“Each?” said Coyle.

“Each,” said McGoon.

The Daisy Mae leveled off at a higher altitude and flew back over the mountain top on its way back to Hanoi.

 

 

Vietnamese and French paratroopers strung chest-high walls of triple concertina wire, consisting of two parallel lines of two-foot barbed wire loops joined by twists of wire and topped by a third barbed wire loop. The concertina wire had been coated with oil to make cutting it with wire cutters more difficult. To make the concertina stacks even more effective, the French drove upright iron posts into the ground below the center of the stacks and tied them off with wire. Every three feet, the soldiers hung a couple of tin cans on the wire as alarms. This made going under the wire undetected almost impossible without tunneling, a dangerous and time-consuming process that was usually detected this close to the French lines.

Miles of barbed wire was strung in front of the trenches they protected. They wove back and forth across the hillsides and formed the perimeters of the garrison’s strongpoints. Every section of wire had a gateway guarded by a squad of riflemen with a machine gun or flamethrower. The gateway’s path through the wire doubled back several times and allowed French patrols to safely enter the strongpoint without setting off mines or getting entangled. It was a deadly labyrinth that only the French knew how to navigate and was kept secret until the dirt compacted by the soldier’s boots revealed the path to the enemy. To stifle the enemy, the French built false gateways with compacted paths that lead nowhere and were often mined.

Bruno and his executive officer, a young captain, inspected the men’s work. It was standard procedure for field fighting positions, but hardly the fortress Navarre had envisioned. “Not exactly a Maginot Line, is it?” said the captain.

Bruno was unamused. “What about more wood and concrete? We need wood and concrete to build blockhouses,” said Bruno.

“Nothing yet. Ammunition and troop transport still have priority. We stripped the wood from the houses in the villages. It’s not thick enough for blockhouse headers or tunnels, but we have been able to use it to reinforce trench walls.”

“How are we supposed to build a garrison without supplies?”

“Things should improve once the airfield is operational,” said the captain.

“Let’s hope the Viet Minh don’t know that,” said Bruno.

 

 

Coyle still wore his flight suit as he stood on the patio at the back of McGoon’s bungalow overlooking the multi-colored Red River. He used a pen knife to carve the finishing touches on the leopard-shaped whistle he had worked on the night before. He gave it a try and played a simple tune. Below the patio on the riverbank, a five-year-old boy holding a bamboo fishing pole heard the whistle and looked up. Coyle, satisfied with his work, tossed the whistle down to the boy. The excited boy grinned at Coyle and blew a high-pitched shrill before running off. “Your parents are gonna love me,” said Coyle.

Coyle, reflective, looked out at the dozens of sampans tied up along the river, selling fresh fish, rice, and vegetables to city-dwellers. It was a floating market, simple and efficient. McGoon walked out onto the patio.

“I figure we got time for a couple of beers and a beefsteak before we head over to Mama Sing’s. Is that what you’re wearing?” said McGoon.

“You suppose any of those people down there really gives a damn who is running their country? French, communists or otherwise?” said Coyle.

“Don’t go getting philosophical on me when I’m hungry. You know it makes me cranky. Now get dressed and let’s get something to eat. Mama Sing’s is waiting.”

“You go ahead. I’m not in the mood.”

“You don’t have to be in the mood. That’s their job. And let me tell you, Mama Sing’s girls take pride in their work.”

Coyle considers for a moment, “Well, I am a bit hungry.”

“Thataboy,” said McGoon, slapping him on the shoulder a little too hard.

 

 

Terra Rouge

 

It was morning, and the November sky was a familiar bluish-grey. Three Morane scout planes were the first aircraft to land on the newly-built airstrip with its steel runway. The French now had eyes in the sky that could hunt down enemy positions and call in artillery strikes. The scout plane pilots stayed in the air as long as their fuel lasted, and wasted little time on the ground once they refueled.

Eight 120mm mortars roared to life when one of the pilots spotted a Viet Minh machine gun position firing on French paratrooper foxholes on a nearby hill. The ground around the machine gun squad churned from explosions. It only took five rounds before the Viet Minh were blown to bloody pieces and the machine gun permanently destroyed.

The French paratroopers watching from a hillside cheered. In addition to their training and esprit de corps, artillery and aircraft gave the French an edge over the Viet Minh forces. A very sharp and powerful edge. Now that the airfield was operational, the French Air Force and artillery were truly dangerous, and the Viet Minh knew it. The airfield was code-named “Terra Rouge.” Red earth.

 

 

It was late afternoon following many delays when Lieutenant Colonel Trancart led his battalion of Vietnamese Colonials and the leaders of the Thai federation onto the transport aircraft waiting on Lai Chau’s airfield. The villagers wept as they prayed to their ancient stone gods for the last time. Thai partisans and French commandos walked through the village, setting fire to the thatched roofs on the long pole houses and throwing thermite grenades into storehouses to burn remaining food stocks. Nothing would be left for the Viet Minh.

As the planes took off, a large group of villagers gathered at the far end of the village to watch. Many cried, wondering if they would ever see their leaders again. They were to be escorted by the Thai auxiliary and gorilla units to their new home at Dien Bien Phu, some 50 miles to the south through heavy forests and steep mountain trails. It was not a good day to be sick or old.

The villagers, all wearing conical hats to shield against the rain and sun, loaded up their carts and headed out of the village perimeter that had protected their families for so many years. They traveled along the dirt mule trail that wound its way up into the hills. It would be a long haul and slow going, with most of the villagers on foot and carrying their belongings. It felt like the villagers were chum in shark-infested waters, just begging for a Viet Minh attack. The Thai commander knew his men would protect the people no matter the cost. The Viet Minh knew it, too. And so, he walked and waited and watched.

 

The first attack came shortly after sundown, barely a mile out of the abandoned garrison. The Viet Minh had waited until the villagers had been separated from the French. They laid in ambush on the uphill side of the trail, using the long grass for camouflage. It didn’t take much to break up the column. With the first mortar rounds exploding around them, the frightened villagers scattered into the hills, and the Thai Auxiliary units ran to protect them. Small groups of villagers and soldiers formed in the long grass under the cover of darkness. The Viet Minh would hunt them down, surround them and exterminate them. It would be over a week before a handful of survivors stumbled into Dien Bien Phu and told their horror stories. Few survivors followed. Of the 2,100 Thai Auxiliary soldiers that left Lai Chau, only 185 made it back to Dien Bien Phu. It was a blow to the morale of the Vietnamese soldiers in the garrison, who wondered why they were fighting for the French if they could not protect their families from the Viet Minh. It was not long after that some of the Vietnamese soldiers deserted their posts and disappeared into the hills.

 

 

A lone C-47 landed on the airfield. General Cogny and the new garrison commander, Colonel De Castries, exited the aircraft and were met by Colonel Langlais, General Giles, and Lieutenant Colonel Piroth, the artillery commander. An experienced veteran of WWII, Piroth had a face like a gnome and was missing his left arm, which he’d lost during a Viet Minh ambush on his third tour in Indochina. The group of commanders was escorted by a squad of paratroopers to the command bunker near the airfield.

Inside the rudimentary bunker, the officers were served light refreshments and briefed on the current disposition of forces. De Castries listened intently and studied the map showing the position of French units. It would all be his responsibility as he took over command of the garrison. “We are currently receiving around eighty tons of supplies per day. We hope to increase that number. In the meantime, priority will be given to ammunition and construction supplies for the building of the garrison,” reported the major in charge of the supply depots.

“And our artillery?” said De Castries.

“It will start arriving today,” said Lieutenant Colonel Piroth. “Once operational, the new artillery will drive back the Viet Minh units that we encountered in mountains near the airfield. We only need to identify their location to destroy them. The new squadron of scout planes will help with that.”

“Do we have any idea on the Viet Minh artillery?” said De Castries.

“A mix of field mortars and recoilless rifles, as we projected.”

“No indirect fire capability?”

“None. There are over three hundred miles of mountainous terrain between Dien Bien Phu and their major supply bases at Viet Bac. The roads, if you can even call them that, are in poor shape after years of neglect, heavy rains, and landslides. And let’s not forget our air force. Our bombers would surely destroy any weapons and ammunition en route. General Giap does not have the ability to transport his heavy artillery to the valley, or the logistics to keep it resupplied once they get here. Not even Hannibal would attempt such a feat. A few pieces may get through the mountains, but even if they do, I assure you our counter-batteries will destroy their guns within three volleys,” said Piroth.

“And how many pieces will we be supplied?” said De Castries.

“As promised, you will be given everything you need to annihilate the enemy, Colonel,” said Cogny.

 

 

The Daisy Mae landed on the steel runway and taxied to the unloading area. Her rear doors opened, exposing two 155mm artillery guns in her belly. The new heavy artillery pieces were rolled out one by one. In all, the French would have eight 155mm guns at Dien Bien Phu. The 155s were the heaviest artillery pieces in all of Indochina, and once deployed to the various fighting positions, were capable of hitting anything within the valley and its surrounding hills. Each shell weighed over 100 lbs. and required a separate propellant charge, which slowed loading. Its firepower was truly ominous and gave the French a decisive advantage over the Viet Minh. Only the American C-119s could carry the 155s because of their weight and size.

Coyle exited the rear of the aircraft and jumped down to the tarmac. He crossed to a chow line set up on the edge of the airfield and got in line for coffee with the other soldiers. While standing in line, he thumbed through a well-worn French dictionary. Brigitte approached. “You are learning French?” said Brigitte.

“I thought I’d give it whirl,” said Coyle.

“Most tourists do not bother learning a country’s language when they visit.”

Coyle poured himself some coffee and offered some to Brigitte. She declined. “Well, first of all, I’m not a tourist,” said Coyle. “And second, if I were gonna learn this country’s language, it’d be Vietnamese, not French.”

“Vietnam is a French colony.”

“That may be, but most of the people still speak Vietnamese.”

“For now.”

“You think you’re here to stay?”

“You don’t believe we should be here?”

“A question to answer a question.”

“I am a reporter. It is my job to ask questions.”

“Fair enough. I believe a people should determine their own fate.”

“You Americans believe democracy is the solution to everything.”

“It hasn’t hurt us.”

“Would the Vietnamese be better off without the French hospitals and schools? Without French roads and airports? France has been here for over eighty years, building, teaching, protecting. Without us, the people of Indochina would still be living in the Stone Age.”

“They pay for your civilization with their freedom.”

“Freedom? Before France was Portugal and before Portugal, China. The Vietnamese have not known freedom for over two thousand years. They have no idea how to govern themselves.”

“They can learn if given the chance. We did.”

“And who will teach them. Mao and the communists?”

“That should be up to the Vietnamese to decide.”

“If you do not believe in our cause, why do you fight? Money?”

“I ain’t fighting. I’m flying. And yes, I do it for the money. Money paid by the French,” said Coyle.

“Capitalists,” said Brigitte with a condescending tone.

“Ya know, when I first saw you, I thought it might be nice to get to know ya and maybe steal a kiss or two,” said Coyle. “But you are by far the orneriest person I’ve ever met. Now if you will excuse me, my coffee is getting cold.”

Brigitte was at a loss for words as Coyle walked away. Men walking away was not something she had often experienced. Coyle was an enigma. A puzzle to be solved.

 

 

French and Vietnamese legionaries strung barbed wire and dug defensive trenches along the edge of the airfield. Brigitte interviewed De Castries as he inspected the airfield. His assistant, Paule Bourgeade, a brave and cheerful 28-year-old with an uncanny ability to organize, trailed behind, taking notes when asked by her boss. Paule had been in Indochina for over 5 years and knew how to get things done. “Colonel Langlais says you are to be trusted,” said De Castries. “But so we are clear, Brigitte, nothing is printed in your magazine unless first cleared by our headquarters in Hanoi.”

“Of course. I am well aware of the rules and I have no wish to endanger our troops, Colonel,” said Brigitte.

“Very well. The garrison is made up of nine strongpoints protecting the airfield and our artillery positions on the surrounding hills—Gabrielle, Beatrice, Elaine, Claudine, Anne-Marie, Francoise, Huguette, Dominique and, seven kilometers to the south, Isabelle,” said De Castries.

“The names of your former mistresses?”

“One does not reveal such confidence, Mademoiselle.”

De Castries looked out over the rice fields and homes with thatched roofs near the airfield. He didn’t like what he saw. “Paule, make a note to have our men clear the perimeter around the airfield another two hundred meters. Tear down the homes if need be and compensate the owners. I want clean lanes of fire for our machine guns and recoilless rifles.”

“Yes, Colonel,” said Paule.

Major Andre Sudrat, commander of the engineer battalion, approached with his clipboard in hand. He looked worried.

“Major, you look like you swallowed a cat,” said De Castries.

“Yes, sir. I have completed my evaluation of engineering resources needed for the garrison. Perhaps we should talk in private?” said Sudrat.

“Brigitte, may we resume our conversation later?”

“Of course, Colonel. I’ll get some coffee.”

Brigitte walked away toward the mess tent.

“So, Major?” said De Castries.

“Including the PSP for the airfield, barbed wire for the perimeter of each strongpoint, lumber to support the trench walls, concrete and elephant iron for the command bunker and hospital, and the sawed lumber for the blockhouse support beams… thirty-four thousand tons.”

De Castries was stunned. “Major, how is that possible?”

“As you requested, we need fighting positions, command bunkers, and support structures for twelve battalions, plus gun pits for our artillery. It’s a massive garrison, Colonel. The largest ever built in Indochina.”

“How long will it take to fly in that amount of supplies?”

“Assuming eighty aircraft loads per day, five months.”

“I doubt the Viet Minh forces will allow us that amount of time before they attack. What can we build in the next sixty days?”

“Perhaps the hospital and your command post.”

“And the blockhouses?”

“No, sir. Each requires a large amount of wood for the support beams and headers over the firing holes. I suppose we could forgo the roof and build open-air blockhouses, but our men would not be protected from an artillery or mortar attack.”

“I am less concerned about the enemy’s artillery than frontal assault by human wave.”

“We can scavenge some wood from the villages in the valley, and we might be able to harvest some timber from the surrounding forests, but it will take a large amount of labor and slow our construction.”

“Can we hire men from the villages?”

“Some, yes. But most are farmers and do not understand even basic construction. Training them may take more time than they save us.”

“But we can try, yes?”

“Of course, Colonel.”

“See to it, Major.”

 

Each day, more and more aircraft landed on the airstrip. As the supplies were unloaded from the aircraft, they were transported by truck to the various strongpoints, and the engineers went to work building the garrison while the Legionnaires and paratroopers kept watch for the enemy. Bulldozers cleared away brush around the French firing positions, giving the soldiers clear lanes of fire. Soldiers used old railroad ties as headers above the doorways in the command bunkers and firing ports in blockhouses. Foreign Legionaries and Vietnamese colonial troops strung mile after mile of barbed wire, creating a maze of steel, and dug trenches in circles around each hillside. Engineers laid thousands of anti-personnel mines around the suspected enemy approaches to each of the French fighting positions and around the outer rim of the airfield. Open firing pits, with high mounds of dirt as the surrounding walls, were dug for the artillery, along with reinforced ammunition bunkers with steel doors.

Jeeps, trucks, half-tracks, and ambulances were flown in the holds of the C119s. Ten US-built M24 Chaffee tanks, nicknamed “Bisons”, were disassembled in Hanoi and flown into Dien Bien Phu, where they were reassembled in an open-air factory. The tank squadron was commanded by Captain Yves Hervouet, young and aggressive, yet calm and controlled in combat. He wore owl-style glasses and kept his blond hair hidden under his beret so the enemy snipers wouldn’t target him from a distance. Each M24 tank in his squadron had a 75mm cannon, a .50 caliber machine gun, and two .30 caliber machine guns, giving its crew of five plenty of firepower. They would be used to support the infantry by targeting enemy machine gun and recoilless rifle emplacements.

Building the garrison was a massive effort that seemed never-ending. It was mind-numbing work for the paratroopers and Legionnaires. The paratroopers especially hated to prepare fixed fighting positions because they believed the best defense was to take the fight to the enemy where- and whenever they could be located. Day after day, week after week, the garrison took shape. Low-lying hills, with their nine strongpoints, formed the backbone of the garrison. There was a field hospital, nine battalion command bunkers, eight sandbag bunkers for the aircraft stationed at the airfield, dozens of artillery and heavy mortar firing pits, firing dugouts for 10 tanks, a transportation and repair depot for the fleet of vehicles, dozens of dugouts for the field kitchens to feed the thousands of soldiers within the garrison, and fifteen ammunition and supply depots. It was the largest fighting position ever built in Indochina.

Every day, more French troops were flown or parachuted into the valley. Over 10,800 soldiers from around the world were sent to the valley to fight for the French, including Moroccans, Senegalese, Congolese, Germans, Italians, Spanish, Algerians, Tunisians, Polynesians, Laotians, Cambodians, Indonesians, Malaysians, Thai, and of course, Vietnamese.

Thousands of pallets of supplies, food, and ammunition were flown in, unloaded onto the airfield, and trucked off to different parts of the garrison to be stored in supply and ammunition depots until they were needed. When the pallets were unloaded, the wood was cannibalized by the French engineers to create blockhouses and reinforce trench and tunnel walls. Nothing was wasted.

There was a mobile water purification facility run by a portable generator and supplied by the stream paralleling the airfield. It supplied fresh drinking water for the entire garrison, and dramatically reduced the odds of a dysentery outbreak that could cripple a fighting force.

The French garrison grew stronger and Colonel De Castries grew more confident with every shipment airlifted into the valley. And the Viet Minh grew stronger and more confident as their battalions returned to the valley and their combined forces grew in numbers. Every day, there were skirmishes between the French and Viet Minh forces. It was a never-ending battle as they mangled each other and tested their enemy’s strength. It was the only way to be sure about what they were facing.

 

 

The Daisy Mae lifted off from the airfield outside of Hanoi. Coyle and McGoon sat in the cockpit with Geneviève de Galard, a 29-year-old flight nurse, sitting in the navigator’s seat. “You’re from Toulouse?” said Coyle.

“Yes, in southern France, near the Garonne River,” said Geneviève.

“Yeah, I got a chance to visit it before heading home after the war. The buildings were a kind of a pink color if I recall,” said Coyle.

“Yes, many of the bricks are made from terracotta. The French call it ‘The Pink City’.”

“You’re a flight nurse?” said McGoon.

“Yes.”

“That’s gotta be a tough job, with the change in altitude and the pressure and all.”

“Yes, at times very tough. We lose too many.”

“Why ya heading to Dien Bien Phu?”

“My Red Cross plane is meeting me there. They are flying in from Saigon.”

“You been on vacation?”

“No. A funeral. One of my patients. I cared for him for three days before he died of his wounds. You get to know people when you care for them, and they you. It was the least I could do.”

“Sorry to hear it.”

“Yes. Me, too.”

 

 

The Daisy Mae touched down on the steel grid and taxied off the runway. Coyle climbed out of the lower cockpit door and helped Geneviève down.

Off to the side of the airfield, Brigitte poured herself a cup of coffee from the airfield’s mess tent and sat down on a stack of empty supply crates serving as tables while they waited to be scavenged. She watched with interest and a tinge of jealousy as Geneviève picked up her flight bag and kissed Coyle on both cheeks, as was the French custom to say goodbye. Geneviève walked toward Brigitte. “Do you know the way to the hospital?” said Geneviève.

“Yes, just up there on the hill,” said Brigitte, pointing. “Are you a new nurse?”

“Yes, but I won’t be staying.”

“Oh, that’s too bad. It would have been nice to have another French woman to talk with.”

“I will be coming back when troops are to be evacuated. I am a flight nurse.”

“Oh, great. You fly with the Americans?”

“At times, yes. Perhaps we can share a coffee together on my next trip?”

“That would be nice,” said Brigitte as Geneviève walked toward the hospital. Brigitte turned back to watch Coyle, who still hadn’t noticed her. She had a job to do and didn’t need a distraction like Coyle. After all, she was not a school girl with a crush. She picked up her coffee and walked away.

 

 

This type of set battle was new to the Viet Minh. The People’s Army had never successfully assaulted a French fortified position with more than two companies guarding it, and only rarely fought more than one night. A set battle was a style of fighting all too familiar to the French, having fought the Germans in two world wars. They understood the logistics required to fight a sustained conflict, and they understood the brutality of fighting an enemy face-to-face. It was all so new to the Viet Minh commanders and their soldiers. But they learned fast and learned well.

Both sides wanted to get at the other. The French, to thrash the Viet Minh and show them what a real army could do with modern-day weaponry and logistics. To prove to the Viet Minh that the French were not beaten. And the Viet Minh, to prove they were more than just a band of guerillas unable to fight toe-to-toe with a western army. They wanted the French gone from their country once and for all, and the only way to do that was to show the French that they could not win, that the Viet Minh were resolved to fight on forever if need be. Both sides wanted and needed this battle.

 

 

Inside his command center bedroom, General Giap was awakened by a lieutenant. He slipped on his pants and followed the lieutenant into the map room. The professor he had sent had returned and was seated slumped over with his hands holding his head. He looked exhausted and suffered from a head cold. He looked up at Giap, cleaned his runny-nose with a handkerchief, and said, “It can be done.”

 

 

A Viet Minh engineer led his surveying team up a mountain trail. The mountainside was covered with tall trees and the ground was thick with underbrush. The group came to a slight break in the forest canopy and looked out over the valley. They could clearly see the French airfield and several fighting positions in the distance. Their position was well hidden by the trees overhead. The engineer studied his map carefully. Satisfied, he walked over to the mountain slope and pounded a surveying stake about chest-high into the loose soil. He nodded to the team of surveyors. They went to work using a well-worn Wye level on sticks to calculate their exact altitude. It was far from the latest technology, but it got the job done. Next came the transit, used to calculate their exact position on the mountainside. The engineer noted the coordinates on a small pad of paper. He had them double check their calculations. The coordinates had to absolutely correct to accomplish his mission.

The engineer and his surveying team climbed up the backside of the mountain. There was no trail, and the climb was difficult. The soil was loose and the vegetation thick. Again, they took their measurements and carefully rechecked the calculations. The head surveyor motioned to a spot on the slope and guided the engineer, using his transit to find the exact spot and angle on the slope. The engineer pounded in a surveying stake. The two surveying stakes marketed the opposite ends of the shallowest point in the mountain at that elevation.

Two groups of villagers, each with picks and shovels went to work. One carved a 6-foot-wide trail into the mountain slope. The other began digging into the mountainside next to the surveying stake, stripping away the soil and loose rocks. It was the beginnings of a tunnel from the backside of the mountain to the front. One of many that the Viet Minh would carve into the mountains surrounding the valley.

 

 

Sergeant Rouzic, a French Legionnaire, was interviewed by Brigitte as he supervised his platoon digging trenches and stringing barbed wire in front of their fighting position on the hillside of strongpoint Beatrice.

“Colonel De Castries said you were a getaway driver for the bank robber Pierrot-le-Fou,” said Brigitte.

“Yes. Crazy Pierre. We’d knock over a bank in the morning, then spend all the money on wine and women before sunset. But that was all before the legion, of course… my new life, no?”

“With honor?” said Brigitte.

“Some say yes. And when I die, perhaps a better place in the history books, no?”

He walked past a German Legionnaire digging a trench in the stifling heat. “One and a half meters deep, Corporal, and not a millimeter less,” said Sergeant Rouzic.

“Oh, my god,” said the German Legionnaire. “Look, Sergeant, an Englishmen. I’ve dug all the way through to London.”

“Make jokes now, Corporal. But you’ll be wishing it was so once the enemy starts charging the wire.”

Lieutenant Colonel Gaucher, a seasoned battalion commander, moved up behind Brigitte and Sergeant Rouzic.

“Na-San all over again, eh, Sergeant?” said Gaucher.

“Let’s hope so, Colonel,” said Sergeant Rouzic.

“Are your men getting enough to drink, Sergeant? They look a bit drained.”

“Just this damned heat, Colonel.”

“We could do with a little rain.”

“A little rain…” mumbled the German Legionnaire to himself. “You can bet he won’t be sleeping in the mud.”

 

 

It was late afternoon. Coyle kept low as he walked along a trench leading up the side of a hill on strongpoint Elaine. Viet Minh snipers had been taking potshots at anything that moved within their range, and two Legionnaires had already been killed. Reaching the top of the hill, Coyle climbed out of the trench and walked to Brigitte’s foxhole. She was gone. He was disappointed. He heard the clack-clack of a typewriter and followed the sound to the mayor’s mansion. The French Legionnaires had been disassembling the mansion for badly needed building material. The stone and wood were invaluable. Most of the roof was gone and only a couple of interior walls remained. Coyle found Brigitte in what looked like the former living room. She was typing a story and did not notice him enter. Her laundry hung on a rope strung between the fireplace mantel and a crystal chandelier. He knocked on an empty door frame, the door had already been scavenged by the hospital for use as an operating table. She looked up from the typewriter. “Monsieur Coyle,” said Brigitte.

“Are you busy?” said Coyle.

“No. Please come in. I would offer you a chair, but it seems they have already been pilfered.”

“That’s okay. I’ve been sitting for the last couple of hours. I need to stretch my legs. ‘Sides, I came by to apologize. I kinda lost my temper the other day and I said some things that I wish I hadn’t.”

“No, no. It is not necessary. I understand passion and I like a good argument. It keeps the mind sharp, no?”

“I suppose.”

Brigitte grabbed an open bottle of wine and a glass. “Would you like some wine?”

“No thanks. Gotta keep my wits. I still have to fly back to Hanoi tonight.”

“So soon?”

“They work us pretty hard. So, new digs?”

“Digs?”

“New place. Where you live now?”

“Yes. It’s cleaner and a bit more comfortable. At least until our engineers carry away what remains. It was the Communist Party headquarters. They decided to leave when they saw French parachutes.”

“And you moved in?”

“Yes. Until the battle starts, then it’s back to the mud where it is safe.”

“So, you’re planning on staying even after the shooting starts?”

“Of course. I fought like hell to get here. Besides, I am a type A.”

“Type A?”

“My blood. It is type A. You know you are driven by your blood type. During World War II, the Japanese commanders would only pick type A pilots to fly Kamikaze missions. They were single-minded and dedicated to their cause, even unto death.”

“Kamikazes. Just seems the waste of a good aircraft.”

“You love flying, no?”

“It’s something I got a knack for.”

“A knack?”

“Something I’m good at.”

“Ah, yes. Then I have a knack for writing. It’s what I love. May I ask a favor?”

“Sure. What’s up?”

“General Cogny has granted me an interview and I need a lift back to Hanoi. I was wondering if could… how you say…hitch a ride?”

“Yeah, sure. I mean, I’d have to ask McGoon because it’s his plane, but I don’t see why not.”

“Thank you. You are very kind.”

 

 

Coyle stood in front of McGoon, who was seated on an empty ammunition crate in the airfield’s mess dugout. McGoon was finishing the last of three perfectly cooked two-egg omelets, a baguette, and a very pungent slice of Époisses de Bourgogne, a cow-milk cheese washed in brandy and banned from public transportation in eastern France.

“No,” said McGoon.

“What do you mean ‘no’?” said Coyle.

“It’s the opposite of ‘yes,’ Coyle. Our contract with the Frenchies says cargo and soldiers only. We ain’t a taxi service for civilians.”

“Wait a minute. First, you said, ‘we’re not military,’ now you say we ain’t civilians. Which is it?”

“It’s a grey area. And one where we don’t need a reporter snooping around.”

“She’s not going to report anything bad about us.”

“And you know that… how?”

“Okay. I admit I haven’t known her for long.”

“Two weeks, Coyle. You’ve known her two weeks.”

“Yeah, but...”

“What is with you and this girl? You are in the land of beautiful women and you choose her? She’s trouble, Coyle. And not the kind of trouble we need, seeing we’re supposed to be undercover and all. We gotta a good thing going, Coyle. Don’t screw it up.”

“You don’t think she’s beautiful?”

“Well… I mean… I admit she’s got a little something about her, but come on. All she does is argue, and she’s sneaky and manipulative.”

“Wait a minute…”

“She’s already got you wrapped around her little finger.”

“That’s it. I saved your ass. I’m calling in my chit.”

“What? You’re gonna use your chit for her?”

“Yep. It’s my chit. I can do what I want with it.”

“Fine. She can go. Just let me finish my meal in peace.”

Coyle snatched the chunk of cheese from McGoon’s plate, popped it into his mouth, and walked away.

“Hey, hey! I was gonna eat that,” said McGoon. “Good way to get your hand stabbed by a fork, mister.”

 

 

It was early morning, and the mist was already burning off as the sun rose into the grey sky. Twelve Viet Minh porters pushed and pulled at the ropes that held the two-and-a-half-ton howitzer. The artillery gun was American-made and captured by the Chinese during the Korean War. The Chinese did not make a 105mm shell, and therefore, the American 105s were not considered part of their army’s standard inventory. They became hand-me-downs to the Viet Minh, who were only too happy to accept them, especially since they used the same shells as the French, which could be captured.

The porters were moving the gun around a landslide that had occurred the previous night. The ground had not yet stabilized, and the road crews had been unable to fix the mountain road to the point that the heavy Russian trucks could pass. It was now daylight, and risky to be on the road, but it had to be done to stay on schedule. One of the trucks had dropped the gun off along with the rest of its cargo, and the porters were now moving the gun by hand across the broken ground to another Russian truck waiting in a grove of trees on the opposite side of the slide. They had worked all night unloading and loading dozens of trucks and were exhausted. This was the last truckload that needed to be transferred. Once the gun was across the landslide and hitched to the waiting truck, the porters could eat and sleep. The porters heard the high-pitched thrum of an aircraft engine. They quickened their pace. It was only a few more yards to the safety of the trees.

A French reconnaissance plane passed over the mountains, following the road the Viet Minh had been rebuilding. Looking down through the side windshield, the pilot saw the porters moving the artillery gun along the road and toward a grove of trees. The pilot waited until his aircraft was directly over the artillery gun before pressing the trigger on the camera mounted on the bottom of the fuselage. He almost missed the shot as the porters rolled the gun under the cover of the trees and disappeared. Almost.

 

 

It was late afternoon and it had been raining all day at Navarre’s villa. The ground was saturated to the point that the rainwater had nowhere to go and just gathered in great pools on the lawn, turning the flower beds into muddy swamps. General Cogny sat with General Navarre in a conference room. Cogny had thought the photo was important enough that he flew down to Saigon and met with Navarre personally. Navarre examined the photo using a jeweler’s loupe to study the blurry image. “It’s a mountain howitzer. So, what?” said Navarre.

“Intelligence believes it is a 105,” said Cogny.

“We both know that’s not possible.”

“But what if it is possible?”

“Rene, I do not have the time or the inclination to play games.”

“I understand, sir. Neither do I. But the entire operation was predicated on our having superiority in artillery.”

“Your point?”

“If the enemy were to have 105s, and they were to overrun even one of our hillside strongpoints, they could shell any of our firing positions in the garrison.”

“It’s one photo of one gun. It’s hardly an armada, Rene.”

“Sir, if the enemy can transport one gun, they can transport more.”

“And what would you have us do? Pull up stakes and run? I am tired of running, and so are the men.”

“As am I. But we might consider reducing the size of our commitment. Reassigning some of the men to protect Hanoi and the Red River Delta.”

“Giap and his army will not be in Hanoi or the Red River Delta. They will be in Dien Bien Phu. That is where the battle will take place. That is where we will destroy him.”

“Or he us.”

“Have you lost that much faith in our ability to fight, Rene?”

“No, sir. But I believe we should take precautions.”

“Fine. Take whatever precautions you deem necessary to protect the garrison. But our men stay.”

“Yes, sir. I shall inform Colonel De Castries of the threat.”

“No. Not yet.”

“He must have time to prepare.”

“Yes. But not until our intelligence group confirms the type of artillery in the photo. De Castries has enough to worry about without chasing ‘maybes.’”

“Colonel De Castries is under my command.”

“And you are under mine,” said Navarre sharply. “That will be all, General.”

Cogny reached to pick up the photo. “Why don’t you leave that here, Rene. I’d like to have another look later.”

“Of course.”

Cogny stood at attention, saluted, and left the room.

 

 

It was early morning. A mist hung over the valley. It was unusually cool, even a bit nippy. The villagers had already started their fires to boil their morning rice. The fences around the gardens and animal pens were made of horizontal sticks woven together with bark and tied to poles dug into the ground. Laundry hung on slender ropes strung between the trees. Chickens roamed the street pecking at anything that looked edible, while children played a Vietnamese version of petanque with rocks instead of steel balls.

The opium harvest had begun, and even at this early hour, farmers squatted among the opium poppies in a nearby field. They used small knives to cut slits in the unrippened opium seed pods hanging on the plants. The thick opium liquid oozed out of the slits and was allowed to dry into a gum. The gum was collected with a curved spatula and dried further in well-guarded wooden boxes, then rolled into dark balls for sale to the French or Viet Minh, depending on who was in control of the valley. The treasured little balls were sold to opium dens in Saigon, Paris, and Beijing to be smoked in long pipes held by pretty ladies. Patrons forgot about the war and all worries vanished as long as the opium flowed. It was a lucrative business, and the money collected by the villagers was used to buy medicine, fertilizer for the rice fields, and hard candy that rotted their teeth.

 

Coyle searched through the wood piles, looking for a stick to carve. He found a branch that he liked and offered a coin to the woman cooking over a fire. She smiled, took the coin and bowed. Coyle bowed back and continued his stroll through the village. He pulled out his pocket knife and went to work, carving away the knots. Coyle’s uncle had taught him how to carve. He believed that the wood spoke to him as he whittled and told him what it should become. Coyle knew it was hokum, but he liked the memory of sitting with his uncle.

A young Black Thai girl played in front of her home. She had a live blue and green dragonfly tied to a string and flying in circles above her head.

“What’s his name?” said Coyle.

The little girl ignored him. He needed to say it in a simpler way if she was to understand. He tried again.

“Your pet. Name?”

“It’s not a pet. It’s her breakfast.” Coyle turned to see Bruno at the head of a company of paratroopers returning from patrol. Bruno’s uniform was caked with mud and the hole in his pants was getting bigger. “She is like a cat playing with a…how you say… souris?” said Bruno.

“Mouse?” said Coyle.

“Yes, a cat playing with a mouse,” said Bruno. “Do you have children?”

“Me? No.”

“But you wish to, yes?”

“Someday, I suppose.”

“Ah, yes. But this is not a good life for one that wants a family. A good father and mother stay home with their children. A soldier must go where he is ordered,” said Bruno, motioning to the passing paratroopers. “They understand this. Brigitte understands this.”

“Look, I don’t know what you’re thinking, but— “

“No, of course not. But Brigitte is unique, no? Like a beautiful dragonfly. Not to be kept as a pet.”

Coyle looked over at the dragonfly, now exhausted and hanging limply on the end of the string. The little girl lost interest and tossed the dragonfly into the fire and ran off. Bruno slapped Coyle on the back, “Have a good flight back, Coyle.”

“Stay safe, Major,” said Coyle.

“Safe is not part of my job,” said Bruno, and walked off to rejoin his men.

 

 

It was early afternoon, and the blue sky was sprinkled with clouds shaped like gobs of cotton balls. A good day for flying. The Daisy Mae climbed over a tree-covered plateau. Inside the cockpit, Brigitte sat in the navigator seat, watching Coyle and McGoon fly. Brigitte was excited about getting back to her apartment in Hanoi, taking a hot shower, and changing into some clean clothes. “I appreciate the lift,” said Brigitte.

“Seat was empty. They took away our navigator. Just as well. I fly by dead reckoning anyways,” said McGoon.

“McGoon’s like a homing pigeon,” said Coyle. “Just point him in the right direction and let ‘em go. He’ll find his way.”

“Why do they call you ‘McGoon’? It’s a nickname, yes?” said Brigitte.

“Yeah, a nickname. I was the largest pilot in flight school. One of my instructors was reading the funny papers in the New York Times, and he said I looked like Earthquake McGoon in Li’l Abner. You know Li’l Abner?”

“Ah, yes. Li’l Abner… hillbillies, yes?”

“Yeah, hillbillies. Earthquake McGoon is the big guy.”

“Ah, yes. Very big… but not too smart, no?”

Coyle laughed. “She’s got ya pegged, McGoon.”

“Just keep your lips buttoned and fly the plane, Coyle. Can’t ya see the lady and I are having a conversation?” McGoon turned back to Brigitte. “He may not be too smart, but when he sets his mind to something he’s determined. And at times, that’s all ya need.”

“And you, Coyle,” said Brigitte, “are you determined?”

“I’ve been known to lock and load when I get my sights set on something I really want.”

Coyle and Brigitte’s eyes met for a long moment. She turned away.

 

 

The Daisy Mae touched down at the airfield outside of Hanoi, taxied to the apron, and parked alongside four C-47’s. Brigitte thanked Coyle and McGoon again and climbed out the doorway below the cockpit. Coyle thought for a moment and jumped up from his co-pilot’s seat. “McGoon, you mind wrapping things up on your own?”

“Why should I mind? I’m just the pilot,” said McGoon.

“Thanks, McGoon. I’ll catch up with you later and I’ll buy you a beer.”

“Big of you.”

 

Coyle exited the aircraft and ran to catch up with Brigitte. “Have you eaten?” said Coyle.

“Yes, before we left. Why?” said Brigitte.

“I know this barbeque place down by the lake. Chicken and pork mostly.”

“No hotdog?”

“McGoon told you?”

“Yes. He thought it was very funny. I think he was right.”

“So, you wanna grab a bite?”

“Mousier Coyle, are you asking me out on a date?”

“I suppose I am.”

“Very well, then I accept,” said Brigitte, wrapping her arm inside his. “Do you mind if we stop at my apartment? It’s close to the park, and I promise I’ll only be a few minutes. I could really use a shower and a change of clothes before the interview.”

“Okay, but I think you look fine.”

“You are blind as a mole, but thank you.”

They walked toward the main gate and the street in front of the airfield. Coyle flagged down a trishaw and they climbed in. Brigitte gave the driver instructions in Vietnamese.

“I didn’t know you spoke Vietnamese,” said Coyle.

“Not really. Just enough to get by,” said Brigitte.

 

 

Coyle and Brigitte sat on a park bench overlooking Hoan Kiem Lake on the edge of Hanoi’s colonial district. The lake was surrounded by Loc vung trees, with their branches drooping down as if to take a sip of the cool green water. Vietnamese couples strolled around the lake holding hands. The women wore their long black hair down past their breasts and wore their best Ao Dai, the traditional Vietnamese dress, embroidered on the front with exquisite flowers or birds and split up the sides to reveal white silk pants. Sidewalk vendors displayed their goods on blankets spread out on the sidewalk that bordered the lake.

Brigitte was wearing Western-style slacks and a blouse that gave her a business-like appearance. She carried a small bag with a clean jumpsuit that she would change into after the interview before she returned to the valley. Her hair was curled and hung down on her shoulders. It was the first-time Coyle had seen her hair long and he liked it. A pile of barbeque chicken and pork satays sat between them on a napkin, and each had a half-finished bottle of Coke. “According to the legend, there was this emperor paddling around on the lake when this golden turtle god stuck his head out of the water and asked for his magical sword, called “Heaven’s Will.” I guess the turtle had loaned the sword to the emperor so he could fight off a Chinese invasion,” said Coyle.

“And did the emperor give the sword back?” said Brigitte.

“Well, yeah. You don’t want to aggravate a turtle god.”

“Of course not.”

“Anyway, the emperor built a tower in the middle of the lake to honor the little guy and renamed the place “Tháp Rùa” which means “Lake of the restored sword.”

“And the other tower?” said Brigitte, pointing to a tall tower built on a little island on the edge of the lake.

“That’s “Ngoc Son” or “Temple of the Jade Mountain.” It was built to honor the supreme commander Tran Hung Dao, who fought against the Yuan Dynasty somewhere around the thirteenth century. It’s got a nice bridge called “The Morning Sunlight Bridge” that connects the island to the shore if you want to go see it.”

“I already have,” said Brigitte. “I’ve lived here for two years, Coyle. It’s hard to miss.”

“Yeah, I guess I forgot that about you. Why did you let me ramble on?”

“I like to hear you ramble. Where did you learn all these names and legends?”

“I don’t know. I guess I just kinda picked ‘em up along the way. I like history. What do you like?”

“Sleeping in my own bed.”

“Yeah, I suppose it’s pretty hard keeping up with a bunch of paratroopers.”

“Yes. They are fond of sleeping in the mud. It makes them look tough.”

“So why do you do it?”

“I ask myself the same thing every morning when I am out in the field. I don’t know. I like the excitement. It makes me feel alive. And I really do believe their story should be told. They fight and die for my country. I admire them.”

“Do you need to get to your interview?”

“Not yet. I still have a couple of hours. Have you been to the Thang Long Theatre?”

“No. Where’s that?”

“Not far. You bought lunch. It will be my treat.”

“No, no. I’ll buy the tickets.”

“Monsieur Coyle, you should know by now, I am a modern woman. I do not need to be pampered.”

“Fair enough.”

They got up from the bench. Coyle picked up the remaining satays and wrapped them in the napkin. “They’re for McGoon on the flight back. He gets ornery when he gets hungry,” said Coyle.

Brigitte laughed.

 

 

Brigitte and Coyle sat in the Thang Long Theatre watching a water puppet performance. A six-piece band used traditional Vietnamese instruments to accompany two women singing and talking to the puppets. A male narrator told the story of each vignette. The stage was a pool-sized lake of green water in front of a red-tiled pagoda. The pagoda had thin bamboo screens that hid the puppeteers, who used long bamboo poles to operate the floating puppets.

The puppets were dancing water dragons spewing water and sparks, a stork fishing with its beak, a child playing the flute riding a water buffalo, rice farmers plowing their paddies and sowing rice seeds, fishermen using bamboo cages to catch jumping fish, and dragon boats racing each other. It was a child-like performance steeped in ancient culture.

Brigitte explained the history behind the water puppet theatre and the legends behind each story being told. She liked Coyle and wanted to impress the American. And he was impressed. She was smart, beautiful and brave. He wanted to kiss her but thought better of it. He would take his time and hopefully make her want him as much as he wanted her. She was worth the effort and the wait.

 

 

Brigitte was escorted by a lieutenant through Cogny’s headquarters. “General Cogny is running a little late. He asked if you would mind waiting in his office?” said the lieutenant.

“Of course not,” said Brigitte.

The lieutenant led her into the office. “I am sure he will only be a few minutes,” he said.

He offered her a seat in front of Cogny’s desk and left, shutting the door behind him. Brigitte looked around the room. It was neat and orderly. Everything had its place. There were framed photos of comrades and of Cogny, when he was young and still had both his eyes, on the wall and on the credenza behind the desk. There was a French flag in the corner. And then there was the general’s desk. Not a scrap of paper on it, except for a black and white aerial photo in the middle of the desk pad. She thought it strange that he would leave what was obviously a reconnaissance photo out. It was a breach of security. It was not like the Cogny she knew. She looked back at the closed door and stood up. She dared not touch the photo, but it was out on the desk for anyone to see. She was anyone. She leaned over and looked closer. She recognized the fuzzy outline of the artillery gun. It was a 105. She was sure of it. She had done a story on a French artillery squad that had fought bravely at Na San. They’d had a 105, and even let her fire it once. It looked like it was being pushed by Vietnamese peasants, with a Viet Minh soldier keeping watch nearby. She heard Cogny open the door and sat back down in the chair. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting, Brigitte,” said Cogny.

“It’s quite all right, General. I know you are a busy man, and I appreciate you taking the time,” said Brigitte.

Cogny walked to his desk and noticed the photograph. He looked at her and smiled as he picked it up and placed it in his top desk drawer. He shut the drawer, locked it, and placed the key in his pocket. It was as if he was showing her it was something of value and should be protected. She simply smiled and said, “May we begin?”

“Please,” said Cogny, and sat down behind his desk.

 

 

Brigitte walked out of the office followed by Cogny. “Thank you for your time, General Cogny,” said Brigitte.

“The honor is mine. Do you have time for dinner?” said Cogny.

“Unfortunately, no. I am flying back to the garrison tonight.”

“Brigitte, you must make time for yourself. Life is not all about work.”

“I try.”

“Hmmm. Next time try harder.”

“Of course, General. I will.”

 

Cogny personally escorted her out of his headquarters and put her into a waiting taxi, something generals do not usually do for reporters. But Brigitte was different. Cogny admired her and, more importantly, he needed her. Generals’ careers do not advance without good press of their victories. And there was also the business of the photograph he had left out on his desk for her to see. He was not completely sure what he hoped to accomplish. Would she try to piece together the story and warn Colonel De Castries? Probably not, he thought. She was a reporter, but also a patriot. But still, if there was a chance…

 

Brigitte rode in the backseat of the taxi. She was deep in thought. She knew that the French believed the Viet Minh were incapable of moving artillery into the valley. The roads were too badly damaged by years of neglect to be utilized by truck or even car. And yet, that photo showed them moving a 105 by hand. Was it possible that they could move their artillery all the way to the valley? Why did Cogny leave the photo out on his desk? He wasn’t a careless man. She hated to be played, even by a general.

 

 

The sun had set at the airfield. The orange twilight created silhouettes of the aircraft parked on the apron. Ground crews were busy loading up the last pallets of cargo into the aircraft, getting them ready for their night flights back into the valley.

The Legionnaires manning the quad-50s anti-aircraft gun at the far side of the airfield smoked cigarettes and joked about their wives. They didn’t notice the two Viet Minh sappers wearing dark blue pajamas and carrying bows on their backs as they belly-crawled toward the gun position. The two sappers nocked their arrows and stood up behind the two Legionnaires. Both arrows found their target and pierced the Legionnaires’ throats. The sappers dropped their bows and pulled out their knives as they ran toward the gun position. The dying Legionnaires could not scream or fight back. The sappers finished them off with their knives.

 

Coyle sat in the open doorway of the Daisy Mae while McGoon paced. “You told her five-thirty, right?” said McGoon.

“She’ll be here. I’m sure she’s just running a little late,” said Coyle.

“We got a schedule, ya know.”

“I know. Why are you getting your panties in a bunch?”

“I ain’t getting my panties in a bunch. Like I said before, the Daisy Mae is not a taxi service, Coyle.”

“Never said she was. We’re just helping a friend.”

“Your friend.”

“You don’t like Brigitte?”

“She’s fine for a reporter, but that ain’t saying a lot.”

“Be nice, McGoon. She’ll write good things about you. Maybe make you out to be a hero.”

“Ya think?” said McGoon, reconsidering.

Coyle watched as a taxi pulled up in front of the main gate and Brigitte got out. “There she is now,” said Coyle, walking toward her.

 

Brigitte showed her credentials to the guards and passed through the main gate. She saw Coyle approaching from a distance and waved. Coyle waved back and walked toward her across the tarmac.

“I thought you weren’t coming,” said Coyle as he came closer.

“No, no. There was an accident on the road. A trishaw hit a water buffalo sitting in the middle of the road. The water buffalo won the argument.”

“I’m sure it did.”

The thundering kak-kak-kak of the quad-50s interrupted their conversation. Orange tracer rounds flew behind Brigitte and hit the guards at the main gate, tearing them to pieces. Brigitte instinctively hit the ground. Coyle ran toward her.

“Get down, you fool!” said Brigitte.

 

The gunner of the quad-50s redirected its fire on the guard towers around the perimeter of the airbase. A jeep smashed through the lowered main gate and raced past Brigitte toward the line of aircraft. A sapper in the passenger seat opened fire with a submachine gun on Coyle, still running toward Brigitte. Coyle dove to the ground and rolled out of the jeep’s path. Brigitte jumped up and ran to his side. “Are you okay?” said Brigitte.

“Yeah, I think so,” said Coyle.

“What the hell did you think you were doing?”

“Saving you.”

“Americans,” said Brigitte. “I don’t need saving.”

 

The jeep sped toward the first aircraft, a C-47. A sapper in back of the jeep pulled the cord on a satchel charge and flung it under the aircraft as they passed. The satchel charge exploded and engulfed the C-47 in flames, destroying it. The jeep kept moving down the line of aircraft, the sapper in back throwing more satchel charges and obliterating the cargo planes one by one. At the end of the line was the Daisy Mae. Her engines started to crank. McGoon was in the cockpit, determined to move his aircraft to safety before the sappers reached it.

Coyle could see that McGoon would never make it in time. “Come on,” said Coyle and grabbed Brigitte’s hand, pulling her to what remained of the guardhouse. Coyle picked up one of the guards’ weapons, a submachine gun.

“Stay here and keep your head down. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

Coyle ran off before Brigitte could argue. He ran toward the anti-aircraft gun taken over by the Viet Minh sappers, still firing on the guard towers, ripping them to shreds and killing the guards inside. The two sappers did not see him coming until it was too late. Coyle stooped down and moved forward until he was sure he would not miss. He opened fire, killing the two sappers and silencing the anti-aircraft gun. In the distance, another C-47 exploded. The Daisy Mae was next.

 

McGoon throttled the engines. The Daisy Mae’s wheels began to move slowly. “Come on, baby. You can do it,” said McGoon. He could see it wouldn’t be enough before the sappers were in range.

 

Coyle pushed the dead sapper from behind the anti-aircraft gun and climbed to the seat. He wheeled the gun around and leveled it at the jeep. He fired. The tracer rounds were short. He tilted the gun up and shot ahead of the jeep. Once he had the gun firing at the same level as the jeep, he stopped wheeling the gun. Hundreds of hot shell casings ejected from the four machine guns gathered at his feet and blistered his ankles. He didn’t flinch and kept firing.

 

The jeep drove right into his line of tracers. The sappers and their remaining satchel charges were torn to shreds, and the jeep exploded in a huge ball of flame.

 

Inside the cockpit, McGoon, wiping the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve, throttled down the engines. He and the Daisy Mae were safe. “I ain’t never gonna hear the end of this,” said McGoon to himself.

 

Brigitte got up from behind the guard house and ran to Coyle as he climbed out of the gun’s firing position. “That was amazing,” she said, wrapping her arms around him and kissing him on the cheeks. “You are such a fool.”

Coyle smiled, put his hands on her face and kissed her full on the lips. She was taken aback. She had daydreamed of her first kiss with Coyle and it wasn’t with the burning wreckage of three French planes in the background and surrounded by dead men. Still, it was a nice kiss. He had soft lips. She smiled and gave him a quick peck on the lips as if to say, “Thanks.” It was not exactly the reaction Coyle was hoping for. His confused expression pleased her. She was back in control.

 

It was late in the afternoon at Giap’s HQ. A light rain fell. Uncle Ho’s Russian sedan was parked on the side and covered with a tarp to keep any passersby from knowing of his presence. Ho’s bodyguard, Phung, stood in the rain, keeping watch with his submachine gun tucked under his arm.

Uncle Ho and Giap were alone in the HQ’s conference room. “It is a well-thought-out plan,” said Uncle Ho, studying the maps and reports Giap and his staff had prepared for their meeting. “I want the French gone from our country. I want our people to be free.”

“As do I,” said Giap. “They will leave when they finally realize that they cannot win and that they will never control us again.”

“You believe Navarre intends to defend Dien Bien Phu?”

“I think he must. He knows that if his forces leave, we will invade Laos. If his forces stay, he can counter any move we make on Laos or against his other garrisons in the highlands. It’s the smart move and he is a smart man. He is preparing for a fight.”

“He prepared for a fight in Na San. He thrashed our best soldiers and then left as if it was nothing.”

“This is not Na San. Dien Bien Phu is far more strategic. It keeps the French in control of the upper Mekong River and its supply lines. To lose the Mekong would be catastrophic to the French. Our forces could reach all the way down into southern Vietnam, and even threaten Cambodia. The French would never let this happen.”

“If the French stay, we fight?”

“That is the hope.”

“We will be gambling a great deal.”

“It is a risk, I know. But we must fight and beat the French decisively if this war is to end. It is the only way.”

“If we commit the bulk of our resources to this battle that deep in the highlands and the French leave, it could take us years to recover. We will not be able to launch a spring offensive, and that will give the French the time they need to build their army of South Vietnamese puppets.”

“You are correct.”

“And yet, you would risk all?”

“Yes. The French have given us an opportunity that may not come again. We must risk all and win.”

Uncle Ho grew silent, deep in thought. Giap was patient as always and gave his commander the space to think. It was probably the most important decision of Uncle Ho’s career. A true test of the Viet Minh forces. The final tipping point, one way or another.

“If we fight and lose, you will not survive the wrath of the politburo and the Chinese. Not even I can protect you.”

“I understand. If we lose, I do not plan on returning from the battlefield.”

“Then we truly do risk all, my friend.”

“Yes.”

“How long before our forces are in place?”

“We must march our men and transport our artillery over three hundred miles to the battlefield, and the roads are still in great disrepair. The French aircraft will pick at us the entire way. It is hard to imagine we would be ready to fight before early March.”

“Very well. When you are that far away, do you worry about leadership across the entire battlefield of Vietnam?” said Ho.

“The deputy chiefs of staff and the deputy head of the Political Department will all be there with me. We will organize a vanguard staff at our field headquarters in Dien Bien Phu to direct battlefields across the country, including the volunteer soldiers in Laos and Cambodia. Nguyen Chi Thanh and Van Tien Dung will remain behind at general headquarters and oversee the fighting in the Northern Delta. But I do have one worry while at a distance; if there’s an urgent problem, I won’t be able to ask for guidance from you and the Politburo,” said Giap.

“When you reach the front, remember this: you are the commanding general and you have absolute decision power! Delegate all lesser decisions. If there is a problem, discuss it and reach unity within the Party Committee, and reach unity with our Chinese advisors. Then, you have your decision. You can report to us later.”

“I understand.”

“One last thing,” said Ho. “This is a crucial battle. You must fight to victory. Fight only if you are sure of victory. If you’re not sure, don’t fight.”

Giap nodded in agreement.

“There is no better man for this task. Go with your people’s blessing, General.”

“And yours?”

Ho smiled. “And mine.”

They shook hands, perhaps for the last time.

 

 

 

The Battle of the Roads

 

 

Giap stood in his bedroom alone, starring at the empty table where he once ate his rice soup. “What have I done?” he thought. It was one of the few times he would allow himself to doubt. He knew he must be strong. His men would find confidence in his resolve. Pity and self-doubt were not something he would allow himself. He gathered the last of the books, two books on poetry and one on the history of Hannibal. He placed them in a leather satchel and tightened the straps. It was time.

He walked out of the room and down the stairs. Seeing him, a lieutenant on his staff stopped working and began to applaud. He was quickly joined by the other staff members clapping their hands and cheering their general. This was the man that would bring them to a final victory over the French. They believed in him more than themselves, and that was enough. Giap, moved by his staff’s confidence in him, walked through the building and out the front door.

Giap set his satchel on the passenger side of a jeep already loaded with map cases, boxes of paperwork and rucksacks. Three of his staff officers were already waiting in the back of the jeep. His bodyguard, Phung, sat behind the steering wheel. It was a very tight fit. The jeep was American and had been captured from the French. It was reliable. A red square with a gold star had been painted on each side and on the back of the jeep so his soldiers did not mistake it for a French patrol. However, they left the American white star on the hood so any French aircraft passing overhead might think twice about strafing it. Giap climbed into the front passenger seat, and Phung cranked the engine to life and put the vehicle into gear. It would be a long and dangerous ride to Dien Bien Phu. The jeep pulled away from the building and sped down the street.

 

 

There was a light drizzle as the sun set over the mountains. The forest was quiet. A village commissar, with four militiamen armed with rifles, led a group of two hundred coolies carrying picks and shovels up a badly maintained mountain road. Large sections of the road had been washed out by the rains and avalanches. Other sections had been taken over by vegetation as if the dirt road was slowly being swallowed by green vines and ferns.

The commissar stopped and barked out orders to the group. The coolies dispersed along the road and got to work. They worked without complaint, grateful for the bowls of warm rice and the dried fish they were given at the beginning of each shift to give them energy. They were mostly peasant farmers, accustomed to this kind of back-breaking labor. They worked like a colony of ants, a collective mind that needed little guidance, instinctively knowing when to help their fellow workers remove a large boulder or shovel away a pile of debris.

The commissar and militiamen kept watch with their weapons in their arms, protecting the work party. It was the sky that worried them most. The French scout planes and the bombers that would surely follow if they were spotted were their biggest danger. A single B-26 with a rack of anti-personnel bombs, which spread lethal clouds of steel splinters when they exploded, could kill them all if it hit its target.

As the path through the mountains was repaired, coolies with ropes wrapped around their chests climbed up the trees on each side of the road. They lashed the ropes to the top of the trees and pulled the treetops together to form a living tunnel that obscured the road and the vehicles that would travel on it from the aircraft above. The French could not effectively bomb what they could not see.

The Viet Minh had been given 600 Russian-made Molotova trucks to transport their troops and supplies to the battlefield. They were well-worn hand-me-downs from WWII with bullet holes in the doors, blood-stains on the seats, and large rips in the canvas cargo tops, but their engines were still good and they were reliable. The Viet Minh were grateful to have them. Each 2 ½ ton truck had a hitch on the back that allowed it to pull an additional trailer of ammunition or a piece of artillery. They were heavily camouflaged with local foliage, which was replaced with new, matching foliage whenever the trucks passed into new terrain. The trucks were divided into caravans of 30-40 vehicles each and dispersed along the entire length of road between Viet Bac and Dien Bien Phu. Road gangs of women with palm fronds brushed away the tire marks once each convoy passed, leaving no trace for the French scout planes to follow.

The heaviest artillery pieces were wheeled up the mountains and through the forest with ropes and pulleys fastened to trees and heaved by dozens of porters. They would travel by night and hide during the day. Every thirty miles of road, the work parties carved a hidden truck park into the forest for the drivers and the troops to rest and sleep in safety during the day. Nets strung from the trees were combined with the local vegetation to create a camouflaged canopy. Mobile kitchens were set up to feed the drivers, passengers, and work crews. Hammocks were strung from the trees and straw mats laid across the ground. Fuel depots refueled the trucks, and mechanics checked the engines for loose fan belts, cracked hoses, and proper levels of oil and water while the drivers slept.

In addition to the trucks, the Viet Minh had over 20,000 porters using two-person bamboo slings and reinforced bicycles. A single reinforced bicycle could carry 300 pounds of supplies or ammunition, and two bicycles lashed together could carry the heavy barrel of a mountain howitzer. With few exceptions, the porters were mostly women from the surrounding villages. The villagers along the road were only too happy to help the Viet Minh, who promised land reform and food to the masses. It was something the French never offered: the simple hope of a better life for their families.

The human supply chain stretched over 300 miles and transported thousands of tons of food and ammunition to the valley. Even when the human chain was broken by French fighters or bombers, it was quickly repaired and resumed its mission. There were always more coolies and porters to take the place of the dead and dying. It was an unstoppable force of human will.

The last of the day’s light was waning when the commissar heard an airplane’s engine in the distance. He blew his whistle, signaling the danger. The work party and militiamen dove into the elephant grass and ran below the tree tunnel to hide. Two hundred workers and the four militiamen disappeared within a matter of seconds. The commissar didn’t move from the middle of the road and watched as an unarmed French scout plane passed overhead. He wanted to take a potshot with his rifle but knew better than to attract attention. The aircraft passed without incident. The commissar blew his whistle again, signaling the “all clear.” The militiamen resumed their guard duties and the coolies climbed from their hiding places and returned to their work.

 

 

Giap and his staff continued their journey along the route through the mountains, passing the coolies repairing the road and porters carrying equipment and supplies. Some of the soldiers could not believe their eyes on seeing the leader of their army and the man that determined life or death for many of their countrymen. Many of the soldiers carried small photos of both Giap and Ho Chi Minh in their pockets for luck. They clapped and cheered as the jeep passed. Giap did not like the attention. He was just a man, after all, and capable of mistakes. Besides, he didn’t want the French spies that he knew were among his ranks to know he was heading to the valley. The road was dangerous enough without the French sending aircraft and patrols to hunt him down. He wasn’t afraid to die. That fear had left him long ago. He had an important mission to accomplish and didn’t want anything to hinder its success, including his death.

 

At times, the jeep sputtered and stalled as it climbed the steepest parts of the road, its four wheels spinning for traction in the soft dirt. During these times, Giap and his staff dismounted and walked to lighten the jeep’s load. Porters along the road set their loads aside and helped the vehicle with a push. They were not well-educated but understood the importance of getting their general and his staff to the front lines as soon as possible. Once past the difficult part, Giap and his staff would climb back into the jeep and resume their journey, as the porters would resume theirs. They all had a job to do and were critical to the success of their army. Giap was proud of these simple villagers, their strength and their willingness to serve the greater cause. They were the factor that the French most underestimated and gave the Viet Minh a crucial advantage. He did not possess the machines or technology to move mountains like the French, but he had the people, and the people were enough.

 

Dozens of women gathered rocks along a river bank and carried them in bamboo baskets held on their backs with cloth straps. Many had babies that they would carry in a blanket wrapped around their chests. The loads were heavy, but they were strong. The women would carry their cargo of rocks to a shallow part of the river and toss the rocks into the water. Giap’s jeep crossed the river on one of these “hasty bridges” made of thousands of rocks just below the surface of the rushing water. The French aircraft could not spot these fords and therefore could not bomb them like a normal bridge.

 

The jeep continued day and night. It only stopped when Phung was too tired to continue without endangering the general. These pauses were welcome by the jeep’s passengers, who used the time to stretch and rest their backs from the relentless pounding of the road. They were always presented with the best food available, which oftentimes was no more than some hot tea, dried pork, and a bowl of rice. Giap knew that someone would go without in order to feed him and his men. It was a sacrifice that he accepted reluctantly. He used this downtime to find a radio and hopefully get a report from his field commanders on the French progress on the garrison. Giap so wanted the French to build their garrison, to make it big and strong, to fill it with troops and supplies. To make them feel secure so they would stay until he and his army arrived.

 

 

It was early evening in the forest truck park. Small oil lamps with overhead shields were lit to illuminate the tables in the dining area. The kitchen staff prepared the evening meal to be consumed by the porters and coolies before they started the long night of work. A troop of entertainers played instruments and sang songs for the troops as they waited to continue their march. Giap was sitting with his staff when they heard a single-engine plane overhead. The oil lamps were extinguished.

 

Firefly flares were dropped from a French scout plane and lit up the early evening sky. The flares marked the road below. A few moments later, the sound of heavier aircraft filled the air, a squadron of B-26 bombers flying overhead. Bombs whistled against the air as they dropped.

 

The road and the truck park exploded into balls of fire that lit up the mountainside like the noonday sun. Porters and coolies scattered for cover. Deep craters were blown into the road. The bombs destroyed their hard work and blocked any escape. Several bombs landed on the mountain slope and created an avalanche that buried porters running for their lives.

Giap and his officers stayed still and kept low to the ground, knowing that one place was as good as another during a bombing raid. The explosions were earsplitting and the air concussed against their bodies, making it hard to breathe. When the last bomb exploded, the empty aircraft left and there was silence once again, except for the moans and screams of the wounded and dying.

Porters ran to help their comrades caught in the avalanche. Others helped the wounded to the makeshift field hospital next to the kitchen. Still others picked up their picks and shovels and went to work repairing the damage to the road.

Giap watched with amazement as his ant army of coolies and porters made short work of the craters in the road. They sang patriotic songs in defiance to the French. Within two hours, the road was repaired, as if the French bombers had never been there. The people would not despair or even slow down. Giap drew strength from their example. The coolies and porters were not soldiers, but this was their way of fighting the French.

 

The caravan was like a 300-mile-long snake. The soldiers wore new long-sleeved cotton shirts, and each carried a rifle, ammunition, a backpack, and a “sausage sack” of rice as they marched briskly past. Women chatted and joked along the way and used shoulder yokes slung over their shoulders to haul rice and ammunition. The engineers constructed bamboo footbridges across streams. Thai and Dao sympathizers wearing colorful dresses used woven back baskets to haul rice and supplies. Reinforced pack-bicycles, nicknamed “elephants,” carried hundreds of kilos of ammunition and supplies.

 

A new squadron of Bearcat fighters based at the French airfield in Dien Bien Phu used heavy machine guns and rockets to cut through the forest and attack the road crews. The French killed hundreds, but the work rarely stopped for more than a few minutes. The workers carried away the wounded and dead, then filled in the craters like it was just part of their daily life. Even the French, with all their technology and war machines, could not stop a willful people. The laborers broke out in chants as they worked to repair the road, demonstrating their united spirit to beat the French once and for all. They wanted their country back.

 

In the valley of Dien Bien Phu, Viet Minh road crews cut 18 miles of new roads on the surrounding mountain slopes and through the forests. Night by night, the road network continued to make its way through the forests, allowing the Viet Minh forces more freedom of movement. With the roads hidden under the forest canopy, the Viet Minh could attack one end of the French garrison, then move to the opposite end of the valley and attack another part of the garrison within a few hours.

 

 

It was morning, and the sun was already out. The garrison was beginning to look more and more like a fortress, with multiple layers of concertina wire, miles of six-foot-deep trenches with firing steps, and hundreds of blockhouses. Walls of sandbags surrounded artillery pits and the entrances to battalion command centers. Field hospitals and aid stations were dug down into the earth on the hillsides of each strongpoint. The airfield had a respectable perimeter, with layers of barbed wire and sentry towers.

 

A squad of engineers used small canisters of TNT to blow up the remaining tree stumps that blocked the fields of fire in front of the French machine guns and recoilless rifles. An engineer would cut the tree roots with an ax, dig a hole beneath the stump, then place the TNT canister directly below the thickest part of the stump. He would attach the bridgewire leads to the end of the charge’s blasting cap, then run the bridgewire to the squad leader 100 feet away. The squad leader would attach the other end of the bridgewire leads to an electric detonator, then call “Fire in the hole!” before pressing the plunger to ignite the explosives and send a three-hundred-pound tree stump hurling through the air. Engineers loved to “blow shit up.” It was always a nice break from building the garrison’s blockhouses, artillery pits and command posts.

 

Legionnaires and paratroopers lined up in one of the field kitchens for a hot breakfast with coffee or tea. Colonel De Castries joined them. He used this time to check on the men’s morale and show his face to the garrison. Each day he made a point to visit a different field kitchen and dine with a different group of men.

 

Brigitte was already seated when De Castries showed up. She had been waiting and made sure the seat across from her was empty. She had put on some makeup and combed her hair. She hoped that the Colonel, a well-known womanizer, would take the bait. It didn’t take long. “May I join you, Mademoiselle?” said De Castries.

“Of course,” said Brigitte.

De Castries sat down across from her and said, “I take it your accommodations are adequate?”

“When it’s not raining,” said Brigitte. “I’m fine, Colonel, but thank you for asking.”

“You will let my staff know if you have any special requirements that we might accommodate?”

“Of course. You might help me with one thing.”

“What’s that?” said De Castries, sipping his coffee in between bites of an omelet.

“I’m writing a piece on one of your artillery officers. Lieutenant Brunbrouck?”

“I don’t believe I know him. There are so many new faces.”

“He is in charge of a battery of howitzers. 105’s, I believe. Anyway, I remember you mentioning something in our interview and I was hoping to get a little clarification.”

“What’s that?”

“You said that the Viet Minh were not capable of transporting their heavy artillery to the valley because of the roads were too damaged.”

“Yes, that is true. Because of the ongoing war, our maintenance crews have been unable to repair the roads, so they are now useless for us and the Viet Minh. A good thing in this particular case.”

“What if they found a way to repair the roads and transport their heavy guns?”

“Impossible. It is a matter of logistics. Our engineers estimate that it would take over thirty thousand workers three months to repair the roads. It would take another fifteen thousand porters to supply the tools, supplies, and food necessary to support a workforce of that size. The Viet Minh just don’t have the manpower available for that size of a project.”

“And if they found a way to bring their guns to the valley?”

“Then we would simply destroy them with our counter batteries and aircraft. You see, it really just gets down to math, Brigitte. We have more artillery than they do. Not to mention our aircraft, of which they have none. You can sleep easy. There will be no enemy artillery bombardments in Dien Bien Phu.”

Brigitte considered telling De Castries about the photograph she had seen in General Cogny’s office. She knew it would betray the confidence that Cogny had shown in her, and the confidence of a general officer was not something to be wasted lightly. Besides, she wasn’t sure what the photograph really showed, or what it meant. She was a reporter and, while not completely neutral, it was not her responsibility to affect command decisions. She would leave it alone for now. “Thank you, Colonel,” she said.

 

 

The sun was out and the sky was clear in Hanoi. The streets were full of trishaws and bicycles. Coyle and McGoon sat on the patio of a coffee house, enjoying the cool air after an early morning supply run to Dien Bien Phu. “You’re gonna love this. It takes a little longer, but it’s worth it,” said McGoon.

“As long as it ain’t some kinda trick.”

“Don’t be a sourpuss, Coyle. It’s my job to keep things lively. You don’t wanna get stuck in a rut, do ya?”

“I suppose not.”

A waiter poured sweet condensed milk into the bottom of each of their cups, then placed a metal drip-filter filled with coffee grinds on top. He poured hot water over the coffee grinds inside the metal filter. The water dripped down through the grinds and mixed with the sweet condensed milk. The waiter moved off.

While they waited for the last of their coffee to drip, McGoon leaned in closer. “Ya know how I told ya we should get in and make some real money?” said McGoon.

“Yeah.”

“Apparently, the Viet Minh are making much faster progress on their roads to Dien Bien Phu than the Frenchies thought possible. It’s got the French generals a little worried. They want us to slow the Viet Minh’s progress, and they’re willing to pay a big bonus if we do.”

“How are we gonna slow ‘em down? We’re flying cargo planes.”

“Well, that’s the thing. The C-47’s don’t have big enough doors for a clean drop, and ‘sides, they’re limited on weight.”

“Doors for what?”

“Napalm.”

“What?”

“The Frenchies want us to drop napalm canisters outta the Daisy Mae. We can carry ninety fifty-five-gallon drums in our hold and drop them from the cargo ramp. The Frenchies wanna make a big impression on the Viet Minh. Make ‘em think twice. Slow ‘em down.”

“You said no combat, McGoon.”

“I know what I said, but we’re talking a big bonus here. ‘Sides, if we don’t slow down the Viet Minh, this whole thing could be over sooner than we planned and we’re out of a job.”

“You’re saying the Viet Minh could attack the garrison.”

“Damn right they could. And that’s what the Frenchies want, but they need more time to get ready and finish their defenses. We can give them that time. The Frenchies still hold a couple of the key mountain passes along the highway, but they can’t hold them without our help. The Viet Minh will overrun them soon enough, and then it’s a clear shot to Dien Bien Phu. Troops and supplies will flood in and sure as shooting they’ll attack as soon as they have enough to overrun the garrison. Look, you’re gonna get your own plane in a few more days. They’re flying it in from the Philippines on Tuesday. Napalm is tricky stuff, as we both know. I don’t wanna be dropping it with a new co-pilot. I say we do this together or we don’t do it at all.”

“We’re talking napalm, McGoon. You know what that’ll do to the people we drop it on.”

“Yeah. I know. But it’s the Frenchies’ decision. And Coyle, we need to be making as much money as possible before this whole thing blows up in the Frenchies’ faces.”

“That’s a sorry excuse.”

“They’ll try dropping it from the C-47s if we turn ‘em down. And you know someone’s gonna flub it up and die if that happens. Our planes are the safest way.”

“For us, maybe, but what about people that we bomb?”

“They’re damn Commies, Coyle. They made their choice. Ain’t our fault they chose wrong. The Frenchies want us to make three runs at night when the crews are working on the roads. Scout planes will light up the road with firefly flares before we make our runs. If we’re lucky, we might catch some of the Russian trucks on the road.”

“I won’t call it ‘luck,’ McGoon.”

“It’s war, Coyle. We didn’t start it, but we can help end it. If the Frenchies win at Dien Bien Phu, they think they can negotiate a peace agreement with Ho Chi Minh and the Chinese. Then all this killing stops.”

Coyle liked the French, and he didn’t want to see them get hurt or killed, but he didn’t agree with their war on the Vietnamese people. It was colonialism, pure and simple. He was an American that believed in a people’s freedom to choose their own destiny. Plus, the thought of killing anyone with napalm turned his stomach. The images of people burning would continue to fill his dreams. And then there was Brigitte. She was determined to stay and there was nothing he could do about it. He would do what he needed to protect her.

“All right.”

“All right?”

“Yeah. I’ll do it.”

“Great. I’ll tell the captain,” said McGoon, taking a peek under the filter on his cup, “Coffee’s ready. Ya gotta stir in the milk.”

They each pulled off their cup filters and set them aside, then stirred the thick condensed milk in the bottom of their cups into the coffee. McGoon took a sip.

“Oh yeah. Like milk from your momma’s tit.”

“McGoon, ya gotta a colorful way of describin’ things.”

“It’s a talent,” said McGoon with a smile.

 

 

It was late afternoon at Cat Bi airfield outside of Hanoi, and the sun was getting low in the cloudless sky. Coyle and McGoon watched as ground crews with forklifts loaded pallets, each carrying four 55-gallon drums of napalm, into the hold of the Daisy Mae.

“A stray bullet hits just one of those drums and we both become barbeque,” said Coyle.

“Best not to think about it. ‘Sides, I hired a Buddhist monk to give the Daisy Mae a blessing before each mission. We’re gonna be fine,” said McGoon.

 

 

It was still dark with predawn approaching when Giap and his staff rode up a treeless mountainside in the American jeep. After a long and perilous ten-day journey, they had come to the last pass before the valley of Dien Bien Phu. It was by far the most dangerous stretch of road because of its proximity to the French garrison, and the fighters stationed on the airfield. It was only one day since the French battalion of Legionnaires guarding the pass had finally given up their position and retreated back into the valley. Hellcat fighters with rockets from the aircraft carrier Arromanches pounded the pass, cratering the roadway, smashing Russian trucks, and killing porters with bicycles as they waited their turn to enter the narrow pass.

The driver of the jeep pulled to a stop behind a long line of Russian trucks blocking the road. This is a bad spot, Giap thought. No cover and the sun will be coming up soon. And with it, French aircraft. He turned to a nearby commissar walking past the jeep. “What is the holdup?” said Giap.

“The French bombers dropped anti-personnel mines all through the pass and surrounding mountainside. There is no way to continue until the mines are cleared.”

“We must go around.”

“Impossible.”

“Have you radioed the engineers?”

“They’re on their way.”

Giap was the first to hear the thrum of the single engine of a scout plane. He looked up. It was one of the Crickets from the valley’s airfield. Three firefly flares were ejected one after another from the side door of the little plane and ignited as their parachutes opened. The three flares floated down, illuminating the pass and the roadway. Why three? he thought. And then he realized what was about to happen. The flares were marking an approach path, but of what he did not know. “Get out of the jeep,” he told his men. “Everyone out and grab the maps.” Giap grabbed his satchel and an armful of maps. He looked around for cover. There was nothing nearby. He jogged back down the mountainside along the road. His men followed.

 

The Daisy Mae swooped over a mountaintop. McGoon and Coyle sat behind the controls in the cockpit. The mountain pass came into view through the windshield. It was lit up by the flares.

“There it is,” said Coyle.

“Looks like they got themselves a little traffic jam,” said McGoon. “Tell the boys to open the doors and arm the napalm canisters. I wanna drop twelve on our first pass.”

Coyle radioed back to Kim-ly. Kim-ly released the rear door latch, and the heavy door swung open and locked into place on the side of the aircraft. He pushed the first three pallets into position with his assistant loadmaster’s help. Kim-ly armed the fuses of the four drums on each pallet.

“Ya know, there are probably civilians driving those trucks,” said Coyle.

“They ain’t civilians if they’re transporting war supplies,” said McGoon. “Don’t be going soft on me, Coyle. Let’s just get the job done and get our asses back to Hanoi.”

“All right, McGoon. I’m with you.”

“Tell ‘em they can let her rip when we pull up.”

Coyle radioed Kim-ly with the instructions.

“On my mark,” said McGoon. “Mark.”

Coyle and McGoon both pulled back on the yoke’s wheel, and McGoon pushed the throttles forward. The Daisy Mae’s engines strained.

 

Giap saw the Daisy Mae roll in toward the line of trucks and then pull up. He saw a pallet fall out of the tail of the aircraft and four drums fall free, tumbling through the air. “Get down!” he told his men. Giap, his staff, and the driver dove behind a grouping of rocks.

When the canisters hit the ground, the lid on each canister popped open. The magnesium fuse ignited in a bright burst of light. The napalm, a gelatin mixture of gasoline and Styrofoam, burst into flames as it was flung from the tumbling barrels. The flaming gel stuck to whatever it touched and was almost impossible to extinguish. The mountainside erupted in a giant ball of flame, and people screamed in pain and horror. Ten of the trucks were splashed with the gel and caught fire. Dozens of porters with bicycles, troops on the march, and coolies working on the road crew were engulfed. They dropped their loads and rolled on the ground. Their comrades threw tarps and blankets on them. It mattered little. The napalm, deprived of oxygen, would go out, only to reignite once it found air again.

One of the trucks carrying ammunition exploded, killing even more men and women. Giap and his men watched, helpless. Even Hell knew not such fury, thought Giap. The French will pay dearly for this. I swear.

 

Once the Daisy Mae leveled off, Coyle jumped up from his seat and ran back into the cargo hold. “Where the hell are you going?” said McGoon.

Coyle ran to the back of the aircraft and looked out the open cargo doors at the scene below. He saw men and women aflame running helplessly down the road until they dropped, while others were torn to pieces by explosions from the burning trucks. “Shall we arm the next load?” said Kim-ly.

Coyle vomited in response.

 

 

The sun rose in the morning sky, revealing burned-out trucks and blackened artillery guns with melted tires. The aftermath of the napalm attack was shocking. The entire mountainside had burned, and charred bodies lay everywhere. Those that survived were carried to the Viet Minh aid stations. There was little the medical students assigned to care for the porters, coolies, and troops could do with the burn wounds. They quickly ran out of the medical supplies. Skin and clothes were fused together on the victims, and any attempt to separate the two resulted in incredible pain and death from shock. The best they could do was hope the patient died quickly. Some patients begged their comrades to shoot or smother them. It was difficult not to comply.

 

The sun was up, and the engineers understood the need to reopen the road as fast as possible before another French air attack. As the sun rose, the morning fog would burn off and the entire convoy would be exposed, at the mercy of the French fighters and bombers. Viet Minh engineers used Russian mine detectors to find the French mines dropped by the bombers. Once they found a mine, they used long bamboo poles to trigger it. It was dangerous, but triggering the mines was faster than disarming them.

The American butterfly mine used by the French was a copy of the original German mine design used in WWII. Aircraft dropped large canisters, each of which held 90 mines. The four-pound mines deployed their wings after being released from the canister. The wings whirled around, slowing the mine’s descent and arming the mine. It was the first cluster-type munition designed to spread over a large area. It was small but powerful.

The engineers moved with caution as they cleared the road. It was slow work, requiring complete focus. When an engineer with a mine detector found a mine, another engineer would touch the mine with his pole. The mine would explode and trigger other mines in the area. With a little luck, the mine explosions would move away from the engineers and not toward them. There was no way to know if all the mines had exploded. Once things settled down, the engineer with the mine detector would again walk forward, looking for more.

 

Giap and his staff climbed into the jeep they had abandoned and started up the road, moving past the smoldering remains of the Russian trucks and the burned bodies still being cleared from the mountainside. It was a sobering reminder of the terrible cost of war. The jeep was flagged down by the chief of the engineers and pulled to a stop. “General, we cannot guarantee the safety of you and your staff. We have cleared away the mines that we have found, but there is no way to know for certain. Some mines may be below the surface of the soil and could be triggered by the weight of your jeep,” said the chief of engineers.

“We understand the risks, but we must get through. Besides, sitting here waiting has its own risks, as we have seen,” said Giap.

“Yes, sir. Keep to the right of the road and go slow. My engineers will escort you.”

“Thank you, Chief. Good luck.”

The jeep moved forward on the road. The top of the pass was only three hundred yards away, but the soil around it was heavily scarred by explosions and napalm. Four engineers, each holding a shield made of steel, walked alongside the jeep as it inched forward, its four wheels grinding against the dirt as it climbed.

One of the engineers signaled the jeep to stop. He set down his shield and lay down on his stomach. He belly-crawled toward an unexploded mine partially exposed in a dirt berm on the edge of the road. The engineer disarmed the mine with his exposed face just inches away, knowing that if he accidentally triggered the mine he would most likely be decapitated. He gently turned the mine on its side and used the small screwdriver on his knife to remove the three screws on the detonator cap. Drops of sweat fell from his brow as he removed the detonator cap to expose the arming mechanism. He tried to place the end of a twig into a threaded hole on the detonator arm. It didn’t fit. He used the blade on his knife to trim the end of the twig to the correct size. He again placed the end of the twig in the hole and this time it fit. The detonator was temporarily locked in place. It was a quick fix and still very dangerous. He carefully removed the mine from the road and motioned the jeep’s driver to continue. The jeep rolled forward.

 

 

It was still early in the morning when the jeep reached the top of the pass. The sky was grey and the sun was hidden behind a wall of white gauze. Giap could see the valley below covered in a thin mist. It was green and still. On the far end of the valley, he could see the French garrison and airfield still under construction. The earth was torn and scratched where the French had cleared away the vegetation and dug their trenches on the hillsides. The garrison was like cancer in the valley and growing. With luck, we will fight here and win, he thought.

 

The jeep continued down the steep road until it came to a village at the base of the mountain. The morning fog was beginning to burn off. They needed to get off the road and out of sight of the French aircraft. Giap and his men were exhausted and needed to rest. The jeep’s driver was flagged to stop by the local commissar. He told Giap and his staff there was food and tea waiting for them at the house of a Thai family at the edge of a forest. They dismounted the jeep and followed the commissar on foot.

The family that owned the house stood in front bowing as Giap approached. “No, no. It is I that should bow to your hospitality,” said Giap. Giap and his staff sat down at a table on the patio and were served hot tea, rice, and a thick stew made of rabbit and vegetables. It was delicious. After the meal, Giap was escorted to the house’s only bedroom. The wife carried in a large bowl of water and set it at the foot of the bed. She pulled off Giap’s dirty boots and cleaned his feet with a soft cloth. It was such a simple thing, but it made his mind and body relax. He was safe for the moment. Unable to keep his eyes open any longer, Giap lay back and fell asleep on the bed.

 

 

It was late afternoon when Giap finally awoke to the smell of burning tobacco. His eyes opened to see a man sitting on a chair in the corner of the room, smoking a cigarette and staring at him. It was General Thai, his unflappable operational commander and trusted friend.

“How long have you been there?” said Giap.

“Not long. It’s been a long journey. I didn’t want to wake you,” said Thai.

“The French, will they withdraw?”

“I doubt it. The French are still flying in supplies and troops. They are busy building their defenses. If they leave now, even by airlift, we will inflict heavy losses on them as they withdraw.”

“And the size of the garrison?”

“Nine thousand, give or take. Mostly legionaries and colonials, with a couple of battalions of paratroopers.”

“And our men?”

“The 320th is in position and the 312th is just arriving now. They will need to rest. In all, we have about forty thousand soldiers and thirty thousand support personnel. It’s going to be one hell of a battle.”

“If the French stay. I’ve been thinking about reminding them of why they came in the first place.”

“An attack on Laos?”

“Seven battalions should be enough. Can we afford that many?”

“As long as they return before the final battle, yes. It will do them good to stretch their legs.”

“Make it so.”

General Thai nodded and continued his report, “There is something strange about the French this time. So far, they are only building field combat entrenchments. Some sides of their defenses remain open to attack by mortar and artillery.”

“Their commander, Colonel De Castries, is not experienced at building fortified positions. As a cavalry officer, it is his nature to always think about an offensive position that allows his men to get at the enemy quickly, never defensive,” said Giap. “They still don’t believe we can transport our artillery through the mountains and are not threatened.”

“That is a mistake.”

“And an opportunity.”

“When you are ready, I will take you to your front command base so you can meet with your field commanders.”

“I am ready.”

“Very well, but you might want to put on your boots first.”

Giap glanced around the sparsely decorated bedroom.

“Where are my boots?”

The woman appeared in the bedroom doorway, holding his freshly cleaned and polished boots. She was proud that the great General Giap had slept in her house.

“The commander must look good for his men,” said General Thai with a smile.

 

 

The jeep carried Giap, Thai, and the staff through a mountainous area covered by forest, streams, and waterfalls. It reminded Giap of Quang Uyen in Cao Bang Province, a place he and his family had often visited in his youth.

The driver stopped the jeep at the head of a trail on Thai’s command. The group continued on foot and crossed a wide stream on a bridge made of huge logs lashed together with vines.

 

The forward command base was set at the bottom of a waterfall. Some of his staff had arrived a few weeks before and were busy preparing maps and models of the valley and the French positions. They were excited to see their commander and wanted everything to be ready for his review. They wanted to attack as soon as practical and didn’t want to waste General Giap’s time.

Giap and his staff were greeted by the field commanders and political commissars. Several Chinese advisors were also there and offered their opinions on the best way to fight a modern Western army. The Chinese advisors were, of course, also spies, and would report back to their superiors in Beijing on the Viet Minh’s adherence to Mao’s philosophy and directives. The Chinese knew that the Viet Minh were using them to win their war of independence. What they didn’t know was what the Viet Minh leaders would do once the war was won. The Chinese would do whatever was required to ensure a friendly Communist neighbor on their southern border. Like an older, more experienced brother, the Chinese were patient with the Viet Minh leaders, but only to a point, and would threaten to reduce aid if things did not go their way.

A detailed model of the valley sat on a table beneath a camouflage net. Giap and his staff gathered around and studied the French positions as they listened to the commanders, commissars, and advisors offering their opinions on the best strategy to defeat the French. The overwhelming opinion was that the Viet Minh forces should ‘strike fast and win fast’ before the French were able to consolidate their position and add more troops from other highland garrisons. His officers were worried that if the conflict went beyond a few weeks, the French would bring up reinforcements and use their aircraft to cut off the Viet Minh supply lines. It was a valid concern. The Viet Minh rarely fought battles beyond a few days and were inexperienced at the logistics required to keep such a large force in the field for an extended period. General Thai agreed with the field commanders and commissars and thought they should strike at the soonest possible moment.

Giap took it all into consideration before announcing his decision. While a fast victory was certainly preferable, Giap knew the price his men would pay if they attacked the French before they were ready, as they had at Na San. He wanted his artillery and anti-aircraft in place before such an attack. He wanted to isolate the French and cut off their supplies and reinforcements. He wanted to wear down the French defenses until they could be overrun without heavy losses. He wanted to destroy the French airfield and to use his anti-aircraft guns to destroy the French aircraft that attacked his men.

His field commanders wanted to get at the French and grew impatient. He, too, wanted to fight the French, but on his terms. He set offensive operations to begin in late January, well before the beginning of the rainy season. In the meantime, his men would attack Laos in hopes of drawing the French into a battle that would reduce their numbers. His hope was to keep the French engaged and believing the airfield and garrison at Dien Bien Phu were critical to saving Laos from a full-on invasion. He would use the lives of his men to buy the time he needed and keep the French in place.

General Giap’s plan was not popular, but it was respected. His commanders had fought for their general before, and they knew he was their best hope for victory. Giap was a brilliant strategist, and his commanders were professionals and carried out his orders to the letter, no matter the cost. The political commissars would not challenge Giap’s plan. They knew better than to go against Ho Chi Minh’s favorite general if they wanted to continue in their positions.

The Chinese advisors listened and watched. They studied the different commanders and their popularity with the other leaders. Defeat, while costly, was not always the least desirable option when pursuing a covert agenda. If the Viet Minh were facing imminent annihilation because of their missteps, and the Chinese were forced to intervene, it would forever bind Vietnam to China, as it had with North Korea.

 

 

It was morning and humid. Clouds rimmed the top of the dark mountains. Lieutenant Paul Brunbrouck looked sick when he climbed down the side of the hill called “Dominique.” He wasn’t sick; that’s just the way he always looked, with his sunken eyes and pale complexion. He was 27 and mostly kept to himself. He spent his spare time reading military history. He loved studying the famous battles and the tactics used by the great generals like Rommel and Patton, with their tank battles in North Africa, Lee and McClellan during the Seven Days Battles, and Napoleon and Wellington at Waterloo.

His artillery battery was being repositioned for the third time since he and his men, mostly West African colonials from Morocco and Tunisia, had arrived in the valley. He could see the issue right away when he arrived at the bottom of the hill. There was a six-foot-deep gully carved into the meadow that divided the two strongpoints of Dominique and Elaine. It was perfect cover for a Viet Minh assault force. The artillery stationed on the two hilltops were howitzers, and could not effectively fire down into the gully. He wondered about the wisdom of placing an artillery battery at the bottom of the hill until the morning mist cleared when he saw a flat plane of rice fields directly in front of the two hills. His guns could fire on them freely and destroy any troops massing for an attack on either of the hills. It was like he could see the battle unfolding before his eyes. His position would be protected on both flanks by the two hills. There was a river behind his position that protected his rear, and a Baily Bridge across the river that gave him and his men an escape route if their position was overrun. Smart, he thought.

The first order of business was gun placement. Once he knew the location of the guns, his men could build up the defenses around them. He was assigned a rifle company to take up positions on his flanks and protect his guns from ground attacks. It’s good ground, he thought and went to work.

 

 

It was raining hard on the day De Castries inspected the field hospital. The hospital was dug below ground to protect the patients from enemy shelling and gunfire. The clay walls insulated the hospital from the heat and kept the patients cool. Sandbags around the hospital entrance kept most of the rain out, but there was always some water that trickled in, making the tunnels muddy and damp. A clay ramp at the entrance was built to help medical assistants carry the wounded on stretchers down into the hospital tunnels. The tunnels and rooms were carved in the clay and reinforced with ceiling beams, and the walls were lined with scavenged wood from parachute pallets.

The hospital had a large triage room to examine and prep the incoming patients. There were medical supply closets, a small nursing station, and exam rooms. The operating theatres had their walls covered with clean bed sheets over rattan mats to give visitors and patients the appearance of cleanliness, but it was far from a sterile environment, and secondary infections were common. There was an x-ray machine in one of the theatres that would dim the lights in the entire garrison when switched on.

There were dozens of patient rooms, three-foot by six-foot cells carved into the tunnel walls, which gave the place the look of a crypt. Patients’ were covered with flat sheets from head to toe. The sheets cut down on the smell, and kept bugs and worms from falling into the patients’ mouths, nostrils and wounds from the ceiling of the cell.

Flies constantly pestered the patients, but maggots were welcome because they cleaned the patients’ wounds of rotting flesh and infection. There were ventilation shafts built throughout the facility, but without a strong breeze, they offered little relief. The smell was well beyond pungent and left the uninitiated weak in the knees.

De Castries and his assistant Paule were escorted through the facility by Major Grauwin. Paule took notes whenever instructed by De Castries. She covered her nose and mouth with the handkerchief offered by De Castries when they entered the tunnel complex and caught wind of the smell. It was all she could do to keep from gagging.

“And your medical supplies?” said De Castries.

“We only keep seven days of supplies on hand, but we are resupplied daily by air,” said Major Grauwin.

“Seven days hardly seems adequate.”

“I agree, especially if there is heavy fighting. However, many of the medicines and our blood supply must be kept cool and we only have one portable refrigeration unit.”

“Paule, see to it that another refrigeration unit is ordered, and double the hospital’s supplies,” said De Castries.

“Thank you, Colonel,” said Major Grauwin.

“Do not thank me, Major. It is for the men. They deserve the best care we can offer if they are wounded in the service of their country.”

“Of course.”

“What is your current capacity?”

“We have forty beds available, which is adequate under our current load and with daily air evacuations.”

“Paule, have the engineers increase the size of the facility to two hundred fifty beds and an additional operating theatre.”

“You expect that number of casualties?” said Major Grauwin with concern.

“I expect the unexpected. If we get into a scrape, you could quickly be overwhelmed. We must be prepared.”

The tour continued down a side tunnel of patient rooms. A little stream of water ran down the tunnel, making the clay floor muddy and slippery. In one of the coffin-sized cells lay Guinevere, curled up and asleep.

“She sleeps here?” asked De Castries, quietly.

“When she sleeps. She is the only real nurse we have. She works tirelessly until she is too exhausted to stand. Even then I have to order her to lie down and rest.”

“Paule, see to it that the engineers build Nurse Guinevere proper quarters… and for the major, too.”

“Thank you, Colonel.”

“You must take care of yourself and your staff, Major. If all goes well, I believe we are in for a long and bloody battle.”

 

 

It was dark, and rain was coming down in sheets. A convoy of Russian trucks twisted its way through the mountains, staying beneath the forest canopy whenever possible. The trucks had metal shields over their headlights, which were turned off when they were warned of French patrol planes passing overhead. In addition to a load of supplies carried in the truck’s bed, each truck towed an anti-aircraft gun, artillery gun, or ammunition trailer. The heavy load made for slow going, especially around tight curves, where the wheels of their towed load barely fit on the road.

 

The first anti-aircraft gun arrived in the valley of Dien Bien Phu and was unhitched from its truck. The artillery commander did not want to risk exposure of the weapon to French mortars and bombers that might spot the truck driving through the valley. Porters and gun crews wheeled the gun by brute force down a three-mile-long trail to a hidden artillery depot, where each gun was checked for damage and proper operation. Once cleared, each gun was assigned a fighting position overlooking the airfield or strongpoints in the garrison.

 

 

It was late afternoon. The sky was cloudy and growing darker by the minute. It would rain soon. A captain entered the field command post and snapped to attention upon seeing General Giap and General Thai discussing potential gun positions on the model of the valley and the surrounding mountains.

“What is it, Captain?” said General Thai.

“Our scouts have spotted multiple fires around the airfield,” said the Captain.

“Fires? What are the French burning?” said General Thai.

“We don’t know, general. The smoke is shielding our view.”

“They could be preparing to pull out, as they did in Na San. Burning their supplies to keep us from using them once they leave,” said General Giap.

“Or they could just be clearing their fields of fire,” said General Thai. “Have your best scout get a closer look, Captain. We want to know what they are burning and why.”

“Yes, sir,” said the captain. He saluted and the left. General Thai saw the strain on Giap’s face.

“You are worried the French will leave before offering battle?” said Thai.

“We sacrificed so much to get this far. It would all be a waste,” said Giap.

“I doubt French pride will let them leave. They, too, have sacrificed,” said General Thai.

“Let’s hope you are right, General,” said General Giap.

 

 

The sun was setting and rain clouds were moving in with the promise of relief from the heat of the day. After a hard week, Brunbrouck’s defenses were almost complete. His artillery was in place. The howitzers formed a shallow V, with one gun in the bottom of the gully and the others spread out on the meadow’s low slopes leading to the base of the two hills. Each gun was surrounded by a wall of dirt and two-layers of sandbags, with a U-shaped portal in front. This was unusual for a howitzer battery, which was normally positioned several yards back from the blast wall. Fifteen meters in front of his firing position was a line of triple concertina wire and a thick layer of mines.

The rifle company assigned to his position had a 30-cal machine gun stationed to the side, which gave it a clear firing lane of the strip of land between his guns and the wire. In addition, each of the two hillside strongpoints had quad-50s that could support his position in case of attack. The “Meat Grinders” were a powerful deterrent against any enemy assault.

Brunbrouck called over the sergeant in charge of the battery’s construction. “Sergeant, I want you to take some of the empty shell crates and fill them with dirt, then place them upright ten meters in front of each gun,” said Brunbrouck.

“Sir?” said the sergeant.

“Three for each gun should do the trick. Space them five meters apart from each other in a line perpendicular to the guns,” said Brunbrouck, offering no further explanation. “Oh, and Sergeant, make sure the men give their infantry weapons a good cleaning and keep them close at hand.”

“Yes, sir.”

As always, the sergeant followed his orders to the letter, even though he didn’t understand their purpose. Brunbrouck was satisfied with the results and felt ready for the battle he knew would come. He would let his men rest. They will need it, he thought.

 

 

Sixty-five foreign Legionnaires filed out of the Daisy Mae’s cargo doors at the Dien Bien Phu airfield. Coyle stood at the doorway and saw Brigitte and Bruno at the edge of the airfield. Bruno was wearing his rucksack. He was leaving with his battalion of paratroopers. Brigitte was saying good-bye. “I am going to miss you, Little Bruno,” said Brigitte.

“You know, I have never been fond of the ‘Little’ part of my nickname,” said Bruno.

“Yes, but I am,” said Brigitte.

“Then I guess I keep it. You will be careful?”

“Yes, if possible. And you?”

“Yes… if possible.”

She kissed him twice on the cheeks and he walked over to lead his men on board the waiting aircraft. He walked up the ramp and past Coyle.

“Heading to Hanoi for some R&R?” said Coyle.

“Yes, until our next assignment. And you?”

“Guess I’ll just have to keep coming back here. Don’t worry, Little Bruno. I’ll make sure she’s okay.”

“Do American always gloat this much?”

“Only when we win.”

“I do not think you have won,” said Bruno.

“Yet,” said Coyle.

Bruno boarded the plane. Coyle waved to Brigitte and closed the cargo doors.

 

 

 

Laos

 

It was the morning of Christmas Eve. The fog lifted early and the sky was clear and blue. A group of German Legionnaires decorated a huge skeletal tree outside Lieutenant Colonel De Castries’s command post using paper garlands painted with mercurochrome, vehicle lights, and bits of multicolored parachute cloth. They sang traditional German Christmas carols and smoked cigars given to them by the commander.

The Moroccan and Algerian Legionnaires made a meshwi feast with several spit-roasted lambs purchased from a nearby village, dressed by their company cooks with seasonings from their home country. Several pots of couscous were cooked on the portable stove, along with harissa sauce and gallons of mint tea. They were mostly Muslim and did not believe in the Christian traditions, but they never missed an opportunity to celebrate any holiday. It was a welcome break from the monotony of digging trenches and building blockhouses.

The Vietnamese Legionnaires had grown accustomed to the French celebration near the end of each year. They welcomed servings of pork, sticky rice, noodles, and their infamous nuoc mam, fermented fish sauce. And then there was the beer. As much as they could drink that one night unless they had guard duty. It was a gift from their commanders to show their gratitude for their service in the French army, and a time to enjoy the friendship of their comrades in arms.

The more the men celebrated, the more they remembered their homes and families far away, and the more melancholia they felt. Holidays were never easy for soldiers under the French flag but were always celebrated and traditions maintained, no matter where they were.

The hospital was also decorated with strings of paper snowflakes and Christmas trees down each of the tunnels. Guinevere was tending to an Algerian Legionnaire that had had part of his foot blown off by a Viet Minh mine hidden in a rice paddy he was patrolling. Major Grauwin entered the exam room. “When you are finished, Guinevere, I’d like to see you,” said Grauwin.

“I’m just wrapping up, Doctor. I’ll be right there.”

 

Guinevere followed Grauwin out the entrance to the hospital and over to a set of steps that led down into a small bunker with several rooms. Grauwin opened the curtain on the doorway of one of the rooms. The bedroom walls and ceiling were covered with silk parachutes, and the floor was covered with rattan mats. There was a portable cot with clean sheets, a blanket, and even a pillow. A mirror and hairbrush, along with a small water basin with a pitcher, sat on two empty ammunition cases in the corner.

“Your new room, Guinevere,” said Grauwin.

“I don’t know what to say,” said Guinevere, tearing up. “It’s beautiful.”

 

 

The Daisy Mae touched down on Dien Bien Phu airfield and taxied to the edge of the tarmac. The cargo doors opened, revealing General Navarre and dozens of pallets filled with boxes of wine, frozen beef roasts, blocks of cheese, and crates of fresh vegetables. There were even boxes of gateaux, baked and decorated with chocolate in the Hanoi bakeries that morning. It was Christmas Eve.

The chess player Navarre was more sophisticated than Montgomery or Patton, but he still understood the need to win his men’s hearts, and that one of the best ways to do that was through their stomachs. Navarre was greeted by Generals Cogny and Gilles, who had flown in earlier from Hanoi, along with Colonels De Castries and Langlais. “You bring gifts,” said Cogny.

“Always,” said Navarre. “No man should go without a respectable meal on Christmas, especially a Frenchman.”

“I am sure the men will agree,” said Cogny.

“And how are our men?” said Navarre to De Castries.

“Full of good cheer and anxious to celebrate with their commander and chief,” said De Castries.

“Of course, they know he always brings good wine,” said Langlais.

“And champagne,” said Navarre.

 

The commanders moved off as the airfield’s ground crew unloaded the bounty. Coyle, a bottle of brandy in his hand, and McGoon stepped down from the crew door just under the left side of the cockpit. “One thing about working for the Frenchies during the holidays, you can always count on a good meal and lots of wine,” said McGoon.

“Save me a plate, will ya?” said Coyle.

“Where are you going?”

“To spread good cheer,” said Coyle. “It’s Christmas.”

Coyle walked toward the hillside where Brigitte was living. “Bet he’s gonna spread a lot more than good cheer,” said McGoon to himself.

 

 

Coyle reached the top of the hillside and entered what was left of the governor’s mansion. He saw Brigitte wearing a freshly ironed jumpsuit and using a cracked mirror to put on makeup. Coyle knocked before entering the room. “Are you decent?” said Coyle.

“That is a matter of opinion, but I am dressed,” said Brigitte. “Please come in.”

Coyle entered. She put down her makeup, walked over, and kissed him on both cheeks. “Joyeux Noël, Monsieur Coyle.”

Coyle handed her the bottle of brandy. “Merry Christmas, Mademoiselle Friang.”

“We should drink, yes?”

“Yes.”

“If you do not mind?” said Brigitte handing the bottle back to Coyle to open.

She went back to putting on her makeup and brushing her hair. Coyle opened the bottle.

“Glasses?” said Coyle.

“No glasses. We drink like French peasants.”

Coyle handed her the bottle. She took a drink straight from the bottle and handed it back to Coyle. He took a long pull from the bottle.

“You look very nice,” said Coyle.

“Thank you. I have been invited to join Colonel Gaucher and the men of the Foreign Legionnaires of the 13th Demi-Brigade.”

“Oh, I thought maybe we could… Ah, nevermind,” said Coyle. “I should have phoned.”

Brigitte laughed. “You should join me. But I must warn you, Colonel Gaucher is a hard drinker.”

“That’s nice of you, but I told McGoon I’d join him for drinks. I gotta keep him sober, you know, for the flight back.”

“Ah, McGoon. A hillbilly Christmas?”

“I suppose.”

“Will I see you before you go back to Hanoi?”

“If you want.”

“Of course. We are friends, yes?”

“Yeah. Friends,” said Coyle, confused and frustrated. “I hope you enjoy the brandy,” said Coyle.

“I will if I keep it away from the colonel and his men.”

“I’ll let you finish getting ready. Merry Christmas, Brigitte.”

“Merry Christmas, Tom.”

She again kissed him on both cheeks. He could smell her perfume. It was subtle, unlike the woman that wore it. He left.

 

 

A company quartermaster and his supply sergeants set up a huge tent next to the command post. He had requested the tent from the regional supply depot in Hanoi but was surprised when it actually showed up on one of the C-119 loads. Empty ammunition crates were stacked and used as tables, complete with white bed sheets that were borrowed from the field hospital and used as tablecloths. The French would celebrate in style no matter how imprudent it seemed. Their commanders knew the importance of tradition and did everything possible to boost morale.

It was Continental tradition to celebrate on Christmas Eve rather than Christmas Day. Colonel De Castries was honored to host a feast for his commander and chief. The cooks in his command mess dugout were only too happy to use the food and wine Navarre had brought with him to make a meal worthy of the holiday. Two dozen bottles of champagne were put on ice made in the garrison’s mobile refrigerator.

The interior of the tent was decorated with several strings of small light bulbs and white candles on six silver-plated candelabras flown in from Saigon. A pastry table with several gateaux and other pastries was set up at one end of the tent. Dinner was served on real plates with real silverware rented from a Hanoi hotel. There were cold cuts, roast beef with sautéed potatoes and gravy, fresh carrots in honey, long beans sliced French-style at an angle and, of course, wine, brandy, and champagne for the many toasts that night. It wasn’t France, but it was as close as they could make it, rustic but charming.

De Castries’ assistant, Paule, somehow had managed to put on makeup, high heels, a cocktail dress and a string of pearls. Later in the evening, after one too many glasses of champagne, and the air thick with blue smoke from cigarettes, she would sing French Christmas carols slightly out of tune. The men didn’t care. She was a welcome distraction from the mundane work of building the garrison and patrolling the perimeter.

Navarre sat at a table with his field commanders and executive officers, enjoying the evening and sharing his best wine. He would open each bottle of wine with an explanation of its origin and vintage. They told stories of Christmases past in foreign countries with strange traditions. As usual, the conversation shifted to individual experiences in the battles they had fought. The telling of war stories was a warrior’s therapy and memorialized their fallen friends and the sacrifices made to achieve victory.

The aroma in the tent was a sharp mix of cheese, unwashed uniforms, brandy, herbs de Provence, wet leather boots, chocolate ganache, body odor, and sautéed butter. Which combination of smells filled the nostrils depended on where one was standing at the moment. Fortunately, the cigarette and cigar smoke combined with liberal amounts of alcohol made it all somewhat bearable.

 

After dinner was served and the men were appreciating the brandy and cigars, General Navarre stood and lightly tapped his brandy glass with a spoon, seizing the room’s attention and silence. “Gentlemen and Lady, I do not wish to interrupt your celebration, but I would like to make a short presentation,” said Navarre. “Colonel De Castries, if you would stand?”

De Castries rose. Navarre’s assistant, Captain Pouget, handed him two boxes, one small and the other large. He opened the large box to reveal a general’s kepi, with its ornate golden stitching around the crown, flat top, and polished visor. He opened the small box to reveal the two general’s insignia, each with two stars, to be worn on the shoulders. “The general staff of the Army of France has deemed you qualified and worthy of promotion to General de Brigade,” said Navarre. “Congratulations, General Christian De Castries.”

The room burst into applause as General Navarre handed De Castries his symbols of rank. Paule began singing “Le Marche,” and her voice was quickly drowned out by the entire tent of men singing. As was tradition, General Cogny was about to make a toast when the major in charge of the garrison’s communications walked briskly into the tent and searched the occupants. He spotted General Navarre and rushed over to his table.

“General, I am sorry to interrupt, but this message just came in. It was coded ‘urgent,’” said the major as he handed Navarre the typed message.

Navarre expression turned grim as he read in silence. The field commanders and executive officers waited to hear the news. “Gentlemen, it seems several of our garrisons near the border have been overrun, and the Viet Minh have invaded Laos,” said Navarre in a low and controlled voice.

“My god,” said Cogny. “How far did they get?”

“Two Viet Minh battalions joined forces with the Pathet Lao and captured the city of Thakhek on the upper Mekong River. Our intelligence estimates that another five battalions are just two days’ march from Luang Prabang,” said Navarre. “We must act quickly if Laos is to be saved.”

“Major Bigeard and the 6th Colonial are in Hanoi,” said General Gilles. “They should be deployed immediately to reinforce Luang Prabang.”

“I agree,” said Cogny. “The Viet Minh are far from their bases. We should use all our scout planes in the area to find their supply routes, then attack with our fighter-bombers to disrupt their supply chain. They cannot continue their attack if they lack ammunition and food.”

“Good,” said Navarre. “We should move our conversations to the garrison’s command post. There is no need to interrupt the men’s celebration until we have solidified our plans.”

 

On a nearby mountainside, under the safety of the forest canopy, the Viet Minh watched and listened to the French celebrate. The French took so much but shared so little with the people. Soon, the Viet Minh would no longer need to watch from a distance but would enjoy the fruits of their country when the French were driven from their land.

 

 

It was dark and raining. A Viet Minh lieutenant walked through a reinforced passage lit by oil lamps. He approached the end of the passage, where a dozen coolies with picks and shovels stood waiting with their commissar. In the wall in front of him was a small hole. It was the end of the tunnel, and the coolies had punched through the wall of dirt and rock to the outside mountain slope facing the valley. The lieutenant took a quick look through the hole. He could see a firefly flare parachuting down from a passing aircraft. The lieutenant picked up a shovel and ordered the commissar to extinguish all the lamps. The tunnel went black. The lieutenant used the shovel to carefully widen the opening until it was large enough to walk through. He stepped out of the tunnel and looked through the trees on the mountain slope. He could clearly see the airfield and the garrison below illuminated by the flare. He smiled knowingly.

The lieutenant congratulated the commissar and his men. He ordered the commissar to finish the opening, compact the dirt on the floor near the opening, and reinforce the tunnel’s ceiling and walls with heavy timber. The commissar and his men were to use camouflage from the surrounding foliage to keep the opening hidden while they worked.

 

A gun crew of five, along with six porters, used ropes to pull a mountain howitzer through the tunnel. They reached the end of the tunnel, now an encasement made of timber and a concrete slab large enough to hold the base of the gun. They wheeled the gun into place and aligned the barrel toward the airfield. A dozen coolies used wooden sleds to haul cases of shells into a reinforced room carved in the side of the tunnel near the encasement. The shells were unloaded and stacked vertically on wooden pallets to keep them dry during the rains. The squad leader reported to the lieutenant that the gun’s hidden fighting position was now ready and waiting. It was the first of many.

 

 

It was early morning. Coyle sat on a stack of ammunition cases drinking his morning coffee. In between sips, he whittled the finishing touches on an alligator-shaped whistle. Brigitte, with her rucksack on her back, walked on to the airfield. “Scuttlebutt said you might be heading this way,” said Coyle.

“Yes. I follow the 6th Colonial to Laos,” said Brigitte.

“Bruno’s battalion?”

“Yes. He and his men are flying in from Hanoi.”

“He didn’t get much of a rest.”

“No. He rarely does. But he likes to fight. It’s in his blood.”

“How long are you gonna be gone?”

“I am not sure. A week, maybe two.”

“Not enough action around here?”

“It’s a story that should be told.”

“And you must tell it?”

“I am here and it is my job.”