Casca 11: The Legionnaire (10 page)

Slowly, easily, he pushed forward with his feet, the weight of the rifle and bandoliers acting like the weights on a scuba diver's belt.

A crocodile could not have done much better as he gently, steadily, pushed himself forward, still not knowing which side of the marsh he was going toward. It didn't make much difference as long as he got out. A cough from a Viet gave him some direction and reminded him that he needed something to cover his feet with. Well, he thought, first come, first served. The mist resting on his head, he moved in the direction of the cough, knowing the Viets would probably expect him to be holed up somewhere hoping they would pass him by in the fog. Not this time. If he was going to get out he would have to be the one who started things. From all around him he began to make out different noises: feet being sucked at by mud, water dripping from men's bodies. Even the sound of their breathing reached him. There were a lot of those sons of bitches out there looking for him. He wondered if Thich was with them, or had he blown the bastard away?

Comrade Thich had at last entered the marsh himself. He was carrying one of the three radios available to him. The rest had been damaged by the flood in the tunnels and had to be repaired. Still, with these he would have some semblance of control over his search parties. He would have Langer one way or another, of that he was certain. He would see the man again. It was his destiny.

Langer zeroed in on his target. A small boned Viet with a bad case of overbite and lack of confidence was pushing his way through a clump of reeds when Langer rose up in front of him out of the marsh grass. The diminutive Vietnamese tried desperately to find a scream somewhere in his throat, but the best he came up with was a squeak. He was so pathetic that Langer didn't have the heart to kill him. Instead, he grabbed the little man by the throat and gently applied enough pressure to give the terrified Viet the blessing of unconsciousness. Langer lifted the small body up onto a clump of reeds where the little bastard wouldn't sink in the water and drown. All he took from the man was his jacket. It was too small for him to wear, but he could tear it up later to make wrappings for his feet. The man's rifle he let go. He preferred the one he had to the shorter barreled Moisin Nagant.

Slipping back to where only his nose and eyes were above the surface he pushed on, leaving behind him a wake of bubbles where his feet had disturbed the sediment below. The sound of men in the distance became more frequent. Pausing near the roots of a mango tree, he stopped to listen, the water lapping around his lips. From his left, a figure came toward him, a darker figure than the gray of the mist. He lowered himself down even further. Behind the lead figure came two others, all in water up to their waist, weapons held high to keep them dry. They were going to walk right over him if they didn't see him first. Sucking in a deep breath, he went under. Letting the dark waters cover him, he used the roots of the tree and the weight of his gear to hold him under. It seemed much longer, but could have been no more than ten or twenty seconds before a knee bumped his nose, nearly breaking it. He would have preferred to let them pass but the blow to his face forced him to rise, spitting water out of his mouth, his nose bleeding in streams. He rose right in the face of the man who had unwittingly kneed him. When he came up it was with the bayonet in his hand, which was already reaching out for the soft belly of the Viet. There had been no time for him to do anything else. Twisting the thick blade to break it loose of the stomach muscles which had clamped around it, he threw the man to one side and went after the next, who had two seconds more life than his now draining comrade. He screamed once before the blade tore open his throat. The last man had time to lower his rifle to his shoulder and pull the trigger. He had made one fatal error. He had forgotten to take the safety off. Even as his fingers clumsily tried to move the small lever, Langer's bayonet was in the air. He had made a strong, sure overhand throw from a distance of less than eight feet. The blade didn't hit square on target. It went through the bones of the sternum and lodged firmly in the left lung severing a large artery in the process. Langer ripped out the blade as he passed over the Viet's sinking corpse, pushing the body to the bottom and holding it with one foot while he worked the blade free of the bone. The Viet's chest let loose of its last breath through the hole the bayonet head made, setting free a stream of bubbles to merge with the marsh gases.

The second man's scream had blown things and the sun was now visible as a hazy orb in the east. Langer wasted no time on the dead, or in trying to recover his blade. He sunk back into the marsh and half swam half walked in the direction from which the Viets had come. That had to be the way out and, if he could get past the line of men searching the marsh for him, he would have a chance to break clear and make a run for it.

Getting as low as he could he swam under the surface of the marsh, the waters dark and muddy from the rains. He rose to get a breath then went under again, using the roots of trees or bunches of the high strong reed grass to propel his body forward. Several times he had to crawl over spots where he was exposed for a few seconds, but then he slid back into the mire once more and was lost to sight. The only way anyone could have seen him would have been to step on him as their dead comrade had done.

At last he had to rest. He lay on his back with only his nose above the surface so he could breathe normally for a while and feed his air starved system. Rising up a bit more, he listened. The sounds of pursuit were all behind him. He was nearly in the clear. Rolling over to his stomach, he looked to his front. Just past a clump of old bamboo, as thick as a man's biceps and yellow with age, he could see the edge of the marsh, and only a hundred feet beyond that, the edge of the tree line. Once there, they would play hell catching him.

Thich had turned back to land. He was no infantryman to wade through muck like a peasant. Besides, he had an idea that his quarry had slipped through their net. Three dead men and one still unconscious were mute testimony that he was somewhere close. If he had been the fox, he would have doubled back after creating an opening in the line. From his radio he received no further word of any contact, only that two more men had drowned in sink holes. Vietnamese were notoriously bad swimmers and Thich was no exception.

Langer was just coming out of the marsh, dripping mud and moss from his body and face, as Thich reached the shore line only a few steps ahead of him. He was concealed from view by the trunks of a cluster of trees.

Langer stopped in his tracks as he heard the sucking sound of water filled boots squeaking just to his left. He leaned against a tree as Thich stepped past him. Langer grinned from ear to ear. This was too good to be true. He had the little swine for sure this time. Thich turned just in time to see Langer rushing at him, bayonet held low and to the front, going for his gut. He shrieked in terror and fell over backwards. His scream brought rifles to the shoulders of two of his soldiers standing in the tree line. One fired from the hip, nearly hitting Thich. It was enough to make Langer break his stride and roll away without reaching his target. Not even having time to curse his luck, he rolled, crawled and scrambled on his belly into the brush at the base of the trees. With regret, he gave Thich one last look and scuttled away into the jungle. Next time.

Thich crawled on his own belly to the safety of his men, beating at his radio, yelling into it for everyone to come back; he needed protection. This was the third time the big nosed foreigner had nearly killed him. From all over, Viet Minh troops responded to his call.

Langer took off, trying to gain ground. He would have only a few minutes before they were after him again, and he needed every second. As he ran he took the Tokarev Model 40 sniper's rifle from his shoulder. With fumbling, wet, wrinkled fingers he opened up the small metal latch in the butt plate. Inside he knew he'd find what he needed, a cleaning kit and a small tube of oil. A trained sniper would always have the items needed for its maintenance on hand. While on the run, he swabbed out the barrel and oiled the action, working it to make sure there would be no stoppages when he needed it. Refilling the magazine, he felt a bit better. Now he had something to fight back with at a distance. He'd been through the German army's sniper school and knew how to use the weapon to its maximum potential. His biggest worry was the telescopic sight. The treatment it had recently received couldn't have done it any good. Halting for just enough time to raise the weapon to his shoulder, he looked through the sight and grunted; he was pleased. The sight looked okay, no water in it. Tearing a piece of cloth from the Viet 's tunic he had taken he carefully wiped down the lenses of the scope with the cleanest piece he could find. Then he wiped the rest of the weapon, using a touch of oil from the tube in the butt plate. Next he used the remainder of the tunic to wrap around his feet, giving them at least a minimum of protection. By this time they were pale, bloated looking things with open cuts that no longer bled.

This was probably the only chance he'd have to sight the rifle. He measured off twenty five meters after making a mark on the trunk of a tree. Quickly, with practiced hands, he fired once, checked the hit and adjusted the sight for a bit lower and to the right. Another shot and he was on the money, hitting his mark with the sights adjusted for three hundred meters. He didn't like doing it, but the Viets already had a good idea of which way he was heading and he would need to know that his weapon functioned properly if they caught up to him. Testing done, he moved back into the brush, keeping his face to the rising sun.

The time, as near as he could figure, was now around 0900 hours. With his back to the west, he headed away from the mountains around the valley of Dien Bien Phu. Settling into a steady kilometer eating pace, he took the calculated risk of staying on a trail in order to make time. If he had stayed in the brush the Viets would have probably gotten in front of him. Moving without stopping, he ignored the growling in his gut. But he was able to do something about his thirst by hacking off a section of old bamboo at the joint. Inside the hollow of the tube was water that had seeped in during the rains. There was more than enough bamboo to take care of that problem, but he was still hungrier than shit and there was no time to stop and look for food.

When he could go no further, he picked out a spot where he'd have a clear field of fire covering the way he had come and the way he was heading. To his rear was heavy jungle and brush. That would be his way out if he had to use it. In the brush he was the equal of most men, and the Viets, for all their propaganda, were no better in the brush than were the French. Most of them had come from cities and villages and, like the French, had to learn to use the jungle. The ones to
watch were the Montagnards, the hill peoples of the Muong, Meo, Thai and the tribes farther to the south, the Djarai, Bihnar, Rhade and Sedang. The Montagnards of Indochina were much like the Indians of America. There were dozens of sub tribal groupings that considered the tribe next to them to be complete foreigners, as much, if not more than they did the French or the Vietnamese. Some were for the Viet Minh, who promised them an autonomous republic once the colonialists were kicked out. Others sided with the French because they didn't trust, or simply hated, the Viets who had once hunted them like game animals. The Vietnamese word for them was Moi, meaning animal or savage. They were usually a bit taller than the Viets and more strongly built. But most of them were aboriginal in their life styles and cultures. They worshipped the spirits of the fields and streams, certain rocks and mountains, and the spirits of their ancestors. They hunted with homemade crossbows and spears.

Langer was just thinking about them when the point man for the Viet Minh hunters came into view on the same path he had been taking. He wondered how they had gotten onto him so fast, then saw the man on point squat on his haunches and run his hand over the ground. The tracker wore a khaki shirt like the Viets, but he was naked from the waist down except for a red and black loincloth. In his hand, he carried one of the native crossbows that fired bamboo arrows. Somewhere, the Viets had picked up a pet Montagnand to scout for them and it looked like the bastard was doing a damned
fine job of it. Probably the best thing he had going for him was that he had gone further down the trail before cutting back to this spot. They would have to cross the clearing a good hundred meters before they came to where he had left the trail. That'd be when he'd take them.

Regretfully, he knew his first hit would have to be the Montagnard. He liked them, but he couldn't afford to let this one live and lead the Viets to him. He'd have to die.

Sliding back on his belly, he moved to where some overhanging branches would provide him with eye relief. Resting the barrel of the Tokarev on a log, he got ready. When he cut loose on them they would be about four hundred meters distant. He knew this because he had paced off the distance when he'd left the trail. Then, once he had taken up his position, he had sighted on a tree stump about the height of a man from the waist to the top of the head. The way the target set in his scope between the stadia marks confirmed his judgment.

Behind the Montagnard, the rest of the hunters came in single file. No flankers out! That would have taken too much time and they knew that their guide would lead them to their prey.

Adjusting his body behind the Tokarev rifle, he waited for the Viets following the Montagnard scout to enter the clearing. Five, ten, eleven counting the Montagnard.
Take it easy, give them time
, he thought; as he sighted on the Montagnard.
Soon now, just as he reaches the spot where I left the trail and squatted down to check it out.

The damp ground made the Montagnard's job of tracking easy. Even with the rags around his feet Langer 's weight made easy signs to follow for one raised in the jungle. He was near the spot. The sun was directly overhead, its rays beating down on the damp earth as heat waves rose over the field between him and the trail. To check the wind, he traversed the scope until the heat waves moved straight up with no lateral motion. That meant there wasn't enough wind for him to worry about making any compensation for his shot. It was straight on. He brought the scope over until the body of the Montagnard filled the sight picture. Gently, steadily, he began to take up the slack on the trigger.

Raising his hand with the crossbow in it, the Montagnard signaled for the men behind him to halt. The trail had stopped. That meant his quarry had jumped off the trail, either to the left or right. Taking his time, he looked both ways then moved to where the grass began. Squatting on his haunches on the right side of the trail, he looked at the grass. The path Langer had taken was invisible to the untrained eyes of the Viets, but to those of the savage the way was clear. The manner in which small patches of damp grass bent in a different direction than the rest told the story. His eyes followed the trail across the field to the trees. A brief flicker of light from the shadows at the tree line brought a grunt of satisfaction. At the same moment his heart was exploded inside of him by a 7.63 mm bullet, knocking him flat on his back across the trail.

Langer held his sight for just long enough to make certain of his strike, then moved down the line. The Viets had hit the deck on both sides of the trail. A hand rose above the ground and began to point across the field in his direction. Someone was giving orders. That would be his next hit. Shifting his body for the new target, he focused on the place where the arm had risen up. Following the sight down, he brought into the picture the shape of a homemade Viet pith helmet. The face was hidden by grass. Calculating the distance, he aimed where he thought the chin should be. Even if he was off a bit he would be close enough to make the man get up; when he did he'd have him. Taking a breath, he took up the slack in the trigger once more then let loose his breath to its normal point of exhalation and squeezed off his shot. The bullet did better than he'd expected it to. The round caught the Viet just to the left of his nose. It entered his body lengthwise and then traveled down through the spinal cord. The contact with bone made the course of the round erratic. When the flattened slug finally stopped it was resting under the floating rib on the man's right side. It had passed through the lungs, the aorta, and a number of arteries, turning the inside of his chest cavity into a mass of thick, black red jelly.

Inaccurate fire came in his general direction. They hadn't spotted his position yet, but they were trying to keep him down until they did. He knew he'd have to go soon, before they got organized and moved out, flanking him. Rolling over to where he was further back under the tree and in the dark of the shadows, he came up to his knee and rested his weight on the heel of his right foot. Using the rifle strap to stabilize the weapon, he fired twice more. One hit, one miss. It was time to get hat and get gone. Firing off the rest of the six rounds remaining in the magazine, he took off, moving in a half circle around the edge of the tree line where he'd be outside for the view of the Viets, even if they sent out any flankers. Then he came around to where he had a view of his now vacant site in the tree line. Lying down in a ditch dug by the rains, he reloaded and waited, watching the Viets as they began to fan out across the clearing, moving slowly, ready to hit the ground if any more shots came from the tree line.

From where he lay in the ditch, the Viets were on a staggered horizontal line to him. This time there would be no fancy shooting. Rather than kill any of them, he wanted to wound enough men so that they would have to give up the chase to take care of them. They were now about two hundred meters away and if he moved fast he might be able to get two or three of them before they could react. He picked the man farthest behind the line. Sighting on the man's left thigh he fired. Not waiting to see if his target went down, he moved down the line, emptying the magazine once more, then backed away on his belly to where he could get to his knees and take off again. This time he would stay to the sides of the trail and head west. Content with the work he had done, he was sure the Viets would not be too anxious to continue their pursuit. Not if they had any sense, they wouldn't.

Of those on the field, only one was dead. The man he had shot first and one other went down with wounds. The other had walked into a gut shot.

Body low, weapon to the front, Langer moved away from his ambush, satisfied with the day's work. A thorn vine whipped at his face, striking him across the bridge of the nose laying it open. The pain made his eyes water, blinding him for just a second. That's all it took. In that instant, when he couldn't see, the world around him exploded. A hammer hit his chest knocking him clear off his feet, throwing his body back against a tree. Then another hit! He could hear the dull thud of the bullets ripping into him but the pain was distant, far away. His legs weren't there anymore. They too were far away as if they belonged to someone else. The sniper's rifle fell from lax fingers that hadn't the strength to hold the nine pounds any longer. Blood filled his mouth, running down his ragged tunic. He went first to his knees in slow motion as the strength left him. Then, ever so slowly, he twisted half around, falling face down to the earth, mouth and eyes open.

The muzzle of an American made M1 carbine prodded the face of the Legionnaire lying crumpled on the spongy floor of the forest. The
Chung Ui
in charge of the twelve man Viet Minh patrol that had come to investigate the sounds of firing was jerked away from his kill by a cry of rage and pain from the clearing. Comrade Commissar Thich was stumbling toward him, pistol in his hand, a belt tied around his thigh to stop the bleeding. The sight of Thich wounded and furious scared the young lieutenant from Da Nang more than anything the French had ever hit him with.

"Did you get him? Is the swine dead? Show me. I must see him! "The
Chung Ui
obeyed, offering his arm for assistance. He led Thich to the body. A tree root covered by grass and leaves caught his good foot. He fell belly first to lie nearly eye to eye with the object of his hate.

Over the pain in his voice came a note of pure pleasure. "You're dead! At last, I am rid of you."
The face said nothing. The gray blue eyes were already fogging over. Reaching out a bloody finger, which touched one of the orbs. Nothing happened, no eye reflex at all. The back of Langer 's tunic was torn and bloody where two bullets had passed completely through him. Not yet completely satisfied he turned the body over to its back so he could see the wounds. Good! The sight of the three holes in the Legionnaire 's chest nearly compensated for the pain of his own wound. The man was dead, of that there was no doubt. Thich, like most men in war, had seen enough casualties to know that. Still, before rising, he put a hand to the carotid artery, pressed deep and felt for any trace of a pulse. At last he was content that his prey's life force had gone to whatever heaven or hell he had believed in. Thich ordered the
Chung Ui
to throw the body on the trail as a warning to the villagers in the region. He would have had the corpse dismembered, the balls cut off and put in the severed head's mouth, if his leg hadn't begun to throb so badly. A wave of pain rushed over him like hot water. His stomach churned and he threw up on Langer's body.

That was the end of the chase. Thich was not going to take a chance on bleeding to death or dying from infection. His greatest concern now was his own well
-being. Escorted by the lieutenant and his squad, the climb back up the mountain was an agony of body and spirit for Thich. He had always prided himself on being unemotional and logical, but there had been a madness eating at him that some men only felt for a woman. He had wanted the scar-faced Legionnaire. He had wanted him so badly it hurt, nearly as much as his leg.

His two wounded men were left with two of the lieutenant's men to be brought up later after the dead were buried. In the meantime, he hoped the wild pigs of the jungle would enjoy the meal he had left for them on the trail.

His five remaining men took turns carrying him on a makeshift stretcher. They took the brunt of his abuse as they struggled back up the mountain trails with their angry cargo. He blamed them for being lax in their duty, for being stupid beasts that did not deserve to wear the uniform of the revolution. They were supposed to be soldiers. How could they fail him in such a manner and let one filthy Legionnaire treat them as if they were school children who had not studied their lessons? When they returned he would see to it that they were put into a special re-education class, a class for those who needed to have their revolutionary zeal rebuilt. They would receive a hundred hours of indoctrination on the principles of
Danh du Trach Nhiem
, Honor and responsibility. The senior Viet Minh soldier's efforts to explain were cut off with a terse order to be silent. ”
Im Lang!
" Comrade Huang Nguyen Thich was in no mood to hear excuses. Every step they took sent a jolt of fire through his throbbing leg. He knew he'd be lucky if he didn't lose it. Viet Minh doctors were unfortunately somewhat less proficient in medicine than their European counterparts.

Now that it was over, it was hard for Thich to recall just what had been the fascination the scar
-faced man had held for him. At any rate it was done with and he could turn his energies to more useful endeavors. There was much to be done in the next few months. The tunnels had to be rebuilt and expanded. This time, he'd dig them so deep and strong that bombs would never give him any cause for concern again. Comrade General Giap had placed this project in his hands and he would not fail his old friend. When he was finished, the mountains around the valley of Dien Bien Phu would be able to house fifty thousand men and their equipment. When the time came he would be ready. Raising up on an elbow, he swore at his bearers to be careful and move faster. He wanted to be back at the tunnels before the rains came. He already felt a chill, and his leg burned.