In the cockpit of their C-119, McGoon and Coyle watched through their windshield. “Shit. There goes Henri and his crew,” said McGoon. “You see any chutes?”

“No,” said Coyle.

“Damn. I liked Henri. Did you know he was a Dodger’s fan?”

“No.”

McGoon opened the small side window, pulled out his field revolver, and fired at the forest below. “Chew on that, ya little yellow bastards!” he said.

“You ain’t gonna hit anything,” said Coyle.

“I could get lucky… for Henri,” said McGoon.

 

The cargo crews finished the drop and closed their cargo doors. The surviving aircraft of the squadron headed for home.

 

In the valley below, Bruno and Langlais watched the parachutes carrying the crates of supplies and ammunition drop downward and land outside the perimeter. “Merde,” said Bruno.

“At this rate, the Viet Minh are getting more of our supply drops than we are,” said Bruno.

“And eating better,” said Langlais.

“I hope they choke on the pâté,” said Bruno.

The artillery barrage intensified on Huguette. Bruno and Langlais hit the ground. A large explosion on the side of Huguette’s hillside shook the ground, and a yellow and orange ball of flame rose into the air. Bruno and Langlais belly-crawled over to see what was hit. “The supply depot,” said Langlais.

The supply depot billowed out smoke and fire as the garrison’s precious supplies were engulfed in flames and lit up the night sky. The air filled with the smell of burning tobacco. “Damn, they hit the tobacco stuffs,” said Bruno.

Bruno and Langlais, both smokers, took in a deep breath and inhaled the tobacco smoke. “Giap is gnawing away at us piece by piece. Soon there will be no garrison to overrun. This has to stop,” said Langlais.

 

 

American and French pilots sat in the briefing room arguing with their commanders. “Gentlemen, the forces on the ground are doing everything in their power to eliminate the anti-aircraft positions around the airfield, but you must realize the difficulty of the situation,” said the Air Force Colonel. “We have requested flak jackets from the Americans. They should be arriving shortly.”

“Flak jackets will not keep our aircraft from being blown out of the sky,” said an American pilot.

“Five aircraft in one week and for what? Half of the supplies we drop fall into enemy territory. The enemy is using the ammunition we drop to kill Frenchmen. It is ridiculous to risk our aircraft and our lives for so little,” said a French pilot.

“You are correct. That is why Air Command is asking that we drop back down to twelve hundred feet for the next series of drops,” said the Colonel.

The crowd erupted into chaos at the news.

“That is suicide,” said an American pilot.

“Now, you’ve gone completely insane,” said the French pilot.

“It ain’t in our contract to get our asses shot off. No combat missions. That’s what it says,” said McGoon. “I say we go on strike unless we are properly compensated for the additional risk.”

“You would hold the men in the garrison hostage?” said the Colonel.

“We ain’t holding nobody hostage,” said McGoon. “It’s just a matter of risk versus reward. That’s all.”

“Twelve thousand or twelve hundred feet, it ain’t gonna make much difference. We need to put aircraft on the ground, so we can drop off essential supplies and pick up the seriously wounded,” said Coyle.

“Wait a minute, Coyle,” said McGoon. “Now you’re talking crazy.”

“Just pipe down and listen,” said Coyle. “I’ve been doing some thinking and I’ve got a plan that just might work.”

“It’s that ‘might’ part that’s got me concerned, Coyle,” said McGoon.

Coyle moved to the chalkboard and drew a diagram. “We fly a decoy plane, something with a big engine that’ll make a lot of noise and be able to skedaddle when the Viet Minh open fire with their anti-aircraft guns. We follow it with a second plane, throttle back the engines and glide in so the Viet Minh gunners can’t hear it over the first plane’s engine. We land without lights on the airfield.

“I’m sorry. Did you say, ‘land without lights?’” said McGoon.

“Okay. Maybe we keep it dark, then have the ground crew light it up just before landing,” said Coyle.

“That’s better,” said McGoon, feeling like he had contributed to Coyle’s plan.

“It can’t be any worse than landing on a carrier in the middle of the night. You’ve done that, ain’t ya?” said Coyle.

“I suppose,” said McGoon.

“We all know they got seriously wounded stacked up in the hospital and they are almost out of medical supplies. We get a plane on the ground, we’re gonna save some lives,” said Coyle.

“Only catch is, we need a couple of pilots that are crazy enough to fly both planes,” said McGoon.

“And they’d have to be good,” said Coyle, looking McGoon straight in the eye. “Real good.”

 

 

The sun set at Haiphong’s Cat Bi airfield. It was hot and humid. The sky was clear. The waning moon had already risen, giving little light to the surrounding countryside.

Coyle performed his pre-flight check on a Lockheed P-38 Lightning. It was a relic from World War II and was decommissioned near the end of the war. It had been abandoned on an airfield in Laos when it ran out of fuel after an aerial battle with the Japanese. The French Air Force was not anxious to sacrifice anymore of their aircraft on Coyle’s crazy plan. The P-38 would not be missed if it went down over Dien Bien Phu.

He had taken one of the French mechanics with him when he went to retrieve it. The engine and the hydraulics were still in fairly good shape but the tires had rotted and needed to be replaced.

Coyle knew the aircraft well. He had trained on it in San Francisco and thought it was perfect for this mission. With two 1,600 horsepower Allison V-12 piston engines, the P-38 was a fast beast, and loud. Its rocket hard points were empty to make it lighter and give it extra speed. After refueling, he had flown it back to Cat Bi Airfield. “You sure you remember how to fly that thing?” said McGoon approaching.

“Like ridin’ a bike,” said Coyle.

“I suppose.”

“I appreciate this, buddy,” said Coyle.

“I ain’t doing it for you, Coyle. We pull this off, people are going to write about it in the newspapers, maybe even the history books. We’re gonna be famous. I figure that could be worth something.”

“If we pull it off,” said Coyle, unsure.

“Ah Coyle, there ya go getting’ negative again,” said McGoon. “I swear, when we get back to the states you should audition for the role of Grumpy at that new Disneyland they’re building out in Californ-I-A. You’d be a shoe-in.”

Coyle shook McGoon’s hands and climbed into their aircraft, Coyle in the P-38 and McGoon in Coyle’s C-119. They each climbed into the cockpits. Buford sat in the co-pilot’s chair beside McGoon. Each aircraft’s engines spun to life with a deafening roar and they rolled to the runway.

 

 

It was a moonless night. The airfield at Dien Bien Phu was quiet. Distant shelling illuminated the sky and mixed with the thunder from approaching rain clouds. The two aircraft hugged the top of the last mountain before the valley. Coyle, piloting the P-38, took the lead, throttling up his engine and climbing higher. The P-38 was a twin tail and had a similar contour to the C-119. Coyle hoped to confuse the Viet Minh anti-aircraft gunners with the plane’s silhouette in the night’s sky. If the gunners, who had never seen a P-38 before, thought it was the larger C-119, they might aim higher and overshoot, thinking it was farther away.

 

McGoon, in the C-119, throttled back his engines to just above stall-speed, but enough to keep him out of the forest canopy as he descended into the valley.

 

In the forest below, the Viet Minh gunners heard the P-38’s engines, swung their anti-aircraft guns around, and waited for a target.

 

The P-38 was painted dark blue and was hard to see against the night sky. It was moving fast. The anti-aircraft guns opened fire. Coyle reached the edge of the forest in front of the airfield and swung around back over the forest. He could see the C-119 approaching in the distance. Coyle opened fire on the anti-aircraft guns hidden in the forest with his aircraft’s nose-mounted .50 caliber machine guns. The noise was thunderous and further masked the C-119’s engines.

 

Below, the anti-aircraft gunners were taken by surprise, confused by the fast-moving cargo plane shooting at them.

 

The C-119 approached the airfield, and McGoon lined up the aircraft to where he thought the runway might be.

 

A Viet Minh mortar crew shot several parachute flares into the sky and illuminated the airfield and the C-119 on final approach. The anti-aircraft guns swung around and opened fire on the slower target.

 

“Coyle, gig’s up. Get the hell out of here,” said McGoon over the radio.

 

Coyle continued to fire at the anti-aircraft guns to divert them back to his aircraft and away from the C-119.

 

“Light 'em up, boys,” said McGoon over the radio.

 

The airfield ground crew ran along two outer edges of the runway and dropped flares.

 

Only a hundred feet from the front of the runway, McGoon could see his alignment was off and he was going to miss. He pitched the C-119 hard and the wings almost scraped the ground. Back on course, he steered her back level and landed. The ground crew stomped out the flares as the C-119 passed, obscuring the runway once again.

 

With the C-119 safe, Coyle dove the P-38 down to the treetops, making it harder for the anti-aircraft crews to spot him. “That was some kinda flying, McGoon,” said Coyle over the radio.

“Not too bad yourself, Coyle,” said McGoon over his radio.

“Check on Brigitte for me, will ya, McGoon?”

“You got it, buddy.”

 

McGoon parked the C-119 in a specially prepared bunker made with extra high sandbags, and large enough to fit the massive aircraft. They pulled a camouflage net over the C-119. The net was painted the same color as the soil around the runway to further mask the aircraft from the Viet Minh artillery spotters. Ground crews unloaded the badly needed medical supplies and ammunition.

 

Envious that McGoon would see Brigitte before he did, Coyle swung his P-38 around and headed back to Hanoi.

 

 

The morning fog covered the runway. Medics and ambulance drivers loaded up the wounded into the hold of the C-119.

Buford and McGoon completed the final check of the aircraft. “All right, Buford, let’s mount up and head for home,” said McGoon. “I’m in desperate need of a visit to Mama Sing’s.”

“What’s Mama Sing’s?” said Brigitte as she walked up behind McGoon.

“Oh, it’s a bar in Hanoi,” said McGoon, embarrassed.

“Really? And here I thought it was that whore house near the river.”

“Oh, well… I wouldn’t know about that. Must be two of ‘em.”

“Oh, of course,” said Brigitte.

“I’m glad I got to see ya before we leave. How are you doing?”

“I’m fine, but who is asking?”

“Well, me… and Coyle.”

“He was flying the other plane?”

“Yeah. Crazy bastard.”

“What you did was very brave.”

“Ah, well, someone had to give it shot. Probably won’t work again, now that the Viets know what we’re doing.”

“Still, thank you. You saved many lives,” said Brigitte, standing on her tippy-toes and giving McGoon a kiss on each cheek.

“You take care of yourself, young lady,” said McGoon.

“I will. And give Coyle my love.”

“Your love?”

“Yes. Life is too short not to love, yes?”

“Yes. He ain’t gonna be much use for the next couple of days once he hears it, but all right. I’ll tell ‘im.”

“Take care, McGoon.”

“Always do.”

McGoon climbed into the C-119, waved goodbye one last time to Brigitte, and closed the cockpit door. The back doors on the cargo hold shut, and the C-119’s engines cranked to life. Still covered in fog, the C-119 lifted off the runway, climbed to twelve thousand feet, and returned to Hanoi without incident.

 

 

General Navarre was sitting on the patio of his command headquarters finishing his morning coffee and going over reports. Captain Pouget walked out onto the patio, picked up the phone extension, and brought it over to the table. “Excuse me, sir. The phone is for you. It’s General Cogny calling.”

“Very well,” said Navarre.

Captain Pouget went back inside. Navarre took a final sip of coffee before picking up the receiver. “Good morning, Rene. How are things?”

“Good morning, sir. I am afraid we have lost another strongpoint at the garrison. Anne-Marie has fallen. The Thai colonials abandoned their positions late last night, leaving the hilltop defenseless except for a few French officers. The officers had no choice but to retire the position or be taken prisoner.”

“You assured me that the Thai were reliable,” said Navarre, incensed.

“They were, sir… until we abandoned Lao Chau.”

“It was Viet Minh that killed their families, not the French.”

“Yes, but it was the French that had promised to protect their families. Viet Minh spies from the villages in the valley have been handing out leaflets to the Thai patrols. The leaflets question the French loyalty to the Thai and say we would not defend their villages when attacked again. The Viet Minh promised leniency to their families if the Thai put down their arms. It was a compelling argument.”

“And the French officers, did they try to stop them?”

“Of course, sir. But it was a mutiny of the entire battalion. Summary execution would only have angered the Thai and encouraged them to join the Viet Minh rather than just going home to protect their families.”

“Pragmatic in the face of defeat, I suppose,” said Navarre.

“There’s more bad news to report, sir.”

Navarre sighed and said, “Continue.”

“In addition to Anne-Marie and Gabrielle, the Viet Minh have retaken possession of Beatrice. Once the Viet Minh move up their artillery and heavy mortars, they will be able to hit our farthest positions on the garrison.”

“And the counterattacks?”

“There won’t be any, sir.”

“Why, in God’s name?”

“Without a steady supply of reinforcements and supplies, General De Castries feels it would be too risky.”

"Leaving the strongpoints in the enemy’s hands is risky.”

“Of course, sir,” said Cogny.

“And what is the current disposition of the enemy forces?”

“The Viet Minh are busy digging assault trenches in front of strongpoints Dominique and Elaine, sir. I believe it is only a matter of a few days before their assault begins,” said Cogny. “General, perhaps it is time to reconsider Operation Condor?”

“We’ve been through this, Rene. Colonel Godard’s battalion is needed to pin down the enemy’s flank and prevent any backdoor invasion of Laos.”

“I understand, sir. It’s just with the three strongpoints now gone, the Viet Minh are sure to move up their anti-aircraft guns so they can fire directly on the airfield at close range. If the airfield is cut off…”

“Then we will resupply the garrison by airdrop.”

“Yes, General, but it’s the reinforcements that concern me. Almost all of our paratroopers are already in the valley. We only have one brigade of paratroopers in reserve. Giap’s artillery is putting tremendous pressure on the garrison, and we’ve already lost over four thousand men. The garrison cannot continue to fight without reinforcements, and for that, we need the airfield.”

“I agree that the airfield is key, Rene. But we must plan for all possible scenarios. Dien Bien Phu is not our only battlefield.”

“Exactly, sir. So, I was thinking, we could send Colonel Godard’s battalion by way of Nam Ou and then through the limestone pass. That would continue to cut off any possible enemy route to Laos while his forces were on the move. Even if Godard’s battalion never made it all the way into the valley, Giap would be forced to respond, and that could relieve the pressure enough to allow us to reinforce the garrison at Dien Bien Phu and mount an effective counterattack. It would be a feint before a lunge if you will.”

“Can the engineers repair the airfield?”

“It’s pretty badly torn up, but the chief of engineers assures me it can be repaired if there is a letup from the enemy artillery and his men can work freely.”

“Very well, Rene. You can have your battalion, but if they are in danger of being overrun, Godard and his men must return to their garrison near the Laos border. We cannot afford to lose them.”

“I agree. General, one last thing before you go. Perhaps we should draw up a break-out plan should the garrison be in danger of falling to the enemy? A worst-case scenario, for sure.”

“But prudent,” said Navarre. “Draw up your plan. But remember, Rene… as long as our forces continue to fight in Dien Bien Phu, they are tying down five divisions of Ho Chi Minh’s best soldiers. Divisions that cannot be used to attack our forces in the Red River Delta, Laos, and other key points vital to our survival. Yes, we have sustained heavy losses, but so has the enemy, and they will continue to lose men until the end.”

“And so will we, sir,” said Cogny.

“Victory rarely comes without sacrifice,” said Navarre.

“So, the men at Dien Bien Phu are to be sacrificed for the greater good?”

“I did not say that,” said Navarre with a sharp tone. “Honestly, sometimes I question where your loyalties lie.”

“With France, sir. Always with France,” said Cogny.

This was not what Navarre was hoping to hear from his key commanding general. Navarre knew that when it was over, win, lose or draw, the story of Operation Castor would be told. He wanted to ensure it was his version of events that prevailed.

 

 

It was raining over the valley, and visibility was at a minimum. Coyle and McGoon flew in Coyle’s new C-119 just below the clouds and studied the terrain below, comparing it to their maps and recon photos.

“Have you given any more thought to what you’re gonna call her?” said McGoon.

“Call her?” said Coyle.

“Your plane, Coyle.”

“Haven’t really given it much thought.”

“It’s bad luck not to name her.”

“Well, I guess I better get on it, then. I suppose I could name her after my mom.”

“Oh, that’s inspiring.”

“I like my mom.”

“I think you’re missing the point.”

“How about ‘Brigitte?’”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“It’s about inspiration, Coyle. Her boobs aren’t big enough.”

“They’re bigger than a champagne glass.”

“Really?”

“I’m not having this conversation with you,” said Coyle.

“There it is… I think,” said McGoon, pointing to a hillside.

“You’re the bird dog,” said Coyle.

McGoon picked up the radio and told Kim-ly to prepare for the drop.

The cargo doors on the back of the aircraft opened and Kim-ly released the parachute pallets from their restraining cables. Kim-ly and his assistant loadmaster pushed the pallets along the deck rollers to the end of the hold. The buzzer sounded and the cargo light turned green. Kim-ly and his assistant loadmaster pushed the pallets out as fast as possible. The pallets dropped one-by-one over the edge and their static lines snapped tight, releasing their parachutes. Just as the crew pushed the last pallet toward the back, a shell from an anti-aircraft gun in the valley below exploded near the open doorway. The red-hot shrapnel from the shell-burst hit Kim-ly in the chest, killing him instantly.

In the cockpit, Coyle and McGoon saw the flak exploding around the aircraft. The right pane of the front windshield cracked from the impact of a small piece of shrapnel, surprising McGoon. He checked his face and chest for possible injuries. There were none.

“Shit. They’ve got our altitude,” said Coyle.

Knowing instinctively Coyle’s next move, McGoon grabbed the radio and warned the cargo crew, “Hang on, boys. It’s gonna be a rough one.”

Coyle banked the aircraft to one side to break away from their flight path and shake loose the anti-aircraft gunner’s line of fire. With the rear cargo doors open, the aircraft was sluggish.

The last pallet rolled out of the doorway at an angle, along with Kim-ly’s lifeless body. His safety line dangled the body out the back of the plane like a tailless kite dancing in the wind.

“Get those doors closed. We need altitude,” said McGoon over the radio.

The assistant loadmaster removed a folding knife from his flight suit and cut the safety line, freeing Kim-ly’s body to fall to the earth. He was saddened by the loss of his boss and closed the doors.

The C-119 rose into the safety of the clouds and disappeared.

 

Most the pallets of supplies and ammunition floated down and landed safely on the strongpoint’s landing zone. It was a good drop. The last pallet was off course and landed outside the strongpoint’s perimeter in no-man’s land. The two crates on the pallet were marked, “VINOGEL – WINE CONCENTRATE.”

 

 

As was the tradition in the French Foreign Legion, April 30th was Camarón Day- the annual celebration commemorating the siege of 65 Legionnaires in a hacienda in Camarón de Tejeda, Veracruz, Mexico. The conduct of the Legionnaires, who refused to surrender to a Mexican force of over 3,000, led to the Legion’s mystique and became synonymous with bravery and a fight-to-the-death attitude.

It was well after sunset and the light was fading fast. Bruno and a squad of paratroopers accompanied Brigitte to the command center on strongpoint Elaine, where she had been invited to join the festivities. Hiking up the hillside, Bruno and Brigitte passed the trench where Sergeant Rouzic and the other survivors of Beatrice had been stationed. The Legionnaires looked anything but festive.

“Sergeant Rouzic, what’s wrong?” said Brigitte.

“Those damned American pilots dropped our supply of wine outside the perimeter and we have nothing to celebrate with,” said Sergeant Rouzic.

“So, let’s go get it,” said Bruno.

“That’s crazy, Bruno. It’s just wine,” said Brigitte.

“No. Camarón Day is a matter of honor for the Legion,” said Bruno.

“You’re a paratrooper,” said Brigitte.

“Yes, but that’s French wine and the enemy will recover it if we do not. This I cannot tolerate,” said Bruno. “Sergeant, will you accompany me for a little stroll into no man’s land?”

“It would be my honor,” said Sergeant Rouzic, emptying several rucksacks.

The two men crouched down low as they moved toward the perimeter. “Idiots,” said Brigitte, and followed them.

 

Brigitte and the squad of paratroopers climbed down into the closest trench to the perimeter and watched as Bruno and Sergeant Rouzic belly-crawled beneath the barbed wire. They crept over to the lost pallet, thirty feet into the no man’s land between the French and the Viet Minh trenches, and broke open the wooden side of one of the crates. They pulled out the cans of wine concentrate and stuffed as much as they could carry into the rucksacks.

A mortar-launched flare ignited overhead, illuminating the battlefield. A Viet Minh machine gun opened fire at Bruno and Sergeant Rouzic as they scrambled back to the French perimeter. The Legionnaires and paratroopers in the trenches returned fire. Bruno was the first to make it through the wire. Sergeant Rouzic’s rucksack was snagged in the wire, but he refused to abandon it. Bruno crawled back to help him and was hit in the hand by a Viet Minh bullet, which blew off his index finger. Bruno searched the mud for his severed finger. Sergeant Rouzic freed the rucksack and crawled over to Bruno.

“What are you waiting for?” said Sergeant Rouzic.

“I’m not leaving without my finger,” said Bruno.

Sergeant Rouzic searched the mud and held up the finger, “I’ve got it.”

 

The two men crawled back and tumbled into the safety of the trench. Brigitte pulled a can of Vinogel from one of the rucksacks and opened it. She poured the concentrate over the bloody stump on Bruno’s hand, cleaning off the mud. “Merde. It stings worse than it tastes,” said Bruno.

 

 

Next to the legion’s flag and battalion’s battle ribbons, Bruno’s finger wrapped in a shoelace hung on the flagpole inside the command bunker. Several empty cans of Vinogel lay next to a half-empty bucket of wine. Bruno and Brigitte stood at attention, wavering from intoxication. The battalion commander pinned home-made strips on their shoulders. “For meritorious service to your country above and beyond the call of duty, you, Mademoiselle Brigitte Friang,” said the commander, “and you, Major Marcel Bigeard, are hereby awarded the honorary rank of Private in the French Foreign Legion.”

Bruno saluted with his bandaged hand. Brigitte followed his example. The Legionnaires toasted their new comrades and shouted, ”Vive la France!” Bruno and Brigitte took another drink of Vinogel. Bruno fell backward, unconscious.

“Wimp,” said Brigitte, and joined him on the ground, using his chest as a pillow.

 

 

Monsoon rains poured down on Colonel Godard’s mile-long relief column hiking up a steep mountainside. The Legionnaires struggled to keep their footing in the slippery mud and grass. Godard ordered his executive officer to rest the men and the pack mules carrying the ammunition and supplies. Seeing the signal to stop, many of the men collapsed in place and fell quickly to sleep. The quartermaster approached Colonel Godard as he reviewed their position on a map.

“Colonel, we’ve lost another two mules. We either need to slow down or lighten their loads,” said the quartermaster.

“Slowing down is not an option. We’re already four days behind schedule,” said Colonel Godard.

“I understand, sir, but Hanoi cannot expect us to cross these mountains during the monsoon season.”

“You underestimate a general’s capacity to watch his men suffer,” said Godard. “We keep the same tempo. Give the mules an extra ration of grain, and shift some of their load to the men if you must. But if I were you, I would do it with my pistol in hand.”

“Yes, sir.”

The quartermaster saluted and walked away in the pouring rain.

“God help us if the Viet Minh attack the column,” said the battalion executive officer. “I doubt the men could give them much of a fight.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that, XO. Bullets flying over your head are an excellent motivator,” said Colonel Godard.

“So is sleep,” said the XO.

“Humph. Sleep is overrated. The men will do fine when the time comes,” said Colonel Godard.

 

 

It was night. The air was heavy with smoke and the smell of spent artillery shells. Parachute flares launched from French mortars and dropped from the aircraft circling high above the garrison lit up the darkness with their familiar green glow.

 

Three of the howitzers in Brunbrouck’s battery had already been destroyed by Viet Minh counter batteries and the gun crews killed. The remaining seven howitzers were hot from firing most of the night. He needed to let them cool, or risk weakening the barrels until a shell cooked off inside and killed another one of his gun crews. He had heard about crews urinating on the barrels to cool them down, but he wasn’t really sure that would work. Besides, his men hadn’t stopped in several hours, and judging by the sweat stains on their uniforms, probably didn’t have much to offer.

Brunbrouck heard the gunfire and grenades exploding above on Dominique’s hilltop. There was one hell of a fight going on up there, he thought. His West Africans grew anxious on seeing the Algerian troops running down Dominique’s hillside. It was full on rout, the likes of which Brunbrouck had never seen before. The Algerians ran through Brunbrouck’s position up the opposite hill until they reached the French trenches on the hilltop of strongpoint Elaine. Brunbrouck was concerned that his own men might join them. Fear was like a grass fire in high wind. It spread quickly and there was little anyone could do to stop it.

Dominique was falling and with it his right flank. Brunbrouck radioed Colonel Langlais’ command bunker and informed the radio operator that Dominique had fallen. A captain came on the line and argued that it was impossible that the strongpoint had fallen.

“I don’t know what is possible and what is not. But I am reporting that two hundred Algerians are running through my position as we speak. If you do not believe me, then by all means, come and see for yourself,” said Brunbrouck.

Langlais came on the line and said, “Versailles Six, this is Gauss-Pierre. Is your position in danger of falling?”

“Gauss-Pierre, there is a large buildup of Viet Minh in the assault trenches in front of my position. Half my men have been killed or wounded by enemy counter batteries. I am requesting reinforcements immediately.”

“I’m sorry, Versailles Six. All our reserves are already committed. We have nothing give you. Can you retreat?”

“Gauss-Pierre, all the vehicles in my unit have been destroyed. I have no transportation to haul my artillery.”

“Versailles Six, you are authorized to spike your guns and retreat.”

“Gauss-Pierre, I will not give up my guns. I would rather die.”

“All right, son. We’ll send what we can. Good luck, Versailles Six.”

“Thank you, Gauss-Pierre. Versailles Six, out.”

It didn’t take long before he and his men came under fire and became occupied in defending their own firing positions. The Viet Minh attacked in waves, as was their doctrine. As a tactic, a human wave was surprisingly effective in demoralizing the defenders, but any victory usually came at a heavy cost, especially against modern weaponry.

The French quad-50s on both hillsides opened up with a thunderous rattle. Tracer bullets streaked orange across the night sky. Their high-velocity bullets didn’t take down just one man, but cut through multiple layers of men, leaving large empty swatches in the enemy’s line. The enemy hesitated and hit the ground.

The quad-50s continued for another minute, raking the enemy on the ground, and then went silent one after the other. They were out of ammunition. Brunbrouck knew he was in trouble.

Another blast from their bugler and the Viet Minh rose and resumed their charge. They hit the mines first and dozens were killed. Any that made it past the layer of mines were caught in the concertina wire and immediately picked off by Brunbrouck and his men. Again, they hesitated and hit the ground. The Viet Minh sappers ran up with their Bangalore torpedoes. They created a ten-meter-long charge, which was long even for a Bangalore, and ran it underneath the three layers of concertina wire and across the top of the mines. The initial explosion from the Bangalore and the mine explosions that followed rocked the earth below them. The barbed wire was torn and flew up into the air, coming back down in a tangle like a twisted-Slinky. It did its job and blew open a breach in the French defensive perimeter. Another bugle call and the Viet Minh were on their feet again, rushing forward and firing their weapons.

It was clear to Brunbrouck that his position was about to be overrun. There were just too many of them and too few on his side. It was time. “Zero point!” he yelled to his men.

Brunbrouck had spent an entire day training them, practicing the same actions over and over again. They were prepared, and that gave his men confidence. The gunners spun the small wheel on the side of each gun that adjusted the altitude of the barrel until they hit their bottom point, which was level with the ground. They used their sights to aim their guns at the metal shell cases filled with dirt that they had prepositioned ten meters out. The loaders opened the breech, emptied the spent shell casing, reloaded the breech with a high-explosive shell with its fuse set to “immediate,” and slammed the breech closed. The loader called, “Up” and gunner called, “Ready.”

The Viet Minh poured through the breach and spread out across an assault line with several layers, as they were trained to do. Several Viet Minh stepped on mines which exploded, hurling the soldier into the air and killing several men around him. They did not stop until they reached their assigned position, then hit the ground, laying as flat as possible to avoid shrapnel, and continued to fire their weapons at the French. When a substantial number was reached, their commanding officer shouted, and the Viet Minh rose and charged forward. Brunbrouck waited until the first line of Viet Minh had passed the shell cases and yelled “Fire!”

The artillery shells left the seven gun barrels and struck the metal cases in an instant. The rolling boom of explosions so close to their guns shocked the French gun crews. The blast walls that they built saved them from the hail of shrapnel. The air concussed, and Brunbrouck and his men struggled for breath. One of his men screamed. His hand had been a little too high above the blast wall and a shard of Viet Minh jaw bone with several teeth still in it was sticking out of his wrist.

Brunbrouck looked over the blast wall. To his surprise, there was no sign of the Viet Minh, not even body parts. The explosions had vaporized the entire assault line. There was nothing left except a large dark stain on the ground. In the distance, he could see another line of Viet Minh forming up to assault his position. Brunbrouck wasted no time and gave the order to reload. The remaining shell cases filled with dirt had been knocked over by the blast, but still made good targets for the gunners.

It took two more volleys from the French guns before the enemy had had enough and retreated. The Viet Minh losses had been massive. Brunbrouck had guessed correctly. Three shell cases filled with dirt for each gun was all that was needed.

He heard the vehicles crossing a bridge over the river behind him. A small convoy of trucks sent by Langlais pulled up behind his position. “Load ‘em up,” he yelled to his men.

It took twelve minutes to hitch up the howitzers and retreat from the position. It was overrun by the Viet Minh a few minutes later.

 

 

A Good Man

 

Navarre sat at his desk talking to Cogny on the phone. “The garrison is down to a fighting force of fewer than four thousand men, and many of those are wounded,” said Cogny. “General, if the garrison is to maintain a viable defense, we must commit our final para reserves.”

“And send another battalion to their death?” said Navarre. “How long can they hold out without reinforcements?”

“Without reinforcements, the Viet Minh will overrun the last strongpoints in the garrison within the week.”

“If I commit our reserves, can you guarantee me that the garrison will survive?”

“No, sir. But I can guarantee you that it will fall if you don’t”

“The airfield? Is there any chance we can repair it?”

“No, sir. It’s too far gone, and even if we could repair it, we don’t have the necessary supplies.”

“And Colonel Godard’s relief column?

“They are still bogged down in the mountains fifty miles away. They will never reach the garrison in time.”

“Then our men have no escape.”

“No, sir.”

Navarre took a long moment to consider his options before continuing his conversation with Cogny, “Our negotiations in Geneva are on the verge of a breakthrough. General Giap has committed over half of his available forces to the highlands. We, on the other hand, have only committed a tenth of our own. His supply lines are stretched to the limit and the monsoons are coming. The roads he built will wash away and he will be unable to resupply his men. He cannot let the siege continue for much longer. Every minute our garrison holds out increases our position at the bargaining table.”

“Then you agree to send reinforcements?”

“No. The garrison must stand with the men they already have on the ground. You may continue the supply drops, but no regular units are to be committed. Inform General De Castries that he must not surrender the garrison at any cost.”

“But these men… they are the best France has to offer. Their loss would decimate our fighting ability for years to come.”

“Yes. It is an incredible sacrifice, Rene. Let us hope it is not wasted.”

Navarre hung up the phone. Captain Pouget entered. “The supply reports you requested, sir.”

“Thank you, Jon.”

The Captain turned to leave, but hesitated and turned back to Navarre.

“Sir?”

“Yes, Jon?”

“Sir, in this position, one hears things.”

“You have my confidence, Jon. You may speak freely.”

“Thank you, General. Is it true that the Americans have offered us a squadron of heavy bombers to break the siege at Dien Bien Phu?”

“Yes, Jon.”

“…and two atom bombs?”

Navarre hesitated, “The offer was considered and rejected.”

“But why, sir? Our men are dying.”

“American involvement would give the Chinese and the Russians the excuse they need to enter this war. It is bad enough that we may lose to Ho Chi Minh, but to the Chinese and the Russians… never,” said Navarre. “I know it’s difficult, but politics are a harsh reality in the game we play.”

“Game, sir?”

“Yes, Jon. To think of it otherwise would drive me insane. Is there anything else?”

“General, there is a group of volunteers that will be parachuting into Dien Bien Phu tomorrow night. With your permission, I wish to join them.”

“Jon, your post here is invaluable.”

“Thank you, sir. That is very kind, but still, I ask.”

Navarre hesitated. He did not want to lose the captain to a hopeless cause, but he understood his sentiment and admired him for it. There was a part of him that wished he himself could volunteer, but knew that was just bravado-foolishness.

“Of course, Jon,” said Navarre. “You may go.”

“Thank you, General,” said Captain Pouget, saluting. “It has been an honor serving you.”

Navarre stood and shook the Captain’s hand, “Good luck, Captain.”

Captain Pouget nodded and exited the office.

 

 

It was late afternoon at Cat Bi airfield. Coyle and McGoon inspected the repairs on the Daisy Mae. New sheet metal covered the rupture in the aircraft’s side, and the bullet holes in the fuselage had been patched. The Vietnamese artist stood on a ladder and finished the repair on the painting of Daisy Mae, her breasts having been enlarged.

“Lookin’ good, girl. Lookin’ good,” said McGoon.

“They’re bigger, aren’t they?” said Coyle.

“Her breasts? Yeah, I figured why not? She’s just a cartoon character, Coyle. You can do anything you want to a cartoon. That’s what makes ‘em so fun.”

“You wanna grab some supper? There’s something I wanna talk to you about,” said Coyle.

“Sure. What’s the big secret?”

“No secret. I’m buying.”

“Well, in that case… lead on, my captain.”

 

 

The sun was setting and it was still hot and humid. Coyle and McGoon sat on the patio of a café, finishing their meal.

“It’s gonna be a busy night,” said McGoon. “Buford and I got a supply drop down to Hue, then back to Hanoi to pick up a bunch of volunteers that wanna parachute into the garrison. Fool’s courage, if you ask me. Ain’t much left that they can even land on.”

“Yeah, about that…”

“Hey, did I tell you my business idea? Ya know, with all the money the Frenchies are paying us, we oughta be looking to invest some of it, like a nest egg for when we get back to the States. And this idea is gonna make a million bucks. I’m willing to cut you in on it once all of this is over.”

“That’s nice of ya, McGoon, but I don’t know if I’m gonna be available.”

“Now there you go shooting down an idea before you’ve even heard it. And this was a real winner, too. But now you’ll never know because you’re just too ignorant to even listen.”

“I’m sorry, McGoon. It’s just that…”

“Look, Coyle, you don’t want to be my partner, just say so.”

“It’s not that.”

“Unlike you, I got plenty of offers from people with vision. Yep. You just missed a golden opportunity, buddy. Chance of a lifetime. And cuz you’re too pigheaded to even give it a listen, you’re gonna end up a dumb, broke hillbilly the rest of your life.”

“Okay, McGoon. What’s your idea?”

“Too late. I’ve moved on.”

“No really, I wanna hear it. I’m listening.”

“Yeah? Well, I can’t tell it to ya.”

“Why?”

“Cuz in all the hubbub I forgot it.”

“You forgot it?”

“You know I don’t respond well to negative thinking.”

“Million bucks, huh?” said Coyle.

“We’ll never know,” said McGoon, looking at his watch. “Oh, shit. I’m late. I gotta go. You got this, right?”

“Yeah, I got it,” said Coyle. “I didn’t get a chance to tell ya…”

“We’ll talk later,” said McGoon, jumping up and flagging the nearest trishaw.

“Yeah, later,” said Coyle.

McGoon jumped in the front of the trishaw and pointed in the direction of the airfield. The driver pedaled and the trishaw disappeared around the corner.

 

 

Dark clouds moved in over the Cat Bi airfield. The Daisy Mae pulled to a stop in the cargo loading area. The tail doors opened and the hold was empty. The ground crew entered the hold and folded down the two rows of passenger seats on the inner wall of the hold. A group of volunteer soldiers, each holding a weapon and wearing a parachute, lined up outside the aircraft. Few had jumped before. The uneasiness showed on their faces. Captain Pouget was at the front of the line and seemed calmer than the rest. “All right, boys. Let’s load ‘em up. We got a schedule to keep,” said McGoon, walking out the rear doorway.

The line moved forward as the soldiers filed into the aircraft and took their seats. McGoon just stood on the cargo ramp and smiled until he saw the second to the last soldier… it was Coyle. “Hey, Coyle. What’re ya doing?” said McGoon.

“I tried to tell you, McGoon,” said Coyle. “But you never let me get a word in edgewise.”

“Tell me what, Coyle?”

“I volunteered.”

“It ain’t your war.”

“It is now.”

“Boy, somebody whupped you with the stupid-stick. You ain’t even French.”

“They don’t care. They’ll take anyone that can fire a rifle.”

“Coyle, don’t do this.”

“I love her, McGoon.”

“Okay. I get that. But there’s got to be a better way than jumping to your death. We can try your two plane change up again. I’ll take the P-38 this time and you land in the Daisy Mae with Buford, so you can find her and…”

“It ain’t gonna work, McGoon. You and I both know that airfield is too torn up to land. ‘Sides, she won’t leave.”

“That’s her decision, Coyle, not yours.”

“Yeah. I realize that. But I can’t leave her there. Not alone.”

Heavy drops of rain splattered on the tarmac.

“You haven’t thought this through, Coyle. The Viet Minh are gonna keep pounding away until that garrison falls, and when it does, there ain’t gonna be nothing left.”

“I know.”

“Then why do it? You ain’t saving anyone.”

“You’re probably right. But at least we’ll be together.”

“And that’s worth dying for?”

“Yeah, McGoon. It is.”

“God damn it, Coyle. You can be so pigheaded sometimes.”

“You just don’t get it, McGoon. And I doubt you ever will.”

“Get what?! You sacrificing your life ain’t gonna add up to a hill of beans. We paid our dues in the Pacific fighting the Japs. That was our war. That was worth dying for. This is just a sideshow. And it don’t matter how it turns out. It ain’t gonna change anything. The Commies are gonna keep pushing us and we’re gonna keep pushing back. Let the Frenchies fight ‘em as long as they can. It’s all gonna end up in our lap anyhow.”

“Like I said, you just don’t get it,” said Coyle.

Coyle entered the Daisy Mae and took the last seat. The big raindrops turned into a downpour. The pattering on the sheet metal was amplified by the cavernous hold and sounded like Buddy Rich’s snare drum. McGoon stood outside, soaking wet, staring at Coyle and the other volunteers. “World’s gone insane, I tell ya,” said McGoon. “Fucking insane!”

 

 

It was dark and raining. The Daisy Mae cleared the last mountain as it entered the valley. McGoon pushed the wheel forward and lowered the elevators on the tail booms, forcing the aircraft downward.

“McGoon, what are you doing? Orders say we drop ‘em at twelve thousand feet,” said Buford.

“Yeah, well, orders ain’t the pilot of this aircraft,” said McGoon. “We drop ‘em at twelve thousand, half of ‘em will miss the drop zone. We’re going down to six hundred.”

“McGoon, that’s crazy. Even if we make it through the flak, they’ll only have thirty seconds in the air. Most of these guys have never jumped.”

“Well, they ain’t gonna learn any younger. Six hundred feet, and that’s all there is to it,” said McGoon and turned to Buford, “You with me, Buford?”

Buford thought long and hard before answering. “Yeah. I’m with ya, McGoon. I’ll give the jumpmaster a heads up.”

“You’re a good man, Buford. A good man.”

 

The Daisy Mae flew fast and close to the treetops as the mountain slope descended to the floor of the valley. Hidden anti-aircraft guns swung around and opened fire. Dark clouds of flak burst around the aircraft.

 

Inside the hold, the volunteer sitting next to Coyle slumped over, revealing a hole the size of a half dollar in the side of the aircraft. His parachute was torn badly and his shirt was stained with blood. Coyle bent down to help him. He was already dead.

A buzzer sounded and the rear doors swung open. Coyle and the other volunteers could see the flak bursts outside the rear of the aircraft. There were more than enough little black clouds to kill all of them. The jumpmaster ordered the volunteers to stand up and hook up. Coyle stood and hooked his parachute’s static line to the wire running down the middle of the hold. Coyle helped hook up the volunteer behind him, who was too scared to remember the jumpmaster’s instructions on the ground. “Just follow me when the time comes,” said Coyle. The soldier nodded.

A shell burst just outside the doorway. A small piece of shrapnel hit the volunteer behind Coyle in the upper arm, and blood flowed. The man vomited at the sight of his own blood. The vomit hit the deck and splattered on Coyle’s boots. “Nice,” said Coyle.

Coyle reached into the man’s front pocket and pulled out a wound packet. He ripped the packet open with his teeth and tied the gauze around the man’s arm to stop the bleeding. He unhooked his and the man’s static lines and helped him sit back down. “You’ve done your duty,” said Coyle.

“Vive La France,” said the grateful man.

“Yeah, whatever,” said Coyle as he went back to his place at the head of the line and rehooked his static line.

 

In the cockpit, McGoon and Buford’s eyes were focused on the drop zone in the distance beyond the edge of the forest. “I’m gonna need your help pulling her up in time. We’re gonna stay low and avoid the flak until we reach the edge of the forest, then we’re gonna pop up to six hundred feet and drop the troops,” said McGoon.

“Their chutes are barely going to have enough time to open,” said Buford.

“Better than getting shot or dropping behind enemy lines.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

“Coming up on the edge. Now!”

McGoon gunned the engines as he and Buford pulled back on their wheels and pulled the elevators to their limit. The Daisy Mae rose sharply, and gravity pushed them back into their seats.

 

In the rear, the volunteers struggled against the weight of their parachutes and rucksacks. Some stumbled and fell and were helped back to their feet by their comrades. “Ready,” said the jumpmaster.

 

The Daisy Mae leveled out above the drop zone. “Go,” said McGoon. Buford flipped the switch for the drop light.

 

Inside the hold, the red light turned green. “Go!” said the jumpmaster.

“Away!” said Coyle, and jumped.

 

Coyle’s static line snapped tight and pulled open the cover on his parachute. He held his breath until his chute popped open and his harness jerked him upward. He floated downward and saw the battle raging below. Tracer bullets from machine guns flew in both directions across the battlefield. Explosions lit up the French trenches and blockhouses. He saw something falling out of the corner of his eyes and heard a scream from above. He turned just in time to see a volunteer with a failed parachute rushing past him and falling to his death. Coyle didn’t want to see the impact. He looked away and saw the other volunteers with their parachutes open floating downward. They had been given brief instructions on how to steer their parachutes toward the drop zone. Some had clearly not listened, or had forgotten in all the excitement, and were heading away from the French lines. Mercifully, it was all over before they noticed.

Coyle hit the ground hard and rolled down the hillside. The ground was wet and muddy. He slid toward a line of barbed wire on the edge of the perimeter. He dropped his rifle and reached out with his hands and grabbed at the mud. His boot caught the edge of a rock and stopped his sliding just above the line of barbed wire. Bullet hits slapped the mud around him. He released his parachute straps and scrambled back up the hillside to retrieve his weapon. He crawled into the nearest trench. Strangely, it was empty. No matter, he thought. His war would start here. He looked up and saw the Daisy Mae banking hard to the right as it passed over the edge of the forest and headed back to Hanoi.

 

Several of the volunteers still in the air veered off course and landed in no man’s land between the French and Viet Minh lines. A Viet Minh machine gun killed three. The others hit the ground and laid flat. They were trapped and had no idea where they were or what to do.

Captain Pouget was one of the last to land. He came down hard in rolls of barbed wire. The wire wrapped around his legs and tore his trousers. Machine gun tracer rounds zipped over his head. He stopped struggling and lay as motionless as possible, hoping the gunner would think he was dead and move on to another target. It worked. After a moment, he attempted to untangle himself from the barbed wire. It was no use. The more he tried to unwind his legs from the wire, the more he became entangled. He needed a pair of wire cutters. An idea came to him. He unbuttoned his pants and carefully slipped out of each pant leg. The wire’s barbs scratched up his legs, but it was better than remaining in the enemy’s field of fire. He left his pants tangled in wire, crawled over to the nearest trench and dropped down inside. He landed on Sergeant Rouzic.

“Hey, asshole, watch where you’re stepping,” said Rouzic, who had been reassigned to this position. A flare above the trench ignited and the sergeant saw that he was talking to a captain. “Oh, sorry, Captain. Couldn’t see your insignia.”

“Carry on, Sergeant,” said Captain Pouget.

Sergeant Rouzic looked down at the Captain’s scratched up legs, “Sir, where are your pants?”

“Tangled in the wire. Where is your quartermaster?”

“Dead, sir. Mortar got ‘im last night.”

“I need to find a pair of pants before I report in.”

“Pants? Pants we’ve plenty of. Live bodies to wear ‘em is a different story.” Sergeant Rouzic reached down into the water at the bottom of the trench and pulled up a dead soldier beset with rigor mortis and bloated. “What size do you wear?”

Captain Pouget, having sat in an office most of his career and not accustomed to the realities of war, vomited.

 

In a nearby gully, Bruno and his men had been waiting for the parachute drop. They were in a dry river gully that was starting to fill with rainwater. Brigitte was with him. One of Bruno’s paratroopers with a bazooka opened fire on the Viet Minh machine gun and blew it to bits.

Bruno crawled out of the gully and over to the lost volunteers. Like a tour guide, he signaled with his hands which way to go. They followed him back to the gully.

 

The Daisy Mae’s flight path back to Hanoi led right over the top of a hidden anti-aircraft gun position. The Viet Minh corporal in charge of the gun squad was patient and waited until the enemy aircraft was right above his gun before ordering his men to open fire.

 

Coyle, standing in his trench, watched as a stream of orange tracers rose from the forest and hit the Daisy Mae’s left engine. “Oh God, no,” said Coyle as he watched the flames burst from the engine.

 

Inside the cockpit, McGoon and Buford struggled with the controls as the aircraft shuddered and bucked. “Damn it. Just when my chair was starting to get good and comfy,” said McGoon.

“One thing’s for sure,” said Buford. “We ain’t making it back over those mountains on one engine.”

“I think our only shot is to swing her around and try to land her on the airfield,” said McGoon.

“Not much of a shot. The airfield is in pretty bad shape.”

“Yeah, well, we’re a little short on options here, Buford.”

“Okay, McGoon. Land her on the airfield. At least we’ll be near French lines.”

 

Bruno and Brigitte watched the Daisy Mae from the gully. “They’ll be okay,” said Bruno. “They’ll make it. The Americans are not too smart, but they are lucky.”

 

From his trench on the hillside, Coyle watched the Daisy Mae turn around over the forest and fly toward the runway. Even in the dark and the rain he could see the number of holes in the runway and the broken and twisted steel plates reaching up like the claws of a devil. He knew it would be a miracle if McGoon could land on it without tearing out the undercarriage of the Daisy Mae. Coyle ran back along the trench to get closer to the airfield. He reached the closest point to the airfield and jumped out of the safety of the trench and onto the bare hillside. Enemy bullets slapped the ground around him, kicking up dirt and mud. He ran down the hillside, slipping and sliding on the mud and what was left of the grass. He came to the perimeter and jumped over the barbed wire and prayed he didn’t land in a minefield. He didn’t. He ran across the open ground toward the airfield. Tracer bullets streamed around him and mortars shells exploded nearby. He knew he was a tempting target, but figured he’d be harder to hit if he just kept running flat out and didn’t stop.

 

Bruno watched the crazy soldier running across the open ground. “Fool,” said Bruno and then he took a closer look. “Is that Coyle?”

Brigitte turned and saw Coyle running. “Oh my god, Bruno, do something.”

“1st Platoon, on me,” said Bruno to his men. “The rest of you take our new guests back to headquarters and get them something to eat.”

Bruno ran down the gully in the direction Coyle was running, followed by 1st Platoon and Brigitte.

 

Inside the Daisy Mae, McGoon lined up the aircraft for the final approach as best he could with just one engine. Buford reached for the landing gear lever. “Wait,” said McGoon. “Maybe we should belly-land her. The wheels are just going hit those craters and shear off anyway. I figure we’re better off without ‘em.”

“You ain’t gonna be able to steer without wheels,” said Buford.

“Ha. I think steering is gonna be the least of our concerns.”

Buford took his hand off the landing gear lever and nodded his agreement to McGoon. “Okay. I think this is it,” said McGoon.

The Daisy Mae flew over the leading edge of the runway just a few feet off the ground. McGoon and Buford wrestled the controls to bring her down on her belly. The aircraft hit the runway with a shower of sparks that lit up the night, and both engine props bent under. The Daisy Mae bounced back into the air. They forced her down again, and this time, she stayed on the runway. Sparks turned to flames as the wing fuel tanks ruptured, but she was going straight down the runway and that was the best they could hope for until a shell from a Viet Minh recoilless hit one of her tail booms and exploded. The tail boom ripped off the back of the wing and hit a broken steel plate on the runway. The Daisy Mae spun around clockwise as she continued to slide and veered to the left of the runway. Her left wing dug into the wet ground and flipped the entire fuselage into the air. The Daisy Mae cartwheeled three times as she disintegrated into pieces, throwing off her engines, wings and remaining tail boom. The cargo hold and cockpit stayed together and tumbled to a stop on the left edge of the airfield.

 

Coyle ran toward the burning hulk. He dodged the burning parts and pieces of sheet metal scattered across the ground. He reached the rear of the hold where one of the rear doors had broken off. He climbed inside and moved toward the cockpit. Both door hinges were broken, and the cockpit door was ajar.

 

On the airfield, a Viet Minh rifle company approached the wreckage of the Daisy Mae. Bruno and his men opened fire, cutting them off and pinning them down. The Viet Minh returned fire. Bruno’s men took up defensive positions around the wreckage. Bruno and Brigitte moved toward the wreckage of the cockpit and cargo hold.

 

Inside the Daisy Mae, Coyle pulled open the broken cockpit door and tossed it to one side. He hesitated, afraid of what he would find inside. He entered the cockpit.

It was a tangle of twisted sheet metal with hanging control panels and wires. The entire front of the cockpit had collapsed. McGoon and Buford were still in their seats. Buford was dead, his neck broken. McGoon groaned, his head bled from pieces of the windshield that had shattered and cut him during the crash. Coyle moved to his side and looked down. A large gash in McGoon’s chest was bleeding badly. McGoon looked up, “Coyle?”

“Hey, buddy. Nice landing,” said Coyle.

“Yeah. One for the history books,” said McGoon, weakly. “How’s Buford?”

“He’s seen better days, McGoon.”

“Dead?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, that’s a shame. He was a good man.”

Coyle looked down at the front control panel sitting on top of the two pilots’ legs. “McGoon, can you feel your legs?”

“Not really.”

“It’s okay. I’m gonna get you outta here.”

“That’d be good. I’m kinda getting a little parched. I sure could use a beer,” said McGoon.

“A couple of beers sound real good right about now,” said Coyle.

“Hey, Coyle?”

“Yeah, McGoon?”

“I remembered my idea.”

“Oh yeah? What was it?”

“Lobster farms.”

“You don’t even like lobster, McGoon.”

“I don’t wanna eat ‘em, I want to grow ‘em and sell ‘em. You know, to tourists and stuff.”

“Like by the sea?”

“No. Like in Nashville or Cincinnati where they ain’t got any.”

“How are ya gonna grow lobsters?”

“We buy an old oil storage tank, clean it out really good, fill it with salt water and grow ‘em in there.”

“McGoon, that ain’t a half bad idea.”

“Ain’t it, though?”

“Worth a million,” said Coyle, starting to choke up.

“I knew you’d like it once ya heard it,” said McGoon.

“Coyle?” said Brigitte as she entered the cockpit, followed by Bruno.

“Help me get him free. I figure once we get him out from this control panel, we can cut his chair lose and carry him out.”

Bruno and Brigitte moved to help Coyle lift the control panel. McGoon groaned in pain. Both his legs were crushed. Unable to free him, they let the control panel back down.

“We need something to cut the control panel. There should be a toolbox in the cargo hold,” said Coyle.

“I’ll get it,” said Brigitte.

“I need to check on my men,” said Bruno. They exited through the doorway into the hold.

“Hey, Coyle?” said McGoon.

“Yeah, McGoon?”

“I’m sorry ‘bout what I said. You know, about Brigitte?”

“Don’t worry about that now, McGoon.”

“She’s one hell of a woman, ya know?”

“Yeah, she is.”

McGoon groaned as if something had changed inside him.

“You okay, McGoon?”

“Oh, yeah. Just a little stiff. Hey, Coyle?”

“Yeah, McGoon?”

“We’re gonna be rich,” said McGoon, smiling.

“Yeah we are, buddy,” said Coyle, smiling back with tears in his eyes.

McGoon slumped over in his chair and died. Tears rolled down Coyle’s face. He tried to catch his breath, but couldn’t believe the incredible pain he felt. Brigitte and Bruno returned with the toolbox. They could see McGoon slumped over, and Coyle’s face told the rest.

“Is he…?” said Brigitte, tears welling up in her eyes.

“Yeah,” said Coyle.

Coyle took the toolbox from Brigitte and fished through it. He pulled out a hacksaw and tried to free McGoon’s body from the wreckage.

“Coyle, I’m sorry for your friend,” said Bruno. “The Viet Minh are flanking us. We have to go now.”

“I’m not leaving without him,” said Coyle.

“Coyle, we stay, we die,” said Bruno.

“Coyle, please,” said Brigitte.

“Go,” said Coyle.

“I’m not leaving without you, Coyle,” said Brigitte.

“Bruno, take her away,” said Coyle.

“She’s not going to go without you, Coyle. And I’m not going to force her.”

“You’re a chicken-shit. You know that, Bruno?”

Several bullets ricocheted off the sheet metal inside the hold as the Viet Minh closed in on the wreckage of the Daisy Mae. “My men need me, Coyle,” said Bruno. “We must pull back with or without you.”

Coyle looked at Brigitte. He couldn’t stand the idea of her getting hurt or killed because of him. He released McGoon’s body and left with them.

 

 

Elaine

 

Corporal Ty was assigned to a squad of sappers digging an assault trench in front of strongpoint Elaine. He hunched down behind a four-foot thick and six-foot wide roll of straw mats used to shield his squad of sappers from enemy snipers and mortar rounds. He and his men were fortunate. The French were running low on ammunition, and they only fired when they had a clear target. Even with his wound still being quite tender, Ty took his turn digging the trench along with the others in his squad. Digging while hunched over or kneeling was back-breaking work and tired the men quickly. They were making good progress when a lieutenant jumped into the trench and informed Ty that the battalion’s colonel wanted to see him. Ty put down his shovel and followed the lieutenant out of the trench.

 

 

It was night, and the firefly flares continued to light up the garrison and the surrounding countryside. The ever-present explosions and gunfire were now just white noise and only caught attention when the tempo increased. On top of the hill called Elaine, Coyle, emotionally drained and irritable, sat against the last remaining wall in the mayor’s mansion. He stared at the heap of debris with a half-buried painting of Napoleon on a white steed untouched by the battle raging around him as hundreds of men fought and died. “Generals never die,” he said to himself.

Bridget was nearby, boiling coffee grinds she had already used twice before. Bruno stood by her, looking over at Coyle. “The Americans are brave. I will give them that,” said Bruno.

“Bruno, what will happen to him?” said Brigitte.

“He is a volunteer. They will assign him to the forward trenches as cannon fodder for the Viet Minh assault.”

“Bruno, you can’t let that happen.”

“It is not up to me, Brigitte.”

“Bruno, I am asking you to keep him with you. To keep him safe.”

“And how are you asking, my dear Brigitte?”

“As a friend. For old times’ sake, yes?”

“As a friend?”

“Bruno, you know I love you.”

“But you are not in love with me?”

“No. That time has passed. But if I ever meant anything to you, please help him.”

Bruno had fought many battles in his lifetime, and he knew the face of defeat all too well. He had lost the battle for Brigitte’s heart long ago, but he had still held out hope until that moment. He saw it in her eyes and heard it in her voice. She is in love with that stupid, brash, uncultured American, he thought. “I will see what I can do,” said Bruno.

Brigitte kissed him on the cheek, “Thank you, my little Bruno.”

Bruno just smiled in response.

 

 

The surviving field commanders gathered in the French command bunker. Most had bandages over their wounds, and they all looked like they hadn’t slept in a week. Their uniforms were torn in spots, caked with mud, and stained with blood. Every few seconds, they heard the dull thud of an explosion somewhere in the garrison and dirt was knocked loose from the timber-reinforced ceiling. Coyle stood by Brigitte while she took notes with a pencil and pad. She knew that her reports were more important than ever if the garrison was to survive. Even at this late hour, it was still her job to make it known what had happened here, and how these men had been abandoned. She would not let the French generals and the politicians turn a blind eye without consequences.

Captain Hervouet, both his arms in plaster casts, gave his report to Langlais. “We still have one tank fully operational and two that are unable to move, but still have service of the cannons and machine guns,” said Hervouet. “Ammunition, of course, is the main challenge. Including myself, I have sixteen men in my squadron still capable of fighting.”

“Captain, your arms are in casts. How do you propose to fight?” said Langlais.

“I still have my teeth, yes?”

Everyone smiled. They were too tired to laugh.

“Thank you, Captain. Major, your artillery?” said Langlais.

The young major now in charge of the remaining artillery rose to his feet. “As you know, the heavy mortars are out of ammunition, and all the cannons in the main garrison have been destroyed. We still have a 155 on Isabelle, but I am afraid it is of little use beyond a few hundred feet. The rifling in the barrel has worn smooth,” said the major. “Colonel, for all practical purposes, our artillery is finished.”

“I see,” said Langlais. “No use flogging a dead horse, then. Have your remaining gun crews take up small arms and join the Legionnaires in the trenches.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Gentlemen, and I use that term loosely,” said Langlais to more smiles, “Intelligence reports enemy strength at fifty thousand plus. We, on the hand, have fewer than three thousand still capable of fighting.”

“Hardly seems fair. Should I send them a few of my paras to even things up?” said Bruno to more smiles and a few weak chuckles.

“To avoid giving the enemy any more supplies than they have already captured, Hanoi has elected to discontinue our supply drops. The garrison will stand or fall with what we have on hand,” said Langlais.

“What about our reinforcements?” said Hervouet.

“Colonel Godard’s relief column is still stuck in Laos. Resistance has been much heavier than expected and, of course, the rain and the mountains don’t help the situation. At this point, it is probably easier for us to get to him than he to us. Which brings me to my next item. Hanoi has made it clear that any surrender on our part would deal a heavy blow to the peace talks in Geneva. It is, therefore, my decision not to surrender the garrison under any circumstances. We will fight until we can fight no more,” said Langlais. “Should the enemy overrun your position, I am authorizing individual commanders to take any remaining forces under their command and attempt a breakout. With a bit of luck, you may be able to link up with Colonel Godard’s relief column.”

“Colonel, that’s fifty miles away through enemy-held territory,” said Hervouet.

“Well, Captain, you still have your teeth,” said Langlais. “The breakout plan is codenamed “Albatross.” Before you make your attempt, you are to blow up any remaining ammunition and equipment. We leave nothing for the enemy.”

Knowing the briefing was ending, the commanders rose to their feet.

“Gentlemen, it has been a privilege commanding with you. You have served your country with honor,” said Langlais as he snapped to attention and saluted his men. “Viva La France.”

“Vive La France!” said the men in unison, saluting back.

Langlais dismissed the officers and they filed out of the bunker, some saying goodbye to their comrades for the last time. Langlais pulled Bruno aside and said, “You will take care of Brigitte and the American?”

“Yes, sir. I will do my best.”

“Bruno, the Viet Minh have raised the bounty on your head.”

“I am honored. I hope to match their expectations,” said Bruno with a smile.

“No one would feel you any less of a man if you were to slip through the wire before the final assault.”

“Colonel, I appreciate the concern, but fear only clouds one’s judgment. A soldier in my position must be willing to greet death with honor,” said Bruno. “It is my intention to make them earn their bounty.”

Langlais shook his hand and said, “Good luck, Major.”

“It has been my honor, sir,” said Bruno, and left the bunker.

 

 

It was raining when Captain Hervouet reached the field hospital. Hundreds of wounded soldiers sat and lay on the muddy ground near the hospital entrance, waiting their turn for treatment. Many had died waiting. The steps carved into the hospital entrance had been compacted to a muddy ramp. Hervouet, with both his arms in casts, could not keep his balance on the slippery mud and after several failed attempts, finally resorted to sliding into the hospital on his butt. “Merde,” he said, feeling the wetness on the back of his pants.

Once inside, he made his way down the crowded main tunnel and entered what he thought was an empty examination room. He rifled through the instruments until he found a pair of shears used to cut through small bones and ligaments. Guinevere entered, “What are you doing, Captain?”

“Mademoiselle, if I could impose on you to remove my casts,” said Hervouet.

“But your arms… they haven’t healed,” she said.

“Yes, but it is my head that worries me. I cannot close the hatch on my tank with these casts.”

Guinevere sighed, took the shears from his hand and cut away Hervouet’s casts.

 

 

Ty crawled on his knees through a long, narrow tunnel dimly lit with oil lamps every twenty-five feet, just enough to give the sappers that dug the tunnel light to work. The tunnel was deep underground and had an upward angle to it. The floor was soft and muddy from the water that seeped in from the ceiling and surrounding walls. In his pocket, he carried an American Zippo lighter that the Colonel had given him. “It is dependable, like you, Corporal” the Colonel had said.

 

 

In Elaine’s command bunker, Bruno stood over several maps and aerial photos, discussing the escape plan called “Albatross” with his platoon commanders. Coyle and Brigitte stood nearby and listened. “Once we join Godard and his column, we will make our way to Laos. Any questions?”

“Major, it seems cowardly to give up the garrison,” said another Lieutenant.

“We will survive and fight another day, Lieutenant,” said Bruno. “Anything else?”

“Major, we have reports that the Viet Minh have stopped digging,” said a Captain.

“Good,” said a lieutenant. “They were keeping me up at night.”

“When did they stop?” asked Bruno.

“About three hours ago,” said the Captain.

Bruno took a moment to consider the information. “Does anyone remember the time of the last artillery barrage?” said Bruno.

“About the same time,” said a lieutenant.

“What’s he thinking?” said Coyle, quietly.

“I don’t know,” said Brigitte.

 

 

Ty reached the end of the tunnel and entered a cavern filled with over a hundred small drums of gunpowder mixed with packages of high explosives. He stood and found the three-foot long fuse that the Colonel had told him would be there waiting for him. They could not risk a longer fuse that might burn out in the moist tunnel, the Colonel had explained. It would be useless to flee once the fuse had been lit, but that Ty would not suffer more than an instant and his name would be remembered forever in the history of his country. It was a great honor he had been given. Ty lit the fuse. Tears welled up in his eyes as he looked back on his life in those brief moments before the explosion ended it. He loved playing piano in his music teacher’s house, joking with his friends while drinking beer along the river, reading in the university library filled with knowledge just waiting to be uncovered, and the soft caress of his mother’s hand when he was sick with a fever.

 

Inside the command bunker, Bruno realized what was about to happen. “Everyone out of the bunker,” said Bruno.

“What? Why?” said a lieutenant.

“Now!” said Bruno.

Coyle and Brigitte joined the others and moved toward the bunker’s doorway when they heard a dull thud and a deep rumble coming from beneath the bunker’s floor.

The entire top of hill disappeared in a geyser of dirt mixed with barbed wire, broken timbers and bodies. Everything shot thirty-feet straight up into the air.

Inside the maelstrom that was once the command bunker, Coyle landed with a thud and was quickly buried with falling dirt and debris.

A thick cloud of dust enveloped the tortured remains of the hilltop. It was quiet.

Coyle gasped for air and coughed up the dirt in his mouth and throat. He couldn’t see through the dust and dirt still falling like a heavy black snow. He clawed his way up from a layer of dirt and debris. He searched for any sign of Brigitte. He saw a bandaged hand and dug around it until he uncovered Bruno’s face. Bruno was choking to death. Coyle stuck his fingers into Bruno’s mouth and cleared out the dirt. “Don’t you die on me, you French bastard,” said Coyle.

Bruno coughed and gasped for breath.

“Brigitte’s under the dirt. Help me find her,” said Coyle.

Coyle went back to searching for Brigitte. Bruno used his one free hand to clear more of the dirt from his mouth and nostrils. He dug himself out and joined Coyle in the search. Bruno uncovered a rifle and used the butt of the gun to dig through the dirt.

 

Below the hillside, a battalion of enemy soldiers climbed from their assault trenches. Additional explosions from Bangalore torpedoes took out the French barbed wire and cleared many of the mines that surrounded Elaine’s perimeter. A wave of Viet Minh charged up the hillside. They quickly overran the trenches and blockhouses, the Legionnaires inside still stunned by the mine explosion.

 

Coyle heard the approaching machine gun fire and grenade explosions. He looked over the edge of the crater and saw the line of Viet Minh charging toward the edge of the crater that was once the top of the hill and killing anyone in their path. “Bruno, they’re coming,” said Coyle as he continued to dig.

Bruno didn’t bother looking over the edge of the crater. He knew what was coming. He tossed down the rifle and searched the debris. He found a submachine buried in the dirt and pulled it out. He knew it would be a miracle if the gun didn’t jam, but it was all he could find. He pulled out the clip and opened the gun’s chamber by sliding back the bolt. He clanked the gun and the clip together, letting the dirt inside each fall free. He looked down the barrel and saw daylight. He blew as hard as he could into the top of the clip and again in the open chamber of the gun to clear any remaining dirt. He slapped the clip back into the gun and released the bolt. It chambered the first bullet and slammed closed. That was a good sign. He jumped to the rim of the crater and laid the gun on the edge and opened fire. After five rounds the gun jammed.

The Viet Minh continued to advance up the hillside.

Bruno pulled out the clip, blew on it, pulled open the bolt, cleared the jammed bullet with his fingers, slapped the clip back into the bottom of the gun and chambered the next run. He fired again.

Several Viet Minh charging up the hill fell to Bruno’s hail of bullets. The rest of the line hit the ground and returned fire. Bruno fired his last round. He looked for another clip. There was none in sight. “Coyle, I’m out of ammunition. We have to leave,” said Bruno.

“I’m not leaving without her,” said Coyle.

“She’s gone, Coyle.”

“No. She’s here. We can find her. I know it.”

“Damned American,” said Bruno as he knelt and dug.

Bruno found a small boot. “I think I have her,” said Bruno.

Coyle crawled over and they dug around Brigitte until they could pull her body free. Coyle cleared her nose and mouth of dirt. She wasn’t breathing. Bruno crawled to the edge of the crater and looked over the rim. The Viet Minh were twenty-feet from the top and coming fast.

“We have to go now, Coyle.”

“She’s not breathing.”

Coyle breathed into Brigitte’ mouth several times. She coughed and gasped for breath. “Okay, let’s go,” said Coyle. They each took one of her arms and ran with her toward the opposite side of the crater. She continued to cough, gasp and spit out dirt. They disappeared down the backside of the hill just as the Viet Minh appeared over the top. The three were safe, but Elaine was gone.

 

 

More than half of the original garrison had been overrun and was now under the control of the Viet Minh. With the capture of each hillside, the Viet Minh repositioned their artillery and poured down direct fire on the remaining French positions. Surviving French troops were forced to crowd together on the remaining strongpoints, providing the Viet Minh snipers with plenty of exposed targets. Ammunition and food were almost nonexistent. Even drinking water became scarce when the water purification system had been damaged by a well-placed Viet Minh mortar shell. Only the French Air Force kept the Viet Minh at bay. French bombers and fighters pounded the Viet Minh trenches, killing hundreds. Undaunted, the Viet Minh advanced, digging their assault trenches and surrounding the French. There was no way out of the garrison.

The French suffered but did not give up hope. They knew their enemy was suffering, too. They had heard reports that captured Viet Minh soldiers had said that if the garrison held out for two more weeks, the Viet Minh would be forced to pull back because of lack of supplies and ammunition. They also knew the peace negotiations in Geneva could produce a ceasefire at any moment. And then there were the Americans, who were still considering military intervention on behalf of the French. The American long-range bombers were within range of the garrison. One strike from a squadron of new B-29 Superfortresses had the power to inflict incredible damage and break the will of the Viet Minh in the valley.

The French position was shrinking and getting more desperate by the hour, but they would not surrender. If the Viet Minh were to capture the garrison, they would have to take it from the French, and the French would make them pay a heavy price for every inch.

 

 

Stalin’s Symphony

 

It was night and raining heavily. A Viet Minh lieutenant ran down a mountainside and found his commanding officer, a captain in charge of an artillery company. The young lieutenant was out of breath and stood at attention. “Lieutenant, you are an officer. Send a runner next time,” said the captain.

“Yes, sir,” said the Lieutenant. “I just thought you’d want to know as soon as…”

“Know what, Lieutenant?”

“They’re here.”

It took a moment for the captain to realize what the lieutenant was talking about. “Show me,” said the captain.

The lieutenant led the captain to a clearing in a forest grove. A camouflaged net had been stretched over the treetops to prevent any passing planes from spotting the clearing. Twelve metal sleds covered with heavy canvas tarps to protect their cargo from damage sat in the clearing. The porters that had dragged the sleds into the valley stood at attention as the captain approached. The captain pulled a knife from his pocket and cut away the rope holding the tarp on one of the sleds. He pulled back the tarp to reveal the six tubes of a Russian-made Katyusha rocket launcher, nicknamed “Stalin’s Organ,” mounted with steel support beams attached to the base of the sled. Another 24 pushcarts carried the launchers’ ammunition—over one thousand 82mm rockets originally designed to be fired from the wings of aircraft and now redesigned to be launched from the ground. The ground rockets were not nearly as accurate as artillery guns or mortars but packed a much more powerful punch on impact. They produced a devastating barrage when the entire battery of seventy-two rocket tubes was fired in unison. Although their destructive power was potent, their real benefit was the terror they struck in the hearts of the enemy. Only the very bravest and the dead could stand their ground under a Katyusha rocket attack.

 

 

Down to their last few rounds of ammunition, Bruno and a small group of paratroopers gathered on a hilltop and looked out over the valley. The garrison was a shamble, pitted with craters like a tortured moonscape. Viet Minh artillery and mortar shells continued to rain down on the remaining French positions. The French artillery guns were destroyed and the mortars were out of ammunition and silent. The neatly laid out concertina wire was broken and twisted into steel bundles like giant balls of yarn. The French had long since given up repairing it. There was no more the French could do without supply drops and ammunition. Only strongpoint Isabel, four kilometers away from the fighting, remained defiant. The Viet Minh commanders planned to deal with Isabel once the main garrison had fallen.

By Bruno’s side, Coyle and Brigitte watched and waited. It was time to attempt a breakout and hopefully live to fight another day. Coyle still had his Air Force revolver with four remaining shells hidden inside his jacket. He would save the final bullet for Brigitte to keep her from being raped by the Viet Minh, as he had been told to expect by several paratroopers and Legionnaires. He prayed it wouldn’t come to that, and wondered if he had the courage to pull the trigger.

Bruno pulled up his pant leg to reveal a square silk cloth tied around his calf. “What’s that?” said Brigitte.

“It’s a map. Just in case the Viet Minh forget to shoot me,” said Bruno.

He untied the strings and opened the cloth. It was embroidered, so it would stay legible even when wet or stained with blood. It showed the escape route and the path to Godard’s relief column. Brigitte pulled out a pencil and pad from her pocket and copied the map. Bruno handed her his compass. He knew it would be confiscated should he be lucky enough to be taken prisoner, and that Brigitte and Coyle would need it to find the relief column.

“You must stay close to me. I will lead an assault with whatever men I have left. We’ll drive a wedge into the enemy’s front. On my signal, you will split off and make your way out of the garrison. You will head south into the forest along the far side of the airfield. It’s lightly patrolled, and most of the enemy troops will be watching the final assault on the garrison. It’s your best chance. Take as much food and water as you can carry. You’ll need it,” said Bruno, handing them each a rucksack filled with supplies. “Stay off the trails and watch out for mines and booby-traps. When I am finished here, I will try and join you. But don’t wait. Keep moving until you find Colonel Godard’s relief column.”

Tearful, Brigitte hugged him and kissed him on each cheek. “Stay safe, little Bruno.”

“Of course,” said Bruno.

Bruno reattached the silk map to his calf and pulled down his pant leg. He turned to Coyle and said, “Take good care of her, Coyle. She is everything I fight for.”

Coyle nodded and offered his hand. Bruno batted his hand out of the way and gave him a hug.

“Americans,” said Bruno.

“French,” said Coyle.

Bruno picked up a submachine gun. With no more orders to be given, he would fight in the last battle. They moved off down the hillside with Bruno’s men by their side.

 

 

In the command bunker, Langlais and what remained of his staff burned aerial photographs, maps, and communiqués in several empty oil drums. “That’s the last of it, Colonel,” said a lieutenant.

“Very well, Lieutenant. You and the others may join your units,” said Langlais.

His staff stood at attention and saluted their commander. He saluted back and dismissed them. Apart from the radio operator, his staff picked up their weapons and exited the bunker. Langlais sat down next to the radio operator, ready to issue his final commands to the garrison.

General De Castries, wearing a neatly pressed uniform, entered the bunker. His eyes were bright and he seemed in perfect control. Langlais rose to greet him.

“Colonel, I assume everything is in order?” said De Castries.

“Yes, General. As well as can be expected under the circumstances,” said Langlais.

“Very well. While I appreciate your past efforts on my behalf, your presence is no longer required in the command bunker. I will be tending the radios from here on out. Colonel, you may rejoin your men.”

Langlais hesitated, unsure, and then stood at attention and saluted his commander, “Thank you, sir. I was happy to be of service.”

De Castries saluted back. Langlais picked up his weapon and left the bunker.

 

 

In a hillside trench, a small fire hidden by a jacket heated the last coffee grinds at the bottom of a mess kit. Sergeant Rouzic was alone. All the men he had commanded were dead or in the hospital. Waiting for the water to boil, he looked out at the hillside below and could see the Viet Minh sappers busy digging the last few yards of their assault trenches. It would all end soon enough. He just wanted to finish the last of his coffee before they killed him. That’s all he asked.

Someone approached from behind him in the trench. Sergeant Rouzic turned and raised his weapon. It was the German Legionnaire that he had saved. He was using a rifle as a crutch. A bloody bandage used to cover his stump had come loose and was dragging in the mud. “I thought you’d be dead by now,” said Sergeant Rouzic.

“Mercy hates Legionnaires, especially Germans,” said the Legionnaire.

Sergeant Rouzic used the top of his mess kit to pour in half the coffee he had made and gave it to the German. The German took a sip and grimaced. “Oh god, you French need to learn how to make coffee,” said the German.

Sergeant Rouzic just smiled, grateful not to be alone. Their uniforms were in tatters and covered in mud. They hadn’t shaved or even washed in several weeks and smelled like wet dogs. It didn’t matter. Nothing really mattered at this point, just the horrible coffee they shared. Together, they looked out at the mountains surrounding the valley. The trees were still a lush green and thick.

“It would be a beautiful country if it wasn’t for this war,” said Rouzic.

“Damn all wars,” said the German Legionnaire.

“Damn all wars,” said Sergeant Rouzic.

 

 

In the forest clearing, the Viet Minh artillery captain stood next to a battery of twelve Katyusha rocket launchers, each with six tubes aimed in the direction of the French garrison. In the trees above, sappers released the camouflaged net to open the sky up to the rockets. The captain covered his ears with his hands and gave the order to fire. Within twenty seconds, all seventy-two rockets were launched with thunderous whooshes from the ignited propellant. The ground shook and the surrounding trees quivered from the power of their combined engines.

 

The unknowing Legionnaires and paratroopers on Huguette had grown accustomed to the enemy’s artillery barrages. They simply took cover in a nearby trench or blockhouse until the barrage passed. Nothing had prepared them for what was about to happen. There was a high-pitched trill overhead. It was different from the sound of artillery shells, and all eyes turned upward to see the rockets arcing across the sky, leaving trails of smoke. The enemy rockets exploded all at once across the entire hillside and the air shattered. There was no time to seek cover and anyone caught above ground was torn to shreds from the long metal shards from the shattered rocket casings. A torrent of dirt, barbed wire, and body parts flew everywhere. The soil and rock that held the hill together shook so violently from the explosions it became loose and began to resettle.

 

Inside the hospital, the timber-reinforced ceilings rained down dirt and small rocks into the open wounds of the soldiers being operated on by the surgeons. Several of the tomb-like patient cells caved in and smothered the wounded soldiers lying inside. The hospital’s tunnels filled with a thick dust, making it impossible to breathe.

 

The trench walls crumbled and collapsed, burying hundreds of soldiers and making their dirt-filled weapons inoperable.

 

The ceilings in the blockhouses collapsed, crushing the occupants with wooden beams and burying them with three yards of compacted dirt from above.

 

Even the concrete used to construct the command bunker cracked and buckled in places, crushing radios with loose slabs of concrete, tearing wall maps, and burying their precious recon photos beneath the debris. The wires in the overhead lighting snapped and swung down, breaking the light bulbs and sending the command bunker into darkness.

 

When the rockets finally stopped and the ground stopped shaking, the surviving soldiers dug themselves out from under the debris and looked up over their trenches and out of their blockhouses. The entire garrison was in ruins. The barbed wire fences that protected their perimeter were broken in several places, and most of the mines had exploded and created craters that could be used by the enemy as protected firing positions. The strongpoint was open for attack, and the soldiers inside the perimeter knew it. They were in shock, and for the moment, whatever morale was left was crushed.

As each of the strongpoints in the French garrison had fallen, the Viet Minh had consolidated their forces. Unlike previous attacks on the strongpoints, the Viet Minh had more than enough soldiers available for a final attack from all directions.

The enemy bugles sounded and the ground forces rose from their trenches and charged forward in the thousands. Machine guns and recoilless rifles paved their way, keeping the heads of the French soldiers down in their trenches.

The sappers were first in the assault and cleared away the French mines and barbed wire with their Bangalore torpedoes.

Next, the rifle companies charged up the hill, firing their weapons and throwing grenades.

Small machine gun squads and bazooka teams were the last up the hill and were used to support the infantry whenever they got pinned down by the French defenders.

When the French soldiers heard the Viet Minh battle bugles they knew what was coming. Those still able to fight scrambled to find their weapons buried under the mud and dirt. They were lucky if they got off the first shot before the gun jammed and they were forced to clean out the dirt and mud from the gun’s receiver and ammunition clip. Several gun barrels and breeches exploded from mud blockage and blinded or killed the rifleman using it, or in some cases, an unlucky soldier beside him. It didn’t make much of a difference anyway. The French were almost out of ammunition and had only issued a few cartridges per man. The French machine guns blew through their final belts within the first minutes of the battle. The machine gunners were forced to spike their barrels and bury the guns’ receiver bolts so the enemy could not use them. The few remaining recoilless rifles had been fired so many times over the past few weeks that the rifling in their barrels had worn smooth. Without spinning, the shells were terribly inaccurate beyond a few hundred feet and usually missed their intended targets.

 

The French commanders had one last surprise to offer the Viet Minh. The quad-50s anti-aircraft guns that had protected the airfield had been held in reserve and repositioned to cover the hillside. The meat grinders’ barrel clips were still full of ammunition, and their gunners would use every shell for one last slap in the face before the enemy delivered its final coup de grâce on the garrison.

 

Just a few yards before the charging Viet Minh reached the French trenches, the quad-50 gun crews opened up and unleashed hell. The sound was deafening. The storm of bullets tore into the enemy horde, killing hundreds. The quad-50s’ high-velocity bullets ripped bodies apart and left few wounded. The scene of their comrades being shredded into pieces stopped the Viet Minh soldiers in their tracks, and they hit the ground and prayed they weren’t next. The surviving French soldiers cheered, but their adulation was short-lived. The deadly barrage from the meat grinders came to an end when the last shells fired and the smoking gun barrels went silent.

The Viet Minh mustered their courage, rose, and resumed their assault up the hillside.

The French fought bravely, mostly hand-to-hand when the Viet Minh jumped into their trenches or entered their blockhouses. The French didn’t last long, as they were soon overpowered by multiple enemy soldiers using the bayonets on the ends of their rifles.

In their trench, Sergeant Rouzic and the German Legionnaire fought side by side as they had always done. They fired the last of their ammunition at the human wave as it approached. They could both see that there were too many and that they would soon be overrun. The first Viet Minh that reached the trench jumped down next to Sergeant Rouzic. The sergeant raised his rifle and pulled the trigger. It clicked empty. The Viet Minh raised his own rifle straight at Sergeant Rouzic’s face. The Viet Minh’s throat exploded in blood from the bayonet of the German standing behind him. The German was riddled with bullets from another Viet Minh standing at the top of the trench, and crumbled into the mud at the bottom of the trench and died. Still another Viet Minh jumped into the trench and plunged his bayonet into Sergeant Rouzic’s stomach, pinning him to the trench wall. The getaway driver of the famous bank robber Pierrot-le-Fou slumped over and died.

 

Below the hill, Hervouet, his arms now free of their casts, rode on top of his tank, firing the last few rounds of his machine gun. The tank gunner fired his last shell at an enemy machine gun emplacement destroying it.

A Viet Minh bazooka team moved up a gully paralleling the tank. The gunner rose over the lip of the gully and fired the bazooka into the side of the tank just a few yards away. The explosion took the gunner’s head off.

Inside the tank, the loader and driver were sprayed with hot molten metal and killed instantly. Standing on the commander’s seat with half his body out of the tank, Hervouet’s legs were hit with the red-hot metal and his pants caught fire. Hervouet pulled himself up and out of the hatchway. He jumped off the tank and rolled to put out the fire on his pants. He pulled out his knife and used the tip of the blade to pry out the smoking pieces of molten metal lodged in the flesh of his leg. His pants still smoldering, Hervouet was hit in the back of the head by the rifle butt of a passing Viet Minh soldier. Unconscious and his final tank destroyed, Hervouet’s fight was over.

 

 

It was the massacre everyone was expecting when strongpoint Huguette was finally overrun by the Viet Minh. As usual, the assaulting force showed little mercy to the French defenders, for they, too, had suffered great loss and had watched their friends and family die at the hands of the French over the years of occupation. Most French soldiers did not surrender but were shot or beaten into submission by their Viet Minh captors.

 

 

Bruno, Coyle, and Brigitte watched from a hillside trench and listened on a handheld field radio as the garrison was overrun. The French were in chaos. “It always happens faster than you would expect,” said Bruno. “Remember, stay close until you see my signal.”

Bruno dropped the radio in the mud and fired one round of his remaining ammunition into the casing. It was destroyed. He moved up beside his men, fighting from their position in the trench and using up the last of their ammunition.

The Viet Minh approached the edge of the trench. Bruno nodded to a lieutenant holding a mechanical detonator with two wires attached. The lieutenant wound the handle and yelled “Fire in the hole!” The paratroopers and Legionnaires ducked down below the edge of the trench. The lieutenant pushed down on the handle and released the magneto inside the detonator, sending an electrical charge through the wires and setting off seven napalm canisters buried beneath the mud. The entire front of the trench exploded in flames, incinerating the enemy.

Bruno signaled to Coyle and Brigitte. They ran along the trench toward the airfield as Bruno had instructed.

Bruno and his men scrambled up the front of the trench and jumped through the fire left by the napalm explosions. They charged into the enemy, firing the last rounds in their weapons and then using them as clubs. Bruno fought like a madman, killing several Viet Minh before he was finally surrounded by six Viet Minh. They had been ordered not to kill the officers. Even with their bayonets just inches from his body, Bruno kept swinging until one of the soldiers hit him in the face with the butt of his rifle, breaking his nose and rendering him unconscious. Fortunately, none of the soldiers realized who he was and never tried to collect the bounty. Two of the soldiers dragged him off to join the other prisoners. Bruno never surrendered.

 

 

Inside the command bunker, De Castries and the radio operator listened to the final pleas from the garrison. “Our position is being overrun. We are out of ammunition. They have reached the bunker. I am destroying my radio. Andre, if I don’t make it, tell my wife I love her. Falcon One, out.”

“Wilco, Falcon One. Good luck, Lamar. Out.”

The radio went silent. The operator turned to De Castries and said, “That’s the last one, sir.”

“Get me, General Cogny.”

“Yes, sir.”

The operator moved from the field radio to the command radio used to communicate with Hanoi. He raised the operator on the opposite end.

“General De Castries for General Cogny,” he said.

After a few moments, Cogny spoke, “Charles, how are you holding up?”

“I am afraid it is over, sir,” said De Castries. “The garrison has fallen.”

“I see. And the men?”

“They fight to the end as ordered.”

“No chance of escape then?”

“Some will attempt it.”

“And you?”

“For me, no. I must look after those that remain and see that they are treated humanely by the enemy.”

“Of course,” said Cogny. “General, I need not remind you that you must not surrender the garrison at all costs.”

“Yes, sir. I understand.”

“You have served with honor, General De Castries.”

“Thank you, sir.”

De Castries and the operator heard Viet Minh voices from outside the bunker. “I must go now, General. The enemy is here. We are destroying everything. Adieu,” said De Castries.

The radio operator didn’t wait for a response. He spun the dials, changing the frequency on all the radio sets. Together, De Castries and the operator rose and fired their weapons into the radios, destroying them.

The radio operator set his rifle down on the floor. De Castries instinctively holstered his pistol. He thought for a moment, then removed his pistol and set it on the ground with the radio operator’s rifle. He would not surrender his weapon to a Viet Minh officer, which was a sign of capitulation. They waited in silence. It didn’t take long.

A Viet Minh soldier entered the command bunker with his rifle at the ready to deal with any resistance. There was none. He looked over and saw the French general. None of the Viet Minh had ever captured a general before, and the soldier was nervous. “C’est fini?” asked the soldier.

“Yes. C’est fini,” said De Castries.

The Viet Minh soldier smiled, grateful.

 

Outside the command bunker, several Viet Minh soldiers climbed on top of the curved, corrugated roof and took down the French flag, letting it fall to the mud. Their own flag was on the end of a pole and they waved it proudly back and forth for all to see. Sporadic fighting around the garrison would continue for several more hours, and the Legionnaires on strongpoint Isabel would hold out for a few more days, but with the garrison’s central command post and commanding general captured, the battle for the valley of Dien Bien Phu was over. The Viet Minh had won.

 

 

On the opposite end of the airfield, Coyle and Brigitte belly-crawled their way past a Viet Minh squad sitting in a trench, watching the destruction of the garrison. They crawled into the forest until they were sure they were out of the enemy’s sight. Brigitte used the compass that Bruno had given her and studied her hastily-drawn map. She pointed the way to Coyle.

They kept low and moved deeper into the forest. They stayed off the footpaths as Bruno had instructed, wading through the undergrowth below the trees.

A Viet Minh soldier appeared from a grove of trees twenty feet in front of them, blocking their path. He had just finished taking a leak and his hands were busy buttoning his pants when he saw Coyle and Brigitte. He fumbled for his rifle. Coyle drew his pistol and fired twice. The second bullet hit the soldier in the chest and he dropped to the ground, badly wounded. A second soldier appeared and shot at Coyle with his rifle. Coyle shot back and killed him. Coyle knew there was only one bullet left in his revolver. He could hear more Viet Minh voices deeper in the woods. They were coming. “Run,” he said.

Brigitte took off running through the trees and Coyle followed close behind. The undergrowth made it slow going. The survivors of the Viet Minh patrol chased them and fired several times. Brigitte and Coyle heard the bullets zipping past their heads. The shots were close misses.

Brigitte saw a footpath up ahead and decided to follow it. She remembered Bruno’s warning, but now was no time to be too cautious. She and Coyle jumped on the path and picked up speed, putting distance between them and the enemy patrol chasing them.

It was Brigitte’s foot that caught the booby-trap’s trip wire stretched across the forest trail. She stumbled to the ground. The tree branch that had been pulled back by the Viet Minh sappers was released and swung over her head, missing her by a couple of inches. It hit Coyle coming up behind her. The long branch had been rigged with several wooden stakes, each carved to a sharp point. One of the stakes plunged into Coyle's shoulder, impaling him and picking him up off the ground to pin him to another tree. He dropped his revolver. Brigitte screamed. The pain Coyle felt was intense, and he struggled to stay conscious. He pushed at the branch, hoping to free himself. Brigitte grabbed the branch and tried to help him. The tension on the branch was still too strong. It was hopeless. Coyle looked into Brigitte’s eyes and said, “Go.”

“I can’t,” said Brigitte.

“Can’t or won’t?” said Coyle with a weak smile.

Brigitte picked up the revolver and prepared to defend Coyle. Five Viet Minh appeared through the tree and raised their rifles. One of them shouted something at her in Vietnamese. Outnumbered, she dropped the revolver.

One of the soldiers ran up and tied her hands behind her back. He turned to Coyle and used his machete to cut through the branch. Each stroke sent waves of pain through Coyle. He groaned. Mercifully, he fainted after the third stroke. The branch broke and two soldiers pulled the branch from Coyle’s shoulder and placed a Russian field dressing on his wound. They cut off the staked end of the broken branch and tied Coyle’s hands and legs to the middle of the pole. They carried him hanging from the pole through the forest with Brigitte by his side.

 

 

Two hundred Viet Minh engineers worked swiftly to repair the airfield. The French had agreed to fly in food and medical supplies, which were to be shared equally by both sides. A squad of French engineers would also arrive to repair the water purification unit and generator damaged in the final artillery barrage. The Vietnamese did not yet possess the technical expertise or the resources to save their own people. It was difficult for their commanders to admit they still needed the French.

 

 

Over six thousand French prisoners sat under the hot noonday sun. There was no shade or water. Many of the prisoners were suffering from concussions from the final artillery and rocket barrage. Others were badly wounded, and blue flies infested their blood-soaked bandages. The smell of putrid flesh and gangrene permeated the air to the point of choking even the veterans. The stress of battle had been lifted, and most of the prisoners, no longer worried about snipers or falling artillery shells, dozed off wherever they sat.

Bruno sat with fellow paratroopers and watched the Viet Minh officers interrogating the prisoners and noting their names, ranks and serial numbers. “Major, if they find you, you will hang,” said one of the corporals.

The corporal waited until the sentries were looking elsewhere and motioned with a nod in a different direction. Bruno looked over at a medic closing the eyes of a dead Legionnaire sergeant missing both legs. Bruno observed that while the bottom of the sergeant’s uniform was in tatters and covered in blood, the top of his uniform was relatively untouched. The corporal nodded to Bruno. Bruno hated the idea of giving up his paratrooper uniform, even if his chances of survival would vastly improve. Bruno waited until the medic had left and moved up beside the body of the sergeant. The corporal picked a fight with one of his paratrooper comrades. Bruno waited until the Viet Minh sentries looked in the direction of the fight and he switched uniforms. He also swapped his dog tags for the sergeant’s. Bruno had just joined the Foreign Legion. He was annoyed.

 

 

Outside the collapsed field hospital, Guinevere tended to Coyle’s wound. The adrenaline his body had generated when wounded wore off after the first hour, and now Coyle was feeling the burning sensation of torn flesh and the sting of the dried blood that pulled at his bruised skin whenever he moved. There was no morphine or even simple aspirin to kill the pain. The Viet Minh had ransacked the hospital supplies and medicines.

Guinevere used tweezers to remove the pieces of bark and splinters that would otherwise cause an infection. “We have no more alcohol to irrigate the wound,” said Guinevere as she finished up and covered the wound with a dressing. “You need to keep it as clean as possible. Use boiled water if you can. I’m sorry, but it is the best that I can do.”

“You’ve done enough,” said Coyle. “Any idea what will happen to you?”

“I will go with the prisoners if I am allowed. The Viet Minh don’t even have enough medical personnel for their own wounded, let alone ours.”

A Viet Minh major with two guards approached. “Are you American?” he asked Coyle.

Coyle nodded.

“You will come with me,” said the major.

Coyle rose with Guinevere’s help. “Good luck, Monsieur Coyle,” said Guinevere.

“You, too,” said Coyle. He followed the major down the hillside escorted by two guards.

 

 

Coyle was brought to the Viet Minh command center in the same jeep Giap had used to arrive in the valley. He walked toward the waterfall and under the camouflage nets. Standing at the table, General Giap gave orders to several of his field commanders. The commanders saluted and left. Giap saw Coyle and said, “You are the American flyer?”

“Technically, I am a Foreign Legionnaire,” said Coyle.

“I see. But you were an American flyer?”

“I am not at liberty to say.”

“Are you at least willing to admit you are an American?”

“Yes. I am an American.”

“My name is General Giap.”

“I know who you are.”

“And your name?”

“Tom Coyle.”

“Are you wounded badly? I could have one of our doctors look at it.”

“No thank you. It’s a bit tender, but nothing that won’t heal.”

“Please, have a seat.”

Coyle sat down at a table and Giap sat down across from him.

“There was a woman I was with when I was captured,” said Coyle.

“The journalist, Brigitte Friang?”

“Yes. Is she all right?”

“Why wouldn’t she be, Mr. Coyle? We are not barbarians.”

“Thank you.”

“You are an American. This is not your war. Why did you fight for the French?”

“It paid good.”

“Not good enough, I think. But we must all make a living,” said Giap. “I was a history teacher before the revolution. I’d like to return to my job one day when the French leave. Soon, I think. I brought you here to let you know that you will soon be released,” said Giap, as he handed Coyle a signed document that released him from prison. “A Red Cross plane is on its way here to inspect our prisoners and pick up the most seriously wounded. You will be on it when it returns to Hanoi.”

“Why?”

“I wish you to deliver a message to your government and tell them what you saw here,” said Giap. “Tell them that we mean America no harm. We just want to live in peace.”

“I’ll tell ‘em, but I think they will find that hard to believe. You are Communists and you follow Mao. He means to harm all that stand in his way, especially America.”

“We are Vietnamese and we follow Ho. Our struggle is for independence from the French. That will be achieved shortly. We have no quarrel with America or any other nation unless we are attacked. Tell your president to learn from the French mistakes and not to let history repeat itself. This generation has shed enough blood and deserves peace.”

“I’ll deliver your message.”

“Then you are free to go.”

“I will not leave without Miss Friang.”

“I am afraid that is not possible. She is a war correspondent for the French. There are many that believe her lies have cost the lives of thousands of Vietnamese.”

“What will you do with her?”

“She will be tried.”

“Then try me with her.”

“You have committed no crime, Mr. Coyle.”

“It was my plane that dropped napalm on your troops.”

“I see,” said Giap, remembering the screams of the men and women burning. “It is of no consequence. You will leave.”

“I will not. Not without Brigitte.”

“Then I will have you shot.”

“That would be a mistake for a nation that wants peace with America.”

“You Americans think too much of yourselves as individuals. You have no concept of the collective good.”

“Spoken like a true Communist.”

Giap said something in Vietnamese to one of the guards. The guard walked over to Coyle and yanked off his dog tags.

“No one will know what happened to you, Mr. Coyle,” said Giap. “As you said, technically you are a Foreign Legionnaire. You will be buried in a mass grave along with hundreds of others, your name, and deeds erased from history.”

“Then so be it,”

“You Americans underestimate our resolve.”

“And you ours,” said Coyle.

Giap turned toward the two guards and barked out an order in Vietnamese. The guards grabbed Coyle by the arms and escorted him out. He was still feeling pain from his shoulder wound and the guards’ man-handling didn’t help. Giap followed.

“Where are you taking me?” said Coyle.

“You made your choice, Mr. Coyle.”

The guards took Coyle out of the command area and pushed him up against a tree. One of the guards leveled his rifle at Coyle’s head and chambered a round. The end of the guard’s rifle barrel was only an inch from the bridge of Coyle’s nose.

“You can’t just shoot me. It ain’t right,” said Coyle.

“I’ve just sacrificed eight thousand of my best men. You’d be surprised what I can do,” said Giap. “Last chance, Mr. Coyle. Will you deliver my message?”

Coyle hesitated and prepared himself. “Not without Brigitte,” said Coyle.

“Very well, Mr. Coyle,” said Giap, nodding to the guard. “Have it your way.”

 

 

The crack of a rifle rang out over the valley. A few birds that had returned to the mountain forests once again took flight. It was strange to hear just one shot after all the bombs, artillery and mortar explosions. It seemed almost peaceful in a way.

 

 

The sun was hanging low over the mountains and shone in the eyes of the prisoners. Brigitte sat on the hillside with several other civilians from different nations, including the prostitutes from Algeria and Indonesia. Recent tears had washed away some of the dust and left clean tracts down her face. She watched the Red Cross plane land on the repaired airfield.

In the distance, Brigitte saw the silhouette of a man approaching, flanked by two Viet Minh guards. As he came closer, his face became clear. It was Coyle, holding two signed documents. The two guards talked to the soldiers guarding the civilians, and Coyle showed them the documents signed by General Giap. One of the soldiers walked up the hillside and over to Brigitte. “You, come,” said the soldier.

Brigitte rose and walked down the hill with the soldier. When she reached Coyle they embraced. “Now will you go?” said Coyle.

Brigitte nodded with tears in her eyes. Together, they walked toward the airfield and the waiting Red Cross plane. Their war was over.