by admin » Fri Jan 12, 2018 4:27 am
6. HUMANE AND INHUMANE INTERLUDES
On patrol duty along the Hanoi-Lang Son railway line. Eighty miles there, eighty miles back. Under ordinary circumstances a return trip would not take longer than four hours. We were on the road for the sixth consecutive day, mercifully on the way back and still in one piece. Along the line and at every crossing small bunkers dotted the landscape. Strong platoons patrolled their respective sections. The dominant elevations along the line had been fortified, the forest line cut back to deprive the enemy of cover. At a few particularly vulnerable sections coils of barbed wire stretched for miles. The barren strip of land that bordered the line had been proclaimed off limits to civilians, and unauthorized persons were shot without warning. Large posters in French and in three local tongues warned the population not to trespass in the restricted areas. Legitimate crossings were permitted only at the army checkpoints near a bunker or fortified guardhouse.
The trouble was that a large percentage of the population could not read. Many fatal incidents occurred when old people or children tried to traverse the tracks and were gunned down from a hidden observation post. The guards were jittery. Pulling the trigger was their natural reaction to anything that moved within the restricted area, especially after dusk. All the same, the Viet Minh had managed to blast the line several times and at places miles apart. They had occasionally derailed a train as well.
The road along the tracks was also a principal guerrilla target. Hardly a week went by without a few army vehicles exploding somewhere between Bac Ninh and Lang Son. In order to frustrate the enemy snipers, who preferred to operate at night, our vehicles carried a pair of decoys apart from the standard headlights. The decoys 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?"
"Maybe, Lin." I shrugged. "We are not very popular with the Chinese militia."
"I know that," she stated firmly.
"How do you know that, Lin?"
"I am coming from China."
"Without a visa, I presume."
"I've been in a prison camp of the militia." She added tiredly, "For over a year."
"How come?" Riedl cut in.
"They did not ask me whether I wanted to go. I was a prisoner of war, I suppose."
"Did you fight them or something?"
"Me?" She turned sharply. "How old do you think I am?"
I cast a glance at her, pushed the horn twice to signal halt, then pulled up to the roadside and switched on the small map light. Behind us the armored car ground to a halt. Leaning from the turret, Karl yelled, "Anything wrong, Hans?"
"Everything's under control, Karl!" I shouted back. "Just a short break."
"This is a helluva place to have your break," he growled, sweeping an arm about the dark hills which loomed on either side of the road.
"We are overheating," Riedl advised him.
"No wonder with such a cutie riding along," Karl remarked in German. The men in the troop carrier laughed.
I turned the flexible lamp toward the girl. She kept looking at me without a tremor in her eyes. Only her brows arched slightly, as if questioning me on their own. Her lips, slightly apart, revealed small, pearl-like teeth. I surveyed Lin's face almost minutely but found myself as confused as ever regarding her age. I saw wrinkles in the corners of her eyes, which seemed alien there, parasitic. Her face was frail, her eyes dark and bright. The meager rations in the Chinese camp had had their effects. In some ways she appeared only a child, then older again a moment later. Her dark hair hung loosely about her shoulders in waveless strands; she looked uncared-for indeed. Yet I had the feeling that once she must have been very pretty. The bow of her mouth was perfect. She had a prim little mouth, the sort which could relax in a bewitching smile or a kissable quirk. Properly dressed and cared for, she should have been attractive.
My eyes relaxed on her lips and I saw them curving down in a wry smile. Then she sighed and turned away. "I know it is hard to believe but I will be eighteen in September," she announced quietly. My kindest estimate would have been that she was twenty-five.
I switched off the lamp and started the engine. For some time Lin sat staring into the darkness. "You don't believe me, do you?" she spoke finally.
"Why should you lie to me, Lin?"
"I have no reason to lie to anyone!"
She fascinated me. It might have been that quiet, persistent resignation in her voice, her sadness, her way of talking. I sensed some mystery beyond her enigmatic smile and wanted to know more about her.
It was past nine when we arrived at the outskirts of the city. I pulled up and asked Riedl to take over the jeep. "I am taking Lin to eat something," I told him in German. I helped the girl to the pavement. Riedl slipped behind the wheel and handed the girl her bag.
"What's in it, Lin?" I asked, reaching for the bag.
She handed it to me with a smile. "Just a few old clothes. No bombs."
"Nothing valuable?"
"Nothing at all."
I threw the bag into the open field. "Why did you do it?" she asked me. "I might need them."
"Let me take care of what you need, Lin," I said matter-of-factly and turned to Helmut. "I will be back by six."
"Take care, Hans!"
"I will, don't worry."
I took a cab to Ba Dinh square, then we walked until I found the shops I wanted. Half an hour later Lin had a lovely, light-blue "Ao Dai" and a pair of matching shoes.
"Are you satisfied?" I asked and she blushed.
"Satisfied? I don't really know what to say."
"What have you eaten today?"
"Not very much," she admitted reluctantly. "I wouldn't mind a sandwich or something."
I took her to a small restaurant. At the entrance she stopped and asked me with concern, "Won't I embarrass you?"
"Embarrass me? Why?"
"I am ... not very ... clean."
"They have a ladies' room and we have time."
Lin took her time but when she returned a good half an hour later, she looked much younger indeed and she was beautiful. "'Do I look a bit more acceptable?" she asked turning on her heels childishly.
"Acceptable, Lin? You look smashing!"
"Thank you, Lieutenant," she bowed, casting a deep level look at me. I reached for her hand and she accepted my hand gayly. "Let's go."
The bar was almost deserted. I led Lin to a secluded table in a quiet corner. "Please, Hans," she addressed me by my first name for the first time. "Some sandwiches will be fine—for me, of course."
"You should have a proper meal."
I ordered curried chicken with rice, salad, fruit salad, some wine, and coffee. Lin glanced around with face flushed and eyes gleaming. "It is so heartening to be among people."
The waiter came, placing a bottle of wine on the table. He filled our glasses. Lin unbuttoned the uppermost part of her tunic and showed me a small crucifix on a thin silver necklace, apparently very old. "An old missionary sister gave it to me in the brick works where we used to work," she explained. "She told me that this little cross brought her father back from the Boer War, her husband from Flanders Field, and their son from the Second World War. She gave it to me in the belief that it would show me to freedom."
"And it seems it did. . . . Where have you been in China, Lin?"
"Near Kweiping."
"I am glad you weren't somewhere in the Sinkiang."
She shook her head slowly. "I don't think I would ever have returned from there."
"Was it hard?"
"They were savages!" she burst forth. "You have been a soldier for many years, Hans, but I don't think that you have seen so many dead people in your life as I have seen in two years. The militia just kept moving from village to village, holding trials, sentencing people to death—sometimes two hundred people in half an hour___"
The waiter returned and I was glad for his timely appearance. I felt that our conversation had begun to slip toward painful remembrances and I did not want to upset the girl. When the waiter finally left, I saw Lin was staring at her plate. "Anything wrong, Lin?" She raised her face. Her eyes were filled and she was trying hard to fight back her tears. I placed my hand gently over hers. "What is the matter?"
"Nothing." She shook her head. "Only . . . you see, I haven't seen a table like this for such a long time and. . .." Her lips curled down and quivered.
"Then why don't you carry on?" I suggested softly.
Lin ate like one who hasn't really eaten for years. She seemed at a loss and couldn't decide what to take first. She touched everything, mixed up salt and sugar, slipped her fork, and almost upset the wine. Then she glanced up and her cheeks reddened. "I ... I have forgotten how to eat properly. . . ."
"Take your time, Lin."
A second wave of color flushed her face.
"I am embarrassing you."
"You do nothing of the sort."
When Lin finished her meal with a long, deep sigh of satisfaction there was not much left on the table. "Would you like a drink now?" I asked, reaching for the bottle.
"I might try."
"Cheer up a little, Lin. . . . Things will be better from now on."
As we drank the wine, I looked at her. In the strong light she seemed much younger than before. I knew that she was from a decent family, and I wanted to know more about her past. I had already made up my mind about her immediate future. I would take her to the only possible place I could think of, Colonel Houssong's house. I was certain he wouldn't object. Later on we might contact the British Consul. After all, Lin had been born in Hong Kong and her father was British. She did not tell me where her family was. I suspected that her parents were dead, but her father ought to have relatives somewhere.
I excused myself and went to the phone. Colonel Houssong listened to my story without interruption, then asked me to hold the line. I knew he was consulting with his wife. They had a sixteen-year-old daughter, Yvette, and a fifteen-year-old son, Jacques. Madame Houssong, I knew, was generous to charities, and she was spending much of her spare time and household savings on refugees.
The phone clicked, and I again heard the colonel's well-known, throaty voice. "Well, bring her over, Wagemueller," he said. He could not refrain from adding teasingly: "Your humanitarian aspirations are truly overwhelming. You should have joined the Salvation Army instead of the Waffen SS."
"Oui, mon colonel. ... It might have been a better idea."
I returned to the table and sat down. "Lin, you are coming with me."
"With you?" she exclaimed. "Where to?"
"To some place where you can sleep."
She blushed. I gave her a mysterious look and her eyes widened.
"I ... I cannot do that," she muttered, barely audible. "I... please. .. ."
"I hope you are not afraid of me, Lin?"
"Still. . . ." She lighted a cigarette nervously, then averting her eyes she asked, "Are you ... living alone?"
I laughed. "I am not taking you to my place or to a cheap hotel, if that's what you are thinking, Lin." Instantly she seemed relieved. "I am taking you to a very nice family where you will find a girl of your age and a temporary home. Then we shall see what we can do about your getting a British passport."
"I am so sorry. . . ."
"1 understand you, Lin. Don't worry."
The colonel's family was waiting for us. They all eyed Lin with sympathy as she sat on the edge of a chair twisting her hands. She looked like a frightened little bird. "Please, excuse me." She was finding it hard to form her words. "I really ... I did not want to disturb you. . . . If only I could stay for the rest of the night...."
"Of course you will stay!" Madame Houssong reassured her cheerfully. "We have enough rooms."
Yvette stepped forward. "I am Yvette," she said reaching for Lin's hand. "Do you really come from China?"
"Yes, Yvette."
"It must have been awful. . . ."
"It was hell" Lin exclaimed. The surprise in Yvette's face dissolved in a warm smile. She embraced Lin lightly and I saw her parents exchanging glances. "Now you will be all right, cherie," she said softly. "You will stay with us."
Lin made a swift half-turn, raising her hand to her eyes. Her shoulders quivered under the sudden strain of emotions which she tried to control.
"Let her relax!" Madame Houssong ushered Yvette aside.
The colonel interposed. "Why don't we go into the salon?"
Lin turned. "Please, I feel ... so filthy. . . ." she muttered. Her voice trailed off and her cheeks flushed.
"Do you want a bath?" Yvette asked.
"I would like it very much," Lin replied, her face now ablaze. She felt embarrassed, but Madame Houssong came to her rescue. She called the maid and ordered her to prepare a bath for Lin. The maid took the girl to the bathroom and we sat down. The colonel prepared drinks and questioned me briefly about our trip. Then Yvette turned to me.
"How old is Lin?"
"She will be eighteen in September."
Yvette turned on her heels and disappeared into the other room. When she returned her face was flushed with excitement and she was carrying a pile of clothes which she cheerfully dumped onto the couch. "I think we can give these to Lin," she explained. "I really don't need them and we are about the same size." Her generous offer warmed my heart and I noticed a smile of approval on her mother's face. "Tomorrow I will buy her a pair of nice shoes."
"Have you any money?" the colonel asked nonchalantly.
"I have my savings."
"I thought you wanted to buy a stereo set."
"Well," Yvette sighed, lifting and dropping her shoulders, "poor Lin needs more important things now."
When Lin reappeared, we all looked at her astonished. Her cheeks were pink, the weariness in her eyes was gone, and with her hair washed, dried, and tightened with a blue ribbon, her face was transformed. All the hardness had vanished from her features and she looked younger than Yvette. Her legs were beautifully shaped and the light summer dress that Yvette had given her made her look even more slender. I could have encircled her waist between my hands.
After coffee, Lin began talking about her life—and soon our cheerfulness was gone.. The air in the room seemed to grow heavier and heavier.
"We used to live near Hankow beside a wonderful lake," Lin began. "My father built a cottage there. He was an architect. They were building a hospital at Hankow. My father's name was Carver, John Carver. My mother was from China. She was the best mother, good and beautiful like an angel. I was their only child and they loved me more than anything on earth. My mother used to call me 'my little blue sky.' They bought me the best of everything and every summer we went to the sea near Shanghai. When the Communists approached Hankow my father refused to evacuate. He did not want to give up everything he had been working for. He wanted to finish the hospital and said that not even the Communists would prevent him from building a hospital for their own people.
"When the siege came he took me to a friend of his, a missionary doctor who lived in a small Christian colony with his wife, also a doctor. My parents thought I'd be safer at the missionary station. There were only teachers, priests, nurses, and doctors caring for old people and children. They did not think of themselves, only of me. My father decided to stay in the partly finished hospital. There were already hundreds of crates of expensive surgical equipment stored in the cellars, gifts from the American and British people. He was afraid that the ignorant soldiers might loot the containers or destroy the machines. My father was sure that once he spoke to the Communist commander, he would be permitted to continue with his work. How wrong my poor father was... ."
She sighed deeply and her eyes clouded. "The fathers and sisters at the missionary station worked night and day. More and more people were brought in, most of them wounded. Many of them had to sleep in the open and the doctors operated on a table in the yard. I have seen so much suffering—and as the front came nearer and nearer. . . ." She broke off again, lifting her hand to her eyes nervously. Madame Houssong urged her not to continue if she felt tired. But Lin only shook her head. "Oh, no, if I won't make you tired. . . ."
Colonel Houssong then shook his head.
"One morning a couple of wounded soldiers came and told us that the Communist army had already occupied the hospital compound for three hours but had been driven out again. Of my parents they knew nothing. When they told me that, I just picked up my little doll and ran out of the station. I ran like a maniac all the way. I did not hear the explosions or the bullets, I did not see the burning houses. I just ran, jumping over debris, broken furniture, and deep craters—many of them full with corpses."
Lin flushed and her breasts heaved; her breath came in little gasps but she went on bravely. "I found our housekeeper standing at the gate of the hospital. I noticed immediately that he was wearing my father's leather jacket, but I did not pay much attention to it. I was glad to see him alive and grasped his hand. 'Huang, I am so glad to see you. Where are my parents? How are they? Please. . . .' He pulled away from me and acted so strangely cool, so hostile. But my thoughts were with my parents. 'Please,' I cried, 'where are they?' He pointed toward the main building. 'You will find them in there,' he said and smiled. But his smile frightened me. I could not imagine what was wrong with him. I rushed toward the main building and as I entered I saw ... I saw my father ... in a pool of blood. . . . When I fell on him, he was icy cold . . . then my mother . . . she lay in a nearby room with bullet holes in her breasts . .. and, and...."
She could not continue. Her words faded into a stream of tears. Her frail body shook as she buried her face in her hands. Madame Houssong rushed to her and caught her in her arms, herself crying. Yvette was weeping too and the colonel covered his face, shaking his head slowly. "Don't talk, cherie," I heard Madame Houssong speak to Lin gently. "We have heard enough for tonight."
Lin, with her eyes closed, her tears rolling freely, grabbed Madame Houssong's hand and pressed her face against it. "I must ... I must tell. You are so good to me ... I could never tell anyone how much I was hurt."
Lin had to tell us the rest of her story. We could not stop her. She talked as if she wanted to cast away those tragic memories forever. "When I left the hospital, I saw Huang talking to some strange soldiers. They were the Communists. I still cannot imagine why he had turned so hostile. We were always good to him. When his son was ill, my father drove them all the way to Shanghai, to the hospital. We gave them food, clothes, toys for his children. But then I saw he was wearing a big red star—like the ones the Communists wore. I tried to run away but the soldiers caught me and . . . dragged me ... into . . ." She began to weep again. "I ... I cannot tell you what they did to me . . . until I was pushed into a wagon with many other people. . . . They took us to a camp, and we had to work in a brick factory three miles away. We walked there and back, every day. By the end of the year over a hundred of us had died. Our huts were cold and wet and the food was something we could chew and swallow but it was not food. They always told us that if we worked well we would be taken into better barracks in another camp with good food. We worked like animals to gain admittance to that other camp but they never moved us. We were taken out to bury people whom they had shot. There were thousands of people executed every week. . . . Then one night a big storm came and the wind wrecked the watch towers and a part of the fence. I fled." She glanced at me. "I walked for two weeks eating only what I could find, then I crossed the border and walked .. . until the cars came."
Daybreak was showing through the slightly opened shutters when at last Lin fell silent.
"You had better get some sleep now," Madame Houssong said. "Come, cherie— and try to put those things forever out of your mind."
Lin rose and looked at me deeply. "Thank you," she said. "Thank you...."
Lin's story had a truly happy ending. Colonel Houssong wrote a long report on her to the British Consul, who in turn forwarded the data to a competent authority in Hong Kong. Three weeks later Lin received her British passport and a letter stating that a search to find her father's relatives in England was under way.
During the next two months we saw each other often; I took her out to a dinner or to dance and became rather attached to her. I think she too felt the same way. "What's bothering you, Hans?" she asked one evening after a long and passionate kiss. "Something's wrong?"
I only embraced her again and held her close. There was plenty wrong, I thought. She was only eighteen. I was thirty-six and still a "death candidate." When Lin was born, I was already entering the army. We were far apart both in time and in space. It was painful but also a relief when her uncle came flying down a week before her birthday. He was a jovial, middleaged English businessman who was completely overjoyed at having found his niece after three years of gloom. He had been informed of John Carver's death in Communist China and Lin was listed as "missing," probably dead too.
"If you ever need anything, or if you ever come to England, please do not fail to call me," he said before their plane departed for Singapore and from there to London. He handed me a small envelope and we shook hands. I embraced Lin and she kissed me openly. Her eyes were filled as she whispered, "Please write me soon. ... Write always."
"C'est la vie," Colonel Houssong said quietly as the plane started to take off. "Had it not turned out so well, we would have adopted Lin .. . but it is better this way."
In the envelope I found a very nice letter of appreciation and a check for five hundred pounds. A small card with Lin's letter read: "I love you ... I love you ... I love you."
The cruel war went on.
Near Hoa Binh we discovered the mutilated corpses of two German Legionnaires. Both men had been disemboweled and castrated, with their private parts cut away and placed in their hands. A macabre Viet Minh joke.
Two days later we captured the four terrorists responsible for the murder and mutilation. They were stripped, and a thin cord was fastened around their private parts with the other end tied to the jeep. The vehicle was driven at a speed that the prisoners could pace by easy running and so avoid having their testicles torn from their bodies. In such fashion we brought them to the dead Legionnaires, about two miles down the road. Then the driver shifted gears and accelerated. The jeep sprang forward and the prisoners tumbled. Screaming in agony they rolled in the dust. We bayoneted them as they lay bleeding. The score was settled.
Bomb for bomb! Bullet for bullet! Murder for murder!
We were never particularly soft toward captured terrorists but for murder and mutilation we retaliated with the most brutal third degree that man or devil could conceive. Among them were methods learned from Karl Stahnke. The one-time Gestapo agent and our former companion had entertained us with stories of their use during our long sea voyage from Oran to Indochina. Stahnke used to call his methods "educational exercises." All of them sounded incredibly uncivilized and inhumane but every one of them worked. After what Stahnke had told us, we understood why our former State Secret Police could invariably obtain all the information it wanted to gather. But has there ever been an unsuccessful secret police in history? No one had ever refused to sign the "statement" for the French Deuxieme Bureau. In the dictionary of the secret police such words as "failure," "blunder," or "innocent" are seldom present. All secret police prefer results and they do not willingly admit failures. How the Soviet GPU or NKVD handle their prisoners is well known. The brutality of the Gestapo had been featured in countless publications. But I have also spoken to a former German POW who had to submit to the entire range of CIC third degree, and the Americans proved themselves not much gentler than their so much publicized Nazi or Red counterparts had been.
The POW was not beaten and he was burned only occasionally with cigarette butts. But he was kept chained to a hot radiator, naked of course, for ninety-six hours in such manner that he could neither sit nor bend. On the second day his ankles began to swell. At the end of the ordeal they were swollen to the size of grapefruits and he could not flex a muscle. During that ninety-six hours, he was given very spicy food and only one small cup of water per day. Installed twenty inches from his ears a pair of loudspeakers kept blaring distorted music without a break. Occasionally the music stopped and he could hear the desperate screams and pleas of a German woman, coming from a nearby cell; she was obviously being tortured and abused in the most brutal fashion. Every now and then a CIC agent would enter the POW's cell to inform him about the mental or physical state of his wife confined next door. The agent also made a few acid remarks related to the woman's private parts or sexual behavior. The prisoner could often overhear the tormentors calling the woman "Sigrid," which was indeed the name of his wife. Only months later did he learn that his wife had been at home all the time and no one had ever questioned her about anything. There had been no woman at all in the next cell and the brutal torture scenes had been only cleverly recorded sequences. The cruel ruse had caused the prisoner weeks of mental anguish and in order to save his wife from further "torments," he confessed to everything the American Counter-intelligence wanted him to confess to.
Who knows how many "war criminals" went to the gallows because their "confessions" had been obtained in a similar fashion. Sometimes a man is ready to die if his death will save the lives of his loved ones.
The Americans proved that results can be obtained without beating a prisoner into an insensible pulp of swollen flesh. Instead of squeezing a prisoner's balls, they would squeeze his soul. Some American parents should see what their clean-cut sons are doing in some CIC interrogation chambers. But whatever they do, it is done behind yard-thick concrete walls and steel doors. No books were ever printed about the American Counter-intelligence except maybe a few glamorous adventure stories in the tradition of James Bond.
To dictate his statement, the naked POW was taken upstairs and made to stand at the wall while the two CIC investigators and an extremely pretty American secretary took down his confession, smoked cigarettes, and drank coffee. A few months later the man managed to escape and beat his pursuers to the Foreign Legion. He was serving in my battalion.
The only people I cannot picture committing similar brutalities were the British. But the MI-2 or the MI-5 had all the time on earth to investigate and conclude an affair. (Besides, their clients could always count on at least half an hour of relaxation daily, during the fifteen minute tea breaks, which no Britisher would ever forego unless the room were on fire.) There were scores of Germans among us who had been imprisoned by the British military in Germany. A few of them did receive a couple of kicks in the ass just to remind them that they were "bloody-goddamn Nazi bastards" but no one had been mistreated. Brutality and British temperament just do not seem to go together.
In a captured Viet Minh village we unmasked a long-sought terrorist, "Hai Si," a corporal. His name was Trang Ghi Muong and he was responsible for the massacre of eight French prisoners and a German comrade. We were always mad enough when we came across the bodies of French comrades, but the discovery of a German corpse, minus nose, ears, tongue, and testicles always sent us "off our rockers." The moment Muong was identified I knew that there were more terrorists whom we did not personally know, but who were, nevertheless, responsible for similar atrocities by the Viet Minh in the area.
The presence of a guerrilla battalion less than ten miles from the village prevented us from embarking on a complicated investigation, so we had to resort to some of Karl Stahnke's methods. We wanted to wipe out as many terrorists as possible before leaving the locality. Certain that the captive terrorists could tell us all the names we wanted, I decided to give Muong the well-deserved Third Degree.
He was stripped. A naked man always feels inferior and more defenseless in the presence of persons fully clothed. Especially Orientals, who are, by nature, shy about exposure. Whenever someone had to be "worked over," he was first stripped.
"Well, Muong, this is the end of the road for you," Sergeant Schenk remarked, pushing the prisoner through the cloth-covered entrance of a vacant hut. "In you go . . . and whether you will come out again depends on you." The prisoner staggered inside and stood blinking in the semidarkness, his hands covering his loins protectively and his eyes flitting back and forth among Karl, Eisner, and Krebitz.
"Can't you at least say 'chieu ho'? when you come visiting?" Sergeant Krebitz bellowed, greeting the terrorist with a stinging, openhanded blow which sent the man reeling against Pfirstenhammer who was still busy rolling up his shirt-sleeves. The two crashed into the mud wall, with the naked Viet Minh embracing Karl.
"Watch out, Karl! He is about to rape you," Eisner chuckled.
Pushing the prisoner away, Karl drew his right knee up, feinting a kick. As the man doubled up instinctively, Karl's fist lashed out. With a cry of anguish, Muong went flying back toward Krebitz, who in turn dispatched him to Eisner. Bracing his back against the wall, Eisner received the prisoner with his boot lifted high. A powerful kick returned the terrorist to Karl's feet. For some time the ball game continued without causing the delinquent any serious injury; only the corner of his mouth split and his nose began to bleed profusely. Sergeant Schenk, too, had joined the game and though the terrorist did not understand a word of what was being yelled at him in German, the men entertained themselves with filthy oaths and wisecracks just to keep up spirit: Finally the prisoner tumbled and fell on the hard ground and remained folded up with his hands protecting his loins and his head between his knees. Schenk grabbed Muong by the hair and pulled him to his feet.
Whack!
Crashing into the straw-and-mud wall with an impact that almost brought the roof down, Muong dropped again and sat moaning. Krebitz kicked a low stool to the center of the room. "Stand up!" he commanded, pushing the sobbing wretch toward the stool. "You may be sitting a lot after we break your legs. ... On the stool!"
Trembling and already half paralyzed with fear, the man climbed onto the stool. "Which one of you is a Dang Vien?" Eisner shouted. "Who is the Agitprop secretary?" Karl cut in, stepping closer and swinging his belt. "Who is your commissar, Muong? . . . Who is the resident cadre of the Lao Dong?"
Wielding four-foot-long bamboo clubs Krebitz and Schenk began to hammer away at the terrorist. Eisner drew his bayonet and held its point gently against Muong's belly. "Steady, steady. . . . Watch out which way you jump."
"Mercy . .. mercy. .. ."
"Sure, Muong . . . You've given plenty of mercy to the Legionnaires, haven't you?"
More beating followed, then more questions.
"Who is your commissar?"
"Who are the Dang Vien?"
"Who participated in the July massacre at Bo Hac?" "Where is the Lao Dong agitator? . . . Who is the resident cadre?"
Eisner grabbed him by his hair. "Are you going to sing, or do you prefer some more beating?"
"Sing!" Sergeant Schenk yelled. "Sing 'Father Ho is a filthy swine.'"
His cane came crashing down on Muong's buttock, leaving an inch-wide red strip of burning flesh. "Sing!"
Sergeant Krebitz jerked the terrorist around. "You had better start talking, my friend, or your ass will soon look as red as a First of May parade in Moscow."
"Father Ho is a filthy swine," Schenk repeated.
"Pull his beard and he will cry." Pfirstenhammer improvised a rhyme. The quartet broke into laughter. Muong tumbled from the stool but was dragged back onto it instantly.
"Steady!" Eisner pushed his bayonet between Muong's thighs. "If you keep jumping, you will lose your balls, Liebchen."
The guerrilla cried out in pain. "Don't howl, only sing," Karl urged him. "Sing!" He smashed the guerrilla in the nose. Muong fell from the stool with blood splattered all over his face and chest. He screamed. As he slipped from the stool the bayonet slashed him between the thighs.
"I told you to keep steady," Eisner snapped. "What will you do if you lose your pecker?"
"Yes . . . Father Ho is going to be mad at you, Muong." Schenk chuckled. "He needs lots of little Viet Minh. In the future, that is if you have a future, Muong, no girl will look at you. So you had better wise up."
"I have nothing to tell you," the guerrilla sobbed." "Nothing."
The joking stopped and the real work began. Calling in a couple of troopers, the terrorist was bound and beaten again while questions were shouted from every direction. "Where are your weapons? . . . Where is the rice for the section? ... Where are the tunnels?"
"Aren't you going to talk?"
"Haven't you had enough?"
After fifteen minutes of intensive beating the man fainted. A bucket of water was thrown over him; the quartet waited a while, then resumed the treatment. The resistance of the terrorist was truly astonishing. Ever since the "going over" started, except for screams and moans, he had uttered not a syllable.
"Merde!" Pfirstenhammer swore. "Does he feel no pain?"
"Maybe he is a fakir," Krebitz suggested.
The beating continued. Suddenly Muong emptied his bowels and began to urinate. Schenk drew aside swearing. The guerrilla's face was a swollen, contorted mass of battered flesh. Eisner brought in a pair of pliers and shoved it into Muong's face.
"Look here, you canaille, either you talk now or I am going to yank your teeth out one by one, squash your balls, then break every bone in your fingers. You can still recover from what you have gotten up till now, but by the time we are through with you, you will be crippled for life."
"If you talk, I will set you free," I interposed, allowing the prisoner a ray of hope to survive, an important tactical move. By then-, Muong was all set to die and thought we were going to kill him whether he talked or not.
"You... will... let me ... go?" he muttered.
"I will let you go," I repeated firmly.
He was ready to talk. In short, high-pitched, hysterical gasps his words came. Eisner rose and put away the pliers. "Give him something to drink," he told Schenk, and taking a bar of soap from his kit, he began to wash his hands. The smell of blood, urine, and excreta in the hut became overwhelming. The rag cover of the door was flung back and Riedl appeared.
"Phoooi," he exclaimed twisting his nose. "It stinks in here. How can you stand it?" Turning to Eisner he asked, "How's the dirty work coming along?"
"Shut up and get out of here!" Bernard snapped. "Someone has to do this. Be glad it's not you."
Riedl grinned. "I am glad. I never saw so many shitty bastards in my life." Holding his nose mockingly, he turned and left for the open.
"Get some more water and call in a few villagers to wash up the wretch." I gestured toward the guerrilla.
"What for?" Schenk queried. "We can shoot him shit and all."
"We are not going to shoot him," I said quietly.
"My good God, Hans, you are getting soft."
"We made a bargain with him which I intend to keep. . . . Besides, he is a brave man, Victor. How long do you think you would have stood up to what he was getting?"
"Me? I would have pissed you between the eyes in the first five minutes," he replied. "I am a small, weak creature ... very delicate and—"
Karl gave Schenk a friendly kick in the bottom. "You would have given us away all right."
"Given you away?" Schenk cried. "I not only would have told them everything but would have helped them to put the rope around your neck, Karl."
"Set him free!" I ordered the troopers as we left the hut. "After what he told us he won't be playing the liberating hero much longer. The Viet Minh will kill him."
We rounded up the party members and the Viet Minh activists whom Muong had named, some twenty men altogether. We bayoneted them in a small ravine behind the village.
The cruel war continued.