The Ugly American (14 page)

After that there was nothing to be said, and a nod from the senior French general dismissed the three of them. MacWhite, Monet, and Wolchek left, and without a word headed for the nearest bar. There they paid an outrageous price for two bottles of superior French cognac, and drank in silence. When they had finished the first bottle, MacWhite picked it up by its long narrow neck and with a single blow smashed it on the edge of the table. Then he grinned.

"I just felt like doing it," he said. "Gentlemen, don't worry about disciplinary action. Nothing is going to happen to you. We have stupid men on our side and we have proud men on our side; but they would never be allowed to punish you for simply saying that it is possible to learn from an enemy."

A short time after the French evacuated Hanoi. After months of battle, the consumption of mountains of supplies, and the loss of far too many lives, the French had finally been forced into an armistice with the Viet Minhs. In the armistice they agreed to turn over the city of Hanoi to the victorious Communist army.

MacWhite, Tex, and Monet were there to see it. The French departed as if they were leaving town for a magnificent and colorful parade assembly. Fifes whistled, drums ruffled, and air was cut by sharp and ancient commands. The uniforms of the Legion were neat and well-pressed, their high paratroop boots were beautifully shined. They marched in straight smart lines through the almost empty streets of Hanoi. The inhabitants of Hanoi looked at the magnificent parade with astonishment. So did Monet, MacWhite, and Tex. This was the parade of a victorious army.

Behind the parading troops were lines of huge, fast tanks; then columns of self-propelled guns, countless trucks filled with squads of men carrying the latest type of American rifles. Overhead an almost endless stream of French planes performed a fly-by.

"It's a beautiful sight to see," Tex said with admiration.

"It's beautiful, and it's utterly senseless," Monet said. "No one bothered to tell the tankers that their tanks couldn't operate in endless mud. And those recoilless rifles never found an enemy disposition big enough to warrant shooting at it with them."

When the parade ended, the French tricolor was hauled down from buildings and installations all over the city. The last truck swung around the corner. The square where the three of them stood was silent. No one was in the streets; and both shutters and doors were locked tight.

The Communist vanguard were well-dressed and smart looking troops in Russian trucks. They then saw the first regular Communist soldier arrive—an officer on a wobbling bicycle, wearing a padded suit, tennis shoes, and a tiny forage hat. He had a rifle slung over his shoulder. Trotting behind him came a platoon of men dressed in a mixture of uniforms. Some merely wore breech-cloths and what looked like captured French blouses. Many of them were barefooted. Perhaps half of them had rifles; but almost all of them had a string of crude hand-grenades tied around their waists. Each of them also carried a rice-bag over his shoulder.

"Look carefully, Tex, and tell me if you see what I see," Monet said in astonishment. "Three of those men are carrying guns made from pipes."

It was true. Three of the men were actually carrying nothing but homemade rifles. Tex had the feeling that he was looking at people who were fighting a war that should have taken place three hundred years before. These men traveled on foot and carried their total supplies on their backs. They looked harmless and innocent, indeed they almost looked comical. But these were the men whom he and Monet had been fighting for months, and whom they had defeated only once.

The officer on the bicycle held up his hand. The line of men paused, and then, as fast as the slithering of lizards, they disappeared into doorways and gutters. The street seemed empty except for the officer. Monet shouted to the officer in Vietnamese that they were a rear guard, and were leaving at once. The officer smiled and waved his hand. He shouted something, and at once his men appeared from nowhere and began to move cautiously down the street. Tex was aware that around all of Hanoi a huge, silent, and featureless army of men, each of them no more impressive than these, were oozing into the city which they had conquered. There was no point in staying longer. Far off in the distance they heard the sound of the retreating French Army.

"All right, let's go," Tex said harshly. "It's the end of another round, and we've lost again."

What Would You Do If You Were President?

U
Maung Swe probably is the best known journalist in Burma, if not in all Southeast Asia. His name is mentioned wherever the world press is a subject for discussion.

U Maung Swe is a college graduate who has spent considerable time in the United States. He speaks the American idiom. He is a Roman Catholic. During World War II he was a member of the O. S. S. and fought beside Americans in Northern Burma and Southern China. He is an anti-Communist.

In 1954, at a dinner party in Rangoon in honor of Ambassador MacWhite, someone said to U Maung Swe, "British prestige certainly is low in Southeast Asia. What about America?"

U Maung Swe said, "Poor America. It took the British a hundred years to lose their prestige in Asia. America has managed to lose hers in ten years. And there was no need for it. In fact, she could get it all back in two years, if she wanted to." In the discussion which followed, U Maung Swe answered these questions:

What in general has caused America's loss of prestige?

The Americans I knew in the United States were wonderfully friendly, unassuming, and interested in the world. No one who has ever visited America and come to know the country could fail to trust and respect her people.

For some reason, however, the Americans I meet in my country are not the same as the ones I knew in the United States. A mysterious change seems to come over Americans when they go to a foreign land. They isolate themselves socially. They live pretentiously. They're loud and ostentatious. Perhaps they're frightened and defensive; or maybe they're not properly trained and make mistakes out of ignorance.

I've been to Russia, too. On the whole, I have small regard for the Russians as a people. But individual Russians I meet in Burma make an excellent impression. One does not notice them on the street too often. They have been taught our local sensitivities, and usually manage to avoid abusing them. And they all speak and read our language and have no need for Burmese interpreters, translators, and servants; so no Burman sees their feet of clay.

Can you be a little more specific on some of the things which Americans do which annoy the Burmans?

Yes. Frankly, for quite a while before we finally refused any further aid from you, none of us enjoyed the way your economic people in Burma conducted their daily lives. Almost all of them arrived with the apparent impression that they had full ambassadorial rank—all chiefs and no indians, as you say.

Even clerks acted as if they were chiefs of mission. The wages of servants, the rentals of houses, rose to fantastic prices; and your privates lived better than our generals, so to speak. That hurt our pride.

All we saw was tinsel. A few years ago we heard a lot of talk about how the United States aid was going to help Burma. Hordes of United States press agents—all on the government payroll—swarmed to Rangoon to shout from the housetops about what a wonderful thing United States aid was for Burma. Maybe there was lots of aid: but the people never saw it; and a few of the things in which the press agents rubbed our noses didn't pan out well.

Can you remember any examples?

I remember a few years ago there was a lot of fanfare over a three-quarter of a million dollar dredge the United States was bringing to Burma. This mobile floating dredge, the press agents shouted, would be a great boon for Burma. It was going to dredge rivers so that transportation and trade could flourish in inland areas which had never been within reach of markets before.

This was something the country really needed, and we were delighted at the prospect. Middle-class farmers upstream hoped to have an outlet for their produce; boat builders were instructed to draw plans for deeper-draught boats which could carry greater loads.

Finally the day came when the dredge was to be delivered. The Prime Minister himself was persuaded by the Americans to come to see its arrival. The local press sent reporters and photographers. USIS came down with tape recorders so that the event could be broadcast on the radio.

Well, when the dredge was towed into the harbor it turned out to be a 25-year-old, reconditioned British dredge which had been rusting in Japan. It was a stationary dredge, which needed land connections. This was disappointment enough; but to cap it all off, the American experts who came with the dredge were unable to get it to work. They even flew some Japanese experts in, but they couldn't get it to run either. Everyone involved lost face. Experiences like this made many Burmans doubt the effectiveness of U. S. aid.

In 1953 Burma was in critical need of money and technical assistance. Yet you terminated all United States aid. Why did you do this?

In the first place we were offended by the superior airs and what even Americans called the "razzle-dazzle" of the Americans in Burma. Secondly, there were several incidents like that of the dredge; and although American money was flowing into Burma, we couldn't see that it was helping us very much. And, third, we became very angry over the KMT incident. It all added up to more than Burma was willing to swallow just to get dollars.

What was the KMT incident?

When the Chinese Reds defeated the Nationalists in 1947, about 10,000 of Chiang Kaishek's troops fled from China into Burma, and remained in the northwest part of our country. We were a new nation then, and had so many troubles that we were unable to do much about these alien troops in our territory. The Chinese Nationalist troops were living off the land; and troops who live off the land in a foreign country have to get money one way or another. These men started trading in opium, and sometimes turned to banditry. In 1952 Chiang Kaishek began supplying them by air. I can understand his point of view—he was trying to harass the Chinese Communists. Nonetheless, his troops had no right to be in our country. Then we learned that they were wearing United States uniforms and using United States equipment. I know that the United States was not supplying them; Chiang Kaishek was.

Burma wanted to bring the matter up before the United Nations, and America agreed—provided that the troops were not identified as Chinese Nationalists and that no mention was made of the American uniforms. And yet, everybody in Southeast Asia knew about it. Everybody knew about it except the American people. They were never told.

When we said that we didn't see why the countries involved shouldn't be named, it was hinted that if they were named, perhaps U. S. aid would be cut off.

That was all we had to hear. Even though we were desperate for economic and technical assistance, we told the Americans to take their aid and go away. It was a matter of pride— face, as we Asians call it. Face, incidentally, is an element of our life superbly well understood by the Russians.

Would you welcome United States economic and technical assistance now?

Yes. I suggest that technical aid be administered the way the Ford Foundation did it in Indonesia. The Ford people noticed that when they brought their own automobiles to Indonesia, they always had to go to a Dutch garage to have them overhauled. The Indonesians didn't know how to repair cars. When the Ford Foundation later brought a group of Indonesians to the United States, instead of telling the Indonesians what they should study or what kind of equipment they ought to spend their money on, they told the Indonesians to look around and pick out what they felt they needed. The first batch of Indonesians pointed to a garage and said that was what they wanted. A replica of the garage was set up in Indonesia, and American mechanics worked side by side with the Indonesians until the Indonesians were able to operate the equipment and overhaul automobiles by themselves. Then the American technicians went home. That is the kind of help we want.

If you were the President of the United States what would you do to improve the prestige of the United States in Southeast Asia?

Let me tell you a story. Some years ago two Americans—a married couple named Martin—came to Burma as short-term advisors. They were quiet people about whom nobody seemed to know much, and they quietly went up north to the Shan States, which are pretty wild. They brought no pamphlets, brochures, movies, or any of the other press-agent devices which are so offensive to most of us and on which most Americans rely. They had no automobile and no servants. They just moved into a small town and settled down in a modest house and began living there.

Since the Martins spoke Burmese—a most unusual accomplishment for Americans in Burma—Burmans began stopping in at their house and talking with them. These visitors to the Martins' house were amazed at two things. One was the tremendous size of the vegetables they were growing in their garden; and the second was the size of the garden itself. They wanted to know what two people were going to do with such an enormous amount of food. Surely they couldn't eat it all— and the rest would spoil.

Mrs. Martin took them into the kitchen and showed them a small home canning outfit. The Burmans had never seen anything like it, and didn't know what it was. They came around day after day to watch fruit and vegetables being canned. And then, as the months passed by, the Burmans saw that when the cans were opened the vegetables were still edible.