and unit pride. The Viet Minh would need to become an army, not just a band of rebels, if they were going to defeat the Japanese.

 

 

The sun was a diffused ball of light in a gray sky. It was muggy. It had rained most of the afternoon and had just stopped. The grass was wet, and the ground soggy. Bad footing, thought Granier as he laid on his belly on the top of a hill, peering through his rifle’s scope at the valley below.

A typical Vietnamese village filled much of the valley. Rice farmers tended their crops, pulling young plants from one part of a field and re-planting them in another. Well-trodden paths compressed the top of the dikes that kept the precious rainwater from flowing away. Water buffalo cooled off in knee-deep water. Children played, mostly pretending to be soldiers, using sticks as guns and rocks as grenades. That’s what they knew… war. There were huts with thatched roofs and fences made of tree branches to keep the animals out of the gardens. Railroad tracks stretched across the valley floor and split the countryside.

There was a small Japanese outpost with a squad of six soldiers at one end of the valley. Taking it out would be like running over a shallow pothole, an inconvenience at most. Everything was as Granier was told it would be by the Viet Minh scouts. They had excellent intelligence. That’s what bothered Granier. It seemed too good. But then again, this was their country.

The supply train will be coming soon, he thought as he shifted his scope’s view to a section of track in the middle of the valley. Davis, led by Spitting Woman and escorted by two Viet Minh soldiers, made his way over the dikes and through the fields, keeping out of sight as much as possible. Granier had objected when Dewey ordered a Viet Minh scout rather than him to escort Davis. Dewey’s thinking was that the Viet Minh could more easily reassure any Vietnamese that they came in contact with as they approached the target. Granier couldn’t do that. He didn’t speak Vietnamese and was a foreigner. Granier’s assignment was still vital to the success of the mission. He was the overwatch. He could take out any target within the valley with his sniper rifle. If the shit hit the fan, he would become God. Their lives would be in his hands.

 

Davis waited until nobody was in sight before he emerged from a nearby rice field and ran to the railroad tracks. He removed his pack and opened the top flap. He pulled out his bayonet and dug a hole beneath a rail. The gravel beneath the rails and ties was highly compressed, which made the digging difficult but would make the explosion more powerful by reversing the concussion waves back into the rail. The TNT explosive charges were half-pound rectangular blocks. He had decided that three charges were the appropriate amount to cut the rail efficiently and he added an additional charge for good measure. He didn’t like wasting explosives because he never knew when he might be asked to blow something up and he hated to run out. He placed a blasting cap in each of the four charges. The blasting caps already had electrical wires connected. It was just a matter of twisting the ends of the electrical wires together and connecting to a long wire that would eventually connect to an electronic detonator a safe distance away from the explosion.

When he was satisfied with the wiring, he slid the four TNT blocks beneath the rail. They seemed a perfect size – the width of a rail. The Viet Minh had suggested removing the rail to instigate the train crash, but he knew that to be risky. Although not probable, it was possible that the train would just keep on going, even without the rail, and jump back onto the rail on the other end. They couldn’t risk it. An explosion would sever the rail and, just as importantly, curve the severed ends upward so that the broken rail hit the train’s wheels as they passed. The train was guaranteed to derail. He buried the four TNT blocks and the wires with the gravel he had dug from the hole so that everything looked normal from a short distance, in case the Japanese squad at the end of the valley decided to inspect the rail before the train passed through. He doubted they would be so diligent, but he didn’t want to take any unnecessary chances.

He unspooled the electric wire as he crawled back over the nearest dike and into the rice fields with the two Viet Minh and Spitting Woman. Laying against the opposite slope of the dike, Davis took out the detonator from his pack, gave the handle a half wind, licked his fingers, placed them on the terminals and pushed the detonator’s handle to release the charge. It shocked him, burning the tips of his wet fingers. He jerked his hand away. The detonator was working properly. He placed the exposed ends of the wire into the terminals. He would wait to arm it with several twists of the handle. If the train was close and the detonator went off by accident, all would not be lost. He gave a hand signal to Granier who he knew would be watching. He was ready.

 

Granier was watching through his scope and relayed the message to Dewey and the others with a hand signal. They did not want to attract any attention that might alert the Japanese squad in the valley who might, in turn, warn the engineer when the train arrived.

 

Dewey checked the Viet Minh positions. There were over four hundred Viet Minh, armed with Japanese rifles, hidden in the trees on the hillside. There were twelve light machinegunners that would take out any enemy machinegun or mortar positions plus lay down covering fire if the demolition team needed to retreat quickly for whatever reason.

A squad of twenty Viet Minh armed with knee mortars was formed into a makeshift artillery battery. They would break from the woods and run down the hillside until they were within range of the train before letting loose their rocket-shaped grenades. Their job was to pin down any Japanese troops that attempted to advance from the train or outpost. Dewey signaled back that the Viet Minh were ready. Now all they needed was the train, due to arrive any minute.

 

Granier decided to take another peek at the Japanese outpost. He panned his rifle sight over and scanned the area for Japanese soldiers. They were where he had last seen them, milling around the outpost, talking and joking like nothing was amiss. Good, thought Granier. Stay oblivious just a little while longer.

As he moved his rifle sight back toward the demolition team, something caught his eyes. Five water buffalo were exiting the village. A little girl with a stick directed them to cross the railroad tracks to the side the demolition team was on. She was singing to the water buffalo reassuring them, keeping them calm. It was strange to see the hulking beasts obeying the little girl as if she was their undisputed master. Any one of them could have easily trampled her, but she was unafraid. When one of them veered from the path she wanted them to take, she scolded the disobedient animal and threatened it by shaking her stick. The animal changed its course, and she praised it for being a good water buffalo.

What concerned Granier was that the water buffalo were dragging their hooves on the dirt and gravel alongside the tracks. If they crossed the area where the wire had been buried, they might pull up the wire and even break it. At that moment, Granier heard the sound of the train whistle as it entered the far end of the valley. “Damn it,” he said to himself.

He thought for a moment and decided his only option was to shoot the water buffalo if they got too close. That would alert the Japanese outpost, who would alert the train and the whole operation would go down in flames. It might even endanger Spitting Woman and the demolition team who were far closer to the Japanese outpost than any of the other Viet Minh. He decided to make this Davis’ problem and let him handle the new threat. The only problem was that Davis and the rest of the demolition team were looking in the direction the approaching train, not at Granier. This was also in the opposite direction to the water buffalo, making them unaware of the approaching animals. There wasn’t much time. Granier considered crawling down there and dealing with the problem himself, but he was concerned he might accidentally tip off the Japanese outpost and reveal the demolition team’s position.

 

The train appeared through the trees in the distance. There were nine heavy machineguns surrounded by sandbags on top of the cars pulled by the locomotive. Over one hundred Japanese troops rode on top of the cars where the air was cooler. More were inside the troop cars, reinforcements for the Japanese army in China.

 

Granier looked around for a way of getting Davis’ attention without drawing the attention of the soldiers at the outpost. He spotted one of the Viet Minh riflemen among the trees. He had a bow and a quiver of arrows on his back. Granier was unsure what the man was thinking by bringing the ancient weapon into battle, but then decided it wasn’t a half-bad idea. It was a long-range weapon that was silent. He motioned for the bowman to come over by him. The bowman crawled over. Granier pointed to the demolition team, then to the man’s arrows. He made the motion for the man to shoot an arrow at the team, but then made the motion not to hit them. He motioned for the arrow to land beside them and get their attention. The bowman nodded that he understood and nocked an arrow onto his bow. He took careful aim and launched the arrow into the sky. To Granier’s surprise, the arrow came down exactly where he had motioned, just two feet away from Davis. “Nice shot,” said Granier. “He’s gonna be pissed.”

Davis jerked around when he saw the arrow land next to him. He thought it might have come from the outpost, but he didn’t see anyone with a bow. He looked back up the hill and saw Granier signaling him about the approaching water buffalo. He looked over at the water buffalo and nodded that he received the message, then flipped Granier off for shooting an arrow so close to him.

Spitting Woman saw the approaching water buffalo and the little girl. She looked back at the approaching train and decided she must do something. She grabbed Davis empty pack and ran stooped down fifty feet along the dike toward the little girl. “Where the hell you going?” said Davis.

She picked a large rock and placed it in Davis’ pack. She moved as far as the intersecting dike wall fifty feet away from the spot where the explosives were placed. She waited until the water buffalo, then the little girl passed. Spitting Woman popped up holding the pack and looking inside like there was something of interest. She made noises like she was very happy and surprised by whatever was in the pack. The little girl stopped and looked at Spitting Woman and the pack. Spitting Woman looked over at the little girl and then pointed into the pack. The little girl stood on her toes to see what was in the pack. Spitting Woman teased her by tilting the pack forward but kept her from seeing the contents. The water buffalo slowed to within ten yards of where the wire was buried and started munching on the grass along the side of the tracks. Spitting Woman motioned for the little girl to look inside the pack. Curiosity got the best of the little girl, and she walked over, climbing up the opposite side of the dike. Spitting Woman leaned the pack forward so the little girl could see the rock inside. The little girl frowned disappointedly. Too late, Spitting Woman reached out and grabbed the little girl pulling her over the dike and to the opposite side. The little girl struggled and screamed. The water buffalo looked over at the commotion for a moment then went back to eating the grass.

The train sped past the Japanese outpost and blew its whistle. The Japanese soldiers at the outpost waved it off like it was nothing, just another routine supply train. The train sped toward the demolition team’s position.

One of the water buffalo saw a nice patch of grass next to the train tracks directly across the demolition team’s hiding place. It walked over, dragging its hooves.

Granier watched through his scope, horrified. “God damn it,” he said to himself as he chambered a round into the rifle and took aim at the water buffalo.

Davis saw the water buffalo too. He glanced at the approaching train. “Close enough,” he said, picking up the detonator, twisting the handle three times and yelling, “FIRE IN THE HOLE.”

Everyone ducked including Spitting Woman, still holding the little girl.

Davis pushed the handle downward releasing the spring-loaded magneto and sending a charge through the wire.

The TNT exploded. The water buffalo disappeared in a mist of red. The ground shook. The rail sheered and bent toward the sky. Perfect.

The train engineer saw the explosion and hit the brake. Too late. The engine hit the mangled rail. Its wheels were pulled to the side and derailed, digging into the gravel and wooden ties. The locomotive twisted onto its side, plowed into the soft soil. Spitting Woman heard it coming and looked up. It was heading straight for her and the little girl. She cradled the little girl in her arms and ran through the knee-deep water as fast as she could, the mud below the water sucking at her feet, holding her back, slowing her down.

Granier watched from the hilltop, helpless, through his rifle’s scope. He rose up and said, “Oh, God. No!”

The locomotive plowed up the earth as it careened forward. It hit the dike like it was nothing. Tons of soil and water flew into the air. Spitting Woman could feel the earth underneath her feet, moving like some unseen force was reaching up to grab her feet, slow her down, doom her and the little girl. She felt the water rising in the paddy as the locomotive charged forward creating a muddy wave. She leaped as far as she could to one side and dove into the water with the little girl. The locomotive plowed forward to where she had disappeared below the shallow water. It stopped with the loud groan of contracting metal and the hiss of steam rising from the water. The iron beast was dead.

 

“Please, God. Please,” said Granier, almost in tears.

 

Spitting Woman emerged from the water with the little girl in her arms. She turned to Granier up on the hillside and grinned at him like it was fun and exciting.

 

Granier fell to his knees, relieved. “Kill me now,” he said to nobody in particular.

 

Davis looked over at Spitting Woman and the little girl and shouted, “Are you alright?”

Spitting Woman nodded, until bits and pieces of water buffalo rained down, pelting everyone.

 

The Japanese at the outpost, ran forward, wide-eyed. The first seven cars had crashed into the back of the locomotive in a pile-up and fallen on their sides. The rest of the train was jolted to a stop, still on the tracks, useable. The machinegunners on top of the surviving cars had been slammed up against the sandbags but were unhurt. They re-manned their guns and started looking for targets.

Many of the Japanese troops on top of the train tumbled off as the train slammed to a stop. The troops inside the cars didn’t fare much better as they were thrown from their seats. There were a few broken arms and legs but most had survived the crash without major injury. Their unit commanders shouted out orders. The soldiers retrieved their rifles and readied themselves for an attack they were sure would follow the derailment.

 

Granier snapped out of his panic-driven haze, laid back down with his rifle, and used his scope to scan for potential targets near the front of the train where the demolition team was still hidden.

 

The battery of knee mortar soldiers sprang from their hiding places and ran down the hill to get within range of the train. Once in their final firing positions behind a small rise, they placed the curved-base of their mortars on the ground and lined up their mortars’ direction using the simple sight marking on the mortar tube and checked the bubble indicator to ensure their mortars were at the 45-degree angle required. They loaded a grenade-style shell into the top of their mortar tubes and slipped their fingers into the safety rings on their grenade-shells.

 

On Giap’s signal, the Viet Minh opened fire. Four hundred rifles fired in unison, then separately. The light machinegunners hammered out the first thirty rounds in their magazines before reloading. Their focus was the heavy machinegun teams on top of the train.

 

The knee mortar soldiers pulled the pins on their first grenade-shells and launched them into the sky.

 

Bullets rained down on the Japanese soldiers in and around the train. Grenade-shells dropped from the sky and exploded. The Japanese returned fire at the hillside. The Viet Minh were hidden and difficult to see; only their muzzle flashes revealed their positions. The Japanese heavy machineguns sprayed the hillside with a barrage of bullets each gun pounding out a tremendous rate of fire.

 

Granier opened fire, targeting the Japanese soldiers closest to the front of the train. He was systematic – one bullet, one kill. His aim was deadly. Eight Japanese were killed or seriously wounded in the first ten seconds. His rifle’s bolt locked back; an empty clip sprang out of the internal magazine. He pushed in another clip, released the rifle’s bolt chambering the next shell, sighted his next target with the scope and opened fire once again. The entire process of reloading took less than three seconds. Rehearsed butchery. With each discharge of his weapon, more Japanese dropped, out of the fight.

 

The squad of Japanese soldiers at the outpost took cover and joined their comrades firing on the hillside. They did not notice the Viet Minh moving upon their flank. Green and Santana led the Viet Minh soldiers, each commanding an oversized platoon of fifty soldiers. With the Japanese pinned down and focused on the hillside, their mission was to roll up the flank. It was a simple tactic but very effective – by attacking the side of the enemy’s line, their opponents could not mass fire like a frontal attack. The two platoons would fire on ten to twenty Japanese soldiers instead of hundreds. Once the enemy’s resistance faded, they moved to the next cluster of enemy troops and renewed their assault. Classic. Deadly. The Japanese outpost was wiped out in less than a minute. The Viet Minh advanced on the back of the train.

 

Granier ran low on targets at the front of the train. He had lost count, but he imagined he had taken out twenty-one to twenty-four Japanese soldiers based on the bodies lying around the train and the empty clips on the ground beside him. Granier didn’t think about the lives he had extinguished. He was too focused on his mission. He was given a goal, he developed a plan of action, and he carried it out until success was achieved. Humanity had nothing to do with it. He wasn’t cold-hearted or vindictive. He was efficient.

Glancing over at the Viet Minh on the hillside, he could see that they were taking a beating from the Japanese heavy machineguns. Over a dozen Viet Minh lay dead. He changed his target-acquisition to the heavy machinegun teams on top of the train cars. They were well protected by sandbags. They were more difficult targets than the riflemen near the front of the train. Each machinegun team had three members – a gunner, a feeder, and a loader. He needed to take out two to disable the crew and silence the weapon. A single soldier could fire the machinegun, but it would quickly jam unless the bullet belts were fed into the bolt correctly. The gun’s oil reservoir also needed a constant resupply of oil, or it would overheat and jam. That, and lugging over the heavy ammunition boxes, were the loader’s job.

Granier recalibrated his scope. Each of the machinegun positions was farther and farther away, making each shot more and more difficult. He began. His first three shots found their targets, successfully killing all three Japanese soldiers operating the closest machinegun. He moved to the next machinegun position and took aim at the gunner. He felt a slight breeze on the side of his face. Wind. Not good. Changes things, he thought. The problem was that he didn’t know how much it would affect his aim. He fired. The first shot missed. He readjusted. Fired again. Hit the loader in the back several feet behind the gunner. He cursed. That wasn’t where he was aiming. But now at least he knew where his bullet had landed. His scope was way off. He adjusted the knobs. He fired again and hit the gunner in the eye. About time, he thought. He decided to kill the feeder too since he couldn’t tell how bad the loader was hit. He was still moving behind the gunner, now dead. As the feeder pulled the gunner off the weapon, Granier fired again, hitting him in the side of the neck. He went down behind the sandbags. Good enough, he thought. Move on.

Granier continued aiming, firing, adjusting, firing again, until he had taken out four of the machineguns. The machineguns positioned on the back of the train were an additional one hundred yards in distance and very difficult to hit. He became frustrated. Sweating, his fingers became slippery. His confidence waned, cursing after each shot he missed. He stopped. It took a moment to calm himself. He took two deep breaths and started again. He aimed and fired, hitting the feeder. He wasn’t aiming for him, but at that point, any kill was a win. He continued to fire until he hit the gunner. Good. Move on, he thought.

He reloaded. It occurred to him he hadn’t checked on the demolition team in a few minutes. He moved his scope back to their position. They were gone. He swung it over to where Spitting Woman and the little girl had hidden. They were gone too. He tried not to panic. He scanned the area and saw the little girl frantically trying to herd the surviving water buffalo away from the train wreck and back to her village. She was alright. The Japanese weren’t interested in her.

He let his eye leave the scope and raised his head to look down at the rice paddies below the hill where he spotted the demolition team. One of the two Viet Minh soldiers had been hit badly in the back. Spitting Woman and the other soldier were helping him run through a rice field. They stayed low. Davis was behind them defending the rear with his rifle. He was firing his weapon at three Japanese soldiers laying on the opposite side of the dike, firing their weapons at the fleeing demolition team. Damn it. They must’ve been hiding, he thought.

Granier looked back through his scope and aimed. He knew his aim would be off because the scope was set for a farther distance. He fired and watched for a bullet hit anywhere so he could make the proper adjustments. He saw nothing. His scope was way off. He adjusted the sight to where he thought it should be set, took aim, and fired again. He saw a bit of mud kick up like a tiny explosion. A bullet hit. He adjusted his scope again.

Granier took aim, took a breath, let half of it out, and squeezed the trigger. He watched through the scope as the head of one of the Japanese slumped down into the mud. One. He moved to the next soldier, took aim and fired. Two. The third soldier had seen enough as his two comrades had died in a matter of seconds from each other. He jumped up from his position and ran back toward the cover of the train. Granier fired. The man’s back arched and he fell. Three.

Spitting Woman and Davis looked back at the dike and the three dead Japanese. They looked up at the hillside and saw Granier behind his rifle, watching over them. They were safe. They made their way back to the Viet Minh lines.

With the demolition team safe, Granier once again went back to taking out the Japanese machinegun positions on the train. He readjusted his scope and fired until he killed two more Japanese soldiers – a gunner and a loader. The machinegun went silent.

The gunfire from the train had slackened. There were a lot of Japanese bodies hanging from windows and laying on the ground.

Giap and Dewey watched from the hillside. “Affix bayonets!” yelled Giap to his men.

The Viet Minh riflemen stopped firing their rifles and attached their bayonets to the end of their barrels.

The light machinegunners and knee mortar grenadiers continued to keep the Japanese pinned down.

 

Green and Santana continued with the Viet Minh to attack the Japanese flank, chipping away, cutting them down.

 

When the riflemen on the hillside were ready, Giap yelled, “Bayonets at the ready! Advance!”

Four hundred Viet Minh rose up and emerged from the trees with their rifles held forward at the ready. It was an awesome sight.

 

Many of the surviving Japanese stopped firing and looked to each other, wondering what to do. They were vastly outnumbered. The remaining heavy machines guns continued to fire, but they too were being picked off one by one by some unseen force.

 

Giap yelled again as the Viet Minh reached the bottom of the hill and moved into the rice fields, “Double time!”

The Viet Minh increased their speed to a moderate trot, splashing up water and mud, moving forward, unstoppable.

Giap could see the Japanese in the distance, staring at his advancing troops. He could feel them breaking. “Charge!” he yelled at last.

The Viet Minh yelled an angry cry as they broke into a run toward the train, determined and terrifying.

 

At first, only a few Japanese abandoned their positions and ran in the opposite direction, hoping to reach the safety of the mountains before the Viet Minh caught up with them. Moments later, it was a complete rout. Even the machinegun teams jumped down from the train and ran.

 

The Viet Minh overran the train, killing anyone brave enough to stand and fight. There weren’t many. The Viet Minh ran after the Japanese for another two hundred yards and stopped as their commanders had instructed them. They fired their rifles, hitting a few stragglers. The rest were left to flee. They would fight another day. The Viet Minh had their victory. That was enough. The Viet Minh cheered. Giap and Dewey didn’t want to take any unnecessary risks with their fledgling army. They knew that Japanese planes could show up at any minute and tip the scales of the battle. They needed to empty the train of supplies and move back into the safety of the forest.

 

Granier stood up and walked down the hill. Spitting Woman was sitting, catching her breath. She rose up. Their eyes met – hers grateful, his relieved. Granier was through playing games. He walked over and hugged her. She hugged him back. Neither wanted to let go.