Casca 11: The Legionnaire Read online

  Gus hesitated a moment before calling back to them. "If he dies, then so will you. You have to get past me and I'm not moving."

  Stubborn swine, thought Thich before answering. "Let us come to an understanding. Let us go and I'll give you back your friend unharmed. There is nothing you can do for anyone else up here. They are all dead." Thich ordered one of his men to slap Langer into awareness, which he did with a great deal of pleasure. Bleeding from the mouth, Langer was pushed to the head of the staircase where Gus could see him. Langer was still groggy but he knew what was happening.

  Gus yelled to him. "What should I do? Are you all right?" Langer told him, "Do as they say but keep back where they can't get a shot at you."

  Gus cursed his luck and told Thich, "All right, you got a deal, but no tricks or I'll burn your ass, Comrade."

  He moved back into the communications room, where he'd be able to keep an eye on the Viets as they left and still have some cover if they tried any shit on him.

  Thich kept Langer in front of him, his pistol at the scar faced one's neck. Once outside in the dark, and away from the lights of the house, Gus yelled to them. "Let Langer go, you little bastards." There was no response.

  Once in the clear, Thich had no intention of leaving the scar faced caporal behind. He had realized where he had seen him before, and like most Orientals, had a strange belief in fate and predestination. There had to be a reason why he had run into this man again so soon and he intended to find out what it was.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The truck carrying Thich and Langer rattled out of town, taking a narrow side road that turned onto one of the levees interlocking the rice paddies. This way they could bypass any roadblocks or security checks. Within two hours they were, for all practical purposes, outside the range of French authority and in a countryside controlled by the Viet Minh. Along their route were hidden small detachments of Viet Minh, whose job was to stop or delay any pursuit. Each unit waited for twenty minutes after the truck passed them before they faded back into their homes. They didn't know who was in the truck, but they had clear orders that they were to die before they let anyone following the vehicle pass.

  Langer had been blindfolded before being put on the truck. Only his nose gave him any sense of where he might be. The pungent aroma of rice paddies didn't help much. There were paddies everywhere. Thich was in the front with the driver and his three men had the task of guarding their prize.

  Thich tried to close his eyes but was unable to. The swaying of the truck as it wove in out, attempting to avoid soft shoulders and the worst of the potholes, made it impossible to sleep. Thich wondered if he would have forgiven his sister and taken her out of the mansion alive if the big fool from the basement hadn't burst out shooting. It was a heavy loss, one which hurt him greatly. The only thing he might have achieved from the act of killing his own sister was to remind the people that no one was safe from the vengeance of the party. Yes, the example made of his sister's death at the hands of her brother could be exploited to their advantage. He felt that she would be pleased that her death would now have some meaning to it.

  The truck rolled onto a dirt road leaving the paddies behind. Langer heard the truck shifting gears as it started up a steep grade. The smell of the air changed; it was fresher and a touch cooler. Judging from how long they had been traveling, he thought it probable they were going up into the mountains bordering Laos, a known Viet Minh stronghold. If that were the case, it was going to be a bitch getting away. Be patient, he told himself. That was all he could do for now, be patient and wait until a chance presented itself.

  It took all that day, until near sundown, before the truck at last stopped its lurching and grinding. Several times there had been short stops where he heard voices questioning the driver. Once he heard Thich's own voice, curt and sharp, chastising a sentry for being lax in his duties. Thich was obviously a tough little son of a bitch.

  His guards showed little concern for his comfort. They hauled him out of the truck and he fell on his face, unable to catch himself with his hands cuffed behind his back. His mouth split open again. He made a mental note to get a good look at their faces in the event he was able to make a payback at a later date. His blindfold was not removed, nor were the cuffs. Instead, a rope was tied around his neck as if it were a leash being put on a recalcitrant dog. He was led away from the truck into the trees. Even with the blindfold he could sense a dimming of light. Soon it would be dark. He wondered if they were going to march all night or make a stop someplace and wait for dawn. He wished for the latter. Then they might release his hands in order for him to eat if they planned on feeding him.

  The rope tugged him along. Several times he fell, stumbling over roots or vines lying along the trail that was leading them ever deeper into the strongholds of the Viet Minh. When this happened he was kicked, cursed at, and jerked back to his feet by his handlers. He was beginning to really develop a sincere dislike for those on the other end of his leash. He tried to keep a count of his steps for no other reason than it was something to keep his mind busy. But it did no good; he fell too many times and lost his count with each fall.

  Thich called a halt to their day's travel after a march of four hours. They had reached a location where supplies were cached and a strong guard was kept on permanent duty. Langer was pushed to his knees and then shoved forward to fall several feet, again on his sore face. He was jerked roughly back to his knees as his blindfold was ripped off. The fall had been the Viets' way of getting him down the small entrance to one of their tunnel systems. Thich took the time to take another look at his prisoner. Odd, he thought. He could have sworn the man's lip had a deep cut in it. Now there was only the thin pale line of an old injury there. Curious, but he had no time for such idle speculations.

  As he was hauled down the subterranean passageways, Langer was amazed at how intricate the Viets' tunnel networks were. More than once on other operations he had come across them. Some were like this one, designed to house perhaps fifty or sixty men and store supplies. Others had hospitals, with facilities for several hundred wounded. Some even had factories where they made munitions and quarters where they could house a couple of battalions comfortably.

  Along the walls were sacks of rice, medicines, most of it French or Chinese, and some ammunition, nearly all of it being of Russian or Chinese manufacture. That meant the Viets were getting more standardized in their weaponry and relying less on captured or homemade stocks.

  Ducking his head as he passed under supporting beams, he tried to take in everything, not knowing what might be useful to him in the future. The tunnels were not quite high enough for him to walk erect and were lit by a series of kerosene lanterns. He was placed, still handcuffed, into a small cubbyhole with a door made of tin sheeting. This was padlocked from the outside. His captors were relieved of watching him by the guard force at the tunnel site. These were not part time guerrillas, but full time regular soldiers in matching khaki uniforms and carrying SKS rifles from the Soviet Union. They were no amateurs, but they were typical lean, thin faced, with stringy muscles concealing strength that most Europeans would not have believed them capable of. Langer knew that in the field the Viets would easily outmarch the Europeans for the first couple of days. On the third day the Europeans would be even with them, and on the fourth they would be ahead. This was because of their diet. If the Viets had been raised on a western diet he doubted if anyone could have kept up with them or endure more hardships. He had to admire them, even if they were the enemy.

  Three days passed without anyone coming for him or the cuffs being removed. Food was brought once a day as was water. He had to eat and drink as best he could without use of his hands. But Thich finally sent for him. Guards led him through a series of passageways to a larger room in the caves, obviously used as their headquarters. Field telephones were in evidence as well as three secretaries busily pounding out correspondence on machines that had been built shortly after World War One. Thich was just sett
ing down the telephone as Langer was pushed into his presence.

  Thich made a wry face at the odor emanating from the prisoner and saw the cuffs still holding Langer's hands behind his back. He barked a short order and the cuffs were removed. He indicated for Langer to take a seat on a straight backed cane chair.

  "Caporal Langer." His French was perfect as he paused in his introductions to light up a thick bodied Chinese cigarette. "I apologize for your being kept under such primitive conditions and for those cuffs being left on you for so long. I assure you it was merely an oversight and we will do our best to make your stay with us as interesting as possible, if not more comfortable. Much of that will be determined by how our relationship develops and the degree of your willingness to cooperate." He offered Langer one of the acrid smelling cigarettes, which was accepted and lit for him by one of the guards in attendance.

  Langer said nothing, just sucked the thick yellow smoke deep into his lungs, choking a bit in his effort to inhale the strong mixture. Thich smiled, nodding his head in agreement. "I know these are vile, but they are all we have right now, though I am expecting some of those very fine American cigarettes to be delivered to me soon. Then perhaps we will share one of them together under more amiable circumstances. Correct me if I am mistaken, but were you not in the party that attempted to ambush me earlier this month?"

  Langer avoided the masochistic temptation to take another deep draw from the cigarette and nodded that it was so. He had been in the ambush party.

  Thich bobbed his head, pleased that they had gotten off to such an auspicious start and his guest was not attempting useless lies so early in their conversation. "Good, good, Caporal Langer. I am really pleased that you seem to be an intelligent man. I believe that with a little understanding we may become great friends. Now tell me of yourself. I wish for you to tell me the story of your life from beginning to end and then, when you are taken from this place, you will be given more suitable quarters and paper and pen with which to write down your story."

  Langer knew this tactic of getting people to speak about themselves. While it might seem harmless on the surface, it was a very effective tool in discovering where the weak chinks were in a man's personal armor. The story told verbally and the one written would be torn apart with the teller having to constantly explain each minor difference. Then each difference to the story would have to be rewritten from beginning to end, once, twice or a dozen times, each change bringing more questions to be answered. Besides, he knew that there was no way he could tell his life story without being thought mad.

  Butting out his Chinese cigarette in an ashtray made from a 105 casing, he decided on his response to Thich's attempts to open him up. "I don't think that my story would help you very much, Comrade Thich. I am not a French national and my past is where it belongs, in the ashes of the Third Reich. So there is no past for me now other than my times in the Legion, and if you wish to know about that, l am sure that you have people who could gain access to the personal files of a lowly caporal with little difficulty. In addition, the technique of personal biographies you wish to use is very familiar to those who fought on the Eastern front. "

  Thich grunted; he didn't like people being ahead of him, especially prisoners. He tried another approach. Taking on a more sinister aspect, his eyes narrowed to thin slits, his words heavy with warning. "There are other, less pleasant ways for me to question you, my friend. I would not enjoy using them, as the sight of blood and the sound of pain are not at all pleasing."

  Langer laughed quietly, derisively as he slowly stood, ignoring the snouts of the guards' weapons as they locked in on his stocky form. Cautiously, he began to unbutton his tunic, saying to Thich: "I want to show you something, Comrade." He pulled open his tunic to expose his upper body to the light of the lamp. Scars on top of scars, wounds from shells, cuts, and fires covered nearly every millimeter of his muscled hide. Langer redid his buttons and sat back down. "Do you think you can do anything to me that has not already been done?"

  Thich said nothing. The sight of the man's body was like a blast of ice water in his face. But perhaps that was why their destinies had brought them together. He believed Langer's response. From what he had seen there was little that he could do in the way of physical pain that the man had not already experienced. But then, there were other ways. Drugs, for example, lack of sleep. Constant lights and sound could sometimes break a man where pain failed. Again Langer beat him to the punch as if his thoughts had been read.

  "Pentothal? Sensory deprivation or sensory overload? Perhaps, Comrade. But why would you go to all that trouble for a poor unimportant Legionnaire? That could take days if not weeks or months, and then I do not think you would believe the answers I gave you. Surely you have more important things to do than waste your time on a common caporal. "

  Thich would have chewed his mustache if he'd had one. This ugly big nosed thing was a most infuriating man. He had to regain control of the interview. Rising from behind his table, he stood in front of Langer. "It seems that you are not as intelligent as I first thought. Do you not understand your situation? Do you think that your friends will try and rescue you? I assure you there will be no rescue. You are completely in our power, to do with as we please." Thich had dealt with enough prisoners to know the feelings that were normal to them when they were cut off from outside help, when they at last realized that they no longer had any control over their existence and could be put to death or tortured when their captors pleased. Few of them were defiant, and those that were usually called upon the Geneva Accords as their basis for refuge. When it was explained that the Viet Minh did not accept the document nor were they signatories to it, those who had looked to it, usually fell apart or at least adopted a familiar mold. This man did not take on either one of those aspects. There were very few just simply tough men, tough of mind and body, who would give you nothing, even force you to kill them. But this one was not even like that; he was in a class all by himself. Thich walked around him as a mongoose would a cobra. There was still something he had to put his finger on. But right now the man was right. He did not have time to waste interrogating a junior non-com. But in a few days he would make the time.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Returning to his dirt cell, Langer passed several more storage areas. It looked as if the Viet Minh were expanding the tunnels. He saw several labor gangs with shovels and wheelbarrows heading down a passage. There were the sounds of men moving about at all hours; it was apparent that in the tunnels there was no night or day so work could go on around the clock if desired. Beams were used to shore up crumbling sides and tin sheets set against the walls. All were covered with slogans such as: Vi dan tru chien dau (We fight for the people), or Chet Vinh Hon Song Nhuc (Honorable death rather than a shameful life). Not a bad line, thought Langer. He had heard worse in his time.

  Thich did not return for three weeks. In that time no one spoke to him; he was left alone in the dark. The only light was that which came from the lanterns set on the walls of the tunnels and that bit of light crept through the cracks of the tin sheets which served as his cell door. Outside the door on a stool a guard sat around the clock with orders to shoot him if he made any trouble at all. Food was brought twice a day, usually no more than a bowl of pumpkin soup or a few handfuls of rice and half cooked greens of some kind. It wasn't much, but he wasn't being starved and it was probably not much less than the Viets ate themselves. It was enough to keep up most of his strength if he wasn't kept on the diet for too long. Apparently, Thich had left orders that no one was to harass or question him. Thich must have wanted that honor for himself, Langer reasoned. He definitely had the man's curiosity, and that was what he wanted, to keep Thich off balance until the Viet made a mistake. It was not yet time for him to make any kind of a move. For the time being he would just have to be patient. He still had no solid idea of where he was, but he had heard one of the guards mention the name of a river called the Ham Yun. He had passed over a small river by that n
ame once before on an operation. If his memory was right, the river was in a valley named after a small village called Dien Bien Phu, about two hundred and fifty kilometers from Hanoi, near the Laotian border. That would be about right, if one calculated the amount of time it had taken them to reach the caves.

  Thich left the staff meeting with General Giap feeling quite good about their progress of the last few months. Things were shaping up very nicely and they had made no serious blunders. The French were spread too thin and did not have enough in the way of air support or man power to do more than hold onto outposts, which left the countryside, especially after dark, to the Viet Minh. According to Giap, their forces now numbered over a hundred thousand regular soldiers, in six first rate divisions, with growing artillery support. Vital to their long range plans were the two hundred thousand regional and village militiamen. These could be called upon as the need arose to either conduct limited operations of their own or replace those who were killed in the regular forces. He could now call on more than twice the number of the total French expeditionary force.

  Their basic tactic of wearing the enemy down and making them bleed from a thousand wounds was having its effect. By being able to pick when and where he wished to fight, Giap had made the French chase his forces from one end of the land to the other, from the Plain of Junks in Cochin China, to the limestone mountains of north Tonkin. In the swamps and marshes of the Mekong Delta and the heavily wooded hills of Annam, the Viet Minh had stung, nipped, and occasionally bitten the heels of the French.