The Ugly American (11 page)

The Iron of War

major
james
(
tex
)
wolchek
—Born March 12, 1924, in Fort Worth, Texas. Son of Mr. and Mrs. Solomon Wolchek.

Graduated Sam Houston High School, 1941. Enlisted United States Army 1942. PFC to Second Lieutenant in Paratroopers, 1st Division. Thirty-five practice drops at Fort Benning.

Broke left ankle twice. Three drops in combat during Normandy and Southern France invasions. Awarded Silver Star, Purple Heart with cluster.

Regular Army after World War II. Assigned to Command and General Staff College, 1947-50. Ordered to Korea in November 1950. Platoon, Company Commander, Battalion Executive Officer Awarded Purple Heart; Bronze Medal.

Permanent address: 11897 South Lane, Fort Worth, Texas.

"Major James Wolchek, United States Army, reporting for duty as Observer with the 2d Regiment Amphibie, Legion Etrangere," Major Wolchek said crisply.

He drew himself up sharply in front of the French officer sitting behind the desk and saluted. Major Monet was a small man, and he was obviously tired. He looked up from his desk, and examined Wolchek. Then Major Monet smiled, "Major, you look like what I have heard Texans call 'whang leather.' I hope that's not an insult; it's not intended so." Major Monet spoke excellent English.

Major Wolchek smiled. "Thank you, sir. I do happen to be from Texas."

"And, of course, your nickname is 'Tex,' " Monet said.

Wolchek nodded. They smiled at one another for a brief second and then Monet began to go through a drawer, explaining that he had Wolchek's orders.

Tex stared out the open window while he waited. Monet's office was on the outskirts of Hanoi, and Tex could see the long columns of trucks, jeeps, and half-tracks moving out towards the lowlands where the Battle for the Delta was being fought. On both sides of the road, heading in the opposite direction, were lines of Vietnamese natives. They were fleeing to the city.

Tex smiled as he thought of Monet's use of "whang leather." Tex had heard the phrase applied to himself before, though never by a Frenchman. In a way, he thought, it was ironic that he should look so much like the imaginary Texan. His parents had come to Fort Worth from Lithuania two years before Tex was born; they were short, dark, and small-muscled people.

They had always dreamed of the American frontier; they found the American magic in Texas. Something about the sun and the food and the climate made their children grow tall and muscular, and all six of the Wolchek children were models of what Texans thought Texans looked like. Father Wolchek had invested his savings in Fort Worth real estate and had made a fortune. He no longer worked with a needle. He was openly proud of the fact that his oldest son was an officer and a fighter. And the knowledge of his family's love and support had helped Tex through many almost intolerable situations.

Tex's body held bits of the iron of two wars.

The first time he was hit had been in Normandy. He was one of the paratroopers who were dropped in the early darkness of D-Day behind the Normandy beaches. A German flare burst just over his parachute, and on the way down he caught seven machine gun slugs in his legs. By the time he hit the ground his boots were full of blood and he could no longer walk. But he could crawl; and in the next five hours he crawled three miles.

A disorganized platoon of Germans, retreating down a small road, came upon a tall American leaning casually against a tree. The American was Tex. He had a confident look on his face and a carbine in his hands. He did not speak to the platoon —merely signaled for them to throw down their arms and put up their hands. The German officer attempted to bolt; but before he had gone three steps, Tex shot him. A half-hour later the German platoon realized that their captor was leaning against a tree because he couldn't use his legs, but by that time it was too late. Doctors later removed six of the slugs from his legs; the seventh they had to leave in because it was embedded in the bone. Tex received a Silver Star for this action.

He got his second wound on Pork Chop Hill in Korea, when he led a reinforced patrol over the parapets and into the misty ground between the American and Chinese lines. It was impossible to see, but Tex heard sounds of fighting. They had gone only 100 yards before he realized that the Chinese were launching a massive attack. He knew that his hilltop redoubt could not stand against so many men. He had no choice but to move ahead with his patrol and disrupt the attack. Tex led his patrol through the Chinese like a haymower through a fresh field. He cut through to the divisional headquarters' bunker of the Chinese lines, put it under a heavy grenade attack, and captured it. They killed every man in the bunker, including one general and two colonels; and they also killed 120 other Chinese. But a haymower cannot run backward, and Tex was unable to return with his patrol. They shattered the Chinese attack; but what was left of his patrol, including Tex, were captured.

Tex had two dozen needle-sharp pieces of grenade steel in his back. He administered morphine to himself, and politely asked permission from the Chinese officer in charge if one of his men could cut out the splinters. The American, who had been a butcher in civilian life, did a very efficient but not too delicate job. Consequently, Tex's back was marked by a fantastic tangle of scars. Several tiny bits of Chinese steel had been left in his flesh by the amateur surgeon. On extremely cold nights they felt like jagged chunks of ice, so that Tex had a frantic desire to scratch them out.

Tex escaped from a Communist aid station and returned to the American lines. His regimental commander had recommended Tex for the job of Observer with the French forces operating outside of Hanoi. Later, when the Korean fighting was still in the skirmish stage, Tex went to Vietnam.

The French major laughed, and Wolchek turned toward him.

"Tex, you must excuse me if I use your nickname from the very start," Monet said, "but this is a pretty informal situation, and we might just as well get used to it. Also, I have some bad news for you. Your orders attach you to my company and call for you to drop into Dien Bien Phu with us."

"What's wrong with that?" Tex asked.

"Although the newspapers don't know it, yesterday Dien Bien Phu was completely encircled. There was some talk of relieving it over land, but this has been abandoned as impossible. My company is going in by air drop the day after tomorrow. Even if our High Command would be willing to have a foreign observer drop with our troops, I'm sure that under the circumstances at Dien Bien Phu, you would prefer to remain here."

"Major," Tex said, "how many jumps have you made?" Monet was busy with the papers, and he answered without looking up. "About two dozen."

"And how many have you made under enemy fire?"

"None. There has never been an opportunity."

"Major, I've made over a hundred practice jumps and I've jumped five times into enemy fire," Tex said softly. "Maybe you'll need an experienced hand along."

Monet looked up from his desk and his eyes went to Tex's upper left-hand breast pocket looking for the parachuter's insignia. There were no medals of any kind on the shirt. Over Monet's face there came an expression which Tex recognized as a look of humiliation. Monet looked down at his desk.

"I am very sorry," Monet said, his voice just barely under control. "There was no way of knowing. I would be very glad if you would jump with us; and I'll make sure that the notification to headquarters of your jump doesn't leave this office until our plane is in the air."

Tex and Monet spent the next two days together in Hanoi. In almost all ways they were opposites; but they did have an important thing in common—they both saw themselves as soldiers and as fighters. Monet came from a family in which there was always at least one son who was a graduate of St. Cyr; in the last three centuries there had been no war in which France had fought in which a Monet had not been a general. Monet was infinitely sophisticated in the art and literature of war. As the two of them went from bar to bar looking for bottles of Hennessey, and from one munitions dump to another gathering materials for their drop, Monet talked as a connoisseur on the history of war. Tex was enchanted. They argued about theory; and both of them worried about the drop into Dien Bien Phu.

On the second day Monet took Tex to visit his company of Foreign Legionnaires. The men were lined up for inspection. Tex understood at once that this was a professional outfit; and he also became aware that the men had an enormous respect for Monet. Like any good officer, he always saw that his men were fed and housed before he himself ate or slept; but more than that, the men had been through action with Monet and knew he was courageous and decisive.

Monet was the only French legionnaire. Among the men were middle-aged blonde soldiers who had been officers in Hitler's army. There were also Poles, Ukrainians, Russians, Argentinians, and even a few Britons. In the middle of one of the lines stood a tall, skinny Negro; and something about his face at once attracted Tex's attention. He stopped and looked sharply at the man, then turned to Monet.

"Major Monet, I have the honor to inform you that among your troops is at least one American," Tex said in a sharp voice. "Maybe this man told you he was an African or something like that, but I can tell you right now that he's really an American."

The tall Negro smiled, but kept his lips firmly together. Tex knew at once that he was right.

"I wouldn't know, Major Wolchek," Monet said quickly, speaking formally in front of the men. "All I know is that this man is a very good soldier. There is a tradition in the Legion that we do not make inquiries about a man's background."

"Well, there's a tradition among Americans that they shake hands whenever they meet one another," Tex said.

He stuck his hand out toward the Negro, and for a tense moment the two men stared at one another. Then the Negro smiled, and his hand came out. While the rest of the Legionnaires stood at rigid attention, the two Americans spoke briefly and with enthusiasm. The soldier's name was Jim Davis, and he was from Los Angeles. He had gone to UCLA for three years, and had joined the Legion just to see what the excitement was all about Tex knew at once that he was a man who, for the same reasons that drove Tex and Monet, wanted to be a soldier. They talked for perhaps two minutes. Then the French major moved, and instantly Davis snapped back to attention, saluted, and his face became immobile.

Tex and Monet continued their walk down the columns. Tex decided that it would be silly to tell Monet how he had recognized Davis was an American—that he had noticed that when Davis had heard Wolchek's Texas accent, the trace of an unfriendly smile had flitted across his face. Tex had stopped to make sure that the next smile would be friendly.

"Davis is a good man, Tex," Monet said when they were back at the CP. "He is superb on patrols. And the Vietnamese natives love him, despite their hate for our French North African troops. We have a couple of Viets permanently assigned to the regiment as guides, and Davis is the only man they'll make a night patrol with. He's never lost a Viet yet, and he always comes back with good intelligence."

The next morning the entire company drove in lorries to the airfield to load aboard the planes that would drop them over Dien Bien Phu. The moment they passed through the guard post, Tex knew that something had gone wrong. The guards were tense, officers were excited, too many planes were lined up on the hardtops, too many men were standing around. Tex said nothing to Monet, but he knew the French officer also sensed trouble.

A half-hour later Monet discovered what was wrong. He came walking back from the headquarters building, accompanied by a man who was wearing khakis, but who was obviously an American and a civilian. His face was ashen. The Legionnaires, who were sprawled under the lorries in the shade, took one look at him, scrambled to their feet, and even came to attention. Monet walked up to his group of men and came to a stiff attention.

"Last night," Monet said flatly, "Dien Bien Phu fell. There is no possibility of relief, and all radio communication has been cut off. It is the judgment of higher command, a judgment in which I concur, that we have completely lost the battle." Tex felt admiration which was mixed with pity. Monet had guts. Most officers would have sugar-coated the pill. Also, Monet had the intelligence and integrity to identify himself with the melancholy news which had to come down from higher command. Tex had learned that officers who dissociate themselves from higher commands are invariably poor officers. Monet walked over to Tex and introduced the tall man. "Major Wolchek, this is Gilbert MacWhite, the American Ambassador to Sarkhan," Monet said stiffly. Tex was aware of Monet's personal anguish. "Ambassador MacWhite is on temporary duty from Sarkhan to see how Communists operate. He had managed to obtain a
laissez passer
from our officials, and was planning to go to Dien Bien Phu. Now he would like our views on why we lost the battle."

Tex looked sharply at the ambassador. He felt a quick flash of anger, and then realized it was groundless . . . there was no way for the man to know.

"Major," Tex said, "why don't you let me talk to the ambassador while you get the troops started back."

Monet flashed Tex a look of gratitude and spun on his heel. He started to bark out commands. The Legionnaires filed back into the lorries. One after another the lorries roared, and then crawled into the line of retreating vehicles.