Occasionally the nonresident guerrillas prepared cover stories in advance. A woman, for instance, could name and accurately describe a “brother” or an “uncle” who, in fact, was a total stranger—and vice versa. Assumed identities, however, could never pass additional questions related to more intimate particulars. Naturally, when alleged brothers and sisters disagreed about the features of “their” deceased fathers—for example, whether or not he had a scar on the right cheek—the questioning ended then and there and the shooting started.
Small children would often reveal a terrorist who was trying to pose as a close relative. Our system functioned brilliantly against the nonresident guerrillas and could also be used to uncover the local Viet Minh. Children between three and five years of age were remarkably useful. Before we questioned a child we separated him or her from the parents and gained the child’s confidence with candy or small toys. Tribal children seldom receive either candy or toys. Sometimes it was enough to take a small boy or girl, show them a pistol or a machine gun, and ask them, between bites of chocolate, if they ever had seen anything similar. The innocent reply would come: “Uncle Han has many in his cellar.”
Once our conversation with a five-year-old boy said somewhat like this: “Whose little boy are you, Xui?”
“Mother’s and father’s.”
“And where is your father now?”
“He is away hunting. We need food.”
“Does he hunt often?”
“Oh, yes—”
“Then he has a gun, eh?”
“Yes, a big gun, and many little ones. The soldiers gave them to him.”
“What soldiers, Xui?”
“Father Ho’s soldiers.”
By questioning people individually, we managed to uncover a dozen or more nonresident guerrillas, who were taken into the woods and executed. The troops proceeded to search the huts. In one of the shacks we spotted a small, clever-looking boy about five years of age. He did not look frightened but walked up to Schulze and boldly asked him if he was a French soldier.
“No, we are German soldiers, not French,” Erich replied jokingly. His answer seemed to satisfy the boy, who then asked: “Do German soldiers shoot French soldiers?”
“Sometimes they do indeed,” Erich replied and we all laughed. After all, Erich was telling the truth.
“Then you are good soldiers,” the boy stated. “French soldiers shoot people, Father Ho says.”
His mother tried to hush him up. I ordered her to be taken out. She wouldn’t leave but threw herself on the floor screaming, imploring us to leave the boy alone.
“We are not going to hurt him,” Xuey told her, but to no avail. The woman continued to scream and outside the civilians began to join in.
“Take her out of here,” I ordered the troopers. “The others may think we are torturing or raping her.”
Sergeant Rrebitz needed four companions to drag the struggling woman outside. The boy began to cry and wanted to run after her. Schulze caught him and placed a small toy tank on the ground.
“We only wanted to give you a present,” Xuey explained smiling. “We did not want your mother to see it.”
The moment the tank began to move, with its turret shooting sparks, the boy stopped weeping; eyes wide in astonishment, he sprang after the toy and grabbed it.
“It is yours, you see,” Xuey said. He explained to the boy how to wind the spring mechanism. “What is your name?” he asked.
“Nuo,” came the reply, without the boy even looking at us. He lowered himself to the floor and followed the tank with fascinated dark eyes. I signaled to my companions and we sat down on the ground to run the tank between us and the boy, talking to hold his attention.
I placed my rifle on the mat and Nuo clapped his hands as the tank clambered over its stock. “Do you know what this is, Nuo?” I asked him.
“Yes, I know—a tank! The soldiers say the French have many tanks, real big ones. When we have tanks, we will shoot many many French soldiers.”
“What soldiers say that, Nuo?”
“Father Ho’s partisan soldiers.”
“Do Father Ho’s soldiers visit your village?” Xuey asked winding the tank.
“They always come to tell us how many Frenchmen they shot.”
He looked up sharply. “You said you were not French soldiers.”
“Do I look French to you?” Xuey smiled.
“Not you—but you.”
Nuo pointed toward us.
“We are Germans, Nuo. I’ve already told you that.”
“Where is your home?”
“Many weeks” walk from here,” Schulze obliged. “Where you see the sun going down—there we live.”
“Your village is big?”
“Very big, Nuo. Do you know where Father Ho’s soldiers are now?”
“In the tunnel,” he said matter-of-factly, playing with the tank. “But they will come out soon.”
We exchanged glances and Xuey signaled me to let him do the talking now. He wrinkled the mat in such fashion that the tank could clamber up and down the ridges.
“Why did Father Ho’s soldiers go into the tunnel, Nuo?” Xuey asked quietly. “We are friends.”
“They thought you were Frenchmen. When they see that you are not French, they will come out.”
“Is it a big tunnel?”
“Very big. Many men sleep there.”
Nuo carried a blanket to the cot and let the tank run on it. We helped him to arrange the folds in various patterns of “hills” and “valleys.”
“Do you know where the door of the tunnel is?” Xuey asked the crucial question casually. “Is it here in your house?”
“No,” he shook his head. “One door is under Bo’s house but there are many others too. The soldiers use the door in the well.”
“Which well?”
“The well behind Xuong’s house.”
Ten minutes later we knew everything. The tunnel had several exits but the guerrillas used an opening placed halfway down in a well. There was also an underwater exit into the river for emergency use.
The boy glanced up. “Can I go and show the tank to the boys?”
“Sure—show them, Nou.”
Erich nodded.
Xuey led the child gently toward the door. “Don’t tell anyone that you spoke about the tunnel and Father Ho’s soldiers… Not even to your mother.”
“Why not?”
“Because it is a secret. They will beat you and take your tank away.”
“Then I won’t tell,” he said determinedly.
“Good boy!” I sent a trooper to take Nuo to his mother, who, with the rest of the civilians, had been removed from the village. We could not detect where the underwater exit was, so I lined the riverbank with fifty men at twenty-yard intervals. Then we went to examine the well.
It was about forty feet deep. Our searchlight revealed no opening in its walls, which appeared to be smooth earth, covered with planks here and there. Riedl hauled up the wooden bucket. It was bone dry. “They aren’t using this well to get water, that’s for sure,” he commented.
Pfirstenhammer examined the rope. He cut away the bucket and began to wind the loose end about his waist “Give me a lamp,” he said, “I’m going down.”
“All right, but be careful.”
He flung his legs over the ledge and started to descend. Schulze and I were playing out the rope slowly. Karl suddenly yelled, “Hans!” His voice sounded hollow as it echoed from the well. “It is right here—facing the house… It is covered with a stone slab… Oaaaaah!” We heard his cry of agony; his voice trailed off and his lamp fell, shone for a moment then went out.