Prologue

 

 

March 12, 1953

 

It had been seven years since the start of the First Indochina War between the Viet Minh rebels and their French overlords. Both sides were exhausted and yet both refused to yield. France was stretched to its limit after the devastation of Nazi occupation during World War II. To survive and rebuild its country, France needed the wealth generated from the rice and opium crops grown in its colonies in Indochina. Their colonists had other ideas. They wanted their freedom.

To stop the growing reach of communism, the Americans supported the French. The Russians and Chinese supported Ho Chi Minh and his rebel army, called “Viet Minh.” Both sides fought bravely and with conviction, but to end the conflict, one side needed to bring the other into submission. This is the story of the final battle in the war before the war. This is the story of Dien Bien Phu.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Kicking The Hornet’s Nest

 

It was late morning and the sky was overcast and grey. The northern highlands of Vietnam were a rolling sea of green. The mountains were covered with dense forests and the hills were terraced with rice fields. The valleys were spotted with tiny villages divided by muddy rivers with wooden monkey bridges. All was covered with a primordial fog that protected the young rice plants and the people from the heat of the day.

A Russian-made sedan wound its way down a steep mountain road. The road was a single lane of packed dirt that turned to mud when it rained, making the drive even more treacherous. In the back sat a man in his early sixties and slight of build. His clothes were neatly pressed and simple. He was born Nguyễn Sinh Cung. It was later in life that he became Ho Chi Minh, the leader of the Democratic Republic of Vietnam, and affectionately nicknamed Uncle Ho by his followers. The driver, Phung The Tai, was Ho’s bodyguard and he also dressed simply. Phung always carried a British revolver under his shirt and a Chinese submachine gun under the front seat. Ho had little doubt Phung would die for him without a second thought. The car was a gift from the Russians and was painted green, which made it hard to spot from the air. The French ruled the air and were known for strafing any vehicle in areas they did not control. Ho felt the car was too fancy with its chrome hubcaps and gave the wrong impression. It was, however, more reliable than the Chinese cars, so he tolerated it. Besides, he needed the Russians and didn’t want to insult them by refusing such a gift, even if its oversized engine used too much fuel.

The road led to a valley and the car rolled to a stop in front of a wooden footbridge on the far side of a village. Ho and Phung got out and stretched for a moment. The air smelled like smoke and freshly cooked rice. There was no official party to greet him. Nobody knew he was coming. Phung crossed the bridge first, checking to ensure its wooden planks were stable and there were no booby-traps. Ho followed. In the center of the village was a community house. Ho could hear the political officer inside drone on about the communist philosophy and the latest party policies. Phung climbed the stairs and entered first. Ho followed.

Inside the community house, ninety men and women dressed in worn but clean and carefully patched civilian uniforms sat on a wooden floor in rows. They listened to the Chinese political officer at the front of the re-education class speaking in Vietnamese. The matching uniforms took away the students’ individuality and gave the class a sense of unity and belonging to a higher purpose.

Upon seeing Ho, the political officer stopped his lecture mid-sentence and blinked as if he could not believe what he was seeing. The students and other officials turned to see what had captured the instructor’s attention and immediately prostrated themselves upon seeing Ho. Ho hated this. They were all brothers and sisters; no one better than the other. He thought about correcting them, but there were more important matters to attend. The building fell silent. The entire class laid on the floor with their heads down and their hands clasped, all but one man who remained seated and looked straight ahead. He did not need to turn. He knew who was behind him. The man still seated was in his early forties and short, even for a Vietnamese. Ho took several steps forward until he was even with the row where the man sat. Ho stared straight ahead and did not look at the man. Ho was angry but controlled. The man seated was General Võ Nguyên Giáp, commander of the Northern Army of Vietnam and considered by many to be the greatest military strategist of the 20th century. “Enough,” said Ho.

“You do not approve of the committee’s order for my re-education?” said Giap, quietly.

“You give me a headache.”

“It was not my intention.”

“I care not for your intentions.”

“I lost over fifteen hundred of our best at Na San.”

“Yes. You failed. And now your self-pity leaves our army leaderless.”

“You are their leader, not I.”

“The people need you elsewhere. I need you elsewhere.”

And there it was. Giap could refuse the people he loved, and even the political committee he loathed, but he could not refuse Ho.

 

Ho and Giap sat in the back of the Russian sedan as it made its way back up the mountain road. They rode in silence, each contemplating what would come next. Twenty years apart in age, Ho and Giap had attended Quốc Học, the National Academy of Hue, and both had been incarcerated in Lao Bảo prison for their political protests as young lycéens. They had met in China while in exile from the Japanese and Vichy French during WWII. Together, they studied Mao’s philosophy and learned of his strategy and tactics to further the communist revolution. They often had political discussions that lasted long into the early morning hours.

There were some in the military that believed Giap’s rise in rank was due to his longtime friendship with Ho Chi Minh, but Ho knew otherwise. It was Giap’s early successes in battles against small French outposts that gave Ho and his followers legitimacy and allowed the underground communist movement to rapidly progress. Nothing promoted a cause like a victory against an oppressor. Ho needed Giap and Giap needed Ho. Giap was not perfect and had lost many of the Viet Minh under his command, but Ho knew that Giap was not one to forget the lessons of his defeats. Giap was an investment, and the currency was life and death.

“I hope your time has not been completely wasted,” said Ho, breaking the silence.

“My mind is clear,” said Giap, measured and steady.

“The French have asked for a peace conference in Geneva.”

“I was informed.”

“Their generals will want a big military victory to better their position in the negotiations.”

“Yes. It is to be expected.”

“Your task is to deny them that victory by winning one of our own.”

“I will do my best.”

“The new heavy artillery division is ready. Use it judiciously. I doubt the Chinese will be so generous a second time.”

“We must kick the hornet’s nest if we hope to choose our ground.”

“You have a plan?”

“I have the beginning of a plan,” said Giap. “We will see if the French cooperate.”

 

 

It was noon, and the sun was already out in full strength. The sky was blue and without form. A French Panhard armored car rolled along a winding road at the head of a 100-vehicle supply column snaking its way through the mountains of North Vietnam. With a turret-mounted 75mm cannon and a 7.5mm machine gun, the Panhard was ideal for fighting in the hills and mountains. It was quick, reliable, and with 4-wheel drive, could climb even the roughest terrain when needed. The 2 ½-ton trucks in the column were U.S. hand-me-downs from the Second World War and the workhorses of the French army. The French sent overland supply convoys to their military outposts throughout Vietnam, but the convoys that traveled through the Northern Highlands were especially important because of the lack of airfields. Strategy and tactics win battles, but logistics wins wars.

At the end of the column was a second Panhard with its guns facing backward to guard the rear. Convoys always traveled in daylight, when French aircraft could hover above like guardian angels and spot the enemy. The French owned the day, but the Viet Minh owned the night. It was crucial that the convoy make it to a French outpost before sunset. The French knew that the Viet Minh scouts were tracking the convoy, looking for any opportunity to attack, looking for the French to make a mistake. Traveling at night--for whatever reason--was a mistake that the French would not easily survive.

The column emerged from a thick forest of bamboo that had given them an all-too-brief reprieve from the merciless heat of the sun. The trucks and their armored car escorts traveled along the edge of a steep ravine. Below, the dark brown waters of the Ky Cong River were lined by an impenetrable forest. Above, five limestone karsts capped the top of the ravine like watchtowers along a castle wall. The karsts were covered with shrubs and small trees, with vines that grew in the pockets of the porous limestone formed from ancient fossils and seashells.

The convoy was protected by Foreign Legionnaires. The Legion, as it was known, was made up of soldiers from dozens of different nations, many of which were veterans and some even former enemies of France. Unlike most armies, the Legionnaires swore their allegiance to the Foreign Legion, not to France itself. They were glorified mercenaries, contracted by the French government to fight in France’s interest. Many in its ranks were fleeing from their own home country to avoid criminal prosecution or debt, while others were colonists living under the French flag. Upon three years of loyal service, or the shedding of blood during battle, a Legionnaire was offered citizenship in France and the potential for a new life. More than anything, the Foreign Legionnaires were known for their esprit de corps. Their fellow Legionnaires were their family and all that mattered. It’s why they fought.

Inside the lead Panhard were four Legionnaires. The convoy commander, Lieutenant Julian Travers, was from Côte d'Azur in the South of France. He sat in the front next to the driver while the main gunner and the machine gunner sat in the turret. It was cramped, and the smell of sweat and unwashed uniforms was palpable. The Panhard was noisy and the heavy steel doors clanked in unison when the armored car rolled over a bump or hit a pothole. The engine whined under the strain as the vehicle climbed up the mountainside.

“Jane Russell, of course. Those breasts...” said the main gunner, giving each imaginary breast an air kiss.

“Christiane Martel, I think,” said the driver. “Yes, Martel over Russell.”

“Why?” asked the machine gunner.

“She is French and knows what to do with her breasts. Besides, I am a patriot,” said the driver.

“Lieutenant, what do you think? Jane Russell or Christiane Martel?” asked the machine gunner.

“I think you should stop this foolishness and keep watch as ordered,” said Travers. Travers had joined the Legion when he got a young girl pregnant and didn’t want to marry her. He liked the girl well enough but loathed her father, who was a stone cutter from Corsica and always smelled of cheese.

The machine gunner reached up and opened the turret hatch. He stood on his seat and poked his head up through the hatchway to look outside. The slope above and the valley below were motionless, except for the river and a light breeze that rustled the patches of grass on the barren hillside.

Satisfied his men were now performing their jobs correctly, the Lieutenant reconsidered the question. “I won’t kick either out of bed for eating crackers,” said Travers. His men grunted their approval.

A gunshot cracked the air. The machine gunner fell back down through the hatchway and sat limply in his chair. A single bullet hole through his throat prevented him from talking. Blood flowed down his uniform. He would be dead within a minute. “Contact!” said the main gunner.

“Where?” said Travers.

“I don’t know. I didn’t see where the shot came from,” said the main gunner. He put his hand on his friend’s wound to help stop the bleeding, but it was hopeless. The dying man gurgled a bloody bubble that popped and spattered the main gunner’s face with red specks.

“Where was he facing?”

“Downhill, I think.”

“And the bullet’s entry point?”

The main gunner wiped away the blood as best he could and examined his friend’s neck. There was a small entry hole in the back of the neck and a much larger hole in the front of the throat where the bullet had exited. “Back of neck,” said the main gunner.

The driver slowed the Panhard.

“Don’t stop, for God’s sake. Keep moving,” said Travers.

The driver stomped on the accelerator. The armored car lurched forward and picked up speed. Travers grabbed his radio handset. “Break, break. All Oscar Three Francois elements. This is Francois Twenty-Five. We have contact on the uphill slope. I say again, uphill slope. Mark your targets and keep moving. Out.”

The main gunner swung the turret to face the uphill slope. He peered through the gun sight, searching for a target. Nothing was visible. The driver watched the road through the front viewing port. Travers climbed out of his seat, pulled the dead machine gunner from the turret, and climbed up into his place to watch through the machine gunner’s porthole. The Panhard approached two staggered trenches dug into the road. The driver slammed on the brakes and the vehicle lunged to a stop.

“I told you to keep going, you fool. You’re going to get us killed,” said Travers.

“Piano keys in the road, Lieutenant.”

“Go around.”

“There’s no way.”

“Find a way or we are dead.”

The driver cranked the wheel and crept up the slope, avoiding the trenches. An RPG whistled through the air and slammed into the Panhard’s front viewing port. The explosion rocked the vehicle and created a football-sized hole in the armor plating. The molten shrapnel hit the driver in the face, killing him instantly. The Panhard’s front left wheel collapsed and folded under the vehicle’s body, exposing the thinly-armored underbelly. The cabin filled with smoke mixed with the odor of burning flesh.

“You all right?” asked Travers.

“I’m still alive,” said the main gunner.

“And the gun?”

“Still functional.”

“Gunner, find me a target.”

“Yes, sir.”

The turret swung around and the cannon lowered to match the angle of the hillside’s slope. The main gunner caught a glimpse of the Viet Minh sapper in his gunsight just as he rose up from behind a boulder and launched the second rocket toward the crippled armored car.

“Merde,” said the main gunner.

The RPG hit the vehicle’s underbelly and found the gas tank. The Panhard exploded, killing Travers and the main gunner. The front of the column was blocked by the burning hulk.

At the opposite end of the column, two more Viet Minh sappers sprung up from behind a fallen tree and fired their RPGs into the rear Panhard. The first glanced off the turret’s slanted armor and exploded in mid-air. The second rocket found the front wheel well and crippled the vehicle. A third sapper rose up from behind a boulder and fired. The vehicle exploded, killing everyone inside and trapping the column between two burning vehicles.

One by one the trucks were forced to stop. The driver and guard in each truck grabbed their rifles, dismounted, and took up firing positions behind whatever cover they could find along the hillside. Except for the occasional bullet or shell baking off in the two burning Panhards, the mountainside was silent.

“They’ve got us trapped. Why don’t the little bastards attack?” said a driver.

“How the hell should I know?” said the guard.

A French scout plane swooped down from above and flew along the length of the column. It was a single-engine Morane with an overhead mono-wing, nicknamed “Criquet” for its long, spindly landing gear. It was unarmed. The best the pilot could do was radio in the ambush.

The truck driver and guard watched the plane pass overhead.

“Maybe they’re afraid of the plane?” said the truck driver.

“It’s a scout plane. It has no guns,” said the guard.

“They don’t know that.”

“How long before help arrives?

“Help? We’re thirty kilometers from the closest outpost. There’s not going to be any help.”

“So, what do we do?”

“Do? We fight and win.”

The two readied themselves for the brawl they knew was coming.

On the hillside above, a Viet Minh sapper hidden behind a boulder finished attaching two wires to a handheld detonator. He inserted the T-handle into the top of the detonator and twisted it several times to wind the spring inside. He glanced over the boulder to ensure the column had not moved. Satisfied, he ducked down behind the boulder and pushed the T-handle on the detonator. The spring was unleashed and drove the magneto, producing an electrical charge.

In just three milliseconds, the electrical charge traveled down the bridgewire to blasting caps inserted in TNT bundles attached to the base of the limestone karst towers capping the top of the mountainside. The ground shook from the power of five simultaneous explosions. Only three of the karsts toppled like decapitated stone knights, but three was enough to achieve the desired effect of a massive landslide. A tidal wave of rock and soil rolled down the mountainside, gaining speed and mass. It smashed into the column of trucks and soldiers like a freight train knocking them from the road to merge with the rolling chaos. Nothing survived the landslide’s fury.

The sapper that set off the chain reaction stared down the mountainside and could hardly believe his eyes. He was a rice farmer by trade, but now he was a warrior that had defeated over two hundred French soldiers. His smile was missing several teeth. It was a good day for the Viet Minh.

 

 

It was night, and hot in Saigon. The rains had come too early that afternoon and had done little to cool off the evening. The air smelled of flowers from the garden and freshly cut grass. Dinner was served on the patio of the French-style villa that served as the headquarters for the French Far East Expeditionary Corps, and residence of Lieutenant General Henri Navarre. The general’s table was always the finest, with the tablecloth starched and ironed, the plates and bowls of fine china and the silverware polished to a mirror finish.

A Vietnamese butler served white wine from a bottle wrapped in a white cloth napkin. Navarre and his dinner guest, Major General Rene Cogny, finished their evening meal of game hen with gravy over wild rice with sautéed vegetables. A Siamese cat was curled up and asleep on the cool tile floor next to Navarre’s left foot. Navarre was neatly dressed in his everyday uniform and led the conversation about his latest trip back to Paris and the politics of the capital.

Cogny listened to his superior with the occasional comment when appropriate. Navarre liked Cogny because he was well-educated, with dual degrees in engineering and political science and a doctorate in law, and because Cogny knew how to handle the press, a task Navarre scorned whenever possible. Known for being somewhat aloof, Navarre was a deep-thinker and prized strategy, while Cogny was organized and proficient at execution. They made a good team.

A French captain stepped onto the patio and snapped to attention with a crisp salute. Cogny motioned him over but continued to listen to Navarre’s story. The captain handed Cogny a communiqué and stepped back to stand at attention and wait for any instructions. Cogny read the note and his face tightened.

“What is it, Rene?” asked Navarre.

“You should finish your meal, General,” said Cogny.

“That bad?”

Cogny signaled to the captain that he was dismissed.

“We’ve lost another supply column,” said Cogny. Navarre was taken aback by the news.

“The highlands?”

“Yes, sir. Near Cao Bằng.”

“I see,” said Navarre. “Is the garrison in danger of falling?”

“No, sir. We will resupply by air. It won’t be enough, but they will make do.”

“Yes. Our men can always ‘make do,’ but what of offensive operations?”

“They will need to be postponed until a complete resupply can be achieved.”

“Honestly, Rene, what good is having a garrison if our men are prevented from protecting the area because of supply shortages?”

“Yes, sir. I am acutely aware of the issue and I will correct it.”

The men continued their meal in silence, each deep in thought. When Navarre had replaced General Raoul Salan as commander and chief of Indochina, he was told that winning the war was no longer France’s main objective. Stabilizing the war effort to negotiate a peace with the Viet Minh is what the French politicians wanted. Navarre had other plans. This was his third war and he had no intention of losing it.

“Perhaps it is time for ‘Castor’?” said Navarre.

“The airhead in Dien Bien Phu?” said Cogny.

“Why not? It’s time to shake things up a bit, don’t you think?”

“Sir, when I originally designed the operation, it was for one or two battalions.”

“Yes, yes, Rene,” Navarre said. “I am aware of the original design, but that doesn’t mean it can’t be used for something larger. We need something more tempting than a couple of battalions if we are going to draw Giap into a major battle.”

“But General, we still have no serviceable roads that far east. Five battalions supported by air?”

“I was thinking more like eleven, or even twelve.”

“Twelve battalions? That’s almost ten percent of our forces in all of Indochina.”

“Which is what we will need to defeat Giap if he takes the bait.”

“What of the spring offensive in the South?”

“Yes, well… It will be stretching things, but we can do both. We will need to shorten the men’s downtime between missions and use some of our reserves if necessary.”

“General, any garrison in the highlands would be a sideshow to the defense of the Red River Delta or any attacks in the South.”

“Of course. But if Giap takes the bait…”

“You are resolved, then?”

“I always value your counsel, Rene.”

Cogny knew what that meant. His commanding officer had made up his mind and they were going to move forward with the plan no matter what Cogny had to say. He knew when arguing was useless, and preferred to save his military capital for when it could tip the scales.

“Have you considered commanders?” said Cogny.

“Gilles has recommended Langlais for the initial assault.”

“Of course. And the garrison?”

“De Castries.”

“The cavalry officer?”

“Yes.”

“An excellent officer, but he will be fighting from a fixed position and has no engineering experience.”

“Yes, but he is aggressive. I do not plan to let our men sit on their behinds in the highlands. They must engage the Viet Minh to draw them away from Laos. We cannot lose Laos.”

“No. Of course not. And the required aircraft?”

“I’ve already talked with the Americans and they will send more.”

“Yes, but the pilots. We are desperately short on pilots.”

“I will discuss it with Dechaux. He will find the pilots we require.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now. I have an excellent dessert wine that I purchased in Bommes. You must try it, Rene.”

“Of course, General.”

 

 

It was a cloudy day with patches of blue sky and an occasional glimpse of the sun. A lone C-47 cargo plane flew high over the Red River Basin in North Vietnam. The reddish-brown silt that colored the water gave the Red River its name. The land around the river was a patchwork of low earthen dikes that separated the vivid green fields and allowed the rain to form the knee-deep ponds so vital to rice production. The farmers and water buffalo that worked the rice fields were no longer frightened by the sound of the overhead planes. They had grown accustomed to the French and their flying machines. They had crops that needed tending and no time for such madness.

The Douglas C-47 Skytrain was another American hand-me-down from World War II and nicknamed the “Gooneybird” after its massive wingspan. Poor quality roads in many parts of Vietnam made the C-47, with its dual Pratt & Whitney Wasp engines, the backbone of the French Army’s logistical support and troop transport. In addition to the four crew members, the C-47’s cavernous hull could hold 27 paratroopers, 18 medical stretchers, or 3 tons of cargo. It was a reliable workhorse and would usually stay in the air even when heavily damaged.

Tom Coyle sat alone in the plane’s windowless cargo hold, surrounded by cases of rifle ammunition, grenades, and mortar shells. His seat was made of aluminum tubes covered with canvas and he felt every bump. The hold smelled musty, like old books, and the bare interior walls had dozens of bullet holes patched with small sheets of aluminum. It was a strange feeling for Coyle to ride in the back of a plane and not in the pilot’s seat. He didn’t like it much, although it was a bit more relaxing. The unpressurized hold was cold at twelve thousand feet, and he was thankful for his leather flight jacket.

Coyle felt the aircraft descend and buck as it passed through the clouds. He knew that the pilot didn’t want to lose any airspeed as he descended and would keep the engines throttled up. That was the choice in Vietnam, fly high out of range of the snipers or fly low and fast to keep the snipers from getting a clear shot. Higher was safer, but not always an option. They must be getting close to the airfield, Coyle thought. The pilot wouldn’t risk flying below three thousand feet within sniper range if he didn’t need to. It would only take one unlucky bullet hitting a grenade or mortar fuse to blow the aircraft to smithereens.

The C-47 touched down at Haiphong–Cat Bi airfield just outside of Hanoi. There were two anti-aircraft gun emplacements stationed on opposite ends of the airfield. Not that the French were afraid of an aerial attack. The French Air Force controlled the sky over all of Vietnam. That would all change if the Chinese ever fully committed to the war and brought in their fighter jets. For now, the Chinese, like the Americans, were content to let the French and the Viet Minh duke it out, and kept them equipped with the weapons and supplies required to kill each other.

The American-made machine guns that defended the airfield were quad-mounted on an electric turret and used for direct fire against ground targets. Nicknamed “Meat Grinders,” the four .50 caliber machine guns were rigged to fire in unison, and had a massive rate of fire that would discourage any wave attack of Viet Minh, no matter how brave the soldiers.

The C-47 turned around at the end and headed back down the runway until it turned onto a taxiway. The pilot followed the signals of the ground crew and parked his aircraft next to the five other C-47’s on the airfield’s apron. The French did not stagger their military aircraft in Vietnam. They were not concerned with enemy strafing since the Viet Minh had no aircraft. Besides, it was visually more pleasing to have their planes lined up in rows, and the French appreciated good aesthetics.

When the cargo door opened, Coyle stepped down the ladder with his duffel bag and took a moment to stretch. It had been a long flight from the American airbase in the Philippines. The airfield smelled of fuel and exhaust mixed with rotting vegetation. Coyle saw a bear-sized man walking toward him. He smiled on seeing Jim “Earthquake McGoon” McGovern, usually the largest man in a room and always the loudest.

“Coyle, you beautiful bastard,” said McGoon.

“Hey, McGoon,” said Coyle.

McGoon reached out with his massive open arms.

“Oh God, wait—“, said Coyle.

McGoon lifted Coyle off the ground with a bear hug, “Boy, it’s good to see ya.”

“Ribs, McGoon. Watch the ribs.”

“Oh, right,” said McGoon releasing Coyle. “I’m telling you, Coyle. You ain’t gonna regret this. The money’s great, the beer’s cheap and the women ain’t shy.”

“Sounds good.”

“It ain’t just good, Coyle; it’s great. It ain’t nothing like flying for Chiang Kai-shek and the Chinks, running around all the time getting shot at and landing out in the boondocks with nothing to do. Here, ya fly your mission and come back to civilization safe and sound. Our contract with the Frenchies says ‘No Combat Missions.’ Best whore houses are just a hop-skip-and-a-jump from the airfield, and all the good bars store their beer on ice to keep the customers coming back. It’s like living in Jersey.” McGoon picked up Coyle’s duffel and started walking, “Come on. I got us a car waiting. You hungry?”

“I could eat,” said Coyle, following McGoon.

“Good. I’ll take ya back to my place so you can clean up, then I’m gonna take you someplace special. In the meantime, you want a Vietnamese hotdog?”

“A Vietnamese hotdog?”

“Yeah. They sell ‘em all over Hanoi. Yellow folk can’t get enough of ‘em.”

“Okay.”

Just outside the main gate, Vietnamese hawkers lined up along both sides of the street. This was precious space and known for its territorial skirmishes between the established vendors and interlopers. It was serious business selling to the Westerners, and often meant the difference between a hawker’s family eating or going hungry that night. McGoon walked over to a woman wearing a conical hat to shade her from the sun and roasting satays on a small BBQ grill. He grabbed one of the bamboo sticks that skewered five chunks of roasted meat and handed her a coin. He handed the satay to Coyle, “Watch out. They’re kinda hot.”

Coyle carefully took a bite of the top chunk of meat and chewed. “Mmmm… not bad. But it ain’t no hotdog, Vietnamese or otherwise.”

“Sure it is. It’s hot--dog.”

Coyle looked confused.

“You know… ruff, ruff,” said McGoon.

Coyle coughed out the meat. “McGoon, you bastard.”

McGoon howled, “Oh yeah. Just like old times.”

 

 

A taxi dropped Coyle and McGoon off in front of a bungalow by the river in Hanoi’s Old Town neighborhood. The one-story building was painted in a traditional French yellow with green shutters and doors. Dark mold invaded the paint wherever water had trickled down the side of the house, giving the structure a time-worn feeling. Trees shaded the home and kept the rains from pounding the roof tiles to dust. The house sat on the bank of a river and smelled of rotting fish and human waste. It wasn’t overpowering, but not pleasant.

They walked inside and McGoon called out, “Girls, we’re back.”

The interior was decorated with traditional Vietnamese furniture and WWII-style pinup posters of American women wearing bathing suits and lingerie. Incense burned next to a little jade statue of Princess Liễu Hạnh and helped combat the smell from the river.

Two Vietnamese women in their early twenties, each wearing a long dress with a slit on both sides revealing silk pants underneath, ran through a doorway. Upon seeing Coyle, they stopped and stood next to each other with their heads slightly lowered. Stealing quick glances at Coyle, they whispered to each other and giggled.

“These two beauties came with the bungalow. Leftovers from the last renter. This is Chau. She cleans and cooks. And this is Nguyet. She feeds the cat.”

“You have a cat?”

“Well, I did ‘til it went missing a few months back. The girls will draw you a bath. Tub’s in the back.”

McGoon made a couple of hand gestures like drawing a bath. Both girls nodded that they understood. Nguyet was from Can Tho in the Mekong Delta of southern Vietnam, while Chau was from a small village near Lao Cai in the Northern Highlands. Although she would never admit it, Chau was jealous of Nyuget’s lighter skin color and stayed out of the sun whenever possible. Both were good girls and sent money to their families. The money they borrowed from McGoon’s pants while he was sleeping. They exited.

“Their English ain’t too good, but we’re working on it. If you want something, just show ‘em with your hands. They’ll understand. You can bivouac here ‘til we find you a place of your own. You’ll be sleeping in the extra bedroom.”

“I don’t want to put anyone out.”

“Oh, you won’t. Sleeping arrangements are kinda loose when we have visitors. More of a sharing situation,” said McGoon, moving behind a rustic bamboo bar that looked more Polynesian than Asian. “So, what’s your poison? I got Mekong whiskey, Lychee vodka, and I think the girls have a stash of sticky wine someplace. I don’t drink it. Nasty stuff. Tastes like fermented snake.”

“How ‘bout a beer?”

“Beer it is.” McGoon punched holes in the top of two cans of Bia hơi, a local beer, and handed one to Coyle. “Tomorrow we gotta head over to flight ops and let the Frenchies check you out. Officially, we’ll be under the command of Captain Soulat. He’s in charge of the CAT detachment.”

“What’s CAT?”

“Civil Air Transport. But there ain’t nothing civil about it. It’s a covert CIA operation run by General Chennault. CAT signs contracts with civilian pilots, most of which are former American combat veterans, and then contracts with the French Air Force for aircraft crews. It’s a real nice arrangement that keeps things hush-hush. The interview ain’t no big deal. Frenchies lost a bomber and two C-47’s last week alone. Americans keep shipping over replacement aircraft, but the Frenchies got a real shortage of pilots. They’ve been hiring anyone that knows the difference between an aileron and an altimeter. Veterans like us are a real commodity around these parts. So, I figure we get in, make some real money for a change, then get the hell out before we get our asses shot off.”

“I like the part where we don’t get our asses shot off.”

“Amen.”

 

 

With a towel wrapped around his waist, Coyle walked out the back of the bungalow and onto the patio’s bamboo floor. Nguyet and Chau, wearing towels, were waiting next to a large soaking tub filled with cool water.

“Thank you,” said Coyle. Nguyet and Chau bowed. Coyle bowed back and waited for them to leave. They didn’t. Nguyet walked over and gently pulled Coyle to the tub and removed his towel.

“Okay. I guess you do things a little different here,” said Coyle, and climbed into the tub.

Nguyet and Chau removed their robes and climbed into the tub with him. Nguyet immediately went to work scrubbing Coyle down with soap. Chau scooped up a handful of water and added a few drops to a shaving soap bowl and lathered up the shaving brush. She soaped up Coyle’s beard stubble and opened a straight razor. Coyle reached out and stopped her for a moment, “Just so I’m clear… you’re on our side, right?” Chau pushed his hand away and shaved his face.

 

 

It was late afternoon and raining lightly. General Cogny’s Hanoi headquarters were located within the crumbling walls of the nine-hundred-year-old citadel, the imperial home of the ancient emperors of Vietnam. The wet tile that covered the ground within the high walls of the compound gave off an earthen smell.

Inside the main building, Cogny stood over a map of the Northern Highlands, taking it in, analyzing. Cogny was pragmatic. While he was hesitant at the size of ‘Castor’ and had made his opinion known, he was a professional and would do his best to execute Navarre’s orders successfully. After all, it was his plan originally, and Navarre would probably give him some of the credit if it was successful.

The HQ’s furnishings were humble compared to Navarre’s villa in Saigon. Filled with maps, aerial recon photos, and a large operational staff, the two-story building was more about function than style. Not that Cogny didn’t have style. He was six-foot-four with chiseled good looks and considered the most desirable bachelor in Indochina. But Cogny was first and foremost a warrior. As commander of ground forces in North Vietnam, Cogny oversaw all Army operations.

 

A military sedan passed through a guard gate protected by stacks of sandbags and a light machine gun squadron of Vietnamese Legionnaires. The vehicle pulled up in front of the headquarters’ entrance, where a guard stood by the doorway. Colonel Christian De Castries, wearing a scarlet sidecap from the 3rd Moroccan Spahis--his mechanized command in North Africa during WWII--climbed out and entered the building’s front doors. De Castries was an aristocrat born into a distinguished military family and graduated from the prestigious Saumur Calvary School. As a young sergeant, he had served under then-Lieutenant Navarre and had been wounded several times while leading assaults on the enemy’s lines. He had a measured amount of panache and carried himself like a swashbuckler.

De Castries was escorted into a conference room where Lieutenant Colonel Pierre Charles Langlais, Airborne Commander of GAP 2, was already seated with three cigarette butts in the ashtray and the fourth burning in his lips. Born in Brittany in Northwest France, Langlais was stubborn and known for arguing with his superiors. He liked his whiskey straight and shaved his skull to look more menacing. Langlais rose and saluted De Castries. Both were unquestionably brave veterans, but there was a sharp contrast between De Castries recently pressed uniform and Langlais well-worn fatigues. The two colonels shook hands and exchanged pleasantries as was the custom. Langlais didn’t care about a soldier’s decoration, his family’s history, or even what he said. He cared about a soldier’s actions, especially in battle. Langlais did not suffer fools. Although they had only met once before, Langlais liked and respected De Castries. He was aggressive and known to be a real fighter.

“I assume you are to lead our little cabal?” said Langlais.

“I have not received any orders as of yet,” said De Castries.

Cogny entered and the colonels saluted.

“You two have met?”

“Briefly, in North Africa. I was riding an armored car and Colonel Langlais a camel. I’m not sure which was more comfortable,” said De Castries.

“The armored car, I assure you,” said Langlais.

“Please be seated, gentlemen,” said Cogny, and crossed to a map of North Vietnam on the wall. “Colonel De Castries, Colonel Langlais has already been fully briefed, but I thought it important that you two meet before operations begin. As you are aware, we have been facing particularly active engagement against our supply conveys in the highlands. We believe these attacks to be preparations for a new enemy front with the objective of overrunning Laos. The loss of Laos would threaten our northern garrisons and give the Chinese a protected supply route into central Vietnam, and even Cambodia. We, of course, cannot let this happen. Are you familiar with Dien Bien Phu, Colonel?”

“The abandoned airstrip near the Laotian border?” said De Castries.

“Exactly,” said Cogny. “We are going to retake it and rebuild the airstrip.”

“An airhead?”

“With a heavily fortified garrison. It will become our new base of operations in the Northern Highlands. From it, we will be able to resupply any of our existing northern garrisons, and more importantly, reinforce Laos when and if any attack takes place. Colonel Langlais with his GAP2 paratroopers will oversee the retaking of the airfield and secure the area. You, Colonel De Castries, will be responsible for building and defending the garrison.”

“And the size of my force?”

“Twelve battalions.”

“That’s over ten thousand men. How will you supply such a force?”

“Once the airstrip is rebuilt, we will fly in the supplies you require. Until then, we will supply by airdrop.”

“Do we have the aircraft for such an operation?”

“I have been assured that we will.”

“Enemy strength?”

“There are currently four Viet Minh battalions in the area, two regular and two local militia.”

“Nothing we cannot handle,” said Langlais.

“But with luck, more will come,” said Cogny. “Your mission is to engage and destroy the enemy using your garrison as a base of operation.”

De Castries rose to study the map more closely.

“Artillery?” said De Castries.

“You will be given all you need to accomplish your objectives,” said Cogny.

“And the enemy artillery?” said De Castries.

“One of the Viet Minh battalions already in the valley has heavy mortars, plus some recoilless rifles, but no artillery.”

“Yet,” said Langlais. “Intelligence reports that the Chinese have supplied the Viet Minh with a division of heavy artillery.”

“True, but Intelligence also reports that it is impossible to transport heavy artillery through the three hundred kilometers of mountains on existing roads. And even if they could, the Viet Minh are not yet trained in indirect fire and would therefore be ineffective.”

De Castries turned to Langlais. “Can you hold them until our artillery arrives?”

“We’ll hold them,” said Langlais.

“We are calling it ‘Operation Castor,’” said Cogny, “and it kicks off in one week. Your thoughts, Colonel?”

“It is a great honor, General,” said De Castries.

“Excellent,” said Cogny. “Gentlemen, I hope you brought your appetites. We dine at Le Beaulieu with some of the other commanders in the operation.”

 

 

The streets of Hanoi were a cacophony of police whistles directing traffic, street vendors heralding their latest wares, and spattering oil from the iron woks of curbside cafes. And then there were the bicycles, hundreds of them weaving between the buses and military vehicles with little regard for the rules of the road and all the riders ringing their handlebar bells like someone was actually listening and would get out of their way.

In Hanoi’s European quarter, Coyle and McGoon, both wearing freshly ironed shirts and slacks, rode on the front seat of a trishaw pedaled from behind by a Vietnamese man. The driver, his face heavily lined from a lifetime working in the sun, wore dark blue silk pajamas and rope sandals. His trishaw was old and maintained to the best he could afford, which wasn’t much.

The cobblestone streets were lined with French colonial villas, manicured lawns and black cast iron street lamps. It’s as if the entire neighborhood was lifted from the streets of Paris and transplanted into the center of Hanoi. On the boulevard, Henri-Rivière immediately opposite the Tonkin Résidence Supérieure sat the Grand Hôtel Métropole. Designed in French colonial style with smooth white stucco and forest green shutters, the 3-story Métropole was considered by most westerners to be the most illustrious hotel in Southeast Asia and had an excellent wine cellar stocking the finest French vintages. The trishaw pulled to stop at the front entrance of the hotel. Coyle climbed down first. As McGoon climbed off the back tire of the trishaw lifted off the ground. Once off, the trishaw slammed back down on the street and McGoon paid the driver.

McGoon and Coyle walked into the hotel lobby and through an open glass doorway into Le Beaulieu, a French restaurant with parquet floors, crystal chandeliers and large windows overlooking the street. Pastry carts stacked with petit fours, bright-colored macarons, rum baba and religeuse topped in ganache were wheeled slowly through the aisles for patrons to view. Vietnamese chefs with tall white hats stood tableside and sautéed Steak Diane and Crepe Suzettes in butter and cognac as blue-orange flames leaped up from their copper pans. The smell was heavenly.

“Nice digs, huh?” said McGoon.

“I’ll say,” said Coyle.

“Best chow in Hanoi,” said McGoon. “I like eating in the bar. Grub’s the same as the restaurant, but ya don’t need a reservation and the waitresses are prettier. You like snails?”

“To eat?”

“Yeah. Frenchies cook ‘em nice with garlic and butter. You really need to widen your palate, Coyle.”

“I like what I like.”

Coyle and McGoon sat at the bar.

“They got a full bar and I’m buying the first round, so drink up.”

“I’ll have a beer.”

“Didn’t really hear me on the whole expand your palate thing, did ya?”

“I like beer.”

McGoon signaled the bartender, a Vietnamese man dressed in a white tuxedo.

“I’ll have a martini cocktail light on the vermouth with three olives, and he’ll have a beer.”

Coyle looked out into the restaurant at the French patrons dressed in dinner jackets and long gowns. On a bandstand, a Vietnamese woman in a long white gown sang in perfect French accompanied by a 7-piece band of Vietnamese men dressed in white tuxedos.

“These people realize they’re fighting a war?”

“Oh, they realize. They just choose to ignore it during supper. Hell of a thing, ain’t it?”

McGoon looked outside through the window and saw a woman stepping from a trishaw.

“Uh oh.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Trouble’s coming.”

McGoon turned his back to the restaurant’s entrance and put his hand up to shield his face. Coyle turned to see what McGoon was looking at, but the woman had already disappeared from the window.

“I don’t get it.”

“Just look away and maybe she won’t notice us.”

“Kinda hard not to notice you, McGoon.”

“Well, I can’t help my healthy physique.”

Coyle watched as Brigitte Friang entered the restaurant, wearing a strapless cocktail dress that revealed a small scar above her left breast. She was proud of her scars, especially that one, because it was from a German bullet shot while she was trying to escape from the Gestapo in WWII. Her natural beauty only paled in comparison to her self-confidence. She walked toward the maître d’ who, upon recognizing her, immediately blocked her from entering the restaurant and asked her to leave at once. She didn’t. The maître d’ signaled for the hotel’s security guards to remove her, and still, she held her ground.

“Hey, McGoon, where’s the head?”

“Out the door and to the left. Do you want some oysters?”

“Sure. Whatever you want.”

Coyle walked toward the entrance and turned at the last moment to approach Brigitte, the security guards, and the maître d’.

“Darling, I’m sorry I didn’t see you,” said Coyle, offering her his arm. “I was waiting in the bar.” She grabbed Coyle’s arm and the security guards released her. The maître d’ scolded Coyle for interfering.

“Sorry. Don’t speak French,” Coyle said and led Brigitte into the bar.

McGoon turned to see Coyle coming into the bar with Brigitte. “Coyle, you attract trouble like bears to honey,” he said to himself.

“Thank you, but I assure you I didn’t need any help,” said Brigitte.

“You speak English,” said Coyle.

“So do you.”

“Well yeah, that’s cuz I’m--“

“--an American.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Bad? No. Just different.”

Brigitte looked back over her shoulder to see the maître d’ escorting a couple into the restaurant.

“You American men enjoy saving damsels in distress, yes?”

“Can’t really speak for all of us, but in general… yeah. Especially if the damsels are beautiful.”

“Ah, yes. Now if you will excuse me.”

“I was hoping we could have a drink.”

“Yes, you were.”

Brigitte walked away and slipped into the restaurant. She avoided the maître d’ as he returned to his stand at the entrance to the restaurant. She searched the sea of white tablecloths for her intended target.

 

Cogny, De Castries, and Langlais sat with the one-eyed Brigadier General Giles, Commander of Airborne Operations, and General Jean Dechaux, Northern Tactical Air Group Commander. The conversation was easy, veteran fighters swapping war stories.

“After the Maginot Line fell, eight-hundred-thousand of us were shipped off to prison camps. It took me a year to finally escape. I crawled naked through a drain pipe. I traveled through Bavaria and finally joined the French Resistance,” said Cogny.

“And your stick?” said Langlais referring to Cogny’s walking cane.

“Mmmm… that old thing,” said Cogny, remembering. “The Gestapo picked me up in Paris. Six months of interrogation in Fresnes before they finally sent me to Buchenwald to starve with the Jews and Poles. Wasn’t much left of me when we were finally liberated.”

“Sadist bastards,” said Dechaux.

“Yes, but effective,” said Cogny. “Colonel Langlais, you served with the camel corps in Northern Africa?”

“Yes. The Méhariste in the Ahaggar Mountains of southern Algeria. It was my first assignment after the academy at St. Cyr,” said Langlais. “Everyone rode their camel barefoot, officers and soldiers alike. Filthy animal, the camel, but tough like the Chaamba troopers that rode them. Good fighters, the Chaamba, and brave.”

Cogny was the first to see Brigitte approach the table and stood. ”Mademoiselle Friang.” The others stood.

“Gentlemen, please. I do not mean to interrupt such a distinguished gathering of officers,” said Brigitte.

“I doubt that,” said Langlais.

“Colonel, you know Mademoiselle Friang?” said Cogny.

“Brigitte parachuted with my battalion into Tu-Le. That was your second combat jump, I believe?”

“Third, actually,” said Brigitte.

“Well, the press is always welcome,” said Cogny.

“Especially when you are winning, no?” said Brigitte.

“Of course. Then you are most welcome,” said Cogny.

“And when do you jump next, Colonel Langlais?”

“When ordered, Brigitte.”

“And on that day, will I be welcome?”

“Perhaps.”

“The heads of the air force and paratroopers dining with their commanding officer. Gentlemen, if I did not know better, I would say you are planning a drop and an important one at that. Perhaps with two para battalions and sixty-five aircraft?”

The officers exchanged surprised glances.

“How did you come upon such detailed falsehood, Mademoiselle Friang?” said Dechaux.

“By not revealing my sources, General Dechaux.”

“And you would print such fabrications?” said Cogny.

“I am a patriot first, General Cogny. I would never report anything that would endanger the lives of Frenchmen. I have proven that time and time again, as Colonel Langlais has witnessed.”

“Brigitte can be trusted,” said Langlais.

“Thank you, Colonel,” said Brigitte.

“In that case, you might want to check your chute, Mademoiselle Friang,” said Cogny.

“Thank you, General, I shall. Gentlemen, if you will excuse me, I shall let you get back to the business of war.” She turned and walked away.

“How does she find such information?” said De Castries.

“She’s a good reporter,” said Langlais.

“And attractive,” said General Gilles. ”A useful attribute to get men to talking.”

“The people like her and her magazine,” said Cogny. “You will keep her safe, Colonel Langlais?”

“As best as I am able, General,” said Langlais. “But she is strong-willed. She will not be easily deterred when danger comes.”

“Let’s hope it is so, Colonel,” said Cogny. “History needs a credible witness.”

 

Coyle sipped his beer as he listened to McGoon. “…and after a minute the ol’ girl starts a shuttering and a bucking. I look at the window and see my number two engine is smoking like a butcher’s oven,” said McGoon. “I’m still ninety or so miles away from the frontlines and I’ve got a full load of ammunition in the hold. I can’t bail out because the damn Chinese communists have a bounty on my head. ‘Sides, I’d just gotten my chair good’n broken in and didn’t want to lose it. So, I feather number two’s prop and I drop a thousand feet like a rock.”

Coyle watched as Brigitte walked out of the restaurant and crossed the reception area. She glanced in his direction before disappearing out the front door. Coyle smiled to himself.

 

 

A P-38 Lightning, with its twin tail booms, disappeared and reappeared as it flew through the tops of clouds with blue sky above. The aircraft was armed with a 20mm cannon and four 50-cal machine guns in its nose, and four triple-rocket tubes under its wings. It packed a formidable punch and was often used for air-ground support. It had been nicknamed “Fork-Tailed Devil” by the Germans that feared it during WWII.

Coyle sat in the cockpit and could see the silver reflections of a river below. It was a beautiful day and he was feeling the rush that comes with flying a powerful war machine. He felt a little cocky, like a gunslinger that wanted to slap leather and kill someone just to prove he was the fastest. A village appeared, the target he had been assigned. He pushed the yoke forward and the aircraft’s elevators lowered, kicking the twin tails up. He kept the engines at full-throttle and the aircraft picked up speed as it dove down through the clouds toward the village. He could see the thatched roofs on the bamboo-walled huts, surrounded by their animal pens and fenced gardens. The people looked like ants and scurried for cover inside the huts when they heard his plane’s engines.

An anti-aircraft machine gun hidden in one of the huts opened fire through a hole torn in the roof. Tracer bullets streamed up into the sky. Three bullets hit Coyle’s left wing, leaving half-dollar sized holes torn in the aluminum skin. Coyle remained in his dive and the aircraft picked up speed as it headed downward. He glanced at the armament selector switch on the top of the yoke and flipped it from “Gun” to “Rocket.” He lined up his sight on the hut with the anti-aircraft gun, pulled the trigger button and launched his under-wing rockets.

Three seconds later, the rockets hit the hut and the surrounding ground. The explosions shook the earth and the fireballs set other nearby huts on fire.

His aircraft was right over the village when Coyle pulled up from his dive. He felt the heavy pull of gravity and sunk back into his seat. He was confident he had destroyed his target but looked back over his shoulder to confirm his kill. He could see the outline of the gun through the burning roof of the hut and heard the gun’s shells baking off with little explosions like firecrackers.

Out of the corner of his eye, a swift motion caught his attention. It was just a blur, but it frightened him and he turned away, not wanting to see. He was a pilot, and pilots flew too high and too fast to witness the destruction they caused. And that’s what he wanted right now, to fly away and not look back.

Coyle was suddenly standing on the ground in a village. It all looked too familiar. He had been there before, on the ground, in that very spot. There was fire everywhere, burning everything. He was terrified and wanted to close his eyes, but he couldn’t. For some reason, he had to watch. He had to know. And there it was again… the blur… and a scream.

Coyle shot straight up in bed. His body was drenched in a cold sweat. The bed sheets stuck to his wet chest and arms. He struggled to catch his breath. His mouth was dry. He mustered what spit he could and swallowed hard. It was dark, and he could only see glimpses of things outlined by the moonlight coming through the open window. It took a few moments to realize where he was and that he was safe.

He looked over and saw Nguyet asleep beside him, her naked body exposed from having kicked off the bed sheet from her side of the bed. She stirred, reached up, and tried to pull him back down into her arms. Coyle gently batted away her hands and rose from the bed. He walked over to the window in hopes of a breeze to cool him down and dry the sweat. There was none. He looked out at the river below. Wisps of a light fog were starting to form over the water. Only a few of the sampans that lined the river banks still had their lights on. He could hear voices conversing in Vietnamese mixed with the hum of a distant boat engine and frogs calling for their mates along the river’s edge.

Most nights were like this one. Coyle knew it was useless to try and sleep again. He rarely slept the whole night through. Each night’s dream was different, but always ended the same… in the burning village with a blur and a scream. He did as he always did. He took out his penknife, picked up the piece of wood he had been working on, and whittled. Anything to occupy his mind and let him forget, if even for a few moments. Oblivion was what he wanted most.

 

 

In a sweltering office on Cat Bi airbase, Coyle sat across from Captain Soulet. With all the windows open and the ceiling fan spinning at its top speed, both men were still sweating like racehorses. “You flew in the Pacific during World War Two, and again in Korea,” said Soulet, reviewing Coyle’s paperwork. Soulet was French but spoke good English. It was the main reason why he was assigned the position of riding herd over the American pilots contracted to fly supply missions for the French Air Force.

“That’s right,” said Coyle.

“Your commendations are impressive.”

“I did my duty.”

“Why did you leave the military?”

“Lousy food.”

“You trained on the C-119?”

“In Manila before I resigned my commission.”

“Why did you stay in Southeast Asia?”

“I went home for a bit. Things just weren’t the same. My people didn’t understand. At least here, I know who I’ve become.”

“One last question, Monsieur Coyle. Is it true you hold the Navy record for most aircraft crashes?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Would you mind explaining?”

“I’d rather not if it’s all the same.”

“It is not all the same.”

“Okay. I flew a lot of missions. At times, things got squirrely and I crashed.”

“You find that amusing?”

“Not at the time.”

“Monsieur Coyle, this is not the US Navy. Our resources are limited. Do not crash our planes.”

“I’ll do my best,” said Coyle.

Soulet had no choice. The French needed pilots like Coyle. He stamped his application ‘APPROVED.’ “Welcome to the French Air Force, Monsieur Coyle.”

 

 

The Valley

 

The sun was filtered by a thick morning haze and rose slowly over Haiphong–Cat Bi airfield. The sky was blanketed with a high layer of cirrocumulus that gave it a grey-gloomy feeling and held in the cool nighttime air. The airfield’s apron was lined with Quonset huts that served as offices and hangers for small aircraft. A concrete control tower was positioned near the center of the two runways. The runways were configured in an X that allowed aircraft to avoid crosswinds while taking-off and landing. It was quiet at that time of morning. Only birds hunting for crickets and seeds landed and took-off from the grass between the runways. The tarmac was covered with parked cargo aircraft with all their doors open and their ladders down as if waiting.

A Vietnamese artist stood on a ladder and painted the final touches on Daisy Mae, a buxom cartoon character from the Li’l Abner comic strip, on the nose of a C-119 cargo plane. The C-119 was nicknamed the “Flying Boxcar” because the fuselage was in the shape of a long square box with rounded edges, like someone with a bad sense of style had attached a pair of wings to a freight train’s boxcar. It wasn’t the prettiest of aircraft, but it was a workhorse with a massive payload. With its twin tail booms and powerful dual engines, the C-119 could haul almost three times as much weight as the next largest aircraft in the French fleet. It was easy to see why they were so prized by the French, who needed to transport large amounts of cargo and troops around a country with few roads.

Standing on the tarmac below, McGoon observed the artist’s work while Coyle finished the pre-flight check.

“Ailerons are a bit loose, but the rest seems pretty solid,” said Coyle.

“Ya think her breasts are big enough?” said McGoon.

“I don’t know. How big ya need ‘em?”

McGoon raised his massive hands to form a pair of imaginary breasts in the air. “Mmmm… I suppose ya got a point.”

“Frenchies say a woman’s breast should be no larger than a champagne glass, otherwise it’s a waste.”

“Humph. I don’t know about that,” said McGoon. “Sides, you’ve been here a week. How do you know what the Frenchies say?”

“I’ve been reading up,” said Coyle.

Coyle and McGoon turned to the sound of a distant cadence in French. Hundreds of French and Vietnamese paratroopers wearing pristine uniforms, jump helmets and their parachute packs marched in perfect unison onto the airfield and to their assigned aircraft waiting on the tarmac. Each carried a MAS 36 rifle or a MAT 36 submachine gun with a folding stock. The officers, always keen to look their best, carried the latest model MAT 49 submachine gun and wore their red berets, while their jump helmets hung from their web belts.

“Frenchies sure are a pretty bunch,” said McGoon.

Brigitte approached, wearing a khaki uniform with a jump pack on her back, a portable typewriter in one hand, and a jump helmet in the other. Her hair was up in a tight bun and she wore no makeup.

“I’ll be damned,” said Coyle.

“Bonjour,” said Brigitte.

“Yeah, Buenas dias to you, too. Look, lady, this is a military airfield,” said McGoon. “You could get that pretty little head of yours lopped off by a – “

“I ride with the First Colonial Paras in the second wave,” said Brigitte handing McGoon her orders.

“You’re a war correspondent,” said Coyle.

“You say that like it is a bad thing,” said Brigitte.

“No, but it explains a lot.”

“Such a shame. We’ve only just met and you already have me figured out.”

“Actually, we still haven’t met. And as for figuring you out… I have serious doubts that’s even possible.”

Brigitte offers her hand. “Brigitte Friang, reporter for the magazine Indochine Sud-Est Asiatique.”

“Tom Coyle, cargo pilot, and this is Jim McGovern. We call him “McGoon.”

McGoon handed back her orders. “I don’t give a damn what those say. We ain’t dropping no civilians outta our aircraft, especially during a war.”

“I assure you, the Mademoiselle is quite capable,” said Major Marcel Bigeard, the hawk-nosed commander of the 6th Battalion of French and Vietnamese paratroopers. He was beyond brave and openly flirted with death to the point where many of his cohorts couldn’t stand him.

Brigitte walked over and gave him a hug, “My little Bruno.” Bruno and Brigitte exchanged pleasantries in French.

Bruno offered his hand to Coyle and McGoon, “Major Marcel Bigeard. ‘Bruno’ to my friends.”

“Bruno and I were together at Tu Le,” said Brigitte.

“What a mess that was, yes?” said Bruno.

“Bruno’s battalion was used as bait to lure the Viet Minh away from the French garrisons on the Thai highlands,” said Brigitte. “They dropped us behind an entire division of Viet Minh regulars.”

“Nothing like five thousand angry Viet Minh to get your blood pumping, eh?” said Bruno. “We were… how you say… running and gunning all the way down the mountain.”

“With your permission, I will stow my gear,” said Brigitte.

McGoon looked to Coyle for support. Coyle shrugged, “She’s jumped more than you and me combined.”

“I guess,” said McGoon as he stepped aside to let Brigitte pass.

Brigitte moved off to the cargo door and Bruno followed. McGoon and Coyle watched as Bruno helped her manage the step ladder by putting his hand on her ass and giving her a shove.

“Something tells me they’ve shared a lot more than a foxhole together,” said Coyle.

“I’m amazed he survived,” said McGoon.

 

 

It was almost 7 a.m. by the time all the paratroopers had arrived at the airfield and climbed into their aircraft. The armada was ready for takeoff. The dual engines on the C-47s wound slowly to life as thumps of black exhaust puffed from their engine exhaust panels. The wheel blocks were pulled by the ground crew and the tires rolled across the tarmac. One by one, the sixty-five-aircraft taxied down the runway and lifted off into the morning sky. Operation Castor had begun.

 

 

The provincial capital of Dien Bien Phu was in the valley of Muong Thanh, an oasis of green rice paddies in the vast tree-covered highlands of North Vietnam. The valley was long and narrow. There were multiple streams flowing from the mountain, like arteries feeding the Nam Yum River, which ran down the center of the valley. The elephant grass was long and green, while the surrounding mountains were steep and shrouded in dense forests. The mountain air was dry and the temperature cooler than most of Vietnam.

The enclave was the home to the Black Thai clan that lived in dozens of hamlets scattered among the low hills and valley floor. They spoke their own language and built their wooden houses on stilts to hinder venomous snakes and to prevent their homes from flooding during the monsoon season. Both men and women wore blouses with high collars and long skirts. They preferred cloth dyed with dark colors like black or brown. In addition to rice, the Black Thai grew opium for whichever government controlled the valley at the time of harvest. They were mostly a peaceful people and were partial to odd numbers over even.

The abandoned airfield sat in the center of the valley and ran along the river. The Viet Minh had dug 1,200 potholes and several 3-foot deep trenches across the runway to prevent its use by the French. Patches of grass with the occasional anthill had sprung up over time, and the locals had stripped the airfield’s buildings of their wood siding to build their homes. Still, the airfield wasn’t in bad shape. It was a diamond in the rough that could quickly be carved into a jewel worth fighting for. For the French, an airfield meant control of the surrounding area, and control was what they desired most.

On a hill that would soon be called “Elaine” sat a small mansion, the residence of the mayor. It had been built by the French when they previously occupied the valley. The stone structure was French Provincial in style, with windows on the first and second floors and a soft green door between four columns that gave it boost in prestige. It was meant to make an impression on occupants of the valley who had never seen anything so beautiful when it was built. After the French left, the Viet Minh hung the mayor for collaboration and took over his residence. The Viet Minh didn’t believe in such indulgences while so many of their people were homeless and starving. It now served the dual purpose of party headquarters and administration. Strangely, the Viet Minh had left alone the mansion’s interior, which was still filled with elegantly-carved furniture, Persian rugs, and oil paintings of French war heroes on horses.

 

 

The French were lucky that morning. The Viet Minh did not know they were coming, and only one of the four expected battalions was in the valley when the paratroopers jumped in. The other three battalions were over thirty kilometers away in mountainous terrain. It would take them several days’ march to return to the valley once they received orders.

Corporal Phan Van Ty was eighteen when he joined his local militia. It was the fourth year of the war against the French. The village cadre watched him closely because Ty had been taught to read, write and do mathematics by his father, the village school teacher. Any education, however limited, was a precious commodity in the People’s Army of North Vietnam. It meant that Ty could learn to use a compass and find his position on a map. He could write the reports that the bureaucrats so loved. He could read the training manuals that the Chinese advisors translated into Vietnamese and learn how to operate the new weapons that they sent. He had been promoted several times during the first year and was finally transferred to the regular army and assigned to lead a mortar squad as a corporal. But Ty’s real dream was to become a sapper, those brave soldiers that planted booby-traps and breached the enemy’s defenses. Several times he had requested a transfer to the battalion’s engineering company, and several times he was denied by his commander, who did not want to lose one of the few in his battalion that had the potential to become an officer. The battalion was always desperately short of officers, especially junior officers, which had a high mortality rate. Someone else could dig the tunnels and plant mines, but not Ty.

On the morning of November 20, 1953, Ty’s mortar squad was training on a low hill overlooking the river and several rice fields in the northwest of the valley of Dien Bien Phu. Ty’s squad was part of the heavy weapons company that had been detached from battalion 920 so they could rest and train while the weather was good. Ty’s goal was to set up the 81mm mortar and fire the first practice round on target within one minute. It was an ambitious goal that required his five-man team to repeat the drill over and over, setting up the mortar and firing until the action was second nature and didn’t require them to think about the order of procedures. Ty didn’t own a watch, so he timed the practice drill by counting out the swings of a well-worn metronome that his music teacher had given him when he was a student.

His men had the maneuver down to 92 seconds by the time they heard the low-pitched thrum of plane engines approaching the valley from the eastern mountains. Not many planes passed over the valley, but when they did the Viet Minh soldiers would often take potshots at them if they were low enough to be within range. The Viet Minh didn’t own any aircraft or have any pilots, so anything in the sky was fair game. The odds of hitting a plane were very low, but it was a break in their boring routine and made them feel useful.

The squad picked up their rifles and pointed the muzzles into the air waiting for the aircraft to appear. It was only when Ty’s men saw the armada of planes emerge from over the mountain tops that they began to panic. There were a lot of planes, more than any of them had ever seen before. Ty reassured his young squad and ordered them to gather up their gear. They would be receiving new orders shortly and he wanted to be ready to move.

 

‘Yellow Leader’ approached from the south and circled down to 2,500 feet above the main drop zone. ‘Natacha,’ as it was codenamed by the French, was 350 yards northwest of the village of Muong Thanh and 300 yards east of the old airfield. With two big landmarks, the clearing was easy to spot from the air. The pilot, Colonel Nicot, throttled back to an airspeed of 105 mph in preparation for the paratroopers’ jump.

Even at the reduced speed, the wind was biting and cold when the jumpmaster opened the door on the lead aircraft. Bruno stepped to the open door, his parachute’s static line already hooked to the wire running the length of the cargo hold. The wind stung his ears as his men gathered in tightly behind him. Bruno was always the first one out of the aircraft. His men thought it foolish that their commander would go first, but God, how they admired him. Bruno, on the other hand, actually thought it was safer to be the first one out because the enemy had less time to prepare, or at least, that is what he told his men. He felt fear just like everyone else; he just chose to ignore it. The red jump light changed to green and the buzzer sounded. The jumpmaster slapped him on the shoulder and said: ”Go!”

“First stick away,” said Bruno and jumped out the door. He was followed closely by his men. The empty static lines whipped in the wind and slapped the aircraft’s fuselage. It would take a total of two minutes for the C-47 to empty its ‘stick’ of 24 paratroopers. At 105 mph, that meant the soldiers’ canopies would be spread over two miles, and they still needed to land on a drop zone that was only 450 yards across.

Outside the aircraft, Bruno kept his feet together and his hands on his jump harness to prevent any of his limbs getting tangled in the static line. He dropped twenty feet straight down until the static line pulled his parachute from his pack. The hundred-mile-an-hour wind caught the parachute and swung Bruno sideways so he was parallel to the ground. His chute filled with air and snapped open. He felt the heavy jerk of his harness against his crotch and chest. With the parachute open, his body swung down like a pendulum until he was once again perpendicular to the ground. He could feel his heart racing, and its heavy thumping inside his chest reassured him that he was alive. He released his rucksack from below his reserve parachute and dropped it on a long line so it dangled below his feet. As he floated down, he counted his men’s chutes. Everyone’s chute had opened. He breathed a little easier until he saw the first muzzle flash from the valley below. Then more… a lot more. He was defenseless in the air. Bruno did not carry a personal weapon. He was a natural warrior, and the temptation to fight was too great when he had a weapon by his side. His job was to lead the 651 men dropping with him that day, not fight. Several bullets zipped past him and punctured his parachute’s canopy. The bullet holes were too small to have any real effect beyond being a reminder that he was jumping into hostile territory.

 

There was a thick morning mist still hanging over the valley when Bruno landed. He hit the ground hard with bent knees so as not to break his legs. He tumbled into the long grass on a low sloping hill. The drop zone was alive with enemy machine gun bursts and mortar shells exploding. He heard the zing of bullets cutting through the grass nearby, but he couldn’t see who was shooting at him or from where. That was a good thing, he thought. If he can’t see them, they can’t see him. His parachute floated down and landed on the top of the grass. He released his parachute harness, gathered his chute, and wadded it up into a bundle. Parachute silk was precious and not to be wasted, even when under fire. He laid the bundled chute down in the grass. He followed the long line through the grass and found his rucksack. He unclipped the long line, slipped the rucksack on his back, and pulled his combat knife from its scabbard on his front combat harness. It wasn’t much, but it was something. He hunched low in the grass and waited for the others to land. It was a strange feeling to only see three feet to his front, knowing that there was an enemy out there bent on killing him and his men. He was confident that even with only a knife, he could kill two or maybe even three before they overran his position. His life would buy time for his men, and that was a sacrifice he was willing to make if required. He slipped off his rucksack, opened the top straps, and reached inside. He pulled out a handheld field radio. Its antenna had been smashed when he rolled during his landing. “Merde,” said Bruno to himself.

He tried it anyway and heard nothing but static. It was useless. He wanted to throw it on the ground, but checked his emotions and put the broken radio back in his pack so as not to leave it for the enemy. He heard the Vietnamese voices heading in his direction. Two more bullets cut the blades of elephant grass around his left shoulder. The enemy had his position and would be coming soon. He heard the grass shifting to his right. He readied his knife, changing the grip so the blade faced down and away. He decided he would slash with his opening strike. More rustling. His muscles tensed. A face appeared in front of him. It was a Vietnamese in a French sergeant’s uniform. “Ah, Major. There you are,” said the sergeant.

Bruno relaxed and lowered his knife. Two more faces appeared beside the sergeant, both Vietnamese in French uniforms.

“And the others?” said Bruno.

“We are forming up now.”

“Do any of you have a radio?”

“No, sir. Lieutenant Le Page has a radio in his pack. I saw the lieutenant land in a grove of trees to the southeast of the drop zone.”

“Okay. Sergeant, you and your men stay here and form a defensive pocket. I’ll find your lieutenant.”

“Yes, sir,” said the sergeant. “The grass is much longer than seen in the recon photos, yes?”

“Sorry to disappoint you, Sergeant. Next time I will be sure to have it cut before you land.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“…and for God’s sake, don’t shoot anything until you are sure it is the enemy… especially me.”

“Yes, sir.”

Bruno, still only armed with his combat knife, disappeared into the grass.

 

Bruno reappeared out of the grass on the southeast side of the drop zone. Before him was a grove of trees. He looked for the enemy. With no one in sight, he made a dash for the trees.

Inside the grove of trees, Lieutenant Le Page stood looking up into a tree. Bruno called out in a loud whisper. “Lieutenant?”

“Yes?” said Le Page.

Bruno walked up behind him while scanning the area for the enemy.

“Poor bastard. Bullet caught him under the chin strap,” said Le Page.

Bruno looked up to see Captain Raymond, the battalion’s medical officer, hanging lifeless with a bullet hole under his chin, his medical bag dangling below.

“It was his first jump. Good man. Brave man,” said Le Page.

“Dead man,” said Bruno. “There is nothing you can do for him. Tend to your men, Lieutenant. They’re still alive.”

“Of course. Shouldn’t we cut him down?”

“Yes, but later. After the battle is won. Do you have a radio?”

Le Page pulled out his radio. It, too, was heavily damaged and useless. Bruno grunted his displeasure. Luck was not going his way and he knew luck was an uncontrollable, but important, factor in battle. “All right. Follow my path through the grass. Your men are waiting,” said Bruno. “I’ve got to find my radioman and report back to headquarters. I’ll gather up any stragglers I find and send them your way.”

“Yes, Major.”

Le Page moved off toward the grass. Bruno glanced up one more time at the dead Captain and said, “You’ll be missed, my friend.” Bruno used his knife to cut the cord holding the dangling medical bag and tied the bag around his chest. He stayed low and ran across the tree line at the edge of the grass, searching for more of his men and a radio that worked.

 

 

A Viet Minh weapons squad set up their 75mm recoilless rifle at the edge of the village they were assigned to protect. The tripod legs that supported the weapon had been damaged during a night raid on the French garrison near Lao Cai a few weeks back, and a replacement tripod had not yet arrived from the Chinese border. A short piece of wood tied with bamboo strips reinforced one of the legs that had broken. The loader slid a shell into the breach and closed the hatch at the back of the gun. The gunner took aim through the sight on the barrel at a French machine gun position in a grove of trees on the opposite end of the village. He fired. A crack and a puff of smoke sent the shell on its way.

 

The shell landed short and exploded a few yards in the front of the machine position. The French machine gunner quickly readjusted his firing to the new threat.

 

Bullets hit around the recoilless gun squad, bounced off rocks, pelted the ground and splintered a nearby tree trunk. It was a familiar race between those that would live and those that were about to die. Like most battles in war, it would come down to training and luck. The Viet Minh loader opened the breech, ejected the empty shell casing, loaded another shell and slammed the hatch closed. The recoilless gunner adjusted his aim and fired. The vibration from the gun caused the bamboo strips holding the wood on the broken leg to slip, and the gun shifted wildly as the shell left the end of the barrel. The machine gun found its target and the Viet Minh gunner and loader were both killed by a stream of French bullets.

 

Bruno had heard the crack of the recoilless rifle in the distance. Moments later he heard the whoosh of a shell overhead. His training kicked in and he hit the ground. A thick branch on a nearby tree exploded and showered him with shards of wood and bark. The heavy branch cracked off the tree and crashed to the ground. “They can’t be shooting at me,” he thought. “They can’t see me.” A second shell did not follow the first. That was a good sign. It wasn’t him that they were targeting.

He felt a stinging sensation in his left thigh and looked down at a small hole in his pants. He was more concerned about the hole in his pants than the potential wound beneath. These were his only pants and they had to last. He had elected to forgo an extra change of clothes to make room for additional grenades, with tape wrapped around their spoons to keep them from accidentally blowing up. He hated the idea of removing the pants off a dead fellow officer to replace his own. He inserted his little finger into the hole and tore a bigger hole so he could examine the damage. A two-inch wood shard was half buried in his thigh. He gently, but firmly, pulled the exposed end and removed the shard. Blood filled the wound. Bleeding was good, he thought. It would clean out some of the remaining splinters that he was sure were still inside the wound. Even with the sulfur powder he poured into the hole, the wound would fester and need to be cleaned and redressed several times a day. One more thing to remember and one more thing to do in a busy commander’s schedule. But Bruno knew that gangrene could kill just as sure as a bullet in Vietnam. He stuffed the gauze from a battle dressing packet halfway into the hole in his pants. The gauze would soak up the blood and keep it from staining the rest of his pant leg. That would have to suffice until he could find a medic, he thought. He stood up and again looked around. He put weight on his leg. It was painful, but he could walk. That was good.

Through the morning mist, Bruno saw a soldier at the edge of the trees with his rifle slung over his shoulder and his arms filled with a parachute that he had been gathering. Bruno called to him in hushed French. The soldier stopped collecting the chute and looked over in Bruno’s direction. The soldier quickly gathered the rest of chute and disappeared into the long grass. “Where in the hell are you going?” said Bruno. The soldier’s training should have taught him to maneuver back in the direction of the flight path until he found members of his unit. Bruno looked around for enemy soldiers. There were none. He limped over to where the soldier was previously standing and saw a gap in the long grass where the soldier had disappeared. He crouched down as he followed the man’s trail, keeping his head down below the top of the grass and out of sight of any enemy snipers. He could hear the soldier moving through the grass up ahead. Again, Bruno called out in hushed French, “Hey, dumbshit. You’re going the wrong way. Your company is to the east.” Bruno heard the clinking of metal on metal. He was getting closer. He could see the dark outline of the soldier through the grass up ahead. “You’re supposed to drop your chute where you land, not carry it.” Bruno pulled aside the last of the long grass between him and the soldier. The soldier was squatting on the ground with his rifle and a bayonet now attached to the end of the barrel. Bruno looked at his brown face and up at the little yellow star sewn on his cap. He was Viet Minh.

Both hesitated for a moment, not believing their eyes. Bruno made the first move. His right hand reached up to the hilt of the knife on his chest and his little finger flicked open the metal button on the leather strap that held the knife in its scabbard. The Viet Minh soldier stood as he thrust with his rifle, and the bayonet hurled forward straight at Bruno’s face. Bruno shifted his weight and spun his body to the left. With his left hand, Bruno reached across his body and grabbed the soldier’s bayonet and the end of the rifle barrel as it passed inches from his face. Bruno continued to spin with the full weight of his body and pulled the rifle forward as he rolled his weight into the gunstock. The Viet Minh was thrown off balance and forced to lean forward to keep a hold on his weapon. Bruno pulled his knife from its scabbard as he continued his roll toward the soldier. Now close enough to strike, Bruno plunged the blade into the side of the soldier’s head just below the ear. He was dead in an instant. It took his leg muscles filled with adrenaline another two seconds to relax and allow his body to collapse into the grass.

Bruno stood over the dead soldier and glanced over at the chute wrapped and tied in a neat bundle on the ground. It occurred to Bruno that the soldier probably wanted to sell the chute for the valuable silk and thought Bruno wanted to steal it from him. The soldier was dead because he had lost focus on his mission. Bruno would not make the same mistake. He quickly searched the soldier’s pockets for any maps or documents and disappeared into the long grass to find a radio and report in.

 

 

Within the first hour of battle, the Viet Minh commanders recovered from the initial surprise and confusion caused by the French invasion. Orders were issued and troops deployed to drive the enemy from the valley.

Ty’s mortar squad was ordered to protect the retreat of the HQ staff housed in the village. The squad assembled their mortar on the top of a low hill that gave them a good view of the surrounding area.

The 81mm mortar was a simple, but lethal, weapon. The mortar had a long steel tube that was supported by bipod legs, and a heavy steel base-plate that stabilized the weapon and kept the tube from burying itself in the ground after each round was fired. A metal sight and bubble level on the side of the tube helped the gunner set the angle and direction of the tube. The heavy shell was fed by hand into the tube from the top and slid down until it hit a firing pin at the bottom of the tube. The charge in the bottom of the shell exploded, and the escaping gases pushed the shell back up the tube and launched it into the sky. It had an effective range of 3 miles, and the anti-personnel shells were devastating against the unprotected French paratroopers.

Ty estimated that his squad set up their mortar in just under 90 seconds. He was proud of their performance. The field phone rang. Ty picked it up and received his first fire mission as the leader of his squad. He was excited as he plotted the coordinates on his map. Ty called out the coordinates to his gunner. The gunner used the sight and set the tube to the correct angle and direction. The gunner signaled the mortar was ready. Ty ordered his men to commence firing. The first of three loaders dropped the heavy shell into the tube and stepped away. The metal on metal scraping sound indicated that the shell was sliding down the tube as expected. There was a heavy thump as the shell fired and left the tube. The first shell was away. The next loader stepped up with a shell already in his hands, just as the Chinese advisors had trained him. A focused, well-trained mortar squad should be able to fire 22 shells per minute, thought Ty. His squad fired 24 shells per minute that day.

 

 

The Viet Minh’s Northern Command Headquarters in Cao Bằng was nondescript by design. There were no waving red flags with golden stars or communist slogans on hanging banners. There were no guards at the front doors or on the rooftop. There wasn’t even a sign to designate the importance of the building and its occupants. It looked like every other building on the street. But it was important. To Ho Chi Minh and the Viet Minh forces that served him, it was everything.

In his bedroom on the second floor of the headquarters, General Giap sat at a wooden table, looking down into a steaming bowl of rice soup. His bedroom was simple, with little adornment beyond a framed photo of Mao. The starchy smell of boiled rice lifted into his nostrils as he inhaled. He cracked a fresh egg and let the contents slide into the hot broth. He watched as a white film formed over the golden yolk. He missed the simple things, like rice soup in the morning. Things that made one’s life feel steady and common and sure. His time was filled with troop inspections, writing reports to the Politburo, and meetings with his field commanders. The camp staff always tried to make him comfortable, but it wasn’t the same. At night, he would sleep in the back of his sedan as he traveled to the next camp. Any spare time was spent forming strategies that would shorten the war that he both loved and hated. Simple things were a luxury that he could not afford. That the people could not afford. His time was not his own.

But this morning he stole a bit of time for himself, just a moment, to watch an egg cook in his rice soup. There was a knock on the door. Giap looked up to see a captain enter. It was a familiar face. The captain was his assistant assigned by the politburo. Maybe a spy, maybe not. No matter. Giap had nothing to hide and had long ago given up second-guessing what the directors of the Politburo thought of his performance. The captain snapped to attention.

“Yes, Captain?”

“A report, sir.”

“And it couldn’t wait until after I had shaved?”

“It’s from the highlands, sir. There’s been an action.”

Giap’s interest grew. He waved the captain over and read the report he was handed. “Paratroopers. Do we know which unit?”

“They found a dead medical officer hanging in a tree. He had been shot by our men while descending. His insignia showed that he was from GAP 2, sir.”

“Colonel Langlais’ outfit?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What is Langlais doing in Dien Bien Phu? They already built a garrison there and gave it up last year. Why go back? Why now?”

“We don’t know, sir.”

Giap thought for a long moment until a realization developed, “The airfield. They want the airfield.”

“Sir?”

Giap’s mind was racing, grasping. So much to do and it all had to be done now, while there was still time, while there was still hope. He frantically scribbled a note and handed it to the captain along with the report.

“Get this note and the report to Uncle Ho right away. And tell him that I would like to meet with him as soon as practical.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I want an updated status report on every unit in the area around Dien Bien Phu, both French and Viet Minh. I want every map of Dien Bien Phu and the surrounding area. And I want aerial photographs.”

“Sir, we have no aircraft,” said the captain, confused.

“Tell our intelligence operatives in Hanoi to steal the photos from the French. It is to be their top priority. Tell General Thai I want to see him as soon as possible and tell our engineering staff I want a report on the condition of the roads to and from Dien Bien Phu in all directions. Even if it is a goat path, I want to know its current condition. If they don’t know its condition, then have them send someone to perform an inspection. It will be about the roads, Captain. It will be all about the roads.”

“Yes, sir. Right away, General.”

The captain exited.

Giap walked over to a bookshelf stuffed with maps, reports, and paperwork, plus a few well-worn history books such as Sun Tzu’s Art of War, Carl von Clausewitz’s On War and Nicolai Machiavelli’s The Prince. He pulled out a rolled-up map and walked back to the table, where he pushed his soup aside and unrolled the map. It was a map of the Vietnam highlands and Laos. Dien Bien Phu was only 12 kilometers from the border between the two countries. A strong, mobile French force at Dien Bien Phu could easily cut off the supply lines to any Viet Minh force invading Laos. The French believed that the valley of Dien Bien Phu and its airfield were the keys to any invasion into Laos, he thought. The French Commanding General Navarre would fight to keep Laos, and therefore must fight to keep Dien Bien Phu. By dropping Langlais and his men into the valley Navarre had made the first move. Now it was Giap’s turn.

 

 

It was early afternoon and hot. The sky was clear after the morning haze had burned off, but in the distance dark clouds approached with the promise of rain. A starter motor whined and a prop slowly turned. With a thump-thump, the Daisy Mae’s right engine cranked, and five-foot flames shot out of the exhausts as it roared to life. In the cockpit, McGoon sat in the pilot seat, with Coyle sitting next to him as the co-pilot.

 

Inside the plane’s massive hull sat 66 paratroopers and Brigitte. Her portable typewriter case was in her lap and was tied to her jump harness with a long cord so it could hang below her while she dropped. With a little luck, she wouldn’t land on top of it and break it. She was a modern journalist and disliked writing with a pencil and paper. Brigitte looked down at her bouncing knee. It was a familiar sight before any combat jump, but especially when she had been warned that the drop zone would be hot. She put her hand on her knee and pressed down until it was still. She didn’t want the others to see that she was nervous. They were nervous, too, and like her wanted to hide their fear from their fellow soldiers. Everyone knew that fear was just part of the job, but like the emperor with no clothes, some things were best kept a secret. Jumping into a battle was never easy, no matter how many times one did it. It wasn’t being unafraid that made a soldier brave. It was being afraid and jumping anyway that made a soldier brave. These men were the bravest of the brave, the best France had to offer, and Brigitte knew it. That’s why she jumped with them. They deserved to have their story told, and she was going to tell it, no matter what happened to her. She started to sing “Le Marche,” and was quickly joined by the soldiers at her side.

 

McGoon steered the Daisy Mae onto the far end of the runway and pulled the aircraft to a stop. He locked the wheel brakes. Coyle and McGoon did a cockpit check of props, mixture, throttles, and flaps. A quick wipe out of the controls and the takeoff checklist was complete. An aircraft the size of the C-119 left little room for error during takeoff and landing. With everything in the correct position, Coyle nodded his okay, and McGoon pushed the two throttle levers forward. The Daisy Mae’s engines roared, but the aircraft did not move. He needed all the engines at close to full power before the aircraft started down the runway. The wheel brakes strained against the heave of the engines. McGoon focused on the side-by-side tachometers that measured the rotations per minute of the dual engines. If the engines over-revved they could blow up, potentially sending a prop into the hull where Brigitte and the paratroopers sat. But if they under-revved, the Daisy Mae would not achieve enough speed to take off. It was a delicate balance. Coyle focused on everything else – oil pressure, cylinder head pressure, fuel flow, and exhaust gas temperature. There were other gauges for flight systems and navigation, but those did not matter at the moment. It was all about the power required to lift a 32-ton aircraft and its cargo off the ground before they ran out of runway. When the engines finally hit the required revolutions, McGoon released the smoking wheel brakes and pushed the throttles all the way forward. The Daisy Mae’s engine roared even louder as she hit full power. She lunged forward and rolled down the runway, gaining speed.

 

Brigitte and the paratroopers beside her were surprised by the ear-splitting roar of the engines at full throttle. One by one, they stopped singing as they felt an incredible power vibrating the hull. This beast was not like the smaller C-47s to which they had grown accustomed. Even with its massive wingspan and twin tail booms, the Daisy Mae needed more takeoff speed than the lighter C-47s.

 

As they reached the end of the runway, McGoon and Coyle both pulled back on their yokes. The Daisy Mae lifted into the sky. McGoon banked the aircraft to the left and joined the formation of aircraft waiting in the sky above the airfield. They would fly in formation to the battlefield. There was safety in numbers. The more targets for the Viet Minh snipers, the better the odds of surviving the journey.

 

 

Bruno rejoined Lieutenant Le Page’s company with seven stragglers in tow. They had been fighting house to house with the Viet Minh for control of the village. In general, the French soldiers were better armed and better trained than the Viet Minh, but both were brave and believed in their cause. The French paratroopers were especially aggressive and stubborn and feared by the Viet Minh. However, at the moment, the Viet Minh outgunned and outnumbered the lightly-armed paratroopers. Bruno knew that if he didn’t turn the tide of battle, his men would be overrun and wiped out. Defeat was one thing Bruno would not accept, and the paratroopers under his command were prepared to fight to the last man if necessary.

Bruno found his executive officer talking on a handheld field radio, communicating with the pilot of the reconnaissance aircraft hovering above the valley. The battalion had lost all their long-range radio sets during the jump and had no way of reporting to their commanding officer in Hanoi. The pilot agreed to act as a relay between the field commanders on the ground in Dien Bien Phu and Colonel Langlais at his headquarters in Hanoi until new radio sets could be dropped.

The XO gave Bruno a quick breakdown of where things currently stood. All six companies in Bruno’s battalion had reported in and were engaged with the enemy at different locations around the valley.

Most of the mortars and ammunition parachuted in for Lieutenant Allaire’s weapons company were lost in the long grass. His men had only recovered one mortar tube with three shells. Hardly an armory for a weapons company that supported four rifle companies.

 

Lieutenant Trapp’s 2nd Company was busy protecting the battalion’s flank on the southern edge of the drop zone when he called in for support fire. Lieutenant Allaire ordered a barrage at the requested fire coordinates and all the three shells were launched from the one mortar tube in less than thirty seconds. It was a very efficient but embarrassingly short barrage.

“Perhaps we should let the tube cool,” said a straight-faced assistant gunner.

“And perhaps you should find my fucking mortars and shells or your supper will be grenades, of which I have plenty,” said the unamused Lieutenant Allaire. His men disappeared back into the long grass to continue the search.

 

Bruno’s 3rd Company was commanded by Lieutenant Magnilatt and was tasked with securing the airstrip. The Viet Minh were fighting fiercely to fend off the assault but were outmaneuvered by the paratroopers and forced to pull back. The paratroopers loved taking ground from the enemy. It was better than a cold beer on a hot day.

 

The 4th Company, commanded by Lieutenant de Wilde, was dropped late and landed several miles to the north of their intended drop zone. They regrouped and headed back in the direction of the aircrafts’ flight path as they were trained. It took nearly four hours and several skirmishes with the Viet Minh before 4th Company finally made it back to Natacha.

 

The French needed to finish the battle quickly and drive the Viet Minh from the battlefield. Bruno’s big concern was enemy reinforcements. If the Viet Minh commanders were given the time to send more troops, the odds of victory could very quickly tip against the French. Bruno instructed his XO to call in an airstrike on the Viet Minh recoilless gun and mortar positions protecting the village and the airstrip.

 

 

Coyle and McGoon watched the mountains below through the windshield. “Should be coming up… right… about… now,” said McGoon.

As the Daisy Mae cleared the last mountain, a valley appeared below. At the far end, the familiar signs of a silent battle. Fire and smoke rose up, forming a grey-brownish haze over the village and airstrip. A mortar shell exploded, and then another.

“The Frenchies and Viet Minh are really slugging it out.”

“I’ll tell the sergeant,” said Coyle as he rose from his co-pilot’s chair.

“Let Dominque do it. He’s the navigator. I don’t need him when I can see where we’re going.”

“I don’t mind. I need to stretch my legs anyway. I’ll just be a minute,” said Coyle as he slipped through the cockpit door.

“Fine. I’ll just fly her by my lonesome,” said McGoon to himself.

 

In the cargo hold, Brigitte looked over at Coyle. There was fear in her eyes. He informed the sergeant in charge of the ‘stick’ of paratroopers that they were over the valley and that a battle was raging. The sergeant warned his men to perform a last-minute check on their equipment and to be ready to “hook-up” in two minutes. Coyle moved over to Brigitte. “You okay?” said Coyle.

“Yes, yes. Of course. I’m just…”

“Just what?”

“You would think it would get easier.”

“Jumping from a plane?”

“No. Dropping into a firefight.”

“No, I suppose it don’t,” said Coyle. “You know, you don’t have to do this.”

“No. But somebody should… for them,” said Brigitte, motioning to the paratroopers. “I’m here now. Don’t worry too much, Mr. Coyle. The Viet Minh don’t like to waste their precious bullets on journalists. Our typewriters don’t shoot back.”

“Good luck and stay safe.”

“Merci.”

Brigitte shifted her eyes away, releasing him.

Coyle walked back up the cargo hold and into the cockpit. “Everything okeydokey back there?” said McGoon as Coyle sat down.

“Yeah. They’re getting ready.”

“And your little reporter friend?”

“Yeah. Her, too.”

“Okay, then. Let’s take her down to twenty-five hundred.”

McGoon banked the aircraft into a slow downward spiral over drop zone “Simone,” to the southeast of the old airfield.

 

Inside Daisy Mae’s cargo hold, the sergeant motioned for Brigitte to join him in an empty seat near the door. “Mademoiselle Friang, if you please?”

Brigitte tried to stand. Her gear and the parachute were heavy for her small frame. Even with her typewriter and her rucksack tied to her harness below her reserve parachute, the parachute on her back was still much heavier and made her feel unbalanced. She stumbled and sat back down. It was embarrassing, but she couldn’t help herself. The men sitting on either side helped her up. She shuffled over to the sergeant and sat down. Normally, a correspondent would be the last to jump, but the sergeant had orders to watch over Brigitte. He wanted to keep her close, and that meant she would jump with him. The red light came on, signaling that the Daisy Mae was approaching the drop zone.

The jumpmaster opened the door, and the cold wind rushed in along with the thunderous thrum of the engines. The jumpmaster barked out orders to “Stand up” and “Hook up.” The paratroopers stood and hooked up to the overhead cable. The sergeant helped Brigitte stand up and move to the center. The sergeant grabbed her static parachute line and attached it next to his on the cable. The jump light changed to green and the buzzer sounded. “Go!” said the Jumpmaster. One by one, the paratroopers and Brigitte jumped.

The jerk of the parachute opening knocked the wind out of Brigitte, and she was caught in the moment. Adrenaline pumped through her body and she quickly recovered. She gathered her wits and focused on what needed to be done next. She released her rucksack from below her reserve parachute and let it dangle down on a long line. Next, she released her typewriter in its case and let it dangle down just below her rucksack. She decided to swing her typewriter away at the last second before landing so she wouldn’t land on top of it. She grabbed the typewriter’s cord and wrapped it twice around her hand. She felt the “green rush” of the approaching ground and swung her arm holding the typewriter cord. The typewriter swung out from underneath her just like she planned, but the weight of the box acted as a pendulum and swung her body sideways. She landed with a thud on her side, almost horizontal. The wind was knocked out of her, and it took a few moments to finally catch her breath. She would have a large bruise on her thigh, but her typewriter was safe. The willing sacrifice of a journalist. The sergeant ran over to her and crouched down, holding his submachine gun. “Are you okay?”

“Yes.”

“Can you walk?”

“Yes.”

He helped her out of her parachute harness. She gathered up her chute as she had been taught and set it down next to the sergeant’s. She found her rucksack, unclipped the long line, and slipped it onto her back. Next, she found her typewriter, unclipped its long line, and opened the case to take a quick peek. No damage. She was relieved. She closed the case, grabbed the handle, and moved to the sergeant’s side. “Stay close and keep your head down,” said the sergeant.

They moved off through the tall elephant grass in the direction of machine guns firing and mortars exploding in the distance. Somewhere out there a battle raged, and they were walking into it, thought Brigitte. It seemed like such an insane thing to do and went against all her instincts to run in the opposite direction. She followed the sergeant.

 

 

A squadron of eight B-26 Marauders was already in route to the valley when their flight leader received the relayed message. Bruno’s men marked their location with smoke grenades so the Marauders did not inadvertently bomb the wrong positions. The B-26’s swooped in low at 1,500 feet so there was a reduced chance of “friendly fire” killing French troops. They lined up one after the other, dropped their load, and banked hard to allow the next bomber to make its run.

 

The bombs whistled in on their targets, followed by a series of explosions that shook the ground. The far end of the village erupted in balls of fire. The air was sucked up and away in a heat funnel, making it hard to breathe. The thatched roofs caught fire and burned like torches dipped in oil. Civilians that hadn’t left when the fighting started were burned alongside the soldiers. The Viet Minh’s back was broken and their will to fight was gone. The survivors retreated from the village and moved toward the safety of the surrounding hills. The French had won the day, but the battle wasn’t over.

The surviving civilians ran for their lives into the long grass. The Viet Minh soldiers regrouped at the edge of the village. Their commanders knew the French would not just stop and let the Viet Minh retreat in peace. The French paratroopers were trained to inflict as much damage as possible to remove their enemy’s will to fight back.

 

 

Ty’s mortar squad was ordered to stay behind and slow the advance of the French forces. His men set up their mortar and launched a barrage of shells from the single tube. As expected. the French forces were exhausted from fighting and hesitated. They had already taken control of the village and the airstrip and were not in the mood to sacrifice more of their lives. Ty’s squad kept up the fire until they ran out of shells. Ty and his men had bought time for their comrades. They had done their duty. They gathered their equipment and slipped into the long grass in hopes of escape.

 

The commander of the main column of retreating Viet Minh expected to eventually meet the reinforcements he had requested on their way to the village. He was not expecting Major Souquet’s 1st Colonial Para Battalion on its way to the village from drop zone Simone. The French scouts were the first to spot the approaching Viet Minh. Major Souquet ordered his weapons platoon to set up their recoilless rifles and machine guns just inside the tree line that paralleled the road leading to the mountains.

As the Viet Minh passed, the French opened fire. Brigitte watched and took notes as the new battle progressed. To her surprise, the Viet Minh did not run away in the rout, as the French had expected. Instead, the Viet Minh stood their ground and fought as they retreated. This was new for the Viet Minh - discipline. Brigitte thought about Napoleon’s famous line, “You must not fight too often with one enemy or you will teach him all your art of war.” The Viet Minh had learned and learned well. They were no longer a band of guerillas striking, then slinking away into the bush. These men knew how to fight toe-to-toe with the French. Even in defeat, the Viet Minh were dangerous.

 

 

A mist had settled over the valley as the sun set. Two paratroopers hammered white crosses at the head of twelve fresh graves. Stepping back, they came to attention and saluted the French Tricolor flag waving above the newly created cemetery on a hillside overlooking the airfield.

 

The Viet Minh did not attempt to retake the village or the airstrip that night. They had had enough and needed to recover from their brawl with the French. Viet Minh snipers occasionally took shots at French soldiers that strayed from their hastily built foxholes and trenches, but for the most part, it was quiet. Disturbingly quiet and cold.

 

 

As night approached the valley, so did the clouds, and the temperature dropped fast. Brigitte made her home on the hilltop of Elaine near the mayor’s mansion. Two nearby paratroopers saw her struggling to dig a foxhole with the entrenching spade the sergeant had loaned her. They showed pity and dug the hole for her. She knew that the two men were probably even more exhausted than she was, but she didn’t refuse the offer when it came. The air was thinner in the highlands than in the lowlands around Hanoi, and even though she was in pretty good shape, she was feeling the fatigue that often comes with altitude. When they finished, she offered them a can of cassoulet from her jump pack. They were both Vietnamese and didn’t like Western food, but accepted her gift out of politeness. Besides, it was better than the combat rations they had been issued before the drop. What they really wanted was some warm rice with a little fish sauce, but that would need to be scrounged from the village over the next few days.

After the two men left, Brigitte carried her gear and her parachute into her newly dug foxhole. It wasn’t much of a shelter, but it would keep her safe in the event of a mortar attack. She knew that she only had a few minutes to fix something hot to eat before the bugler signaled “lights out” and she would have to extinguish her portable stove. She lit the can of fuel at the base of the stove and used the tool on her Swiss army knife to open the remaining can of cassoulet from her pack. Inside the can were baked white beans in a thick tomato sauce with slices of sausage and onion. She left part of the lid attached as a handle and set it on the little burner to heat. Her eyes were heavy. She closed them for what she thought was a moment. The bugler woke her a few minutes later. Her can of cassoulet was smoking badly and burned beyond recognition. “Merde,” she said.

She blew out the fuel and picked through the smoldering mess that was her dinner in hopes of finding some bits that were less charred. She soon gave up and set everything aside. She would try again in the morning. She used her parachute to keep warm and to protect her typewriter from the morning dew that she knew would come. She watched as a reconnaissance plane slowly circled above and dropped “Firefly” parachute flares that illuminated the rice fields in front of the French positions. She thought about the American flyer that had helped her at the restaurant and was concerned for her safety before the jump. He knew nothing about her or the things she had done. He was arrogant and thought her weak. She wasn’t. Still, he had a certain “backwoods” charm and was not bad to look at for an American. The magnesium in the parachute flares burned brightly as they slowly fell to earth. Her eyelids fell with them and she was asleep.

 

 

The finest china, fresh-cut flowers, and his house staff in white formal wear signaled the importance of the visitor at General Navarre’s villa in Saigon. Navarre dined with Admiral Cabanier, the assistant general deputy to the National Defense Committee, who had just flown in that afternoon from Paris. They were served in the dining room, away from any prying eyes and ears, even though the patio was cooler. Both general officers wore their best dress uniforms, each decorated with a ‘fruit salad’ of colorful medals above their left jacket pocket. It was an official visit.

Navarre did not enjoy politics. He was a military man and saw himself a warrior. Few doubted his bravery or his abilities to command. He was aggressive and an excellent strategist. But he did enjoy wearing his dress uniform. There were fewer occasions for it “in country,” and he planned on making the most of it. Entertaining dignitaries gave him an opportunity to show his culture and knowledge of wine, a point of personal pride. He believed that good general officers did not get involved in the day-to-day operations of the men under their command. That kind of micromanaging rarely helped improve performance and offered little room for growth in his subordinates. His focus must remain on the whole of Indochina. The big picture. “How do you manage such a fine meal this far from France?” said Cabanier.

“I have an excellent brigade de cuisine. My chef was originally a saucier at the Grand Hôtel National in Lucerne, and trained under the master chef Georges Auguste Escoffier,” said Navarre.

“Remarkable. How did you find such a treasure?”

“I am a general; I have my spies,” said Navarre with a smile. “The wine is the biggest problem. It gets tossed about when flown in and the change in temperature does little to help the vintage. It takes three months of resting in my cellar just to resettle the sediments.”

“Impressive,” said Cabanier as he shifted uneasily in his chair. “General, I am afraid I do not bring good news.”

“Oh?”

“The Defense Committee has reviewed your request for reinforcements…”

“And?”

“We cannot fully oblige at this time.”

“Oblige at this time?”

“General, with our new NATO demands, and uprisings in North Africa, our resources are stretched too thin. And the political environment in Paris is not favorable for increasing our commitment in Indochina. Few see the value in wasting more lives for a war we know we will lose in time, even if honor demands it.”

“Admiral, when I submitted my plan for a winter offensive to the committee for approval, I was assured I would receive the support I required. I have committed my men to battle based on those promises.”

“I understand, General. Believe me, I do. We are not denying the entire request; we just pared it down to an acceptable level.”

“How acceptable?”

“One third.”

Navarre was stunned.

“You, of course, are free to recruit from regional resources to make up the difference,” said Cabanier. “The good news is that the Americans have agreed to supply your full list of additional weapons and replacement aircraft.”

“Now if we can just find the pilots,” said Navarre.

The conversation was more subdued the rest of the evening as they drank their coffee and sipped brandy. They talked of little things. Navarre’s mind was preoccupied and distant. He knew there was little hope of changing the committee’s mind. He and his men would once again have to make do with the resources available. Operation Castor needed more and he knew it, but it was too late to turn back now, he thought. Or was it?

 

 

The Garrison

 

The first day of the French occupation of Dien Bien Phu was quiet, except for the occasional Viet Minh mortar attack and the sniper fire from the surrounding forest. As usual, a thick mist hung over the valley, and it smelled of damp earth. The hills were green and covered with thick grass, bushes, and trees. The two enemies could not see each other, except for the occasional glimpse as soldiers moved across an open area. The Viet Minh occupied the surrounding mountains and most of the villages in the valley. They took up firing positions along the earthen dikes that hemmed the rice paddies with their muddy ponds, and in the few small groves of trees that had not been cut down by the villagers for their farms. The French had occupied several hills and sent out patrols to keep the Viet Minh from getting too close their positions. The French still had no artillery beyond their mortars, but they could call in airstrikes if the enemy consolidated. Both sides would pick at each other with sniper fire and the occasional mortar barrage. Neither side was ready for a major conflict and kept to themselves whenever possible, like a match that nobody wanted to light.

The civilians that had left during the first day of fighting were now returning. They had no choice. They had to tend their farms and feed their animals or they would starve. They would hide when a battle broke out between the two antagonists and then return to work as soon as the fighting died down. Like most wars, civilians and soldiers shared in death equally, and this war was no different.

The early morning fog of Vietnam was a two-edged sword for the French and Viet Minh. It kept their soldiers cool, but it hid their enemy. The fog would remain until the sun burned it off sometime in the late morning or early afternoon. The French paratroopers wasted little time and went to work. Rudimentary foxholes dug into the hills were the beginnings of the garrison that would protect them from the Viet Minh assaults they knew would come. The highest priority was the repair of the airfield. The airfield was their lifeline and without it, all supplies, ammunition, and reinforcements would need to be airdropped, a painstakingly slow and dangerous process. It was not uncommon for a soldier not paying attention to be crushed by a one-ton pallet of ammunition floating down silently from the sky.

Two platoons of paratroopers used their mobile entrenching tools to fill in the potholes and trenches dug by the Viet Minh. The Viet Minh had hidden anti-personnel mines in the bottom of some of the potholes which forced the French to inspect each hole thoroughly before filling it in. It slowed the work, which was exactly what the Viet Minh wanted. Once a hole or trench was filled in with dirt, soldiers used homemade soil tampers borrowed from the villagers to compress the dirt. They could not compress the runway enough to carry the weight of the cargo aircraft, but it would withstand the landing of smaller scout planes. Bruno supervised the work and kept tabs on the patrols that protected the perimeter of the airfield.

“This is why I joined the paratroopers? To fill in potholes?” said a French corporal.

“I should have stayed in Lyon and worked on a road crew,” said another paratrooper.

“Yes, but girls’ panties would not get wet when you walked by in your red beret,” said Bruno.

“Good point,” said the corporal.

“The sooner you finish the better we eat,” said Bruno.

The mention of better food picked up the pace of the work. The French field kitchens were known for their cuisine, and the chefs took great pride in the quality of the food they served to the soldiers. The men were already tired of the field rations they had carried into battle in their rucksacks. Bruno always knew how to motivate the troops under his command.

 

On the hilltop called “Dominique” that overlooked the airfield, Brigitte took photos with her camera and interviewed some of the Legionnaires as they worked. A Legionnaire sergeant and private set up a recoilless rifle on a dirt platform built in the side of a trench. The firing position had a two-foot notch for the barrel and was reinforced by double-thick stacks of sandbags, with a compacted dirt slope in front. It could easily take hundreds of hits from a heavy machine gun, and even withstand a couple of shots from another recoilless rifle before the defensive barrier gave way.

“You’re from Romania?” said Brigitte, taking notes.

“Yes. I’m from Brasov in Transylvania, just below the Carpathian Mountains,” said the private.

“Land of vampires,” said the sergeant with a smirk.

“And you, Sergeant?” asked Brigitte.

“Bucharest, the capital. My family owns a restaurant,” said the sergeant. “My father is the chef. Best sarmale and mamaliga in all of Romania.”

“That’s a matter of opinion,” said the private.

“What would you know? You only suck blood,” said the sergeant.

“And how did you end up in the Legion?” asked Brigitte.

“The movie Beau Geste,” said the sergeant. “I wanted to be Gary Cooper.”

“Private?” said Brigitte.

“I killed a man,” said the private. “It was an accident. I was repairing the facade on the front of the town’s movie theatre and a hammer fell off the top of my ladder. He was walking underneath and it hit him on the top of the head. What kind of idiot walks under a ladder while a man is working? Anyway, he never woke up. Judge gave me three years for negligence. I ran from the courtroom before they could haul me away. I ended up in Algiers and joined the Legion.”

“Did the recruiting officer know of your crime?” asked Brigitte.

“He didn’t ask a lot of questions,” said the private.

“They don’t, you know?” said the sergeant. “It’s a fair trade. Ambivalence for loyalty.”

“And a chance for a new life in France when my three years are up,” said the private. “Things could be worse, yes?”

 

 

It was still morning and hot, but the sky was clear at the Bach Mai airfield outside of Hanoi. A Vietnamese ground crew loaded a small bulldozer and its heavy steel blade--each strapped separately to reinforced wooden pallets--into the back of the Daisy Mae. The entire process was supervised by the Daisy Mae’s loadmaster, Kim-ly, whose name meant ”Golden Lion.” Nothing was loaded into the aircraft’s hold without Kim-ly knowing what it was and how much it weighed. It was his responsibility to keep the load balanced and he took it seriously. Like many Vietnamese, Kim-ly had joined the French because of the money. The French Air Force paid well. He didn’t really care who ruled his country as long as he had enough money to feed his family and to buy the two beers that he drank after each shift. He worked hard and learned enough French to understand the commands he was given, and even joke with the French aircrews. He was proud of his promotion to loadmaster and thankful for the additional money accompanying the new rank.

Each of the jump packages had a large cargo parachute mounted on top and attached to the pallets. Under Kim-ly’s watchful eye, the ground crew secured the pallets to the cargo deck with steel cables so the load wouldn’t shift during flight.

One of the ground crew squatted down out of sight as if checking a deck cable. He waited until the French lap dog Kim-ly exited the back of the aircraft with the rest of the ground crew. He used a small pair of bolt cutters to cut a nick in one of the parachute’s steel cables on the bulldozer’s pallet. He was careful not to cut all the way through, which might be seen on closer inspection by Kim-ly or his assistant loadmaster. Instead, he would let the weight of the load help his little sabotage. He was careful to leave the aircraft’s cargo hold without Kim-ly seeing him.

Inside the cockpit, Coyle sat in the engineer’s seat and watched as McGoon supervised the removal of the Daisy Mae’s pilot’s chair and the installation of an oversized wicker chair in its place.

“Not exactly military issue, is it?” said Coyle.

“We ain’t military. ‘Sides, I believe in comfort,” said McGoon.

“Can’t argue with that,” said Coyle. “So, did you keep tabs on any of the other guys from our training squadron?”

“Nah. My letter writing kinda tapered off after I got captured. The Japs weren’t big believers in free speech.”

“How did you finally escape?”

“I didn’t. They were marching a bunch of us to a new prison camp up in the hills. They weren’t feeding us nothing but a little rice with a fish head now and then. I got to the point where I was so weak I couldn’t walk anymore, so I sat down on the trail and refused to get up. They waited for a few minutes, then left me with a squad and kept the other prisoners moving up the hill. After about an hour, the corporal in charge of the squad had his guys build me a kinda hammock attached to two poles and started carrying me up the hill. They got so tired, they had to trade off every ten or fifteen minutes. Finally, they got in a big fight over whose turn it was and they just left me there in the middle of the trail.”

“Why didn’t they just shoot ya?”

“Never did figure that part out. I guess I was kinda famous for shooting down all those Jap Zeroes. I imagine they had orders not to shoot me cuz the mucky-mucks in Tokyo wanted to have a big public trial and hang me.”

“Are you yanking my chain, McGoon?”

“I swear on a stack of bibles.”

With his new chair in place, McGoon sat down to give it try. “Oh yeah, that’s much better,” he said, trying the different controls. “Look, Coyle. I can pull the yoke all the way back without hitting my belly. That’s gonna make takeoffs a lot easier.”

 

 

Lieutenant Colonel Langlais jumped out of the C-47’s rear door and his chute snapped open with an all too familiar jolt against his harness. He could see the valley clearly. He made mental notes of the major landmarks and their positions in relation to the airfield. It would be all about the airfield. That was the prize. That’s why they were here. That’s why some of his men would die.

There was little enemy fire from below. Bruno had led two platoons around the perimeter of the landing zone and cleared away any snipers. It would not do to have his commander killed while under his watch. Besides, he liked and respected Langlais. Langlais loved the men under his command but understood the need to sacrifice. Their lives would not be wasted if Langlais was in charge. That was all a paratrooper could ask of his commander. It was good to have him in the valley.

Colonel Langlais could not see the tree stump hidden below the long grass. A farmer had long ago cut down the tree so he could build his family a house of wood, and a colony of carpenter ants had hollowed out the rotting insides of the stump. Langlais’ left boot plunged deep into the decomposing stump. He fell backward and landed on his ass. He was unharmed. He pulled at his boot. It was stuck. “Merde.” He saw his chute flutter on the top of the grass. There was a slight crosswind. He realized what was coming. “No, no. You behave.” He pulled harder to free his boot. It wouldn’t budge. He struggled to free himself from his gear and his parachute harness, but it was too late. The wind was light but enough to re-inflate his chute and pull him like a puppet. He heard his ankle snap. He fought down a scream, not wanting to give away his position to the enemy. He pulled out his knife and cut the two straps between his harness and the parachute. Without tension, the parachute collapsed. Langlais fell back in pain, helpless. It was one of Bruno’s platoons that found him.

 

 

Langlais sat outside a thatched hut as a medic examined his swollen ankle. Brigitte used her typewriter to put the finishing touches on her story.

“Colonel, may I use your radio to publish my story?” said Brigitte.

“Yes, as long as it doesn’t interfere with operations,” said Langlais.

The medic probed the fracture with his fingers. Langlais winced. His temper was short. “You don’t need to poke it to know that it’s broken, Sergeant.”

“Yes, sir. It’s definitely broken. Shall I arrange for your evacuation?”

“No. Get my boot back on before my ankle is too swollen, then wrap it up as best you can. Tight.”

“It’s gonna hurt.”

“Really, Sergeant?”

“Sorry, sir.”

“And find me a walking stick.”

Brigitte pulled a small flask from her backpack and offered it to Langlais. “Cognac to kill the pain?” said Brigitte.

Langlais took a long pull from the small flask. Bruno approached with a white mountain pony in tow.

“Your stallion awaits, Colonel,” said Bruno.

“You can’t be serious,” said Langlais.

“It’s a big valley.”

The medic pushed Langlais’ boot back on. Langlais swallowed his scream and drained the rest of the flask of its Cognac.

Brigitte took a photo of Langlais riding on the little white pony. It was now a moment in history.

 

Cogny sat at his desk in his Hanoi headquarters and updated Navarre in Saigon by phone. “Our troop strength after the initial assault is twenty-six hundred and fifty. There were fifteen killed in action and thirty-five wounded,” said Cogny.

“That’s good. Lighter than our estimates,” said Navarre.

“Yes, General. We got lucky.”

“And the enemy?”

“One hundred fifteen bodies were recovered. I imagine many more were carried away. We captured four prisoners. All were wounded. And as expected, there were some civilian casualties from the crossfire.”

“And enemy strength?”

“We know Battalion 910 is there and putting up resistance, but as for the others… we’re unsure of their location and strength.”

“Our priority should be determining the location of the other three battalions.”

“Colonel Langlais reports that his men are in high spirits and ready to fight.”

“They’re paratroopers. They’re always ready to fight. Instruct Langlais to probe the enemy defenses. We must know what we are facing.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I think it’s time to consolidate our other forces in the area. Close the garrison at Lai Chau and have air transport pick up Lieutenant Colonel Trancart and his battalion and transport them to Dien Bien Phu.”

“And the villagers?”

“Those that can make the trek should join with the Thai auxiliaries and travel by land.”

“And those that can’t make it?”

“We’re not the Red Cross, Rene. They must fend for themselves.”

“Yes, sir.”

Navarre hung up the phone.

 

 

The Daisy Mae appeared over the mountain rim and immediately started its descent toward drop zone Octavie to the south of the airstrip.

Inside the cockpit, McGoon sat in his new pilot’s chair. “Good chair always takes a bit of adjustment,” said McGoon.

“Like a pair of cowboy boots?” said Coyle.

“Something like that. You really ought to get you one of these when your plane arrives.”

“I’ll make do with what I’m issued.”

“Suit yourself. It’s your butt.”

 

The rear cargo door on the Daisy Mae opened. Kim-ly and his assistant loadmaster, each wearing a safety harness attached to a cable, rolled the two pallets to the edge of the ramp and attached the parachute static lines.

Inside the cockpit, Coyle flipped the switch on the cargo launch indicator as McGoon goosed the throttle a bit and pulled back on the yoke to kick up the nose of the Daisy Mae.

Inside the hold, Kim-ly and his assistant loadmaster watched the red light switch to green and felt the familiar upward tilt of the aircraft that allowed them to easily shove the packages out of the back end one after the other.

The parachutes on top of the two pallets were the heavy-duty triple canopy-type, designed to float the largest of loads. Both popped open when the packages holding the bulldozer and its blade left the cargo hold and their static lines snapped tight.

Coyle watched out of the side window as the Daisy Mae banked hard to the right. “Looking good on both loads,” said Coyle.

“Good. First time I ever dropped a bulldozer. I’d hate to screw the pooch,” said McGoon.

The sabotaged parachute harness on the bulldozer held for the first hundred feet, then the weight finally took its toll on the nick in the harness cable and broke through. One end of the pallet dropped a foot. That was enough to shift the load, and the bulldozer tore free of its pallet and the parachutes. It dropped toward the earth like a 6-ton bomb.

“Oh shit,” said Coyle as he watched.

“I know what I mean when I say, ‘Oh shit,’ and it ain’t never good,” said McGoon.

“Harness failure. Bulldozer is off its pallet and in freefall,” said Coyle.

“Oh shit,” said McGoon. “We screwed the pooch.”

“Better warn your buddies on the ground we got a hot load coming down,” said Coyle to the navigator and the engineer. Neither understood. Coyle made hand motions to describe what happened. The navigator switched his radio set and called the units on the ground to warn them. It was already too late.

A farmer with a bundle of rice saplings hanging from a sling on his shoulder was replanting his field in knee-deep mud covered with a layer of water. He heard a loud thud and what felt like an earthquake. He looked over to see a fifteen-foot-deep crater in the center of the field. At the bottom of the crater sat the 6-ton bulldozer. He had never seen anything like it. Maybe he could sell whatever it is, he thought. A cascade poured down from the sky, soaking the farmer in fertilized water and mud. The water from the field drained into the hole and filled in the crater. The machine was gone.

 

Coyle listened to the radio on his headset. “Yep. They’re pissed. They want us to go back to Hanoi and pick up a replacement,” said Coyle.

“So much for dinner,” said McGoon as he turned the Daisy Mae back to Hanoi.

 

 

Brigitte walked along the French foxholes. Several of the men were packing their rucksacks with grenades and rations. She hurried along until she found Bruno just finishing a briefing. “You are going on patrol?” said Brigitte.

“Yes. The brass wants to know what’s lurking in those mountains,” said Bruno.

“How long will you be gone?”

“Three, maybe four days. Depends on how well the Viet Minh are at playing cache-cache.”

“May I join you?”

“Of course, but no typewriter. I don’t want to end up carrying it.”

“That only happened one time, because I twisted my knee.”

“I still ended up carrying it,” said Bruno. “Seriously, Brigitte. Pack light. There is going to be a fight if we are lucky, and we don’t know what we’ll be facing or how many. We have to be able to move fast if there is trouble.”

“Okay, my little Bruno,” said Brigitte. “No typewriter.”

Brigitte moved off to get her gear.

 

 

Under the cover of darkness, Bruno led his battalion out of the French perimeter and toward the mountains surrounding the valley. Paratrooper recon squads scouted ahead and covered the flanks of the column. The recon squad on the left flank crossed a field and entered the thick underbrush on the edge of the forest. As they moved through the darkness, they strained to see the silhouettes and shadows and listen for any sounds that might announce the enemy’s location.

They entered the forest. The light from the parachute flares was mostly blocked out by the tree canopy, and what little light did get through turned into moving patches of glowing green as the flares descended into the valley. The animals and birds that normally filled the forest with sound were long gone. The paratroopers only heard their own footsteps, which seemed amplified every time one of them stepped on a crunching leaf or snapped a twig. The more they tried to be silent, the more they knew the enemy could hear them and would be ready when they finally met somewhere in the night.

The air felt heavy and hard to breathe as they climbed up the mountainside. A French corporal almost tripped over a Viet Minh light machine gun position just three hundred yards into the forest. He was ripped in two when the machine opened fire on him at close range. What should have been a light skirmish turned into a full-fledged pitched battle when the Viet Minh hit the recon squad with a hidden recoilless rifle. It was a Viet Minh heavy weapons platoon, already dug in like a tick and ready to scrap.

The paratroopers took multiple casualties early in the battle, surprised by the enemy’s strength and determination. The flashes from guns and explosions lit up the mountainside. Brigitte was on the ground behind a tree. She kept her head down and stayed out of the way. The flashes of light from the explosions were blinding, and the air was pungent with the stench of cordite and nitroglycerin.

When the Viet Minh were finally overpowered by the French battalion, they abandoned their heavy weapons and fled deeper into the forest. Bruno moved up and examined the recoilless rifle position, which overlooked the valley below and, more importantly, the French airfield. The 75mm recoilless rifle was a direct-fire-only artillery piece, and could only target an enemy in line-of-sight. Even so, once the airfield became operational, a well-placed shot could easily have taken out a plane taking off or landing. Bruno knew that it did not bode well that the French had no idea it was even here. He immediately radioed the information to his commander.

 

Langlais was sitting in his newly-built command bunker with his broken ankle, still in his boot, propped up on an empty ammunition case to relieve the swelling and slow the constant throbbing. He listened to the radio and was deeply concerned by Bruno’s report. He ordered Bruno to send his wounded and dead back to the garrison and to continue his sweep of the mountainside.

 

 

It was early evening when Cogny called Navarre to give him an update on the garrison. “We were surprised to see a recoilless rifle hidden so close to the airfield. It had a clear line of sight on any aircraft landing or taking off,” said Cogny.

“And the position was taken and the gun destroyed, I assume?” said Navarre.

“Yes. By Colonel Langlais and his paratroopers.”

“Good. It seems the Viet Minh are taking the bait and surrounding the garrison.”

“Yes. But much quicker than we expected.”

“We cannot hope to foresee everything, Rene. We both understand that war requires flexibility.”

“But if they cut off the airfield…”

“Then we resupply and reinforce by airdrop until we retake the airfield.”

“And our wounded?”

“We will do what we can for them. Honestly, Rene, did you think we could be victorious without sacrifice?”

“No, of course not. I just worry about the men.”

“As do I, but only to a point. We cannot let our emotions cloud our judgment.”

“With enemy positions surrounding the garrison, it will be difficult to carry out offensive operations.”

“It may not matter. The point of the offensive maneuvers was to draw the Viet Minh to battle. If they surround and attack the garrison, we will achieve our objective. Let the Viet Minh come to us. We will crush them with our Air Force and artillery. We can finally end this war with honor.”

 

It was raining, and the street was starting to flood when a car pulled up to General Giap’s HQ. Two men got out and entered the building.

General Giap sat in his headquarters, poring over maps of Dien Bien Phu. An elderly university professor was escorted into the room by a Viet Minh lieutenant. “The professor you requested, General,” said the lieutenant.

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” said Giap.

The lieutenant took up a position by the door. The geologist looked around the room at the maps and models. He had never been inside a military building, much less met the great General Giap. “Would you like some tea?” said Giap

“No thank you, sir,” said the professor.

“You teach at the university?”

“Yes, sir. Geology. Twenty-two years.”

“Are you familiar with the highlands near the Laotian border?”

“Yes, sir. It is part of the South China plate, one of my fields of study. I have taken several trips over my career to take soil and rock samples there.”

“Any samples from Dien Bien Phu?”

“Of course. It is an important rice-growing region.”

“I am more interested in the mountains around the valley.”

“They date back to the early Paleozoic era. They are mostly made up of strata and igneous rock mixed with soil and sand.”

“Can they be mined without the use of explosives?”

“Perhaps. I would need to take more samples of the exact area you have in mind.”

“I need you to travel to the valley and take the samples you require to determine the viability of mining without explosives, especially near the airfield.”

“When?”

“Now. I have a car waiting.”

“But my classes,” said the professor. “It will take several weeks to travel to the valley and back.”

“I have already spoken to the head of the university and informed him that you are required elsewhere. Your students will be tended to and your position will be waiting when you return. You have fifteen days to report back to me with your conclusions. And only me. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good journey, Professor,” Giap said, motioning to the lieutenant standing by the door. “The people thank you for your service.”

The professor was escorted out by the lieutenant and placed in the waiting car in front of the building. The car sped off in the rain.

 

 

It was early morning. A light mist hung over the airfield at Dien Bien Phu. The sound of a heavy engine straining pierced the fog. A newly assembled replacement bulldozer used its steel blade to fill in the potholes and trenches that remained in the old airfield. The paratroopers watched as the bulldozer made short order of the work they had done. A small but heavy steam-powered roller leveled and compressed the loose soil on the runway.

French engineers laid PSP--perforated steel plates--over the newly leveled ground, and the simple dirt runway became a steel-reinforced landing platform capable of handling the heaviest aircraft. The perforated holes in the grid allowed the rain water to quickly drain off and kept the runway operational during the monsoon season. It was a shining example of modern engineering and was a key component of Navarre’s air-bridge strategy. The airfield must stay open to receive supplies and reinforcements, even during severe weather.

 

 

In the skies above, C-47s continued to drop cases of ammunition and smaller supplies by parachute through their side cargo doors. The C-119s, with their rear doors and increased cargo capacity, were used for larger loads.

Inside the Daisy Mae’s cockpit, McGoon and Coyle watched as the last mountain ridge swept below and the valley appeared. “Coyle, you wanna take this one in?” said McGoon.

“Sure,” said Coyle.

Coyle took control of the aircraft. “Three hundred feet?” said Coyle.

“Roger that,” said McGoon.

 

The Daisy Mae swooped down into the valley and aligned its flight path to run the length of drop zone Simone. The two doors that formed the back of the cargo hold opened between the twin tail booms.

“All right, boys. Let her rip,” said Coyle over the intercom. The green light illuminated and McGoon pulled back on the control wheel to kick up the plane’s nose. Kim-ly and his assistant loadmaster pushed out twelve wooden pallets without parachutes, each carrying a ton-weight spool of barbed wire.

The pallets slid out of the back of the Daisy Mae’s cargo ramp like a freight train falling off a cliff, plunging toward the drop zone below. The wooden pallets crashed into the ground and shattered into splinters. The barbed wire spools bounded like giant springs, unaffected by the drop.

Inside the Daisy Mae’s cockpit, the side window cracked, revealing a bullet hole. It surprised the flight crew. Coyle heard a high-pitched whistle, like a bad note on a flute. He looked down at the floor and saw the bullet’s entry point just two inches from his left foot. “Shit. We’re taking fire,” said McGoon. “Get us outta here, Coyle.”

Coyle banked the Daisy Mae hard to the left and up. He pushed the throttles forward. The engines groaned under the strain. He flattened the ailerons, the wings leveled and the Daisy Mae gained altitude. “Frenchies are supposed to patrol our flight path to clear out the snipers. That was the deal,” said McGoon.

“It was a lucky shot,” said Coyle.

“Lucky it didn’t kill ya. Contract says no combat runs. They gonna keep us doing these low-level drops, we’re gonna ask for hazard pay.”

“For one bullet?”

“It’s the principle. ‘Sides, an extra 25 bucks a week ain’t gonna break the French treasury.”