Saigon (39 page)

Lieutenant David Hawke hauled the back-pack radio from the jeep and carried it wearily up the front steps of the mansion that Detachment 404 of the OSS had commandeered for its headquarters on the northwestern outskirts of Saigon. The former home of the French chief executive of the Bank of Indochina, the house stood on the edge of a golf course in its own grounds, and on the orders of General Douglas Gracey, commanding officer of the British occupation force, it was guarded by a detachment of Japanese troops. Both Hawke and Joseph, who followed him up the steps, returned the resentful salutes of the Japanese sentries without looking at them, and once inside the front hail, Hawke dumped the radio pack angrily on the table. 

“Why in hell’s name did we have to agree at Potsdam to let the British take Indochina south of the sixteenth parallel? If it had been left in General Wedemeyer’s South China Command, we’d have had a massive Chinese presence and a bigger American outfit down here long ago.” Hawke patted the tunic and trousers of his battle dress distastefully, raising clouds of dust that had been absorbed during a long afternoon and evening patrol. “Instead we’ve got a few thousand Indians and their British sahibs running around the place using the enemy as policemen — and we’re all teetering on the edge of a precipice.” 

A door of one of the downstairs offices opened unexpectedly, and the bespectacled major commanding the detachment emerged, grinning. A brilliant Wall Street investment analyst in civilian life, he tried to apply the same careful methods of logic and detailed research to his military intelligence work but had already confessed himself baffled by the confused political scene in Saigon. 

“Has nobody told you, lieutenant, that Admiral Lord Louis Mountbatten changed the name of his outfit at the end of the war? ‘SEAC’ doesn’t stand for ‘South East Asia Command’ anymore. It stands for ‘Save England’s Asian Colonies.’ That’s why the British were so keen to grab part of the Indochina action at Potsdam. With Burma and India next door they couldn’t let the natives here get too restless —or the humble folk in their own colonies might start getting the wrong ideas.” 

Lieutenant Hawke expressed an obscene personal opinion about the British under his breath and began to unfasten his tunic, but the major lifted a warning hand. “Hold it right there, lieutenant; your day’s not over yet. I’m sure Captain Sherman’s going to want you to accompany him on a little trip to Saigon Cathedral.” 

Joseph looked inquiringly at the major. “Why should I want to go to the cathedral, sir?” 

The major unfastened the breast pocket of his shirt and pulled out a crumpled envelope. “A mysterious Vietnamese delivered this note an hour ago. He said it was urgent. It says. ‘Please ask Captain Sherman to be in the cathedral at the rear of the south aisle at nine P.M.’ “The major handed Joseph the note scrawled on ruled paper in badly spelled English. “It’s signed ‘Ngo Van Loc.’ Do you know anyone of that name?” 

Joseph read the note himself, then looked up at the senior officer with a surprised expression on his face. “Yes, I do. Loc is somebody I met here a long time ago.” 

“And was he mixed up in the politics of the place?” 

“I think I could say yes to that,” said Joseph grimly. 

“Fine; then go and meet him. Maybe we’ll find out something we don’t know already about what’s going on around here. Lieutenant Hawke will come along to ride shotgun in case they’ve got any ideas about kidnapping a token American.” 

When Joseph and Hawke approached the Basilica de Notre Dame half an hour later, the curfew hour was close and the streets were already empty. As they parked the jeep, they heard the crackle of gunfire from the direction of the docks, and a few seconds later a truckload of Gurkhas roared across the deserted Place Pigneau de Behaine, heading towards the sound of fighting. Inside the cathedral, the gloom was relieved only by a bank of votive candles, and the little sanctuary light above the high altar. The pews at the rear of the south aisle were in deep shadow and apparently deserted, but Joseph stationed Hawke behind a nearby pillar with his hand on his revolver butt as a precaution before sitting down to wait. When Ngo Van Loc appeared silently at his side a few minutes later, Joseph didn’t recognize him immediately. The peasant he had first encountered as a ragged camp “boy” in 1925 now wore the long dark coat and black turban of a middle- class Vietnamese and had grown a goatee that substantiated his disguise; but then Joseph noticed that his paralyzed left arm, shattered by the French dive-bombers at Vinh, still hung limp at his side, and when Loc glanced in his direction, his dark eyes were as watchful and suspicious as Joseph remembered from their previous encounter nine years before in the covered market. 

In keeping with the disguise he wore, Loc knelt for a moment as though in prayer, then sat back and picked up a missal from the bench in front of him and began turning its pages. “So you’ve returned to Saigon as a military intelligence man, Captain Sherman,” he said softly in French, pretending to read the prayer book. “The city has changed greatly since your last visit, hasn’t it?” 

“How did you know I was here?” asked Joseph in a surprised undertone. 

“Word was sent to us from Hanoi. President Ho Chi Minh himself told us you and the other OSS Americans were sympathetic to our cause.” 

“Are you an official of the Viet Minh League?” 

Loc nodded, still keeping his eyes fixed on the missal. “I’m a member of our Committee for the South.” 

“And why do you want to talk to the OSS? We’ve got no real standing here.” 

“Gracey, the British general, is too arrogant to negotiate with us, and the French colonel, Cedile, who jumped in by parachute and now calls himself ‘High Commissioner,’ is a pigheaded man. He pretended to hold discussions with us for a few days, but in reality he was trying to force us to capitulate.” Loc spat his words out in a fierce whisper, and Joseph had to lean closer to make out clearly what he said. “Neither of them realizes the dangers they face. You’ve been in the north and seen how the people have risen to support our national revolution. Here in the south we’ve set up revolutionary committees everywhere to replace the corrupt councils of notables and mandarins. But the British don’t understand that and refuse to listen to us. They’re preparing to restore the rule of France — we know French troopships are already on their way here from Marseilles and Calcutta...” 

Loc stopped speaking as the dark-clad figure of a French priest passed in front of the altar, and he followed him with his eyes until he disappeared into the sacristy. 

“But why are you telling me this?” insisted Joseph. 

“Because we need the support of America,” replied Loc vehemently. “You must tell your government about us! Your political leaders must bring pressure on Britain and France to recognize the Viet Minh as the lawful government of our country.” 

“It doesn’t matter how much I sympathize personally with the cause of the Viet Minh,” said Joseph quietly. “The OSS mission here in Saigon can’t take sides in your internal politics.” 

“The Viet Minh helped the Allies fight the Japanese while the French collaborated with them,” said Loc heatedly, turning to look at Joseph. “Doesn’t that count for anything? Do the French deserve your support?” 

Joseph shrugged helplessly. “France and Britain are our allies. There are many conflicting interests for the United States government to consider — especially in Europe.” 

“You mean that Vietnam isn’t important enough — nobody will care if there’s war in such a small and insignificant country.” Loc studied Joseph’s face for a moment, then nodded quickly to himself in confirmation of his suspicions. 

“One of the problems,” said Joseph slowly, “is that nobody really knows whether the Viet Minh is secretly a Communist front organization. How many of your committee are Communists?” 

Loc turned the pages of the missal with rapid, agitated movements. “You, more than anyone, captain, should know that you don’t have to be a Communist to hate what the French have done here. Our committee has fourteen members and no more than three or four are what you would call ‘Communists.’ But that’s not important. What is important is that the Viet Minh wants to negotiate with France. Our leaders in Hanoi told you that. We know we are a poor country and we need French commercial interests to help us develop. It’s the other nationalist groups outside the Viet Minh who are urging the committee to fight the French. And by refusing to negotiate with us, the British and the French are making a war certain. We want negotiations, captain, but if the French try to return without negotiating much blood will be spilled -— we will never surrender the independence we’ve just won.” 

“Maybe your fears are exaggerated, Loc. In the north, the Chinese occupation force is respecting the Viet Minh government. The British have come to Indochina only to organize the evacuation of the Japanese forces and their formal surrender — those are their orders.” 

Loc snorted angrily and closed the missal with a snap. “Already the British have shut down our newspapers, and hour by hour they’re cooperating more openly with France. Our agents have discovered today that General Gracey has ordered posters to be printed proclaiming martial law. Within a day or two all political freedom is to be denied us in our own country! The next step will be an outright attempt to restore French rule!” 

Joseph studied the profile of the Vietnamese beside him; his bony face was gaunt and wasted by imprisonment and physical suffering, and his dark eyes gleamed ferociously whenever France was mentioned. “Just after we met the last time, Loc, your son was arrested in Hue for trying to murder Monsieur Jacques Devraux,” he said evenly. “Then Monsieur Devraux was murdered in his bed a week or two later. Were you responsible for his death?” 

The Vietnamese Looked steadily at Joseph for a long time. “That’s a personal matter, captain. I haven’t come here to discuss such things. But I asked to speak to you because, better than anybody else, you know how much hatred there is for the French in the hearts of my countrymen. They robbed me of my wife and son, and there are many many thousands like me who have lost their loved ones because of the cruelty of France. That is why we will fight to the death to be free.” Without warning the Vietnamese stood up. “Tell your allies that — before it is too late.” 

Loc disappeared into the shadows as silently as he had come, and Joseph sat staring at the stumps of the many hopeful candles that had been lit throughout the day by frightened colons and their families. One by one they were going out, and the light they provided in the gloomy cathedral was growing dimmer. When he sensed a presence at his side, Joseph turned and found David Hawke standing beside him, buttoning his revolver back into its holster 

“Did he tell us anything interesting, captain?” asked the young Bostonian in a quiet voice. 

Joseph nodded slowly and stood up. “Yes. I’d better head back to headquarters right away and get a report across to the British. I don’t suppose it will do any good, but the Viet Minh say that if the French don’t negotiate, they won’t be able to stop the other hotheads from starting a war.” 

As they left by the west door, the last of the votive candles guttered and went out, leaving the cathedral in almost total darkness behind them. Outside, the stars shone brilliantly in the night sky, but an unnatural hush had already fallen over the streets, as though the whole city was holding its breath in expectation of unwelcome news. 

In the late afternoon of the next day, September 22, as he was driving along the old Rue Catinat, Joseph saw a Japanese trooper pasting a series of printed posters on the walls of the Continental Palace Hotel. Stopping his jeep at the curb, he hurried across the sidewalk to peer over the soldier’s shoulder. Printed in Vietnamese, French and English, the notice was headed “Proclamation Number One” in heavy black type, and after scanning its contents Joseph felt his spirits sink; as Ngo Van Loc had predicted, it amounted to a declaration of martial law. 

It proclaimed that General Douglas Gracey, acting on behalf of the Supreme Allied Commander, South East Asia, was in sole charge of all military forces, armed groups and police units in French Indochina south of the sixteenth parallel. The population ere warned that in future, looters, saboteurs and other wrongdoers would be summarily shot, and that. all demonstrations, processions and public meetings were banned henceforth. From the time of the posting of the edict, the carrying of arms, even sticks, staves and bamboo spears, was forbidden to all except British and Allied troops. 

As Joseph returned to his jeep, he glanced along the boulevard. The shady pavements beneath the tamarinds, normally aswarm with people at that hour, were almost deserted; sensing that trouble was coming, the Vietnamese population of the city had been fleeing to the countryside in increasing numbers, and few French colons dared any longer venture from their homes. During frequent reconnaissance tours with Lieutenant Hawke that day Joseph had seen only isolated Japanese foot patrols and an occasional truckload of British Gurkhas moving in the streets; in the daylight hours the armed gangs of the Cao Dai, the Hoa Hao and the Binh Xuyen were keeping out of sight. The Viet Minh strike had now succeeded in shutting down the markets completely, and the British had already begun to airlift some essential supplies into the city. 

During the past two days as the streets had grown noticeably more tense, Joseph had been wrestling hour by hour with his conscience. To know that Lan was somewhere in the city but didn’t want him to contact her had sometimes seemed an unendurable agony. He had been unable to put from his mind the accusing expression on her mother’s face as she spoke to him from the steps of her house, and he had been tortured by the knowledge that the wife of a French officer would almost certainly be treated at the central Hôpital Militaire in the Rue de Ia Grandière. Once or twice, while driving past the sprawling complex of two-storied, verandahed buildings, he had been tempted to stop and go in, but the presence of David Hawke beside him had always restrained him. In the last afternoon, however, he had driven out alone from the OSS headquarters, his own private sense of unease increasing with the heightening tension in the streets, and after reading the British proclamation he sat behind the wheel of the jeep for only a moment before finally making up his mind. With all political rights suddenly denied to the newly free Vietnamese, some kind of explosion seemed unavoidable, and the anxiety he felt for Lan’s safety finally broke down his earlier resolve to comply with her mother’s wishes. When he drove past the Hotel de Ville and saw the Viet Minh sentries still standing guard with their weapons in defiance of the martial-law edict, he pressed more urgently on the accelerator, and at the Hôpital Militaire the apprehensive French doctors took one look at his American officer’s insignia and deferred without hesitation to his request for information. 

When they located Lan they agreed immediately that he might visit her. The nurse supervising the ward in which she was being treated explained that Lan had almost recovered from her concussion and would be able to leave the hospital in two or three days. Lan was sleeping just then, the nurse said, but remembering the meaningful look the senior doctor had given her, she invited Joseph to wait at her bedside until she awoke. 

Outside the door of Lan’s room he hesitated again, wondering if he should at the last moment .try to resist that irrational compulsion that had driven him there. He thought of Paul languishing in some dark cell not far away and wondered how he would explain his actions to him when they met. He decided he would say only that he had come to see if he could help the wife of his old friend, but this intended deceit only increased his feeling of disquiet. His final agony of indecision, however, lasted little more than a second or two, and when he stepped through the doorway, his eyes fell upon her immediately. Her long hair was spread across the white pillow like wreaths of dark smoke, and in repose the delicate beauty of her oval face was also voluptuous. He stood transfixed at the sight of her, and his heart seemed to swell suddenly inside his chest; the finely arched brows, the closed, heavy-lidded eyes and gently smiling mouth gave her the appearance of an Asian Madonna, acknowledging with shyly lowered gaze an adoration beyond her understanding. One hand, small and narrow like a schoolgirl’s, lay on the top of the coverlet, and he had to check a sudden impulse to cover it tenderly with his own. She showed no signs of waking, and eventually he removed his cap and seated himself quietly on a chair by the foot of the bed. 

For a quarter of an hour he just sat and looked at her; she slept propped high on her pillows, her head turned slightly to one side, and he could see a tiny pulse beating strongly in the base of her throat. She is just as beautiful as I remember her, he thought wonderingly — more beautiful perhaps. Listening to the gentle sigh of her breath, he felt a new stirring of the giddy passion they had once shared, and suddenly he knew that however unjust it was, he had never loved Tempe — and never would — with the same intensity. A feeling of anxiety gripped him as she began to waken, but when at last she opened her eyes and turned her head in his direction, she showed no sign of surprise. 

“You shouldn’t have come,” she said softly in French. 

“Lan, I know,” said Joseph leaning towards her in his anxiety. “I’m sorry I didn’t respect your mother’s wishes. I had to see you again. Are you really recovered from your injuries?” 

She nodded vaguely, her eyes still hazy with sleep. “There’s nothing for us to say, Joseph. We must let past things remain in the past.” 

“But your mother said I’d caused you unhappiness. I didn’t know what she meant.” 

With the gradual return of full awareness, her eyes began to widen in alarm. “She told me yesterday you’d come back to Saigon. I knew she’d forbidden you to visit me, but before I woke, I dreamed that you would come 

“But what did she mean? How could I have made you unhappy, Lan?” 

“She thought that you knew. She thought I had told you in a letter after you left.” 

Joseph stared at her in puzzlement. “Told me what?” 

She dropped her gaze and began twisting the coverlet abstractedly between her fingers. After a moment he noticed that the corners of her mouth were trembling. 

“Told me what, Lan?” he prompted gently. 

“That I had borne your child.” 

For a whole minute he sat and stared numbly at her, unable to speak. Then he reached out and gently touched the back of her hand with his fingertips. “Lan, if only you had written to me 

She shook her head quickly without looking at him. “It would have made things worse then if you had known.” 

Joseph closed his eyes for a moment. “Was it a girl or a boy?” 

“She was a beautiful little girl. I called her Tuyet — the name means ‘snow.’ “ When at last she raised her gaze to his, her eyes were brimming with tears. “Nobody knew of her birth. I went away. A year later I married Paul Devraux to please my father. We have son of our own.” 

“But where’s Tuyet now?” 

“She was brought up as the daughter of one of our house servants — the girl who showed you to the gate the day you left.” 

“Then she’s here in Saigon?” asked Joseph eagerly. 

Lan shook her head quickly and looked out of the window. “No. My mother insisted that they be sent away. They went to live in the village in northern Annam where my mother was born. The servant girl married there later and had other children of her own.” 

Joseph stood up and paced back and forth agitatedly in the confined space of the small room, struggling to come to terms with the enormity of the news. Then he stopped and sat down again. “Have you seen Tuyet since her birth?” 

Lan bit her lip and nodded. ‘Yes, I persuaded my mother to make a journey to the north once a year with me, at first under the pretext of visiting the birthplace of her ancestors. She went reluctantly .— it was my idea, you see, that Tuyet should be sent there so that I might know something of her upbringing. But we saw her for only a day or two each time.” 

“Is she still living there?” 

Lan looked distressed. “I’m not sure. For the past five years, since the Japanese came, it’s been impossible to travel.” 

“Tuyet Joseph repeated the name to himself in an awed whisper, looking wonderingly at Lan. Then a wave of tenderness swept over him and he reached out and took her hand. “I’m truly sorry, Lan. If I’d .known, I would have come back. You know I wanted to marry you. I never dreamed anything like this had happened.” 

Her hand tightened in his for an instant, and tears trickled down her cheeks. “If I hadn’t dreamed of you I would have said nothing.” 

“But, Lan, what can we do?” 

“There’s nothing to be done, Joseph,” she said quietly. “And there’s nothing more to say.” She freed her hand from his and brushed the tears from her cheeks, “You must go now. Please don’t try to visit me again.” 

“But Lan,” he began desperately, “we can’t just pretend it never happened 

He broke off and drew away from her on hearing a commotion of hurrying footsteps in the corridor, and a moment later a tall, shabbily dressed European burst into the room. It was a second or two before Joseph recognized Paul Devraux; all badges of rank and other insignia had been ripped from the ragged battle dress he’d been forced to wear during his six months as a prisoner of the Japanese, and his face was gray and haggard. Joseph stood up immediately and moved away from the bed, and with scarcely a glance in his direction the French officer knelt and seized his wife’s hand. 

“Lan, are you all right?” His eyes searched her face as he pressed her hand fervently to his lips..”I’ve been to your parents’ house. They told me you were hurt in the riots.” 

“I’m almost recovered. It wasn’t serious.” She spoke in a scarcely audible whisper, her demeanor obviously restrained, and Paul reached out to touch her cheek in a tender gesture of affection. 

“I’m so glad.” His haggard features relaxed into a broad smile and he remained on his knees looking fondly at her. “I was very worried about you.” 

Pained by the sight of their reunion and seeing that his presence was acutely embarrassing to Lan, Joseph began to move quietly out of the room, but Paul stood up suddenly and whirled round, grinning from ear to ear. 

“Joseph, my old friend, don’t go! Lan’s mother told me the ‘Amorous American’ had come back to Saigon as an OSS captain.” He gripped Joseph’s hand fiercely, the flung both arms around him in an emotional greeting. “But she didn’t tell me you were trying to steal my wife while I was in prison.” 

Joseph looked back at him uncertainly, but the Frenchman, exhilarated by his return to freedom, laughed uproariously at what was to him clearly an outrageous jest. “1 came to see if I could be of any help,” he said, avoiding Paul’s gaze. “Things look pretty bad in Saigon.” 

“Don’t worry, Joseph. Everything’s going to be all right now!” Paul slapped the American delightedly on the shoulder again. “The British have just released my regiment. Between us, we’ll have things under control again in no time at all, you’ll see.” 

Joseph stared into the grinning face and felt a genuine surge of affection and sympathy for the courageous French officer, who had obviously suffered at the hands of his Japanese captors. In his mind he was still struggling to come to grips with Lan’s momentous revelation, and the significance of what Paul had said sank in only slowly. “Do you mean that you and the British are going to break up the Viet Minh government by force of arms?” 

Paul nodded. “It’s putting it a bit high, Joseph, to call it a government.” 

“But the people are behind ‘the Viet Minh,” said the American earnestly. “I’ve been in the north with their leaders. If you’d seen what I’ve seen, you’d feel differently. They want to negotiate — but they’ll fight back with everything they’ve got if you attack them.” 

Paul seated himself on the bed beside Lan and took her hand again. “This is no time for a political debate, Joseph. I think you know how I feel about this country. I’ve spent more of my life here than I have in France. The Viet Minh Committee for the South are mostly Communists loyal to Moscow as far as I can see. I want the people here to get their independence one day as much as you do — but not this way.” 

“I’m sorry, Paul, forgive me! I’m intruding here. I’m damned glad your ordeal is over and you’ve come through in such good spirits.” Joseph shook the French officer warmly by the hand once more and smiled quickly at Lan. “Let’s hope we can all get together sometime when things improve.” 

Back behind the wheel of his jeep, Joseph drove in a daze, and at first he didn’t register the groups of newly released French prisoners of the Eleventh Infanterie Coloniale roaming the shuttered streets. Seeing Lan again after so long and discovering that she’d borne his child had filled him at first with a wild exhilaration, but the sudden entry of Paul in his prison garb had come as a shock; the obvious privation the French officer had suffered in prison heightened Joseph’s feeling of wretchedness at having to conceal the truth from him, and for a time these conflicting emotions filled his mind to the exclusion of all else.