Saigon (51 page)

As dawn brightened the lead-colored skies above Dien Bien Phu next morning, Dao Van Eat accompanied the stocky, quick- striding figure of General Vo Nguyen Giap to the parapet of a fortified observation platform high in the mountains. As usual the fastidious Viet Minh commander in chief was determined to double-check all his facts, and Lat waited patiently while Giap swung his powerful field glasses repeatedly back and forth across the devastated French camp. 

Even with the naked eye Eat could see that the massive artillery bombardments and infantry attacks, which had continued through the night, had brought the French garrison close to the point of collapse. Disorder was rife and there were signs of destruction everywhere; the pre-dawn monsoon downpour had inundated their broken defense trenches and dugouts to a depth of several feet and half-filled the great crater created by the mine planted in tunnels beneath Elaine Two; on the hill’s summit a red Viet Minh flag bearing a gold star fluttered from the ruined walls of the old governor’s house, and the French were obviously no longer capable of mounting a counterattack on the crucial strongpoint that overlooked their command post. The shallow Nam Youm River, Eat could see, was choked now with dead bodies from both sides, no vehicles moved along its banks, and although Dakotas from Hanoi were already dropping fresh supply parachutes, none of the exhausted, half-starved troops were venturing from the protection of their muddy holes to retrieve them. Outside the French command headquarters, the last surviving jeep lay burned out in a water-filled crater, and behind the Viet Minh lines, crowds of French prisoners taken during the night were already being marched away towards the forest, their hands tied behind them with jungle creepers. 

“We shall be able after all to present our delegates at the Geneva Conference with just the bargaining card they need, won’t we, comrade general?” Lat’s eyes gleamed with an excitement he could no longer conceal as he gazed down into the valley. “There’s surely no way out for France now!” 

Giap lowered his field glasses and nodded his head. “Yes, the right moment’s arrived. There are obvious signs of confusion in their ranks.” 

As he spoke, Giap glanced up again at the scudding clouds through which an occasional French Navy Privateer was diving to bomb the Viet Minh trenches, and Eat guessed he was calculating whether bigger American warplanes might still make some eleventh-hour effort to save the French garrison. Western newspaper reports had revealed several weeks before that France had sought help from the United States, but neither President Eisenhower nor the leaders of Congress in Washington had been willing to go ahead with heavy bombing raids from the Philippines without the full support of Britain and her leading Commonwealth allies. The British Prime Minister, Winston Churchill, however, had since declared himself implacably opposed to intervening since such action might spark off a new worldwide conflict, and the foreign ministers of the United States, Britain, France, China and Russia had already begun a meeting in Geneva to discuss peace in Asia. For the past two weeks they had devoted themselves to the topic of Korea, where an armistice had been signed in June 1953, but they had concluded no agreements on that bitterly divided country, and the talks were scheduled to turn to the subject of Indochina the very next day, May 8. 

“If the Americans were going to send their fleet of B-29s to bomb our positions, comrade general, I’m sure they would have done so by now,” said tat in a reassuring tone, “It would make no sense to do it after they’ve sat down with the Russians and the Chinese in Geneva.” 

Giap’s austere features broke into a smile to acknowledge that his chief political commissar had accurately read his thoughts; then he lifted the glasses to his eyes once more. “Without outside help there’ll be no alternative but surrender for most of the garrison,” he said softly, as though speaking his thoughts aloud, “but the fittest units might still try to break out.” Again he scrutinized the entire valley minutely, his brow furrowed deeply with thought. Then he dropped the glasses back into their case and turned his back on it abruptly, his mind finally made up. “My orders will be: Stick closely to the enemy!’ Transmit that to all the unit commissars. Tell them that the encirclement must remain impregnable as we close in to finish them off. Not even one soldier must be allowed to escape.” 

“It will be a pleasure to convey such a final battle order!” Lat’s face lit up with a smile of delight as they turned back towards the commander in chief’s headquarters concealed in caves close to a nearby waterfall. “I’ve been waiting twenty-four years, comrade general, for this day to dawn — since the terror bombing of Vinh. Whenever I’ve felt my resolve weaken over the years I’ve closed my eyes and summoned up those terrible pictures of French bombs falling among our helpless marchers. I’ll never forget their faces and the screams of the dying as long as I live.” 

Giap stopped and patted Lat on the shoulder. “At a time like this every man in our entire army is probably dreaming of settling old scores — and reliving old regrets. My wife died in a French jail, remember?” 

Lat stared hard at his commander in chief, wondering whether intuitively he’d grasped the deeper, more intimate feelings he hadn’t expressed. “Perhaps terrible sacrifices are unavoidable if a man decides to devote himself to a cause like ours,” said Latin a resigned voice. “I made a wrong choice as a young man — President Ho was the first one to make me realize that. But all those years of suffering since have become worthwhile here at Dien Bien Phu.” 

Giap nodded his approval of Lat’s sentiments but offered no comment. 

“But in the end even a wrong choice can be useful in helping us reach a better understanding of ourselves and others around us. It taught me the importance of subtlety.” Lat smiled ruefully and held up a paper-wrapped package that he’d been carrying in his hand. “I have to apologize for commandeering one of our precious bicycles to transport this and a gramophone from Hanoi — but I’m hoping you’ll agree it was worth it.” 

Giap’s face crinkled in an impatient frown. “What exactly is it, Comrade Lat?” 

“It’s a recording of the ‘Chant des Partisans.’ I thought we should play it on the enemy’s command wavelength before the final attack begins.” 

A slow smile of admiration spread across Giap’s face. 

“It tells of the bestial foreign army — the black crows — flying all over the land and calls on the people to rise up and drive them out — do you remember?” 

Giap nodded; the “Chant des Partisans” had passed into the folklore of France in the closing months of the Second World War and was universally known as the anti-Nazi anthem of the French Resistance. Glancing at the watch on his left wrist, the Viet Minh commander in chief made a quick mental calculation. “Begin broadcasting it into the valley in half an hour from now - it will coincide with the start of the final advance.” 

Thirty minutes later Lit seated himself before a radio set and watched its operator tune it to the French command wavelength. Then he set the wind-up gramophone going and spoke gently into the transmitter in French. “Don’t destroy your radios yet, mes enfants. President Ho Chi Minh offers you a rendering of the ‘Song of the Partisans.’ 

In their dripping bunkers and dugouts all over the shrunken camp, French paratroopers and Legionnaires were startled to hear a haunting, urgent female voice issue forth suddenly from their communications sets, accompanied by the stirring throb of a guitar. “Companions,” she sang, ‘freedom is listening to us now 

As the old scratched record spun slowly in the high mountain cave, Lat smiled at the radio operator and patted him on the shoulder. “Just keep playing it over and over again on that frequency, comrade — until the very end.” He stood up and made to leave but stopped when a call for him came through on one of a bank of field telephones. When he pressed the receiver to, his ear, he recognized the voice of the political commissar of the 59th Regiment, one of the dozen men to whom he’d conveyed General Giap’s final battle order a few minutes earlier. 

“Comrade Lat, I’ve been asked to pass you a request from one of my company commanders,” said the voice. “He wishes to volunteer for the task of planting our flag on the French command hunker if you are forming a special assault squad.” 

“Yes,” replied Lat tersely. “We’re assembling a party of volunteers. What’s the name of your company commander?” 

“You know of him I think,” said the 59th Regiment’s commissar. “He and his men dragged the last howitzer up the mountain. His name is Ngo Van Dong.” 

“Yes of course,” said Lat without hesitation. “Comrade Dong is a renowned and courageous fighter. He deserves the honor.” 

In his bunker under the earth of the valley floor Colonel Paul Devraux sat staring blankly at the mat-covered wall in front of his worktable. Despite his efforts to ignore it, the thrilling French female voice singing the “Song of the Partisans” over the command radio system was making it impossible for him to concentrate properly on his morning report of the enemy’s battle order. His sweating face was gaunt and deeply lined with fatigue, and every minute or two he rubbed his hand agitatedly across his bandaged brow. 

Soon now, the enemy will know the price of our blood and tears! Rise up friends, from our desolated cities, rise up from the hills. . 

Freedom is listening to us tonight!” 

From contacts he’d already had with the commanders of the surviving strongpoints, Paul knew that the emotive song was having a mesmerizing effect on the garrison’s troops. In their holes in the ground, dazed French parachutists and Legionnaires had even begun to sing along distractedly with the recording. On the low hills of the Elaine group the song was ringing in the ears of the last French defenders while new waves of Viet Minh were advancing through their trenches and dugouts in monsoon squalls. One by one even the minor redoubts were falling despite heroic last-ditch resistance, and the main camp had shrunk to little more than the size of a football stadium. 

As he listened to the song, the whirring of a field telephone at his elbow made Paul start, and glancing at his watch he realized it was almost ten o’clock. Without stopping to lift the receiver, he picked up his papers and hurried through the communicating tunnel to the commanding officer’s bunker. A new nameplate on the doorpost described de Castries now as a brigadier-general; along with all his troop commanders he had been promoted a few days before by the otherwise helpless French staff officers in Hanoi, but the new shoulder boards and a bottle of vintage champagne dropped by parachute for them to celebrate their new ranks had fallen with a tragic irony among the enemy trenches. Inside the bunker Paul, who had been made a full colonel, found de Castries seated listlessly at his table with a cigarette hanging from his lips. With his tan uniform he wore the red forage cap of the Moroccan regiment he had once commanded, and he greeted his chief of staff with an abstracted nod. 

“The enemy’s now massing his 312th and 316th Divisions on our eastern flank along with two extra regiments from the 308th Division,” said Paul launching straight into his battle order report. “Only one regiment is being held back opposite our western flank. In all he seems to have about thirty-five thousand troops at his disposal. His artillery is still surviving the attentions of our air force, and we’ve got definite proof now that new Russian multi- tube Katuysha rockets are being deployed and used against us.” 

“And what’s our own strength?” De Castries’ voice was as resigned as his expression. “If ‘strength’ is the right word to use, that is.,, 

“A maximum of four thousand men fit to fight.” Paul paused and rubbed the back of his hand slowly across his sweating face; his head ached blindingly, and his vision was blurring from time to time. “But even the toughest paras and Legionnaires can’t go on much longer without sleep and food. The three last companies of Moroccan Rifles probably’ won’t fight anymore, nor will the Thai tribesmen. Our Vietnamese parachute units are still holding up well, but there’s only two companies left of the First and Second Foreign Legion Parachute Battalions, two of the Eighth Parachute Assault.. 

De Castries waved Paul to silence and indicated he should drop his notes on the table for him to read later. “We must fight tooth and claw with what we’ve got to hold on to the western riverbank; otherwise we’ll be without water as well as food. Those units capable of making it should start preparing for the breakout tonight.” 

“I don’t think many of the men are Strong enough, sir, to fight their way through the jungle — even if we can hold out until dark Paul felt a wave of dizziness sweep over him, and he reached out a hand to support himself on the table. “Three more hills in the Elaine group, you see, have fallen in the last hour 

De Castries looked up sharply at his chief of staff. “Are you feeling unwell yourself?” 

Before his eyes the face of his superior seemed to dissolve, and Paul shook his head to clear his vision. “Like everyone else, sir, I suppose I badly need some sleep, that’s all 

“It might be more than that,” said de Castries quietly. “You look as though you may be getting a fever. Go and try to sleep for an hour. I’ll send someone to wake you if the crisis comes.” 

Back in his bunker Paul sank down on his cot and lay shivering beneath a blanket; almost immediately he fell into a troubled doze, and as he slipped back and forth between sleep and a dazed state of wakefulness, thoughts he’d been struggling to subdue since Joseph’s departure flooded back into his mind. Released for the first time in eight weeks from the nerve-wracking tension of helping direct the desperate defense of the valley, he experienced again with great intensity the pain of the murderous rage that had first seized him as the full meaning of Joseph’s confession sank in. Although he and Lan had long before grown cool towards one another, her uncharacteristic betrayal of their marriage vows with someone for whom he’d always felt a strong affection had shocked him deeply, and his initial fury had given Way later to a mood of black melancholy. Unbearable images of their secret meetings had haunted him day and night, and in his fevered dreams he saw them together repeatedly, writhing naked and ecstatic in one another’s arms. Weighed down by deep feelings of futility and loss, he had rapidly become indifferent to his own safety; as casualties had mounted among the officers of the garrison, he’d volunteered to lead counterattacks himself on the Huguette group of hills, and his reckless bravery had brought the units a series of surprising successes against the tide of battle. This return to action had in the end restored his faith in his ability to shape his own life again, and gradually a new, stubborn resolve had begun to grow in him somehow, he would survive the debacle of Dien Bien Phu and return to Saigon. There he would confront Lan and Joseph and make Lan see that there was still a future for them together, even if it were in France. If he could salvage his marriage from the wreckage of the war, that at least, he came to feel, would prove his instincts hadn’t been irretrievably wrong from the beginning. 

He’d suffered no new wounds in the fierce fighting, but his old head injury had plagued him increasingly, and the camp surgeon had finally discovered a peppering of Previously overlooked grenade splinters still embedded in his skull. Even after they’d been removed he’d continued to suffer blinding headaches, but his determination to survive and carry through his new plans had led him to conceal the pain he suffered from those around him. Since the underground field hospital and its communicating tunnels were now crowded with hundreds of wounded, and the handful of exhausted surgeons were operating amidst horrifying heaps of amputated arms and legs, there had been no alternative but to carry on with his chief-of-staff dur.xes. The fever had begun to make itself felt two or three days earlier, and he’d flung himself into his daily tasks with a new desperation, hoping to shake it off, but as he lay shuddering beneath the blanket he knew that he was losing the struggle. As the French singer’s voice told repeatedly of “black crows darkening the plains” and the homeland “groaning beneath its chains,” he began to imagine that he could hear the bunker filling with the ominous flap of wings and the clank of shackling irons, and when he felt a hand grip his shoulder suddenly he cried out involuntarily and sat up in alarm. 

“It’s after fifteen hundred hours, mon colonel,” murmured his adjutant. “The Viets are beginning to cross the river, and General de Castries is calling an emergency meeting of senior troop commanders.” 

Paul thanked the junior officer and hastily dashed some water on his face before making his way unsteadily through the communication saps to the command meeting. The shriek of artillery shells overhead and the constant earthshaking roar of the resulting explosions above the command post made discussion difficult, but the sight of the drawn and haggard faces of the other troop commanders in the dugout ‘.vas enough to tell him as soon as he entered that the situation had deteriorated beyond recovery while he’d slept. 

“We have no choices left,” said Colonel Langlais grimly. “The main position here won’t hold until nightfall. That means there can be no organized attempt at breaking out. The wounded and the units who’ve already run out of ammunition will be massacred if we don’t tell the enemy that we intend to cease resistance soon.” 

Paul mopped his face with the sleeve of his battle dress tunic, listening hazily to the uncomfortable discussion of how the bitter prospect of defeat was to be faced, and when the meeting broke up General de Castries motioned for him to wait behind. “Are you well enough to handle the final general order?” he asked in a subdued voice, and Paul nodded. “Good —then pass this message to all units at once. ‘By order of the commanding general, the ceasefire will be effective as of seventeen hundred hours today, 7 May 1954. All equipment and supplies will be destroyed before that hour so that nothing of use falls into enemy hands!’ That is all.” 

Paul started to raise his hand in a final formal salute, but de Castries, already white-faced behind the dark glasses he had chosen to wear for the meeting, turned away quickly without acknowledging it. Then as Paul was in the act of ducking out through the curtained doorway, he spoke quietly over his shoulder. 

“Don’t forget to burn your red beret before they get here, mon vieux, will you? The others are going to, and it might save your life. The enemy have good reason not to love les paras.” 

For a moment Paul gazed at his commanding officer’s back in surprise; but still de Castries didn’t turn to face him, and he hurried out without responding. On waking from his disturbed sleep his fever seemed to have lessened, but after returning to his dugout and passing the cease-fire order to those few units still holding out, he began shaking and sweating uncontrollably once more. He tried to focus his eyes on the grit-covered papers on his table, and found himself re-reading the citation that had been sent from Hanoi when the entire garrison had been awarded the Croix de Guerre ten days before. It read: “Their courage shall remain an example forever,” but as he peered at it, the words began to swim before his eyes, and he snatched up the paper and crumpled it into a ball with a muffled curse. 

The “Song of the Partisans” that was still playing softly over the communications radio receiver was being interrupted regularly now by the desperate voices of paratroopers and Legionnaires announcing that they were destroying their weapons arid radios as the enemy approached; infantry weapons were being jammed into the earth and fired to burst their barrels and phosphorus grenades were being tossed into the muzzles of the remaining tank guns and artillery pieces to render them unusable. Messages from other vantage points reported that Viet Minh troops were beginning to swarm across the shallow Nam Youm River in strength and that the Algerians and Moroccans who’d deserted to live in caves in the riverbank were already hoisting their own flags of surrender made from discarded parachute silks. 

As he listened to the reports, Paul clenched and unclenched his fists slowly at his sides. Then he rummaged quickly among his papers and charts until he unearthed a small silk map of northwestern Tongking. The map showed clearly the narrow mountain trails leading into Laos, and after removing his left combat boot, he wrapped the map carefully around the lower part of his leg, pulled his sock over it and slipped a miniature compass into his other boot. 

The effort brought on another wave of dizziness, and he sank down in his chair until it passed. Still shivering, he burned his own personal notebooks in a mess tin and added a small sheaf of letters from Lan to the flames, sheet by sheet. As the little tongues of fire consumed the pages his features remained determinedly expressionless, and even when he came to a smiling photograph of his wife, his feverish gaze rested on the image of her beautiful face for only a moment before he set fire to that too. Just before the flames died away his eye fell on his red beret lying on the table beside the tin; he started to reach for it, remembering his commander’s last exhortation, then he checked himself. Standing up, he set the beret carefully on his head, cocking it instinctively over one eye in the rakish fashion in which he’d always worn it. 

From outside he heard a babble of confused shouts, then a few scattered French cries of “Here they come!” A ragged volley of shots rang out, followed by the rush of sandaled feet crossing the bunker top. Drawing his revolver, Paul stepped towards the radio set and fired all his bullets into it at point-blank range before turning the weapon around and smashing the wreckage with its butt. 

Above his head at that moment Ngo Van Dong was running among a jubilant group of green-uniformed troops, carrying the furled Viet Minh standard tucked under his left attn. A Russian- made submachine gun with a curved magazine clipped to it was slung round his neck on its strap, and he held it at the ready in front of him with his right hand. Leaping Onto the roof of corrugated steel and punctured sandbags, Dong drove the pole of the Viet Minh flag into the sand and held it there while his comrades banked stones and ballast around its base to hold it upright. When it was firmly in place, three of the Viet Minh soldiers remained on guard while the captain in command of the special squad led Dong and the remaining men into the mouth of the sap leading down to the command bunker beneath. When they burst in, Brigadier-General Christian Marie Ferdinand de Ia Croix de Castries was standing waiting for them in a clean uniform, complete with its row of medal ribbons, and when he saw them pointing their submachine guns at his chest he said quickly, “Don’t shoot!”