“I am beginning to see that.”

“Who is that little monster for?” said Brigitte motioning to the whistle.

“You,” said Coyle handing her the alligator whistle. “Give you something to do when you’re not writing.”

“I think I will have little time but thank you.”

“Do you know how to whistle?”

She pursed her lips and blew the whistle, producing an ungodly shrill.

“Takes a bit of practice,” said Coyle. “You’ll get the hang of it.”

Brigitte saw a pilot waiting by his scout plane. “I have to leave, Coyle.”

“Stay safe, Brigitte.”

She kissed him twice on the cheeks and boarded the plane. Coyle watched as the little plane took off and disappeared over the mountains.

 

 

Medics and nurses loaded the last of the wounded into the Daisy Mae. Coyle climbed aboard and sat down in the co-pilot’s chair. McGoon was already going through the pre-flight check.

“Couldn’t talk her out of it, huh?” said McGoon.

“I didn’t try.”

“Why not? She might have stayed if ya had.”

“It wasn’t my place. Let’s go.”

“A please won’t kill ya.”

“Right now it just might.”

“Lord O’Mighty. Looks like someone got whupped with the ornery-stick this morning,” said McGoon as he flipped the switch to feed fuel to the engines.

 

 

Having flown in the scout plane from Dien Bien Phu, Brigitte waited at the airfield in Luang Prabang. The Royal Lao Army numbered 15,000 but was lightly armed and poorly trained. The Laotian commanders had formed a defensive perimeter around the airfield, their only lifeline with the French, in hopes of staving off an attack until the French paratroopers arrived. All eyes were focused on the surrounding mountains and the sky. Except for the digging of combat trenches, it was quiet and still.

Brigitte wondered about the wisdom of arriving before the French forces. She could see the fear in the Laotian troops. If their position was overrun by the Viet Minh, there was little hope that she could escape. The silence was broken by the sound of aircraft engines. Nine C-47s and two C-119s, including the Daisy Mae, appeared over the mountaintop. The French had arrived. Brigitte’s eyes teared up. She was proud of her countrymen and grateful.

The planes landed one after another on the airfield. Bruno and his men stepped from the aircraft. He ordered his men to immediately take up positions between the Laotian troops on the perimeter.

 

Coyle watched from the cockpit of the Daisy Mae as Brigitte ran up and gave Bruno a big hug.

 

“You shouldn’t have come, Brigitte. There will be a fight here,” said Bruno.

“Why else would I come if not to report on another French victory?” said Brigitte.

“Let’s hope so. But you should fly back to Hanoi with the Americans. It’s not safe here.”

“You know I won’t do that. My job is here with the French.”

“We will not be staying long.”

“Oh?” said Brigitte.

“I do not plan on waiting for the Viet Minh to attack. We will take the battle to them.”

“May I go with you?”

“No, Brigitte. Not this time.”

“Bruno, please. I am safer with you and your men.”

Bruno thought for a moment then nodded in agreement.

 

 

A morning mist hung over the mountains. A caravan of porters carrying baskets of supplies on their backs and bundles slung between two-man bamboo poles climbed up a mountain trail only a few feet wide, the trail flanked by elephant grass and the occasional tree. The main Viet Minh force was moving quickly to reach its objectives in Laos. The porters had little choice but to continue their march during daylight if they were to keep their troops resupplied with food and ammunition. The mist was burning off and soon they would be exposed to the French scout planes they knew were hunting for them. They needed to find cover, fix a meal, and sleep. But every mile they marched that morning brought them closer to their comrades and their purpose. They could bear the risk a little longer, or so the commissar leading the caravan thought.

 

The squadron of single-engine Bearcat fighters from Dien Bien Phu was returning from an attack on the main force of Viet Minh near the royal capital of Luang Prabang when they spotted the caravan below the thinning mist. The rocket and bomb rails under their wings were empty and their fuel was dangerously low, but they still had ammunition in each aircraft’s four Browning M2 machine guns, two in each wing. They swooped down and opened fire.

Porters dropped their loads and ran for cover in the elephant grass. It gave little protection from the rain of .50-cal bullets. Dozens of porters were torn to bits by the huge bullets meant to takedown other aircraft. A stray bullet found an ammunition box abandoned on the ground and ignited one of the grenades inside. The box exploded, killing several porters hiding under the canopy of a nearby tree. Bullets ripped into sacks of rice, spilling the precious contents on the ground.

The French aircraft did not have the fuel for a second run at the caravan, but one was enough to inflict death and terror on the porters. There would be no more marching that day. The Bearcats headed for home.

 

 

It was early morning when a Viet Minh advanced scout walked into a large meadow on a slope covered in mist. He found a small mountain spring feeding a gentle stream near the center of the meadow. It was quiet and still except for a slight breeze floating over the elephant grass. There was a dense forest on the far side of the meadow that would provide his comrades with good cover from the French aircraft patrolling the area. His battalion needed to eat and sleep after their long night march. This was a good resting place, with fresh running water.

He walked across the meadow and into the forest. It was silent and still. He did not see the French paratroopers hiding behind the trees, or their machine gun squads hidden under camouflaged nets in hastily dug foxholes and behind fallen logs. They would leave the scout unharmed if he did not raise an alarm.

Brigitte, squatting next to Bruno behind a broken and rotting tree trunk, watched silently as the scout left the forest back the way he came. There was no question now. There was going to be a fight, and many would die on both sides. She wanted to be here and tell the story of what was about to happen, but she didn’t want to die or be captured, either. Her mouth was dry with fear and felt full of cotton. She tried to swallow what little saliva she could muster, but it was no help. She didn’t dare reach for the canteen in her rucksack.

 

It was another hour before the Viet Minh scout returned at the head of the battalion. A line of Viet Minh skirmishers walked across the meadow and edge of the woods, checking for enemy troops, mines and booby-traps, while the rest of the battalion waited on the trail covered by a few trees and flanked with elephant grass. They were exhausted and impatient after the long march. It would be another hour before they could eat as the cooks still had to set up their gear, cook the rice, and prepare the evening meal. After they ate, they would sleep for four hours and then march again for another eight hours during the night.

The first skirmisher entered the forest on the far side of the meadow where Bruno and his men were hidden. He looked around at the fallen trees and ferns that covered the ground and the trees that towered above. It was still and quiet. Strange. No birds calling, he thought. He didn’t give it much more than a thought; he was hungry and tired, too. He moved back out of the forest and reported to his sergeant. Convinced the meadow and forest were clear, the skirmishers waved the battalion into the meadow and towards the forest on the far-side.

The French paratroopers had placed their machine guns in the shape of an L, with the shortest line across the edge of the woods where Bruno and Brigitte were hidden. The Viet Minh battalion crossed the meadow unaware. Some of the troops stopped for a drink from the stream. Other continued toward the woods.

Bruno needed all the Viet Minh to come farther into the meadow before his men attacked, or he would risk a counterattack when the survivors regrouped. Brigitte reached out and grabbed a broken stub of a branch on the fallen tree to steady herself on the soggy and uneven ground. The branch broke with a snap. Bruno’s eyes filled with anger. Brigitte knew her little mishap could endanger the mission, but now was not the time for an apology.

The skirmisher that had entered the forest heard the snap and turned back to the woods.

Bruno pushed Brigitte down behind the log and motioned for her to be silent. He gently unsnapped the button on the strap that held his knife.

The skirmisher walked into the forest again and looked around. He walked over to where he thought he’d heard the noise and looked around. He was standing on the opposite side of the fallen tree and right above Bruno and Brigitte. If he looked down, he would see them. He didn’t leave as Bruno had hoped. Instead, he just stood there watching the forest. Bruno reached down and picked up a small rock and cradled it in his index finger. He flicked it with his thumb and it landed five feet away next to a fern. Bruno waited until the skirmisher turned. Brigitte watched wide-eyed as Bruno rose, unsheathed his knife, and plunged the blade into the skirmisher’s temple, killing him instantly and squirting blood onto Brigitte. Bruno helped the dead skirmisher collapse into the ferns so there was little sound beyond a rustle. Brigitte looked down at the splatter of blood across her breasts and wanted to scream. Bruno saw her and put his blood-soaked hand over her mouth to muffle the sound. Brigitte was terrified but kept quiet.

 

The rest of the Viet Minh entered the meadow and walked toward the forest on the far side where the skirmishers were waiting. The French continued to stay hidden and silent until a Viet Minh soldier moved behind a tree to urinate. What he found on the opposite side of the tree was a French paratrooper with his submachine gun leveled at the soldier’s chest. A short burst killed the surprised soldier instantly. Bruno’s paratroopers on the edge of the forest opened fire and quickly dispatched the Viet Minh that had entered the trees, while the machine guns tore into the Viet Minh in the meadow.

Bruno released Brigitte and told her to stay low and out of the crossfire. The mountain stream ran red. French mortar squads fired on the Viet Minh troops still coming down the trail. Sandwiched between the machine guns and mortars, the confused Viet Minh troops ran down the meadow slope toward another tree line looking for cover. Instead, they found the long leg of the “L,” with more French machine gun positions and paratroopers firing into them with their submachines guns and throwing grenades. Disorganized and confused, the Viet Minh fled back up the mountain slope and into the safety of the tall elephant grass. The French rose from their hidden positions and fired as they walked in a staggered line. The French paratroopers, who were so often outnumbered and outgunned when they fought, knew they must continue to slaughter the fleeing Viet Minh or they could overrun the French once they regrouped. War was sometimes just simple math that the paratroopers knew all too well. The carnage continued until the French ran out of targets. The Viet Minh battalion had taken such a heavy toll in dead and wounded, they ceased to be an effective fighting unit and disappeared into the mountains. Their spirit was broken. The paratroopers had carried the day and the meadow was once again quiet. It was a massacre.

 

Brigitte, her face, and chest streaked with Viet Minh blood walked out of the forest. She knew Bruno had killed men. She had watched him do it but from afar. This time she saw his expression as he took another human’s life. He had no fear and no remorse once the deed was done. The Little Bruno she had loved, and perhaps still loved, was a killing machine. She looked out over the battlefield at the dead which were almost all young Viet Minh men. Where is the glory in this? she thought. Whatever innocence remained in Brigitte left at that moment. Her eyes teared up at the loss.

She saw Bruno and his men returning from their hunt. The paratroopers were in high spirits, joking and laughing as they walked across the meadow. Brigitte looked at Bruno and their eyes met. He could see that she was emotional. He felt ashamed, even though he understood the necessity of what he and his men had done. He knew she understood, too, but she couldn’t hide her feelings on seeing so much brutality and human suffering. There was nothing he could say that would ease her pain. Not now. It was too soon. He walked away silent.

 

 

Piroth

 

It was early morning when Bruno and his paratroopers returned to the garrison at Dien Bien Phu. Word of their victory in Laos had preceded their arrival, and the paratroopers were once again heroes. The Legionnaires and colonials in the garrison cheered and shouted as the exhausted paratroopers climbed down from their aircraft. It had been decided to station the para battalions at the garrison in case the attack on Laos again flared up. In addition, Bruno and his men would be able to carry out offensive maneuvers while the Legionnaires and colonials protected the garrison.

Brigitte climbed down from the doorway of a C-47. She was dog-tired and just wanted to post her stories on the radio, eat some hot chow, and sleep for a week. In which order she could not decide. She saw Bruno on the edge of the airfield. She wanted to apologize for her reaction after the battle--he was a man of violence, a hunter, and a killer, doing the job he was ordered to do--she just didn’t know what to say. Everything that rolled through her mind sounded trite and naïve. Perhaps it was better to wait until she had slept and could think better.

In between congratulations from the ground crew and the Legionnaires guarding the perimeter, Bruno turned to see Brigitte walk from the airfield at a distance. She saw the killer beneath the warrior and I’ve lost her again, he thought.

Bruno didn’t like to lose, especially when it came to a woman that he still loved. He remembered the first time she had rejected him. They had been lovers almost a year while fighting in the resistance together. They were both young and inexperienced. She was captured by the Gestapo, tortured and thrown in prison. There was nothing he could do to save her. He felt helpless. When the Germans were finally defeated, she was released and returned to Paris. He hoped they could pick up where they left off, but of course, that was impossible. Things were different. She was different. She needed time to recover, and Bruno was never known for his patience. She was broken, and he left her when she needed him most. He told himself she was just another woman and there would be others. And he was right, there were others, but none were like Brigitte. None had her spirit. He realized his mistake and asked her to forgive him. She said their relationship was over. Once trust was broken, sorry meant little. He swore to himself that one day he would win her back and once he had her, he would never let her go. That day looked very far off from where he was standing, even as his men cheered his name.

 

 

It was early morning when a C-47 landed in Dien Bien Phu and pulled to a stop in front of a wooden control tower. A group of Legionnaires and colonials gathered and watched with keen interest as the tail door opened and twenty-six Indonesian and Algerian prostitutes stepped out of the aircraft’s hold. The mobile brothel was an important addition to the garrison, and kept morale high, even though most of the men manning the far-off strongpoints would never have the time to visit the ladies. Just the thought that they were near seemed to lighten spirits.

Major Grauwin, the surgeon in charge of the field hospital, was placed in charge of the brothel. Grauwin and two orderlies stepped forward to greet the prostitutes. “Ladies, if you will please follow us to the field hospital for inspection, I am sure these gentlemen will see that your things are unloaded carefully and brought to your quarters,” said Grauwin.

The prostitutes followed Grauwin and the orderlies up the hill to the field hospital, where they were examined for venereal disease and tuberculosis. The Legionnaires and colonials unloaded their belongings, including several reinforced cots, bedding, and heavy drapes to cut down on the noise during business hours.

 

 

It was late afternoon and the sky was filled with dark clouds. Wallace Buford piloted his C-119 over the mountains. He was unflappable, a veteran pilot, like the other Americans flying for the French. His cargo, 6 tons of petrol, pushed the aircraft’s load limit, and even at full power, the engines strained to keep altitude. He heard the pitch of the right engine change and watched the engine’s head temperature gauge rise. The plane shuddered. “Oh shit,” he said to himself. “Hang in there, baby. We’re almost there.”

The aircraft began to slowly lose altitude. Buford watched as the last mountain before the airfield rose in the windshield. His co-pilot’s eyes widened with concern. “Ah, boss?” said the co-pilot.

“I see it. I’m not blind,” said Buford. “Dump the load.”

“All of it?”

“Yeah, all of it. Do it now and do it quick.”

The co-pilot radioed back to loadmaster and relayed the order. The loadmaster opened the rear doors and, with the help of his assistant loadmaster, pushed out ninety 50-gallon drums of fuel sitting on pallets.

The drums tumbled in the air and crashed into the trees on the mountain slope. Fuel from the smashed drums spewed everywhere.

With its load lightened, the aircraft gained altitude and cleared the mountain.

The aircraft landed on the airfield at Dien Bien Phu and taxied off the runway. Buford and his co-pilot climbed out the door below the cockpit and headed toward the flight center. “Only thing I can think of is that she blew a head gasket on one of the cylinders,” said Buford. “Get the mechanic to pull all the heads and take a look at each one of ‘em, plus anything else he can think of that might have caused the rise in temperature.”

“Will do, Boss,” said the co-pilot.

“We ain’t going back over those mountains until we know what went wrong,” said Buford.

 

On the mountain slope, a Viet Minh corporal had watched the huge aircraft land on the airfield and park near the smaller planes. It was a tempting target, and his squad needed to sight in their howitzer. He did some calculations and aimed the howitzer. He ordered his gunner to fire. The private yanked the lanyard at the back of the gun, and the 105mm shell produced a loud crack as it left the barrel.

Buford and his co-pilot heard the familiar crack of artillery in the distance. “What the hell?” said Buford, turning back toward his aircraft.

The shell exploded forty feet from the giant air freighter. There was little mistaking the teeth-jarring detonation of a 105mm shell burst. Another crack and a second shell exploded ten feet off the left wing, pelting it with shrapnel. The final shell punched a hole clear through the cockpit and exploded next to the front landing gear. The front landing gear collapsed and the plane tipped forward on its nose with its twin tail boom rising up in the air. The plane burst into flames.

“I think we are going to need more than one mechanic, Boss,” said the co-pilot.

“Shut the fuck up,” said Buford, unamused, as he watched his aircraft burn.

 

The Viet Minh lieutenant commanding the artillery battery ran through the tunnel toward the howitzer’s encasement, just as the corporal and his crew prepared to fire a final shot aimed at the flight crew standing on the airfield and watching their aircraft burn.

“Cease fire now!” the lieutenant ordered.

The corporal and his squad snapped to attention.

“Who gave you permission to fire?” said the lieutenant.

“Sir, we were just sighting in our gun,” said the corporal.

“And who told you to do that?”

“No one, sir.”

“You have exposed your position to the enemy, corporal, and more importantly revealed that we have artillery that can reach their garrison and airfield. I should have you court-martialed. You’ve endangered our mission.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I just thought –“

“Don’t think, Corporal. I think for you. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Check your camouflage, and for God’s sake, don’t fire your weapon until you receive a direct order from me.”

“Yes, sir.”

The lieutenant left knowing that shit rolls downhill and he was going to hear an ear-full from his commanding officer.

 

 

Piroth and Langlais stood in the field command bunker in front of De Castries. “It was a 105mm, Colonel,” said De Castries. “You told me that it was impossible for the Viet Minh to transport their artillery to this valley.”

“Sir, with all due respect, the shells came from one gun,” said Piroth. “And I agree, it was a 105, but that doesn’t mean that the Viet Minh brought it here from their bases in China. They could have captured it from one of our garrisons, or it could have been left here from the Japanese. It’s probably on its last leg of service and couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn.”

“It hit the airfield and destroyed a C-119.”

“Yes, sir, it did. Fortunately, no one was hurt.”

“Do you at least know its location?”

“We have a general direction of the gun’s location. We will find the gun the next time it fires and destroy it with our counter-fire.”

“I have no intention of waiting until it fires again, Colonel Piroth,” said De Castries and turned to Langlais. “Colonel Langlais, find that damned gun and destroy it.”

“Yes, sir,” said Langlais.

“Gentlemen, you are dismissed,” said De Castries, still steaming.

 

 

It was late afternoon and the sky was dull over the valley. Bruno and a squad of scouts walked down a mountain trail and met Colonel Langlais at the head of a company of paratroopers. “Anything?” said Langlais.

“No, and we’ve checked out the entire sector,” said Bruno. “Colonel, is it possible that the gun is on the backside of the mountain?”

“Anything is possible, but it would require that their gunners understand indirect fire, and our intelligence tells us they don’t.”

“I’m out of ideas and the longer we sit still, the more chance the Viet Minh have to ambush us,” said Bruno.

Langlais pulled out his map and studied it. “All right, let’s check out the backside of the mountain,” said Langlais.

 

Bruno walked up another mountain trail with Langlais. A scout sergeant came trotting down the trail. “We’ve got something,” said the scout sergeant.

“You found the gun?” said Langlais hopefully.

“No, it’s something else. A team of coolies and their commissar, digging into the mountainside.”

“What are they digging?” said Bruno.

“We don’t know. We couldn’t get close enough without tipping them off.”

“Bruno, bring up your flamethrowers,” said Langlais.

 

A two-man fire team, one carrying a flamethrower tank on his back, crouched low as they approached the digging site. The flamethrower team leader, a corporal, moved closer to take a look. He could see the commissar supervising the digging team at the head of the tunnel. The French corporal waved the flamethrower gunner forward and opened the values on the flamethrower’s two tanks, one filled with compressed nitrogen and the other petrol mixed with a thickener. He used a handheld flint wheel to light the pilot flame, a trickle of gas inside the flamethrower’s nozzle. The flamethrower gunner took a deep breath and stood up above the foliage. He took aim and pulled the trigger. A thirty-foot stream of fire spewed from the nozzle and engulfed the commissar and the Viet Minh guarding the entrance. “Cease fire,” said the corporal. The shot only lasted two seconds. Two seconds was enough. The corporal wanted to conserve the petrol in the flamethrower’s tanks for a second shot. The commissar and his men fell to the ground, dying.

“Move,” said the corporal.

The gunner moved forward to get a better angle on the entrance and fired into the opening. The stream of flame bounced off the tunnel’s walls and found its hidden targets. Four coolies ran from the tunnel with their clothes ablaze. The French corporal shot all of them with his submachine gun. It was the humane thing to do. The corporal signaled Bruno that they were done.

“Forward,” said Bruno.

Bruno and a platoon of paratroopers ran up the mountainside and into the tunnel. Shovel and pick handles burned. Several coolies were burning inside the tunnel and were immediately shot by Bruno and his men. His men rushed past Bruno and rounded up any surviving coolies. Bruno saw a piece of paper burning on the ground. He stamped out the flames with his boot and picked up a scorched drawing. It was an engineer’s crude drawing of a tunnel that reached from the back slope of the mountain to an artillery encasement on the front slope. Colonel Langlais approached. “Colonel, you should see this,” said Bruno.

“Merde,” said Langlais, recognizing the meaning of the drawing.

 

 

Langlais and Piroth once again stood in front of De Castries in his command bunker as he studied the singed engineer’s drawing of the tunnel and encasement. “A tunnel? How is that possible? The manpower it would take…” said De Castries.

“Exactly, sir. Even if they have a few more guns, our intelligence reports show that they couldn’t possibly have the manpower to build more than one or two tunnels and encasements in such a short amount of time. Sir, I think this is a ruse to draw our forces into the mountains so they can ambush us.”

“Why a tunnel?” said Langlais.

“They can resupply their gun from the back slope without being concerned about our fighter-bombers or artillery,” said Piroth.

“And the encasement?” said De Castries. “Can you destroy their guns with an encasement built into a mountain?”

Piroth hesitated and said, “It will be difficult if it is constructed according to this drawing.”

“And what about our bombers? Can our bombers take out their guns?”

“Again, it will be difficult with that amount of earth above the encasement. It will act as a buffer and soften the impact of any of our bombs or artillery.”

“They can fire on our garrison and airfield with impunity?”

“It seems so, sir,” said Piroth.

“Colonel Langlais, you and your paratroopers must find those tunnels and destroy their guns. Our entire defense depends on it.”

“Of course, sir,” said Langlais.

 

 

It was just before sunrise when the paratroopers, under the command of Major Maurice Guiraud, moved out from strongpoint Claudine. The 1st Foreign Battalion of Paratroopers, known as 1st BEP, was an experimental battalion. Originally serving as Legionnaires, the battalion had been conscripted into the paratroopers and retrained. They were unique in that they could be used effectively for either offense or defense, and were equally experienced in both tactics. They maintained their allegiance to the Legion, and with it the deep-seated esprit de corps that made them tough fighters.

Langlais had ordered Guiraud and his men to search the mountains at the far end of the valley for the enemy’s artillery encasements. On the way, they were to reconnoiter a series of villages suspected of sheltering the enemy’s anti-aircraft guns.

They reached Ban Phu at 9 a.m., Ban Co Hen at 10 a.m. and Ban Lung Con at 11 a.m. All three villages were abandoned and burned out by the Viet Minh. There were dried puddles of blood in the dirt. Pigs, chickens and water buffalo had been slaughtered and left in the streets to bloat under the sun. The reek of putrid flesh was nauseating. Masses of blue flies swarmed around the carcasses with an angry hum as the soldiers passed.

The battalion moved on and reached Ban Huoi at around 1:30 p.m. In charge of 3rd Company, Lieutenant “Lulu” Martin stopped to take a compass reading. A shot rang out and a bullet hit his hand, almost blowing it off. Heavy small arms fire erupted from the surrounding paddy fields and drove the company in the village to the ground.

 

Upon a nearby hillock, just past the far end of the village, Corporal Ty and his mortar squad opened fire, shelling the Legionnaires in the village with 24 rounds per minute of 80mm mortars.

 

It was a murderous rate of fire that took its toll on the French and drove them to find cover or hit the ground. Martin wrapped what remained of his hand in a field dressing and ordered his men to advance on the enemy mortar position. A fire team with a 57mm recoilless rifle firing low-velocity artillery rounds moved into position at the center of the village and fired at Ty’s mortar squad on the hillock.

 

With anti-personnel shells exploding around him and his team, Ty was stubborn in the defense of his position and didn’t want to give it up. After losing one of his men to a burst of shrapnel, it became apparent that his position would be destroyed by the recoilless rifle if he remained. He fired one last salvo and ordered his men to retreat, carrying their mortar and their dead comrade with them.

 

The last 80mm mortar shell exploded six feet from Major Verguet, Guiraud’s second in command, killing two French sub-lieutenants almost thirty feet away. Miraculously, Verguet was not hit by the shell’s fragments. Verguet and his men fought back and forth with the Viet Minh fighting from the hidden positions in the elephant grass and rice paddies that surrounded the village. The para Legionnaires rushed the Viet Minh’s position, only to be driven back by the enemy’s machine guns and 20mm mortars.

 

The Viet Minh finally retreated when their scouts spotted another French company coming up to reinforce the company in the village. Huts burned like bonfires. Dead villagers, pigs, and chickens were scattered across the ground. A thick layer of smoke hung over the village, teeming with the reek of cordite and gunpowder.

 

Guiraud arrived with another company and quickly appraised the situation. 3rd Company had been badly mauled by the ambush and was in no condition to continue the mission. He ordered a retreat of both companies.

As they left the village, they again came under attack from a separate Viet Minh battalion waiting in ambush on the backside of the village. The Legionnaires took heavy losses in both dead and wounded. The French fought a rear-action as they continued to retreat, chewing up the Viet Minh when they attacked, then retreating toward the garrison. The Viet Minh purposely stayed close to the French, engaging in close quarter actions again and again. Guiraud considered ordering an airstrike on the Viet Minh force nipping at his heels but knew the situation was too fluid. The chance of hitting his own men was too risky. It took three hours to fight their way back to the umbrella of entrenched machine guns and recoilless rifles on strongpoint Claudine. Under fire from the French positions on the hillside, the Viet Minh battalion took heavy casualties and broke off their attack.

 

Guiraud was met by Langlais as he and his men entered the strongpoint’s perimeter. Langlais was furious that Guiraud had not completed his mission and ordered him back out the next day.

 

 

The sky was clear and the sun burned brightly. The Daisy Mae flew over the hills and mountains of the highlands. Coyle and McGoon sat in the cockpit. “Can you take the stick for few minutes?” said McGoon.

“Sure,” said Coyle. “Where’re ya going?”

“To get the man’s autograph.”

McGoon picked up a brown paper bag filled with books, walked out the cockpit door, and entered the cargo hold.

Graham Greene, the famous British author, and Lieutenant General ‘Iron Mike’ O’Daniel, the U.S. chief military advisor for Indochina, sat together talking. When offered the post, O’Daniel requested a drop in rank so he would not outrank General Navarre. It was O’Daniel that most influenced the Pentagon’s decision on the amount of military aid and assistance to be given to France. It was aid that France desperately needed. “Indochina may be a sideshow compared to our military commitments in Europe, but it plays a key role in dispersing the Communists’ resources,” said O’Daniel. “Especially the Chinese. We’re still cleaning up from the mess they made in Korea.”

“General, let’s be honest. Your country is fighting a proxy war against the Communists and using the French as your pawns. But the French are struggling. They are still rebuilding their army from its losses during WWII. Even with all your supplies and leftover weapons, they don’t have enough troops to protect all of Indochina from the Communists,” said Greene. “If the Communists take control of Indochina, there is no telling where they will spread to next. Malaysia? Thailand? The Philippines? Why not commit some of your soldiers to the French effort?”

“Committing ground troops to Indochina is a whole different ball of wax than just giving military aid. I don’t think the American people have the stomach to support another war in a place that few could even find on a map. No, the role for the U.S. right now is to keep our focus on NATO and the Soviet threat in Eastern Europe. The French have economic interests in Indochina; the U.S. doesn’t. Let them fight the Communists. We’ll supply the weapons.”

“Ah, gentlemen,” said McGoon, “sorry to interrupt. I was wondering if I could get Mr. Greene’s autograph. I’m a big fan.”

“Of, course,” said Greene. “Which of my novels is your favorite?”

“Oh, ah… that one that they made into a movie,” said McGoon.

“Third Man?” said O’Daniel. “I like that one, too, although the movie was a little hinky. All those Dutch angles, and who in the hell shoots a movie in black and white anymore?”

McGoon pulled out a stack of books and handed them one by one to Greene to sign. “Only one is for me. The rest are for my family. They’re big fans, too.”

 

McGoon walked back into the cockpit with his stack of autographed books. “I didn’t know you were such a fan,” said Coyle.

“I’m not, but when that guy dies these babies could really be worth something,” said McGoon.

“Dies? He’s younger than you, McGoon.”

“Yeah, but look at all the dangerous places he visits. That’s pretty risky behavior. Odds are good that one of these days some sniper or mortar shell will take him out, and when it happens, I’m gonna cry for Mr. Greene. All the way to the bank.”

 

 

The Daisy Mae landed at the airfield in Dien Bien Phu, taxied to the apron, and parked in a bay made of sandbags stacked to the height of a man. The sandbag holding pen protected the aircraft from the enemy mortar fire that hit the airfield daily. O’Daniel and his staff exited the aircraft along with Greene. They were met by De Castries and Paule. “General O’Daniel, if you and Mr. Greene would ride with Paule and me in the jeep, I will be happy to give you a tour of the garrison,” said De Castries.

“Thank you, General,” said O’Daniel. “We know you are busy. We don’t want to take up too much of your time.”

“Nonsense, General. America’s assistance is essential to our efforts and greatly appreciated.”

De Castries hated to grovel to the American general but knew it was for the good of France and his men. They climbed into the jeep and drove off the airfield.

 

 

It was early evening, and the sky was clear over the remains of the Mayor’s mansion. Coyle, Brigitte, and Bruno sat around a table on empty ammunition cases that Brigitte had scrounged from one of the battalion’s supply sergeants. She had found a tablecloth and three unbroken plates in a sideboard that had been hidden under debris. The crystal glasses had all been broken in an artillery barrage. They shared several tins of rations Brigitte had heated over her little stove and a bottle of wine Coyle had brought from Hanoi. It was a hodgepodge of elegance. Bruno was finishing a story, “…there I was, standing in the middle of the living room, looking like a chimney-sweep covered in suet, unarmed, secret documents stuffed in my pants, face to face with an SS Colonel with a glass eye standing in his living room and wearing silk pajamas while holding a Lugar.”

“So, what did you do?” said Coyle.

“The only thing I could do. I told him I was finished cleaning his fireplace and he owed me five francs.”

Coyle and Brigitte laughed. Brigitte had heard the story several times before but still found it funny. Bruno kept adding little details to the story to make it more interesting. This time it was the silk pajamas.

“My daddy had a glass eye,” said Coyle. “Lost the real one from a big splinter that got thrown from a falling tree. I remember this one time, my buddies and I were out tree top walking…”

“Treetop walking?” said Brigitte.

“Yeah, that’s when ya climb to the top of a pine tree and ya get it swaying, then ya jump to the top of the next tree. We’d have contests to see who could go the farthest. I held the town record for a couple of months until Timmy O’Connor took it away. Anyway, that night when I got home, my hands were bloody and covered in pitch. Of course, my daddy knew exactly what I had been doing and whupped my ass like you wouldn’t believe. I was really mad at him, so that night, I snuck into his room and stole his glass eye. I only meant to keep it a couple of days, but he was so angry, I was too scared to give it back to him. I still got the thing.”

“Are you going to give it back?” said Brigitte.

“Can’t. He passed. I thought about tossing it in the coffin at his funeral.”

“Ah. Of little use, but a nice gesture,” said Bruno.

They passed the bottle around. Brigitte wanted Bruno and Coyle to like each other. It was the French way, the old lover and the new lover drinking and breaking bread together. Coyle, on the other hand, was jealous of Bruno’s past with Brigitte. He knew it was petty, but he couldn’t help himself. Coyle was no slouch when it came to his own war stories, but he found it hard to compete with the bold paratrooper. Why does he have to be so damn French? thought Coyle.

“Where are you from, Coyle?” said Bruno.

“Tennessee, in the eastern part of the United States,” said Coyle.

“Ah, Nashville and the Grand Ole Opera,” said Bruno.

“Yeah, but I wasn’t from that neck of the woods. My family lived in the Appalachian Mountains in a little town called Fork Mountain. It’s about 45 miles west of Knoxville. My daddy was a logger. He cut wood for the coal mines. They used his timber to support the shafts they dug.”

“It was a good life?” said Brigitte.

“Yeah. Most of the time. Unless my daddy got hurt. Then things would get a little lean at the dinner table when he couldn’t work. Logging was dangerous up in the mountains. When I was fifteen, I started working with him. Saw a logger cutting a tree once, and the damn thing split at the base. As it fell, the broken end hit ‘im in the crotch and cut ‘im in half, like a roasted chicken. Hell of a thing to see at fifteen. My daddy was the one that told his family what had happened. I kinda had a fancy for the man’s daughter, but they had to move away shortly after he died. It was a shame. She was a nice girl. Always wore pigtails in her hair. She was a hell of a shot with a rifle, too. She could hit a squirrel on the run up a tree at fifty feet. Her family ate a lot of squirrel stew.”

Brigitte listened to Coyle tell his story and wondered what she would look like with her hair up in pigtails. In the distance, they could hear artillery exploding and guns firing. Parachute flares dropped from a circling C-47 illuminated surrounding countryside with an eerie green light. Orange tracer shells fired from machine guns streaked back and forth across the valley floor, the Viet Minh shooting at the French and the French shooting at the Viet Minh. Brigitte’s little dinner party was strangely incongruent in the middle of the madness that surrounded them. But still, she loved it and didn’t want the evening to end.

Bruno still loved Brigitte and refused to give up. He wondered how he could win her back against this Davey Crockett wannabe. He could see that Brigitte was fascinated by Coyle’s backwoods mystique. Why did he have to be so damned American? thought Bruno.

 

 

Beatrice

 

 

It had been raining all day, and the ground at strongpoint Beatrice was saturated. All vegetation on the hill had been cleared away to give the blockhouses and trenches a clear line of sight of the rice fields that surrounded the strongpoint’s perimeter. Rivulets of water carved their way through the mud and made their way downhill until they found a trench.

Sergeant Rouzic and the German Legionnaire continued work on the blockhouse that would become their fighting position. The blockhouse had a firing portal facing downhill and was built along a trench line that was flooded, looking more like a farmer’s irrigation ditch than a defensive position. The muddy water was streaming through the blockhouse entrance, and there was already two feet of water on the floor. They both used empty food containers to bail the water out through the front portal, but it was clearly a losing battle as the water continued to rise.

“What’s the use? Let it fill up and we’ll bail it out once it stops raining,” said the German Legionnaire, throwing down his improvised bucket.

“And if it doesn’t stop raining?” said Sergeant Rouzic.

“Then we each get a pair of swim fins and drown the yellow bastards when they come to get us.”

“Brilliant plan.”

“German ingenuity.”

Sergeant Rouzic conceded the battle to the rain and threw down his bucket. He ripped open an MRE and munched on the contents. The German Legionnaire unbuttoned the fly on his trousers and urinated into the rainwater inside the blockhouse.

“Hey, what the hell do you think you’re doing? I’m eating here,” said Sergeant Rouzic.

“What does it matter? It all goes to the same place,” said the German Legionnaire.

“You are a pig.”

“For your information, a pig happens to be a very clean animal.”

“Not if you’re sleeping next to it.”

 

 

The gunfire and mortar explosions continued as the sun set over the garrison. Two Legionnaires shoveled dirt into a freshly dug grave. It was a never-ending task. There was still a stack of forty bodies wrapped in sheets in need of burial and they were running out of space. The French tricolor flag, now tattered, rippled over hundreds of white crosses covering the hillside.

 

 

Two hospital ambulances and several trucks pulled up to the cargo doors in the rear end of the Daisy Mae. The drivers and crew began unloading dozens of stretchers, each bearing a wounded soldier to be evacuated to Hanoi.

McGoon paced, waiting. Coyle was in a foul mood when he walked onto the airfield and over to the Daisy Mae. He couldn’t figure out why Brigitte had invited Bruno to dinner. Bruno was full of himself, Coyle was sure of that, but he couldn’t help but like the guy. He was beginning to understand why Brigitte once loved him, and might still. After all, they were both French, sharing a common culture that he knew very little about. This all made Coyle uncertain about where he stood with Brigitte, and he was beginning to wonder if it was all just a big waste of time. “Finally. I was about to promote Kim-ly to co-pilot,” said McGoon.

“Quit your belly-aching. I’m here, ain’t I?” said Coyle.

“Don’t get snippy with me. What the hell’s got into you?”

“McGoon, don’t. I don’t need an ass-chewing right now.”

“Well, Coyle, you be sure and let me know when I can chew your ass, okay?”

Coyle climbed up through the side door without responding. McGoon followed.

 

 

The sky was dull and overcast. The air in the valley was cooler than usual. The sun was getting low and it would be dark soon. Langlais, a towel wrapped around his waist, walked up a hillside to an outdoor shower. It was a simple and efficient system. The wooden walls of the shower had already been scavenged by the engineers, allowing its users little privacy. He took off his towel, leaving his naked body totally exposed to any onlookers, and used an empty coffee can to dip into a barrel of rainwater. He poured the rainwater into an overhead bucket and pulled on an attached lanyard, causing it to tip and pour water over his head. He refilled the bucket with more rainwater and used a bar of soap to lather his hair and body.

 

On strongpoint Beatrice, Sergeant Rouzic stood in the newly-built blockhouse, staring out at the surrounding mountains. He heard the thumps of several 60mm mortar explosions at the base of the hill. The Legionnaires on Beatrice had grown used to the daily mortar barrages. He was unconcerned until he noticed that several of the shell-bursts were not the usual anti-personnel rounds, but smoke rounds.

A veil of smoke obscured the rice fields surrounding the strongpoint and the approach trenches that the Viet Minh had been digging for over a month. The smoke cloud was growing heavier as more mortar rounds exploded, but he could still see through some of the thin patches. His interest was further aroused when he saw a dozen machine guns, mortars, and recoilless rifles being manhandled by their Viet Minh gun crews to forward firing positions closer to the perimeter. Moments later, two full battalions of enemy soldiers left the protection of the forest and ran across open ground, only to disappear into the trenches. “Oh, my god,” said Sergeant Rouzic.

“What’s wrong, Sarge?” said the German Legionnaire manning the machine gun.

“Find Colonel Gaucher and tell him we are about to be attacked,” said Sergeant Rouzic.

“Really?” said the German, looking out the blockhouse firing portal.

“Move, Corporal,” said Sergeant Rouzic.

The corporal scrambled out of the blockhouse. Sergeant Rouzic stepped behind the machine gun, pulled back the receiver handle, and chambered the first round. He swung the gun’s barrel to where he thought the first Viet Minh sappers would exit their trench. He waited for the smoke to clear. It was going to be a long night.

 

 

Generals Giap and Thai, each with binoculars, stood on a mountain slope overlooking the garrison and runway. They could see the Daisy Mae, its rear cargo doors closed, starting its engines in preparation for takeoff. Giap looked at his watch-- it was 5 p.m. on March 13th, 1954. He knew that if they won, this battle would be a historic moment, and he wanted to know the exact time it occurred. If they lost, it really didn’t matter.

“General Thai… you may begin,” said Giap calmly.

General Thai barked out an order to his radio operator, and the operator used the radio to repeat the order to the artillery commanders in their firing positions around the surrounding mountains.

 

The familiar and distant crack of heavy artillery being fired caught Langlais’ attention midway through his shower. It was the number and frequency of cracks that alarmed him. 140 howitzers and 40 heavy mortars fired during the Viet Minh opening volley. On average, one shell every second struck the French garrison. Langlais watched the hillside erupt with explosions from a rolling barrage that was heading straight for him. He hit the muddy ground and lay as flat as possible as the shell-bursts moved closer, like a tidal wave engulfing all in its path. He covered his ears and opened his mouth to release pressure inside his body should a shell land too close. The wave of explosions rolled past him tearing up the ground around him and moving up the hill. He was unhurt. He jumped to his feet and ran naked, covered in mud and soap, to his command post.

 

Brigitte was just starting her story on the typewriter when she heard the crack of artillery fire in the distance. She looked up and saw the orange glows from the hidden guns on the mountainside, like the beginnings of hundreds of small forest fires. She saw the first explosions on far-off strongpoint Beatrice, the first to get hit. She, too, was surprised by the number of explosions. As a war correspondent, she had watched many battles unfold with an opening artillery barrage, but this was different. It was more intense, and growing like an angry, living thing. “Jesus,” she said. “Those poor men.”

There were more explosions on closer hillsides as more strongpoints came under fire. It occurred to her that her hillside with the mayor’s mansion would also be a target. She picked up her helmet, grabbed her typewriter, and ran for her foxhole beside the mansion. The wall behind where she had been sitting exploded, bombarding the remaining furniture with pieces of brick and debris. The wall collapsed and crushed the couch where she had been sitting only moments before.

More shells rained down as she ran. Shell-bursts tore up the hillside all around her, like the rampage of an unseen demon. Nothing was safe. She stumbled over the uneven ground and dropped her typewriter. She heard the growing whistle of an artillery shell descending above her. She dove into her foxhole just as the shell exploded a few yards away. She scrambled up and looked over the edge of the foxhole at her typewriter. She thought about running to get it until she heard another 105mm shell coming down on her position. She ducked down into the foxhole, covered her head with her arms, and prayed. The explosion blew her typewriter to smithereens and left behind a crater the size of a car. She had witnessed two wars, but nothing like this. Brigitte curled up in the bottom of her foxhole and pulled down on the chin straps of her helmet. Dirt and debris rained down, covering her and filling the foxhole. She shook uncontrollably and felt like a coward as she prayed for God to spare her.

 

The Daisy Mae had already taxied to the end of the runway and throttled up her engines when the barrage began. Even over the sound of its engines, Coyle and McGoon could hear the thundering explosions, and they looked out the windshield to see the garrison being torn to shreds.

“Holy mother of Moses,” said McGoon.

“Brigitte,” said Coyle, staring out the windshield at the mayor’s mansion on the hillside, with artillery shells exploding around it. He wanted to go to her and protect her, but he couldn’t leave McGoon and the wounded they carried.

“Time to go,” said McGoon, as he pushed the throttles forward and the engines roared.

The Daisy Mae inched forward, slowly at first, then gaining speed.

An artillery round hit the airfield’s fuel depot and ignited five thousand gallons of fuel. The explosion and the fireball that followed were massive. The ground shook below the entire garrison.

“There goes the fuel depot,” said Coyle.

Several shells dropped on the airfield. Some hit the steel plates that lined the runway and clanged like a hammer hitting a gong. The shell-bursts launched some of the plates into the air and left jagged spikes of steel sticking up from deep craters.

McGoon steered the plane clear but kept the speed up as they approached the end of the runway. The Daisy Mae lifted off. “Spank my bottom and call me ‘Wilma.’ That was a close one,” said McGoon.

 

Deep within the forested hillside, a Viet Minh anti-aircraft gun fired at the Daisy Mae, still struggling to gain altitude.

 

A shell exploded next to the Daisy Mae. Coyle and McGoon felt the plane shudder. “We’re hit!” said Coyle.

“No shit?” said McGoon. “Can’t be that bad. We still have control.”

“For now,” said Coyle.

“Don’t go getting negative on me, Coyle. We’re gonna make it. I hate to crash. All that walking,” said McGoon.

A second nearby explosion hit the aircraft, and the shards from the shell tore small holes in the sheet metal below the cockpit. They could hear the air whistling through the new holes like an out of tune flute. McGoon struggled to keep control. Coyle rose from his chair.

“Not the best time to take a leak, Coyle,” said McGoon

“I’m going to find where they hit us.”

“Yeah, good idea. Do that,” said McGoon. “And Coyle… when we get outta this, we’re demanding a raise the second we land, okay?”

“Yeah, when we land,” said Coyle, unsure as he exited the cockpit.

“I don’t mind risking my life, but damn it, I wanna get paid for it,” said McGoon to himself.

 

Coyle entered the aircraft’s hold. Several of the patients were dead from the shell’s shrapnel and flying debris. A large rupture was torn out of the sheet metal on the port side of the aircraft. Coyle moved forward and saw a bloody hand hanging on to the sharp edge of the torn sheet metal. Coyle dove to the deck and belly-crawled to the breach. It was a medic hanging on from outside the aircraft. His body was dancing around in the two-hundred-mile-an-hour wind. Coyle reached out and grabbed the man’s hand. The blood made it slippery, but Coyle hung on.

“Don’t let me go,” said the medic.

“I won’t. I promise,” said Coyle. “Hang on and I’ll pull you in.”

Just as Coyle pulled the man partially back into the aircraft, several more anti-aircraft shells exploded outside the hole. Desperate to get the man back inside before more shell-bursts, Coyle pulled hard and the medic landed inside.

“Thank you. Thank you,” said the medic.

Coyle looked down to see both of the medic’s legs gone and blood flowing into a great pool on the deck.

“You’re gonna be okay,” said Coyle taking his belt off to make a tourniquet.

“I don’t think so,” said the medic, and died.

 

Piroth stood in the main battery at the top of Strongpoint Isabel and watched thousands of enemy shells rain down on the French garrison. It was clear that General Giap and his ant army had accomplished the impossible by bringing his entire division of heavy artillery to the valley.

“Incredible,” said Piroth to himself, as if admiring the enemy general’s feat.

His radioman, a corporal, handed Piroth a hardwire handset. “It’s General De Castries, sir.”

Piroth stared at the phone like it was a deadly snake. He took the handset and raised it to his ear, “Yes, sir. I know, but… No, sir. Of course, right away,” said Piroth. He gave the handset back to the radioman. “Order our batteries to counterfire.”

“But where, sir?”

Piroth, almost despondent, looked out at over a hundred orange flashes from enemy artillery positions on the mountain slopes. “Everywhere, Corporal. Everywhere.”

 

Langlais, still naked and out of breath, ran into his command bunker. Bruno was already there and waiting for orders. A young corporal stood nearby. “Corporal, give the colonel your trousers,” said Bruno.

“Sir?”

“Your trousers, Corporal. Take them off and give them to the colonel. You can find another pair at the hospital. I am sure there will be plenty of dead shortly.”

“Yes, Major,” said the corporal as he unbuttoned his pants and handed them to Langlais.

“Bruno, take whatever men you can find and silence the anti-aircraft guns firing from the eastern mountain slope just beyond the airfield,” said Langlais.

“Got it, Boss,” said Bruno and exited the bunker.

 

 

In preparation for the enemy ground assault, Strongpoint Beatrice was hit especially hard by the Viet Minh artillery. Sergeant Rouzic watched the hillside in front of the blockhouse explode like a mounting tidal wave, churning up the tortured earth. The blockhouse shook violently with each explosion as the barrage advanced up the hillside like a hungry beast. Rouzic was surprised to see the German Legionnaire reenter the blockhouse. “You fool. What are you doing here?” he said.

“I told the colonel as ordered,” said the Legionnaire.

“Why did you come back?”

“I am German. It’s what we do,” said the Legionnaire.

He took up his place behind the machine gun and checked the gun’s chamber for a round. “Besides, you never were any good with a machine gun.”

 

 

On the edge of the airfield, Bruno and a company of paratroopers leapfrogged their way forward toward the eastern mountain slope. They kept quiet by using hand signals and utilized whatever they could find for cover. A parachute flare was launched from the mountainside and illuminated their position. “Merde,” said Bruno.

Tracer bullets from hidden machine guns streamed across the airfield and hit two of Bruno’s men. Mortar shells exploded, taking out another man. Bruno and his paratrooper instinctively dove for the ground, hoping the mortar barrage would pass. It didn’t. “We stay, we die!” yelled Bruno to his men.

He jumped up and waved his men forward, leading the way. His men, inspired by the courage of their leader, rose from the ground and charged, some firing their weapons, and others yelling “Vive La France!” They died by the dozens before they reached the machine guns. Enraged from seeing his men slaughtered, Bruno reached the tree line and jumped into a machine gun’s nest. He plunged his knife into the gunner’s chest, killing him. He turned on the gunner’s assistant reaching for his rifle and pummeled the man with his fists. The paratroopers overran the enemy firing positions, forcing the Viet Minh to abandon their weapons and driving them deeper into the woods. Once again, the French paratroopers had accomplished their objective, but at a heavy cost.

 

 

In the field command post, Piroth stood in front of De Castries and Langlais. “I don’t understand how, but he brought up his entire division of heavy artillery. Our spotters have located over one hundred gun positions on the surrounding mountain slope. We believe each of the enemy’s artillery guns is entrenched within an encasement like the one you and your men saw, Colonel Langlais. Our own batteries are having little effect. Even our bombers cannot silence them. I am so sorry, General,” said Piroth.

“I don’t think your condolences are much help at this point, Colonel,” said De Castries.

“The enemy is expending ammunition at an incredible rate,” said Piroth. “They cannot possibly keep it up.”

“And yet you continue to underestimate them and they continue doing the impossible,” said De Castries. “Colonel Piroth, you are dismissed.”

Piroth saluted weakly and walked past Bruno on his way out of the bunker. “I’m so sorry, Major.”

“Major, are you wounded?” said Langlais upon seeing Bruno’s uniform covered in blood.

“Me? No. It’s not my blood, sir,” said Bruno. “As ordered, the anti-aircraft guns around the airfield have been destroyed.”

“Good work, Major,” said Langlais. “Your losses?”

“I am still waiting for a final count, but heavy, sir,” said Bruno. “And the Americans?”

“They are safe.”

“Ah, well… good, the big one still owes me fifty francs from poker.”

“Get some sleep, Major. It looks like we have our work cut out for us.”

“Yes, sir.”

Bruno saluted and exited. De Castries turned to Langlais. “Intelligence reports enemy strength at five full divisions,” said De Castries. “How is that possible? The logistics required must have been incredible.”

“No matter,” said Langlais. “Soon they will attack and we will crush them.”

“Soon? I doubt it, Colonel. They’ll wear us down and strangle us a bit, yes?”

“Giap can’t wait forever. He faces the same problem of resupply as we do, only worse. His supply lines must still cross three hundred kilometers of mountains, and without air support.”

“Perhaps,” said De Castries, looking very drawn and tired.

“Get some sleep, General,” said Langlais. “Everything will look better in the morning.”

Langlais saluted and exited, leaving De Castries with his nightmares.

 

 

Enemy artillery continued to explode all over the garrison, destroying defensive positions and killing the French. In tears, Piroth stumbled along a trench line, apologizing to the men hunched down inside. “I am sorry. I am so sorry,” he said, oblivious to the danger.

He came to his command bunker and went inside. He knelt down and opened the footlocker at the end of his cot. He pulled out a photo of his wife, kissed it, and set it on the cot. He pulled out a grenade, hugged it to his chest, pulled the pin, and released the spoon.

“I am so sorry.”

The grenade exploded, blowing his hands and forearms off and ripping open his chest. Piroth was dead.

 

 

As night fell, the bombardment continued. Two C-47s, dispatched from Hanoi, circled the garrison from overhead and dropped parachute flares.

 

Sergeant Rouzic and the German Legionnaire kept watch in the blockhouse. “Two hours of this. If they haven’t attacked by now, what are they thinking?” said the Legionnaire.

“Quit your griping or you’ll jinx us,” said Rouzic. “As long as they are shelling us, their men cannot attack.”

“Still, I wish they would get on with it.”

The shelling on strongpoint Beatrice suddenly stopped.

“Damn German,” said Rouzic. Both men readied themselves.

 

The green glow of the flares revealed several teams of sappers carrying Bangalore torpedoes as they ran from the trenches just outside the perimeter of strongpoint Beatrice.

 

“There,” said Sergeant Rouzic, pointing to the sappers through the dust and smoke. “Two o’clock. Sappers with Bangalores. They’re going for the wire.”

The German Legionnaire opened fire with the machine gun as Rouzic fed the ammunition belt into the gun’s receiver.

 

Orange tracers streamed down the hillside from the blockhouse, giving away the machine gun’s position. Four sappers were hit and dropped their long explosive tubes. Four more sappers sprung from their trenches, jumped over their fallen comrades, picked up the long tubes, and ran forward toward the perimeter. The Bangalores were made from hollowed-out bamboo tubes filled with explosives, and were a Chinese version of the British Bangalore torpedoes. Each sapper slid his tube section under the triple concertina wire and moved out of the way for the next sapper, who attached another tube section and pushed the connected tubes further forward under the wire. The final sapper stuck a blasting cap in explosive clay at the end of the last tube section and lit the fuse with a brass trench lighter he had taken from a dead Legionnaire. He scrambled for cover.

The Bangalore torpedoes exploded, cutting the layers of concertina wire in several places, pitching the barbed wire high into the air. Several French mines also exploded between the wire and the first French trench. There was a path about twenty feet wide across the perimeter. The Viet Minh climbed from the trenches and ran through the opening. A single loop of barbed wire remained intact and blocked their route. The first soldier to reach it threw himself on the razor-sharp barbs and used his body as a bridge for the soldiers following him. Hundreds of boots trampled over him. He was crushed to death.

Once through the wire, the Viet Minh immediately spread out across the hillside. Dozens were killed by anti-personnel mines placed by the French engineers and hidden just below the surface. The surviving Viet Minh hit the ground, some diving into the craters formed from the exploded mines, and opened fire with their rifles and submachine guns. The French laid down murderous fire from their machine guns, mortars, and recoilless rifles, killing hundreds of Viet Minh.

 

The tracer bullets from the French machine guns revealed their firing positions in the blockhouses. Just outside the perimeter, the Viet Minh opened up with their recoilless rifles, taking out the blockhouses and killing the French gunners.

Viet Minh used airburst rounds launched from their mortars against the Legionnaires in the trenches, forcing them to keep their heads down or risk decapitation. The two sides fought for hours as the Viet Minh on the hillside crept upward under heavy fire from the French.

 

Feeding an ammunition belt into the machine gun, Sergeant Rouzic saw a platoon of Viet Minh approaching the final obstacle, a triple line of concertina wire laid across the ground just fifteen feet from the blockhouse. They cut through the wire and belly-crawled toward the blockhouse. The German Legionnaire was preoccupied with driving back the enemy from the main breach in their perimeter and did not notice the approaching danger. Sergeant Rouzic used one hand to keep feeding the machine gun belt and the other hand to pick up a small metal box with six switches on the top plate and wires leading out from the side. “Fire-in-the-hole!” he said and flipped the three switches on the left. Sergeant Rouzic and the German Legionnaire pressed themselves against the blockhouse wall away from the firing portal.

Three napalm canisters on the hillside exploded and engulfed the entire Viet Minh platoon with the burning gelatin. Flames licked the blockhouse portal and receded. “Clear,” said Rouzic. The German Legionnaire resumed his position behind the machine gun with Rouzic at his side.

 

 

In Beatrice’s command bunker, the battalion staff struggled to get a handle on the situation, as most of the phone lines had been cut by mortar and artillery rounds. Colonel Gaucher stood next to his radioman, barking out orders into the handset, “We need air support now or we will be overrun!”

An artillery shell pierced the flimsy roof and landed in the center of the command bunker. The explosion that followed was thunderous and knocked everyone inside the bunker off their feet. There were bodies everywhere. Stunned but unhurt, the radioman stumbled to his knees. The bunker was filled with smoke and dust. There were small fires from burning maps and intelligence reports. As the dust began to clear, he saw the gauzy outline of Colonel Gaucher standing a few feet away. “Colonel, are you okay?” said the radioman.

Hearing no reply, the radioman rose, took a step forward, and saw that the colonel was missing both his arms and that the bone in his right leg was exposed above the knee. The commander of strongpoint Beatrice would be dead within the hour.

 

 

Sergeant Rouzic and the German Legionnaire continued to hang on, each time fighting back the Viet Minh assault. Rouzic could see the machine gun’s barrel smoking from the heat of continuous firing. He knew the barrel would warp from the heat if it continued, but there was no lull in the fighting. “Barrel change!” he said. He put on a heavy pair of canvas gloves and waited until the last bullets on the belt fed into the machine gun’s receiver.

“Go,” said the German. Rouzic unscrewed the barrel using the gloves and swapped it with a cool barrel. The German opened the receiver and placed a new belt inside, slapping the top of the receiver down until it latched. He looked through the portal and watched as a wave of Viet Minh, believing the French machine gun was out of ammunition, rose from the hillside below and charged toward the blockhouse. “Hurry up or we’re gonna die,” he said.

“Don’t be dramatic,” said Rouzic. He gave the fresh barrel a final twist into place. “Ready,” he said. The German Legionnaire chambered a round and took aim.

The Viet Minh were within ten feet of the blockhouse portal and several were preparing grenades to throw through the opening when the German’s machine gun opened fire and ripped them to shreds. More than a dozen died and rolled back down the hillside.

 

From across a rice field, hidden by a clump of elephant grass on the paddy’s low dike wall, a Viet Minh recoilless rifle fired. It was a tracer round meant to help the gunner find his line of fire in the dark. There was no need.

The shell flew through the blockhouse portal and exploded on the back wall. The roof caved in and buried both men. Sergeant Rouzic was the first to recover and pull himself free from the rubble. He looked down and saw the lower part of a leg floating in the water at the bottom of the collapsed blockhouse. He checked to make sure both his legs were still attached. They were. He used his hands to dig through the debris until he found the German Legionnaire, still alive, but screaming in pain, “Oh my god! My leg! Where is my leg?”

“Quit your bellyaching,” said Rouzic. “You still have a knee.” He pulled off the German’s web belt and used it as a tourniquet on what remained of the leg.

With the bleeding stopped, Rouzic found a weapon and picked it up. He looked out and saw the Viet Minh again rising and running toward the collapsed blockhouse. With the machine gun gone there was nothing to stop them, and no time to retreat. This is it, he thought. This is where I die.

 

Two Bearcat fighters dove down from the sky and dropped their bombs on the Viet Minh assault in front of the blockhouse. The explosions killed dozens of Viet Minh and sucked up the air, making it impossible to breathe. The Viet Minh that survived the bombs were dazed from the concussions and became easy targets for the Legionnaires still in the trenches above. The Viet Minh under fire dove for cover and the assault was stalled for a moment.

 

Sergeant Rouzic saw their chance “Can you run?” he said.

“You’re kidding me, right?” said the German, holding his bloody stump.

“All right. This may hurt a little. Just keep it down,” said Rouzic. He picked up the German and lifted him over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. The German moaned. With his submachine gun in one hand and the other hanging on to the German Legionnaire, Sergeant Rouzic ran out of the blockhouse and along the trench line. He stepped over the bodies of his fallen comrades and dodged behind the few Legionnaires still alive and fighting for their lives.

Sergeant Rouzic carried the German Legionnaire to the aid station on the backside of the hill. He saw the last ambulance preparing to leave and loaded the German inside. He turned to go back to his firing position and saw dozens of Viet Minh cresting the top of the hill. It was too late. “Go, go, go!” he said to the driver, emptying the clip in his submachine gun at the Viet Minh racing directly toward him.

Out of ammunition, Sergeant Rouzic climbed on the back bumper of the ambulance as it sped away. Beatrice had fallen.

 

 

In the garrison’s command bunker, De Castries’ radioman spoke into his handset, “Sun Two, say again.”

Langlais entered the bunker and saw De Castries sitting in a chair and staring at a dirt wall. The radioman on Beatrice responded over the radio speaker, “Colonel Gaucher is dead, so is Major Pegot. Viets are over the wire and have overrun all our firing positions. Request fire mission on our position. Say again, on our position.”

The command bunker radioman turned to De Castries, “General, your orders?”

De Castries was dazed and unresponsive. The radioman turned to Langlais. Langlais nodded.

“Sun Two, this is Sun Six. Fire mission incoming on your position. Andre, keep your head down and good luck,” said the radioman. He switched channels to the artillery net and called in the fire mission.

Langlais walked over and put his hand gently on the general’s shoulder, “Charles, can you hear me?”

De Castries looked up for a moment as if struggling to focus, “Yes, Colonel?”

“Colonel Gaucher is dead and Beatrice has fallen. We must retake the strongpoint before the enemy can entrench. In the morning, yes?”

“In the morning… of course… everything will be better in the morning,” said De Castries.

“I will see to it, sir,” said Langlais.

“Yes,” said De Castries. “You see to it, Colonel.”

 

 

On strongpoint Beatrice, the last of the Legionnaires ran out of ammunition as the enemy overran their trench. Legionnaires and Viet Minh fought hand-to-hand using their bayonets, rifle butts, and entrenching tools to kill each other. A barrage of French artillery and mortar shells rained down on the hillside. Anyone not in a trench, regardless of uniform, was torn to shreds. The French made the Viet Minh pay for their prize.

 

 

It was silent, except for the occasional crack of a rifle. A thin veil of morning fog mixed with the smoke hanging over the valley. There was an acrid odor in the air from spent gunpowder and artillery propellant.

On strongpoint Beatrice, the Viet Minh tended to their wounded, searched for survivors, and carried off their dead. A company of Viet Minh took up positions in the trenches on the backside of the hill, facing the rest of the French garrison. Many leaned against their rifles and slept, exhausted from the uphill battle of last night. Hearing the heavy thrum of aircraft engines, a sleepy-eyed lieutenant looked up and saw a squadron of Bearcat fighter-bombers appear from over a nearby mountain. The planes dove down toward the hillside and dropped their bombs on the enemy positions. Dozens of Viet Minh were torn to pieces by the powerful explosions across the hill. Just when the Viet Minh thought it was over, the Bearcats swooped down again and unloaded the wing guns on the soldiers in the trenches. A dozen more died from the strafing. Their guns and bomb racks empty, the Bearcat pilots headed for home back in Hanoi.

 

Next came a rolling barrage of French shells. Every artillery gun and heavy mortar in the entire French garrison fired on the backside of strongpoint Beatrice. The incoming shells sounded like a freight train speeding through a tunnel. The murderous explosions tore up the trenches and killed most of the Viet Minh company. Any soldiers still alive were in shock from the concussions that had pounded their bodies. Blood poured from their ears, and their eyes blurred from swelling.

 

Below the hillside, Bruno and his battalion of paratroopers rose from the ground. Adrenaline pumped through their veins and their muscles tensed. They knew what was about to happen all too well. “Forward,” said Bruno, taking the lead. His men formed three lines across the strongpoint’s perimeter and walked forward at a brisk pace, matching their speed to his. Bruno did not want to wear out his men before they started up the hill’s slope. Submachine gunshots from one of the Viet Minh defenders hit two paratroopers, wounding one and killing the other. “Charge!” said Bruno. The paratroopers shouted out a guttural scream as they ran up the hillside toward the trenches.

Several of the Viet Minh riflemen in the trenches had recovered and were firing down on the approaching paratroopers. Bruno’s long-time radioman was hit in the eye and dropped to the ground. Bruno did not stop or even flinch on seeing the man that had been by his side for three years shot dead. His mind was focused on the trenches near the top of the hill. He and his men had to reach those trenches or die trying.

The hillside was wet from a recent rain and several paratroopers fell in the mud, then struggled to get back on their feet and rejoin their comrades. Mortars shells exploded across the hillside, killing several paratroopers, and still, Bruno and his men charged forward. As they approached the top of the hill, paratroopers in the first line opened fire with their submachine guns and raked the top of the trenches, killing several Viet Minh and driving others to cover below the trenches’ forward rim. Paratroopers jumped in the trenches, and hand-to-hand battles broke out all along the line. The paratroopers were excellent fighters with or without weapons and quickly overpowered the Viet Minh.

Bruno, with several of his men firing their weapons at his side, jumped over the trenches and continued up the hillside. When they came to the top of the hill, they stopped. Between the fighter-bombers, the artillery barrage and the French paratroopers, the Viet Minh on strongpoint Beatrice had had enough and were in full retreat down the hillside, back to the safety of the mountains. Bruno ordered his men to cease fire. Bruno and his paratroopers fell silent as they looked out over the hillside. Five hundred Legionnaires, many stripped of their uniforms and boots, lay dead in the mud. Tears welled up in Bruno’s eyes. He wasn’t a machine after all.

 

With their men now off the hill and out of the way, the Viet Minh opened fire with their artillery. A fierce barrage of explosions rained down on Beatrice as the Viet Minh concentrated their artillery and mortars. Most of the strongpoint’s entrenchments had been destroyed in the previous attack, and there was nowhere for the French to take cover. Bruno radioed Langlais, “We are taking heavy losses.”

Langlais knew Bruno was not one to exaggerate, even when faced with overwhelming odds. “Can you hold if I send reinforcements?” said Langlais over the radio.

“Negative. They will just be more cannon fodder for the enemy. Your orders, Colonel?”

Langlais did not want to give up the ground the men under his command had bled to retake, but he could not afford to lose more paratroopers. “Pull back, Major,” said Langlais.

Bruno gave the order to retreat. The French gave up the ground, and Beatrice was once again lost.

 

 

It was dark when Lieutenant Turpin woke in the bunker of Beatrice’s aid station. He had been wounded in the leg and shoulder during the initial assault to take the strongpoint and had lost a good deal of blood before the French medic reached him and carried him to the bunker. He slept through most of the fighting and Bruno’s counterattack. He looked at the bandages on his wounds. Both were stained with his blood and felt very sore when he eventually sat up.

He looked around the bunker. It had been abandoned, with only the dead remaining. The smell of death was intense. He wondered why he had not been evacuated with the other wounded. Maybe the medics thought him dead or simply forgot him. He was still weak but managed to climb the shallow stairs out of the bunker.

It was morning and the light hurt his eyes. The valley below was covered in mist and the sky was grey. He looked at the surrounding hillside. The destruction of the entrenchments was immense. Nothing remained undamaged. In the distance, he could hear artillery explosions and gunfire. The garrison was still fighting. That was a good sign, he thought. He was spotted by a Viet Minh scavenger squad looking for anything usable left behind by the French. The corporal in charge of the squad ran over, leveled his rifle at the French officer, and took him prisoner.

 

Turpin was taken before a Viet Minh major that spoke in broken English. He was given some rice and water which he ate and drank. He was told that the Viet Minh were going to blow up the strongpoint but would agree to a brief ceasefire to allow the French to retrieve the bodies of their dead. Turpin was given two passes written in Vietnamese and told that he was free to return to his lines and deliver the message to the French commander.

 

The corporal that had captured him escorted Turpin to the base of the hill and pointed him in the direction of the French lines. As he walked in the mist, the lieutenant wondered if it was all a trick and he was about to be shot in the back. He looked back and the corporal was gone. Turpin turned back around and kept walking. The bandage on his leg began to unravel and was dragged through the mud. He was too weak to do anything about it, and only wanted to put distance between him and the Viet Minh. He walked on.

 

It took him the better part of an hour to find the French lines in the mist. He was sure the French would mistake him for a Viet Minh and shoot him, but the mist began to burn off as the sun rose higher, and things became more visible. He saw a hill up ahead. It was Dominique. He yelled out in French and a Legionnaire yelled back. He moved forward slowly with his hands raised until the Legionnaire could get a good look at him and was convinced he was not a threat.

 

The Lieutenant was taken to the field hospital, where his wounds were examined. Before going into surgery to have the shrapnel removed, he relayed the message he’d been given by the Viet Minh major. A messenger was sent to General De Castries in the command bunker.

 

 

Langlais had been right. After three hours of sleep, De Castries had recovered from his malaise and was back in charge, barking out orders to his staff. He still had dark rings under his eyes, and his temper was short. Langlais entered the bunker. “A ceasefire?” said Langlais. “They are stalling. We must counterattack and retake Beatrice.”

“You and your men tried this morning,” said De Castries, “and failed.”

“We must try again. We cannot leave that hilltop in the enemy’s hands. They will move up their artillery and shell our positions, not to mention the airfield.”

“And how many men will you lose this time, Colonel?”

“As many as it takes.”

“No. I have already sent a messenger to the Viet Minh. We are accepting their terms for a ceasefire at 4 p.m. If your men wish to do something useful, have them bring back our dead.”

“You waste our blood.”

“No, Colonel. It is you that will waste your men’s blood with another insane charge up a hill that you cannot possibly hold.”

“We can hold if given the proper support.”

“No, Colonel. You can’t.”

“Then tell me, General De Castries, if not Beatrice, where do we stop them?”

De Castries had no answer but was too tired to continue the argument. “You have your orders, Colonel,” said De Castries. “Ceasefire at 4 p.m.”

Langlais left the bunker without saluting. He was frustrated and desperately wanted to shoot something or someone. He just didn’t know what or who.

 

It was just after noon, and the morning fog had burned off, leaving the sun to bake the tarmac at Cat Bi airfield. McGoon and Coyle surveyed the damage on the Daisy Mae. The maintenance crew was already working to cut away the damaged aluminum support ribs and sheet metal panels around the hole in the side of the aircraft’s hold. McGoon poked his finger through a small shrapnel hole in the left breast of the painted character of Daisy Mae.

“Damn it,” said McGoon. “Ain’t no way to treat a lady.”

“Relax. It ain’t nothing a bit of sheet metal and a little paint won’t fix,” said Coyle.

“That may be, but it’s disrespectful to hit her in the tit.”

“Can’t argue with that. Look, I’m sure she’ll be fine. Good as new,” said Coyle. “And now you can give her those bigger breasts you’ve been wanting.”

“Coyle, that ack-ack must’ve knocked a screw loose in your brain or something. Ya can’t give a woman bigger breasts just cuz ya want ‘em,” said McGoon. “It ain’t natural.”

“Yeah, I suppose you’re right,” said Coyle. “While she’s getting fixed up, I could use a good co-pilot if you ain’t too proud to fly with me.”

“Can I bring my chair?” said McGoon.

“No.”

“All right. I guess I’d be honored to be your co-pilot until the Daisy Mae is repaired. Better than sitting around watching the grass grow.”

“Great,” said Coyle, and continued to inspect the rest of the damage to the aircraft.

McGoon took a last look at the character’s buxom figure. “Give a woman bigger titties… that’ll be the day,” he said and moved off to join Coyle.

 

 

It was early morning, and a light fog covered the valley floor. During the previous night, the Viet Minh and the French had fought for over twelve hours, with both sides sustaining heavy losses. Just two days after the fall of Beatrice, the trophy they fought for was strongpoint Gabrielle, and in the end, it was the Viet Minh that remained in control of the hill. It was a terrible loss for the French and allowed the Viet Minh to reposition their anti-aircraft guns on a hill directly under the French’s northern flight path. Even with the hillside almost two kilometers away from the airfield, they had an unobstructed shot at any plane taking off or landing. The noose was tightening.

 

A jeep drove General Giap and General Thai to the base of the hillside. The two generals stepped out and looked up through the thinning mist. The hillside was littered with an equal number of Viet Minh and French bodies. They numbered in the thousands. Two platoons of Viet Minh soldiers continued the search for wounded and carried away the bodies of their comrades. Some of the bodies were intertwined from fighting hand-to-hand with their enemy. Other bodies were hung up in the loops of concertina wire around the perimeter and in front of the French trenches and blockhouses. Many of those killed were just teenagers, the age of the students Giap once taught at the university.

“Madness,” said Giap.

“A necessary tragedy,” said Thai.

“Was it, General?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why were our assault trenches so far from the French perimeter? Our men were forced to attack over open ground and were cut down by the enemy’s machine guns.”

“Our sappers entrenched as far as they could, given the time and resources they were granted.”

“Then we must expand their resources and the time they are allowed. I will not see our men slaughtered because of impatience.”

“Sir, the council agreed upon the fast strike, fast win strategy.”

“They did. But that was before this carnage. Our men’s morale will sink to new depths if they believe their generals are wasting their lives and the lives of their comrades. I am the commander in the field and I have the authority to fight the battle as I see fit, with or without the council’s approval.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You will instruct our engineering commanders to dig our trenches up to the first French trench line before we launch an assault.”

“That will take weeks, General.”

“Then let it. We will use the extra time to bring up more artillery and ammunition.”

“But the rains, sir,” said General Thai. “The monsoon season will soon be here, and with it the mudslides and floods. We will not be able to maintain our supply lines at the current rate.”

“Better our men get wet and hungry than die at the hands of the French,” said General Giap.

General Thai knew Giap’s temperament and mindset. Giap was slow to anger and measured his words before speaking. They had fought together for many years. He considered Giap his friend. Losing his temper was unusual for Giap. Thai decided not to press the issue any further. “Do you wish to arrange a ceasefire with the French so they can retrieve the bodies of their fallen?” said Thai.

“No,” said Giap. “Let them rot.”

 

 

 

Isabel

 

It was night, and a thin fog had settled in over the valley. Firefly flares slowly fell from above and gave the countryside a greenish glow. The distant sound of artillery explosions and gunfire were a constant reminder of the unceasing battle that raged between the Viet Minh and the French.

Major Sudat and his company of engineers waited on the muddy banks of the shallow river that flowed between the airfield and strongpoint Huguette. Sudat peeked over the embankment and gave a hand signal to his platoon leaders. The engineers and riflemen climbed out of the riverbed. They carried their equipment and supplies across the open ground toward the airfield, trying to keep noise to a minimum.

Reaching the runway, a platoon of riflemen took up defensive positions to protect the engineers. Sudat quickly surveyed the damage. Enemy artillery shells had torn up the PSP and blown craters in the runway. The garrison’s lifeline to the outside world was a tangle of steel and dirt. It was engineering company’s responsibility to fix the runway faster than the enemy artillery could destroy it and not get killed in the process. The French army engineers were a tough breed and accustomed to working under the most hazardous conditions.

Like a field hospital surgeon, Sudat performed triage and identified the most critical repairs. He needed at least a thousand yards of runway to land a C-47, and twelve hundred yards to land a C-119, which could carry nearly four times the amount of badly needed supplies, ammunition, and replacement troops. He signaled for his men to get to work on repairs.

The heavy steel plates did not just attach to each other like a child’s puzzle; they were bolted together to keep them from shifting during the landing of the heavy aircraft they were designed to support. Once breached, each plate needed to be cut from its surrounding plates and replaced with a new one. It was a labor-intensive job that required several men with crowbars and welding torches. There were dozens of craters and hundreds of broken plates.

The lieutenant in charge of the rifle platoon went rigid when he heard the voices of a Viet Minh patrol obscured by the fog. He signaled to Sudat and the engineers, then slowly pulled his pistol from its holster, knelt on one knee, and watched the edge of the fog. The engineers stopped working and picked up their weapons. They stooped low and kept quiet. The engineers were fierce warriors in addition to being skilled workers, but if a firefight broke out, they would be fighting on open ground and could be easily flanked by the larger Viet Minh forces. The enemy patrol passed and the voices faded. The lieutenant gave the all clear signal and the engineers returned to work. It was going to be a long and dangerous night.

 

Major Sudat reported to General De Castries in the garrison’s main command bunker. “General, the airfield is once again open for aircraft, but I cannot guarantee how long it will stay open. The perforated steel plates we used to build the runway are a real son of a bitch to repair when they are damaged.”

“Thank you, Major,” said De Castries. “How many feet are useable?”

“Twelve hundred feet, sir. We can land the C-119s.”

“Excellent. Good work, Major. See that your men get some rest. I am more than certain we will need them again shortly.”

“As am I, General,” said Sudat, saluting and exiting the bunker.

 

 

It was night, and a steady drizzle set in over the valley. Its cooling effect was a welcome relief from the heat and humidity. The new C-119, piloted by Coyle and co-piloted by McGoon, cleared the last mountain before descending into the cloud cover over the valley. It was a dangerous move, not being able to see more than a few feet ahead of the aircraft’s nose, and knowing that the valley was surrounded by mountains and scattered with hills. McGoon and Coyle kept a close watch on the altimeter and studied the map carefully, tracking their progress.

 

The Viet Minh anti-aircraft gunners heard the aircraft’s engines, but could not spot the plane against the low cloud cover. Their mortar crews shot parachute flares into the night sky and still saw nothing.

 

Just before reaching the airfield, McGoon and Coyle brought the C-119 down out of the clouds. The Viet Minh opened fire with everything they had in range, but it was too late. The aircraft hit the runway hard, and Coyle reversed the blades on her two engines, using them to reduce her speed while riding the wheel brakes.

The C-119 taxied off the runway and over to the apron. Enemy artillery shells rained down in hopes of hitting the aircraft and destroying its cargo. It was a long shot without being able to visually correct their fire through the drizzle and only pitted the airfield with more craters. The C-119 stopped in front of three trucks and several jeeps, used to ferry supplies from the airfield to the supply depots around the garrison. The assistant loadmaster opened the rear doors on the aircraft and the ground crew went to work, unloading the badly needed cargo.

Coyle climbed out of the doorway below the cockpit. McGoon followed. “I’ll be back before morning,” said Coyle.

“Make damn sure ya are, Coyle. We don’t wanna be dodging ack-ack in the daylight,” said McGoon.

 

Coyle ran across the tarmac toward strongpoint Elaine. The drizzle had stopped, but the ground was still wet and slippery. Coyle kept low as he ran across the base of the hill called Elaine. A gust of wind hit his wet pants and he felt a chill up his back. He came to a four-foot high barbed wire fence that stretched along the perimeter of the hill. He looked through the darkness for a way through the fence. An enemy sniper shot slapped the mud next to his left foot. Coyle hit the ground and lay as flat as possible on the wet grass. “Hey asshole,” said a faceless voice in the darkness. “Get your butt in here. You’re giving away our position.”

“Sorry,” said Coyle to the voice. “Which way do I go?”

“There’s an opening in the fence five meters to your left.”

“Got it.”

Coyle crawled to the opening and entered the perimeter. He crawled to the closest trench and slithered over the side. There was a dead Legionnaire on the floor of the trench.

“This way,” said the voice.

Coyle hunched over below the edge of the trench and walked in the direction of the voice. He stepped carefully over the Legionnaire’s body but accidentally stepped on his hand. “Hey, you bastard. Watch where you are stepping,” said the Legionnaire.

“Sorry,” said Coyle. “I thought you were dead.”

“Not yet,” said the Legionnaire.

The Legionnaire lying on the bottom of the trench was using a homemade geophone--built from his mess kit and a stethoscope borrowed from the field hospital--to listen to the ground. “Little yellow bastards dig an assault trench, and we build a countertrench to cut them off. You’d think we were gophers.”

The Legionnaire heard something through the geophone and motioned for Coyle to be quiet. The Legionnaire listened to the sound of digging and determined the direction. He motioned the direction to his men, and they went to work digging their countertrench. Sergeant Rouzic, one of the few survivors of Beatrice, stepped forward from the shadows of the trench. “Cat and mouse with shovels, yes?” he said. “You are an American pilot?”

“Yeah. I fly a boxcar,” said Coyle.

“A boxcar?”

“A plane. A big one.”

“Ah, yes. You are lost?”

“Yeah, I guess. Can’t get my bearings too well in the dark.”

“The airfield is that way,” said Sergeant Rouzic, pointing in the direction Coyle had just come.

“No. Not the airfield. I am looking for Brigitte Friang.”

“Ah, yes. The journalist. She is over at the field hospital near the command bunker,” said the sergeant, pointing in the opposite direction.

“Oh my god, is she hurt?”

“No, no. The hospital is overcrowded with wounded. She volunteered to help.”

Coyle was surprised when the dirt wall next to him started to crumble and fall away. Sergeant Rouzic pulled a grenade from his pocket and motioned for Coyle to keep quiet and get out of the way. Several Legionnaires moved up beside the sergeant and readied their weapons. More dirt fell away, and the head of a Viet Minh sapper poked out of the hole. The Legionnaires opened fire and shot the enemy soldier in the face, killing him. Sergeant Rouzic pulled the pin on his grenade and pitched it down the enemy tunnel. It exploded, and several Viet Minh screamed in pain. The Legionnaires pushed past the dead soldier and entered the enemy trench, firing their rifles and submachine guns and throwing grenades. “Good luck, Yankee,” said Rouzic as he followed his men disappearing into the darkness. Coyle was alone. He walked down the French trench in the direction the sergeant had pointed.

 

 

Coyle moved past a line of wounded soldiers waiting for treatment as he entered the garrison’s field hospital. The smell of rotting flesh, loose bowels, and vomit hit him like a hammer, nauseating him. Wounded leaned against the tunnel wall and lay on a floor made muddy from blood. A doctor, assisted by Nurse Guinevere, worked to save the life of a seriously wounded soldier who’d lost an arm and a portion of his chest from an enemy mortar shell. He died. The doctor went on to the next patient without any remorse. Not having slept in two days, the doctor was like a zombie, without feeling.

“Monsieur Coyle, are you hurt?” said Guinevere.

“No. I’m looking for Brigitte Friang, the journalist. They said she was here,” said Coyle.

“Ah yes. She is down that tunnel, then the second room on the left,” said Guinevere, pointing.

“Nurse, are you okay?”

“Yes, just little tired.”

“Can I help?”

“No, no. You’d just be in the way. I’ve got it. You go find Brigitte. She needs a rest.”

Coyle looked around at the chaos. “I guess it can’t get much worse,” said Coyle.

“Oh no, Monsieur Coyle,” said Guinevere, “it can get much worse.”

 

Coyle found Brigitte in a small room dug off the main tunnel. She was kneeling next to a Legionnaire who was burning up with fever from a gangrenous leg wound. “Mother,” said the Legionnaire.

“Shhh. I am right here,” said Brigitte, cleaning the sweat off his face and chest with a cool washcloth.

“I’m so cold. I heard men crying.”

“It’s just the crows outside the window. You’re safe at home with me.”

“And papa?”

“He’s outside cutting wood for the fire. You need to sleep now. Everything will be better in the morning.”

The Legionnaire closed his eyes and fell back to sleep. She turned to see Coyle in the doorway. She rose and walked into his arms. “Take me away from here,” she whispered.

 

 

The night was waning. Coyle held Brigitte close as they sat against the living room wall of the mayor’s mansion. “I’ve got to get back to the airfield. We could use a nurse for the flight back,” said Coyle.

“I can’t leave, Coyle,” said Brigitte.

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Does it matter?”

“I suppose not. I could stay.”

“It’s not your war. Besides, the garrison needs you to keep flying supplies and reinforcements. We’re short on pilots.”

“I suppose I’d better get going, then.”

Coyle and Brigitte rose. Coyle hugged her tight and kissed the top of the head. “Take care,” said Coyle.

Brigitte pulled his face closer and kissed him passionately. He wasn’t sure if she loved him or she just needed the feel of another human. He didn’t care and kissed her back. They broke their embrace and Coyle left.

 

 

A jeep pulled onto the runway and stopped in front of Coyle’s C-119. General De Castries stepped out along with Paule Bourgeade, his 28-year-old secretary. “I don’t understand why I need to go,” said Paule.

“You are twenty-eight and invincible. Of course, you do not understand,” said De Castries, taking her by the arm and escorting her to the aircraft.

“My life is no more valuable than any of the men fighting here.”

“To you, maybe not. But to me…”

De Castries turned to McGoon, who was finishing the preflight check.

“Monsieur, do you have room for one more?” said De Castries.

“Well, it don’t look like she weighs more than a feather pillow, but it ain’t up to me to say. You’ll have to ask the pilot,” said McGoon, pointing up to the cockpit where Coyle was already sitting.

“This is ridiculous. If they can take me, they can take another wounded soldier instead,” said Paule.

“You’re going. That’s all there is to it,” said De Castries.

“Monsieur,” said De Castries, waving his arm to get Coyle’s attention.

Coyle opened the side windshield and said, “What can I do for you, General?”

“If you would be so kind as to take my secretary back to Hanoi with you?”

“Sure. She can sit in the navigator’s seat. It’s empty.”

“General, please…” said Paule.

“Get on the damn plane, Paule,” said De Castries.

Paule knew that tone in his voice, and what would follow was not something she wished to experience. She had lost the argument. She boarded the plane.

 

 

It was sunny and hot at Cat Bi airfield. There was no sign of the afternoon rain that normally cooled down the heat of the day. A messenger ran across the tarmac to a waiting French fighter with its engine already running. He climbed up the side of the aircraft, stood on the wing and handed the pilot a canvas bag marked “Top Secret.” He climbed down and moved off as the pilot shut his cockpit windshield and taxied to the runway. The fighter took off and banked hard toward the valley of Dien Bien Phu. The pilot hated the intelligence missions to deliver reconnaissance photos, even if they were important. It was a waste of his talent and just as risky as a combat mission. He was a well-trained warrior, not a delivery boy.

 

 

The French fighter climbed over the mountaintop and swooped down into the valley. The pilot opened his cockpit windshield and prepared to drop the canvas bag as he approached the garrison. A flak shell exploded off his left wing. It surprised the pilot and he acted instinctively, grabbing the stick with both hands and pitching the aircraft hard to one side to avoid the flak shell he knew would follow the first. The momentum of the aircraft’s spin carried the canvas bag out of the open cockpit. The pilot grabbed for it, but it was too late. It dropped to the earth below.

 

A Viet Minh rifleman sat in his trench, finishing his daily bowl of rice and fish sauce. He heard a dull thump behind him. He turned around and saw the canvas bag sticking in the mud at the bottom of the trench. He could tell that it was French by the writing printed on the outside. He didn’t know what it meant because he couldn’t read, but he thought it might be important. After all, it came from the heavens. He would take it to his commanding officer once he had finished his meal.

 

 

Standing in his command tent, General Giap examined the French reconnaissance photos. They showed the entire valley in fine detail, including the French trenches and, most importantly, the French artillery pits. He turned to the Colonel that had brought the photos and said, “You say they were dropped from a passing plane?”

“Yes, general. One of our men found them,” said the Colonel. “We believe it is a trick. The French are hoping to fool us with fake photos to convince our leaders into attacking the wrong areas. I was going to destroy them, but thought I should show you first.”

“A wise decision, Colonel. Are these the current positions of our trenches?”

“Yes, sir. As of yesterday.”

“Incredible.”

“Sir?”

“Colonel, when fate offers you a gift, it is best not to refuse it,” said Giap. “Have copies made for our artillery commanders.

 

 

On strongpoint Huguette, a French gun crew worked in an open artillery pit half-filled with mud and water. One of their four 155mm cannons had already been damaged beyond repair by a Viet Minh artillery shell. A second gun was of little use, leaking oil from a burst gasket on its recoil piston. A third gun had been fired so many times, its barrel had been bored smooth and was no longer capable of spinning the shells it fired, reducing its accuracy to nil.

The gun crew heard the familiar whistling rush of multiple artillery shells descending on their position. A very accurate barrage rained down. The explosions inside the open pit killed the entire gun crew and destroyed all the remaining artillery guns. Fate had tipped the scales toward the Viet Minh.

 

 

With few French artillery guns remaining in the valley and the supply of unused shells dangerously low, the Air Force was called in to retaliate against the Viet Minh artillery assault. French spotters had identified several enemy gun positions on one of the surrounding mountains. The French no longer used bombs to take out the Viet Minh artillery positions. The encasements were too well built, and capable of withstanding even the largest French munitions. The Air Force settled on a new tactic that seemed to have varying degrees of success. The Bearcat fighters flew low across the valley floor and used their under-the-wing rockets to pierce the enemy encasements. The rockets entered the gun encasement on the front of the mountainside and destroyed the enemy artillery, along with its gun crew. It was a difficult shot, but the Bearcat pilots became more and more effective in the tactic as the battle continued.

 

The Viet Minh artillery commander suspected the French would use their aircraft to retaliate against his barrage. He purposely used his artillery guns on one mountainside and no others. He had his gun crews coat the inside of each barrel with a thin layer of gunpowder so they would give off an extra bright flash when fired and could be easily spotted by the French. He wasn’t surprised when he heard the approaching drone of the French fighter engines. He was prepared for them.

 

The squadron of Bearcats flew over the mountaintop and swooped down into the valley. The pilots banked hard and turned their fighters towards the mountain. They flew low and lined up their sights. The Viet Minh had moved six anti-aircraft guns into the valley and formed a hidden defensive line in front of the mountain. The tactic worked as planned. The French Bearcats flew right above the anti-aircraft guns and the gun crews opened fire. Three Bearcats were blown out of the sky before the French squadron commander realized what was happening and broke off the attack.

 

 

It was day, and the sky was cloudless. The Legionnaires on strongpoint Isabel had been surrounded by the Viet Minh soon after the attack on Beatrice and were cut off from the French supply lines. Their hillside was 5 kilometers to the south of the main garrison, and they were slowly starving to death. Isabel had a small auxiliary airstrip that was now outside their perimeter, and therefore useless for resupply. Ammunition was becoming a problem as several of the strongpoint’s mortars had run out of shells.

Even with strict rationing, it had been over a week since the soldiers within Isabel’s perimeter had eaten their last meal. Water was also in short supply and the men suffered from the hot sun and the humidity that seemed to wring their bodies of moisture. Their lips were cracked, their faces burned and their tongues swollen. Disease accompanied their starvation as their bodies lost the energy to fight off bacteria. Many of the soldiers developed fevers and infections from the smallest of wounds. The battalion field hospital was well beyond its limit with wounded and sick. But even in their worsened condition, the Legionnaires would not yield and continued to fight off the nightly harassing attacks by the Viet Minh.

 

 

Langlais entered De Castries’ Command bunker. The garrison staff was busy, moving quickly from one task to another, but strangely quiet and whispering. Langlais found De Castries sitting with his head resting on the table with a map of the valley. He was asleep.

“General?” said Langlais.

De Castries woke and realized he had fallen asleep. The strain of command and exhaustion were evident. He straightened his uniform. “Yes, Colonel,” said De Castries.

“Sir, Colonel Lalande and the Legionnaires on Isabel haven’t received any supplies in over a week. They are starving and almost out of ammunition.”

“What about the airdrops I requested?”

Langlais spoke slower than normal and felt the need to repeat facts that he knew De Castries had already heard, but may not be remembering.

“As you know, our Air Force has lost a large number of aircraft and crews to the enemy’s anti-aircraft guns. General Dechaux has placed a twelve thousand-foot floor for flight operations over the valley. At that altitude, the enemy receives more of our supplies than our troops. The enemy has captured several of our artillery guns and heavy mortars from the three strongpoints that have fallen. They are using our own artillery and mortar shells against us. Airdrops are no longer an option.”

“What do you suggest, Colonel?” said De Castries.

“We need to resupply by land. A truck convoy. My men can protect—“

“Not your men, Colonel,” said De Castries, cutting Langlais off. “The paratroopers must be reserved for capturing positions and offensive operations.”

“Offensive operations? Sir, with all due respect, if we lose Isabel, we lose the garrison’s southern anchor. The Viet Minh will have us surrounded. And once they do, they will consolidate their forces and attack us in full force. That cannot be allowed. We must save Isabel.”

“And we will, but not with paratroopers. Send a company from Group Mobile 9 to protect the convoy.”

“Sir, Colonel Gaucher and his men were wiped out on Beatrice. Group Mobile 9 no longer exists,” said Langlais.

“Yes, of course. I just…” said De Castries, struggling to remember. “Look, Colonel, I don’t care who you send, just not your paratroopers.”

“Sir, my men stand the best chance of breaking through to Isabel.”

“I don’t have time to argue with you, Colonel,” said De Castries losing his temper. “You have your orders.”

“Yes, sir,” said Langlais. He snapped to attention, saluted, and left.

Exiting the bunker, Langlais stopped and pulled out his last pack of cigarettes. His face revealed the deep concerns he had about the mental fitness of this commanding officer, and his ability to direct the defense of the garrison.

 

 

It was first light in a grey morning sky. Major Sudat and his engineers were just finishing their nightly repairs on the garrison’s main runway. They were exhausted but felt like they were making real progress. They had widened the runway, making it safer to land, and most of the damage to the perforated steel plates had been cut away and repaired. A hanging mist still protected them from being spotted by the Viet Minh patrols. The major thought it strange that he hadn’t heard any enemy patrol since 4 a.m. He heard a cacophony of cracks in the distance. It was a sound he knew only too well. “Down!” he shouted and hit the ground with his men.

The entire arsenal of Viet Minh artillery and mortars had fired in unison. The shells rained down on the airfield with an incredible thunder. The runway exploded in a torrent of steel and dirt. Several engineers were shredded and hurled through the air when a 120mm mortar shell landed next to them. Most of the enemy shells exploded on impact. A few were French shells captured during the air drops and had time-delayed fuses that allowed them to bury themselves deep in the earth and then explode a few seconds later. The results were craters as deep as a man.

The shelling stopped almost as soon as it began. It was only one volley, but that was enough. Sudat and his men stood up and looked out at the airfield. All their work had been destroyed in less than a minute. Dozens of craters. Steel plates were torn and bent skyward. The airfield was again closed. No more supplies or reinforcements could be flown into the garrison.

 

 

It was late afternoon, and the sky was cloudless. No rain in sight to relieve the men in the garrison from the heat and humidity. Three C-47s flew over the mountains and into the valley. They dove downward to 600 feet. Their cargo was a company of paratroopers led by Captain Botella. Three drop zones on strongpoint Elaine were to be used to split the enemy’s fire. The paratroopers would jump low and only have 30 seconds in the air. The hope was a reduction in casualties from enemy fire. The enemy anti-aircraft guns thundered. Hundreds of black puffs of smoke surrounded the three aircraft. The aircraft took numerous hits before reaching the drop zones. In one of the planes, three paratroopers and a jumpmaster were killed when an anti-aircraft shell exploded just as the jumpmaster opened the cargo door.

The veteran paratroopers knew a low jump was risky but preferred it to hanging like a Christmas ornament as the Viet Minh ground troopers took potshots at them in the air. The recent recruits were more nervous and prone to mistakes. Their sergeants watched them carefully and reminded them several times what to do once they left the aircraft. A slap in the face was not uncommon if a newbie wasn’t paying enough attention. All the paratroopers jumped clean except for a young private. When it came to his turn to jump, he panicked and yanked on his parachute’s main handle instead of waiting for the static line to open the parachute. His parachute opened too soon and caught on the plane’s tail stabilizer. The plane dragged him like a puppet until his parachute finally ripped and he fell to his death.

 

With their passengers gone, the pilots of the three C-47s throttled up their engines to gain altitude. It was all about altitude over the valley. Once the French aircraft hit nine thousand four hundred feet, the Viet Minh anti-aircraft guns could no longer hit them with any measure of accuracy, and at fourteen thousand feet, the enemy shells self-detonated. The higher they rose, the safer they’d be. That was the thinking. They thought wrong. As they rose, anti-aircraft guns spread throughout the valley were able to spot them. They opened fire, and the puffs of black smoke increased as they flew higher. At fifteen hundred feet, one of the C-47s was hit twice in the space of a few seconds. The first shell hit the aircraft’s tail and tore into the rudder. The second shell exploded in front of the starboard engine and pelted it with molten fragments of metal. The engine burst into flames. The pilot had no choice but to feather the prop on the burning engine and cut off the fuel in hopes the fire would burn out and allow him to restart it later. The aircraft slowed and lost altitude. As it descended back toward the valley, the anti-aircraft gun crews were merciless, like a pack of hyenas that had culled an injured gazelle. The aircraft’s crew was killed by shrapnel and the plane crashed into a rice paddy.

 

The paratroopers landed on the three drop zones and scrambled to reunite with their comrades. The enemy fire was fierce. Several paratroopers were killed and wounded as a Viet Minh mortar found a sweet spot in the middle of a rifle squad that had just regrouped. The paratroopers moved up the hillside to the position they had been assigned. They had traded the weight of their entrenching tools for more ammunition, which they were assured they would need. They used helmets and rifle butts to dig temporary foxholes. The company had lost twelve paratroopers, equaling 10% of their fighting strength, in the first ten minutes of battle in the valley. It was an eye-opening experience for the new recruits, and not one they would soon forget.

 

 

Lieutenant Alain Gambiez commanded the company of Algerian Legionnaires charged with breaking the siege around strongpoint Isabel. He was twenty-three-years-old and the son of a general, Navarre’s Chief of Staff. This was his first command of a company, but his inexperience didn’t make him timid. He was aggressive and wasn’t afraid to “kick some ass” when his men required it. He knew what was expected of him, and was determined to complete his mission. He was his father’s son.

It was early morning, and the Legionnaires had already been traveling for several hours. A light fog masked their movement and the movements of their enemy. French scouts patrolled ahead. The convoy of trucks was escorted on either side by two columns of riflemen and made use of a dry riverbed for additional cover. Reaching the closest point to the hill on which the strongpoint was located, the convoy emerged from the riverbed and drove back onto the road. Lieutenant Gambiez knew that if they were to be attacked, this place, with its open ground, would be perfect for an enemy ambush. The fog was beginning to lift as the temperature rose with the sun. Soon, the convoy would be exposed.

 

Colonel Lalande was strongpoint Isabel’s commander, and he watched the approaching convoy through a pair of binoculars. His radioman, a corporal, was by his side and looked out at the convoy. “Will they have food, Colonel?” asked the corporal.

“Yes,” said Lalande. “And ammunition.”

 

The Legionnaires escorting the convoy tensed and kept a sharp eye out for the enemy as the trucks crossed the last 300 yards of open ground to the French perimeter on Isabel. The convoy was forced to stop when the company’s scouts encountered multiple enemy ditches carved into the road. Seeing no way around, Lieutenant Gambiez ordered one of his platoons to fill in the trenches enough for the trucks to pass.

A recoilless rifle shell fired from a hidden position and hit the lead truck, blowing it apart and destroying the badly needed supplies and ammunition. The lieutenant ordered one of his platoons forward to attack the Viet Minh firing position and pin down the gun crew before they could destroy more trucks.

Just as the lieutenant and his men overran the first recoilless gun position, two more trucks exploded from shells fired from the opposite side of the convoy. Heavy machine guns from Viet Minh trenches at the base of the hillside opened fire on the Algerian Legionnaires and the convoy. The Viet Minh had formed a reverse wedge to trap the convoy they knew would eventually come to relieve the strongpoint. The French had driven into the center of the wedge and were now paying the price for their recklessness.

Lieutenant Gambiez and his men were cut off from the convoy by the enemy machine guns. The Legionnaires kept firing as they backed up the hillside toward the safety of the French trenches on Isabel. Lieutenant Gambiez was hit in the knee and crumpled to the ground. The bullet had struck an artery and he was bleeding badly. His kneecap was shattered, making it impossible to walk. It hurt like hell, but he hushed his scream to a moan. Two Algerian Legionnaires picked up their commander and carried him to a French trench on the hillside. A quick-thinking Legionnaire pulled off his web belt and used his bayonet to make a tourniquet above the lieutenant’s knee. The bleeding slowed, and the Legionnaires carried their lieutenant up the hillside to the strongpoint’s field hospital.

 

Below the hill, the rest of the Algerian Legionnaires escorting the convoy were badly mauled by the Viet Minh. The convoy had no choice but to retreat or be destroyed, and the Algerians reluctantly gave up the field to the Viet Minh.

 

The Legionnaires on Isabel were ordered to cease fire by Colonel Lalande when he saw the convoy retreating. He and his men needed to conserve the little ammunition they had left. Lalande and his radioman looked down at the burning trucks with sadness. The suffering of the Legionnaires on Isabel would continue.

 

In great pain, Lieutenant Gambiez was carried into the field hospital. Dr. Rezillot, the battalion surgeon, went to work on the lieutenant’s wound. It was too dangerous to give the lieutenant morphine with such a high amount of blood loss. Mercifully, the lieutenant fainted. The doctor cut open the flesh around the knee and clamped the bleeding artery. Without repairing the damaged artery, the lieutenant would most likely lose his leg, but the doctor didn’t dare operate further for fear of more blood loss. The doctor checked the lieutenant’s vital signs. His blood pressure was very weak. He looked at the blood type on the lieutenant’s dog tags. It was the same as his own. The doctor attached a needle to a rubber tube and another needle on the opposite end. He plunged a needle into the lieutenant’s arm, and then the other needle into his own. He squeezed his fist in a rhythmic pumping and gave the lieutenant a direct transfusion of blood. He gave the lieutenant as much blood as he dared without becoming faint himself. There were others that needed him, and he was already anemic from lack of nourishment.

 

 

Navarre’s Chief of Staff, Lieutenant General Fernand Gambiez, was at his desk, managing the daily mountain of paperwork required to run an army. A messenger delivered a cable to the general. He opened it like he had opened the dozen other cables he had received that day, but this one stopped him cold in his tracks. The cable read that his son had been seriously wounded and was in the field hospital on strongpoint Isabel, still under siege. The general was numb and found it hard to breathe as if someone was standing on his chest. A passing captain saw the look on his face, “General, are you okay?”

General Gambiez thought for a moment before answering the captain, “Yes, Captain. I’m fine.”

Unsure, the captain moved off, leaving the general to his thoughts, which would later become his nightmares.

 

 

General Gambiez stood by General Navarre as his commander finished signing a stack of orders. “Thank you, Fernand,” said Navarre, with his usual cold politeness.

General Gambiez took the stack of signed orders, placed them in a folder, and walked to the door. “Fernand, any word on your son?” said Navarre.

“I am assured he is still alive,” said General Gambiez.

“I have been informed that they will be mounting another attempt to break the siege. I am sure he will be one of the first to be evacuated.”

“Any idea when?”

“I’m not sure. There seems to be some uncertainty on the matter, but soon, I would imagine.”

“Soon may cost him his leg.”

“Yes, I heard. Bad luck nicking an artery.”

“Sir?”

“Yes, Fernand?”

“There is still an option to land a small plane on the auxiliary airstrip. He could be evacuated.”

“I’m afraid the airstrip is outside the perimeter, and the Legionnaires are low on ammunition. It would cost too many lives and resources to secure it without a resupply first.”

“I understand, sir. It was just a thought. Let’s hope they break the siege.”

General Gambiez exited. Navarre thought for a moment and picked up the phone to his secretary sitting right outside the door, “Sergeant, the request for resupply by De Castries… there were two field radios. Where were they to be sent within the garrison?”

“Yes, general. An additional set for garrison command, and one to replace a damaged set on Isabel.”

“Get me General Dechaux, Sergeant.”

“Right away, sir.”

Navarre pulled a piece of stationery from his desk and started to write by hand. He stopped and thought for a moment and tore up the letter. He opened another drawer, pulled out a blank piece of paper, and started writing again. His phone rang and he picked it up, “General, I just received a request for two field radio sets for the garrison. It is critical that they receive these radios.”

“We’ll make sure they make it out in the next airdrop,” said Dechaux.

“No, General. We cannot risk them being damaged or lost to the enemy. What about flying them in?”

“Landing at the garrison’s airfield until it is repaired would be suicide.”

“I see. What about landing it on Isabel’s airfield? The pilot could take the back route and fly over the southern mountains, where the enemy’s anti-aircraft guns are fewer.”

“That might work, but the auxiliary airfield on Isabel is still in no man’s land.”

“Use a helicopter. It can land inside the perimeter, can it not?”

“Yes, sir. It can.”

“See to it, General.”

“Yes, sir.”

Navarre hung up the phone and finished his handwritten letter.

 

 

Two field radio sets, along with twenty ammunition cases and sixteen cases of food rations, were loaded into a Sikorsky H-19 Chickasaw helicopter, another American hand-me-down, its rotors already spinning. A messenger from a C-47 that had just landed exited the aircraft and ran over to the helicopter. He handed a sealed envelope addressed to Dr. Rezillot to the helicopter’s co-pilot. “It’s from the C and C. Make sure the doctor reads it or it’s your ass,” said the messenger.

“Will do,” said the co-pilot.

The messenger stepped back. The pilot twisted the collective next to his seat and throttled up the engine. Once the blades were at speed, he pulled up on the collective, changing the blades’ angle of attack, and the helicopter took off.

 

 

The H-19 helicopter swooped over the mountains, hugging the treetops at full speed, just under 90 knots. For a helicopter, it was fast but still slower than an aircraft, which made it an easy target for nearby anti-aircraft guns. It didn’t encounter any resistance until it was a mile from Isabel, then all hell broke loose. The Viet Minh shot everything they had at the helicopter and hit it several times. It was a big beast and could take a beating. The pilot didn’t reduce his speed until he was over the French perimeter. As the helicopter flew over the hilltop, the pilot pulled back on the cyclic and flared out the aircraft, tilting it at a sharp upward angle to let the rotor slow it down. The helicopter stopped its forward momentum and hovered. He pushed down on the collective and the helicopter descended until it landed, then he twisted the collective to throttle down the engine to a slow spin. The Legionnaires cheered and ran to unload the helicopter. The co-pilot jumped out and asked the closest Legionnaire the location of the field hospital.

 

Inside the field hospital bunker, Dr. Rezillot and his medical team were preparing four seriously wounded patients for transport. The co-pilot entered, asked for the doctor, and handed him the envelope. The doctor opened the envelope and read the letter. His face showed his disdain for the contents. He walked over to one of the patients and took his vital signs. “Remove this man from the evac. His vital signs are too weak to survive the changes in altitude,” said the doctor.

“Yes, doctor,” said a medic. “Who will go in his place?”

“The lieutenant with the knee injury… Gambiez,” said the doctor. “We still may be able to save his leg if he gets treatment soon.”




The medics loaded the helicopter with the stretchers, one of which held Lieutenant Gambiez. The medics stepped back. The pilot twisted the collective to rev up the helicopter’s engine. The first mortar round hit fifteen feet in front of the helicopter’s cockpit and shattered the windshield. The medics on the ground dove for cover. The second round was a direct hit. The helicopter exploded and burst into flames, killing all those onboard, including the wounded lieutenant.

 

It was early evening and the sun had set. It was dark in General Gambiez’s office. He sat at his desk, holding the cable that informed him of his son’s death. General Navarre entered and flipped the light switch. Gambiez was surprised by his commander’s visit and stood to attention. Navarre signaled for him to sit. It was the first time in all his years of service that Gambiez had seen Navarre in his office. “I’m sorry for your loss, Fernand,” said Navarre.

“Thank you, sir.”

“I have been told by his commanders, he was a brave and faithful soldier that knew his duty.”

“He was, sir. And a good son.”

“If there is anything I can do?”

“The families, sir.”

“The families?

“Yes, sir. The families of the helicopter pilots. I’d like to write them and thank them for their sacrifice. They tried to save my son, and I think their families would be comforted by that thought.”

“Of course, General.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Navarre left the office, flipping the light switch. Gambiez was again alone and cried in the dark.

 

 

The Viet Minh artillery batteries were slowly chipping away at the French artillery batteries. The French still could not identify the locations of the Viet Minh batteries unless they were spotted by scout planes during repositioning. This only happened once. Three Viet Minh trucks each pulling a 105mm howitzer were crossing a series of rice paddies on their way to strongpoint Beatrice, which was now in the possession of the Viet Minh. A scout plane was doing a routine patrol over the mountains when the sun burned through the morning mist and the pilot spotted the small caravan. The excited pilot immediately radioed in the coordinates.

 

The artillery gun team on strongpoint Dominique received their fire mission over the radio from the nearby Fire Direction Center. The orders specified the type of ammunition, fuse setting and propelling charge, bearing, elevation, and the method of adjustment to be relayed to the team by the Forward Observer. Each gun team member knew exactly what to do and when to do it. They were a well-oiled machine that could fire up to ten rounds per minute. The howitzer’s split-frame was picked up by the team members and traversed into an approximate position. A gunner leveled the sight on the side of the gun and used it to call out adjustments to the two crew members that dialed in the final elevation and bearing by turning hand cranks. The breach on their cannon was opened and given a quick swab with a ram to clean out any excess gunpowder or dirt that might affect a clean shot or jam the shell once fired. A 105mm shell was inserted into the steel tube and the breach was closed. An assistant gunner held the lanyard taut and yanked it hard when given the order to fire. The howitzer gave out a loud crack and echo when the shell left the barrel.

One of the trucks was stuck in the middle of a rice paddy with mud covering its rear axle. When the French shells began to drop, the other two truck drivers abandoned the stuck vehicle and headed for the trees. The truck stuck in the rice paddy was the first to get hit. The French artillery shell landed in the truck’s bed, and the explosion ignited several cases of ammunition. The truck flipped up in the air, carrying the howitzer with it, and both landed upside down in the mud.

 

The French gun crews on Dominique saw the explosion and cheered. They fired three more rounds at the Viet Minh howitzer to ensure its complete destruction, then changed their focus to the other two trucks rushing to the safety of the forest.

 

As the trucks neared the tree line, the French created a wall of explosions directly in the trucks’ path, forcing them to change direction and travel back across the rice paddies. From there it was just a matter of continually cutting off the Viet Minh drivers’ escape routes until they were riding around in circles. The French gun crews took potshots until the Viet Minh drivers abandoned their trucks and fled across the rice paddies on foot. A few minutes later, the trucks and their howitzers slowly sank in the mud and were destroyed by the French guns.

 

The Viet Minh artillery commander was incensed at the loss of three of his precious 105s, and his vengeance was swift. He immediately ordered a barrage on the French artillery pits on Dominique.

 

Shells dropped on the French artillery at a rate of one per second. Dominique’s open pit gun crews were ripped to shreds. Eighty-seven highly-trained gunners and loaders died. The French artillery on the other strongpoints acted as counter-batteries and returned fire, hoping to silence the Viet Minh guns. They were unsuccessful. The bombardment of Dominique’s artillery pits went on for 30 minutes. It was a bitter rampage. Five of the remaining French 105s were destroyed, their barrels pierced by molten shards of metal from the enemy shell-bursts. The main ammunition depot on Dominique suffered a direct hit, blowing a hole the size of a building into the side of the strongpoint’s hillside. A great yellow-orange ball rose into the sky for the entire garrison to see. The ammunition lost was sorely needed and would be impossible to replace.

 

The Viet Minh had expended more than half of their available artillery shells and would need to wait until more ammunition could be captured from the French airdrops or brought up through the mountains before launching another heavy barrage. The Viet Minh artillery commander knew he would be scolded by his superiors for such an extravagance, but he felt it was worth it.

 

 

When De Castries was informed of the loss he could not believe it and went into a deep depression. He kept to himself in his bunker and did not eat, drink, or sleep for two days. When asked for orders by his staff or his field commanders, he simply replied, “Do what you think best.” The garrison was leaderless. Although the constant shelling and gunfire didn’t help, it wasn’t the noise of violence that unhinged De Castries, it was the expectations of the men under his command and his superiors. He couldn’t stand the thought of letting them down.

 

 

Warned of the situation by one of De Castries’ staff officers, Dr. Grauwin entered the command bunker unannounced and gave De Castries a quick medical exam, which was his prerogative as the chief medical officer in the garrison. It was clear De Castries was dehydrated and anemic. He immediately gave the general an IV of saline to rehydrate his body. The fluid seemed to help lift the haze from De Castries’ mind, and he became lucid and more aware of the situation he was facing. Even a commander could be relieved by a doctor that felt the officer was seriously ill or emotionally unstable. De Castries realized that as a general officer, such an event would be the end of his military career. He assured the doctor he would immediately eat and drink. He ordered the IV removed and ordered the doctor back to the hospital so he could attend to the more seriously wounded. The doctor obeyed and exited the bunker.

 

 

Langlais was aware that De Castries was not sleeping and knew that the doctor had paid him a visit. Langlais went to the hospital to check on his wounded paratroopers. While in the bunker, he made his presence known to Grauwin. His hunch paid off. Grauwin asked to speak with him in private. Langlais was not surprised when informed of De Castries’ condition and asked if the doctor would relieve De Castries on medical grounds. The doctor refused, saying that if De Castries was drinking and eating there was nothing he could do. It was not a medical emergency, and his hands were full with the wounded. Langlais understood, thanked the doctor, and left the bunker.

 

 

The command bunker was busy as the general’s staff carried on operations as best they could without clear direction. The air was stale, and filled with dust falling from the timber-reinforced ceiling every time an enemy artillery shell landed nearby. The electric bulbs overhead faded in and out with the cycles of a generator strained to its capacity.

De Castries sat on the edge of his cot, contemplating the revolver in his hand. Colonel Langlais, Bruno, and several other paratroopers entered the bunker. On seeing the colonel, De Castries let the hand holding the revolver fall to his side and rose to his feet. Bruno nodded to the radio operator and the other staff officers. They each grabbed a pack of cigarettes and left the bunker, leaving the paratroopers alone with their commander. “What is this, Colonel?” said De Castries.

“General De Castries, the Legionnaires on Strongpoint Isabel have been abandoned. Without food, water, and ammunition, Colonel Lalande’s battalion will perish and with it, the garrison’s only serviceable artillery. Sir, you are failing to grasp the seriousness of the situation. You are no longer capable of commanding,” said Langlais.

“What?” said De Castries.

“My officers and I feel it would be best if you allow us to take over all operations of the garrison.”

“Colonel, this is treason. I could have you shot.”

“Yes, sir. And I you.”

De Castries raised the revolver in his hand and aimed it at Langlais. Langlais didn’t flinch, but his officers raised their weapons and aimed them at De Castries. “God damn your soul, Pierre!” said De Castries.

“Better that one man dies than ten thousand,” said Langlais.

It was a standoff that De Castries would clearly lose. While he wasn’t afraid to die, the thought of ending his military career in a mutiny gave him pause. He wanted a way out, but he was still suffering from lack of sleep and his mind was clouded.

“Christian, nobody blames you,” said Langlais. “And nobody needs to know.”

“What do you propose, Colonel?” said De Castries.

“As far as the world knows, you will remain in command and continue to communicate with General Cogny and the general staff in Hanoi, but decisions concerning military operations and the defense of the garrison will be made by myself and my officers,” said Langlais. “Christian, let us save the garrison.”

De Castries considered the proposal and what was best for the men under his command. He recognized that he was beyond exhaustion and was not thinking clearly. He lowered his gun and nodded his acceptance. He sat back down on his cot. The mantle of command had been lifted and he was relieved. His eyes felt heavy. He just wanted to sleep. Bruno walked to the bunker doorway and called the general’s staff back inside, most of which would not make eye contact with De Castries, and secretly relieved that Langlais was now in charge. Langlais walked over to the radio operator. “Get me Captain Hervouet.”

 

 

There was a light fog over the valley and the ground was soggy. The smell of wet earth filled the countryside. It was just before sunrise when Bruno and his paratroopers took up positions against the bank of the dry riverbed below strongpoint Isabel. On the road and behind the paratroopers, three Chaffee tanks with their long cannons appeared through the fog and moved into their firing positions. The French waited patiently as the sun rose until they could spot the Viet Minh hidden in the nearby trenches and in the surrounding fields of rice.

 

The Viet Minh fired with their recoilless rifles first in a bid to take out the tanks. The first volley missed and gave away the Viet Minh positions.

The French paratroopers and the tanks returned fire and knocked out three of the four recoilless rifle positions, killing the gunners and loaders.

The Viet Minh heavy machine guns were the next to open fire and reveal their positions.

The paratroopers let the tanks take the fight to the enemy and kept low, out of the machine guns’ deadly line of fire. The tanks shelled the machine gun positions, destroying the guns and killing the gunners.

 

Ty and his mortar squad had been ordered to reinforce the Viet Minh assault against the French strongpoint. He and his men set their mortar behind the dike around a nearby rice field. They were out of the enemy’s direct line of fire, but still close enough to watch where their rounds dropped and effectively adjust their fire.

 

It was Bruno that recognized the reflection of Ty’s binoculars, spotting the French positions for his mortarmen. Bruno knew instinctively what was happening, and ordered the lieutenant of one of his platoons to send a squad and take out the mortar position.

 

The remaining recoilless rifle fired on Hervouet’s Chaffee and hit the river embankment beside it. The three tanks fired on the enemy position and destroyed the Viet Minh gun and its crew. Standing in the turret’s hatchway, Hervouet felt his tank slip sideways and saw the river embankment beside him crumble. He ducked back inside, grabbing for anything he could find to support himself. The river embankment collapsed and Hervouet’s tank with it. The tank did a complete rollover into the dry riverbed and landed on its side. Inside, Hervouet lost his grip during the rollover and had both his arms severely broken, with a bone sticking out of one of his wrists.

 

A squad of riflemen moved along the edge of the rice field, careful to keep out of sight of the enemy spotter. They moved up as far as possible without being detected. They jumped over the dike and opened fire on Ty’s mortar squad.

Only Ty survived the first volley unscathed. His men manning the mortar were dead or badly wounded. He could see clearly the French would overrun his position in a matter of seconds. There was no time to save the mortar, but he refused to abandon it to the enemy. He picked up a nearby rock and ran to the mortar as the rifle squad charged his position. He grabbed a shell from the ammunition case and slid the shell into the tube, followed by the rock on top of it. He ran like hell. The mortar round hit the pin at the bottom and ignited, launching the shell upward in the tube. The shell’s tip hit the rock and exploded, destroying the mortar and showering the approaching rifle squad with hot shrapnel. Ty was hit in the in the flesh of his left calf by a small piece of the mortar tube, but otherwise unhurt. He ran with a limp back to the safety of the forest. The French riflemen were too busy tending to their wounded to chase after him.

 

With the threat of the machine guns and mortars gone, the paratroopers climbed the river embankment and charged the Viet Minh trenches at the base of the hillside. The Viet Minh opened fire with their rifles and submachine guns, killing a dozen paratroopers as they approached.

 

From above on the hillside, the Legionnaires of Isabel joined the fight, charging downward behind the Viet Minh and leaping into their trenches. Neither side had time to reload their weapons while facing their enemy just a few feet away. The knives came out. Both sides fought hand-to-hand for over an hour.

The Viet Minh tried to reinforce their positions but were cut off by the surviving tanks’ guns and a squadron of Bearcats armed with rockets that had flown in from the airfield at Luang Prabang, Laos. Both sides took a brutal beating, but it was the Viet Minh that finally retreated. The French won the day and the siege of Isabel was lifted.

The Legionnaires on Isabel cheered the convoy and paratroopers as they unloaded the supplies they so desperately needed. It was a good day for the French. They had so few.

 

 

 

The Battle of the Five Hills

 

Ty sat in the Viet Minh aid station. A medic dug the piece of shrapnel from his calf. It was a painful procedure. The Viet Minh medics only used morphine on the worst of injuries and for officers of high rank. Ty’s commanding officer entered the aid station. Ty tried to stand at attention. The commanding officer ordered him to sit back down and let the medic finish his work. “You lost your squad and your weapon,” said the officer.

“Yes, sir,” said Ty, embarrassed.

“You spiked your mortar tube?”

“Yes, sir, with a shell and rock as I was instructed.

“Good work, Corporal. Can you still walk?”

“Yes, sir. It is not a serious wound.”

“We do not have another mortar or crew available. You are being reassigned to an engineering company. You will report as soon as you are finished here,” said the officer, handing Ty a written order.

“Thank you, sir,” said Ty, pleased. He had finally made it. He was going to be a sapper.

 

 

 

In the night sky above the valley, anti-aircraft shells exploded around a squadron of C-47s and C-119s dropping supplies and ammunition from their cargo holds. A shell burst directly below the port engine of a C-47 near the front of the squadron. Everything seemed normal until the engine exploded, tearing off the wing and sending the aircraft into a death spiral.