The men deserted not because of cowardice but simply because they were utterly disgusted by the way the French conducted the war and sacrificed regiment after regiment for no gain whatsoever. Soldiers of a victorious army seldom desert, and the Foreign Legion was an army suffering from years of constant reverses and routs. And it was not the fault of the ranks either. “The white-gloved slobs” (as Pfirstenhammer habitually referred to our generals) considered themselves born Napoleons with nothing left for them to learn except maybe new card games. The entire general staff should have been kicked out (with the exception of General Salan, whom we all respected greatly) and the corporals and sergeants promoted to generals. Then the Legion would have “started to roll.”
The Viet Minh magnanimity had results. The troops began to vanish, at first singly, then in groups; occasionally entire platoons deserted to the enemy. Let it be said to the Viet Minh’s credit that they did honor their promises. The deserters were free to leave Indochina, either for Hong Kong or for Europe, via Peking and Moscow. Weapons and other war material which the Communists could have simply seized were duly paid for; thus an escapee was not only at liberty to return home but he could return home with ample cash. The Viet Minh paid in hard currencies. It was an ingenious coup. I know of two Swedes who went over with a truckload of automatic weapons, ammunition, and medical supplies—“made in USA.”
They received nearly ten thousand United States dollars cash from the guerrillas. Where on earth the Viet Minh could obtain all that hard money was a mystery that only the Kremlin could have cleared up. The two Swedes, I know for sure, arrived in Hong Kong safely, where they established a business in silk which is still prospering.
So far as we knew, none of the East European deserters were ever prosecuted when they arrived home. (Communists have good international connections.) On the contrary, they were sending cards and photos to us for months afterwards, telling us their stories. The Viet Minh made sure that copies of their letters reached the still-hesitant ones.
The French retained control of the important cities and valleys but in the country disaster followed disaster.
Had we obeyed the codes of La Condulte de la Guerre, we would not have survived for a year. I daresay, without bragging, that amidst the general debacle, my battalion emerged as victor from every engagement. We did it with minimal losses, and we did it by playing the same game as the terrorists. If Mao’s doctrine had worked so well for the enemy, we thought, it had to work for us too. It did work! While the battalion was on a foray against a Viet Minh supply train reportedly moving south, we received an urgent radio message: A French stockade, sixty miles west of Hoi Xuan and forty-six miles north of where we were, was under intensive terrorist attack. The commanding officer reported several breaches in the perimeter defenses and that he was destroying confidential papers and codes.
Riedl, who had brought the message to me, remarked grimly, “If he is already destroying code books, then we won’t be of much help. It will take us three to four days to reach the stockade.”
All the same we sent a message to the commander, asking him to stand fast. Without delay we headed back to base, where we could get the relief on the road.
We left Hanoi in a small convoy of trucks and jeeps, our customary way of leaving the city, to travel as far as it was reasonably safe to go on wheels. For some time I had been aware that our garrison was under constant enemy surveillance; when we moved, the Viet Minh knew about it. Therefore our measures of deception began from the moment we rolled through the gate. When our destination was somewhere southwest of Viet Tri, we departed toward the northwest; never taking the direct route but skirting or traversing the town, performing diversionary turns while the men in the last vehicle were constantly on watch for motor scooters, cycles, or even cars that seemed to follow the convoy. When a vehicle appeared suspicious we requested the nearest military checkpoint to stop and entertain our unwelcome escort for some time.
On that particular day, Schulze requested our driver to stop the jeep at Suoi’s place. “I won’t be a minute!” he excused himself and raced up the stairs. Five minutes later he returned, hand in hand with the girl. “She’s always wanted to come along,” he stated flatly, and before I could open my mouth, he helped her aboard and off we raced after the convoy.
“The headhunters plus one,” he stated flatly. I glanced at Eisner, who seemed not the least concerned.
“Did you know about this, er… arrangement of Erich’s?” I asked him.
“Sure,” he replied, “the whole” battalion knew about it—except you.”
Suoi was probably the smartest-looking “Legionnaire” in the entire outfit. She was wearing custom-tailored battle fatigues complete with belt, a pair of miniaturized paratroop boots, tropical helmet, and a small shoulder bag. Obviously Schulze and Suoi had been plotting the coup for some time. During the past few weeks the girl had told me occasionally that she wanted to come along on our next expedition, but I had never taken her seriously. She had said that she did not feel like sitting at home for weeks, that she wanted to do something useful. “After all,” she had said, “the battalion has adopted me!” Now there she was, braids, ribbons, battle fatigues and all, casting bewitching smiles and fluttering eyelashes at me, pleading in a tone of mock consternation, “I hope you don’t mind my coming?” I felt like answering, “Like hell I don’t mind,” for I had enough problems without the additional worry about Suoi’s welfare, but said instead, “Well, Suoi, we are not going by jeep all the way, you know.”
“Oh, I know that,” she replied quickly. “I grew up in the hills and I am not afraid of walking.”
“She wanted to come,” Erich insisted. “She wanted to help us.”
“And naturally you complied.”
“What else could he do?” Eisner cut in. “Suoi’s eyes would melt a tank turret.”
“I will take care of her, don’t worry,” Erich reassured me.
“You are crazy… taking a young girl on a murder trip.”
“Hell! How about all those girls with the Viet Minh, Hans?”
“They are trained guerrillas, Erich. Your Suoi can’t even fire a bloody gun.”
Schulze’s eyes kindled. “Are you so sure?… Hans, you will be surprised.”
“Are you telling me—”
“Wait and see, commander sir!” I saw all right. The convoy stopped at a river to let the engines cool. As the men settled down to eat, Erich walked up to the embankment and erected a small pyramid of empty tin cans. Taking a submachine gun from the jeep, he handed it to Suoi. “Now watch the show.” He winked at me.
With four short bursts, Suoi demolished the pyramid, sending the cans topsy-turvy into the river. Only two of them remained standing.
“Voila!” Erich exclaimed, casting a triumphant glance at me. He took the gun from the girl and handed her a rifle. “Now get the remaining ones, Suoi.”
Holding the rifle in the best professional manner, she took aim and fired twice. One of the cans went flying, the other one bounced and toppled over—a glancing shot. A third bullet then struck home and flung the tin into the river The troops cheered openly. There was amusement in Eisner’s eyes and Riedl chuckled. “So much for our defenseless little ward,” he said.
Suoi turned halfway toward me, holding the rifle in a casual manner. She was blushing but held her chin up; her eyelashes flickered in what Karl used to call “a starry look of the first magnitude.”