A Dirty Distant War by E. M. Nathanson

Author:E. M. Nathanson [Nathanson, E. M.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Regenesis Press
Published: 2014-01-24T00:00:00+00:00

• • •

In the darkness and mist, within the town and forming an enveloping barrier to part of it, the wall of the fort loomed above Reisman and his two companions as they made their way along a path that separated the citadel from paddies on the west. Their escort was gone now and they were on their own. Ho Chi Minh and Kita Shidehara had pointed the direction of their march and left them half an hour earlier atop the levee on the south side of the Song Ky Cung.

The high wall of the fort was formidable, in an eighteenth- or nineteenth-century way. Reisman knew about places like this. Perhaps a Vauban, he thought, as he moved swiftly along its massive base. All over Europe, colonial America and the outposts of western empires in the Far East, similar strongholds had gone up in those centuries, based on the fortification designs of the great seventeenth-century French marshal and engineer. This one was doubtless here as much to keep the natives of the Lang Son region subjugated as it was to defend their land against invaders.

Reisman knew about places like this for the same reason he knew about Sun Tzu’s ancient Principles of War. He had an intellectual as well as a practical interest in the arts, implements and making of war. Over the years he had read much of the military literature of the ages. Coming upon the fort like this, secretively in the night, gave him an unsettling reminder of the death and destruction he had helped wreak upon the Chinese stronghold of Caojian. He assumed that the citadel here was much larger, stronger and better manned, but he knew how useless it was in twentieth-century war, except as a place to quarter troops and store armaments—though there were those who might still put their faith in the strategic and tactical value of such a place.

He led Belfontaine and Filmore out of the paddies, rounded the southwest corner of the fort and saw ahead that the footpath joined a vehicle road leading to the lighted entry portal. He watched the activity there for a few minutes. The gateway doors were open. Two soldiers with slung rifles flanked the portal, scrutinizing vehicles and foot traffic; another soldier, wearing side arms—probably the corporal of the guard—was busy saluting, checking I.D.s and waving vehicles through. It was 1900 hours, still early enough in the evening for a fair number of vehicles, animals and pedestrians.

“You’re in charge from here, Philippe,” said Reisman softly. “You do the talking. We’re just going to walk up to them as if we belong here. Two Frenchies and a local boy coming in from patrol. The radio makes it look even better.”

“Mon Dieu! They will think we dropped from the moon.”

“Just get us inside to the commandant’s office with as little fuss as possible. We’ll be lucky if Filmore’s act holds up at the gate, but it doesn’t make much difference at this point.” He turned to Filmore and asked, “Do you speak French, Sergeant?”

“No, sir.

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