But we moved too fast for their liking and slowed down only to trap a posse that came too close for comfort. We annihilated one large Viet Minh detachment and decimated two others. Inestimable casualties were caused by the mines and booby traps which Sergeant Krebitz planted in their path. Once, when a Viet Minh company followed us for over a week, Riedl and Schulze lured it into a depression and blasted a sixty-foot cliff over the lot. Another posse marched headlong into Karl’s flamethrowers and was burned up before it had a chance to utter a death cry. But regardless of their losses the enemy kept pressing us. We, too, suffered casualties; two men here, five men there—something we could not afford.
Having established our presence in the Phu Loi mountain area for the benefit of our pursuers, we quit the district quietly and cut back to the Nam Ou river; so as not to reveal ourselves on the way, we refrained from bothering enemy-held localities, which we bypassed. Camping down near the bank we spotted a number of barges floating downstream, loaded with guerrilla supplies. Xuey suggested that we should allow them to proceed undisturbed. During a reconnaissance trip, Xuey had discovered a major Viet Minh depot in a village some eight miles from where we were. “We should not spoil the big catch by destroying a small convoy,” he said and I agreed with him. The barges were coming from China and were heading for that depot anyway.
Moving through the dark field the battalion deployed swiftly. By dawn the village was completely surrounded. We moved in shortly after sunrise and encountered no resistance. No one in the settlement professed to know anything about weapons, or the Viet Minh, though in the huts we discovered a quantity of Communist propaganda material. From a pole hung the flag of the Liberators.
“The guerrillas put it there two weeks ago, when they were passing through our village,” I was told. “The Viet Minh commander said that if we removed the flag, they would burn our village.”
No, there were no terrorists in the locality.
But we knew that a large number of terrorists were around. We had kept the place under observation since the day before and had seen many armed guerrillas who could not have departed during the night. Schulze and Riedl had covered every exit—the road, the footpaths, and even the river. Sergeant Krebitz and Xuey had counted at least fifty terrorists coming and going in the village, unaware of our presence in the nearby woods. Then they must have spotted us and scurried to safety. Now everything appeared quiet and peaceful.
Why did the enemy decide not to resist? Either because they found us too strong, or because something in or about the place was much too important to be revealed.
The Viet Minh had resorted to one of its favorite tricks of camouflage: guerrillas dispersed among the dwellings, posing as members of the various families, or, submerged among the peasants, engaged in some peaceful activity in the fields. Some could have also withdrawn into secret tunnels or cellars to “sweat it out” until we departed.
We rounded up the male population, save for men of advanced age, and separated them from the women and children. While Pfirstenhammer and Suoi questioned the women about the men, Xuey, Schulze, and I concentrated on the men. Among them we discovered a few individuals who could have been local or visiting terrorists but we never executed anyone on mere suspicion. I employed a simple but effective method for weeding out terrorists: I requested the women to name and describe their male relatives who lived under the same roof. The identity of husbands, sons, brothers, and other genuine relatives was quickly established. Answers and descriptions given by the men had to match those given by the women. When the mutual replies showed discrepancies, the “adopted relatives” could be flushed out in no time.
Occasionally the nonresident guerrillas prepared cover stories in advance. A woman, for instance, could name and accurately describe a “brother” or an “uncle” who, in fact, was a total stranger—and vice versa. Assumed identities, however, could never pass additional questions related to more intimate particulars. Naturally, when alleged brothers and sisters disagreed about the features of “their” deceased fathers—for example, whether or not he had a scar on the right cheek—the questioning ended then and there and the shooting started.
Small children would often reveal a terrorist who was trying to pose as a close relative. Our system functioned brilliantly against the nonresident guerrillas and could also be used to uncover the local Viet Minh. Children between three and five years of age were remarkably useful. Before we questioned a child we separated him or her from the parents and gained the child’s confidence with candy or small toys. Tribal children seldom receive either candy or toys. Sometimes it was enough to take a small boy or girl, show them a pistol or a machine gun, and ask them, between bites of chocolate, if they ever had seen anything similar. The innocent reply would come: “Uncle Han has many in his cellar.”
Once our conversation with a five-year-old boy said somewhat like this: “Whose little boy are you, Xui?”
“Mother’s and father’s.”
“And where is your father now?”
“He is away hunting. We need food.”
“Does he hunt often?”
“Oh, yes—”
“Then he has a gun, eh?”
“Yes, a big gun, and many little ones. The soldiers gave them to him.”
“What soldiers, Xui?”
“Father Ho’s soldiers.”
By questioning people individually, we managed to uncover a dozen or more nonresident guerrillas, who were taken into the woods and executed. The troops proceeded to search the huts. In one of the shacks we spotted a small, clever-looking boy about five years of age. He did not look frightened but walked up to Schulze and boldly asked him if he was a French soldier.
“No, we are German soldiers, not French,” Erich replied jokingly. His answer seemed to satisfy the boy, who then asked: “Do German soldiers shoot French soldiers?”
“Sometimes they do indeed,” Erich replied and we all laughed. After all, Erich was telling the truth.
“Then you are good soldiers,” the boy stated. “French soldiers shoot people, Father Ho says.”
His mother tried to hush him up. I ordered her to be taken out. She wouldn’t leave but threw herself on the floor screaming, imploring us to leave the boy alone.
“We are not going to hurt him,” Xuey told her, but to no avail. The woman continued to scream and outside the civilians began to join in.
“Take her out of here,” I ordered the troopers. “The others may think we are torturing or raping her.”
Sergeant Rrebitz needed four companions to drag the struggling woman outside. The boy began to cry and wanted to run after her. Schulze caught him and placed a small toy tank on the ground.
“We only wanted to give you a present,” Xuey explained smiling. “We did not want your mother to see it.”
The moment the tank began to move, with its turret shooting sparks, the boy stopped weeping; eyes wide in astonishment, he sprang after the toy and grabbed it.
“It is yours, you see,” Xuey said. He explained to the boy how to wind the spring mechanism. “What is your name?” he asked.
“Nuo,” came the reply, without the boy even looking at us. He lowered himself to the floor and followed the tank with fascinated dark eyes. I signaled to my companions and we sat down on the ground to run the tank between us and the boy, talking to hold his attention.
I placed my rifle on the mat and Nuo clapped his hands as the tank clambered over its stock. “Do you know what this is, Nuo?” I asked him.
“Yes, I know—a tank! The soldiers say the French have many tanks, real big ones. When we have tanks, we will shoot many many French soldiers.”
“What soldiers say that, Nuo?”
“Father Ho’s partisan soldiers.”
“Do Father Ho’s soldiers visit your village?” Xuey asked winding the tank.
“They always come to tell us how many Frenchmen they shot.”
He looked up sharply. “You said you were not French soldiers.”
“Do I look French to you?” Xuey smiled.
“Not you—but you.”
Nuo pointed toward us.
“We are Germans, Nuo. I’ve already told you that.”
