The Ugly American (12 page)

"Mr. Ambassador, I understand your interest . . .'' Tex began.

"Just call me MacWhite," the tall man said. His voice was crisp and assured.

"Okay, MacWhite. I'll tell you the truth. We don't know why the French are losing. Neither do they. But Monet is not the man to talk to. He's dying right on his feet from mortification."

"All right. I'm asking you, not him," MacWhite said. "What are we doing wrong?"

In the next few minutes, Tex discovered that MacWhite understood tactics and fighting. He asked tough questions and expected hard answers. They stood on the side of the road, in the midst of exhaust fumes and dust, talking strategy and tactics.

"There just isn't any simple answer," Tex finally said.

"We're fighting a kind of war here that I never read about at Command and Staff College. Conventional weapons just don't work out here. Neither do conventional tactics."

"Well, why don't we start using unconventional tactics?" MacWhite asked. "Apparently the Communists have some theory behind what they're doing."

"Armies change slowly, MacWhite," Tex said. "All our tanks and planes and cannons aren't worth a damn out here. We need to fight the way they fight . . . but no one is quite sure how they fight."

From behind them came Monet's voice. "Well, we're going to find out in a hurry. The Communists will keep moving in on Hanoi; and we'll have plenty of chance to see them in operation."

"I'll stick around for a few weeks, then," MacWhite said. "Don't worry, Major Monet, I'll get the proper orders, and you won't have to be concerned about my safety."

"Why do you want to watch all this?" Monet asked. "Because it may happen next in Sarkhan and I want to be ready for it," MacWhite said, simply.

For a long moment the three men stood quietly in the sea of dust, with the smell of defeat all about them.

"All right, let's go," Monet said. "Tex, drive so we can overtake the lorries. We've already got orders to occupy a defensive position for tonight."

In the next few weeks the Communists seemed to come sweeping in from everywhere. The tangled, dirty, pathetic mass of refugees grew in Hanoi. Monet and his company of Legionnaires went slashing into the attack at least two dozer, times. They would get a report that the Communists were moving up on a distant village. The company of Legionnaires would swoop into the village and take up a well-planned deployment around it. Tex, who had seen it done a hundred times, had no criticism of their communications, armament, or training. But always the deployment was a failure. And always it was a failure for one of two reasons. Either the Communists knew the defensive deployment made by the Legionnaires perfectly, and would shell them with horrible accuracy, or, even more horribly, would send squads of two or three men, armed only with knives, and hand grenades, into the individual foxholes. Or, the Communists would harass them from the rear with carbine and grenade fire. And the moment the Legionnaires turned to meet this fire, they would be fired on from another position.

The Legionnaires fought with enormous courage, and Monet used them with an incredible skill; but each time they lost. Over a period of several weeks, Tex had the experience of serving with a company of seasoned and experienced fighters under skilled leadership, who lost twenty villages to the enemy. But even more frustrating than constant defeat was the fact that at the end of three weeks of fighting, they had not once seen the enemy. The fire-fights always took place at night and were over by dawn; the enemy always slipped away, taking his dead with him; and the men felt they had participated in phantom engagements. The only thing that made it real were the dead Legionnaires.

Meanwhile, Hanoi had become a sick city. It was full of confusion and hunger and swept by fantastic rumors. The worst thing of all was the feeling of impending defeat which was shared by everyone—Vietnamese, French, and American.

One day, after three weeks of desperate, exhausting patrols and futile defenses, Tex had a long and relaxed afternoon with Monet and MacWhite. The Legionnaires had been given a rest period of two days; by the afternoon of the second day Monet had solved all his problems of supply, and was prepared to rest. Tex was cautiously and carefully beginning to talk to Monet about an idea he had had.

"Monet, have you ever had a nightmare and had the feeling that it was something you'd gone through before?" Tex asked. "When I was a kid I remember having a nightmare about leaving a range fence open and letting ten thousand cattle get loose. In the nightmare I sat stupidly and watched the cattle escape because somehow I had the impression that it had all been planned long before and that I was helpless."

Both Monet and MacWhite turned and looked with a puzzled air at Tex. They were sitting in a tiny bar, and had already finished two bottles of very strong cognac.

"Yes, I've had a sensation like that at times," Monet said. "For example, right now; I feel I'm living in a nightmare, but I don't know what the plan or key to it is."

Tex was encouraged by Monet's words. "You're right— this has been one long goddam miserable nightmare. It's like trying to fight a mountain of syrup blindfolded. Look, Monet, you handle men well. You know how to deploy them and how to use fire power and how to run a real hot fire-fight. By all the rules of the classic western warfare you ought to be winning; but you're not. And I know why."

Monet was looking at Tex with dawning anger.

"It doesn't have a thing to do with the quality of the French fighting, or with your Legionnaires," Tex said quickly and carefully. "It's just that the Communists are fighting by a different rule book. And, like a damn fool, it's taken me almost a month to remember that I once read it. When I was in Korea, I picked up a book by Mao Tse-tung. Now, Monet, don't kid yourself about this. Mao is one hell of a bright guy. I hate what he stands for, but he does have a kind of genius."

"I've never read Mao's military writings," Monet said wearily. "But everything that can be written on war was already written long before him. Clausewitz and Jomini went over the whole thing. It's impossible to write anything new on war."

"Maybe Tex is right, Monet," MacWhite said slowly. "Mao is a clever man. I've read his political things. He's a Communist to his fingertips, and he's also a shrewd student of men. The kind of fight he made in China may have become the model by which all Asian Communists fight."

"I don't mean to be disrespectful, gentlemen, but I doubt very much that Mao has written anything new about war," Monet said.

Tex sighed. He understood that Monet did not want to be forced to learn a new kind of warfare.

"All right," Tex said, "maybe you're right. I haven't studied military history the way you have. Listen while I run over some of the ideas that Mao had in his book, and then tell me where he found them. First of all, take this thing of always finding some of the enemy in your rear. What Mao said to do is send a couple of agents ahead into any village in which the Communists conceivably might fight. If possible these agents should be men who come from that village. They settle down in the village and live like everyone else, except that they have a few sacks of hand grenades and a few burp guns which they keep hidden. While they're there, they line up the villagers who are sympathetic with them. If no one is sympathetic they put it on the line: fight with us or die. It's as simple and direct as that."

Monet was listening, and nodding occasionally.

"Monet, whenever the Legionnaires go into a village, there are already a half-dozen of the enemy behind them. These enemy don't wear uniforms; they don't even dig their weapons up until the critical moment has arrived. But can you imagine the advantage that just five or six people in their position give you in a fire-fight? Imagine if you could have a half-dozen of your own men, looking exactly like the Communists, operating back of their lines? "

"What else does Mao say?" Monet asked. He took a cigarette from a pack and lit it.

For eight hours and a bottle and a half of cognac, they discussed Mao's military strategy and tactics. Both Tex and MacWhite felt that Monet was several times at the point of admitting that they should try Mao's tactics. But he always stiffened and fell back on arguments about Clausewitz and "centers of defense" and "liquid offensives," even though his tone of voice showed he did not fully believe them. Finally he stared at them, his face pale.

"That's enough, gentlemen," he said in a soft voice. "Even if you're right we don't have time to change our tactics. We're losing too fast." He stared down into the glass of cognac and spoke in a voice that was almost inaudible. "Imagine a nation which produced Napoleon, Foch, and Lyautey being beaten by so primitive an enemy."

"But, Monet, don't be a fool . . ." Tex began.

"He's right, Tex," MacWhite said sharply. "We've talked enough."

Tex wheeled on MacWhite, and then paused. MacWhite's face was full of warning. Tex realized MacWhite was right. At that moment, Monet was beyond convincing.

Ten minutes later a runner came in with a message for Monet. The final stage in the defense of Hanoi was beginning. Out in the hill country and plains behind Hanoi thousands of Communists were slipping over paddies, around rocks, down ravines. For Monet and Tex and MacWhite and the Legionnaires the next three weeks were unmitigated hell. Monet tried to send MacWhite back, but he wouldn't go. The Legionnaires lacked munitions, food, and reinforcements; and most of all they lacked sleep. Their eyes were redrimmed and tender, and their tempers were drawn thin. They suffered fifty per cent casualties, and then the survivors again suffered fifty per cent casualties. They fought in the thick brown mud around the paddies; when a man was hit he simply slid under and disappeared forever. Mud-clogged rifles ceased to function, and there was never an adequate base on which to mount a mortar. The least ill of the men had dysentery; it was a shared minimum affliction. Some of the men had fever, some hookworm, and some had huge horny scabs on their arms. There was never enough to eat, and they had long ago given up trying to purify their water. They simply drank whatever water was available, and accepted the agonizing cramps.

Both Monet and Tex were injured. Monet had taken a burp gun bullet in his left elbow; after the bones had been set, he continued to command the company. Tex was hit by hand-grenade fragments in the buttocks; with a sigh he told the French corpsman not to bother taking a probe to him. Tex now had the iron of three wars in his body and in some dim way he knew he had expected to all along.

One day Monet changed his mind about using Communist tactics. He changed his mind because the Viet Communists played a trick. It was not much of a trick. Things like it had happened before and would happen again, and it was, Monet knew, a trick that the French were not above using. But this was the first time it had ever happened to Monet's men.

Jim Davis and a Viet the Legionnaires had nicknamed Apache had been sent out to patrol the area in front of a small village the Legionnaires were defending. They left at dusk and were to return at dawn. They carried only burp guns and a signal flare gun.

They returned at dawn, but without their weapons, crawling up to the edge of the first CP on their bellies. MacWhite, Tex, and Monet saw them suddenly stand up and start to walk into the village. Mud dripped from their clothes, and there was something about their huddled posture which indicated that something had happened. The three men walked out to meet them.

Davis was leading Apache. From fifty yards they could see that there was a gout of blood on Davis's cheek. At twenty-five yards they could see the mangled remains of his left eye, hanging in a cluster of tiny glistening cords and muscles. The dead eye hung level with Davis's nose, and seemed to be staring at the ground. His right eye was firm and brilliant in his black face, and was burning with rage.

"What happened, Davis?" Monet asked.

"They caught us, Major," Davis said, and his voice was low and cool. "There has to be a first time for everything and this time they caught us. They let us go, but first they had to play a trick. Part of the trick was gouging out my eye."

"What did they do to you, Apache?" Monet asked quickly in Vietnamese.

Apache's eyes were glazed and almost shut, narrowed into slits of purest agony. He opened his mouth, wet his lips with his tongue, and made a sound which came out a subhuman, mutilated, horrible twisted moan.

"Shut up, Apache," Davis screamed, and the sound trailed off and stopped.

Davis reached over and pulled Apache's hand away from his throat. Squarely in the center of his throat there was a twisted hole. Far back in the hole the muscles and cords of his neck glistened. Blood welled out of the bottom of the jagged wound.

"They cut away his vocal cords," Monet said. His voice was almost casual. "It's a treatment they save for Viets who help the French."

"They left my right eye so that we could find our way back and show ourselves as a lesson to others," Davis said. His good eye rolled slowly back in his head, and he pitched forward in a faint. Monet caught him, twisted him around, and laid him on his back.

"Tex, send for a corpsman," Monet said softly. "And then you and MacWhite join me in the CP. We're going to fight tonight using Mao's tactics against his own people. I'm convinced."

The Lessons of War

The next day MacWhite went back to Hanoi to look for a copy of the booklet on war by Mao Tse-tung, and Monet ordered the Legionnaires to relax. They bivouacked in a dirty little group of tents; the Legionnaires, without taking off their clothes, dropped in the shade of the ragged tents and slept like men who hoped never to awaken again.