A Soldier Reports On Vietnam

Press, Volume CVI, Issue 31209, 5 November 1966, Page 5

A Soldier Reports On Vietnam

In this article, the first of two, General Moshe Dayan, former Commander-in-Chief of the Israeli Army, surveys the war in Vietnam from the point of view of the infantryman—and the Viet Cong captive. General Dayan served in the British Army in the Second World War. He planned and directed the successful campaign against the Egyptians in 1956.

VIET CONG cadres fighting in the Vietnam war are highly motivated idealists. A few days before I sat writing this diary a Viet Cong sergeant who had been taken prisoner was brought before Major General Larsen, commanding the ground forces in Vietnam. He was very young, with a fresh, open countenance. Larsen asked him two questions:

Was he recruited to the Viet Cong by force or did he volunteer? Volunteered, was his reply. Did he fall prisoner against his will or did he surrender? Against his will, he replied. If he were able, he would escape and fight on. Such men are treasures to any army, said Larsen. But in spite of their high morale, the Viet Cong Army is getting weaker and weaker. The units now arriving from the north are not as good as the predecessors. The are having a difficult time. Some of them fight barefoot. No boots. No sandals. Not enough food. Malaria takes its toll. The long march, the poor food, the sickness, and die continual bombing of the Ho Chi Minh trail drain their strength.

Hanoi too will break. Larsen remembers the faces of the Germans and the Japanese at the moment of their surrender. They were scared, broken. Human beings crack under the pressure of bombing that goes on day and night, for years. They collapse and give in.

One morning recently I set out with a platoon of 27 men on a patrol that was to have lasted three days and two nights; but we captured some prisoners, and we also had some mishaps, so we returned earlier.

It was very slow going indeed. From time to time we had to crawl under or climb over boughs, bamboo branches and creepers which covered the track. But even along the stretches which were clear of obstacles we moved carefully. Throughout the entire march, I was never without the feeling that at any moment we might find ourselves under fire from somewhere within the enclosing jungle, “threading” us all with a single burst. Why, oh why, can’t all wars be fought in the desert? There at least you can see what’s happening around you.

The track seemed like a narrow tunnel hewn out of the vegetation. The range of visibility was three or four paces at most. Nor did the effort of listening for the rustle of suspicious movement seem worth while—the ground was covered by a thick layer of leaves and rotting plants which absorbed the sound of steps. We looked for a path parallel to the stream, and we found one a short distance away which followed the contour of a slope. This was a good path, easy for walking, and it bore signs of having recently been used.

Booby Traps At first we noticed nothing special, apart from freshly lopped-off boughs and leaves to make the going easier. But as we went further, we came across sharp bamboo pegs—pungi—set at an angle to catch the feet, and, just beyond, two booby traps. These were grenades (American), with the firing pin removed, wedged into holes in the ground and covered by leaves and grass. Fortunately the mines were not properly camouflaged and they were spotted by our scouts. The patrol commander decided to detonate the mines, even though the noise might reveal our presence. He feared that if we stepped off the track to get round the obstruction, we might encounter other mines hidden in the undergrowth. It was now getting late, and It was evident that we would not reach our destination — our objective was to set up the ambush —while it was still light We had no alternative but to pick a nearby site and lie up for the night. The men of the patrol were very tense —and I no less than they. The physical effort of negotiating the tortuous tracks; the wet clothes —moving in the jungle you are always wet from the sweat and the rain and the combination of the two, and now we were also wet from the stream —and above all not knowing what might be lurking behind each bush was all exhausting.

Call For Fire The spot we had picked for the night did not dominate the surroundings. The exploding mines and the noise we had made crossing the stream must have revealed our position to anyone in the area. And the booby traps and obstructions on the path showed that Viet Cong troops were in the vicinity. The commander arranged his men in a semi-circle, their backs to the stream, their faces to the jungle, and ordered them to dig in. He then told his firing officer to call for artillery fire on the hilltop above us. If the Viet Cong were there, they should be hit; and if they were not, the shelling would keep them away. The first shells landed wide —the location had not been accurately given—but after a few corrections, they dropped just where they were wanted, on the top of the hill. Even though the explosions shook the jungle, the “arrival” of the artillery eased our tenseness. The feeling of being helpless and cut off vanished. We were linked to base. They now knew our exact location. If we were attacked, we would immediately receive air and artillery support, and we were already protected by a ring of shelling which systematically and steadily ploughed up the surrounding heights. Next day it took us more

than three-quarters of an hour to reach the vicinity of a Viet Cong group. The helicopters almost ran out of fuel. From time to time we heard machine-gun bursts from the helicopters who opened fire whenever their quarry tried to slip away. As we approached the Viet Cong site, we were guided by the pilot, rather like a mother shepherding her brood across a busy road: “Watch out in the bushes to your right. Give them a burst.” “Scatter.” “Not so close to the water— I think I saw a couple of black pyjamas” (Viet Cong dress). “Now I’ll fly in low, and you jump forward. To the trees. Ready? Okay—Go!” The helicopter dived, both machine-guns firing on the ground and the patrol charged forward. The Viet Cong rose from the grass and lifted their hands in surrender. Seen By Helicopters There were six. One lay with a thigh wound and one was sick. The other four had two rifles and a sub machinegun between them. The wounded man, a sergeant, was in charge of the group. He explained— we had an interpreter with us, a South Vietnamese officer —that the rest of the unit left the area the previous night, when shelling began, but this group, unable to move at night, because of the sick man and his own wound, remained here.

They had hoped to find a hiding place and in two or three days, when all was quiet again, to rejoin their unit. When they were near the stream they were spotted by the helicopters. They could not escape. At first they had fired on the aircraft and then they had tried to hide among the trees. The story sounded feasible. To the question what direction their unit had taken, they replied that they did not know. Nor were they able —or willing—to explain how they expected to find their unit when the danger was over. They looked weak, but not helpless, and their weapons were clean and oiled. Our medical orderly undid the bandage of the wounded man to rebandage him and said he thought the wound was a few days old and seemed to have been caused by a shell or bomb-slinter.

No Papers They carried no papers or documents—if they had, they had managed to destroy or hide them—and in their kitbags were found, besides rice rations and spare uniform, rope to carry the wounded, and bandages.

The unit to which the prisoners belonged had camped above the stream. The first thing we came across was the kitchen, a row of ovens dug into the ground. What was special about them were their chimneys. To stop the smoke from rising and giving away their position, horizontal chimneys—narrow channels—led from the sides of the stoves and at the other end split into several “pipes,” thus scattering the smoke. In the base of the stoves we found remnants of still-hot embers beneath a layer of rain-drenched ashes.

After returning from the patrol I stayed at a camp in which were 12 Americans and some 300 locally-recruited Vietnamese. These are Montagnards, a diverse unit ranging in age from 14 to 70. Drawn up on morning parade they make a rousing sight

Went Silent

I asked to spend the night there when I learned that the American intelligence sergeant would be carrying out the first interrogation of the prisoners captured by the patrol. I was anxious to be present and find out at first hand something of the Viet Cong army. The interrogation took place in the “club-house” next to the dining room. The prisoner, the wounded Viet Cong sergeant, sat on a straw chair. Across the table from him sat the American sergeant, with the Vietnamese interpreter between them. The interpreter’s English was poor, and clearly a vulgarisation of the languagestyle of the answers. Even when the prisoner-sergeant gave what was obviously a detailed explanation, the interpreter chose to precis it in “basic English.” When I joined them, the

interrogation had reached a crisis. The prisoner ceased to reply. Early in the evening he had answered the questions, mainly of a technical nature, but when the interrogator started talking him on general issues, he “froze” and uttered not a word. Volunteered In the exchanges that had taken place before my arrival he had given the following facts: Age, 20. Joined the army two and a half years ago. Comes from a village. His father had been a tenant farmer, but with agrarian reform (confiscation of landowner’s estates and distribution of the land to those who worked it) he had received his own plot of one mau (half a mau equals two and a half acres) and is now a member of the co-operative. The family’s economic position has improved, thanks to the reform. He, the prisoner, was not recruited to the army; he volunteered. Young men who do not volunteer are taken on a 16-day ideological course, where they hear explanations of the national and social duty to join the army and fight for the liberation of the South. At the end of the course they are asked (collectively) if they are ready to volunteer, and none dares to refuse. After he joined, he was sent on a leaders’ course (cadre), completed his military training and served two years in the north. Five months ago, his unit got orders to leave for the south. The first stage of the journey was done by train (from Thoung Tin station to Dolen in the province of Than-Hoa). From there they continued on foot. They walked to Quang Binh, crossed the border into Laos and con-

tinued southwards, through Laos and Cambodia, into South Vietnam.

Wounded In Ambush Here in this area, he has been five weeks. He took part in two engagements, in one of which his unit attacked a forward post of the Vietnam army. In the second when they ambushed a military convoy on Route 19. In the attack on the Vietnamese, they suffered eight killed and 12 wounded, but they succeeded in capturing the post (a village militia station) and seizing weapons and equipment (five machine-guns, 60 rifles, ammunition and radio transmitters).

In the ambush, they had to retire hurriedly, as planes came to the help of the convoy and bombed the area. It was in this bombing that he was wounded in the thigh, four days previously. To the sergeant’s question about additional wounded in the bombing, he said that he did not know; and to the question about morale in his unit, he did not reply. The interrogator told the interpreter to tell the prisoner that he could talk or remain silent, as he wished. No harm would come to him. But he, the interrogator, knew why he did not reply. The troops in his unit were disappointed and despondent. They had no food and knew now that they could not beat the Americans. They knew that theirs was a lost war. Their families in North Vietnam, too, were embittered. No roads. No electricity. No food. The daily rice ration in Hanoi was cut from 750 grams to 140. How could soldiers fight when their families were starving?

The prisoner sat in his chair, outwardly unperturbed. I thought he was continuing his “silence strike,” but he suddenly looked up and said to his interrogator; “But our soldiers know that in Hanoi everyone gets the same ration. They divide equally, what there is. There are no rich and poor.” Drawn By Argument The American, seeing that the prisoner might refuse to answer questions but could be drawn into an argument, switched to another subject. “You know what war is, yet you go out with machineguns and mortars to fight planes and guns.” “The French also had planes, guns and tanks, yet we beat them.”

The interrogator widened

the subject. “The French fought against your government. They denied you independence and so the whole nation rose up against them. But we are helping the Government of Vietnam, the Saigon Government, and we wish neither to conquer you nor exploit you.” Answer By Heart This line was familiar to the Viet Cong prisoner, and he had his answer pat. “The Americans are imperialists and neo-colonialists —he used the French pronunciation—and General Ky and his clique are traitors and not a government. They are your servants, bought by you. You are here like the French—to enslave us, to turn Vietnam into your military base and colony.” The interrogator asked for more coffee to be brought. In the dining room, a huge pot of coffee stands on the fire day and night. The pain of the wound, the shock of capture, and a general weariness weighed heavily on the Viet Cong prisoner, and it was evident that in hurling his sharp answers at the American sergeant he had found some release from his emotional pressures. He drank his coffee in great gulps and sweat poured from him.

The American sergeant resumed the conversation and said that in this camp there was a corporal who transferred, with his men, from the Viet Cong to the Government forces. He did this because he realised that the Americans did not enslave, but help the people of Vietnam.

Sickness, Hunger The prisoner said nothing, and the sergeant tried to link the story to the line of interrogation: Weren’t there deserters from the prisoner’s unit? Didn’t some of them run away? The prisoner answered that there were some deserters —but not because they went over to the Government and the American side: it was because they had broken. They did not have the stamina to continue fighting under the difficult conditions.

The interrogator pressed him. What was specially difficult? Lack of food? Air bombing? Sickness? All these, said the prisoner.

After a moment’s reflection he remembered something. A week before, two men had deserted “because of the mortar bombs.” They were porters who carried the shells for the mortars. The Viet Cong pack their shells in straw “nests”—like bottles of

Chianti—and tie them to a bamboo pole which is borne on the shoulders of two men. During the attack on the Vietnam militia post they tried to fire their mortars but the shells did not work. They were spoiled. After that, the porters said that they did not want to continue. For three months they had plodded, carrying the shells, and in the end they were of no use. Their company commander had talked to them, explaining, persuading, but it did not help. A week before, they had disappeared. They were good soldiers, but weak. They had broken. I do not know what prompted the interrogator to do so, but he reacted to this with sneering contempt. “And you want me to believe such tales? They deserted not because of your shells but because of our shells. They were scared of the bombing. They

knew that if they went on fighting against us, they’d get killed in a bombardment. You can’t fight planes with rifles. Your soldiers know this. They’re all afraid of the air bombing and they want the war to stop. Only your leaders, Giap and Ho Chi Minh, who are far from the front — at home in Hanoi—don’t care. It’s they who don’t want to stop the war.” Defiant Enemy When the interpreter had finished translating, the wounded prisoner leaned on the table and said to him: “Tell the American that this is not true. We are not scared. They, the Americans, are scared —scared to be here because they’re scared to die. We are not afraid to fight and we are not afraid to die. This is our country and our war.” He then turned to the American interrogator, looked him straight in the eye, and spat in his face. In an even voice, he said: “Now you can kill me, I’m not afraid. It’s you who are afraid.”

Copyright 1966, “Sunday Telegraph" and “Maariv”, Tel-aviv. Reproduction in whole or in part forbidden.

Across s—An5 —An implement sent back for plunder. (4) 7 The first man got it in the neck! (5, 5) 8— Just the right place for a post office in the street. (4) 10 — Sending out eastern delegation. (8) 11— Those who hold sway will take certain measures. (6) 12 — Big come-back by good French primate. (6) 14—More than one girl is in a shocking mess! (6) 16— Next to some of the robes I described. (6) 17— This may cause the consumer to get cracking (3-5) 19—This I can make part of the castle! (4) 21—See 9 down. 22 and 5Dn. Loud, wild, but I altogether perfect! (8)

Down 1— Permit to go by. (4) 2 A parent in the ship suffocates. (8) 3 See 9 Down. 4 This may help to make a comfortable seat for the season. (6) 5 See 22 Across. 6 Dismissed from the fraternity for not keeping to the rules of debate? (3,2,5) 9—2lAc. and 3Dn. Smoothing the big rollers by . lubrication! (7,3,2,8,6) 13—Nocturnal creature—or an infant born in the outback! (44) 15— He has collections all round for bedclothes. (6) 16— A loud roar, but more than one is needed for fanning the flames. (6) 18—Display broadcast about the end of March (4) 20 —Gave an order to be written about the present time. (4) (Solution Page 13)