South China Sea

Vietnamese should work together with a view to better future relations between the two countries.

This met with general approval by the Vietnamese staff, who were eager to get their hands on some American equipment. It was especially welcomed by Vinh’s political officer, who was keen to keep improving Vietnam-American relations. After the details of the forthcoming operation, code-named “Tiger,” had been discussed from divisional, brigade, regimental, battalion, and company level, and things were wrapping up for the day, Major Cline complimented Freeman on his diplomacy.

“Diplomacy, hell!” Freeman said as he, Cline, and Boyd walked out toward the press pool tent. “I want Americans with them so I damn well know what’s going on. Their radio communications compared to ours are primitive, and I don’t want our boys in our arty batteries on those ridges left on their lonesome because Vinh’s boys are fighting a hit-and-run Maoist war.”

Captain Boyd looked worried about the upcoming press conference. Since Freeman’s demotion to field responsibility, General Jorgensen, recently arrived, was opening the press pool to as many as the tent would comfortably hold. And he was letting reporters fan out to battle zones for live reports. Hadn’t Jorgensen learned anything from Schwarzkopf’s tight field control of the press in the Iraqi War? Boyd complained to Cline that the press shouldn’t have been allowed as far north as Phu Lang Thuong. “Should have kept them in Hanoi,” he opined.

“Well, they’re here, Captain,” Freeman interjected, “and you and I are going to have to deal with ‘em.”

Boyd now looked twice as worried. “Sir, what if I’m asked about the tunnel rat business?”

“What about it?”

“Well, sir, I haven’t had much background in that area.”

“None of us did, son. All you had was a knife, handgun, and a flashlight. And down you went.”

Boyd nodded but seemed unconvinced. “Were they fearless?” he asked. “As General Vinh said?”

“Some. But very few. At first a lot of men ordered down refused to go. Those who did, often came up and told the squad leader there was nothing down there. So we had to create ‘tunnel rat’ units. Guys who volunteered.”

“You ever go down, General?” Boyd asked.

“Yes, I did. Not in ‘Nam but in another op.”

“Scary, sir?”

“Son,” Freeman said as he approached what he called the “bullshit” tent, “never been so friggin’ scared in all my life. Damn near shit myself, but I got the bastard-right in the belly!”

“What kind of booby traps were there?” Cline gave Boyd a back-off look, but the young press aide was too interested in hearing Freeman’s answer.

“Captain, do you want to have nightmares?”

“No, sir.”

“Then don’t ask me about booby traps and don’t go asking any of the troops. Most of them haven’t ever seen a tunnel, and I don’t want to spook their morale unnecessarily.”

In the press conference, the first such joint conference ever shared by a Vietnamese and U.S. general before so many reporters, Marte Price’s was the first question taken by Freeman. “General, there’ve been rumors going around about tunnel complexes occupied by the PLA in the border areas. Will our men be involved in fighting them?”

“We—”

“USVUN,” Boyd whispered.

“Ah, I don’t know where you could’ve gotten those reports from, Ms. Price, but it will be the task of the USVUN forces to engage the enemy until he withdraws his forces beyond the Vietnam-Chinese border. That’s all we’re here for.”

ABC had his hand up. “General Freeman, how do you feel being relegated to field command from overall command of USVUN forces?”

“Suits me fine. General Jorgensen is a fine soldier. This is like a football game. Coach can change anyone to any position he likes.”

Cline winced inwardly but outwardly looked unperturbed. The general, he knew, would be quoted by someone somewhere as comparing the war to a game.

A CBS reporter was identified. “General Vinh, this is a follow-up from a question asked earlier. Will U.S. forces be fighting in the tunnel complexes?” There was an audible murmur of surprise among the assembled press corps, the question being all but a direct accusation that Freeman was holding back. General Vinh’s interpreter took the question, waited for his boss’s brief reply, and announced, “We know nothing of a tunnel complex.”

“But what if there were tunnels?” Marte Price interjected.

“Then we’d fill them in,” Freeman said, smiling.

This got a laugh until Marte said, “You mean you’d just suffocate men without giving them a chance?”

“No,” Freeman said good-naturedly. “We wouldn’t do that.” He turned from the podium as another question about tunnels was addressed to Vinh. Still smiling, Freeman told Boyd quietly, “I want to see her in private, off-the- record.” His troops called it the George C. Scott look. Cold fury under a camouflage net.

Vinh spoke to the interpreter again, and the interpreter told Pierre LaSalle of French television that he knew nothing about tunnels.

Freeman announced the news conference was over. There was an uproar from the press.

Freeman was in a rage. “Boyd, you get Ms. Price here right now! This instant! You hear me?”

“Yes, sir!”

When Marte Price entered the general’s tent, he knew Boyd must have told her he was furious, and he made no attempt to hide it. “Against my better judgment,” he stormed, “I gave you clearance to accompany the EMREF, and the first thing you do is try to undermine my credibility — and General Vinh’s — let alone that of the entire USVUN force!”

“Off-the-record, General,” Boyd warned, in the bravest advice he had yet given the general.

“What — yes, off-the-record, Ms. Price. Can I tell you — can I trust you — with something off-the-record?”

“Yes, Gen—” She couldn’t finish, her throat and tongue dry as parchment.

“All right,” he thundered. “I know what you and those other—reporters—are after. You want to do to me what you did to our field commanders in ‘Nam. You want grisly descriptions of tunnel warfare so you can get on prime time and worry the hell out of every parent and family of our men over here. You want to serve up blood and guts for dinner and upset our boys’ folks so bad that they’ll be demanding we be sent home.”

Marte Price tried to speak, but he rolled over her like a monsoon.

“What you don’t realize, young lady, is that these boys are here because the most populous country in the world, and the only other world power militarily, is eating away at its neighbors like a goddamned jackal, and if they’re not stopped, they’ll be encouraged to war war instead of jaw jaw over every goddamn territorial claim they make. Hell, don’t you realize the Chinese have had wars with everybody anywhere near their fence — India, Pakistan, the Russians, Siberia, Laos, Vietnam. Now they’re laying claim to every goddamn island and reef— over five hundred of them — in the South China Sea. And what do you want to do? You want to do a goddamn liberal dance about our boys going down some goddamn tunnel because it makes good copy for your rag. Now piss off!”

* * *

An hour later General Freeman called on Marte Price. He couldn’t tell whether she’d been crying or whether she was being deliberately cold.

“I apologize for losing my temper. I apologize for telling you to — to ‘piss off.’ That was ungentlemanly of me and I regret it.”

“And the rest, General?”

“I don’t withdraw a word of it. It’s true. I wouldn’t trust you people as far as I could kick you.”

* * *

The road to Lat village, or rather the nine hamlets that constituted the population of just over seven thousand, was in bad repair following heavy rains, and Raymond Baker was glad that Ha Ha had got him the jeep for the seven-and-a-half-mile journey. He was stopped twice by police who demanded to see the required permits