George Elford - Devil's Guard

Sergeant Zeisl and the nurses quickly attended the seriously ill ones. “They won’t be able to march for weeks,” Zeisl stated after a while. “We had better call in the copters.”

“The copters will bring the Viet Minh here from miles around,” Karl said.

“If they aren’t on the way already,” Eisner agreed. “I have been thinking of those huts and the prisoners” bunker. Some guerrillas ought to have been there to stand guard.”

“Bien sur!” Lieutenant Marceau cut in. “We could hear them chattering only minutes before you arrived.”

“They have gone off to warn the others. We had better get busy here, Hans,” said Erich. “I’m going to set up a perimeter right away.”

“Do that, Erich. Take four platoons with MG’s.”

I turned to Karl. “You should deploy along the ravine to cover the trail with flamethrowers.”

“I have only four tanks left, Hans.”

“Then take more machine guns.”

Karl and Erich left and I walked to Corporal Altreiter, who had just set up the wireless aerials. “Report to HQ… I request the immediate dispatch of helicopters to evacuate twenty-eight wounded Legionnaires liberated from Viet Minh captivity. Eisner will give you the coordinates. Tell HQ that we will guide the copters by straight signals transmitted at one-minute intervals on the usual frequency.”

“Say, Hans,” Riedl cut in, “how about asking for some supplies. Flamethrower tanks, for instance.”

“And booze,” Krebitz added, shaking his empty canteen. “We could also use some more tracer ammo.”

I turned to Riedl. “Draw up a quick list for Altreiter but make it a short one. Otherwise the copters will never get here. Sergeant Krebitz! Begin with the demolition.”

“Don’t demolish your prisoners,” Lieutenant Marceau interposed. “I am looking forward to seeing the canaille. We still have scores to settle.”

“Do you want to… entertain them, Marceau?”

“You bet I do,” said he. “Do you know what those bastards did to us? They forced us to eat shit… real shit, I mean. When I demanded more food for my men, the Viet Minh commander ordered us to chew their excrement. He thought it was funny.”

“Don’t say—”

“He said it was a great honor for us colonialist pigs to eat the shit of a Viet Minh hero.”

“Well, that is a new one!” Eisner exclaimed. “I know a few original Red jokes but that beats them all.”

“For us it wasn’t so funny,” the lieutenant retorted grimly. “Three of our men who refused to comply were dumped head first into the latrine and kept submerged until they choked to death… A very unpleasant way to die.”

“Their commander is dead but you can have the rest of them. Have fun,” I said.

“Fair enough,” Marceau nodded. “I am looking forward to it.”

After his sores had been dressed, I led him to the prisoners. Slowly, Marceau walked past the sullen group, recognizing some of them. “Comrade Nguyen Ho and Comrade Muong Ho,” he said softly and turned toward me. “You still have a fairly good collection here. I would appreciate it if you could take them to where my men are resting, for soon the comrades are going to have their dinner, and no one would want to miss the show.”

“A dinner similar to the one they gave you?”

“Oh, no.”

Marceau shook his head, allowing his eyes to travel from face to face. “We are much too civilized to feed men on shit.”

We returned to the Legionnaires, some of whom were busy shaving and washing themselves. (Before our nurses appeared on the scene the suggestion of shaving and washing had been dismissed en masse with a loud “What the hell for” or “We’ll do that in Hanoi.”

) In the camp, the demolition work was already under way; thuds, cracks, small explosions could be heard everywhere as Sergeant Krebitz and Gruppe Drei proceeded to destroy guerrilla equipment. The crates of medical supplies had been carefully opened. Zeisl removed what we needed; the rest of the drugs were then intermixed, the containers resealed, and left in place as though we had entirely overlooked the small underground depot. The Viet Minh was always hard up for drugs and in most instances our undoubtedly mean but deadly ruse would liquidate a large number of terrorists by “delayed action,” as Sergeant Krebitz put it. Malaria was always a problem for the Viet Minh and the terrorists readily consumed any drug bearing the label “quinine bisulphate.”

Entire Viet Minh battalions had been wiped out in this fashion. Sometimes, when we heard that a guerrilla detachment was hard up for food, we permitted a truckload of foodstuffs to fall into their hands. The enemy carried away everything, unaware that we had mixed rat poison, containing strychnine, into the flour and the sugar.

Should one call our ruse “chemical warfare”? After all, twenty-nine of my men had died of wounds caused by poisoned Viet Minh arrows, spears, and stakes.

Lieutenant Marceau indeed arranged a “dinner” for the captive Viet Minh. He forced them to swallow their leaflets and printed propaganda manuals, page by page. When one of them stopped chewing, Marceau poked the man with a bayonet and occasionally topped the meal with a spoonful of printing paint, commenting, “Have some pudding too.”

Then tearing up and distributing the propaganda material, he shouted, “Chew, you canaille… It is surely better tasting than shit.”

The “dinner” lasted for the better part of two hours. The apres-souper wine was machine oil. When a prisoner resisted, a narrow rubber hose was forced into his mouth and he would either swallow or choke to death. Soon the last of them collapsed. Others still writhed in the grass or were already dead, lying in pools of vomit, black paint oozing from their lips and nostrils.

But we did keep our part of the bargain: the guerrilla who had led us to the underground prison was set free. Eisner even gave him a large sack of foodstuffs with a grunt. “That’s for your wife and children. Instead of roaming the countryside with a gun you should stick to the hoe and take care of your family.”

He gave the terrorist a kick, sending him head over heels toward the trail, then he called Schulze on the walkie-talkie: “There’s a pig heading your way. Let him pass.”

Lieutenant Marceau was standing over the last dying terrorists. “Eh, bren,” he said, dropping the container with the remaining paint. “They are black enough to join their fellow devils in hell.”

“How about this show?” Eisner said when it was all over. “Only a few more Communist brutalities and we are going to celebrate the birth of the first French SS division in Indochina—composed entirely of grudging democrats.”

He chuckled. “They might call it AB or BC but it is going to be SS from A to Zed.”

He extended his arm in a mocking Nazi salute. “Vive la France! Sieg Heil!”

“Merde!” Lieutenant Marceau commented. “One does not have to be an SS man to slaughter these pigs. They aren’t human.”

“You are right! They aren’t human. That is precisely what we have been saying for five years.”

Early in the afternoon the copters emerged from behind the hills. Pfirstenhammer fired Very lights to guide them. There was no place to land and the copters had to keep hovering above the trees. The crew lowered the supplies for us, along with a bundle of letters, then hauled the Legionnaires aboard. I received a long letter from Lin Carver. In the envelope I found a color picture of her with a small poodle. She still addressed me “My dear Hans” and complained that I wrote so seldom…

Dear little Lin, I thought, wondering if I would ever see her again. Sitting on an ammo case, I wrote her a quick note, promising a long letter when we returned to Hanoi.