Saigon (17 page)

As the clouded moonless night of February 9, 1930, slowly swallowed the Yen Bay hill fort and the curve of the Red River that it dominated, Limpid Stream led his band of sixty crudely armed rebels into the deep shadows of the lac trees below the citadel. “The French officers must be taken by surprise and put to death in their beds,” he whispered in a flat, unemotional tone as his men pressed close around him in the darkness. “Those are the party’s orders! You must attack barefoot in complete silence, using at first only your sabers and coupe-coupes. No quarter is to be given. Do you all understand?” 

Although their faces were barely distinguishable in the gloom, Limpid Stream sensed their fear and apprehension as they nodded and muttered dutifully in response; an unfamiliar tightening of the muscles in his own chest and throat was making him feel breathless as the hour of the attack drew nearer. He noticed one or two heads turn uneasily in the direction of the pale-walled citadel on the crest of the hill above them and strove to keep his voice calm and reassuring. 

“Don’t let the sight of those high walls make you afraid, comrades,” he said firmly. “Two corporals are waiting inside for my signal to open the gates and let us in. Only two companies of tirailleurs are quartered in the fort itself— and they will be waiting to welcome us and turn their guns on their officers.” He paused and pointed towards the long, two-storied building at the foot of the hill. “The other two companies — five hundred of our brothers— are quartered in the caserne with the French NCOs. Other tirailleurs are ready to open the doors to us there, too. Many machine guns and rifles are waiting for us in the armory, comrades. Armed with these we shall lead the two companies up the hill to storm the fortress” 

The confidence of his words had their desired effect, and one or two of the rebels giggled suddenly with relief. 

“But everything will depend on the surprise attack led by Son Thuy against the officers’ quarters,” he added, searching the faces closest to him. “Where are Son Thuy and the other heroes of Vi An?” 

Ngo Van Loc, who had been standing quietly to one side with his sons, took half a pace towards the cell leader, his face set in determined lines. In hand-sewn pouches at his waist he carried two shapeless cement grenades and his right fist was clenched tight around the hilt of a rough-smelted saber; manufactured secretly in a makeshift village workshop these arms had been carried to Yen Bay in shoulder pole baskets buried under piles of onion and paddy. 

“There’s no need to look so worried, Son Thuy,” said Limpid Stream quietly, turning again to point to a cluster of single- storied stucco houses set apart at the foot of the hill. “See how low the wall around the officers’ compound is! No guards are ever set. The French are careless here in this sleepy backwater. In the forty years since it was built the citadel has seen no military action of any kind.” 

Ngo Van Loc nodded silently in acknowledgment, and beside him his youngest son, Hoc, tried to smile. He still carried the coupe-coupe he had used at Vi An, and in recognition of his deed there he had been chosen by Limpid Stream to carry an oriflamme, the long lance beloved of French medieval warriors, decorated now with double-pointed red and gold silk streamers of the Viet Nam Quoc Dan Dang. Like all the other rebels Hoc wore a band of red and gold silk around his forehead and on his sleeve a red armband which declared in blurred stenciled lettering: “Vietnamese Revolutionary Forces.” 

Limpid Stream himself carried a big furled flag of red and gold — gold to symbolize the people and red for the uprising — and he held it up suddenly above his head. “When the fortress is ours we shall fly our standard above it and seize all the military points in the town. Only women, children and priests are to be spared. All over Tongking tonight other groups of partisans will be helping our brothers in uniform to rise in revolt and seize the military strongholds of the French. The uprising will become general, comrades! You will be striking an historic first blow here at Yen Bay to help set our country free.” 

Limpid Stream flourished the flag above his head in a fierce gesture of determination, and all around him the rebels raised their sabers aloft in silent response. 

“We shall attack on the stroke of midnight,” he said in an undertone. “Until then disperse to your hiding places and rest. Rest well — and prepare yourself to do great deeds for Viet Nam!” 

As the rebels were melting away through the lac trees, Lieutenant Paul Devraux, duty officer for the evening, was pacing briskly across the courtyard of the citadel, his routine rounds finished. Broader in the shoulder than in the days when lie had assisted his father as a hunting guide, his proud bearing, the bright sheen on his belt and boots and his spotlessly whitened sun helmet all now reflected the uncompromising St. Cyr disciplines he had brought from Versailles to the hills of Tongking. Open-faced, ready to smile and more handsome than his father, he had emerged from three years at the French military academy as a young officer of high promise, but as he strode towards the guardhouse that night his brows were knitted in a persistent frown. Without knowing why, he had been left feeling ill at ease by the tour of inspection through the fort and the caserne, and as he walked he tried without success to pin down his apprehension. 

During the past three months he had often found himself struggling to maintain the strict standards of St. Cyr in the hot, enervating climate of the remote fort town. To him the longer serving officers and NCOs of the garrison seemed to have become unnecessarily lax in their military habits, but because he was the most junior officer he had decided to say nothing and pay greater attention to his own self-discipline. Some of his brother officers had taken to teasing him openly about his youthful enthusiasm, but tonight he was sure his suspicions were not simply due to overzealousness. At the guardhouse he asked the gray-haired French sergeant if he’d noticed anything unusual, but the NCO merely yawned and shook his head as he took his ring of keys from him. On the point of descending to his quarters he hesitated at the opened gates of the fort. In the town below a few fires still flickered here and there along the darkened streets and the lights were going out as usual —- everything seemed normal, but the feeling that something was amiss persisted. 

The fort was one of three built in an arc across the jungle-clad uplands of northern Tongking as a first line of defense for the city of Hanoi against invasion from across the Chinese border. Yen Bay, he knew from his studies at St. Cyr, had been designed by Marshal Joffre thirty years before he led French forces to a famous victory at the Battle of the Marne in 1914. Joffre had been an eager captain of engineers then, and the young lieutenant found himself reflecting suddenly that if the marshal’s reputation had been forced to rest solely on the construction of the Yen Bay fort he would hardly have become a hero of France. Standing in the open gateway looking down at the officers’ quarters and the caserne, both standing unprotected at the foot of the hill, he realized with a start how vulnerable the garrison was to surprise attack. 

“Are you still worrying, Paul, about how you might turn the smelly tirailleurs of Yen Bay into a glittering praetorian guard fit for ceremonial duties at the Elysee Palace?” A friendly hand slapped him on the shoulder, and he turned to find himself looking into the grinning face of Lieutenant François Clichy, a young married Breton attached to the Eighth Company whose pretty young wife had just traveled out from France to join him. 

“No, not really,” replied Paul, trying to force a smile to his lips. Then his face become earnest again. “François, have you noticed anything strange about the way the men are behaving tonight?” 

“Strange? Don’t our smelly tirailleurs always behave strangely?” asked the married officer flippantly. “We know you think they’re human, but it’s a minority viewpoint, you must admit. Still, we forgive you. Living six years in Saigon and speaking their language is probably enough to turn anyone’s head.” 

“I’m serious,” insisted Paul. “I can’t help feeling tonight that there’s something going on.” 

“I’m sure there is — about a thousand illegal gambling games.” 

“That’s just the point, François. None of them are gambling tonight. And you know how they usually descend on the town and terrorize the local barkeepers — well, almost none of them left camp tonight. All the men of the Seventh and Eighth here in the fort were sitting quietly on their mats looking very subdued when I made an unannounced inspection. Some of them were already asleep — or pretending to be. Down in the caserne it was the same story with the Fifth and the Sixth. No noisy gambling groups at all. A few of them were sitting huddled together talking in whispers but the rest were asleep — two hours early.” 

Lieutenant Clichy shrugged. “It doesn’t sound that unusual to me. Have you reported your suspicions to the old man?” 

Paul nodded glumly. “Yes, he was very curt. Like you he told me I still had a lot to learn about the shiftless natives. He said he was going to bed early and suggested I did too.” 

“That sounds like pretty good advice to me, Lieutenant Devraux.” The young Breton laughed and slapped him on the shoulder again. “Why don’t you follow it? I think I’m going to. It wouldn’t be fair to keep my Monique waiting when she’s just come all this way from Paris -to warn my sheets for me, would it?” 

Paul smiled and wished him goodnight as he hurried off down the hillside. For a moment he stood peering into the shadows on the surrounding hills, but the clouds gathering in the night sky were beginning to blot out even the faint light from the stars. After ordering the sergeant to close and bar the gates, he walked down the hillside and, with his hand resting on the flap of his revolver holster, he strolled through the deserted streets of the town. But he saw nothing suspicious and returned slowly to his quarters. For half an hour he sat indecisively on his bed, cleaning and loading his revolver. Then he got up, pushed wedges under his door and dragged his wardrobe in front of it. Tucking his sheathed saber beneath his pillow, he lay down fully clothed on his bed and fell into a fitful sleep. 

By midnight the shadows beneath the lac trees at the foot of the hill were as black as ink. When the Annamese rebels reassembled from their places of concealment, Limpid Stream had to use a shaded flashlight to check his wristwatch. At exactly twelve o’clock he glanced out between the trunks of the lacs. The citadel and the caserne were silent and dark; no window remained lit. 

“Giet! Giet!” he whispered urgently in the darkness. “Forward to kill!” 

Ngo Van Hoc was standing obediently at his side, and as the cell leader uttered his command he tapped the boy lightly on the shoulder. Hoc felt his heart throb violently in his chest, then he ran forward, thrusting his ribbon-decked oriflamme towards the sky. Immediately the band of sixty rebels broke from the cover of the trees behind him, clutching their sabers and coupe-coupes. Swiftly and silently on their unshod feet they sped through the darkness towards their sleeping victims. 

Lieutenant Francois Clichy and his young wife, Monique, were peacefully asleep in one another’s arms when Ngo Van Loc rushed into their bedroom with a half-a-dozen of the Quoc Dan Dang assassins at his heels. Because the girl newly arrived from France was finding the dark silence of the Tongking uplands disquieting, she had taken to leaving a child’s night-light burning on a bedside table while they slept, and the sudden commotion in the room set its tiny flame dancing and guttering wildly. 

Monique was wearing the same sheer nightdress that she had worn during their recent honeymoon in France, and a moment before they wrenched her from her husband’s arms she opened her eyes and saw them; the hate-crazed faces, the red and gold silk bandanas around their foreheads, the crude sabers raised to strike all seemed to her like the stuff of a childhood nightmare. On the walls and ceiling behind them their giant shadows dwarfed them in the flickering candlelight, and she began screaming in terror. One of the attackers, to silence her, covered her mouth with his hand and dragged her from the bed, and on the instant of waking the lieutenant imagined a crowd of his drunken tirailleurs were attempting to rape his wife. 

“Take your filthy hands off her, you fiends,” he yelled, frantically struggling to free himself from the bedclothes. “How dare you come into our house!” 

The sudden, unexpected sight of man and wife lying intimately together revived vividly in Ngo Van Loc his own unbearable sense of loss, and it was he who lunged forward to strike the first blow. His heavy saber wielded with two hands split the skull of the French officer, and as he collapsed across the bed Loc’s Sons and the other rebels crowded in on him, the fear that had grown in them during the tense hours of waiting exploding at last in an uncontrolled burst of savagery. 

Flailing at the lieutenant with their weapons in turn they ripped open his body from shoulder to groin and disemboweled him. They struck with such frenzy that the blood of their victim splashed on their own clothes and bodies, but still they didn’t stop. When Ngo Van Loc finally pushed them aside, they turned wild-eyed in the direction of the girl they had just made a widow. 

“No! Leave her!” shouted Loc sharply. “Remember the party’s orders.” He motioned for the man holding her to set her free, then led the assassins silently from the room at a run. 

Left alone, the lieutenant’s wife did not cry out. For a long time she stood paralyzed with horror, then she crawled to her husband’s side and cradled his head protectively in her lap. Numb with shock she covered his bleeding body with blankets and pressed her fingers against the terrible wounds through which his brains were already oozing. Gazing fearfully towards the bedroom door, she waited only for her husband’s murderers to return and kill her, too. 

In the next house the rebels disturbed the children of the French adjutant living there as they searched through the darkened rooms for him. Rising from their beds two young boys and a girl watched terrified at their mother’s side as the intruders hacked off their father’s head; but again in obedience to the party’s orders the murdered officer’s family were left unscathed. In the sleeping quarters of the noncommissioned officers too, another group of rebels, moving swiftly and silently without lights, achieved total surprise. The gray-haired sergeant whom Lieutenant Devraux had been on the point of reprimanding for yawning in the guardhouse earlier was snoring so loudly beneath his muslin mosquito net that the arrival of his assailants at his bedside didn’t wake him. They struck savagely at his body through the fine gauze and the sleep-stunned man twisted and jerked dementedly in its toils like a fish trapped in a trawl net, before he died. They killed another sergeant close by before he woke, then scalped both men and disemboweled them before chopping the limbs from their lifeless bodies. 

All four of these Frenchmen — the lieutenant, the adjutant and the two sergeants — died in the first few moments of the raid. The speed and stealth of the attackers gave their first victims no chance to save themselves, but gradually the growing noise of the carnage roused the other sleeping officers. Paul Devraux heard the distant screams of the dead adjutant’s wife and children as he lay dozing on his bed, and at first they seemed to be part of his troubled dreams. Then the rush of bare feet in the corridor outside brought him fully awake. The footsteps stopped before his door, and although the man spoke in a low subdued whisper, the fearful voice of his own Tongkingese batman carried clearly through the flimsy woodwork. 

“That is the room of Lieutenant Devraux!” 

He heard the doorknob squeak as an unknown hand tested the lock; then a muffled Annamese curse followed. Snatching up his revolver from the night table, Paul pressed himself against the wall beside the door and waited. 

Outside, Ngo Van Loc motioned his sons and two other rebels to retreat to the end of the corridor, then tugged one of the homemade cement grenades from the pouch at his waist. Activating its rudimentary friction igniter with his teeth, he rolled it against the door and ran to take cover beside his sons. The grenade exploded in a flash of flame and smoke, but although it splintered the lower panels, it lacked the force to breach the barricaded doorway. When he saw how little damage it caused, Ngo Van Loc cursed softly again and ordered his sons and the other two rebels to stand guard by the door while he fetched a machine gun from the caserne. 

Inside the room Paul rose shakily to his feet, coughing and retching from the effects of the grenade’s acrid fumes. He had flung himself flat the moment he heart it roll against the door, and although he could see that his barricade had withstood the blast, he quickly manhandled his chest of drawers into position to strengthen it further. A minute or two later he heard the scrape of a machine gun’s tripod on the concrete floor of the corridor and ran to crouch in the corner farthest from the door. Its woodwork cracked and splintered under the impact of the bullets when the heavy caliber weapon opened up outside, but to his relief, after several sustained bursts the makeshift barrier still held firm. 

While the rebels under Ngo Van Loc were attacking the officers and NCOs in their quarters, Limpid Stream raced up the hill to the fort with the main body of his men. The corporals in league with him opened the gates from inside as planned, and when their bugler sounded the “Générale” the French sergeant in charge of the armory, assuming one of his officers bad given the order, rushed to unlock the gun racks. The two hundred and fifty men of the Seventh Company immediately grabbed their weapons and rushed into the courtyard. When their captain tried to rally them to resist the invaders, they shot him dead and swarmed down the hill to the caserne. There the Fifth and Sixth Companies had already been armed in response to the “Générale,” and mutineers won over earlier by Limpid Stream flung open the doors to welcome the rebels and their fellow tirailleurs from the fort. In a mood of wild elation the Tongkingese troops and the rebels sang and danced together, firing their rifles aimlessly into the night sky. Some of them began racing through the streets of the town distributing leaflets brought from Hanoi and chanting the printed slogans aloud in unison. “All the French are massacred!” they proclaimed. “The uprising is general in Indochina! People of Yen Bay take part! Join in!” 

Through the single small window high in the wall above his bed which he’d boarded up with his night table, Paul heard these distant shouts mingling with the jubilation of the mutineers, and his heart sank. The occasional muffled explosion of a grenade and the intermittent drum of machine gun lire from inside other buildings close by had convinced him that other French officers were trapped helplessly inside their rooms, too. The gun trained on his own door had stopped firing suddenly in the middle of a long burst a few minutes earlier, and he guessed it must at last have jammed. But the muted whispers still audible through the door told him that his attackers hadn’t gone away. 

In the corridor, Ngo Van Loc gave up trying to free the twisted cartridge belt and threw the useless weapons aside with a curse. He was squatting on his haunches staring helplessly at the unyielding barricade of the room when Limpid Stream appeared white-faced at the end of the corridor. 

“Son Thuy, come quickly,” he called. “I need your help! The tirailleurs of the Eighth have remained loyal in the fort. We must gather the men for an attack. Leave guards on these rooms.” 

Loc motioned to his two sons to remain by the door then dashed away with the other two rebels to join Limpid Stream. Behind his barricade Paul felt his spirits revive a little. He had heard enough of what Limpid Stream had said to give him a shred of hope. The men of his own Eighth Company had not joined the other mutineers! There was at least some small prospect of a counterattack from the fort now. Standing motionless in the middle of the darkened room, he strained his ears to interpret the confused sounds reaching him from the night outside—and prayed. 

It took Limpid Stream and Ngo Van Loc a long time to organize the first assault; the exultant faces of the mutinous tirailleurs fell in dismay when they were told two hundred of their brothers had decided to stand by their French officers in the fort. Running away to turn their weapons over to rebels from Hanoi was one thing; attacking back up the hill in the dark against their own comrades- in-arms of the Eighth commanded by the chef de bataillon was quite a different matter. Because of the reluctance of the tirailleurs, the first assault was ragged and confused. Although they used a few machine guns, the uncertain leadership of Limpid Stream did not inspire the tirailleurs and they were eventually beaten back. During the next half hour Limpid Stream led assault parties up the hillside again and again — but always they were easily repulsed. 

Inside the fort the French chef de bataillon slowly recovered his nerve. He had been deeply shocked by how close he had come to death at the hands of his own forces when the mutiny began, but the success of his officers in throwing back the new rebel raids convinced him that he could stand fast within the citadel until daylight. His confidence grew when a native messenger found his way up the hillside through the fighting to report that the French civilians in the town were all safe. The Resident de France had managed to gather them together into a blockhouse of the Garde Indigene, which had remained loyal to a man. As the night wore on a trickle of tirailleurs from the three companies which had mutinied began to trickle back to the gates of the fort, beginning to be readmitted and offering their unopened ammunition pouches as evidence of their innocence. One of the officers who had barricaded himself in his quarters escaped up the hill at about two o’clock in the morning and the French commandant was sufficiently emboldened to send out a small patrol to seek other survivors. 

In the caserne Limpid Stream slumped exhausted on a bench weeping with frustration at his inability to complete his conquest. Ngo Van Loc stood indecisively beside him listening to the sounds of sporadic firing coming from outside. Some of the rebels were still leading groups of tirailleurs up the hill against the fort, but Ngo Van Loc realized suddenly that although there were still several hours of darkness remaining, the revolt was now doomed to fail. He glanced down once more at Limpid Stream, who sat with his head buried in his hands, oblivious to what was going on around him, then turned and raced back towards the officers’ quarters. 

His two sons were still standing guard outside Paul Devraux’s room, clutching their bloodstained weapons. The walls and door were pitted and scarred with bullet holes, but the barricade still denied them entry. In a fit of anger Loc kicked the jammed machine gun across the floor, and as he did so he saw the frightened face of the French officer’s batman peer out of the kitchen door a few yards away to see what was making the noise. Loc stared at the little Tongkingese for a moment, then drawing his saber from the red sash at his waist, he beckoned the frightened man towards him. 

Two minutes later Paul was startled to hear a gentle knocking on his shattered door. “It is safe to come out now, Monsieur Paul,” called Ngo Van Loc in French. “The men who were here have all gone.” 

The French officer, half-recognizing the voice, stiffened. “Who is that?” 

“Do you remember me? — Loc? Your father’s ‘boy’ from the hunting camp. I can help you reach the fort now. Most of the other officers are safely gathered there. The men of your own Eighth Company have remained loyal to the chef de bataillon.” 

Paul’s face registered his mystification. He recognized the hunting camp boy’s voice despite a lapse of five years since he had last seen him but his presence at the fort aroused his suspicions. “What are you doing here, Loc? Are you with the rebels?” 

There was a long pause outside. “Yes, I am, Monsieur Paul,” he said assuming a shamefaced tone. “But once you were a good friend to my sons and me. When I realized you were an officer here, I knew I must help you. I can make sure you get safe conduct to the fort gates.” He paused and his voice took on a wheedling note. “Our rebellion has failed, Monsieur Paul. Perhaps if I help you now, you will be able to help me later 

“How do I know I can trust you?” asked the Frenchman suspiciously. 

“Your batman is here with me. He will tell you.” Loc tightened his grip around the man’s puny shoulders and pressed his saber closer against his throat. 

“Yes, yes, mon lieutenant, it’s true,” said the batman in a strangled whisper. “It’s quite safe to come out flow. All the others have gone!” 

Paul buckled on his sword belt and took his revolver in his right hand before beginning to dismantle the barricade. The combined assault of the cement grenade and the heavy-caliber machine gun bullets had split and shredded the furniture, and as he moved the damaged wardrobe aside, the woodwork of the door itself collapsed inwards. It was then that he caught sight of his little batman, staring bulging-eyed at him from across the corridor. With one band Ngo Van Loc was covering his mouth and with the other he pressed his bloodied saber against the terrified man’s neck. The former hunting camp boy was holding the Tongkinese in front of him so that the frail body covered his own, and although Paul raised his revolver instinctively to fire the moment he saw he had been tricked, the risk of killing his batman made his finger hesitate on the trigger.