The War Before the War, page 5
A Vietnamese blacksmith waited patiently while stoking his fire. Three men dropped off burlap bags filled with 60D common nails. The blacksmith removed a handful of the 6-inch nails and used his tongs to place them deep in the orange coals of his fire. He pumped the bellows to increase the heat even further.
Once the nails were reddish-orange, he removed them with the tongs, used a chisel to cut off the nails’ heads, then placed them on his anvil and used his hammer to pound them into ninety degrees angles.
When all the nails were finished and cooled with a dousing of water, the blacksmith’s assistant linked the center of two nails and welded them together. The nails had become caltrops - four-sided spikes arranged in such a manner that one spike always pointed upward from a stable base. The caltrops were placed back in the burlap bags for transportation.
French roadblocks at the entrances to industrial areas prevented any non-authorized Vietnamese from getting near key installations. There was an armored car with a machinegun in the turret manned by two men. Another four soldiers would check documents and search visitors and vehicles waiting to pass. For the French troops, it was mind-numbing work. Most of the Vietnamese that approached the roadblock were women who wanted to sell the soldiers sodas or cigarettes. Some were prostitutes willing to sell themselves to feed their families.
Twice in the morning and twice in the afternoon, a French soldier from the mess hall would ride a bicycle to bring coffee to the soldiers at the roadblock. It was always a welcome break from the boredom. He would pour the hot liquid into the soldiers’ cups from a large metal container strapped to the back of the bicycle. He joked with the soldiers and gave them updates on troop movements, plus any messages from company headquarters. Once everyone had their fill, he rode off for the next roadblock making the rounds, stop after stop, day after day.
As expected, the coffee delivery soldier had come twice in the morning and once in the early afternoon. But he was late for the late afternoon coffee break, and the soldiers at the roadblock were grumpy and complaining. “It’s a soft duty if there ever was one. He has one job to do, and he can’t even do it right,” said the sergeant in charge of the roadblock.
“Maybe something happened,” said another soldier.
“What? He burned his fingers and had to go to the hospital?”
“It could happen.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“Maybe he had a flat tire,” said a different soldier.
“You’re even more of an idiot than him,” said the sergeant motioning to the first soldier. “It doesn’t take an hour to fix a flat.”
“He would need to take the coffee container off the back of his bike. That takes time.”
“You’re just making excuses for him. He’s just a lazy bastard.”
“Wait, there he is,” said the first soldier pointing.
Everyone turned to see a soldier stopping at the top of a hill and getting off his bicycle. He moved to the back of his bike, where the coffee container was strapped, and seemed to be checking the coffee inside using his cigarette lighter for illumination. “What the hell is he doing?” said the sergeant. “It’s coffee. It’s not like it’s going to run off by itself.”
The sergeant waved for the delivery soldier to come on down. The soldier closed the lid to the container, waved back at the sergeant, remounted his bicycle, and rode down the hill. “It’s about fucking time,” said the sergeant as the bike approached.
The soldier riding the bicycle had his helmet low over his eyes, casting a shadow over his face. He rode past the sergeant and over to the armored car as if to serve the crew first. The soldier stopped his bicycle and leaned it up against the side of the armored vehicle. “What the hell are you doing?” said the angry sergeant. “Get back over here!”
The soldier ran into the field next to the road. One of the soldiers in the armored car climbed out and opened the lid to the coffee container. It was smoky inside. He blew the smoke away and saw a fuse burning. “Oh, shit,” he said. “Bomb!”
The soldiers dove for cover, but it was too late. The explosion was massive. The armored vehicle was rocked violently and tipped over on its side. The soldiers closest to the container were shredded by red-hot shrapnel flying in all directions and died within moments. The survivors had blood pouring from their eyes, noses, and ears. The sergeant regained his wits, picked up a rifle, and opened fire at the delivery soldier running across the field.
The delivery soldier was hit in the back and fell to the ground. The helmet came off, revealing a Vietnamese woman wearing an ill-fitting French uniform. She died.
The sergeant turned to see a platoon of Viet Minh soldiers appear at the top of the hill. He looked around at the surviving men in his unit badly mauled and disoriented. He knew there was little hope they would be able to fend off the Viet Minh now running down the hillside toward the shattered roadblock. He saw the radio lying on the ground near the overturned armored car. He had to warn his headquarters of the attack. He found it hard even to stand and imagined it was his shattered eardrums, causing his dizziness. Slow and steady, he thought. As he moved toward the radio, the Viet Minh closed their distance on the roadblock and opened fire.
Bullets zinged through the air, some hitting his men. The sergeant found it hard to walk straight, but he wobbled toward the radio as best he could. A bullet hit him in the hip and spun him around. He toppled to the ground. He looked back at the Viet Minh less than thirty yards away and closing on his position. There wasn’t much time. Another rifle shot sliced across his back and stopped in his shoulder. He dragged himself to the radio and flipped on the power switch. He picked up the handset and called his commander on the radio. It took a moment before he realized that the cord between the handset and the radio had been severed by a piece of shrapnel from the explosion. The radio was useless. He chuckled at the irony. A Viet Minh soldier ran up behind him, aimed his rifle, and put the sergeant out of his misery. The Viet Minh fired on the remaining survivors and killed them all. They wasted no time and ran past the roadblock toward their intended target - Hanoi’s power plant.
The Viet Minh feared the French armored units. They had little armor themselves. They had developed techniques to deal with the steel beasts, but most required the sacrifice of one or more Vietnamese soldiers, and those sacrifices were no guarantee that they could stop the vehicles permanently.
The French had an uncanny ability to recycle weapons that many thought wholly destroyed. They had learned to make do with what they had on hand, and if that meant refurbishing a demolished tank in which the original crew had died, then so be it. The blood was washed out, and steel plates were welded over the shell holes. Nothing was wasted, especially in the early part of the war.
Lieutenant Yves Hervouet commanded the 3rd Squadron, 1st Light Horse Regiment, the only armored unit in Hanoi. His round spectacles gave his youthful face a wise owl appearance that matched his superior intellect. He was brave and tenacious. Tank crews in World War II had very short life expectancies. To be effective, a tank commander had to accept that he and his team probably wouldn’t survive the war. It made them ornery and mean. Hervouet had fought on the Maginot Line before it was overrun and again in North Africa against Rommel. He was an experienced veteran before his twenty-sixth birthday. A promotion to first lieutenant brought him his current command.
The squadron was made up of 9 Hotchkiss H-39 light tanks, 12 Panhard 178B armored cars, and 14 troop trucks that carried his infantry, mechanics, supplies, and spare parts. It was far less than what would be required to defend a city the size of Hanoi from the Viet Minh. What made matters worse was that his commander had piecemealed out most of his vehicles to other infantry units protecting critical installations and roadways in and around the city. It was only his insistence on maintaining an armored reactionary force that kept one platoon of three tanks, two armored cars, and three troop trucks under his command. That was it – one platoon. Hardly the honor he thought he was being given when he was assigned command of the 3rd squadron. Still, he was determined to make its presence known.
His plan was simple - be in all places at once, so the Viet Minh thought the squadron bigger than it was. To do this, he needed to crisscross Hanoi with all the speed his tanks and armored cars could muster. He would run his vehicles, and troops ragged to fool the enemy. He would even have his men switch out the platoon identification flags on the vehicle antennas to extend the illusion of more vehicles. He knew the Viet Minh had spies throughout the city that would report their sightings of the unit flags to their Viet Minh commanders. Typically, the flags were only used for military parades and training, but Hervouet reckoned that the Viet Minh didn’t know that.
As the sun set, the city became more dangerous. The Viet Minh were masters at hiding, and darkness was their ally. They only needed to blow off one of the vehicles’ tracks or wheels to cripple the platoon. The French soldiers would not leave a damaged vehicle for the Viet Minh to capture and potentially use against them in the future. When a vehicle was disabled, Hervouet and his men would take up defensive positions and fight to protect the crew of the mangled vehicle while they repaired the damage, and it became mobile once again. If the vehicle could not be repaired, it had to be towed away or destroyed beyond all usefulness before it could be abandoned. This procedure usually involved a satchel charge or multiple incendiary grenades to burn out the wiring inside the vehicle and bake off the ammunition. When incendiary grenades were not available, or they were under heavy fire, the survivors would make a run for it, then the other French tanks and armored cars would shell the damaged vehicle with their cannons until it blew up. The idea that nobody would be left behind by his comrades emboldened the French soldiers. It was a promise to each other they all took seriously.
On that night, Hervouet felt particularly uneasy. He had studied the intelligence reports and knew that the Viet Minh were repositioning their units. That meant they were up to something. It wasn’t that Hervouet or his men were afraid. They weren’t. They knew they were better trained than the Viet Minh, and they knew the territory just as well as the enemy. The French had lived and fought in Indochina for almost a century. The French soldiers thought themselves superior in intelligence to their Indochinese subjects. They certainly were larger in size and strength. And that mattered in battle, especially if the fight was reduced to hand-to-hand combat. The French could shoot better, and they fought well as a unit, which gave them the upper hand. All of those advantages gave them confidence that they could defeat their enemy… if they could only find him.
On the other hand, the Viet Minh followed the military strategies of Mao Zedung. Mao dictated that guerrilla fighters should ambush the enemy when they least expected it and have no concept of defense or battle lines. They should attack the enemy from all sides. The guerrilla leaders should always dictate the timing of conflicts and never fight unless they were sure they would win. If things did not go as expected, as often happens in war, the guerrilla fighters should be prepared to flee so they could fight another day. To the French and other western armies, this method of fighting and retreating seemed dishonorable and cowardly. To the Viet Minh, it seemed smart.
Like the other tank and armored vehicle commanders, Hervouet rode through the city with his legs inside the tank turret and the rest of his body sticking out the back hatch. It was dangerous. A sniper could easily pick him off, or an armed civilian could take a quick potshot as he passed. But it did give him a clear view of the surrounding area and the road ahead. Besides, it was cooler than inside the tank. Even in the cool, dry season, it was muggy in Hanoi, and a breeze was always welcome.
Hervouet’s eight-vehicle column had been running for almost fourteen hours, and the drivers were fatigued. He knew he would need to call it a night after a few more hours, but he hated surrendering the night to the Viet Minh. The more time the Viet Minh had to move unimpeded within the city, the worse the expected assault would be for the French. Still, his men needed rest if they were to fight effectively. It was almost 2200 hours as he glanced at his watch. He decided midnight would be the cutoff time. He thought about telling his men his decision to cheer them up and give them something to look forward to but then reconsidered when the image of his men fixated on their wristwatches instead of the road and surrounding area popped into his head. They’re tough. They can take it, he thought. I don’t need to coddle them. Keep ’em focused on the mission at hand. Keep ’em alive.
The Hotchkiss light tank that Hervouet rode in was noisy as hell. The steel plates creaked. The hatch door bounced, clanging loudly each time it hit the turret. The heavy treads ground against the asphalt. It was a two-person vehicle that had been modified by the Germans during the occupation. The commander of the vehicle fought from the turret and was the gunner and loader of the 37mm main gun. The driver sat inside the chassis toward the front. There was also a 7.5 mm Reibel machinegun that could be mounted beside the main gun or on top of the turret to be used by the commander as an anti-aircraft gun. The turret was spun by a hand crank and could rotate 360 degrees. The tank carried 100 shells for the main gun and 3,500 rounds for the machinegun.
“How far to the Citadel?” Hervouet yelled down into the turret.
“Another five minutes,” said Sgt. Lucas Malet, his driver. “You want me to pick up speed?”
“Do you think you can do it without blowing the engine?”
“No.”
“Then no, you moron. Maintain current speed.”
Hervouet didn’t like the neighborhood they were entering, especially since his tank was in the lead. A fire had gutted many of the buildings, and some had collapsed. The blackened debris made perfect hiding places for the Viet Minh. If I was going to make an ambush, this is where I would do it, he thought. He reached down inside the turret and removed the machinegun from its mount next to the cannon. He pulled the weapon through the hatchway and attached it to its turret mount where he could reach it within a moment’s notice. He checked the 150-round ammunition drum to ensure the bullets inside were properly aligned before replacing it on the gun. He wasn’t taking any chances. He considered radioing the other commanders in his column but thought he might be micromanaging. His vehicle commanders were smart and knew the dangers. They would figure out their own strategies for defending their vehicles.
A bright flash lit up the horizon. It was an explosion of some sort — a big one. The lights in the surrounding buildings and the streetlights flickered and then went dark. “Shit,” said Hervouet. “They hit the power plant.”
“That can’t be good,” said Malet.
“You are a master of understatement, Sergeant.”
“What do we do?”
“Keep driving and watch for the enemy.”
“I can’t see the road. Can I turn on the headlights?”
“Do you want to be the only moving target lit up like a Christmas tree?”
“No.”
“Then I suggest you keep them off.”
Hanoi was plunged into darkness except for the occasion cooking fire outside a few homes. The moonlight cast a soft outline on the tallest buildings leaving the others hidden in the blackness of their shadows. With the odds tilted in their favor, the Viet Minh were now free to roam the city and hunt the French as they pleased. They would not waste the opportunity.
As his armored column drove past the buildings, Hervouet kept an eye on any position that might be used by a Viet Minh. It was unsettling. There were so many. He made a mental note to avoid the route on future patrols. He heard the whine of a siren and jerked around to the street in front. There were several burnt-out cars abandoned near the corner. The siren grew closer. Malet slowed the tank. “Don’t slow down, Sergeant,” snapped Hervouet.
Malet sped back up.
A fire truck appeared from the cross street at the end of the corner and turned toward the convoy. Its headlights were blinding. The truck swerved from side to side like the driver was drunk and finally crashed into a parked car. It was blocking the road. The siren faded to a warble.
Malet slammed on the brakes and slowed the tank to a stop. Hervouet knew instinctively what was happening; the fire truck was a blocking vehicle, and the column was about to be ambushed. He jumped up on the engine compartment and chambered a round into the machinegun.
The fire truck was still. The driver and crew nowhere in sight. “Fuck a duck,” said Hervouet to himself.
“You think it’s an ambush?” said Malet sheepishly.
“Of course it’s an ambush. When’s the last time you saw a fire truck crash right in front of you?”
“What do we do?”
“Fight.”
Hervouet trained his machinegun sights on the fire truck cab. The driver was still inside. Hervouet was sure of it. Like a farmer waiting for a gopher, Hervouet held his fire. The driver’s side door swung open, and the Viet Minh inside opened fire with a pistol. Hervouet gave him a short burst from his machinegun. The pistol went silent and dropped to the ground. The driver was dead.
From the corner of his eye, Hervouet saw something approach the side of his tank. It was a Viet Minh sapper charging from behind a debris pile and carrying a long pole with something bulky on the end. The lieutenant swung his machinegun around and opened fire. The sapper was hit several times and fell to the ground, dropping the pole.
More sappers sprung from their hiding places among the rubble and charged the armored vehicles in the column with their long poles. Other Viet Minh opened fire from their covered positions in and around the buildings. The French commanders focused on the sappers with poles, shooting them down as fast as they could, but there were too many.
One of the sappers reached a tank and struck his lunge mine against the thick steel panel on the side of the vehicle. The shaped-charge exploded with a blinding flash, killing the sapper instantly and dissolving a hole in the steel armor. The driver inside the tank was showered with molten metal and screamed until he died. The tank commander’s legs, still inside the tank, were also splattered with the hot metal. He pulled his legs out. His pants were on fire. He tried to put the fire out with his hand, but some of the hot metal stuck to his palms and fingers, burning them badly. He finally rolled off the back of the tank onto the ground.
