“Do it, then,” Colonel Houssong consented, giving us carte blanche. “The convoy must get through. And not only five trucks but the whole convoy.”
I said, “We will take the whole convoy through, mon colonel—or we will never return.”
Forward! At a steady fifteen miles per hour, sometimes even slower. We sat on the leading tank, Schulze and I, surveying the jungle. Behind us came an armored troop carrier but it transported only four soldiers.
The rest of the passengers were civilians. Following the troop carrier came, under the command of Bernard Eisner, a half-track with four mounted loudspeakers. Behind the half-track a column of sixteen trucks loaded with ammunition, food, and other supplies. On the crates more civilians: the families of the local Viet Minh. Many of them we knew by name. They had not been harmed, and we had tried to comfort them with food and water. Of course they were crying, lamenting, but so were all those women and children whose breadwinner had been executed by the terrorists for no worse offense than a refusal to join them.
“The convoy must get through!” the colonel had said. We were resolved to take it through. We were also resolved to stay alive in the process—two hundred men against more than a thousand enemy in the area. The enemy was holding all the trump cards, save for one strong ace that we were holding—their families! Ahead of us lay the jungle, and traversing the jungle, a dirt road. On either side dense underbrush, a treacherous green sea of weeds that had swallowed up many convoys and many men. When we entered the first Communist-controlled village, we had found only old people, women, and children at home. Every man of military age—husbands, fathers, brothers, and sons—had been absent. We had known where they were—not very far away. A large army convoy represented plenty of booty for the guerrillas. When they saw us coming, they had grabbed their weapons and had withdrawn into the woods.
My earphone crackled. Eisner was reporting: “We shall be at point two-o-six in five minutes.”
Point 206, where only ten days ago the guerrillas had exterminated another convoy, blowing up twelve trucks and killing ninety men. Afterwards the enemy had withdrawn into the jungle, taking everything that could be removed. The “Paras” went to search the villages but could find no trace of either guerrillas or of the stolen army hardware. Of course the Paras had known only too well where the culprits were; at home in their villages, tending the fields, milking cattle, or carting vegetables to the markets of Hanoi. The stolen goods and the guerrilla weapons had been safely hidden to be used another day.
Searching the villages would never do much good. The Viet Minh had known better than to leave incriminating evidence lying about. The French High Command had been frustrated. The generals could not order the arrest of the entire male population of a dozen villages and cart them off for investigation.
Point 206, “Massacre Valley,” as the Paratroops had called the place. Eisner’s loudspeakers came to life, calling the hidden terrorist leaders.
“Commissar Thiu Xhan… Commissar Thiu Xhan. Your wife, Lha, is asking you not to attack the convoy… Your children, only ten, eight, seven, and five want to live and grow up. Can you hear us, Commissar Thiu Xhan?… Your wife and children are riding on truck number four. They will be released unharmed when we arrive at our destination…” Forward! At a steady fifteen miles per hour. The road disappeared around a bend. As though we were riding inside a tunnel of creepers, frontal visibility was fifty yards; to the left or to the right—nil. The turret hatch of our tank was open with Schulze and I riding astride; our closest companions were three Viet Minh prisoners; two of them former propagandists, the third one a Viet Minh company leader. We had fastened them to the turret. The prisoners belonged to the same terrorist outfit which we expected to encounter on the road to Yen Bay.
We rode in plain sight. It was like a game of poker between professional gamblers on either side of the table. But our table was two hundred square miles of jungle. The stakes: three hundred lives. We were playing out a strong ace which our partners had not taken into consideration.
The loudspeakers blared constantly.
“Manh Ghiu… Manh Ghiu… Think of your wife and children, traveling in the second truck. They are safe as long as you hold your fire.”
The convoy must get through! In those days the guerrilla setup was somewhat different. Viet Minh units which terrorized a district did not come from any other part of the country but operated within a twenty-to-fifty-mile circle around their own villages. We based our plans on that very fact. Entering the first hostile locality we had rounded up all the guerrilla relatives and loaded them on to our vehicles, then we rested for fifteen minutes, giving time for the Viet Minh runners to spread the news.
The convoy rolled and the loudspeakers blared, calling every known or suspected guerrilla by his name.
“Huo Tanh… Huo Tanh… Your wife and three children, Sue, Tan, and Minh, are begging you not to shoot at the convoy. They are traveling in the number seven truck—”
“Pam Phu from Nguyen… Pam Phu from Nguyen… At this very moment you may be sighting a machine gun… Shoot well, Pam Phu, for your father Hanh and wife, Shiri are with us in the troop carrier!” The convoy must get through. We will take it through! “Ming Ghue… Ming Ghue… we don’t know where you are but we do know where your sons are, Ming Ghue… They are riding in truck number six! Are you going to kill them, Ming Ghue? Then fire your gun… Fire your gun and they will all die. Can you hear us, Ming Ghue?” Forward! Another bend. Behind the bend a dozen large logs blocked the road—the usual terrorist preparation for ambush. The convoy stopped. It was now or never. With the engines cut, silence fell on the stationary vehicles. I could hear the sharp clicks as my men bolted home cartridges. I could hear my heart throbbing.
We took no cover. One should display confidence in a battle of nerves. No shooting yet… A woman was speaking through the loudspeakers. Her faltering voice was choked with emotion and fear.
“Commissar Thiu… Thiu my husband… There are eighty women and fifty children in this convoy, among them our own children… We were not harmed and the soldiers gave us food. They will release us near Yen Bay… If you fire on the convoy, you will shoot us too…” Five minutes went by, yet no attack came. Our ace was holding good. It was a very mean card, but in a very mean war one cannot play the fair gentleman or one will perish. The convoy will arrive. Not only five trucks but the whole convoy. There will be rewards. I could already imagine the headlines of L’Humanite in Paris: “SS killers at large in Indochina, slaughtering innocent civilians.”
The living hostages will be “slaughtered civilians” in Paris and in the leftist press. And, of course, they were innocent. Always innocent, even while blazing away with mortars or machine guns. Those who shot poisoned arrows into the backs of the sentries or the guerrilla wives who had once tried to plant cholera-infected human refuse into the wells of a garrison—they, too, had been innocent The Communists are always innocent.
The roadblock had to be removed.
“Commissar Thiu… Can you hear us Commissar Thiu? We are going to remove your roadblock… Our men will carry no weapons and if you kill them, we shall consider it cold-blooded murder. For every one of them killed, three of your own will pay with their lives. We are not North Africans, Commissar Thiu. We are Germans! You have surely heard of us in the Soviet schools. You have never met us before but you will soon find out that we are not beginners. We were fighting Communist marauders long before you learned how to load a rifle. We shall give you bomb for bomb, bullet for bullet, and murder for murder… Do you hear us, Commissar Thiu? We are removing your roadblock and we are moving on…” Karl Pfirstenhammer and twenty men began to work on the logs, roping them to the tank one by one. The engine roared and the logs moved. Fifteen minutes later the road was clear. We had won the first round.