Laughter in the Shadows (14 page)

Pang Vao was obviously disappointed. His face fell but lit up when I said we might be able to offer some relief for his people. We could, for example, supply four or five tons of rice for Nong Het, several hundred blankets, and forty or fifty medical kits. We could also supply some carbines and pistols for his village chiefs, plus a community radio for Nong Het.

It didn’t compare to Pang Vao’s wish list, but the Meo leader was pleased with my offer and even asked me to repeat the list so he could take notes. When he finished jotting down the items I had mentioned, he looked up and smiled. Pang Vao said he knew we would help his people.

I wasn’t off the hook, however. Pang Vao added that he had a “special request.” He wanted
une enclume
for Nong Het.

I tried to think.
Une enclume
?

Seeing that I was puzzled, Pang Vao drew
une enclume
in the air. Horizontal and flat at one end, vertical and rounded at the other. It was about two feet high and very heavy. I finally got it. Pang Vao wanted an anvil. He explained that the Meo were skilled metal craftsmen, who made their own tools, flintlocks, and the famous Meo silver neckpieces. The only anvil in Nong Het had cracked and later broken in half. They desperately needed a new one.

I told Pang Vao we would try to get him an anvil, and before he could think of any other requests, I asked him to sit down at Wang Si’s desk so we could work out a plan for an airdrop.

Pang Vao knew all about drop zones, smoke signals, and “Ts,” so it didn’t take long to draw up a plan. When we finished, we poured two glasses of sum-sum from the bottle on Wang Si’s desk and toasted to the beginning of our relationship, a relationship that would one day lead to the White House.

The Helio

And when I go away from here, this will be the midpoint, to which everything ran, before, and
from
which everything will run.

—A. S. BYATT,
Possession

Pang Vao went back to Nong Het, and Wang Si and I went to work on the airstrip for the helio. Soldiers behind teams of water buffalo rooted up trees and dragged off boulders. White lime was poured into the furrows dug along the sides of the runway and into the “Xs” at either end.

Using the OB radio, I sent a message requesting the helio. I advised our people in Viensiang that the Ban Ban airstrip was clearly marked and secure. A return message advised that the helio would arrive at noon on the following day.

The next morning a crowd of Cham villagers and montagnards gathered at the airstrip to await the arrival of the “big bird.” An honor guard from the fort practiced marching up and down the field. Local merchants passed out rice cakes and bon-bons. Village elders followed with gourds of the local “white lightning.” Wang Si, as official greeter, was wearing a coat and tie for the occasion.

The crowd became quiet when they heard the droning noise off in the distance. The droning became louder until finally a silhouette appeared over the horizon. When the silhouette was directly overhead, it took on the form of a big silver emu. The helio had arrived.

The plane circled, dropped down, and came in low above the airstrip past the red and white windsock. I saw the pilot peering through the window, trying to decide whether or not to try to land. He apparently decided against landing, because the helio suddenly nosed back up and circled over the town until it dove down again toward the airstrip, coming in just above the trees. The helio hit the strip as the wing flaps banged down and roared past where I was standing. I could just make out the contorted face of the pilot fighting to keep the skittish jackdaw from veering off the runway and then lost sight of the plane as it disappeared into a cloud of red dust and white lime powder.

When the cloud lifted, the “big bird” sat vibrating, with its landing gears straddling the white “X.” If it had gone an additional ten feet, the helio would have plunged into the ravine. When the shaken pilot finally stepped down from the plane, two OB nurses ran out holding a “WELCOME TO THE LINDBERG OF BAN BAN!” banner. The village chief’s wife draped a lei of frangipani around his neck, Wang Si toasted the “great aviator” with a glass of sum-sum, and the honor guard passed in review.

The crowd surged onto the field to get a better look at the big silver bird. The scene would have made those St. Louis mechanics proud.

When we left the next morning, a smaller crowd was there to see us off, along with a bleary-eyed Wang Si. We taxied down the airstrip and lifted off almost straight up. Once we had leveled off and were heading back to Viensang, “Lindberg” turned and wagged his finger at me. “STOL, short takeoff and landing. But from now on, not that short, OK?”

Five Thousand Sweaters and an Anvil

As time went by our need to fight for the ideal increased to an unquestioning possession, riding with spur and rein over our doubts.

—T. E. LAWRENCE, Seven
Pillars of Wisdom

A grumbling Al Incolingo left for Bangkok with Pang Vao’s request for an anvil. The following day he sent a message saying he couldn’t find any “high quality” anvils in Bangkok and he would have to go to Singapore. He could be reached at the Raffles Hotel.

At the same time, an all-logistics message to all stations was sent requesting any surplus supplies of blankets. Okinawa came through with an unexpected dividend, having located a U.S. Army quartermaster warehouse stocked with a surplus of army blankets available in thousand blanket lots at a dollar per blanket. The same warehouse was having a “fire sale” on GI sweaters left over from the Korean War: five thousand sweaters for five hundred dollars.

Viensiang ordered the entire stock of blankets and sweaters plus four tons of triple-sacked rice and asked Okinawa to ship the supplies to Viensiang on the next available C-46. The message also requested authorization to use the C-46 for an airdrop into Nong Het.

Incolingo returned with a “high quality” anvil packed in oilskins attached to a red and white silk parachute. The blankets, sweaters, and rice arrived later in the week on a C-46 cargo plane.

The pilot was “Shower-Shoes” Wilson, who along with the late “Earthquake” Magoon, had gained fame as a CAT (China Air Transport, predecessor to the Agency’s Air America) pilot, dropping supplies to the beleaguered French garrison at Dien Bien Phu. Dien Bien Phu was not that far from Nong Het, so Wilson knew the area. Spreading out his aerial topographic map, Wilson pointed to Nong Het. It sat on a mountaintop surrounded by sharp ridges and limestone escarpments.

Wilson ran his finger along the spiny “horn-toad” ridges. “Dropping into Nong Het will be a real ‘sphincter test,’” he said. “The only way in is through the Tai Lap Pass. Winds funneling through that pass will toss the plane around like St. Vitus’ Dance. And Nong Het won’t be any picnic either. If your timing is off, the winds will carry that anvil and its parachute over into North Vietnam!”

Wilson said he intended to fly in low over the DZ, so we could “free-fall,” with no parachutes, the bundles of sweaters, blankets, and triple-sacked rice. If any bundles broke open, it wouldn’t matter, because sweaters and blankets were not fragile. As for the anvil, he would drop down to three hundred feet, just enough altitude to allow the parachute to open before hitting the ground, but not enough so it would drift into North Vietnam. Timing was everything.

I sent a message to Pang Vao to prepare for the airdrop.

Another case officer and I were the two “kickers” for the airdrop. We clambered in over the bundles as Wilson filed a phony flight plan for Bangkok in case there were Pathet Cham spies in the tower. Once we were airborne, Wilson altered course for Nong Het. An hour later we broke out of the clouds and Tai Lap Pass was dead ahead.

Wilson hadn’t exaggerated. The minute we flew into the pass, winds began buffeting the plane. Wilson had to fight the controls to keep the wings from scraping the scabrous cliffs on either side. The whine of the engines was deafening when we entered the natural wind tunnel, and I had to cover my ears, already popping from the sharp change of altitude.

When we broke out of the pass, I went up to the cockpit to get a better view. The Annamite mountain chain running from North Vietnam down through Cham was below us. The area looked uninhabited until I spotted a clearing on a mountaintop. Once we got nearer the clearing, I could make out clusters of stilted huts: Nong Het.

Perched precariously on a steep promontory, Nong Het from the air looked like a toy village that had been lowered onto the mountain by a gigantic crane. Goats and sheep were grazing on patches of slash-and-burn stubble that backed up to terraced yellow poppy fields. In the middle of one of the patches was a white “T,” marking the drop zone.

A white grenade had just been thrown out on the drop zone to indicate the wind direction and signal that the DZ was secure. The whorls of white smoke dancing around the DZ recalled Wilson’s warning about the unpredictable wind currents in Nong Het.

On the first two passes, we kicked out the sweaters and blankets. then we made additional passes for the fifty-kilogram sacks of rice. When we had shoved out the last sack of rice, we braced our feet against the door and looked out.

The drop zone was a sea of olive-drab bundles scattered over the field. Several had broken open, leaving sweaters dangling like scarecrows from nearby trees. One goat, with a blanket draped over it, looked like the midshipmen’s mascot trotted out for the for the Army-Navy football game. Other goats and sheep grazed on the field unfazed by the bundles raining down around them.

Two blasts on Wilson’s Model-T horn warned us to get the anvil ready, and when the green light slashed, we pushed the oilskin bundle out the door. As Wilson had predicted, the parachute opened just above the ground, but a sudden gust of wind lifted it back up, carrying it off toward North Vietnam. Then, just as suddenly, a downdraft collapsed the parachute, and the anvil careened down into the ravine. As the plane pulled up, we could see figures scrambling down to retrieve it.

Wilson made a final pass over the DZ to signal that the drop was over. Pang Vao stood on a pile of blankets, pointing to the oil-skin bundle brought back up from the ravine. He saluted, recognition of a commitment fulfilled.

Several days after the drop, Pang Vao sent a message asking me to come to Nong Het. He would send an escort to meet me in Ban Ban.

I flew into the new Ban Ban “airport” on the helio. The airstrip was already paying off. A lieutenant from Pang Vao’s garrison, along with two Meo guides armed with flintlocks, were waiting outside Wang Si’s office. After exchanging greetings with Wang Si, we left for Nong Het.

At first I had little trouble keeping up with my escort, but once we began to climb into the mountains, I began to flag. After several hours, we finally stopped. A toothless old Meo stood in the middle of the trail holding out a gourd of sum-sum. Following the example of the lieutenant, I crooked my elbow and drank. The potent Meo homebrew burned down through my esophagus, then hit my stomach with such a jolt it made my eyes water. The jolt did, however, revive me, and I was able to continue our trek into the mountains.

At dark we stopped in a Meo village. We were invited to stay with the chief and his extended family, including a dead uncle propped up in a corner of the hut with a rice bowl in his lap. I was told he would remain there until they finished hewing out his coffin.

I slept soundly over the pigs and chickens, and the latter’s cackling awakened me in time to have a bowl of rice before setting off again. Around noon we emerged from the forest onto a rock ledge. The ledge overlooked a deep gorge with a river rushing along a series of white-water rapids. The view was spectacular, almost as spectacular as the monkey bridge spanning the gorge.

The monkey bridge was a long tress of plaited vines, anchored at either end by gnarled saplings rubbed bare by the straining sinews, which gave them the appearance of dislocated femurs. Two vine handrails completed the bridge’s “V” silhouette.

My hope that there was another way around the gorge was dashed when I saw one of the guides step onto the bridge. He grabbed the handrails, steadied himself, and began lithely walking across the bridge as effortlessly as a Wallanda walking the tightrope. When he stepped off onto the other side, the second guide followed him making his way across the bridge as effortlessly as the first. Then it was my turn.

The winds had picked up, causing the bridge to sway. My feet were shaking as I grabbed the handrails, causing the bridge to sway and vibrate even more. I was sure it was going to turn upside down and drop me into the gorge, but suddenly the wind stopped gusting and I was able to put one foot in front of the other and make my way slowly across the bridge. I held so tightly onto the handrail that my palms were blistered by the time I stepped off onto the other side.

There were to be more monkey bridges along the way, but getting across them became easier each time, with the periodic infusions of sum-sum. On the third day, the trail began to widen, and we broke out onto a dirt road. Nong Het lay just ahead.

I looked down the road and saw that both sides were lined with Meo. Pang Vao had turned out the entire village to welcome us. The villagers were all ages and sizes; withered crones, grizzled patriarchs, warriors armed with cross bows, women with silver neckpieces, and papooses peeking over their shoulders. They all had one thing in common: they were all wearing olive-drab GI sweaters. Some had their sweaters on backwards, some had tied them around their waists. Ancien combatants stood proudly, with their medals pinned on next to toddlers with the sleeves of their sweaters touching the ground.