“For every enemy we kill,” Quoc answered, “they will kill ten of us. And in the end, it won’t matter.”
“Save, perhaps, to the ten.”
“The individual is nothing when compared to the whole,” Quoc answered.
Nicholai stared at him.
Seeing his true nature.
And, perhaps, a bit of his own.
“You’re wrong,” he said.
“You will come to see.”
“I hope not,” Nicholai said. “I hope never.”
If each individual became only part of the machine, at the end of the day there would be only the machine. The inexorable, impersonal, grinding machinery of the modern. He turned away from Quoc, took Solange by the arm, and walked her away, out of hearing.
“I was thinking,” he said, “about the first meal we’ll have when we get to wherever we’re going.”
“Oh yes?” she said. “And what were you thinking?”
“You made a dish back in Tokyo…”
“I made a number of dishes back in Tokyo,” Solange said, her wide mouth opening into a smile.
Nothing can dim the light in those green eyes, he thought. “The coq au vin, perhaps.”
“Simple French country cooking.”
“Simplicity sounds wonderful,” Nicholai said. “With what wine, then?”
She speculated on a number of choices, narrowing it down to a handful and then finding it impossible to choose. Then they discussed which vegetables they would have as side dishes, how they should be prepared, and then which dessert would be best, a
“Should we invite De Lhandes?” Nicholai asked.
“Yes, of course,” Solange answered, “but he must leave straight after coffee so we can make love.”
“Out he goes, then.”
She kissed him, long and lovingly.
163
THEY WERE ONLY fifty yards into the sword grass when the shooting started.
Turning to his left, Nicholai saw the line of Legionnaires come onto the dike, and to the far right of the troops he thought he saw a soldier with a vermilion beret directing their fire.
Signavi.
Nicholai lifted his rifle to his shoulder and returned fire, shooting to his left but moving ahead. The copse of trees was their only faint hope and they had to keep moving, for getting bogged down in the grass was certain death.
Quoc saw it and ordered a dozen men to form a screening line to their left to try to slow up the French advance and buy enough time to get the weapons into the trees. The porters were amazingly disciplined, not pausing to shoot, or drop to the ground, or even duck. They just kept shouldering their loads and moving ahead at a slow trot.
Signavi saw what they were doing, directed fire on them, and several of the porters dropped. The others strained to carry the weight, and a couple of Viet Minh lowered their rifles and took their places on the bamboo poles.
Two Legionnaires fell as the screening line came into action, and Nicholai saw Signavi direct a squad to his left, toward the copse, to cut off the Viet Minh. If the French got into the trees first, it was over.
He shouted to Solange, “Can you run?”
She nodded.
They took off, the saw grass slicing their faces and chests as they ran toward the copse, angling off to the left to block the French. Several Viet Minh joined them, and they ran through the grass as bullets zipped around their heads. One man dropped, and then another, and then it was as if they had disturbed an angry nest of hornets and the air buzzed around them.
But most of them made it to a tiny rise above a ripple of ground, and from there they could lay down fire on the flanking Legionnaires, forcing them to stop, drop to the ground, and engage in a firefight.
Behind him, the porters moved toward the trees.
Nicholai looked back to the dike and saw Signavi talk into a radio attached to the backpack of one of his soldiers.
No, Nicholai thought, please no.
He raised his rifle, sighted in, took a deep breath, and fired. The bullet hit Signavi in the high spine, and he clutched at his back and then fell.
But it was too late.
Only a minute later, Nicholai heard the plane engine, and then he saw it, but this time it didn’t drop low to strafe, but stayed high until it was directly above the rectangle of grass, and then it dropped its load.
Napalm.
The grass caught fire immediately, and a wall of flame rolled toward them.
Men ignited like torches and spun madly around, shrieking. Others seemed to simply melt.
Nicholai took Solange’s hand and ran.
The wave of flame rolled behind them like a fiery red tsunami from a nightmare. Nicholai felt it scorch his back and singe his hair as the intense heat seemed to suck the air from his lungs.
He pushed Solange into the trees.
Quoc was thirty yards ahead of them, waving them forward.
But leaves above him were inexplicably dropping. Leaves don’t fall in the springtime, Nicholai thought weirdly, then he saw that bullets were clipping them off the branches and at the far end of the copse he saw Vietnamese militia coming toward them.
We are dead stones, he thought.
The flames were fast coming up behind, the French rapidly working their way to the left, and the militia was in front and on the right. If we run to the front, right or left, Nicholai saw, we will only run straight into the guns. If we stay here, we will burn.
Surviving was not an option.
They had only a choice of death.
Quoc waved violently. “Here! Here!”
Nicholai looked more closely and saw a Viet Minh crouch at Quoc’s feet and then -
– disappear.
Into the earth.
Tunnels, he thought.
Sure enough, when he reached the middle of the copse, Nicholai saw small square openings. The Viet Minh were taking the rocket launchers out of the crates and handing them down the tunnel entrances.
“Come on,” Quoc said, pointing to the little square hole at his feet.
It was narrow.
Solange could squeeze through it,
“You first,” he said.
She balked. “I told you – I’m claustrophobic. I can’t.”
“You have to.”
He helped Solange get down into the square hole and watched as she wiggled her shoulder and made her way down. Then he looked forward to the far end of the copse. He could make out individual soldiers. They were advancing too quickly for the Viet Minh to get the rest of the weapons down the tunnel. Even if they did, they
