FOUR

 

 

It was night, but the Viet Minh were in no mood to sleep, even after the long day. They were celebrating. Dancing. Drinking. Recounting the stories of their victory. Laughing and joking. With the weapons and supplies they had looted from the train, they could grow their army to three times its current size. There was a feeling that this was just the beginning. They were taking back their country.

Giap had agreed to one single fire in the center of the village so they could roast the pigs they had looted from the train. It was risky, but it had been so long since these people had something to celebrate. He allowed the fire, but only if they kept several containers of water nearby in case they heard a plane’s engine and needed to put it out in a hurry.

 

Dewey was walking through the camp when he saw Santana and Green squatting on the ground with twenty Viet Minh crowded around six squares drawn in the dirt. In each square was a simple drawing of a crab, a deer, a chicken, a fish, a shrimp or a gourd. The Americans and Viet Minh tossed down cigarettes or clay pipes filled with smoking herbs as bets on the squares. A dealer rolled three dice. “Santana, a word,” said Dewey.

Santana retrieved his bet of a cigarette from one of the squares and rose. “Yes, commander?” said Santana.

“What are you doing?”

“It’s a Viet game called ‘Bau Cua.’ Kinda like roulette.”

“Are you winning?”

“Not so far.”

“Then you are unlucky.”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“How do you expect to keep the respect of the Viet Minh if they see you as unlucky?”

“I don’t know. I guess I really hadn’t thought about it that way. We were just celebrating and trying to make friends. I thought it would be good for morale.”

“The Viet Minh are not our friends. They are our allies. Very important allies we need to complete our mission. We must keep their respect. The Viet Minh are very superstitious. They hold strong beliefs in things like ghosts, omens, and luck.”

“Yes, Commander. I see your point.”

“Good. Let Green know my thoughts, will you?”

“Of course, Commander. Right away.”

“It’s okay to have a little fun. We just need to be careful of the image we project to these people… for the sake of the mission.”

Santana nodded, and Dewey moved off.

 

Hoagland climbed up to the cave. He had several pieces of barbequed pork that he hoped Ho could eat. Ho was getting stronger by the day, but he still was fighting malaria. The medic found his patient awake, listening to the celebration. “It was a great victory,” said Hoagland as he entered.

“You were there?” said Ho.

“I watched from the hillside. Your Viet Minh fought bravely.”

“Of course. It is what is expected of them.”

“How do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Expectations. They don’t want to disappoint you. They’d die for you.”

“They would die for the cause. It’s not about me.”

“Somehow I think you’re wrong.”

“I am a symbol. Nothing more.”

“You’re the one that’s holding them together. You give them hope. You inspire them.”

“If it weren’t me, it would be someone else. They hope because that is all they have. What future do their children have without freedom?”

“They’ve lived under the French for almost two hundred years.”

“They’ve died under the French for almost two hundred years. Enough. My people have paid the price for freedom. It’s time.”

“I hope you get it… freedom.”

“We shall. It is only a matter of time and will. The time has come, and we have the will.”

“I doubt the French will just up and leave.”

“We don’t plan on giving them a choice.”

“More blood?”

“If need be. When this war ends, we will have a great opportunity to drive all the invaders from our land. We will not let it pass even if it means more blood will be spilled. We will reach out and grab our liberty like a great golden ring. It is ours for the taking.”

Hoagland smiled, “As I said, you offer them such inspiration.”

“I am afraid it will take more than inspiration. But still… I do what I can. Will you help me up, Doctor?”

“Of course.”

Hoagland helped Ho from his bed and walked with his arm around the small man’s waist toward the cave entrance. “Are you sure you are up to this?” said Hoagland feeling how frail Ho was, his steps tentative.

“In war and politics, timing is everything.”

“Which is this?”

“Both.”

 

The cave was above the river and village. Ho stopped at the opening. “Thank you, Doctor. I will take it from here.”

“Of course. I will be right back here if you need me,” said Hoagland.

“I know you will, and it gives me strength just knowing that you are there.”

Ho walked slowly out onto the ledge in front of the cave. The fire in the village illuminated his face as he looked down.

A woman saw him first. She stopped dancing, and her eyes went wide. “Uncle,” she said in a hushed tone, looking up at the frail man.

The people around her turned on hearing those words and looked up. They repeated the word, “Uncle,” some cried, many knelt. The news rippled through the village like a rock in a lake. A great silence settled over the crowd as all eyes looked up.

Ho just stood there, looking out as his people, the proud eyes of a father. “Victory,” he said as loud as he possibly could, raising both his hands above his head. He could feel himself shaking.

The crowd roared and chanted “Uncle” at the top of their lungs.

Hoagland could see that Ho was unsteady and moved forward to help him, to keep him from falling into the river below. Ho warned him off with a shake of his head and steadied himself, smiling.

Dewey moved up beside Giap and said, “That man is who the Japanese should fear most.”

“That man is who everyone should fear most,” said Giap, grinning, joining the chant, yelling “Uncle. Uncle. Uncle.”

 

Granier was away from the celebration, alone. He was kneeling on a blanket, cleaning and reassembling his rifle as he always did after a mission. Finished, he pulled the action back two times to check its function. Perfect. He smiled to himself, satisfied. He looked up to see Spitting Woman standing before him, her back to the celebration. She glowed from the fire behind her in the distance. She didn’t move. He set his rifle down on the blanket and rose his feet. Their eyes met. She looked strangely shy like she was unsure of what he wanted. He stepped forward and kissed her deeply. She kissed back, wrapping her arms around his neck as she had done when they parachuted together. She was wearing her pack. She stopped kissing him, let go of his neck and walked into the forest, looking back as if inviting him. He picked up his rifle and followed her.

She led him to a clearing covered with ferns deep in the forest. The moon was visible through an opening in the canopy. She removed her pack and pulled out a blanket. She spread it on the ground. She looked at him as if asking if this was okay. He said nothing, unsure what she meant. She opened the top of her shirt and let it drop to the ground. Then she loosened the string around her waist and stepped out of the bottoms of her black pajamas, revealing her naked body. She had scars, some from battle, others from life.

Granier thought her beautiful. She stepped forward and unbuttoned his shirt and kissed him on his chest. He too had scars. She pulled him down onto the blanket, and they made love.

 

 

Dewey and the Deer Team met with Giap and his commanders in the forest under a camouflaged net. They wanted privacy. Giap trusted his people. Dewey was more skeptical. “Anyone can betray their country given the right set of circumstances and motivation. Better to be safe than sorry,” he would say. They decided to locate their planning conferences away from the village and post guards. Giap was the only English-speaker among the Viet Minh and translated between the Americans and his commanders. It made the process slower, but prevented confusion. “What is the latest troop count?” said Dewey.

“Nine hundred and fifty-two are combat-ready. Another seven hundred and forty-six are still in basic training or waiting for weapons,” said Giap’s Executive Officer.

“That’s good. That’s very good. We should be able to expand our operations to attack more targets. The problem, of course, is officers. Have you made any progress in the development of officers?”

“It is difficult. Our people are brave and good warriors, but they are not educated.”

“I understand. Hoagland, how is your translation of the training manuals coming along?”

“As good as can be expected. Very few Vietnamese speak, and even fewer write rudimentary English. Most of the work still falls in my lap. Mr. Hoo helps when he can, but his duties often call him elsewhere. A typewriter with Vietnamese characters would speed up the work,” said Hoagland.

“I didn’t know you typed.”

“I don’t, but I will learn.”

“We’ll add it to our supply request, but it may take the quartermaster some time to find one. In the meantime, keep at it.”

“Yes, sir. Oh, and please don’t forget to ask for extra typewriter ribbon and carbon paper.”

“Of course. Mr. Green, how go your small unit tactic lectures?”

“Good. They’re naturals and catch on quick. It’s like someone already taught them this stuff, and I’m just reminding them,” said Green.

“Someone did,” said Giap. “The Chinese were training us in our struggle against the French.”

The members of the Deer Team were uneasy on hearing of the Viet Minh war with their French allies. “What happened?” said Dewey.

“The Japanese invaded, and the focus of the Chinese shifted elsewhere. As you say, they had their own problems.”

“Right,” said Dewey. “Well, it certainly shows. Many of your men are experienced fighters. They can teach others. You might consider breaking up your core group and placing the veterans in with the new recruits. It would help with training and boost morale.”

“We have already begun the process,” said Giap. “It is our culture that the old teach the young.”

“Excellent. Alright, I think that about wraps it up. Please forward your supply requests to Mr. Santana. He is compiling our list for the next drop. Mr. Van and I will be finishing our plans for the next mission shortly. You will be informed individually as to your units’ assignments.”

The meeting broke up with a salute between the Americans and the Viet Minh commanders.

 

 

McGoon and Smitty piloted the C-3 disguised as a Japanese transport plane. The dense forest swept below them. Smitty pointed to the smoke from the Deer Team on the ground. “Here we go, boys,” McGoon said over the plane’s intercom.

In the hold, the cargo crew lined up the supply containers checking to ensure their static lines were not tangled. The drop light changed from red to green. It was a race to get the containers out the open doorway at the back of the plane.

Through the forest canopy below, the Deer Team and the Viet Minh watched as the supply containers left the plane and popped their chutes. They floated down until they crashed through the branches and leaves of the canopy. Many were stuck high in the trees. The Viet Minh scrambled up the tree trunks and cut the container free from their parachutes. The containers crashed to the ground. The Viet Minh picked them up, gathering them together in a forest clearing.

 

In the distance, a Japanese scout watched the circling plane dropping containers into the forest. The Japanese markings on the plane didn’t fool him. He knew it was American. He had been sent to find it. He radioed his discovery.

 

Dewey supervised the container count. They were still short three containers according to the manifest he had been radioed. Viet Minh teams were out looking for them. Granier and the other Deer Team members were providing security, keeping their eyes on the surrounding forest.

Something caught Granier’s eye. He turned and studied the trees. Something moved again. “The remaining Viet Minh teams are to the west, aren’t they?” said Granier, his eyes never leaving the area he was watching.

“Yes. Why?” said Dewey.

“I’ve got movement.”

Dewey stopped what he was doing and moved up to Granier’s side. “Where?”

“Two o’clock. One hundred and fifty yards out.”

Dewey looked out, squinting. “I don’t see it.”

“Wait for it.”

Dewey continued watching. After a few moments, he saw something move and then something else. It was hard to make out, but it didn’t matter. Anything that moved was a threat. “Santana, call in the Viet Minh search teams. We’ll come back for the containers later. Hoagland, ask the commander to bring his men up and take—”

Dewey never finished his sentence before all hell broke loose. Several light machineguns opened fire on the Deer Team. Everyone hit the ground and scrambled for whatever cover they could find – a fallen tree trunk, overgrown roots, groupings of rocks - anything that would stop a bullet. Mortar rounds rained down, exploding. A Viet Minh soldier suffered a direct hit from a mortar shell. His arm still holding his rifle landed on the ground. The rest of him was gone.

A company of Japanese soldiers advanced through the trees, firing their weapons. The Deer Team and the Viet Minh returned fire, driving them to cover. “Santana, get that American pilot on the radio and warn him we have made contact with the enemy and are under attack,” said Dewey.

“I don’t understand. It’s a cargo plane. He’s unarmed,” said Santana.

“The Japanese will be hunting for him.”

“Right. I didn’t think about that. I’m on it.”

“Hoagland, are the Viet Minh teams back yet?”

“They’re on their way. Three minutes,” said Hoagland firing his rifle.

“They damn well better hurry. We’re outnumbered. The Japs’ll flank us if we wait much longer. Tell the Viet Minh to leave the containers when we pull back.”

“I don’t think they’ll do it.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s food for their families. They won’t leave it.”

“Tell ’em we’ll get them more food.”

“I’ll try.”

Hoagland moved back to find the Viet Minh commander. He found him on the ground, badly wounded, out of the fight. Hoagland moved to tend to him. He relayed the order to leave the containers to the next in command. The commander shook his head ‘no.’ Hoagland cursed and threatened him. He nodded okay.

Dewey crawled to the firing positions, checking on each member of his team. He came to Granier, firing, aiming, firing. “Buck, find the Jap commanders and take ’em out.”

“I’m on it,” said Granier firing his sniper rifle, searching for anyone that resembled an officer or a sergeant, firing again and again, dropping Japanese, holding them at a distance. “Deer Team, we will fall back to the far side of the clearing on my ‘Go,’ then cover the Viet Minh retreat when the rest of their search teams arrive,” said Dewey.

“We can’t leave ‘em,” said Granier. “They wouldn’t leave us.”

“We are not leaving them. We will cover their withdrawal when they are ready.”

“Let me stay. I can hold them off while the Viet Minh withdraw.”

“No. You will withdraw with your team. That’s an order.”

“How are they supposed to trust us if we don’t stand by them in a fight?”

“God damn it, Buck. This is not up for debate. It’s their fight. You will withdraw on my order.”

Granier locked eyes with Dewey, both men were angry. Granier begrudgingly nodded his acceptance and went back to firing his rifle, killing as many enemies as he could before he was forced to leave. “Deer Team, GO!” said Dewey.

The members of the Deer Team withdrew, firing their weapons. Hoagland lifted the Viet Minh commander to his feet and helped him retreat. Granier stayed for a moment longer, not firing, waiting, peering through his scope…

He had spotted the Japanese company commander far back from the front line hidden behind a tree. Granier watched as his head popped out for a moment, then disappeared again. “Buck, move your ass!” said Dewey.

“Just a sec,” said Granier, staying focused.

“I said NOW!”

Granier watched as the commander’s head again popped from behind the tree. Granier squeezed the trigger, and his rifle fired. Through his scope, he watched as the commander’s head disappeared in a spray of red mist. Granier crawled backward with his rifle then climbed into a squat and retreated with the other Deer Team members. They continued to fire their weapon as they moved back to the edge of the clearing.

Dewey was furious. “I thought I made myself clear.”

“You ordered me to kill the Jap company commander.”

“You got him?”

“As ordered.”

“Right. Good work.”

 

The Japanese assault lost energy once their company commander was killed. They did not advance further.

 

The Viet Minh search teams rejoined their main force. Ignoring Dewey’s orders, they grabbed the supply containers and carried them back through the clearing past the Americans providing covering fire. Hoagland shrugged to Dewey.

“Hell of a way to run an army,” said Dewey.

The Viet Minh and the Deer Team pulled back and traveled in the opposite direction of the village. When they were certain that the Japanese were not following, they changed direction and made their way back to the Viet Minh village. Granier stayed far behind scouting the rear thoroughly, making sure they were safe.

 

 

McGoon and Smitty were three miles to the border when two Japanese Zeros dropped out of the clouds above. They were part of an entire squadron that had been searching for his aircraft, knowing that the transport plane would be short on fuel and would need to cross the border sooner rather than later.

McGoon and Smitty did not see the pair of Japanese fighters as they dove. But they saw the tracer bullets from their machineguns as they flew past the cockpit windows. “Ah, shit!” said McGoon banking the plane sharply, pushing it into a steep dive, increasing its speed. He kept a close watch on the altimeter and airspeed. He needed to cut it as close as he dared, but not too close. “You got ’em?” he said.

“Portside, four o’clock I think,” said Smitty.

“Not a good time to be guessing something like that.”

“I can’t tell. They keep weaving back and forth.”

“Sneaky bastards. Alright. You ready?”

“Ready.”

“Now,” said McGoon pulling out of the dive, Smitty helping with the controls.

They were only a hundred feet above the forest canopy when the plane leveled. The two Zeros easily pulled out of the dive and tailed the transport plane. “They’re still behind us,” said Smitty.

“Ya know, they should really give us some weapons on these things,” said McGoon.

“They’re Zeros, McGoon,” We can’t fight ’em,” said Smitty.

“Yeah, well... It’s better than getting treated like a pin cushion.”

The lead Zero fired. The bullet ripped into the left-wing and hit the engine. A stream of black smoke poured out.

The plane shuttered, losing power. “That can’t be good,” said McGoon as he tried banking the aircraft to shake off the fighter. “This is ridiculous. I got nothing.”

“Maybe we could jump.”

“We’re too low, and you know it. We’d be squashed flatter than a pancake before our chutes opened.”

“It was just a thought.”

“Leave the thinking to me, will ya?”

More bullets ripped through the plane’s fuselage as the second Zero took its turn. Sparks flew as the avionics in the cockpit were hit. “Mary, mother of Jesus. Give me a minute to think, will ya?” said McGoon angrily. “Even a condemned man is supposed to get a last wish.”

McGoon spotted something and said, “And that is mine.”

“What’s yours?” said Smitty, confused.

“That,” said McGoon point through the windshield at a riverbed. “Radio a ‘mayday’ and warn the boys in back we’re landing.”

“On that?!” said Smitty, wide-eyed.

“You betcha.”

“You want me to deploy the landing gear?”

“Nope. You ever do a belly-flop?”

“No.”

“Then this will be your first. Good luck.”

Smitty warned the cargo crew that it was going to be a rough landing, then radioed a ‘Mayday.’ Finished, he turned back to McGoon and said, “So, what’s the plan assuming we survive the landing?”

“One bridge at a time, good fellow. I’m gonna need both hands on the wheel, so you’re gonna need to cut the engines when I say.”

“Alright. You sound like maybe you’re done this before.”

“Nope. Never.”

The Japanese fighters opened fire again as McGoon dove down to the riverbed. More bullets ripped into the wing and hit the one good engine. It caught fire. “See, we were going down anyway. We just beat ’em to the punch,” said McGoon. “Alright, cut the engines.”

Smitty reduced the throttles to zero.

The engines sputtered to a stop. The propellers kept moving, driven by momentum. The plane dropped to the water. Just before hitting, McGoon pulled the nose up, and the plane’s belly hit first. The Japanese Zeros zoomed overhead, surprised by the move. The plane skimmed across the water effortlessly until it hit a sandbar sticking out into the river. The plane came to an abrupt stop, its nose digging into the sand and rock, its tail lifting into the air, then slamming down.

The pilots of the Zeros banked hard and came around to strafe the downed aircraft and its crew.

McGoon and Smitty scrambled out of their seats and into the cargo hold where the rest of the crew was waiting. “Okay. Next bridge. What do we do?” said Smitty.

“I’m thinking. Let me think,” said McGoon.

He ran to the back door and looked out. “Alright. Here’s what we are gonna do. They’re gonna fire on the plane. Once they start, we’re gonna run for those trees over there,” he said pointing. “Everybody on board?”

The crew nodded, too afraid to speak. They heard the machineguns rattling as the bullets hit the hold, popping holes through the outer skin, sunlight streaming into the dark hold. “Run!” said McGoon, the first out the door.

The Japanese pilots were unable to adjust their fire as they watched the Americans sprint from the downed aircraft.

McGoon made it to the trees and collapsed out of breath. It was more running than he had done since basic training. The others followed, diving into the trees. Safe. “Yeah. Fuck you, Tojo!” yelled McGoon as the Zeros passed overhead.

The Zeros banked hard again.

“Oh shit, they’re coming back,” said Smitty.

“You really need to stop with the negative attitude, ya know that?” said McGoon. “Everybody just hunker down. Most Japs are lousy shots.”

“Most?” said Smitty.

“Enough with the negativity, Smitty. Can’t ya see I’m trying to keep morale high with the crew?”

The Americans watched as the Zeros leveled out of their turn and lined up to shoot into the trees. “Damn. I wish I had a bazooka or something,” said McGoon.

The lead Zero opened fire. Bullets hit the sand thirty yards away and sped toward the Americans’ hiding place. “Oh, shit,” said McGoon.

Suddenly, the lead Zero exploded and crashed into the river. The Zero following pulled out and banked hard, heading back the way it came. A few seconds later, six Hawker fighters with shark’s teeth painted on the front of their fuselages zoomed overhead. It was a flight of the Flying Tigers chasing after the remaining Zero.

McGoon jumped up and pumped his fist, “Yeah. Flying Tigers! You’d better run, you nip bastard!”

The crew of the downed plane breathed a collective sigh of relief. “Ya see. Positivity wins out every time,” said McGoon with a shit-eating grin.

Nobody cared. They were just happy to still be alive.

 

 

When the Viet Minh returned to their camp, Granier went off by himself. He was angry and decided it would be better if he didn’t see Spitting Woman right away. He missed her, but he didn’t want her to see him in a foul mood. He knew he could be difficult to get along with at times and didn’t want to overwhelm her this early in their relationship. Relationship? he thought. Hell, I can’t even talk to her. She just grunts in response.

He grabbed his blanket, gun oil, rag, and screwdriver from his pack and carried his rifle into the woods. He laid out the blanket, knelt and went to work stripping down his rifle for a post-combat cleaning. He did not rush cleaning his weapon. He was meticulous as always, taking his time to make sure each part was cleaned of any gunpowder residue or dirt. He grumbled to himself as he worked. He was pissed at Dewey for abandoning the Viet Minh. He knew Dewey had his reasons, but he didn’t like the way it looked. Americans were not cowards, especially these Americans.

After a moment, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He jerked around to see a woman’s hand. The dirt under her fingernails looked familiar. It was Spitting Woman. She chose to say nothing as she rubbed his shoulders. It felt good. He calmed. How did she know? he thought. She slid her hand beneath his uniform and rubbed his chest. She kissed him on the back of the neck. Cleaning his weapon seemed less important at that moment. He pulled her around into his lap, looked into her eyes, and kissed her. Slowly at first, then passionately. His anger was gone.

 

 

Dewey was furious when he met with Giap in the forest. “We were betrayed. You have a spy among your people.”

“Why are you so sure the information came from my people?” said Giap. “You radioed your headquarters in China and discussed the location of the drop zone. The Japanese could have been listening.”

“We broadcast in code.”

“They could have broken your code.”

“That’s highly unlikely.”

“So is betrayal from the Viet Minh. Most of our people come from the same group of villages. If they passed information on to the enemy, they would be endangering their own families.”

“Then how do you explain an entire company of Japanese soldiers knowing the exact location of the supply drop? They didn’t just stumble upon us.”

“No, of course not. I agree. Someone passed on the information. I am just not convinced of the source.”

“Well you damn well better find the leak, or we’re all dead.”

“I would say the same to you.”

“This is hopeless. We will not solve the problem if you fail to listen to reason,” said Dewey dismissing Giap with a wave of his hand, walking away in frustration.

 

 

Granier shaved with a safety razor and a bar of soap. It had been a while. The members of OSS Teams in the field were allowed to grow beards to conserve time and water. When he finished, he wiped away the excess soap and studied his face in the small mirror he used for signaling. His clean-shaven face revealed some scars. They were small but noticeable. He wondered what Spitting Woman saw in him but then decided not to think about it. It was wasted effort. She liked him. That was enough.

 

Granier walked over a series of rocks to the opposite side of the stream that divided the village. He climbed up a path covered with freshly cut grass that kept it hidden and entered the mouth of a large cave. It was smoky inside. The sun filtered through the tree canopy above and formed shafts of light. There was one fire burning in the center of the cave used for cooking and boiling water, shared by the community that lived inside.

A baby cried for a moment but was silenced when its mother placed her breast in its mouth. It was important to keep the children quiet while in the cave. Over twenty families were living together. They were from the same hill tribe. They stayed together. They trusted one another; they depended on one another. Granier understood this. They were a pack.

Spitting Woman was helping her sister-in-law prepare the evening meal over the fire when she saw Granier. She walked over to him and folded his hand into hers. She said nothing as she escorted him through the cave, past the curious eyes and whispers of the other tribe members. Near the back of the cave was where her immediate family lived. There was no furniture beyond several hand-woven blankets on the ground and a dozen baskets that stored food, medicinal herbs, and extra clothing. The area was neatly organized, and the blankets appeared to have been recently beaten to rid them of dust and dirt. Preparations had been made for their guest – Granier.

Spitting Woman stopped at the edge of the blankets and kicked at Granier’s muddy boots. She said something. He didn’t know what she was saying, but she seemed pretty adamant about whatever it was. “You want me to take them off?” said Granier.

She kicked his boots again and gave him an angry look. Granier removed his boots. She picked up the dirty boots and set them to one side. She seemed satisfied and led him onto the blankets. She placed Granier in the center of the blankets and backed away so her family could get a good look at him. Nobody said anything. They just stared. Some grunted. He felt naked and uncomfortable. Granier didn’t like attention.

After a few moments, Spitting Woman moved next to Granier. She motioned to each of the family members, starting with the oldest and said something that he imagined was their name or their relation to her, or it didn’t matter because they meant the same thing. He tried to follow along and memorize each name, but gave up when he discovered they all sounded the same. There were two older women and one older man. He imagined they were her parents, but he wasn’t sure which one was her mother, or maybe she considered both of them her mothers or one was her mother and the other her grandmother. It was hard to tell. They were very wrinkled. He was pretty sure the man was her father although he could have been her grandfather because his face resembled a leather bag and he was missing most of his teeth. There were brothers and brothers-in-law, sisters and sisters-in-law, what seemed to be cousins, nephews and nieces. He was totally confused until she came to the final two children to be introduced – a boy about five and a girl about three. She took each by the hand and placed them in front of her. “Oh, my God. You’re their mother,” said Granier, completely surprised.

Spitting Woman frowned. That was not the reaction she was hoping for. He recognized his faux pau and squatted before them. He studied their faces. The little girl looked very much like her mother, but the boy looked like someone else. It occurred him that they had a father and he wondered where he was. “Their father…? Are you married?” he asked a bit frighten by the potential answer.

Spitting Woman struggled to understand what he wanted. After a moment, it occurred to her that he was asking about their father. She made the motion of Japanese by putting her fingers to her eyes at a forty-five-degree angle, then the gesture of an imaginary rifle firing and finally the gesture of death using her tongue hanging out the side of her mouth and her eyes rolled back. “I’m sorry for your loss,” said Granier, even though he wasn’t.

He felt bad that he didn’t have anything for the children. He wanted them to like him. It occurred to him that he did have a fresh pack of chewing gum, but wondered if they were too young. He decided to risk it. He pulled the pack out, opened it, and offered a stick to the children. “You chew it,” said Granier gesturing he was chewing an imaginary stick.

Spitting Woman took one of the sticks and tore it in half, giving each of the children a piece. They put it in their mouths, chewed it four times and swallowed. “No, no. You chew it,” said Granier, too late.

Ignoring the crazy American, Spitting Woman took the pack from his hand and offered everyone a piece by tearing the individual sticks in halves and thirds depending on the seniority of the family member with the father-figure getting a whole piece. They all followed the children’s example, chewed each piece four times and swallowed. “That’s not the way you do it,” said Granier, frustrated. “Nevermind.”

It didn’t matter. Everyone was happy, and he was a good guest for bringing desert. The women said something to the group, and everyone sat in a circle on the blankets. Spitting Woman’s son and daughter sat next Granier. He wasn’t sure what he should do but figured they were little and couldn’t be that hard to watch while their mother and her sister-in-law went to the fire to retrieve the food. The two children sat patiently. He was surprised by how well behaved they were even when their mother wasn’t within swatting distance.

A clay pot filled with hot stew was placed in the center on three rocks that kept the blankets from burning. Joining the stew was a large green leaf on which sat two dozen skewers of roasted insect larvae and bugs. A large wooden bowl of rice was the last dish. The starch aroma rose with the steam and gave everyone a good appetite. The family used wooden bowls and their fingers to grab what they wanted. A wooden spoon was used to ladle the stew onto the rice in each bowl.

Granier saw a chicken head along with what looked like root-type vegetables and congealed blood cut into cubes scooped into his bowl on top of a healthy portion of rice. He was also given two skewers - roasted grasshoppers and silkworm larvae. He was their guest and deserved the best. He had considered what he might be served and what was in his bowl was a pleasant surprise. He had an active imagination. He ate everything in his bowl and on the skewers, licking his fingers when he was finished to show that he liked it. Over the short time he had known her, Granier had learned that Spitting Woman had four moods – angry, frustrated, satisfied and leave me alone I am busy. At that moment, she was satisfied. For Granier, that was enough.

 

 

Spitting Woman rose early the next morning and walked into the woods with a basket on her arm. It was peaceful. She enjoyed being by herself, away from her children and family. She liked spending time with the American, but even he could not fill her need to be alone in the forest. She believed in the forest and thought the trees and animals had powerful spirits. She only took what her family needed, never anything more, and nothing was wasted.

The Viet Minh had stripped the trees and bushes around the camp of everything that was edible. She knew she would need to travel a bit to find what she was looking to gather. She found it after walking a little more than a mile – longan – a soapberry fruit like lychee, smooth-skinned and light brown in color. It was high in a tree, well beyond the reach of someone standing on the ground. She climbed the tree and balanced herself with her arms out as she walked along a branch. She squatted, then straddled the branch so that the fruit was within easy reach. She pulled out her knife and cut several bunches of the berries from the branch letting them fall to the ground below. Then she climbed back down and gathered the fruit in her basket. It was a nice walk, and she felt good.

 

 

Granier and Spitting Woman laid on a large rock in the middle of the river with water flowing on both sides. She pulled a berry from the bunch, bit the outer skin, and peeled the skin from the white fruit inside. She showed Granier how she used her teeth to pull the fruit from the remaining skin. She removed the bare fruit from her teeth with her fingers and placed it in the American’s mouth. He chewed it carefully, so as to not crack a tooth on the large seed inside. “It’s good,” he said, pretending that he had never eaten it before.

He spat out the seed into the water. She ate a longan and spat the seed out. It traveled slightly farther than Granier’s seed had traveled. “I think somebody just threw down the gauntlet,” he said grabbing a berry, stripping it with his teeth, eating the flesh and spitting the seed out. The seed traveled through the air and bounced off another rock in the water. “Deal with it,” said Granier.

She followed suit, eating and spitting the seed out. It became a contest like a game of horse, each finding a target farther than the previous spit-shot, challenging the other to hit it. They were competitive and took the game seriously, testing each other’s skills. With a seed ready to launch from her mouth, Spitting Woman suddenly stopped. “What’s wrong?” he said… and then he heard it. An airplane engine.

They both looked up searching the sky. A Japanese scout plane appeared over a mountain ridge. It was heading in their direction and would pass straight over the camp. The Viet Minh scrambled for cover, anything that would keep them from being seen by the plane. Granier knew it would take too long to reach the shore and find cover. He grabbed Spitting Woman wrapping his arms around her and rolled into the river.

The water flowed over them. Granier let go of Spitting Woman with one of his arms and grabbed the side of the big rock to keep them submerged. She grabbed him around the neck to keep from floating away. They looked into each other’s eyes for reassurance. There was little. It wasn’t that they were afraid of what would happened to them – it was a scout plane and had no weapons. It was what could happen to the others in the camp – the old ones and the children, the ones that could not easily run away if an attack came.

They waited almost a full minute holding their breath below the water, staying hidden. Granier slowly poked his face out of the water and watched as the plane passed overhead. Spitting Woman poked her head out of the water and gasped for air. “Are you alright?” he said.

She nodded that she was okay. Everyone in the village seemed to breathe a sigh of relief… until the plane banked and turned back for a second look.

Granier and Spitting Woman again submerged themselves below the flowing water. His grip was slipping on the moss-covered rock. He let go of Spitting Woman with his other arm and grabbed the rock with both of his hands, trying to hang on. Spitting Woman was fighting to hang on. She was tired. He felt her hands slipping from around his neck… and then she was gone.

It suddenly dawned on Granier that he had no idea if Spitting Woman could swim. He panicked and let go of the rock. The rushing water pushed him down the river. He kept his feet in front of him to bounce off any obstructions below the water. He pushed his head out of the water and looked down river where he spotted Spitting Woman clinging to a tree branch hanging over the water. He steered himself toward the branch and reached out as he passed it. He mostly grabbed leaves with his wet hand. His head was still under water. Spitting Woman had a better grip on the branch. She reached over and grabbed the collar of his shirt. It helped a little. Granier was able to use his other hand to grab the branch and pull himself out of the water. They both looked up. The plane was above the river, right above them. “Shit,” said Granier.

“Sit,” said Spitting Woman mimicking him.

They waited a couple more minutes until they were sure the plane was gone, then pulled themselves out of the water using the branch.

The Viet Minh emerged from their hiding places and exchanged concerned looks. Dewey ran over to Granier and said, “Do you think he saw us?”

“He wouldn’t have made a second pass unless he saw something,” said Granier.

“Damn it.”

Giap came running and said, “We’ve got to move the camp.”

“Two thousand people. They’ll see our tracks even if we try to hide them,” said Granier.

“You don’t know that,” said Dewey.

“Yes. I do. Moving is not an option. At least not quickly.”

“So, we prepare for an attack,” said Giap.

“They’ll surround us, pin us down, then hit us with heavy mortars until we are annihilated,” said Dewey, hopeless.

“We can fight,” said Giap.

“And we will,” said Dewey. “To the last.”

“To the last,” said Giap.

“There may be another way,” said Granier. “Mr. Van, how far is it to the closest Japanese airfield?”

“I don’t know,” said Giap, then turned to Spitting Woman and spoke to her in her tribal language. “She says about thirty-two miles to the Southwest.”

“A small force could reach it before tomorrow morning.”

“For what purpose?” said Dewey.

“Kill everyone.”

“You don’t even know if that plane came from that airbase.”

“Why wouldn’t it? It’s a short range reconnaissance plane.”

“Even if it did, when the pilot reports back his findings, the base commander is sure to notify the army and they’ll send a battalion to wipe us out.”

“Will he?”

“Will he what?”

“Will the Air Force commander notify the Army commander? What if the pilot wasn’t positive what he saw?”

“That’s a big ‘if’.”

“Okay, but why would an Air Force commander share that kind of information. Why wouldn’t he keep it to himself? This is a big deal, if you think about it. The commander that destroys the Viet Minh camp is sure to receive a big promotion. Why not just bomb us?”

“What does it matter? The results are the same. The Viet Minh are wiped out.”

“Not if we reach them first. It’s late afternoon. They probably won’t attempt a night attack. Too hard to identify targets. That means first thing in the morning is the earliest they would attempt an aerial assault. If we could reach the airbase before the morning, we could stop the attack.”

“That’s a lot of ‘ifs’, Buck,” said Dewey.

“Look. Even if I’m wrong, attacking the Japanese will throw them off guard. It may buy us some time. You can prepare better for the attack or try to move the camp and cover your tracks.”

“I admit… it’s a bold plan, and the Japanese won’t be expecting it. How many men will you need?”

“Six men and one woman to show us the way,” said Granier. “I’d like Davis to go with us. We’ll need explosives for the planes if we reach the field in time.”

“Are you sure seven will be enough?”

“No. But we need to travel fast if we are going to reach the airbase by dawn. Seven seems like a manageable number.”

“Alright. I agree.”

“Mr. Van, I will need your best runners.”

 

 

Spitting Woman led the way as the sabotage team jogged through the forest. It was a marathon, not a sprint. They didn’t stop while there was sunlight. It would be more difficult at night. They wanted to get as far as possible while they could still see the forest floor. All eyes searched for tripwires as they traveled. They stayed off the trails even when they found them.

The closer the team moved toward the Japanese bases, the more dangerous it became. The Japanese had patrols searching for anything amiss around their bases. They were more concerned with a Chinese invasion than a Viet Minh attack. The Japanese commanders still saw the Viet Minh as a rabble, not worthy of their concern.

When a Japanese patrol was spotted, the sabotage team dove into the ferns and bushes. They waited until the patrol passed. They did not want to make contact. They did not want to fight. Not now. Not yet. The brief rest did them good and when they resumed, they were able to pick up their pace. Their leg muscles burned. They would periodically raise their hands to let the blood flow back toward their lungs and heart. Anything to keep going.

After the sun set, one of the Viet Minh tripped over an exposed root and injured his ankle badly. Granier examined it quickly and determined that he wouldn’t be able to keep up. They had no choice but to leave him to find his own way back to the Viet Minh camp or die trying. The injured man understood and wished them luck. One of the Viet Minh promised to come back and find him if he could. It was a lie to a dead man. You never go back the way you came after an attack. It was a sure way to get ambushed. There was little doubt the Japanese would find him and take their revenge. The team kept going.

 

As the surrounding landscape lightened, Granier knew dawn was approaching. They weren’t there yet. He was pushing the team as hard as he dared. They would still need to fight once they got to the airfield. Everyone was exhausted, including himself. They had been jogging for over twelve hours with few breaks. It was sheer willpower that kept them going. He was proud of his little team of saboteurs. They had heart. They were giving all to protect their pack – the Viet Minh camp.

As far as he could tell, they had avoided detection. That was a miracle in itself because of the number of Japanese patrols and outposts they had encountered. Success was a longshot and everyone on the team knew it. They needed to be lucky.

Granier heard the sound of a truck engine in the distance. The team crested the hill they were climbing and saw the Japanese airbase below.

A fuel truck was driving back to a maintenance building. There were six Zeros parked along the runway, already armed. The two bombs and the two 7.7mm machineguns that each plane carried would devastate the Viet Minh, especially those not fast enough to seek cover – the old, the young, the wounded and the sick. The Zeros looked ready for takeoff.

There was little time to deploy the team if they were going to stop the air attack. Granier was unsure if it was just an air attack or if the Japanese fighters were providing a pre-emptive strike for a ground assault. He considered the preparation required for a ground assault and the distance a large force would need to travel to reach the Viet Minh camp. It seemed like there hadn’t been enough time, but he couldn’t be sure. It was always possible that the Japanese had forces in the area. There was nothing Granier and his team could do about a ground force at the moment. Their mission was to prevent the air strike. There were two options – destroy the planes or kill the pilots. They would try to do both. A third requirement was to destroy the airbase communications so they could not inform others of their discovery of the Viet Minh camp. It might have already been too late for that, but the team had to try, nonetheless.

The team was positioned behind the runway, where the command post and maintenance buildings gave them good cover. There were Japanese guards patrolling the entire compound and heavy machinegun positions on both sides of the airfield used for both air and ground defense.

The team Granier had chosen was made up of two snipers and two sappers. One of the sappers had been left behind in the forest with an injured ankle. Spitting Woman had taken his pack of explosives. She would need to take his place to carry the pack for Davis and the other sapper to place the explosives. There wasn’t much time for instructions or a pep talk, everyone knew what they had to do. Granier designated a rendezvous point and they split up, keeping low and out of sight.

Davis placed the first explosive package at the base of the command post, tying a bundle of TNT to the wooden post used as a foundation. He would have preferred to place an explosive on all four corners to completely destroy the building and ensure those inside were killed, but there wasn’t enough time and he didn’t have enough explosives to be overly efficient. The fuse was a five-minute pencil detonator which he crimped with a pair of pliers to activate. He would use pencil detonators with shorter fuses for the other explosives he would plant. This would allow the devices to detonate close together. But it wasn’t an exact measurement. There was variance built into the system.

At the same time, the Viet Minh sapper placed another explosive package by the fuel tank near the maintenance building. He was a veteran fighter, but this was his first time using explosives in combat. He was nervous and didn’t want to let his instructor down. He too crimped a pencil detonator as Davis had shown him during training, then ran, keeping low, to the next target – a communications hut with a radio antenna sticking up from the end on a pole.

It was dawn and the outline of the surrounding mountains was clear. The darkness no longer masked the movements of the team. Granier deployed his two snipers in the forest near the machinegun positions. Although he hadn’t had time to train them in concealment, the Viet Minh snipers were good shots and reliable. He believed that if they could take out the heavy machinegun crews, the sabotage team would stand a much better chance of completing its mission and surviving.

He decided to climb the tallest tree he could find that overlooked the airfield. He slung his rifle on his back and used a doubled-over piece of rope to shimmy up the tree’s trunk, like a logger. He reached the branches and continue upward until he was thirty feet off the ground. He straddled a branch and looked out. He had a clear line of sight over most of the airfield. In the distance sat the runway and the six Zeros. He hoped to kill any pilots before they reached their planes. He unslung his rifle and adjusted his legs and elbows until he felt stable. Chambering a round, he surveyed the area with his scope. He studied the Japanese patrols around the perimeter of the airfield and the machinegun positions. He found each of his team members and checked on their progress.

Davis was planting an explosive device on what looked like the officer’s quarters. He wondered if the pilots were still in their quarters or in the command post being briefed by their commander. He imagined the later and decided that is where he would focus his attention once the first explosion went off. That was the team’s cue to begin the attack – the first explosion.

Granier could feel his legs throbbing from the night’s journey. If they cramped, he would be in trouble. He would not be able to hang on. It was a long drop to the forest floor. But what worried him even more were the muscle tremors. Even the slightest tremor could throw his aim off. Water will help, he thought. He took his canteen from his belt, opened it, drank two swallows and put it back.

It was calm, even peaceful, as he waited. He had no real idea when the first explosion would occur. Davis didn’t like mechanical timers. He preferred a chemical reaction to ignite his detonators. Mechanisms could malfunction or even jam. Chemicals were more reliable. The problem was that he couldn’t set everything to go off at the same time with pencil detonators. It was a tradeoff – reliability against timing. Davis chose reliability. It didn’t make sense to Granier, but he wasn’t an explosives expert and had to defer to Davis. Davis and Spitting Woman were still planting devices, so Granier thought it must not be time yet. All he could do was wait.

He used the time to see how the other team members were doing. His snipers were in place and ready, each aiming at a machinegunner as they had been taught – gunner, feeder, loader – that was the order of execution. Execution, he thought. It sounds criminal. Assassination’s not much better. It don’t matter. I do my job. Dead is dead. The Viet Minh sapper had placed his last device and was moving to his firing position near the edge of the forest. Good, thought Granier. Just like an orchestra – everybody up and ready to begin. He moved his scope over to find Davis. He found him next to a Showa transportation plane rigging an explosive charge on its front landing gear. Spitting Woman wasn’t beside him. A slight panic tweaked his nervous system. Where is she? He looked around the area and spotted a guard moving toward the area. “Shit,” said Granier to himself. “Where the hell are you?”

He kept looking through his scope, searching for Spitting Woman, moving from place to place. He found her squatting next to a supply truck. “Oh, thank, God,” said Granier, relieved.

Spitting Woman was facing Davis and not keeping watch on the area behind her. Granier moved his scope back to where the guard was patrolling. He was gone. “Fuck,” he said, moving his scope around, searching for the soldier.

He found him just a few feet from the back of the supply truck, he hadn’t seen Spitting Woman yet, but it was just a matter of time. Granier put his scope’s sight on the Japanese guard’s left temple. Everything seemed to be going so well and now it was falling apart. If he fired and killed the guard, it would warn the Japanese, including the pilots. They might not get caught in the explosion. But Granier didn’t have a choice. It wasn’t even a matter of choosing between Spitting Woman and the mission. The guard’s rifle shot would have the same effect of warning the other Japanese soldiers. Granier would take the first shot if it came to it. His line of sight was clear. He wouldn’t miss.

The guard approached the end of the truck and stopped. He took out a cigarette and lit it. “Come on, girl. Smell the smoke,” said Granier watching through his scope.

Davis finished planting the device on the nose gear of the plane and glanced at his watch. He was out of time. He motioned to Spitting Woman to follow him as they moved toward their firing position, a safe distance from the explosions. Spitting Woman moved, her feet crunched against the gravel. The guard heard the noise, unslung his rifle, and moved around the truck. He saw her. He had only raised his rifle two inches before Granier put a bullet through his head and he fell to the ground.

The Japanese were alerted, and the rest of the saboteur team opened fire. The machinegunners both went down with bullets through their skulls.

Granier was no longer concerned with Davis and Spitting Woman. They could take care of themselves now that the assault had begun. Instead, he swung his scope around to where he thought the pilots would appear – the doorway of the command post. He was right. The commander and the pilots ran out. The commander ordered them to their planes and barked orders to the other soldiers. Granier put a bullet in his head. He fell dead. The pilots started running for their planes. The building exploded from Davis’ first device. Piece of wood flew in all directions. One of the pilots was caught in the ball of flame and his uniform ignited. Another pilot screamed in shock as he looked down. A two-foot-long wooden shard had speared him in the side. “Two down,” said Granier sighting a third, pulling the trigger, and watching him fall. “Three.”

The surviving pilots regained their footing and ran toward their planes, yelling for the ground crews to start their engines.

The crew members ran to each plane and fired up their engines. As the first pilot approached the tail of the first plane, Granier put him face down in the dirt with a bullet to the back of his head. “Four.”

Granier swung over to the last two pilots. He sighted the first one to reach his plane. The pilot climbed onto the wing and slipped just as Granier fired. The bullet zinged over his head and ricocheted off the rotating propeller. “Shit,” said Granier, again taking aim.

The second bullet didn’t miss. The front of the pilot’s uniform exploded in red as the bullet traveled through his body and exited on the left side of his chest. He fell to the wing and tumbled to the ground.

Granier swung his rifle around searching for the final pilot. He found him with one foot already in the cockpit. He centered his sight on his back and fired just as the pilot dropped into his seat. The bullet smashed through the front windshield missing the pilot’s shoulder by an inch. It was a rushed shot. Granier realigned his sight to fire through the cockpit and hit the back of the pilot’s head, but the plane’s canopy support blocked his shot. “God, damn it,” said Granier.

He fired anyway, hoping it would go through the windshield and the support. The bullet made it through the back of the windshield but was stopped by the metal support. The plane started to move. “No. No. No,” said Granier slinging his rifle onto his back, climbing down the tree, jumping the last ten feet, landing, falling forward to not damage his weapon. He rose to his feet and ran toward the runway.

Spitting Woman saw Granier break from the cover of the trees. She looked around and saw two Japanese soldiers directly in Granier’s path, bringing their rifles around to shoot him. She took aim and fired. The bullet hit one of the soldiers in the shoulder and sent him to the ground. But Granier was almost upon them. There wasn’t any time. She took aim at the second and fired again. She missed.

The Japanese soldier fired at Granier, who was running straight at him like a charging bull. The bullet hit Granier on the side of the neck and sliced through his flesh. Blood ran down the side of his neck, but it didn’t stop him. He used his sniper rifle barrel to knock the soldier’s rifle aside, then hit the soldier in the head with the butt of his rifle as he ran passed. The soldier fell, more surprised by the move than the glancing blow of the rifle butt. He quickly regained his senses and aimed at Granier’s back as he ran down the side of the runway. The soldier squeezed the trigger, but his head exploded before his weapon fired.

Spitting Woman didn’t miss the second time. Satisfied Granier was out of danger for the moment; she looked for another target.

One of the Viet Minh snipers was on his last member of the machinegun crew when the loader swung the machinegun around and fired a burst. It was a wild shot, but the stream of bullets took off the sniper’s head. The loader fired the machinegun at Spitting Woman and Davis until it jammed. He tried to clear it when Davis rose up from behind his covered position and shot him. He slumped over the machinegun’s hot barrel.

Another Japanese soldier, seeing what happened, aimed and shot Davis in the back. Davis went down, wounded, out of the fight. In the process of reloading his rifle, the sapper saw his instructor hit. Without waiting to reload, he sprang from his hidden firing position, ran out of the trees. The Japanese soldier saw the sapper advancing and swung his weapon around. It was too late. The sapper reached him before he could fire and hit him in the eye with the tip of his rifle barrel. The soldier screamed in pain. The sapper silenced him with his rifle’s butt.

Spitting Woman ran to Davis and tended to his back wound. It was painful and bleeding but not fatal. One of Davis’ ribs had stopped the bullet from piercing his lungs. The rib was broken, and it was hard for him to breath, but he would live. She put pressure on the wound and wrapped a bandage around him to stop the bleeding as Hoagland had taught her. She was not gentle, but she was fast. As soon as she thought he was okay, she picked her rifle back up and rejoined the fight.

Back on the runway, the Japanese pilot increased the throttle, and his plane picked up speed.

Granier ran down the side of the runway with every ounce of energy he had left in his body. He needed enough of an angle to hit the pilot through the windshield and avoid the metal support. He calculated how long it would take him to unsling his rifle, aim, and fire. He figured he might be able to fire twice before the plane took off. He unslung his rifle as he slowed, then stopped running. He brought his rifle around and aimed with the iron sight, not the scope. The scope would take too long to align. He needed two rapid shots. He saw the edge of the pilot’s face and aligned his sight, giving the target a slight lead to compensate for the forward motion. He squeezed the trigger, and his rifle fired. He saw the empty clip flip into the air. His gun was out of ammunition. He had lost count in all the commotion. A rooky mistake. He frantically reached for another clip and reloaded. But it was too late; he had lost the angle. He was crestfallen as he watched the plane’s wheels lift off. It was gone.

The plane took a sudden dive, and its wheels banged down on the ground again. The tail of the plane rose into the air. The propeller dug into the ground. The Zero flipped up into the air, turning end over end, smashing down again on the cockpit, exploding in flames as one of the wing tanks ignited.

“YES,” screamed Granier pumping his fist in the air.

The plane’s two bombs detonated in secondary explosions blowing the remains of the plane to pieces. Granier dove to the ground as the plane’s left wheel and landing gear flew past him, barely missing his head.

 

Seeing Granier down the runway waving at her, Spitting Woman broke off her attack, slung her rifle, put her arm around David and helped him retreat into the woods. The surviving Viet Minh sniper provided covering fire as the sapper threw grenades into the open cockpits of the remaining Zeros, destroying them. They retreated together, disappearing into the woods.

 

Without an officer to lead them, the surviving Japanese soldiers had no interest in pursuing the saboteurs. Their commander was dead, they had dozens of wounded, and their entire airbase was on fire. They were beyond demoralized. They tended to their wounded and saved what they could from the flames.

 

Granier was the last to leave the airfield. He couldn’t believe his plan had worked. But it had. He disappeared into the safety of the trees and rendezvoused with the surviving team members. They would find a safe place to rest. Their bodies had given all. They would sleep for several hours and tend to Davis’ wound the best they could before heading back to the Viet Minh camp.

 

 

Two days later the sabotage team arrived back in the Viet Minh camp. They were relieved to find that no ground attack had occurred. The Viet Minh and the Americans were safe for the time being. As a precautionary measure, Ho had ordered the camp to move to another location five miles away. It would be a gradual move, and they would be careful to cover their tracks. In the meantime, Giap had ordered the patrols around the camp doubled and the scouts to perform long-range reconnaissance of the surrounding mountains and forests. He wanted plenty of warning if a Japanese force was encountered.

The members of the team were surprised to find that the Viet Minh sapper that they had left in the forest had made it back and his ankle was recovering well.

 

Hoagland tended to Davis’ wound and reported his status to Dewey. “We should get Davis to a hospital as soon as possible,” said Hoagland.

“That bad?” said Dewey.

“It’s hard to say. I removed any bullet fragments I could find and irrigated the wound. But the odds of infection are high.”

“Transporting a wounded man through Japanese lines is not going to be easy. He would probably be safer if he stayed put.”

“He could die.”

“He could just as easily die crossing the border.”

“Buck did it.”

“Buck didn’t have a wounded man in tow.”

“If I am going to tend to him, I’m going to need more medicine and a proper set of medical instruments to probe the wound more efficiently.”

“Of course. I’ll see to it personally.”

“And Davis is down for the count. He’s got to rest.”

“Yes. Yes. He’ll be missed, but we will do alright without him. What he and Buck did was quite extraordinary, wouldn’t you say?”

“They had help.”

“And I don’t want to take away from that. The Viet Minh did their duty, and then some, but it was our team members that led them. I’m thinking of recommending them both for a citation.”

“I’m sure they would appreciate it. God knows they deserve our gratitude. Any idea when the Viet Minh will move the camp?”

“Soon, I hope. It’s not easy moving three thousand people through the forest without being detected.”

“Three thousand?”

“Their little army is growing by the day. Giap says we could have as many as fifteen hundred soldiers operational by the end of the month.”

“That’ll put a dent in the Japanese supply lines.”

“I should hope so. We’re getting a lot of pressure from HQ to step up our raids and take some of the burden off the Chinese forces. The Japs have been very aggressive.”

“They’re spending a lot of resources supporting the Viet Minh. I’m sure they want to get their money’s worth.”

“Exactly.”

 

The Viet Minh mourned their losses. The two soldiers that died during the mission were heroes and would be remembered by their families every year with a visit to their gravesites.