5

March 1974: Northeast Laos: Shortly after midnight on Saturday, 16 March, the Tai Dam Major noticed that his men were straggling. He called a halt and ordered them to take out of their packs the string they had used on the way down to Ban Ban and to tie it onto their neighbour’s rear pack strap. The man behind could catch hold of the piece hanging from the man in front of him as they continued their walk in the dark. It was only when he was inspecting them that he found out that one man was missing. He called out softly, hoping to attract the missing man’s attention: asleep or relieving nature perhaps. He shone his torch on the side of the road where they had rested, but to no avail. The missing man was none other than he who had felt the brunt of Vong’s rage soon after dawn the day before. On questioning the rest of the men, no one knew when or where he had given them the slip. He had certainly been with them during the earlier part of the night.

Basic doctrine in armies modelled on French traditions is short of sympathy with both minor and major offenders against military discipline. Even in non-Christian forces, there is the equivalent of the Eleventh Commandment, ‘Thou shalt not be found out’. It was hardly surprising that Vong’s violent outburst had had no further attention paid to it by anybody, including the escort commander. Only the aggrieved man brooded. In his case, as a proud and mercurial Meo, his dignity had been hurt. He had risked his life for someone he did not know by going into country dominated by those filthy Viets, endangered his in-laws, and the only thanks he got was being insulted in front of the others by someone who was virtually a Viet himself, to say nothing of the unknown man from the camp. Sulking, but with no fixed purpose than to get his own back on Vong, he had decided to return to his relatives. He was fed up with the discomfort and danger. He had slipped off at a wayside hut and had decided to lie up there for the rest of the night. The others, lost in the rhythmic trudge of wearied march, had failed to notice.

Vong could only do one of three things: retrace his footsteps looking for the man, stay where he was in the hope that the man caught up with them or continue. Whichever way he reacted, there were disadvantages. My top priority, the whole purpose of this demanding mission, is to get Mana back.Which course of action will least put my aim at risk?, he asked himself. The missing man knew his way back to Bouam Long and to his relatives. His presence in the group, though of use, was not now essential as it had undoubtedly been on the way out. Were any follow-up party to meet him, it could prove most unhealthy for them.

‘We’ll continue without him,’ Vong decided. ‘Let’s get moving. Probably catch us up before long. Knows where we’re heading for.’

If, Vong bleakly thought, the man had not appeared by dawn, he’d have to reconsider the return route. They trudged on in the dark.

 

For the doctors and inquisitors in Ban Ban, Saturday, 16 March, started before dawn. The four patients had been given mild medication and some light food to settle them down for the rest of the night and an armed sentry had sat on a chair in the passage of the isolation ward. Unusually, the generator had also been kept running. Nothing abnormal happened, much to everyone’s relief.

The men from Hanoi had decided that a soft approach was better than a hard one at this stage of the proceedings. Being heavy-handed was not something that either doctor liked and, until a full medical check could be made, was deemed out of the question.

One group went to Tâ’s room, woke him, briefly looked at him and told him to go and freshen himself up by washing his face under the tap. This he did. On his return, an orderly brought some tea and the questioning began, the doctor talking and the inquisitor taking notes.

‘Comrade Dr. Tanh Bên Lòng. How did you get here?’

‘Comrade. You tell me. I don’t know where I am. You live here. I don’t. I go and see people all over the place. I could be anywhere.’

The doctor told him that he was in Ban Ban but the information did not have any visible effect, so he reverted to the previous line. ‘People? What sort of people do you go and see? Can you tell me a little more about them?’ and he re-filled Tâ’s cup.

‘Well, people who want to see me.’ The doctor and the inquisitor’s glances met. ‘I’ve met so many of them. I try to give them advice on their health.’

‘Are you a doctor, then? Have you studied medicine?’

‘Maybe. I have a great interest in that subject, especially in people who lose their minds. I keep on asking who did this to me,’ and he pulled his clothes up and showed them his chest-wound scar. ‘I got a bullet here and bumped my head at the same time. I felt that other people too could have pains and, when mine hurt no longer, perhaps I could help them with theirs.’

‘When did this happen to you? It looks more than a year old.’

‘I expect it is. It seems a long time ago but it hasn’t always been there.’

The neurologist changed the subject. ‘Who brought you here? I can’t imagine you came on your own. Can you remember who came with you?’

‘You brought me here, didn’t you? Some kind man, or were there more, brought me to the camp. Said that there was a hospital and a doctor. I suppose that this is the hospital and you two are doctors?’

The doctor from Hanoi again changed tack. The man spoke lucidly and yet he could be shamming. ‘Tell me, do you know anyone by the name of Mana Varamit?’

‘Mana Varamit? That sounds like a Thai name. Has he been hurt also?’

‘Yes, he was hurt looking for someone called Tâ Tran Quán. We’re looking for Mana. We came here expecting to find him but found you here instead.’

So he had got away, it seemed. ‘I can’t say that I can put a face to the name but somehow the other name you mentioned is familiar. Were they both hurt? Like this?’ and he pointed first to his chest, then to his leg.

‘No. We know that he was hit in the head and was suffering from a loss of memory. That was over a year ago also. Strange if yours happened at the same time.’

That was too near the mark for comfort. ‘Oh, that is unfortunate. I find I sometimes lose mine. Wake up sometimes and wonder where I got my sore feet from.’ He laughed. ‘I’ve never woken up quite like this before,’ and waved his hand around him.

‘Not even when you were wounded? You must have been looked after and treated by somebody somewhere.’

‘Not in such a small place as this. No, I can’t remember. I seem to recollect it was on a hill. I’ll tell you when my mind clears.’ He bent forward to examine his blistered feet. ‘Need a thorough wash. I’d like a shower and some more clothes. Feel itchy.’ He grimaced and straightened up.

‘Do you know Le Dâng Khoã?’

It was lucky that his face was in an unnatural scowl and his body was moving as the question was asked. Gave him just enough time to hide his surprise.

‘What’s that, Comrade? Who? Le who was it?’

‘I said ‘Le Dâng Khoã’.’

‘H’m. Like the other man you asked about, could well be but right now I can’t put a face to the name. I’m sorry if I appear bemused. If I do it’s because I am.’

While this conversation was being held, the CO and the Political Commissar had been called together into the room opposite to where Tâ was and they were explaining what had happened on the evening of the 14th. The CO, recovered almost completely, was relating how he had been called by the sentry and told that a Dr. Tanh Bên Lòng was waiting to see him. The doctor interrupted by saying that was the name of the man in the ward opposite. ‘Wait a sec while I check with my colleague and see if it is in order for you to meet him.’

He got up, leaving the inquisitor with them and went and tapped on the door opposite. It was opened and he said, ‘Excuse me, Comrade, but is your patient well enough to be spoken to by the CO and the Political Commissar?’

‘Yes. Why not? It could prove interesting. Bring them in and come yourself.’

The three of them came into the room and the CO and the Political Commissar stared at Tâ. The Political Commissar broke the silence that had temporarily descended. ‘Doctor, what on earth are you doing here? What did you do with Mana?’ The four men from Hanoi stiffened perceptibly. This was something new, something significant. Tâ felt this quickening of interest. ‘What happened to the other group? That man who said he left you undergoing your tests. The man who gave us that funny-tasting coffee. Don’t tell me that he laid you low too?’

Tâ looked happily around. ‘I don’t know anything about coffee but otherwise I’ve got it. Or rather some of it. I was walking down the road. Someone came and asked me if I would look at Mana Varamit and I went with him. You were at the gate, weren’t you? It was dark and nothing was distinct in the poor light of the hurricane lamps. Thank you for jogging my memory.’

‘But you said that your vehicle had broken down somewhere on the road,’ protested the Political Commissar, ‘and that you had walked the rest of the way, that you were a busy man, should have examined Mana earlier in the afternoon and I don’t know what else. You were most insistent and spoke with great authority, giving a whole lot of medical terms about the brain.’

Tâ again smiled. ‘That would certainly explain these blisters but doesn’t ring any bell otherwise,’ he said, but a little voice warned him that he was treading on dangerous ground. The less he could commit himself now, the easier it would be later.

‘Try hard and remember who was with you,’ interrupted one of the inquisitors. ‘Your memory is coming back even as you talk.’

‘I seem to remember hearing that before,’ Tâ observed sadly. ‘If I caused you any trouble, I’m terribly sorry. Maybe you weren’t hit in the chest. May I have my shower, please?’

The doctor conducting the interview was not anxious to allow him to go far on his own but a stand-up wash in the block would do no harm, besides which, he wanted to talk to the Deputy, so he gave Tâ permission and asked the staff for some clean kit to be produced.

With Tâ out of the room, the Political Commissar looked at the four men from Hanoi and said, ‘You know, I’ve seen him before. Long ago and probably in Sam Neua but it could have been in Hanoi. He talks Vietnamese like a Viet and a Hanoi Viet at that. I guess he’s one of those harmless shell-shocked fellows who are such a bore. I do wonder how he got muddled up in this nasty incident.’

None of the others felt it necessary to cap that remark so they went to see the Deputy, who had a large bump on his forehead and was hoarse but otherwise, apart from a headache, seemed physically well. There was no doubting his worry. When he saw his two superiors, he burst out with, ‘Oh Comrades. I did try and tell you about the fire after you didn’t come and help put it out. I feel to blame in not calling you earlier but I didn’t know you were ill.’

‘What fire?’ both asked, almost in unison. ‘What fire? Please explain yourself.’

What with the anxieties of the situation and the subsequent relief at finding the unconscious men seemingly better, no one had thought to mention the business of the fire and the damaged comcen. It clearly shook the two senior men rigid, making them speechless with chagrin and dismay. Even when Tâ came back from his wash, there was no denying his genuine astonishment at the information.

It was decided that the four men who had been admitted to the hospital should get ready to fly back north in the AN-2, provided there was room. The inquisitors were senior enough to take charge of affairs at Ban Ban temporarily. So the three camp officials were allowed back to their quarters to collect what kit they thought they would need. On rejoining the group in the mess room, the CO and the Political Commissar both mentioned that some of their papers were missing. Knowing the tight security regulations in force about not keeping sensitive material in places other than their office, they hastened to say that the papers were not of anything but a private nature. One of the doctors waited till his mouth was empty and said, ‘Oh yes. Let me show you what was taken from your pockets,’ and produced the two identical notes. ‘Don’t recognise the handwriting by any chance, do you?’

The documents were read through, the readers pursing their lips. ‘This is heresy,’ breathed the Political Commissar. ‘How dare anyone write this?’ Fury and hatred creased his face into an ugly mask. He automatically held it up to the light to see if there was an attributable watermark on it, but there was none.

The CO was equally hostile but more down-to-earth. ‘Bloody nonsense. Work of a nut-case.’ He looked at the offending bit of paper once more. ‘And what does “devotee of the rain drop” mean? How I’d like to get my hands on him!’ Injury plus insult had resulted in more than indignation.

 

Dawn on the old French road trace saw an exhausted group of men shuffling along in a westerly direction. As daylight seeped over the eastern mountains, Vong looked at the haggard faces and saw that they simply had to have a decent long and uninterrupted rest, preferably for twenty-four hours. It would mean that he could no longer afford to go back to Bouam Long by the easier, quicker way up the trace and so would have to use a harder, more circuitous route than he would have liked but he knew he had no alternative if he were to rest his men, and rest them he had to. He halted them.

‘Gather round and listen,’ he said. ‘You have done better than I ever expected and are indeed knackered. We are going to hide and lie up for the rest of today and tonight. It will need unusually careful preparation if we are going to do that in safety but it will not only save a sentry on full time but will also prevent follow-up parties from finding out where we are. After we’ve made camp and had a meal we’ll bed down. Provided no one has nightmares and yells in his sleep, we’ll be safe. Now, in order to achieve this, follow my directions in every, but every, detail. The safety or otherwise of this whole venture depends on everybody, every single body, making no mistakes.’

They had been walking parallel with a river that had swung into line with the trace at the top of the Ban Ban valley where it flowed down from a 7247-foot high mountain to their west. To its north was a saddle, about ten crow-flying miles from Bouam Long but, in broken country with dense jungle, was about twenty walking hours if, and it was a big if, they were not harassed and could conceal their tracks. Of course, they could force the pace but that would increase the risks. Vong had made his calculations: stay where the river debouched, lie up and on the following day, the 17th, reach the saddle and, fingers crossed as he had heard the Americans say, reach Bouam Long on the 19th. He would not alert them until he was sure that he had a reasonable chance of reaching them as stated. He had said that it would be the 17th or 18th when he would probably regain the enclave. One more day would make no difference. They’d be ready for them.

Vong made his men walk on the right of the road for fifty metres and cut an obvious path wide enough for a stretcher through some undergrowth as though they were a group moving north. They then walked backwards across the road to the edge of the undergrowth on the left of the road. There they moved forwards and parted the long grass with infinite care, treading delicately over it. The last man then teased it back, as best he could, into its original position. They reached the river, which was knee-deep, treading into the water from a large stone. This the last man washed with river water to erase any telltale marks. They waded upstream for a quarter of an hour when Vong decided to make camp just out of sight of the river on their left. Before leaving the river, Vong ordered all water bottles to be filled and then, treading on another conveniently placed stone, they got out of the water, the last man again washing the stone. The undergrowth was less dense, there being a thick jungle canopy above. In single file, they moved into the jungle where they would make a sheltered, overnight camp. Vong ordered two of his own men, not the escort, to collect the water bottles, empty their contents into a waterproof container, empty their packs, put the empty water bottles in them, return to the river, refill them and bring them back in their packs. On their way back towards the river they were to uproot any small saplings they came across, up to as many as either man could carry and, on the return journey, treading on exactly the same ground as the main group had trodden on, plant, as living camouflage, the saplings they had uprooted. This should have the effect of making the camp site invisible from that direction. Whilst this was being carried out, Vong beckoned to the escort commander and told him to start preparing camp. Rudimentary shelters only were to be put up and great care was to be exercised in his group not moving out of the small area chosen. Cooking could begin but, for goodness sake, try to keep smoke to a minimum. He also ordered the radio operator to prepare his radio. Mana watched what was going on with intense interest. When the dipole had been erected, the set being the kind that had to be netted in, Vong put on the earphones, told the signaller to take out the Morse key and go through the motions of sending a tuning call. Vong wrote on a page of his note book, ‘Don’t open up. Only pretend to.’ Vong took his headset off, gave a wink to the ‘executioner’ who, unbeknownst to Mana had been his shadow since Ban Ban, and went and sat down by the Thai.

‘You may wonder at these precautions,’ he remarked chattily. ‘I didn’t say so earlier on but when I made contact with Sam Neua, they told me to lie low here and contact them at about this time. I’ll let you know what messages they pass back.’

After ten minutes Vong went over to the radio operator, made as though he had read a message and came back to Mana as the two men returned from planting the living camouflage and with more water. ‘Done just what you wanted,’ they said. Vong nodded back.

‘Sam Neua has sent a message saying that there is reason to believe that the imperialists are once more breaking the ceasefire protocols. The AN-2 yesterday reported suspicious movement to our north and whilst headquarters are sending some comrades to investigate, they want us to keep well clear of any action they may take and to avoid leaving any trails that the mercenary feudalists could follow up, however remote and fanciful that possibility be. To that end, I have reported our position. Sam Neua is happy to know we are on our way and safe, albeit tired, sends you fraternal greetings and hopes to see you in three days’ time. The message sender trusts that you have the stamina, devotion and fortitude to emerge victorious. I said that you had. I have now been told to close down.’

Mana Varamit, exhausted by his night-long exertions, slowly took it in as he stared at Vong. Lucid, though bemused by so much unusual activity, he said, ‘Comrade, I am proud to belong to such an organisation. I am scared lest the imperialists drag me back, however remote the possibility is, as you say. We are only a small group. What do we do if we are attacked during our stay here?’

‘Don’t worry, Mana,’ Vong replied gravely. ‘This comrade here will be tied to you all the time to give you comfort. He will guide you to safety under every difficulty,’ silently adding, and may the Lord have mercy on your soul.

 

On Saturday morning the AN-2, pre-positioned overnight at Office 95, had an early getaway as there was little mist. It carried a full load of technicians, advisers, inquisitors and a new radio set. These men were to stay in Ban Ban until further notice, take over various camp duties, examine any and everything that came their way. The mystery had to be solved. The plane flew low, at about 500 feet above the ground, following the line of Route 61.

Down on the ground and walking down the old French road trace, the man who had decided to go back to his relatives rather than stay with Vong, heard an aeroplane coming his way before he saw it over to his left, low down and heading south. It somehow annoyed him. Gesticulating wildly at it like a frustrated child would wave its arms in fury when something it wanted was removed, he spent some of his pent-up fury and frustration as it flew on out of sight.

In the plane the two advisers had a pair of binoculars and a map, and they probed the countryside as they flew over it. Still some way from the Ban Ban strip, over to the starboard side, one of them saw a man waving his arms vigorously, almost abnormally so. He looked at his map, made a note of the place and time, and checked that the other adviser, sitting behind him, had also noticed it. The place noted would be given to the pilot after landing and the pilot told to fly back up, part of the way at least, over the old French trace. Might pick up something. The plane droned on.

The AN-2 this time flew as far as Ban Ban camp and circled around it. The ugly black patch where the comcen had been was highly visible. Figures came running out and the pilot, with a message already written and put into the highly-coloured, lead-weighted cloth streamer, threw it out of the window as he made a lower than normal circuit over the mess compound near the bend in the river. The long streamer fluttered prettily as it quickly fell and was equally quickly retrieved by willing hands. The message merely said, ‘Send any man you believe needs sending, along with the Hanoi doctors, up to a total of ten non-stretcher cases, to the airstrip now. We will be waiting for you.’

The AN-2 flew off, made its landing and waited. Those destined for Ban Ban got out and the men who had noticed the person waving in the distance told the pilot to fly back that way, certainly to the top of the valley where the trace and river joined, keeping a good look out for anything unusual.

Surprisingly quickly a vehicle arrived from the camp bearing a different-looking lot of men. Apart from the two doctors, there were four others, three looking most upset and worried, especially the one with a large swelling on his forehead. The fourth looked blank.

The pilot asked for, and was given, a list of names. Once airborne, he flew almost at tree level along the trace until he came to the point where the river debouched from the jungle-clad hills and ran parallel with the old road. As he pulled his plane sharply to the right, he thought he saw a fresh cutting on the north side of the road. He made a mental note as he regained height and, seconds later, started sending a message to control. ‘Item one: CO, Political Commissar, Deputy, of Ban Ban camp, on board, all suffering from shock. Mana Varamit not, repeat not, on plane. Tanh Bên Lòng, also suffering from shock, on board. Doctors request four beds made available, separated. Item two: suspicious person seen on French trace at UG 4476 and new cutting observed on road side at UG 4278. Suggest investigate. Inform Comrade Nga. Message ends.’

 

Down on the ground, Vong and his men were thankfully making themselves comfortable for a long sleep. They had had their meal and, with enough water in the container, washed up in the camp site. They had arranged their weapons and packs near them so they could bug out with their basic essentials if necessary. Similarly the radio had been packed up. A little north of their camp, an aircraft, with devastating suddenness, roared along at tree-top level. As one man, they sat up, utterly stunned. They looked through the trees up at the sky as though expecting to see the plane still overhead malevolently glaring down at them like some giant bird, then at each other, then at Vong.

As the noise receded, Vong answered their unspoken thoughts. ‘It may just be a coincidence. Our absent friend won’t have had time to make any mischief for us yet. That plane was on a recon but it was flying too fast to see us. We could almost have predicted it but not quite. I am confident that we shall be safe enough here until early tomorrow morning. We have taken every possible precaution. What we need now is to regain our strength. So go to sleep and stop worrying.’ He hoped that he had been enigmatic enough to have allayed any doubts Mana might have had.

To show the others that he meant what he said, he lay back, closed his eyes and, Asian-fashion, pulled the light piece of cloth that did for a sheet up over his head.

 

Before the AN-2 had gone much farther, the crackling voice of control came over the headset. ‘Go back and alert Ban Ban camp of your observations, order a search party out up as far as northern grid reference and similar distance up Route 61. To use unit transport. Order set taken this morning open to confirm orders received. Revert to own task after recon mission complete.’

The pilot leaned forwards and turned his compass dial 180º, acknowledging his orders as he did. The passengers looked at each other wonderingly as the plane suddenly turned sharply back on its tracks. They’ve seen something of great importance, thought Tâ. I hope to goodness Mana hasn’t given Vong the slip or something equally disastrous has happened. He tried not to imagine the worst.

The pilot ordered the copilot to prepare another streamer as he wrote the new message. Back over Ban Ban camp he brought his machine into as tight a turn as he dared and, when he saw people were looking up at him, dropped the second streamer. Once more round and they waved to him that they had picked it up. He readjusted his compass bearing on a course that would take him to Office 95 and reported ‘mission complete and message passed’. ‘Don’t usually act as fast as this,’ he said to his copilot. ‘Must be something big they’re after. Pity the poor bastards when they catch them. I wonder if it’s anything to with the jokers we’ve got with us.’

 

In Ban Ban, the senior inquisitor read the message. ‘This could mean we are in business,’ he said, giving out warning orders to have two squads of men, Group A and Group B, prepared and the two drivers alerted. ‘Be ready to move at 1130 hours. Squad commanders to meet me at the camp entrance. Each squad to carry three days’ rations.’ He looked at the map in the CO’s office which he had taken over. ‘Looks like Bouam Long,’ he remarked to his colleague. ‘If so, they are playing for high stakes. What sort of game is worth such an effort?’

 

The AN-2 landed at the strip near Office 95. A small group was there to meet it, a senior cadre of the Office 95 staff to escort the doctors to Comrade Nga Sô Lựự and staff from the hospital to take charge of the four from Ban Ban camp. The two Hanoi doctors overrode the urgency of the cadre’s pleas and insisted on personally handing the four over to the hospital staff there, with specific orders as to what needed doing and details of what had been done so far. Then and only then did they leave for Comrade Nga Sô Lựự’s office where they were closeted with him for a long time. At the end, the Political Commissar thanked them for what they had done, apologised for having put them into such an uncomfortable and inexplicable situation, ordered the AN-2 to fly them back to Hanoi and entertained them with light refreshments until their departure. He even went to the airstrip to bid them farewell. Inside he was fuming.

He returned to his office deep in thought and sat there, several questions churning through his head: how? who? why? whence? There were no obvious clues to the identity of the masqueraders. The name Tanh Bên Lòng was unknown to him but even so, a tiny bell chimed – where had he heard the name before? According to the report the inquisitors had prepared the day before and which he had read with great attention, they certainly seemed to be genuine members of the Lao Patriotic Front or the ‘elder brothers’ attached to it; dress, language, no document gave any cause for concern. But why, just then, kidnap Mana? – he presumed that Mana had been absconded. The timing; was it pure coincidence? The notes found in the two men’s pocket; identical, revealed a faint clue. He knew it referred to a South Vietnamese pop song, anti-war and banned by the Saigon regime. Although he would never admit it, he knew the words and he recalled them now, squirming as he did, eyes flashing blacker than normal:

 

The rain on the leaves is the tears of joy of the girl whose boy returns from the war;

Is the bitter tears when the mother hears her son is no more …[1]

 

and fifteen more poppycock verses. Was the writer trying to blame the north for the war? If the writer’s group was from the north would they have known the song in the first place? Just suppose that they were from central Vietnam, from the Highlands, west of Hué, they’d have had one hell of a long walk. No, highly unlikely. If they were from the south, could they have come up from the enclave at Kong Mi? Far too far. The nearest enclave was Bouam Long: that was much more likely from an infiltrator’s point of view. Was the waving man a clue there? But the stranger: according to the CO and the Political Commissar’s statements, he originally said he was a doctor but this was neither substantiated nor properly denied in the neurologist’s report. Time for a break. Time for a stroll to stretch his legs. Time to visit the hospital. He’d have a look at the stranger without his knowing. He went across and asked where Dr. Tanh Bên Lòng was. His mind reeled when he recognised Tâ Tran Quán – back from the dead.

 

One group of soldiers with an inquisitor, Group A, moved up the bumpy, grassy trace, weapons at the ready, and the other lot, Group B, also with an inquisitor, moved up Route 61. About the time they moved off, the new radio had been erected, communications re-established and news of the search parties’ moves was passed.

Group A’s move up the trace was slow and uneventful. Relations between the enclave and farther south had been completely disrupted during the fighting and had not improved much since the ceasefire. The Meo, with an admirable disregard for political niceties, had kept some contact between the two communities but strictly on a personal basis. This was tolerated by Authority in that they could not prevent it.

The man in the front seat with the driver kept the map open on his knees and glanced at it from time to time. Navigation was no problem; he had to observe where the river and the trace started running in parallel and tell the driver when to stop. They would then debus and start searching. The lads in the back of the vehicle were excited and anxious to get to grips with whoever was responsible for the attack against their camp, as they saw it.

When the navigator judged they were about to reach their debussing point, he told the driver to drive more slowly. ‘Driver, halt here. Out you get, lads. Remember what I’ve told you. Shake out. Don’t bunch so present a target. Eyes skinned. Come on,’ and, staying on the right of the road, they moved slowly forward.

‘Comrades! Have a look at this!’ A bright young lad who was leading scout pointed at some undergrowth that had recently been cut. They forgot their commander’s words and bunched around to have a good look thus effectively erasing any other telltale marks that there might have been. The young lad put his right forefinger on a piece of the cut foliage and felt it. ‘Almost dry but there is not much loss of colour. That’ll be this morning’s work. Movement going north, I’d say.’

‘Well done,’ praised the inquisitor. ‘That’s a great find. Any more traces? Continue east for just a bit, lads, and see if you can pick anything up.’

They searched around but found nothing suspicious. Disappointed, they gathered by the road side. Their find had given their search an added impetus.

‘Don’t think that was a false trail, do you?’ one of the soldiers asked. ‘Would it be worth looking on the left of the road as well?’

They crossed over and viewed the undergrowth, behind which was thick jungle, alive with insect noises yet mightily still.

‘Not much chance, I’d have thought in that lot,’ observed another man. ‘Nothing looks as though it has been disturbed, let along cut.’

‘Well, there’s time enough to go and see,’ retorted the inquisitor tartly who, despite his inquisitorial skill, was not hot on jungle lore but did not want to show it. ‘We’ll divide ourselves in two, go to the river and, keeping in sight, move up each side of it. That’ll pick ’em up if they’ve been that way. Up for about twenty minutes and then straight back to the vehicle if we’ve found nothing. If we come across them, we’ll try and capture them. If we find tracks, we’ll try and follow them.’

It was not much of a plan but it did show some initiative. They deployed and moved up both sides of the river.

 

Vong woke up. He looked at his watch. 4 o’clock. He stretched and looked around him. The others were dead to the world. Time to raise them, get some more water, cook a meal and then get settled before dark. No noise, except for the faint eternal background threnody of a myriad insects. Suddenly a long-tailed tit flew by, followed by another, darting between the trees from the direction of the river. He glanced at them curiously. A woodpecker flew by, also from the river, followed by smaller birds. A sixth sense of danger alerted him. Something was putting the birds into a state of alarm. Man or animal? Bird life was one of the things a person lying in ambush always heeded. He picked up his weapon and cautiously moved back down the line of approach to the camp from the river until he could see the water. He gasped as he saw a PL soldier, then a second, third and a fourth. They came along the river bank from the direction of the road. He froze and held his breath as he saw first one then the next look at the undergrowth where he had his two men plant living camouflage. They continued upstream and he breathed out in silent relief as the last man passed out of sight. Stay here a bit longer. Don’t move yet. Keep still. He merged even closer into some shadow, obscured by a small bush.

A few minutes later, he heard a shout, answered by one slightly fainter. He tensed and braced himself to get back to the others like greased lightening should he have to. He saw the four men return, moving quicker and less carefully this time. The rear man stopped opposite Vong and shouted something that sounded like, ‘Bor mi khon chon thi ni,’ reporting, in Lao, that there were no bandits there to someone on the other side of the river, before passing out of sight. Even then, Vong did not move until he just heard the noise of a vehicle revving up.

He rejoined the others, most of whom were stirring. Mana was still asleep so, before arousing him, Vong got the rest together and told them what had happened. ‘Next time, don’t grumble. Have you never heard that “sweat saves blood”?’

Cutting the undergrowth on the right of the road might have been an act of folly: camouflaging their tracks so well on the left of the road was the mark of a truly experienced craftsman. Vong would never know how safe he would have been had he not done as he had, yet the joker in the pack, the aggrieved man, was still a threat.

 

Group B had not had such an exciting time but it was more positive. They had driven to the village clinic, gone inside and, after a few minutes’ questioning, discovered that on the night of the fire someone had alerted the village to put a roadblock some distance farther up the road. It was thought that the Chao Ban could give them specific details so the squad jumped into their vehicle and drove up the road, taking a local man with them, until they were at a point nearest where the Chao Ban lived. Half of them debussed and moved down the track till they reached his house and the other half were ordered to continue to drive up the road, beyond the airstrip, to make sure there was no broken-down vehicle on the road.

The man who went into the village called to the headman who appeared on the verandah. ‘Come on down, Chao Ban,’ the inquisitor said. ‘I was expecting you,’ answered the headman, ill-concealing his contempt at the peremptory command.

He slowly came down the notched tree trunk that served as a ladder into his house and introduced himself. As he did, he noticed that the soldiers were Lao youths, but that the leader was an ‘elder brother’.

‘You say you were expecting me, Comrade?’

‘Yes, indeed. After the fire on Thursday night, I felt that something had gone wrong but there were no means of telling. I still don’t know the ins and outs of it. It seems that some poor demented fellow put a match to one of the buildings.’

‘Have you been to the camp to tell them what you found out?’

‘No, Comrade. There was no need to.’

‘But why on earth not? Surely a man in your position must know that you have to report everything suspicious? You don’t often neglect your duties like this, I hope.’

The Lao headman gave the inquisitor a withering look then answered with cold disdain. ‘If you would only let me finish giving my answer instead of interrupting, there would have been no need to have accused me falsely. Listen. After I had put the roadblock in position, I was visited by a cadre. Dressed like you are as far as I could tell in the dark – no, it wasn’t you, was it?’ the headman asked with a wicked grin of mockery.

‘No, no. Of course it wasn’t, otherwise I wouldn’t be asking you these questions.’

‘Well, this comrade told me I had done well in erecting a roadblock. He was almost sure that the crazed man who was the arsonist was lurking nearer the camp than as far afield as here, so, if nobody came by noon on the 15th, that’s yesterday,’ he said, rather proudly using the only calendar that the ‘elder brother’ easily understood, ‘then there’d be no need to mention it further. Do you see my point?’

Ignoring that last question, the inquisitor asked, ‘What else did he tell you?’

‘He thought that the crazed man would try to get to Sam Neua. Got a grudge, I gather. The cadre took his men away. Said he was going to search to the east and alert the villagers. That’s the last I saw of him.’

‘How many men were with him?’

‘Let me see. He himself, then there was a guide who’d brought him to see me and two was it or one other. I’m sorry but I’ve been running around a bit and had my mind on other matters.’

‘You can’t tell me anything else about him? Did he wear a pack, was he armed, did he speak with any regional accent?’

‘Comrade. You don’t seem to understand that I have told you everything I know. Unless otherwise briefed, I’ll have forgotten what you looked like by this time tomorrow.’

And with that, the inquisitor had to be satisfied. By the time they got back to the road, their vehicle had just returned from its search for any broken-down transport. No, there was nothing they could find. Repaired and returned to its base was the general verdict. They returned to Ban Ban camp.

That evening a suitable message was sent to Office 95 concerning the day’s activities. What little there was pointed eastwards but there was nothing conclusive.

 

Nga Sô Lựự came to his decision deliberately and methodically. Being in a position of great trust and influence, he wielded equally great power, both directly and indirectly. He had remembered Thong Damdouane’s report, he had taken the message passed to him by the pilot to the inquisitors and now the result of the pilot’s own observations – nothing definite enough to be acted on but much too much to be ignored. Certainly there were straws in the wind but, as yet, the wind was a bit too variable for exact diagnosis. He had chosen to ignore an intercepted message about moving south because there was a PL unit on the river junction to the south of and near Ban Ban and they had certainly made no report, and the river junction that, time and space-wise could have been the one referred to, was to the east, not south. He doubted if there would be any more from that direction. Despite nothing definite, everything pointed to Bouam Long as the base for launching the operation but yet, if it were a straightforward case of kidnapping Mana – and that was how he was treating it – whoever thought of it had to be sure enough of his facts and desperate enough to mount such an adventure. His top priority now was to get a large search operation under way immediately. The area requiring investigating was, initially, from Ban Ban up the axis of the old French trace, then north to the saddle north of point 7247, east until Route 61 was met, then due south to the River Man. Duration? Certainly no less than four days. He sent a top priority request to the military headquarters at Sam Neua and Hanoi for such deployment giving a brief justification. Accordingly, 31 Division and 588 Transportation Regiment, NVA, and some PL units were alerted for a move, details later, as soon as possible after first light the next day, 17 March.

Nga Sô Lựự then turned his mind to the extraordinary reappearance of Tâ Tran Quán. That needed much thought and research before the whole story could be laid bare. He would send a report that Comrade Tâ Tran Quán had been retrieved and was currently under medical observation and that Comrade Mana Varamit was missing, believed escaped during the fire in Ban Ban camp. He called for the personal dossiers of the four men who had so strangely been stricken down that night in the camp to see if there was a common thread.

He did not waste much time on the three permanents. He refreshed his memory and sent for an inquisitor to comb through them for any deviation, not that he expected any to be found. He then turned to Tâ Tran Quán’s: everything normal until that day, 18 November 1972, when there was that attempt to bring Mana Varamit over. He made a note of the NVA company commander and, having rung his table bell for an orderly, sent as urgent message to try and locate him and get him to report to Officer 95 as quickly as possible.

That done, he asked for Mana Varamit’s file. There had always been something in it that had troubled him, something that did not ring true, or, if it did, he could not understand it. The file was a thick one and it took him a while to find what he was looking for. Once he located it, he glanced at his watch and started to read. It was, initially, routine reporting, low level stuff and then the bit he had never understood: ‘… there are four days that are a potential danger … four days could be enough to play havoc with our Cause … it will be easy for these four days to pass by unnoticed unless they are previously identified…when we meet I will tell you which four days need to be guarded against …’ Nga Sô Lựự was not a man who held any belief in zodiacs, horoscopes or almanacs nor was he a man who liked to get himself in a position to be mocked and so he had accepted the reports at face value and had been getting more and more impatient to have Mana reveal what to him meant something, meant a lot, but to the Political Commissar in Office 95 meant nothing. And now, on the eve of hearing if Mana Varamit could be made to remember what he had meant, he was lost. He closed the file with a long sigh. These now surely weren’t the four days Mana had referred to? Wait till he got his hands on those responsible … Although he knew his nickname was ‘the Black-eyed Butcher’ – which he loathed – he knew that he had not earned it in vain.

 

Vong roused his group at dawn on Sunday, the 17th, and struck camp as soon as it was fully light. The men were refreshed but stiff, thankful that they had escaped detection. They had used up considerable reserves of strength and were sluggish.

Before moving off certain precautions had to be taken. Some signs of temporary occupation could not be hidden but where saplings had been cut to make poles for shelters, he made one of the men responsible for cutting the sapling stumps at ground level then covering the visible remains with earth. The cut part of the saplings could be disposed of later. Earth from under fallen leaves was carefully gathered and sprinkled over the ashes of the fire. By the time that was completed, the area looked as though only a couple or so men had been there several days previously. Certainly nobody could have tracked them to their night stop from the river nor, even had anybody stumbled on their camp site, connected the Ban Ban snatch party with the remains. Vong’s final command was for the sackcloth his men still carried to be bound around their footwear and the two rear men of the column to walk backwards barefooted for a short while. Vong knew that an expert tracker could easily tell from any footprint whether the person being tracked was laden or unladen, moved backwards or forwards, or was man, woman or child but the risk of discovery in this instance was minimal.

It suddenly dawned on Mana who was watching everything with great interest and thinking of what had gone on the previous day, that he had seen nothing so professional as this since his days at the Jungle Warfare School. During the first part of that long, tedious, tiring walk up the trace, memories of Colonel Rance and Le Dâng Khoã came flooding back. He had pretended not to understand Vietnamese during the time he was on the course at the School. It had taken considerable self-control not to give away his secrets: that, and the fact that he knew about Le Dâng Khoã in greater depth than Le Dâng Khoã knew about him. He recalled the tense scene in the jungle when he was so full of rage and impatience that he was so nearly killed by Le Dâng Khoã but was interrupted by the English Colonel. He had tiptoed back and waited in earshot long enough to hear what the Viet had told the Commandant about saving his life and to see him, the Viet, find the ring in the cut leaves used for bedding and give it to him. Self-satisfied, smug fellow, that Rance. Thought he knew all the answers. Those lectures about Communism, indeed! Well, he didn’t know them although it would have been embarrassing if he, Mana, had disarmed the Viet and killed him, there and then. It would keep. He, Mana Varamit, would cheerfully kill Le Dâng Khoã whenever he met him again and, however remote the possibility was of ever meeting Rance again, he would cheerfully kill him too. In a way, now he felt so much better in his mind, it was really rather a pity he was going to Sam Neua. As a daydream, to keep him mind occupied, he imagined how he would have reacted were he to have been in the hands of his ideological enemies and was on his way to, say, Bouam Long instead of Sam Neua.

 

Considering everything, the deployment of the troops engaged in the search operation was efficiently carried out but it was not until after midday on the 27th that they were ready to leave their unit lines. Certain local patrols had to be brought in, various camp duties reallocated and special administrative requirements, such as the issue of ammunition and rations, needed to be carried out. These processes were put into action by a warning order early on the Sunday morning by land line. Time was also needed for planning the command and control structure of the operation. Despite their reputation as dogged fighters, the NVA, like every other Communist army, was slow to react to the unexpected and the need to have political clearance for military planning prohibited any quicker start. In fact, the plan had been hammered out during the night and it took most of the morning to be passed down to various commanders. Most of the details unit and formation commanders needed concerned co-ordination of areas, boundaries, axes of advance and direction of approach. In such a large area, despite the probable destination of the miscreants, nothing could be left to chance, so such a mass of detail was essential.

By last light on Sunday forces had been deployed. Some were making more house-to-house searches up Route 61, others had been given sectors of the old trace leading to Bouam Long to scour, looking for clues. Yet others were poised to search the terrain between the old trace and Route 61. Farther afield, troops were detailed to fly by giant Soviet-built ‘Hook’ helicopters, normally based in Hanoi and with the capacity easily to take more than a platoon of armed men at a time, to land at the head of the Ban Ban valley, to lay a cordon to the north of point 7247, stretching from the road trace to the western slopes of the mountain. They were not expected to reach their final positions until some time on Monday, 19 March.

As part of the overall plan, a curfew was imposed and strict orders were given to enforce it. In fact, any night movement in the ‘Liberated Zone’ was suspect and people rash enough to move away from their homes at night were liable to be questioned severely. However, since the ceasefire, the lack of activity had dulled the Communist authorities’ vigilance to the extent that the restrictions on night movement had become virtually meaningless.

It had already been established that no patrol had been sent by any local unit on the night of the previous Thursday nor in the early hours of the Friday but the village roadblock had been lifted with nothing to report. It was decided to compile a register of strangers and of travellers from afar who had visited the area recently. This was thought not to prove too difficult as travel documents were required to be shown on demand and, without such local authority, nobody was allowed more than three kilometres from his home without this written approval.

 

Vong and his men reached the saddle that evening, having made good time. They were exhausted. Dirty, sweaty, smelly, scratched, leech-bitten and hungry, they were in no state to do anything else but make crude shelters near the first running water they found to the north of the pass. During the day they had not heard the faint but persistent rumble of the heavily laden ‘Hook’ helicopters ferrying in troops to their north. Movement through jungle tends to drown extraneous noises, especially when movement is of a pace that does not allow the movers to stop and listen. It was because they had been so painstaking that no follow-up party went anywhere near their previous overnight camp near the river. Circumstances this time were not nearly so kind to them: despite efforts to hide themselves, not even the tired but fresher, cordon troops could fail to pick up their telltale signs when they reached the saddle the next day.

 

At dusk that Sunday, the man who had been yanked to his feet by Vong approached the house he had visited only a few days before when on the recon with his friend. He had no clear intention of what he wanted to do. He had blown off a considerable amount of pent-up steam but he still felt aggrieved enough not to make his way back to his family in Bouam Long, at least for a few days. As was normal, PL tactics decreed that a small group of soldiers would be billeted in houses, one house in ten being the average ratio, when any operation of this nature was mounted. It so happened that the house that the disgruntled man was making for had PL soldiers in it. The soldier on duty saw a man approaching furtively. He noticed that the man was not dressed in PL uniform, carried a US-made M-16 rifle – captured or issued? – and wore a pack. The soldier waited until he was almost at the door before challenging him. The man fired a round at his challenger, missed hitting him by a fraction and turned to make his escape. The PL man shot him, knocking him over. The noise of the two shots rang out deafeningly in the stillness, alerting everybody and soon there was a crowd of people peering at a travel-stained man, lying, wounded and bleeding, on the ground. The soldier’s commander ran up and ordered that the wounded man be carried to the local clinic. On arrival he was unconscious. He died soon afterwards but did utter three indistinct words beforehand. Some who heard him thought he said Vong three times, others though Long was what he had tried to say. The doctor, a Vietnamese, thought he had either heard Ông, Vietnamese for ‘mister’ or không, Vietnamese for ‘no’. Inmates of the house the dead man was trying to visit were so frightened that they admitted they knew he came from Bouam Long and that he had been in that area since 13 March. Luckily for the relatives, the man had not deviated from his story that he had come across with a hunting party which had stayed up in the mountains and allowed him and his friend to come down and visit those he had not seen for a long time. Not even some nasty heavy-handed stuff shook them from this story that had everything going against it.

When the report reached Office 95, Nga Sô Lựự felt it was odds on that the dead man was the person who had waved to the AN-2. Such a pity he was dead. Vong, Vong, Vong made no sense, neither did three Longs, three Ôngs nor, really, three Khôngs. He called for the file containing names of known operators working for the Vientiane side and, after some research, wondered whether the dying man had tried to say ‘Ông Vong, Bouam Long’ rather than ‘Không Ông Vong,’ ‘No, not Mr. Vong.’ In the event he plumped for ‘Ông Vong, Bouam Long’; it would make real sense if there was someone named Vong, even if the word ‘Bouam’ was not mentioned.

 

In Bouam Long, the Garrison Commander was suffering from ‘that Monday morning’ feeling. He was getting worried. It was now nine days since he had sent his escort with that strange crew from Vientiane and there had been no radio contact. They could well be running short of food but he had less reason to be worried about that. They had only started out carrying seven days’ rations but Major Vong had said that he had enough money to buy what was needed, although food in March was not all that plentiful. Two of the escort group had contacts in the general area of Ban Ban so he did not envisage any great problem there. No, he was far more worried about reports he had received about large helicopters flying near the pass in the high ground to his east. They could only mean one thing: whatever that secretive group had gone to do had turned sour. Just what he did not want. He had held great hopes that, if Bouam Long enclave was not targeted as hostile by the NVA high command or whoever it was who did not want to live in peace under their own system, methods and arrangements could be worked out, as they had been since time immemorial, with there being a better chance of preserving their society intact when this present uncertain phase finished. If the soldiers ferried in by these helicopters were going to invest the Bouam Long enclave, he would have to let Long Cheng know right away. General Vang Pao would be hopping mad. Could be though that they were cordon troops only intent on sealing off an area quickly. He shrugged and went into the warm radio room just in case and, looking over the operator’s shoulder, saw him taking down a message from Vong.

 

Vong, that morning of Monday, 18 March, decided that it was time to send a message to Bouam Long. He reckoned that he was near enough to safety to break radio silence. He had heard that the Soviet Union had interceptor stations placed around parts of North Vietnam which could tune in on any particular frequency and, by some method or other that was, in practical terms, taking back bearings, the coordinates of the sender’s position could be determined.

His men were, by now, reaching the end of their tether. Cajoling, exhorting, playing them along, Vong himself was finding the going hard. He told the executioner to take Mana on one side on some pretext or other and he gathered the others around him. They did not look an inspiring crew but, to date, they had done him proud.

‘We’re not far away now,’ he told them. ‘Should be back in base, home and dry, by tomorrow evening. Stick it out till then, fellows.’

He then told the radio operator to prepare his set while he drafted a message: ‘ETA your location 1200 hours 19 March. Request arrangements for immediate evacuation of personnel. Hostile forces being infiltrated into general area. Request patrols alerted to help recover group’.

After sending his message, Vong urged more speed. Unluckily Mana Varamit, weary beyond belief, slipped and sprained his ankle. He had to be put on the stretcher and carried. Thus it was that, when the cordon troops reached the saddle at midday and spotted tracks leading towards the enclave, instead of being a day behind Vong’s men, they were only five hours, although neither group knew it.

 

Brigadier General Etam had an impish sense of humour. He liked to repay people in the same coin as they had, so he thought, used against him. At 10 o’clock that Monday morning, he had received a message from Bouam Long, relayed by Long Cheng, requesting an aircraft the following day. The General put a call through to Mango and gave him the news contained in the message. Mango was delighted and, when he was also asked for a suitable plane – ‘maybe a Beechcraft, you know, one of our small jobs’ – not only said he could confirm it ASP – ‘as soon as possible, General’ – but that he would take the opportunity to go to Bouam Long himself as he owed the place a visit.

Mango got a call through to Udorn and a Pilatus Pilot was detailed but, with a fuel problem, it could only take four passengers out of Bouam Long. Any fifth passenger who flew in would have to wait for the ‘milk run’ on Thursday. Mango rang Etam and told him. Etam thanked Mango. Three passengers on the way out would be Tâ Tran Quán, Vong and the rescued agent– names in code already agreed on so that the more than insecure telephone line should not give away secrets – and the fourth would be Mango. Etam had not been told by Vong of Tâ’s crazy decision and was, therefore, still in ignorance on that score. Etam grinned to himself and asked Mango if he didn’t think that the British DA should be sent in as well? ‘I’ll offer him a seat, seeing that he knows the principal characters. You’d escort him, wouldn’t you?’

‘Sure thing, General. I’ll pose for him as I’ll pose for the rest of them.’ This was an obvious precaution, in Mango’s eyes, not to blow his cover which he fondly believed was still extant. ‘Shall you or shall I tell him?’

‘I’ll tell him,’ said the General. ‘Comes better that way. What time?’

‘Tell him to be at Wattay, Continental Airways counter, by 0730 hours sharp.’

General Etam put a phone call through to the British embassy and asked for the DA. ‘Sabai di bor, Tan Colonen?’ he purred down the line. ‘Are you free tomorrow to fly into Landing Site 32, being at Wattay Continental Airways at 0730 hours?’

Rance answered the greeting and said, ‘Stand by one, if you will, General. I’ll have to check my map and see where LS 32 is.’ He left the phone on the table and had a look to see where the Landing Site was. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting, General. Yes, indeed, I certainly would. Nice of you to think of asking me.’

‘My pleasure, my dear Colonen. I’ll ensure that there’ll be a ticket waiting for you as well as an escort. I hope it won’t prove to be a one-way journey.’

‘I’m sure it won’t, General. I’ll feel safe with the escort you have arranged. Will it be a night stop? Plain clothes or uniform?’

‘As a good soldier, Tan Thud, I am sure you always carry an overnight bag, and as your country’s accredited representative, plain clothes would not be suitable.’

After thanking General Etam, Rance rang off. Even though it is not normal to wear a ring with uniform, I’ll wear it as a talisman. I may need a lot of luck, he said to himself.

 

It was fortunate that the military commander who had been with the Political Commissar Tâ Tran Quán that fateful day in November 1972 was not far away in Sam Neua when the call came through asking for details of his whereabouts. He was sent for by runner and told to report to Defence Control without delay, with overnight kit. Anxious yet expectant, he went back with the runner. He was dressed ready for transfer anywhere, wearing battle equipment and carrying his weapon. Defence Control briefed him.

‘You have been sent for by a senior comrade and a vehicle will take you to your destination, Office 95. You should be prepared to stay for as long as you are required though probably only one session will be necessary.’

‘Comrade, do you know why I have been sent for?’ the man asked.

‘No, but I am sure it is nothing to be worried about. I don’t know why you have been sent for except it is obviously more important for them rather than for you.’

The military man saluted, relieved to learn that it was not something heinous that he had done, got into the vehicle and drove away. At least it made a change!

At his destination, he reported in, told he was sent for by Nga Sô Lựự and straightaway was taken in front of the senior comrade.

‘Thank you for coming so quickly, Comrade. I hope you weren’t inconvenienced at the short notice.’

Such honeyed words from the hierarchy, and that particular man, were uncommon but not necessarily designed to disarm.

‘Comrade Political Commissar, in no way is it an inconvenience. It is a pleasure to be of help to the Cause.’

Nga Sô Lựự drew an open folder on his desk closer to him and invited the soldier to be seated. ‘Listen carefully, Comrade. I want you to try and remember every single detail that happened on Skyline Ridge on 18 November, 1972, when Comrade Tâ Tran Quán was killed although his body was never found to prove it.’

The military man nodded.

‘First, tell me what you can remember of the Saturday,’ continued the Political Commissar. ‘No detail, however unimportant it might strike you, is to be omitted. Think carefully and, in your own time, recount the day’s events. There is no hurry.’

The one-time company commander thought back to that day, sixteen months ago exactly. The events and course of the battle were not easy to forget. He had been debriefed on them a number of times. If he was surprised that he was asked yet again, he hid his feelings. So, without too long a pause, he recounted everything that had happened, the Political Commissar nodding in agreement as he kept pace with events in the written report. No, nothing new, Nga Sô Lựự sadly thought.

He suddenly felt tired and, stifling a yawn, asked, more as routine than by conviction, if there was nothing else to mention? He could no longer control his yawn. He lifted his right hand to his mouth and tilted his head back slightly. Click: in the military man’s mind, he focused on an event that had seemed so trivial, albeit bizarre, that he had never mentioned it, never considered it worthwhile.

‘Yes, Comrade Political Commissar, I do remember something that I never reported as it seemed so insignificant and unconnected with the other events of that day. I hesitate to mention it now but since you’ve asked and since I remember it, mention it I will. It was during the T-28 strafing. Comrade Tâ Tran Quán and I both fell to the ground and got spattered with dirt. When we stood up, he looked thoughtfully at a large ring on the little finger of his right hand, took it off, wiped it clean, but, instead of putting it back on, swallowed it.’

 

Vong heard the noise of soldiers behind him during the afternoon of the 18th. Handicapped as they were with Mana on the stretcher, they had made slow progress, despite the relays of men used to carry the crippled man. Vong made a lightening decision. He called to the executioner and told him that the situation was desperate.

‘We have only one hope: bluff. You and half the team will continue just as fast as you can towards Bouam Long. Myself and the other half will remain and try and bluff, or shoot, our way out. You need not worry too much about any noise you make, carrying or cutting. I emphasise two points – speed and, in the last resort, do not let Mana fall into their hands alive. That means that if he goes the way of all flesh, so do you.’

The executioner looked troubled but knew Vong well enough not to argue. Vong caught up the stretcher bearers and called to Mana, almost endearingly. ‘Mana, Comrade Mana. How are you? Could you walk if you really tried? I hear the imperialist lackeys coming up behind us. I’ll stay back with half our group and beat them off, one way or another. There won’t be many of them. You and the others make best speed. I’ll catch up with you before long. I’m sure we’ll be able to manage.’

He rattled off some orders and, within seconds, they had formed two groups. Vong saw Mana’s group move off then disappear in the undergrowth. The escort commander was with that group and, provided they met no other enemy, had a chance, a slim chance, of reaching Bouam Long by noon the next day. Vong’s own group looked at him expectantly.

‘Listen. Remember 335 Brigade and 886 Brigade. Likewise 135 Independent Battalion: the men on our tail are, I expect, 335 or 86 NVA. If so, we are of 135.’

He turned and strained his ears. ‘They’ll come down into view any moment now.’ He had not been surprised at hearing the troops long before seeing them. Jungle craft was not a skill that was a high priority in either the NVA or PL forces.

‘O-hé. O-hé. Are you comrades of 335 or 886? Steady as you come. We’re in front of you, standing still on the track.’

An answering shout: ‘886. Wait, we’re coming.’

Heads, then bodies, came into view. NVA soldiers, armed and wearing PL uniform. They approached warily but seeing that Vong was dressed as a cadre, stood by respectfully.

‘Lucky I heard you in time. Listen. How many are you and how is it you are on my patch?’

This question disquieted them. As far as they were concerned, they were doing what was required of them – following up suspicious signs, signs that they had been alerted to expect, yet, when they caught up with the group they had been tracking, they were, in effect, told that they should not be there. They stared at each other.

‘We are part of the force that was detailed to cordon this large feature. We reached the saddle last night and saw tracks. This morning we were told to follow them up and investigate. Our cadre felt that they could have been made by those who broke into and out of Ban Ban camp and burnt the comcen.’

‘Then it is lucky that we met.’ Vong gave a great sigh of relief. ‘We are from 135 Independent and we moved up to this part of the jungle the day before yesterday. Have you met any more of us? No? I wonder why not. Could be because we’re farther south than you. Not that that matters. My group also saw these tracks and, like you, followed them. Just caught them up when we heard you. Don’t look so surprised. They are some of our oppressed comrades from the imperialist enclave at Bouam Long. I should have thought of it myself but I still hoped to catch those other bastards. If these people were the group we are all looking for, do you really think they would have been so careless to have walked like this, leaving so many signs? Gosh, I feel sorry for them but Liberation Day is not quite yet. I’ll bet they can’t wait to shake off the feudalists who are the imperialists’ lackeys.’

The soldiers nodded agreement. ‘Luckily for them,’ continued Vong glibly, ‘I checked them before opening fire. Never have done to have shot our comrades, eh? So oppressed are they that the villagers have to search for game and jungle produce to eat. This was a hunting expedition. One of them had twisted his ankle and was being helped back by his friends. You wouldn’t think, as I said earlier, that any soldiers of any army, even those poor misguided fools of American stooges, would operate so clumsily. That’s why I didn’t fire. Just as well, as I’m sure you’ll agree.’

The soldiers agreed. ‘But,’ continue Vong, keeping the conversational initiative so preventing any continued follow up after the other group, ‘I am worried about that Ban Ban gang. Now I know they are definitely not on this ridge I’m going back to my unit. They’ll be wondering what on earth has happened to us. As for you, how far back is your base?’

He breathed an inward sigh of relief when he learnt that there was a small HQ not far from the saddle at least two to three hours’ walk away. ‘Look, not that I can counter any orders you have been given but what I’m going to do is go back and send a radio message saying I’ve met you, report the village hunting party, tell them that the rest of this ridge is clear and ask for more instructions. I believe we’ll find we’ve outstripped those traitors, whoever they are, and, from what I’ve picked up from our civilian comrades on the way up along the same trace as you presumably came up, we’ll meet them tomorrow, bumping into them from the south. They’ll have tried to outflank us by coming over point 7274 rather than round, like we’ve done. That surmise would only be true if you credit that this gang has even come this way. Personally, I rather doubt it.’

He paused to let that sink in. As there seemed to be no reaction against his surmise, he continued, ‘Right? Understood? You go back. Tell your cadre you have had orders, no, let us say, suggestions, from’ and here Vong had a brainwave, ‘Comrade Nga Sô Lựự. Got it? Ask your cadre just how well he knows that name. Off you go, now. I’ll have a fag and a rest then follow along later. If you don’t see us, it’s because I want to check that nobody has made a detour to our west. Warn your people to expect us when they see us but not to shoot.’

The NVA men were on the point of going back when one of them said, ‘No. I don’t believe you. We were given explicit orders that we would capture, or kill, anybody we met to our front. I am not convinced of the truth of your statement.’

Vong looked him up and down with imperious disdain. ‘My man. You exceed your authority. I cannot accept what you say.’

‘I cannot accept what you say either.’ It seemed that an impasse had been reached. The last thing Vong wanted was for his bluff to turn sour. ‘Let us sit down and talk this over. We’ve got to sort this out,’ he said, turning to his group. ‘Take your packs off, lads, and relax. We’ll soon clear this up. Let’s rest while we can.’ He looked at the man he knew best and winked at him. ‘We have far enough to go to return to our units not to take advantage of this opportunity.’ He turned back to the Viets. ‘I’ll write a letter to your commander and explain the situation.’

He sat down and, having taken his notebook out of his pocket, started to write. He did not take long. He put the notebook hack in his pocket and faced the sullen group of Vietnamese who awaited a positive move. ‘What is wrong with my original plan, Comrade? Why do you not believe what I have told you? I challenge you in your effrontery. State your case.’

The man who had cast doubts on Vong’s group spoke up with conviction. ‘You are travel-stained and weary. You have been out in the open for much longer than since the start of the operation. And anyway, 135 are not committed in this sector. You’re phony! I’ll bet you anything you like you’re phony.’

Vong stood up and looked at him. ‘You poor fool,’ he said condescendingly. ‘I’ll tell you if I’m phony. I’ll go back with you and meet both your next senior military and political commanders. How about that?’ He moved over to the centre of the group. ‘I’ll go with you now. In exchange for me, will you or one of your men go with my group? That will tell whether you are intent on making this an issue or not. Whether it is I who am phony or you.’

The man demurred: he was obviously taken aback by this turn of events. Vong gazed at him with loathing. ‘I’ll go back with you. Don’t bother to give us anyone in return. You’re wrong. Crazily wrong. Once this is sorted out, I will demand your severe punishment.’ He turned to his own men. ‘I’ll be back in base tomorrow. I’ll join you there. I’ll go back with these people. I am bit tired. I am sure you can take my pack for me. I’ll just take my pistol,’ and he gave them a look which turned their blood cold but again they knew better than to argue.

Vong turned back to the Vietnamese soldiers. ‘Come then. Get a move on. We’ve wasted enough time as it is. Get a move on, I said, blast your horrible eyes.’

 

The remnants of Vong’s group watched their leader go, each with a lump in his throat. Vong’s particular friend shook his head in disbelief then rasped out, ‘If he can do this for us, we can do our best for him. Whatever the cost, we will catch up the rest of them tonight and reach Bouam Long just as early as we can tomorrow. We are living on borrowed time in this neck of the woods.’

 

Vong was weary unto death but the last thing, or almost the last thing, on earth he would have done was to show it. On the way back to the NVA forward base camp he made the patrol spend a lot of their time by leaving the main ridge wherever there were signs of a re-entrant below them on the pretext of looking for tracks of the alleged Ban Ban gang, and finding none. He was so insistent that they look everywhere that, before they knew it, they were benighted, so had to stay where they were.

 

On the morning of 19 March, Rance flew in the Pilatus Porter from Wattay to Long Cheng where the plane refuelled before taking a circuitous route north of the Plain of Jars before turning east, then south. Mango was also in the plane. Rance knew he must be a CIA man but did not know that he was Head of Station who would not normally expose himself to the risks of that particular journey. For his part, Mango was in no doubt who Rance was. Wisely they only talked pleasantries.

Mango was invaluable in sponsoring Rance through Long Cheng. General Vang Pao’s orders were strict: no one he himself had not personally sponsored, except certain Americans, could go to Bouam Long. In his haste, General Etam had neglected to put a priority on his passenger list message and the signal, sent routine, arrived after the plane had taken off on its third and final lap to the enclave.

 

It was not until around 9 o’clock on the morning of the 19th that Vong and the Vietnamese patrol reached the base camp near the saddle to the north of point 7247. By then the man who had doubted him was thoroughly cowed. Once Vong had met the commanders, he demanded a meal, saying he was famished and that he would only talk after he had eaten. It took a valuable hour to prepare it and an equally valuable half hour to eat it and relax with a cigarette afterwards. By that time the doubting man had regained his confidence and, taking his superiors to one side, had told them of his suspicions. Vong was then closely cross-examined. He reckoned if he kept himself awake until noon, he had succeeded and the rest of his team would get to Bouam Long without further harassment. To the very end, he was painstaking as ever, not taking his luck for granted.

By noon the senior Vietnamese commander was almost convinced that Vong was a phony. Vong sensed his moment. ‘Then send a message to higher formation. Send this,’ and he took from his pocket the message he had written the previous day. As they started to read it, Vong turned to the political man and said, ‘Don’t ever believe your Lords and Masters, believe your own eyes,’ and before the man could react, he quietly took his weapon, shot and killed the political man and, equally calmly and deliberately, took his own life. It was the way he had always planned: the setting could not have been better contrived.

 

When the immediate fuss had died down and the military commander had dealt with the two corpses, he once more studied the message. It was a strange and unsettling communication. It was addressed to Nga Sô Lựự at Office 95 and read, ‘I kidnapped Tâ Tran Quán, brought him to Ban Ban and drugged him, the stupid, misguided dolt I met trying to re-establish his identity. I hope he suffered by my having convinced him he was a doctor. As for Mana Varamit, I let him escape. He will be repaid for his treachery. I brought your foolish soldiers on a successful wild-goose chase. As for me, rather than fall into your hands, I have chosen my moment. You will have yours chosen for you. A devotee of the rain drop.’

 

After they had landed at Bouam Long, Rance and Mango reported in to the Garrison Commander who told them that there was no more news since the message yesterday. The group was expected at any time. Patrols had been sent out to escort them in and to protect them if necessary. Mango took Rance to one side and told him that no debriefing of a certain Thai – must be Mana Varamit – would be allowed until he had been taken back to Thailand. The man was an unknown quantity as far as the intelligence boys were concerned and a certain amount of feedback could be got from Vong and Tâ Tran Quán. Rance answered in a noncommittal fashion, not letting on that the latter would not appear.

There was a shout from outside. ‘Here they are, here they are.’ Mango and Rance let the Garrison Commander go ahead to meet them. The group came into view, one man on a stretcher being closely watched by another, and the remainder trailing along behind. Even from that distance, it was obvious that they were ineffably weary. They seemed not to take any notice of the Garrison Commander as he went up to them. The escort commander blurted out, ‘We’re three short, we’ve been trailed but not followed since yesterday.’

Orders were given for the escort to bring the man on the stretcher over to the plane and the Garrison Commander beckoned to Mango and Rance to join him. They noticed a worried look on his face. ‘There have been casualties,’ he told them.

On the stretcher, Mana had been looking around him in utter disbelief. Why aren’t the comrades welcoming me back? Surely, surely I am not in the midst of the wrong lot? His stretcher had been put on the ground and, as Mana lay on it considering his next move, his eyes fell on Rance. Rance saw him at the same time. So that blasted Englishman is behind this? At that same moment, Mana noticed Rance’s ring and, in blind rage, jumped up, shouting loudly, ‘So you’ve still got it. I’ll kill you for this, kill you with my bare hands,’ and, forgetting his own badly swollen ankle, made a desperate lunge at the Englishman. The executioner saw Mana leap into the air and, as he landed within striking distance of Rance, tripped him up. Mana fell heavily on his injured foot, overbalanced and fell to the ground with a scream, badly bumping his head on a stone. He lay there, confused and seething, once more badly disorientated and mentally out of kilter.

The executioner said to them, ‘The quicker you can get his man back out of here, the better. I’ve just about had enough of him and the whole crazy business. When can we leave?’ He bent down and hoicked Mana roughly onto the stretcher. ‘Stay there, you fool,’ he said harshly to the gibbering man. ‘We’ll take you back to where you belong.’

Mango took charge of the situation and told the Garrison Commander to take Mana away under a strong guard, give him something to eat and be ready to move not later than twenty minutes. Turning to Rance, he told him it would be unwise to travel back on the same plane as Mana and that he would have to wait for the milk-run on Thursday. As they led Mana away under escort, the American was already fixing details of restraints on the way back.

Mana’s parting shot at Rance was, ‘If I am going to be expendable, so are you.’

 

Nga Sô Lựự waited impatiently as the search fizzled out. He had had news of the mystery of the crazed man, the Political Commissar’s tragic death and the enigmatic message. He realised that his leaning towards Bouam Long was still more based on a hunch than any hard and fast evidence. The death of the message sender was, at least, something he could justify his insistence in mounting the operation. The finger of scorn had not been pointed at him but more than one crazed suicide was needed to justify the effort expended. It was certainly not the work of just one man. The perpetrators had vanished into thin air. The doctors’ report on the three men was the only optimistic point there was: Tâ Tran Quán was suffering from nothing worse than a mental breakdown caused by worry. He needed rest and was to be left alone for a month when he should be completely fit again. If he had any friends, it would be well worthwhile getting them to meet up. As for the others, the CO and the Political Commissar had obviously been duped as well as doped and the Deputy was only a case of mild nervous tension exacerbated by intense but localised worry. Nga Sô Lựự would get his inquisitors to prepare a detailed report, maybe in a week’s time.

Until then … he picked up Thong’s report. Clever ferreting, that. He would call him up in a day or two to see Comrade Tâ. But he was worried about that extraordinary ring-swallowing act. Was his mind ever so slightly unhinged, even then? Probably was, so it wasn’t so surprising that he had suffered a mental breakdown recently.

He once more read the Vietnamese rendering, not the Thai version, of Mana Varamit’s report, which was plain and straightforward, except the allusion to the four days. That did not make sense. He could not have been referring to the recent four-day chase. How could he? Nga Sô Lựự then called for the report Mana had sent, not the translation, and for a Thai translator. It could be that the solution to the mystery lay there.

The translator reported in and Nga Sô Lựự went straight to the point. ‘Translate this part, will you?’ he said, pointing to the offending references. The translator studied it carefully.

‘I don’t believe that the translation of ‘day’ is correct. I believe a Lao translator prepared this report, not a native Thai speaker. I see how the critical word, ven, has taken a meaning of ‘day’ which is more usually rendered by ‘van’ and wan in Thai. Ven, meaning a day, has a different, shorter, e from the other ven, which has a longer e.’

‘And what does that mean, Comrade,’ asked Nga Sô Lựự, impatient at the man’s pedantry.

‘“Four rings”, Comrade, not “four days”. I hope that helps you.’

The Political Commissar thanked him and dismissed him. He himself sat silently in his chair. The coincidence, always presuming that the military man was correct and he could not have made a mistake, surely? The coincidence of Tâ Tran Quán swallowing a ring was one that needed more than normal careful thought and even more careful handling. If that was a code name for four people, who were they? Just suppose, was it just possible though far from likely, but just suppose that Tâ Tran Quán was one Ring, then who were the other three? No, the thought was too fantastic to contemplate, and yet … and yet …

He could not afford to be wrong. He would not only be the laughing stock of the Party but would also do himself irreparable harm. He would try and find out more about it, checking leads, following clues and using Tâ as his henchman. He would double check everything that Tâ did and, if his blackest and worst fears were realised, he would try and manoeuvre a conference where he would expose each and every one of the four – at one fell swoop. They might even make him Secretary-General of the Party. Wait until the take over: it was not so long for the almost magical thirty-year target. Get it done in Vientiane. A pity he could not involved that vacuous Englishman, that expendable self-satisfied, imperialist lackey …

He made up his mind with savage intensity.


  1. When the author was Commandant of the Jungle Warfare School he sang this song to the Vietnamese students on the one major picnic the school hosted for them – until he learnt that it was banned!