were mounted on thirteen-foot-long steel pipes that we attached to the mudguards as soon as darkness fell. They traveled well ahead of the vehicle, and the first guerrilla salvo would invariably go wild because it was aimed behind the fake headlights where the terrorists thought the engine and the driving compartment should be. The decoys gave us time to switch off all lights and disperse; along the road before the snipers could correct their aim. • The vehicles kept thirty yards apart with an old GMC; truck leading the way, followed by two jeeps with; mounted MG’s, a light armored car, and two troop carriers. We fitted the front of the CMC with a pair of” heavy steel wheels, in line with the front tires but nine feet ahead. The wheels could be raised or lowered on their hinged mounts by the front pulley. They were ordinary--nary transmission wheels which used to drive the machinery of an old mill; heavy enough to detonate pres-; sure mines yet sufficiently solid not to break easily but; rather to lift upward should a charge explode under them. Curved steel plates an inch thick shielded the driving compartment and the tires from fragments. The windshield of the GMC was reinforced with wire mesh and the sides of the truck protected by additional plating. Defense against command-detonated mines was not easy but such mines were also less frequent. We devised a primitive contraption, a sort of narrow-bladed, sturdy hoe which the GMC dragged along the roadside to pick up: the wires of such command-detonated mines. A swivel socket with springs prevented the hoe from breaking when it caught a root or a stone.
Naturally we submitted a report on all our workable “inventions,” many of them old tricks that worked well in Russia and similarly in Indochina. None of them was, ever appreciated, let alone introduced. Our generals were still firmly convinced that the military academy at Saint Cyr had bestowed upon them all the knowledge one; should have about warfare and the descendants of Napoleon should not borrow ideas from the ranks, and especially not from the Germans.
Unfortunately, the last two generals known to have taken part in perilous patrol missions in enemy territory were Rommel and Patton—both now dead. The French generals conducted the war the way they would have conducted it in the forests of France or in the Sahara desert. The jungles of Indochina made no impression on them. They were refined, cultured, and dignified men who; knew by heart every significant work on warfare except: Mao’s doctrine of guerrilla wars. No French officer with-dignity would even touch Mao. For them the jungle meant only a sort of overgrown Bois de Boulogne, and guerrilla warfare was only guerrilla warfare.
The woman who waved down our jeep was standing on the roadside shading her eyes from the searchlight. She wore a shabby workman’s overall fastened with a thin belt around her waist and crude rubber sandals. A small paper bag lay beside her in the grass. When I stopped she walked up to the jeep and wiping the loose hair from her forehead she said hesitantly, “Excuse me, officer, are you going to Hanoi?” She spoke educated French but her voice sounded weary.
“Yes, we are.”
I nodded, eyeing her with mixed feelings.
“May I come with you? I am very tired.”
I looked at Riedl and he said in German, “She isn’t Veronica Lake but let her come. I will check her bag.”
“Do you carry any weapon?” I asked her, feeling a little awkward the moment I spoke.
“Me?” she exclaimed with wide open eyes. Then she shook her head and replied with a smile, “Oh, no, monsieur. I am not fighting the French Army.”
Her last words caught my attention for native Indochinese would have said “Legion,” not French Army. I helped her aboard.
“Thank you,” she said, “may I put my bag in the rear?” Riedl took her bag and glanced into it. “I hope you don’t mind, but we have certain regulations.”
The girl did not mind.
“Thank you very much,” she repeated. I gave the word to move on.
For some time there was silence between us. She was probably a middle-class refugee, I thought, remembering her cultured French. We were accustomed to natives trying to thumb a ride and had our orders not to pick up anyone. There were too many pitfalls; not only the wartime Japanese but the Viet Minh, too, had its kamikaze squads. We had just heard of a young terrorist who had been given a ride on an ammo truck—gross negligence on the part of the guard. The passenger had been a quiet little boy who told a sad story about his family having been tortured and executed by the Communists in Cambodia, and about his long way across the jungle^ He had said that he wanted to join the army and avenge the death of his family. The troops had been impressed; they had given him food, money, and friendly advice.
When they reached the middle of a vital bridge, the passenger had suddenly pulled a pair of grenades, and, before the terrified troopers could do anything, he had dropped them into a narrow gap between the ammunition crates. Shrieking “Death to the French colonialists,” he had dived into the river. An instant later the truck exploded, destroying the bridge and a company of infantry moving alongside on the narrow gangway.
“Have you come far?” I asked the girl finally, to break the silence.
She did not turn but answered tiredly, “Yes, I have come a long way.”
No, she was not a country girl, I concluded. She could have been anywhere between twenty-five and thirty, and she was slender, almost fragile, despite the odd-looking overalls she wore. She looked childishly underdeveloped and was not very talkative.
“Where are you going?” Riedl inquired after a while.
“To Hanoi,” she replied, “if you will take me that far.”
“Have you been in Hanoi before?”
“Once—a long time ago,” she said with a persistent melancholy in her voice.
My cigarette was burning away and I reached for the ashtray. “Please don’t put it out,” she exclaimed, reaching for it.
“I am sorry,” I said somewhat puzzled, offering her my cigarette case and lighter. “I should have asked you if you wanted a cigarette.”
She accepted a cigarette. When she lighted it, I caught a glimpse of her hands. They were very small and slender but rough with broken fingernails and some scars of old cuts and bruises. They seemed to be the hands of a manual worker yet she was in no shape to do heavy labor. There was something strange about her. Her cultured way of talking contrasted with her appearance.
She inhaled the smoke deeply, then leaned back, resting her head on the back of the seat. “My name is Hans and my friend is Helmut.”
I got over the formalities.
“My name is Lin,” she said. “You are not Frenchmen, are you?”
“No, Lin—we are Germans,” I conceded, surprised.
“I have noticed that from your accent.”
“Indeed?”
“Uhm…”
“But you are not a native here either!”
“I am Chinese,” she stated.
“Sure, Lin. And if you are Chinese then we are Papuans.”
Riedl turned on his flashlight and calmly began to examine the girl’s face. Lin certainly possessed some Chinese features, especially her dark almond eyes but her face lacked the strong cheekbones, the roundness so common among Chinese women. Despite the poor light I could see that her face was heart-shaped and her skin almost white.
“My father was British,” she admitted finally. “I was born in Hong Kong.”
“Hong Kong is not China but England,” I remarked. “But still I cannot see how you happen to be on the road between Lang Son and Hanoi.”
“Is it so important?” she asked.
“Quite important. For your information, you happened to be walking along a restricted area where the sentries shoot at anything that moves after sundown.”
“I must have been lucky,” said she.
“Rather!” She sighed. “My story is a long one.”
“We have a long way to go.”
She shifted her eyes toward me. “Are you the people the Chinese militia calls “Yang-Kou-Ce”—the White- Faced Devils?”
