Saigon (34 page)

“... The clouds are making the mountains glow 

And in their turn the peaks embrace the clouds 

Beneath them the river gleams like a new mirror 

And on the western crests 

My heart swells within me as I wander 

Scanning the distant heavens to the south 

I am dreaming every day of old friends..” 

When Joseph glanced up at Lat, he saw that reciting the poem had caused his eyes to mist over momentarily. “To hear that he was still ‘dreaming of old friends’ was the best news we could’ve wished for,” said Lat, his voice husky with emotion. “To help him survive during his long ordeal he wrote other poems too — always in Chinese, in the ancient classical style. I’ve translated all of them into English and French.” He paused and tugged a sheaf of crumpled papers from the breast pocket of his tunic. “Here’s another one he wrote about the horrors of’ long imprisonment..,. 

One day in jail is equal to a thousand years of freedom 

How right the ancients were to express it in those words..” 

Joseph closed his eyes and lay back in the warm sunshine. The only sound, apart from Lat’s voice reading the lilting poetry, was the soothing rush of the waterfall splashing down the rocks, Gradually the remote stillness of the high mountains, combined with the utter exhaustion brought on by the pain and fever, induced in him a profound feeling of peace and serenity; suddenly the frantic trafficking in death and destruction of the past three years seemed part of another, distant life. A strong sense of gratitude towards his rescuers was growing inside him, and he realized he felt drawn in particular to the frail, fatherly Annamese in the clearing below, who exuded a warmth and sincerity that obviously bound the little band of Viet Minh guerrillas to him with bonds as strong as those of family kinship. For a moment or two a vague feeling of regret that he had been unable to love his own father more intruded into his thoughts; but it didn’t become strong enough to disturb the expanding sense of renewal and well-being that now pervaded his mind, and in the warm sunshine he drifted slowly into a peaceful, refreshing sleep. 

He didn’t begin to awaken until the Sun was going down late in the afternoon, and at first he thought the rattle of machine gun fire was part of a dream of the past. Then he felt Lat shaking him gently by the shoulder and he realized that the flurry of single shots and the stuttering response of several machine guns were the sounds of a real battle coming from close by. 

“The outer ring of guards has engaged a French patrol,” said Lat urgently, signaling his helpers to gather around the litter. “We must move camp at once.” 

Looking down, Joseph saw the Clearing come alive with scurrying Viet Minh guerrillas, and immediately the helmeted figure of Ho Chi Minh rose from the rock where he had been working. He rapped out a series of orders in a crisp voice, and within minutes the whole camp was on the move. Joseph was carried on his litter along a high ravine and over a succession of steep passes to the edge of the rain forest where the underbrush grew thick and impenetrable. Half-a-dozen refuge huts had been built beneath a living canopy of skillfully interwoven rattan palms, and the guerrillas settled down immediately without fuss to resume their work. 

Distant bursts of gunfire continued intermittently for half an hour, then eventually died away altogether. Later Lat told Joseph that two French soldiers had been killed by the guerrillas in a short, sharp skirmish fought to provide time for the cave base to be evacuated. When they’d done their job, the defenders had melted into the hills and didn’t return to the new camp until after nightfall. Joseph was made comfortable for the night in one of the huts and when he awoke at dawn next day a bigger crowd of guerrillas than he’d seen before was already assembled for a formal parade in the middle of the clearing. They were armed with an odd assortment of weapons, and a dapper, quick-striding Annamese with an unruly shock of dark hair was moving energetically among them, correcting their posture and their dress. 

“That’s Comrade Vo Nguyen Giap, our military commander,” said Lat quietly as he squatted beside Joseph. “He was an outstanding student of military history and law at the National School in Hue. He can draw the plans of all Napoleon’s battles from memory — but his hatred of France is great because his sister-in-law was executed by the French and his wife died in a French jail.” 

Watching the little force being marshaled, Joseph counted thirty-four men; half of them clutched ancient flintlocks, and most of the others were armed with outdated bolt-action rifles. Two wore holstered revolvers at their belts, and just one held a light machine gun proudly across his chest. Their tunics and trousers, khaki or dark blue, were faded and frayed, and many among them were barefoot mountain tribesmen of the region. Behind them in the bright morning sun, a red standard emblazoned with a gold star fluttered from a flagstaff. 

“That’s our banner — the standard of the Viet Minh,” said Lat, pointing. “We’ve decided that the time has come to begin building the army that will one day free our whole country. We’ve brought together the best fighters from groups scattered across the hills of Tongking. All those men you see out there, Captain Sherman, have been leaders of their own armed self-defense sections for some time — they’re all valiant fighters who’ve proved themselves in action.” 

Joseph struggled, wincing, into a sitting position and scrutinized the gathering closely. All the thirty-four guerrillas held themselves proudly erect under the gaze of their little commander, but as a fighting force they looked insubstantial, and Joseph found himself wondering at the fierce spirit that obviously animated the raggletaggle little band. As he watched, the scrawny figure of Ho Chi Mirth appeared from one of the huts to review the force, wearing his now familiar battered cork helmet and carrying his bamboo cane. After walking gravely back arid forth along the ranks, he stepped up to the flagpole to address then in a friendly tone, and Joseph listened attentively as Eat translated for him. 

“We must all act resolutely and swiftly from the start,” he said, looking into the face of each guerrilla in turn. “We must mobilize all the people of our nation and call on them to rise up with us so most of our attention must at first be given to political activities and propaganda rather than military operations. But when you do attack the enemy, make sure your first strike is victorious1 Appear unexpectedly — then disappear quickly without trace!” He paused and for a brief instant one of his brilliant smiles illuminated his haggard face. “All of you in this unit are the senior members of a family that will grow and grow. One day its field of action will be the entire territory of Vietnam — from the far north to the deepest south... . Make sure that your deeds each day serve as an example to all who will follow!” 

Without further ceremony Giap marched the unit briskly out of the clearing, and the man they called “Uncle Ho” stood watching them go; the moment they disappeared into the forest, he wandered over to Joseph’s hut and sat down smiling on a tree stump by the door to share some coconut milk with the American and Eat. 

“You’ve been greatly privileged, captain, to witness the birth of the ‘Vietnam Armed Propaganda Unit for National Liberation,’” he said, smiling ironically. “A big name for a small force, perhaps 

— but we have high hopes it will grow rapidly from its humble beginnings. Our strategy now is to do propaganda work everywhere and capture better weapons from the French and the Japanese. We need modern armaments, you see, very badly.” he sipped the coconut milk reflectively for a moment without looking at Joseph. “We’ve already won the support of the mountain tribes. The Nung people are among our best fighters because the Viet Minh promises them autonomy when our country is free, and they’ve flocked to join our cause.” He looked up at Joseph and smiled. “Lucky for you, Captain Sherman, that they did. It was the Nung who saved your life.” 

“I’m very grateful for your help — and theirs.” Joseph smiled warmly at the older man. “I hope sometime I’ll be able to repay you in some way.” 

Ho leaned towards the litter and patted Joseph’s shoulder gently. ‘There’s no need to think of repaying us, captain. To be able to help a brave American return to the fight against Japan is reward enough for us.” He beamed toothily again. “Arid return you we shall — soon. Comrade Lat, who’s told me you’re old friends, thinks you’re well enough to begin the journey into China this morning. I’d like to walk up to the border pass with you to wish you bon voyage, captain; would you mind?” 

Joseph grinned and shook his head. “No — but I’m almost sorry to be leaving. I was beginning to like the peace and quiet of your mountain retreat.” 

“Then come back again, captain but not so painfully next time.” Ho chuckled and stood up. “I’ll go myself and check the provisions that have been prepared to make sure you’ll have enough nourishing food for your trek.” 

The Viet Minh leader climbed beside Joseph all the way to the pass, carrying a satchel of food himself and helping Lat and the other sweating bearers with the litter whenever they stumbled in the steep rock gulleys. All the time, to take Joseph’s mind off the pain caused by the jolting of the litter, he talked about his experiences in America, about the history of his own country and of the United States; he asked Joseph about his family, and listened intently as the American spoke through gritted teeth of his father’s political career and of the study he himself had made of Asian history. 

“It sounds to me, captain, as if you know this part of the world better than any of us here,” he said admiringly as they arrived panting at the top of the pass and stopped to look down into China. “You’re well aware how many setbacks we’ve suffered in our long hid for freedom —— it’s a pity you can’t stay longer and help me teach some history to our young Viet Minh recruits.” 

“Maybe when the war’s over.” Joseph smiled as the bearers who’d hauled him up the mountainside handed the litter over to six other armed guerrillas who were waiting to take him down the valley into China. When Dao Van Lat offered his hand in farewell, Joseph shook it with both his own and thanked him effusively. 

“I hope we might meet again one day in freedom, Captain Sherman,” said Lat warmly. 

“I hope so too.” Joseph hesitated, still holding the hand of the Annamese in his. “Lat, when we met all those years ago you were with the Imperial Delegate in Saigon, do you remember?” 

Lat nodded. “Yes of course. He married my older sister.” 

“How is Monsieur Tran Van Hieu and his family, do you know?” Joseph tried to keep his voice casual. “I met his sons and his daughter, Lan, on my last visit.” 

“Tran Van Kim is a prominent member of our Viet Minh League. He’s working undercover near Phuoc Kiem to the south of here.” 

“And Tam and Lan?” prompted Joseph. “What of them?” 

Lat shrugged and dropped his eyes in embarrassment. “I’m afraid, captain I know nothing of them. I’ve had no contact with my sister or her children for many years — nor has Comrade Kim. These have been difficult times for all of us.” 

Joseph nodded quickly. “Of course, I understand.” 

“When you are safely back in Kunming, captain,” said Ho, taking Joseph’s hand in his turn, “please tell your senior officers that America has allies ready and waiting to help them in the mountains of Tongking. The Viet Minh will be honored to fight the Japanese alongside America. A lot can be achieved by sabotaging their supply routes and arms dumps.” 

“I’ll tell them,” promised Joseph, gripping the hand of the Annamese firmly. “They’ll be grateful for what you’ve done for me. 

“We’ll help any pilot shot down in these jungles — you can depend on us. But as you’ve been our first American guest you’ll always hold a special place in our hearts.” A broad smile of genuine affection broke out on his face. “And don’t be misled back in Kunming by the Free French or Chiang Kai-shek’s people if they try to brand us as Communists. Tell them the Viet Minh is an alliance of patriots, and Vietnam today is like America must have been in 1775. Everybody who’s willing to fight for independence and freedom is welcome to join us.” 

“Have you ever been a Communist yourself?” asked Joseph. 

Ho’s smile broadened. “If anybody inquires about my politics, captain, simply tell them this: ‘His party is his country, his program is independence.’ We’ll keep fighting for that independence whatever happens.— and our children will fight on after us if need be.. . Bon voyage.” 

Joseph closed his eyes and gritted his teeth as the guerrillas carrying him slipped and slithered on the steep, stony track leading down into China. They were hurrying to reach the shelter of the jungle on the lower slopes, and he couldn’t help crying aloud with pain from time to time. As they approached the trees, he looked back and caught a last glimpse of the Annamese standing silhouetted against the bright morning sky. Joseph waved, and on the mountaintop the frail figure raised his cork helmet and lifted his cane above his head in a final gesture of farewell. 

By the end of February 1945 the plaster cast that encased Joseph’s right leg from hip to ankle was smothered with signatures and humorous obscenities. They had been scrawled on it by other wounded “Flying Tigers” recuperating with him in the Kunming base hospital, and prominent among the names was that of Major General Claire Lee Chennault, their famous, hawk-faced commander who had taken a break from directing the day and night air war against the Japanese to hear for himself how one of his best pilots had returned miraculously from the dead. Joseph had been missing for nearly three weeks when he was finally driven up to the gates of the Fourteenth Army Air Force headquarters on New Year’s Eve in a rickety Chinese flatbed truck, and to make his return more mysterious, the two silent guerrillas who has accompanied him from the Tongking border had slipped away immediately to begin their Long return journey. 

It had been left to the astonished gate guards to carry him inside, and his surprise return had made the 308th Squadron’s New Year’s party more riotous than it might otherwise have been. Joseph, however, had taken no part in the merrymaking himself because air force surgeons got busy straight away resetting his broken thigh and the previously undiscovered fracture in the lower part of his leg. When Claire Chennault strode into the hospital next morning wearing the twin silver stars of a major general on the shoulders of his battered leather flying jacket, the other disabled flyers had cheered Joseph to the echo, then launched into a raucously affectionate chorus of “Why Was He Born So Beautiful?” 

The craggy features of the air force general who had become America’s most renowned fighting man in Asia softened into a delighted smile as Joseph described how the Annamese guerrillas had spirited him away from the Japanese and nursed him back to health in their mountain hideaway before smuggling him safely into China. “We can sure use that kind of help,” drawled Chennault in a rich southern baritone that reflected his Louisiana upbringing. “Every Allied pilot’s worth his weight in gold right now in the China-Burma-India theater. We’re all mighty glad, Joseph, to see you back here in one piece — and we’ll be even happier to see you back in the air again.” 

While Joseph recovered from his injuries, outside the windows of the sick bay the roar of heavy transports, bombers and fighters landing and taking off remained constant round the clock. The massive Japanese invasion army was still advancing westward across China, even threatening Kunming itself, and vital Allied supplies for the Chinese were still being ferried in nonstop from India over the “Hump” of the Himalayas to beat the enemy’s blockade. In Europe British, American and Russian forces were sweeping inexorably into Germany from east and west, and it seemed almost certain that the global conflict was entering its climactic phase. But even though the noise o war was all around him in his hospital bed, Joseph still retained something of that curious sense of detachment that had come to him in the mountains of Tongking. To his surprise he no longer felt the same fierce compulsion to return to combat that he’d always felt before, and he found himself pondering the good fortune that had ensured his survival when he felt certain he would die. The images of his days with the Annamese guerrillas haunted his mind and drew his thoughts back to the past brushes with their country. He remembered to with a feeling of abiding affection the enigmatic guerrilla leader who had shown such concern for him at Pac Bo, but when a medical orderly brought him a brief handwritten message asking permission for its writer to visit him in the first week of March, he stared blankly at its signature. 

“C. M. Hoo? I don’t know anybody by that name.” He studied the spidery scrawl on the sheet of green rice paper, then raised an inquiring eyebrow at the orderly. “Who gave you the note?” 

The orderly shrugged. “An old Chinese guy. He looks like some kind of beggar. Says he’d like to wish you well and claims you once met someplace with a Chinese name I can’t pronounce.” 

“You’d better send him in,” said Joseph without enthusiasm, then sat up suddenly in his bed a minute later when he saw the familiar khaki-clad figure in the battered cork helmet hobbling down the ward, leaning on a bamboo cane. 

“I’m glad to see you’re getting better treatment here than at Pac Bo, Captain Sherman,” said the Annamese humorously as he shook Joseph by the hand. “I hope you’re almost recovered now.’ 

“I didn’t recognize the name you gave in your message,” said Joseph, staring in disbelief. 

“Ah yes, I wrote it the way most Americans like it — nice and simple with the family name last and an extra o. I’d forgotten you’re a man used to the ways of the Orient.” 

‘But what are you doing here in Kunming, Monsieur Ho?” 

The Annamese continued to smile at Joseph’s mystification. “I’m no stranger to Kunming, captain. Because it’s close to the Tongking border, the ‘City of Eternal Spring’ has often served as a place of refuge over the years for nationalists from my country.” 

“And have you come here to seek refuge?” 

“No” The Annamese shook his head, still smiling broadly. “I come here from time to time to find out what’s happening in the rest of the world. I like to read back copies of your excellent Time magazine in the library of the U.S. Office of War Information — it keeps me up to date.” 

“And how did you get here?” 

“I walked across the border to Ching Hsi.” 

Joseph gasped. “But that must be two hundred miles.” 

“Yes, maybe more,” said the Annamese simply. “It took me two weeks. My feet are a little sore now, but 1 got used to walking when I was a prisoner in China.” 

“But you didn’t walk all this way just to read old copies of Time,” protested Joseph. 

The dark intense eyes regarding the American twinkled suddenly and he nodded in assent. “You’re right of course, Captain. I came to offer the services of the Viet Minh League to General Chennault. I thought we could rescue more pilots if we had better arms and some radios — but your Office of Strategic Services shows no interest. They say no arms can be given to us in case we use them against the French, who are your allies in Europe. They won’t even give me a single Colt .45 for myself — and they won’t allow me to see your general.” 

“Didn’t you tell them that you’ve already rescued one American pilot?” 

The Annamese nodded. “Yes, but I don’t think they believed me.” He waved a self-deprecating hand at his dusty clothes and smiled ruefully. “Maybe you can’t blame them, I don’t really look capable of saving anyone — even myself.” 

When Joseph laughed, the Annamese joined in, and his engaging honesty caused a new feeling of affection to well up inside the American. 

“Your OSS officers are too preoccupied, you see, with the idea that we may be Communists,” continued Ho, his eyes still twinkling. “They listen only to Chiang Kai-shek and the Free French intelligence people. I warned you about that, didn’t I?” 

“And what did you tell them?” 

“I said that the French like to condemn as Communists all those who want independence in Indochina. And because Chiang Kai-shek has spent more energy fighting Mao Tse-tung than he has fighting the Japanese, he’s anxious to condemn the Viet Minh as Communist too.” 

“I’ll have a word with General Chennault myself,” said Joseph impulsively. “I’ve already told him what your people did for me. Your request to see him has probably never got past his aides.” 

“Please don’t go to any trouble on my behalf,” said Ho, frowning and laying a restraining hand on Joseph’s arm. “You must rest and recover from your injuries. I didn’t come here to disturb you.” 

“It’s no trouble after all you did for me,” insisted Joseph, patting the hand of the Annamese and smiling. 

“If a meeting proves impossible, I would be happy to have just a simple memento from the general,” said Ho hastily. “I’ve heard that he keeps a supply of glossy photographs to give away to those who admire his leadership. If you could persuade him to sign one for me, I would be grateful.” 

Joseph laughed. “A glossy photograph is the very least you’ll get, Monsieur Ho,- I promise you that. And as a personal thank you from me, I’ll see you get a few Colt .45s and a box or two of ammunition. But I think General Chennault will agree to see you when I tell him who you are and what you’ve done. How long will you be staying in Kunming?” 

“A week or two. I’ve rented a little room above a candle maker’s shop.” - 

“Then come back and see me again in a week.” 

The Annamese stood up suddenly, his face thoughtful. “Thank you, captain. ... Those Colt .45s you mentioned would be most welcome — especially if you could let me have them unopened in their original sealed packages. . . . Now I must go before I tire you with too much talk.” He shook Joseph’s hand firmly and began to move away. Then he hesitated and turned back again, unbuttoning one of the pockets of his faded khaki tunic; for a moment a little smile of embarrassment played across his lined face. “Would you forgive a sentimental old man, Captain Sherman, if in return for your kindness he offered you a humble poem he had written?” Ho held a folded sheet of green rice paper towards the American. 

“I’d be very glad to accept it,” replied Joseph, touched by the gesture. “Lat read me some of your poetry at Pac Bo. I admired it then.” 

“I wrote this while I was walking here through the mountains. You came into my thoughts and I hoped you were making a good recovery. You had come close to death in your airplane and survived. It reminded me of my own escape from death — I almost died while I was in prison in China.” 

Joseph unfolded the paper to find a nine-line poem penned in the same spidery handwriting that he recognized from the earlier note. It was written in English, and had obviously been translated from the original Chinese. It read: 

Everything evolves, that is how nature wills ii 

After days of rain, fine weather returns 

Suddenly the whole world throws off its damp garments 

And carpets of green brocade sparkle on the mountains 

The sun is warm, the wind is clean, the flowers smile 

Rain has washed the trees and birds sing happily 

The heart of man is warmed, life reawakens 

At last sorrow gives way to happiness 

Because that is how nature wishes it to be 

Feeling himself moved by the poem’s simple optimism, Joseph glanced up from the paper to thank its writer. But the Annamese was already stumping away down the ward, and although Joseph watched him all the way to the door, he went out without a backward glance.