A convoy of carts loaded with pots, pans, homemade furniture, rice, fruits, and vegetables is heading for the markets of Hanoi. Some of the carts are driven by aged peasants with suntanned, wrinkled faces and white beards commanding respect; other vehicles are occupied by entire families. The convoy has come a long way and has already passed two army roadblocks. It travels within a “pacified” area controlled by the gendarmes, where we have no jurisdiction whatsoever.
We were resting in the riverside meadow to pass the hottest hours of the day. The shady trees offered some relief from the burning heat. The convoy of carts rolled in. While the drivers watered the animals, the families descended; the women began to kindle fires and the children took to the canal. Accompanied by Schulze and Krebitz, I strolled over to the convoy and asked to see their leader. He turned out to be a mild-looking, bespectacled, middle-aged man with a gentle smile on his bearded face.
“We have a laissez-passer from the army,” he said with some irritation in his voice. He showed me the document which permitted the convoy to proceed to Hanoi. “Checked and allowed to proceed,” a pink rubber stamp read. “Examined and cleared.”
Having nothing else to do, I decided to check them once more. Sergeant Krebitz assigned four men to each cart, an act which drew vehement protests from the convoy leader.
“Make sure that nothing is damaged,” I told Sergeant Krebitz, who replied with a grin, “We will handle their grenades as if they were Easter eggs.”
“We carry no grenades,” the convoy leader protested.
“Then why worry?” Schulze shrugged. “We will have a quick little look about, then you proceed.”
“You have no right to do that.”
“Indochina is a lawless country.”
“I know that,” the man blurted, his face red with impotent rage. “We want to move on.”
“You have just stopped to have a rest… Relax.”
“I am going to hand a petition to your superior.”
“You do that. His name is Colonel Simon Houssong and you will find him at Viet Tri. I am First Lieutenant Hans Wagemueller. And now, if you don’t mind, please tell your people to descend.”
“You have no right to—”
“I have heard that before.”
I cut him short and ordered my men to proceed.
The specialists of Gruppe Drei knew well where to look for possible contraband and soon I heard a telltale “My God” as one of the troopers hauled a large watermelon from a cart and dumped it on the ground with the comment, “Is it ever heavy!” With an enigmatic smile on his face, Xuey stepped forward to have a look; the next instant a couple of travelers bolted for the woods.
“Hold them!” Riedl shouted, but it was too late for us to stop the fugitives and we could not open fire amidst the milling throng of civilians. The trio vanished from sight.
“Now how about this little interlude?” I said to the convoy leader.
“How about this little too-heavy watermelon here?” Sergeant Krebitz intoned. “The one who eats it will get chronic indigestion.”
Leaving the bearded leader under armed guard, I walked over to look at the melon. It was hollow. In the hollow we found an oilcloth package containing a revolver, fifty cartridges, and six hand grenades.
The search continued. Hollow vegetables contained more grenades. Time bombs with corrosion fuses were camouflaged as cabbages; dismantled rifles and a submachine gun were among our haul. Eighteen carts which transported no illegal cargo were allowed to proceed. The rest of the convoy went back to the army checkpoint under armed escort.
“Make sure that nothing happens to these poor innocent civilians,” I told Krebitz who rode shotgun on the cart of the convoy leader. “We have about as many atrocities to our credit as we can take.”
The Viet Minh company was marching casually along the narrow causeway which ran between an expanse of rice paddies parallel to the forest line. The enemy was obviously ignorant of our presence in the shrubbery. The men of Gruppe Drei had spotted them in the drifting mist long before they entered the relatively coverless flatland; about a hundred guerrillas marching in two lines on either side of the road, “Idiots” Row” as our sharpshooters used to refer to such formations. Sergeant Krebitz, who with a platoon of machine gunners had gone forward to occupy a patch of thickets near the trail, now reported that the Viet Minh detachment was a band of green recruits rather than a fighting force. Only the foremost platoon of twenty terrorists were armed with automatic weapons. The rear guard of six veteran guerrillas carried vintage rifles. The rest of the “section” was unarmed. “I am delighted,” Sergeant Krebitz commented over the radio. “This is going to be duck shooting, Hans.”
“You should spare the recruits,” Xuey addressed me suddenly.
“And break our game rule about the golden reserves of Father Ho?”
“They would die innocently, for they are no more Communist than you are, Commander, and have probably joined the Viet Minh only upon the threat of instant death. They don’t have weapons because they are not trusted yet.”
“Maybe the company hasn’t got enough weapons.”
Xuey tapped my binoculars. “Have a look at the center of the column, Commander. There are eight men carrying crates, and those crates contain weapons.”
Xuey was probably right about the recruits. “Spare the lives of the unarmed ones,” he pleaded again. “Their families will need them.”
“They should have told that to the Viet Minh, Xuey.”
“No one can reason with the Viet Minh—you know that.”
“All right, I will try to spare the recruits.”
“Thank you, Commander.”
I called Krebitz again, asking him if he was well enough deployed to eliminate the armed platoon without causing casualties among the unarmed men. “My God,” he exclaimed, “are you having a sunstroke or something, Hans?”
“What do you mean, Rudolf?”
“I mean your good heart. Since when are you so concerned about the welfare of the Viet Minh?”
“Those recruits are not Viet Minh yet. Xuey asked me to give them a chance.”
“As you wish,” he grunted. “We will shoot the bad guys and let the not-so-bad guys live.”
“How about their rear guard?”
“The Abwehr will take care of them.”
“Proceed then,” I said, reminding him to aim low, as we would be moving ahead on the right flank and consequently some of our own troops might stroll into Gruppe Drei’s line of fire. “I will keep that in mind,” Krebitz reassured me.
“Don’t wait for my order to open fire. When you see them properly, let them have it.”
The sun was mounting higher and the mist over the paddies began to lift. Soon the enemy emerged into the open. Apart from an occasional cry of the paddy birds there was not a sound, so when the MG’s of Gruppe Drei opened up, their sharp staccato shattered the silence like a bolt out of the clear sky. Instantly the guerrilla detachment scattered and I had no way of knowing how many of the armed terrorists were killed. The Viet Minh rear guard—Schulze saw it—went spinning and tumbling down into the paddies, but a part of the platoon must have escaped, for a sporadic fire of enemy submachine guns could be heard from the road. However, the survivors were soon spotted and eliminated one after another, until the remnants of the platoon, half a dozen muddy and bewildered guerrillas, finally realized the hopelessness of their position and surrendered. The recruits followed suit. Covered with mire and most of them soaking wet, they scrambled to their feet holding their hands up, some of them still on the road, others in the knee-deep muck yelling for mercy. Most of them were almost children.