Minh, the Foreign Legion with its vanishing gloire, the rising Chinese monolith in the north that should never have been permitted to be born, let alone to live and grow—the whole insane situation, with us killing hundreds of little yellow men here, trying to rescue other hundreds of the same stock somewhere else…
Thinking of America and England now fighting their own little war in Korea, I could have laughed, had not the fate of the entire civilized world been hitched inexorably to their shaky wagon. The two great pillars of democracy and freedom had been chivalrously allied to Stalin, whom they could have sent reeling back to Russia’s prewar frontiers in 1945, when only the United States had the nuclear bomb and Russia was at the end of her endurance. A simple ultimatum would have sufficed to preserve Europe and maybe the world from Communism. There would be no People’s Democracies now, no Red China, no Korean war, and no Viet Minh.
I could not regard the Viet Minh as other than sub-humans, whom one should squash without the slightest remorse. To me they were nothing but one of the loathsome heads of a many-headed dragon who might belch fire at any part of the world if not stopped. To be sure, there were the rare occasions when mutual sanity prevailed in Indochina. Fighting near Muong Sai, two French officers and thirty men were captured by the guerrillas under the command of a young Communist troublemaker, Bao Ky. Bao retained a certain degree of common sense. Having disarmed the prisoners he stripped them to their underwear and sent them away saying that he had neither place nor food for prisoners.
When five months later we had the pleasure of capturing Bao with twelve guerrillas, we likewise only stripped them (bare, of course, for they wore no underpants), decorated their bottoms with a painted Red star and sent them away unharmed. It was against our standing orders to set prisoners, especially guerrilla leaders, free, but to be frank we never cared much for certain orders coming from above and did as we considered right in a given circumstance. By releasing Bao and his men, I hoped to spread a bit of goodwill in the jungle. And when, capturing a Viet Minh camp, we discovered two wounded Legionnaires in a hut, bandaged and properly fed, I ordered food and medical treatment for the captive guerrillas, who were then transported to a prison camp instead of being lined up and bayoneted, our customary treatment for captive terrorists. Unfortunately such events were as rare as a white raven.
There were four classes of guerrilla leaders in Indochina. Those who had received indoctrination and training in China were the worst ones, and for whom no brutality seemed cruel enough. The bloodiest atrocities, murder, and mutilation we’re not only tolerated but encouraged by them. They believed that military or ideological discipline should be maintained on pain of severe punishment: beating, mutilation, or death. Their method was as brutal as it was naive. The Chinese-educated commissar invariably tried to further the cause of Communism by denying the people the barest necessities of life, or by simply beating a “candidate” into submission. (I believed that our long- sought foe, Ming Chen-po, was a sadist; a mentally ill person who tortured in the most cruel fashion for the sheer pleasure of seeing blood and corpses. Ming was about fifty years old, a born marauder and a common bandit before he joined Mao’s rugged army on the Long March north. He had fought the Japanese, then Chiang Kai-shek and afterwards the “class enemy” within China. To save ammunition and time, he is said to have executed two thousand Nationalist prisoners by dumping them bound and gagged onto the Yunnan railway line and running a locomotive over the lot. He called his “system” the cheapest and fastest way of decapitation.) Guerrilla leaders coming from the Soviet school showed more common sense and were more sophisticated in their manners and methods. Few of them would resort to senseless terror to win popular support. While the Chinese type of revolutionary would move into a village and allow fifteen minutes for the population to choose between joining the party or receiving a bullet through the head, the Russian-educated commissar would talk to the people about their problems, give them brief lectures about the aims of the liberators, or even help the peasants with their work. They took great pains to depart, at least for the time being, as friends who would one day return. And even if the people did not become convinced followers of Lenin outright, they would not betray the guerrillas either.
Members of the third group had been educated either in French schools or in France proper. They seldom committed excesses and usually kept to a sort of military code of honor. But such leaders lived in a kind of Red limbo, for the hard-core Communists never trusted them enough to give them any significant role in the game. The French-educated rebel leaders seemed more interested in establishing a truly independent Indochina than a Communist slave state.
The fourth category consisted of leaders who rose from the local masses. They may have commanded a large band of terrorists but they never ventured far from their own villages. And there was also a fifth group of “freedom fighters” which consisted entirely of common marauders without any political aim. They fought only for spoils and were treated by the Legion accordingly.
After four hours of rest Altreiter, three men, and Phu departed on a reconnaissance mission to Man-hao, which I estimated lay about twelve miles towards the southwest. We spent the morning cleaning weapons, playing cards, or holding language courses. Riedl gave Suoi a small automatic pistol and taught her how to handle it. “Just in case,” he remarked—although I had no intention of taking the girl into any skirmish with the enemy. Both Riedl and Schulze were obviously very fond of Suoi and were trying their best to comfort her.
Suoi told us the whole tragic story of the previous day’s attack. Her father had been wealthy until the terrorists struck. He had owned five hundred acres of rice paddies, a giant estate by local standards and the reason why her family had become a primary target of the Red exterminators. They had wiped out all the other families of means. “They came to the village before but never killed people, only took a toll in grains and livestock which we gladly parted with for peace in return,” Suoi explained. “Whenever they visited us my father gave them money to ransom our safety. My father would never consider leaving. “Communism, like a bad disease, will pass,” he used to say. He believed that his money was buying medicine for that disease. But in the .past there were no Chinese among the guerrillas.”
“How many Chinese were with them yesterday?” I asked.
“There must have been over twenty militiamen among the Viet Minh.”
“Do your parents have relatives, Suoi?”
“My father’s brothers are dead. My mother’s brother lives in France. We received some letters from him but those were in the house. I don’t even know his address.”
“Don’t worry, Suoi,” Riedl said. “We will find him somehow.”
Schulze nodded. “We sure as hell will.”
“I have nothing left on earth, not even money to buy food or clothes,” the girl whispered as her eyes filled. “What money my father kept at home the Chinese took away. He has much money in a Hanoi bank but I don’t know which one or how to get it.”
“Of course she has money!” Erich exclaimed in German. “Her father must have kept funds in reserve. He was a wealthy man.”
Suoi could not tell us anything else. Whatever papers her father may have had relating to his finances and the family holdings must have been destroyed in the fire.
“A twisted, burned copper chest was all we found in the ruins,” Eisner explained. “Even the corpses were burnt beyond recognition. Nothing as inflammable as paper could have escaped the holocaust.”
“When we get back to Hanoi we will go from bank to bank until we find the right one,” Schulze stated determinedly.
“I doubt if the bank will give her any money before a legal process establishes her as the rightful heir,” Eisner commented. “Why, she cannot even prove who she is.”
“Like hell she can’t,” Riedl exclaimed. “We can testify!”
“That might not be enough, Helmut.”
“You leave the legalities to me,” Schulze said firmly. “Once I get to the right counter she will receive what belongs to her if I have to blast the manager for it.”
Knowing him, I had no doubt that Erich meant what he said. But blasting Viet Minh terrorists and blasting Hanoi bank managers were two different things.
“We will talk to the colonel about Suoi’s inheritance,” I suggested. “You remember Lin? Houssong won’t refuse to help Suoi either. He might vouch for her or get the high brass to interpose.”
“You take care of the colonel; I will take care of the bank,” said Erich. “No red tape is going to deprive the girl of what is still hers.”
“I will handle both the colonel and the bank manager, Erich,” I said somewhat sharply.
“As you wish, Hans.”
The reconnaissance party returned about four o’clock in the afternoon, soaking wet and muddy but bringing
