The War Before the War, page 6
As bullets ricocheted off his tank, Hervouet turned to see several flaming Molotov cocktails launched from the rooftops of surrounding buildings arc across the night sky and land on the French troop trucks. The bottles holding the petrol mixture shattered on contact. The truck roofs and the canvass tarps over the trucks’ passenger beds burst into flames. The French infantry soldiers poured out of the back of the trucks only to be met with a hail of gunfire from Viet Minh in the building windows. Six members of Hervouet’s platoon were dead in the first minute of the battle. He was losing his command. His men were dying.
He turned back to his driver and said, “We gotta get out of here. Can we go around?”
“Not enough room. We’ll just get wedged in,” said Malet.
Hervouet’s mind was racing. He had to do something… anything. He slid back inside the turret and spun the turret’s hand crank until the main gun was aligned with the cab of the fire truck. He squeezed the trigger. There was a loud crack as the shell left the barrel. The round sailed through the open cab door and punched through the opposite side of the truck without exploding. “Fuck,” said Hervouet as he reloaded the main gun, the empty casing clanking on the floor, the breach slamming shut.
He cranked the turret until the gun was aligned with the water tank on the back of the truck. He fired again.
The shell easily pierced the thin steel wall and exploded inside the tank. Water burst out, showering the French tank. But the fire truck still blocked the street. “Ram the bastard,” said Hervouet.
Malet released his foot off the brake and gunned the engine. The tank lunged forward and picked up speed. “Aim for the back of the truck. We’ll spin it out of the way,” said Hervouet.
The tank had a top speed of only 22 mph. Malet quickly shifted through the gears. When he hit third gear, the tank smacked the back of the truck. The truck moved a few feet on initial impact, but it wasn’t enough for the French vehicles to get by. Malet backed the tank up and made another run. The second impact helped a little more. On the third try, Malet repositioned the tank, so he struck the truck right over the back wheels. The fire truck’s tires skidded across the asphalt. Debris was scattered all over the street but clear enough for the convoy to get past. “This is Rouge Leader Six. We are getting the hell out of here. Everyone load up and follow me,” said Hervouet on the radio.
The infantry soldiers retrieved their dead and wounded comrades. The damaged tank was in flames and beyond repair. There was no way to retrieve the deceased driver. They would return and retrieve his body in daylight if it was still there. Everyone continued fighting as they made their way back to the trucks. One of the trucks was too severely damaged by the fire. A sergeant pulled the pin on a grenade and pitched it into the cab. It exploded, destroying the steering gear and instruments. He opened the front hood and tossed another grenade on top of the engine manifold. It exploded, tearing off the carburetor and shredding the hoses and belts. The truck was beyond repair and of no use to the Viet Minh. The infantrymen from the demolished truck climbed on the backs and sides of the armored cars. They continued to fire, keeping the Viet Minh pinned down.
With everyone loaded, Hervouet ordered Malet to leave the area. The battered convoy followed, leaving two of the vehicles burning in the street and one of their own behind. Even with their armor, the French had been forced to retreat. The Viet Minh had won the battle.
Foggy Bottom, Washington D.C., USA
Grumpier than usual, Granier sat at his desk, sipping his morning coffee. He was supposed to be in the woods with a new batch of students, but events in Hanoi had forced him to call off the class for today and go into the office. The thought that his recruits would be happy at the news bothered him. He liked to see them suffer. It meant he was doing his job as their instructor. Cables had been coming in all morning and were stacked on his desk. As the resident expert on Indochina, he was often asked to interpret the events unfolding in Hanoi. What’s to interpret? he thought. The French and Viet Minh are trying to kill each other again. Big whoop.
Colonel Patti appeared in the doorway and said, “So, what do you think?”
“I think I need a bear claw to go with my coffee,” said Granier.
“No, I meant Hanoi.”
“I know what you meant. I just like busting your chops… Sir.”
“The president is wondering if he should try to pass a supplementary aid bill for the French. He’s asked the director for a recommendation, and the director asked me.”
“Shit rolls downhill, don’t it?”
“Damn right. Now it’s in your lap. What do you think about the aid?”
“I’m sure the French would like more money.”
“Yeah, but will it do any good? Will it keep Hanoi from falling to the communists?”
“How the hell am I supposed to know that?”
“It’s your job to know.”
“Yeah. Well, I’m really lousy at it. You should fire me.”
“Granier, for god’s sake, I gotta give the director a recommendation.”
“Look, even if the president gets an aid package through Congress, it’s gonna take weeks. The battle for Hanoi will be over before it ever arrives.”
“So, that’s a no.”
“I didn’t say that. If the French knew the aid was coming, they might commit more assets to the fight because they know they will be able to replace them.”
“So, that’s a yes.”
“I didn’t say that, either.”
“What are you saying?”
“That I really want a bear claw.”
“I’ll buy you a fucking bear claw. Just give me a goddamn recommendation.”
“Send ’em the money. Ten million ought to do it.”
“See, now was that so hard?” said Patti looking at his watch, then disappearing from the doorway. “I’ve got to go see the director.”
“What about my bear claw?” said Granier calling after him.
“I’m a spy. We lie sometimes. Shoot me,” said Patti from down the hall.
Hanoi, Vietnam
It was early morning in Hanoi. The ever-moving mist hung over the city and mixed with the smoke from cooking fires to create a brownish smog. Everything seemed grey and hazy, a shadow of itself. The markets, usually busy with early morning buyers for restaurants and food carts were empty. The vendors anxious to sell their fruit, vegetables, fish, and pork before the heat of the day when they would spoil were nowhere in sight. The people of Hanoi had been warned, and experience taught them to listen. It would be another day of street battles.
After the Japanese surrendered, the Viet Minh immediately took up defensive positions on both sides of the Long Bien Bridge, formerly called the Paul Doumer Bridge by the French. A historic cantilever bridge 1.5 miles in length, it was considered the most strategic roadway in all of Northern Vietnam. It was the only bridge capable of supporting armored vehicles and trucks across the Red River. It connected Haiphong Harbor with Hanoi. For all practical purposes, whoever controlled the Long Bien Bridge also controlled Hanoi. On one side was Hoan Kiem district, and on the other the Long Bien district with its Gia Lam Airfield.
The French made the bridge their highest priority when they launched their attack to retake Hanoi. Every available French unit was part of the assault to retake the bridge. Bombarded by French artillery and harassed by aircraft, the Viet Minh fought bravely for one day and then retreated. Their commanders knew it was hopeless to hold such a fixed asset where the French could consolidate their firepower and air power. Before fleeing, the Viet Minh tried to blow up the bridge hoping to slow the French advance into downtown Hanoi. While they were able to tear up the roadway, their explosives did nothing to damage the superstructure of the bridge, which was made of high-grade steel. The French engineers repaired the damage within two days, and the bridge was once again operational. Tanks, armored cars, and troops trucks rolled across the Red River like it was a Sunday drive in the park. It was an unfortunate but necessary loss to the Viet Minh.
Knowing that they could not hold the bridge for an extended period of time, it was curious when the Viet Minh commanders sent a group of thirty militiamen to retake the bridge. Such a force was highly inadequate to take such a well-protected asset. It seemed like a complete waste of military resources and personnel. The French were happy to capitalize on such a mistake, especially when the attacking militia failed to close in and chose instead to fire at the French from afar. The French called in artillery and airstrikes to deal with the pesky militia.
Captain Cedric Marchand and his wingman, Lieutenant Noe Cheron, boarded their British-made Supermarine Spitfires on the French aircraft carrier Arromanches. Although the French had already captured several airfields in and around Hanoi and Haiphong, they were not considered secure. The Viet Minh could quickly move a mortar on to the rooftop of a surrounding building and bombard the airfields during landings and takeoffs. It was much safer to keep their aircraft on the Arromanches floating in the middle of Ha Long Bay. The Viet Minh didn’t have much of a navy, and the French warships that protected the Arromanches could easily deal with any attack at sea.
With their aircraft industry decimated by the Nazis during the occupation, the French found it necessary to purchase aircraft from the British and Americans who had an abundance of warplanes after WW II. The two Spitfires were each armed with four 50-cal Browning machineguns and two Hispano auto-cannons. The 20mm Hispanos were overkill for any weapon the Viet Minh had in their arsenal, but they were well-adapted at punching large holes in masonry buildings and walls. The aircraft was maneuverable and considered fast, with a top speed of 370 mph.
As always, Marchand took off first, and Cheron followed. They formed up and headed inland. Hanoi was close in, and their mission was relatively simple, so they were not concerned about burning too much fuel. They throttled up to just under three-quarter speed so as not to overheat their supercharged engines.
As the two aircraft approached the bridge, the French commander on the ground had his mortar men mark the Indochinese positions with colored smoke rounds. It was hardly a challenge. Even with the low hanging fog, Marchand and Cheron could see the enemy as they discharged their weapons. Marchand led the attack and fired a brief burst from his four machineguns at the center of the enemy front line, dispersing them. He radioed Cheron not to attack but instead line up with him on the far side of the enemy so they could strafe the militia line. When the aircraft circled, the militia broke as militiamen often do when faced with a superior force. They jumped back in the three trucks that had carried them to the battlefield. The vehicles sped toward the safety of the city center, where the buildings were tall and made it difficult for the French aircraft.
Marchand and Cheron were determined to head them off before they drove too deep into the buildings. They increased their speed to full throttle and flew low to achieve a deep field of fire. Marchand again took the lead and flipped his weapon switch from machinegun to cannon. The aircraft’s Hispano cannons were loaded with high explosive shells and fired at a rate of 200 rounds per minute.
The first five shells exploded behind the last truck. Marchand tipped the nose of his aircraft up slightly, and the next burst of rounds landed in the truck. Two rounds exploded in the back, killing several passengers and setting the vehicle on fire. Several more rounds found their way into the engine compartment via the truck cab and damaged the engine beyond repair. One round hit next to the gas tank sending hot shrapnel into the fuel. The explosion ripped the truck to pieces killing everyone inside. The remains of the burning vehicle crashed into a car parked along the curb.
Marchand lined up the next truck in his sights and pulled the trigger on his yolk. Nothing happened. Neither cannon fired, which meant the problem was most probably electrical, not mechanical. He flipped his weapon selection switch back to machinegun, realigned his sights on the truck, and pulled the trigger. Again, nothing happened. He cursed, then informed Cheron that it was his turn. Marchand pulled up and circled to watch Cheron’s results.
Cheron had watched his commander using his cannons to great effect and decided on the same course of action. He selected his aircraft's cannons, lined up his sights on the second truck, and opened fire. His focus was on the truck, and he did not notice what was happening on the rooftop of a building a quarter of a mile from his position.
On the distant rooftop, eight Viet Minh sprung from their hiding places and pulled a canvas tarp off a Japanese Type 96 twin-barreled anti-aircraft gun. The Japanese gunner and his Indochinese assistant were already seated in the gun’s cradle mount, and the first 25 mm shells rounds had been racked into the guns’ chambers.
Upon occupying Hanoi, the Viet Minh had discovered the abandoned weapon. The Japanese had initially disassembled the gun, carried it up to the roof, and reassembled it to protect downtown Hanoi from Allied aircraft. When they left at the end of the war, there was no point in taking the gun with them since they were ordered to disarm anyway. It was abandoned and left to rust in place. When the Viet Minh found it, they had no idea how to operate the sophisticated aiming device that allowed the gunner to lead an aircraft the correct distance.
Six hundred Japanese soldiers had deserted their army and joined the Viet Minh during the war. A search was conducted, and the Viet Minh found one Japanese soldier that had operated a similar gun and knew the aiming system. He was recruited to be the weapon’s operator and was sitting in the gunner’s seat. The assistant gunner adjusted the weapon’s height using a hand-wheel. Together they aimed the gun at the approaching aircraft. Eight Viet Minh loaders fed the ammunition into the twin guns using top-loaded 15-round magazines. The gunner opened fire.
The first rounds were short and exploded into a taller building across the street. Cheron saw the explosions and immediately recognized it as anti-aircraft fire. He pulled up his strafing run and banked his plane, exposing its belly. Two shells found their mark - one ripped through the left-wing, and the other entered the bottom of the fuselage. Cheron disappeared in a mist of red when the shell exploded inside the cockpit. The Spitfire continued to bank and flew into a tall building exploding in a ball of flame.
Marchand was horrified to see his young friend die in such a spectacular manner. He increased his altitude and maneuvered his aircraft so it was directly above the anti-aircraft gun. Unable to use his weapons, he tipped his Spitfire into a steep dive and pushed his engine to maximum speed.
The anti-aircraft gun crew was frantic as they watched the aircraft approach. The Type 96 was difficult to adjust when firing directly overhead, and the violent vibration from each shot made aiming the weapon problematic. The gunner and his assistant did their best to shoot down the French warplane. It wasn’t enough. Marchand’s spitfire plowed into the rooftop gun at almost 400 mph. Both weapons were disintegrated in a massive ball of flame along with their crews. The thunderous secondary explosions from the ammunition baking off woke anyone still sleeping in the city and lit up the morning sky.
It was night, and downtown Hanoi was pitch dark. It would be weeks until the French engineers could repair the damage the saboteurs had done to the power plant. Four Panard armored cars drove down a dark street in a business district. Their turrets, armed with 47mm cannons and 7.5mm machineguns, swung slowly from side to side as they advanced, searching for targets. There were none. The street was void of human life. It made the French crews uneasy. This was a business district, and even at this time of night, there should be some pedestrians.
These four vehicles were the reconnaissance element of a mobile infantry battalion that was following their path a half-mile back in trucks and half-tracks protected by armored cars. If there was trouble, it was the recon element’s job to find it before the battalion arrived. They were aggressive and audacious. Unlike the other units in the battalion, their mission was not to defeat the enemy. If an ambush was discovered or a firefight broke out, the French recon would engage the enemy long enough to determine its strength and position, then hold their position until the battalion arrived. If the fighting became too intense, they would break off contact and wait for the battalion in a safe location. The recon elements of a battalion were some of the bravest and most-valued soldiers – experienced fighters with a strong esprit de corps. They knew how to attract trouble and how to get out of it when needed.
Lieutenant Godefroy Boudet, the commander of the recon unit, rode in the first armored vehicle. He was an example to his men and always led from the front. But he wasn’t stupid. He stayed buttoned up inside the vehicle, away from enemy sniper’s sights. He didn’t like what he was seeing through the commander’s forward viewport in the turret. It was too quiet and still. Two bad signs in a battle zone. Two reasons to be very cautious. Because of his high viewpoint, he was the first to see the roadblock at the end of the street. “Halt,” he said to the driver who stopped the vehicle.
The other commanders followed suit and brought their vehicles to a stop and swung their turrets to predetermined fields of fire on opposite sides of the street with the guns of the last vehicle covering the rear.
Boudet considered sending two of his four-person crew out to examine the roadblock, but he knew there was probably an ambush waiting for them. And if there was no ambush, then the roadblock was surely boobytrapped with a mine or grenades connected to tripwires. His mission was to find the enemy’s main force, and he knew instinctively this was not it. The roadblock was a distraction meant to pin them down while a much larger force closed in to surround them. He and his men were anxious to fight the Viet Minh, but he wasn’t going to bite. Not yet. He would find another way around and report back to the battalion. “Tin-tin Six, to all units. We are reversing direction. Proceed to the previous intersection. Acknowledge in sequence. Over,” radioed Boudet.
