Casca 11: The Legionnaire Page 12

  General Navarre stared with red rimmed watery eyes at the map of Indochina hanging on his wall as if the lines and colors on it held a solution to his troubles. There was too much ground and too few men to secure it all. If only the government had not passed such a stupid law! He couldn't imagine a more ridiculous situation than having to fight an unpopular war ten thousand miles from home and only being able to use regular army volunteers to do it with. Draftees could not be sent over. Ridiculous! He had to rely entirely too much on foreign volunteers and, of late, the quality of the manpower he was receiving as replacements was not as good as it had been. The training depots at Sidi Slimane and Sidi bel Abbes had turned into no more than soldier factories, churning out meat for the grinder.

  He needed desperately to maneuver Giap into an open confrontational battle, where the enemy's main force would at last be committed en masse. Once this was accomplished, the war could be conducted on civilized terms without the incessant sniping and ambushing. It simply was not gentlemanly to fight that way. Sighing with frustration at his many problems, he went back to the mounds of paperwork on his desk.

  It was amazing how much a night's sleep and a stomach full of food could do to restore a man. Langer neither felt, nor looked, like the ragged thing that had hitched a ride on the half-track just the day before. When he exchanged his ragged bloody uniform for a new one, he explained the bullet holes in his tunic with a simple, "I took the jacket off a dead Viet." More difficult was being able to avoid seeing the battalion doctor. This was finally accomplished by not showing up until it was too late. The convoy was ready to pull out and, as he showed no visible ills from his experience, the doctor let him off with a minor ass chewing and told him to check into the hospital when he reached Hanoi. The ride back to the camp outside Hanoi was conducted with more caution than usual. The Viets had been getting more courageous every day. Ambushes were to be expected at any time, no matter how large or well-armed the convoy.

  One truck was damaged two kilometers from Na Sam. A land mine blew off a tire. There were no injuries other than the two and a half ton truck, and it would be hauled in to be worked on later that day, providing it hadn't been completely stripped by the natives.

  Langer rode in the shotgun seat of a jeep. They passed the wrecked vehicle wondering what was going to happen next. There was tension in the air and something was going to break soon. Everyone knew it. They just didn't know where and when. But they'd find out. This trip was not too different from others he had taken. Only the names and faces were different. As they passed peasants on the roads, carrying their crops to market or working the fields, he wondered if hate lay behind their bland expressions or if they carried in their carts a dozen submachine guns to be used against them that night. They were particularly suspicious of anyone between the ages of fourteen and sixty, the gun bearing, years. Even here, the French were making the same mistakes the Germans had in Russia. He wondered why military histories were written if no one ever learned anything from them. In Russia, for instance, they would send a couple of snipers into a village to kill a few of the advancing Germans. The snipers would then disappear, abandoning the village to the tender mercies of the Germans who would arrest everyone of gun bearing age and take reprisals by killing some, if not all, of the villagers. Naturally, this did not sit well with the locals, who usually decided that if they were going to be killed or arrested for doing nothing, then perhaps they should do something, even if they did not like the Reds. It was better to be mistreated by their own people than by foreigners.

  Langer's reflections were jerked back to the present as the driver swerved to avoid a pothole in the road where a land mine had interrupted the progress of another vehicle. Only three kilometers from Hanoi! They were nearly home free! The winds were just beginning when they rolled past the gendarmes at the main entrance to the headquarters compound. The driver of the jeep Langer rode in stopped at the gate to ask directions.

  “Ou est le quartier general?' After getting his answer, he flipped the gendarmes a half assed salute and turned off on a side road, leaving the convoy to deliver his passenger to General Navarre. Gus and Dominic would just have to wait a while longer before they'd be able to see him.

  After identifying himself, Langer was hustled past a thin faced major from Intelligence, who made a small grimace of distaste at his unkempt appearance. Opening the door to Navarre's office, the major entered first then stepped aside to let Langer report.

  Stepping forward the regulation distance, his cap under his arm, he saluted the thin faced commander of France's forces in Asia.

  "Mon General, Caporal Langer de 2me Bataillon Etrangere des Parachutistes."

  Navarre returned the salute with a casual half wave of his hand, saying he was glad to see him. "Je suis heureux de vous voir." Then he got right to the heart of the matter.

  "Tell me where you have been and what you have seen and heard while in the mountains of Dien Bien Phu."

  Navarre did not have time to concern himself with the man's treatment at the hands of the enemy. He had more important things to consider. With the major's prompting, Langer went over every facet of his capture and detention a dozen times. Most important was the exact location of the tunnels. Navarre was a bit irritable at the vagueness of Langer’s answer. Frequently referring to his map, he and Langer tried to guess where Langer could have been held by estimating the time it had taken him to reach known points marked on the map. The size of the tunnel network and number of cases of artillery shells were particularly discomforting. Navarre did not believe the Viets had too much in the way of de gros canons. Maybe the crates were just empties, being used for storage. After all, the Legionnaire didn't report that he had seen any of the big guns during his escape, nor had he heard or seen anything that would lead one to think there might be large numbers of artillery in the mountains. What did disturb him was the rate of construction going on. The size of the installation made him look at its location. There was little strategic significance to Dien Bien Phu itself other than that it sat in the middle of a prosperous opium growing region ten miles from the Laotian border. Dien Bien Phu village sat in a heart shaped rice paddy filled basin ringed by low, heavily wooded, steep sided mountains. It was from there Langer had escaped. The Viet Minh in those mountains were no immediate threat to the French, who held the cities and coasts of North Vietnam. If the Viet Minh were planning a larger scale attack, they would have built their system closer to the French lines of communication and supply, nearer to the Chinese frontier, not on the border of Laos. And they already had major structures in the Viet Bac region of Tuyen Quang, Bak An, Ha Giang and Thai Nguyen from which they would logically have staged such an operation. Why then did they choose Laos?

  Langer was dismissed with the general's thanks. The major said nothing. He too was looking at the vulnerable frontier where the southern route led into the Plain des Jars. Laos had always been a weak spot, difficult for them to supply with hundreds of miles of jungles and mountains bordering China and Vietnam. He, like the general , had come to a conclusion. The Viet Minh were going to make a major push into Laos. The scar faced Legionnaire's report merely confirmed much of what he had already learned from his agents in the field. Giap had moved four of his elite divisions into the Dien Bien Phu area, including his most prized 351st Division, which as far as he knew, was the only division the Viet Minh had that was equipped with a number of 105mm guns donated to them by the Chinese. How many 105s they had he didn't know, but there couldn't have been too many or Giap would have used them before now. Even without heavy artillery support, four main force divisions were strong enough to present a very real threat to Laos. If they took that country they would be able to strike at the heart of the French and have new resources of manpower and supplies to draw on, which could mean victory for them. It had to be Laos.

  As Langer left the general's office he heard him say with quiet desperation in his voice, "Nous n'avons pas de temps a perdre."

  Langer bel
ieved the general was right. There was no time to lose!

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Gus was waiting for Langer when he left Navarre's office. Dominic had acquired a Citroen taxi just to please Gus, who was adamant that Langer be picked up in style. It would be at least a couple of hours before the driver missed it. He had treated the Vietnamese owner to a stay at a Tonkinese opium den.

  There was something about Langer that bothered Gus. He had seen it before in Russia. A kind of distant sadness that couldn't be put properly into words. Dominic said nothing; he was only there to make sure that Gus didn't get into any trouble this close to headquarters.

  Fighting his normal tendencies, Gus held his tongue. Instinct said this was not the time for questions. When Langer was ready he would speak. Until then there was no use in attempting to pry anything out of him. It was a silent journey back to their camp. Langer was deeply troubled by Navarre's last words. He had fought too many battles in too many wars not to be able to read the hidden signs that said a man was out of his element. Navarre did not belong. He had no understanding of the manner in which to conduct a counterinsurgency campaign. His mind was still locked up in the outmoded tactics of the Maginot Line, which had led to the French debacle in World War Two.

  The ride to the 2nd BEP's bivouac area near the airfield went unnoticed by Langer. He neither saw nor heard anything that went on as they wormed their way through streets packed with the mixed humanity of Southeast Asia.

  Even Gus's vendetta against Hermann was forgotten by the riders, but not by the owner of the puffy red eyes who stared bayonets in their backs as they rolled past.

  Hermann had managed to get the others in the game off his back by making a payoff through an intermediary. At least now he wouldn't be murdered in his sleep or wake up with a grenade taped to his balls. Hermann felt more than justified in his hatred for Gus. He had never liked Langer either. There was something about the man he couldn't reach. There was no way to scare him. Hermann didn't like men he couldn't frighten. Gus was a different matter. Like Langer the oversized German was not afraid of anything but it was in a different manner than his scar faced friend. Gus was no more than a basic animal. Langer had something about him that showed in the eyes every now and then, and it scared Hermann. There was death in the eyes of the former Panzer soldier and it wasn't his own. It was as if those eyes had seen more war and slaughter than a man could experience in a dozen lifetimes.

  Hermann left the corner where he had seen the three drive by. He had more important things to do. He could not tolerate being abused or insulted any further. Someone was going to have to pay, and pay now. He fingered the Solingen made switchblade in his pocket as he made one more turn down rue d'Eau, the street where he had lived with the slut who had given him the clap. No one would miss her. She was just a whore and her death would be blamed on the Viet Minh. It was not uncommon for those who slept with or collaborated with the French to have their throats slit and their bodies mutilated. It was standard operating procedure for terrorists.

  He waited until the rains came then entered his former residence. The girl was in bed asleep. It had been a hard night. Hermann stood silently next to the bed looking down at her, remembering the times he had been on top of her. She had been very, very good. He almost regretted what he was about to do. He cocked his ear to make certain the sound of the storm was loud enough. He didn't want to kill her while she was asleep. He wanted her to know it was him. The click of the blade opening brought a small stir to the sleeping girl. The sounds of the storm were normal, familiar. The tiny metallic sound of the stainless steel blade was alien.

  Hermann leaned over and kissed her on the mouth. Her eyes snapped open instantly focusing on the familiar face. She knew the touch of her former lover and slapped him across the face with her right hand; cracking open his lower lip. Hermann smiled. Grabbing her by her thick, waist length black hair, he pulled her head back, twisting her neck so she couldn't move without it breaking. She saw the knife. At first, she made small begging noises for him not to hurt her. But as the cutting began, they turned to guttural groans then shrieks of terror and pain as the razor edge of the knife slid over the firm muscled skin of her abdomen and breasts. It took nearly an hour for her to die. When Hermann left, he was thankful it was still storming. The rain would help to wash most of the blood off his uniform and hands.

  By the time he had reached the compound the blood was gone from his clothes and body. He only looked drenched and tired, but with a tiredness that had a satisfied expression to it. The sentry at the gate just thought that the caporal had found a good lay and had been out enjoying himself.

  Langer had to repeat his story to his new executive officer, Lieutenant Jean Paul Villon. Just in from Sidi Slimane after graduating from the Acadamy of St. Cyr, Villon was one of those neat sincere young men who believed in causes. He had intelligent brown eyes, soft dark hair and a firmness to the mouth that spoke of inner strength. He'd been in the country for six weeks and, from what Gus said, had the makings of a good officer if he lived long enough. With the rate of their losses in the last couple of years, it was even money on that kind of bet. If a man could survive his first ninety days then he had a chance to get out alive, but only if he learned his lessons.

  Villon listened carefully to the answers given him, making notes to give to his commanding officer at the evening briefing. Langer made no mention of his being ordered to report to the doctor for an examination, stating only that he had seen the doctor at Na Sam and was all right. Villon gave him permission to leave, ordering him, "Take three days off, but be present for reveille every morning in case we need to ask you anything further." His pass had already been prepared for him by the company clerk and was handed over as he left the office. Gus and Dominic were still waiting in the taxi.

  "Did you get your pass?" Gus asked, grinning. Langer showed it to him without answering. He sometimes wondered what Gus would have done if he'd been a general.

  They made a quick trip to their barracks, where Gus had his kit laid out, new boots shined to high polish and a fresh set of drill khakis on his bunk. Tonight, they would hold a reunion, an anniversary party. Langer didn't think he was ready for any kind of a party but the cheerful smiling face of Gus, his single gold tooth gleaming, was too much for him to resist. If he didn't go, Gus would pout for days.

  "What the hell do you mean by an anniversary?" he asked suspiciously.....

  Gus leaped to his feet, giving the old straight armed Nazi salute as he barked out in the Prussian military mariner: "Sir, I, Gustaf Beidemann, once a fighter against the forces of bolshevism in the great crusade of our once holy German Fuhrer Adolf What's his name, beg to report that on this date of September 17th in the year 1943, you, one time Stabsfeldwebel Carl Langer, did receive at the hands of his gracious lordship, Field Marshal Eric von Manstein, also known as the Fire Man, the Knights Cross of the Iron Cross for gallantry in the face and the rear of the enemies of civilization."

  They steered Langer back to the taxi. Each of them now properly outfitted with clean uniforms, white round topped kepis, and blue sashes wrapped around their waists. They were ready for action. Dominic drove, for which Langer was thankful, recalling the time Gus had driven through the side of a dacha in Russia during the battle of Kursk. He had stopped their tank, while a battle was raging, to prevent a bottle of vodka from being knocked off a table in the house. Gus always had his priorities straight. These memories brought a swelling of almost forgotten emotions to Langer.

  They were still with him when the party began. The day turned to night, with wine and vodka flowing in rivers. They drank and sang the old songs of a bygone age and the friends they had known. In the midst of alcohol fumes, Langer had to shake his head to be certain that Teacher wasn't there in front of him. Teacher, the gentle, tough, caring man who wanted nothing from anyone other than to be kind. He had been the one who'd finally brought Langer to the breaking point with the Nazis when he'd made his final statement at the r
ailyards near Sulwalki in east Prussia. Einsatz Truppen of the SS Totenkopf, the death head boys and their Ukrainian counterparts, were loading Jews into cattle cars, working feverishly for the "Final Solution." Teacher could take war, but this slaughter of innocents was too much for him. He had walked over to a group of the laughing SS men with no more emotion than when he had been teaching school and had cut them down with long hosing bursts from his Schmeisser submachine gun. Langer had started to go with him but Teacher made him stay behind, saying this was something he had to do alone. After killing the SS men, Teacher had knelt down, hands in front of him holding a grenade. He then pulled the pin. Eyes full of tears he looked to the skies and said, "God, forgive me that I didn't do this sooner."

  Two SS Sturmmen seeing him on his knees, his weapon on the ground, rushed for him just in time to join him in death as the grenade exploded.

  Langer shook his head to get rid of the picture. Gales of laughter from Gus, and more vodka, helped dull the images as did the warm lips of a delicate Tonkinese girl who felt a strange attraction for the sad scar faced man who seemed to carry such a burden. Gus ordered drinks for all, bellowing out his request over the raspy blare of a record player.

  Dominic was sitting in the corner of the booth presiding over an argument among three bar girls over who was to have him this night. The hand of a private from the 13th DBE reached over to touch the shoulder of one of Dominic's girls with the intent to take her back to his table. The hand stopped and was quickly withdrawn when a stiletto touched his throat. Dominic, who had once been a knife thrower in a circus sideshow, spoke gently to him. "Mon ami, for a man who faces death at the hands of the Viet Minh why do you come seeking it sooner at my table? Go away and let someone else kill you."