The Improbable Journeys of Billy Battles

Chapter 16-2

“Keep sopping up the blood.” Then he turned

to Difranco. “I need you to hold the wound open with these clamps

so I can remove any bullet fragments and clean out the wound. I

just hope it isn’t too late.”

After several minutes of probing, Dr. Son

removed a lead bullet fragment from an area near one of Ba’s

kidneys. Then he swabbed out the wound, sprinkled it with carbolic

acid and sulfur, and stitched it up. The operation had lasted about

thirty minutes, but for Difranco and me, it seemed like three

hours.

That night, we learned how Ba was wounded. A

few weeks after we last saw Ba and his men at Difranco’s pepper

plantation, he had linked up with a few more stragglers from

Commander Pham’s guerilla force. They constructed the base camp we

were in and proceeded to conduct raids into Cambodia.

One day, after a raid, Ba and about sixty

men — were attacked by a much larger French militia force. It was

comprised of Algerian, Moroccan, Senegalese, and Annamite soldiers

led by French officers. The French Army had superior weapons, and

Ba’s men were low on ammunition after expending so much of it in

Cambodia. Ba decided to withdraw. As he stood up to order a retreat

into the jungle, he was hit. Two of his men managed to pull him to

safety, and a few hours later, they were able to elude the French

militia force and return to the relative safety of their base

camp.

“That was about five days ago,” one of Ba’s

officers explained in broken French. “We think we may be attacked

at any time, but we are ready.”

I shot an apprehensive glimpse at Difranco

and Dr. Son.

“I’m not eager to become a combatant,” Dr.

Son said. “But I think it will be a few days before Ba is out of

danger from the surgery. I can’t leave until I am sure there is no

infection.”

“Well, we can’t go tonight in any case,”

Difranco said. “Let’s see what tomorrow brings.”

That night, the three of us slept on mats in

one of the command post huts. As is often the case in the jungle,

the temperature dropped, and I wrapped myself in one of the wool

blankets Difranco had brought along. The next morning, I awoke to

find that Difranco and Dr. Son had already left the shelter. As I

stepped outside, I heard voices inside Ba’s hut a few feet away,

and when I entered, I saw Ba sitting up and smiling.

“William,” he rasped as I entered the hut,

“Dr. Son has saved my life.”

Dr. Son turned Ba over and changed the

dressing on the wound. Then he applied more carbolic acid and

sulfur on the area he had stitched up.

“Well, for the time being at least,” Dr. Son

said. “But if he isn’t careful, he will make a liar of me.”

Difranco looked at me and nodded toward the

door. “Let’s move outside.”

When Difranco and I were standing outside,

he explained the situation in which we found ourselves.

“I was up early this morning and spent time

talking to the other leaders. Ba is one of four. All four came down

from Annam after Commander Pham’s death. They agreed to meet in

this area to establish a new base of operations.”

“I figured Ba wasn’t finished with the

insurgency—”

Difranco took me by the elbow, and we walked

away from the hut toward the parameter of the base camp.

“It turns out the camp was set up in order

to lure government militia forces into an ambush,” he said. “Look

at this place. Bunkers, trenches, and that vast open area

encircling the camp sprinkled with booby traps where men trying to

cross it would be slaughtered. Then there are the tunnels.”

“Tunnels?”

“Yes, the camp is honeycombed with an

underground tunnel system complete with hidden air vents. Some of

the tunnels lead several hundred yards into the surrounding jungle

to concealed exits where they can be used to escape or to attack an

advancing enemy force from the rear or flank.”

“It sounds like they have thought this out

pretty well.”

Difranco surveyed the parameter. “That’s the

point. They want an attack. In fact, they are expecting one any

time now.”

I could see the concern on Difranco’s face,

and I knew why.

“And here we are right in the middle of it,”

I said.

Difranco’s expression darkened. “Exactly.

What happens if the place is overrun or if we are captured? How do

we explain our presence here? I can see everything I’ve built being

seized and perhaps even a prison sentence. Where does that leave

Linh Thi?”

He was right. If the camp was attacked, what

would we do? Fight back? Try to surrender? Hide?

“As much as I dislike the French

authorities, I don’t feel right fighting against them,” he said.

“That’s why I have decided to leave today and head back to

Saigon.”

That news didn’t exactly surprise me, but it

left me in a quandary. Should I return to Saigon with Difranco? On

the other hand, should I stay with Dr. Son, whom I had

inadvertently implicated in Ba’s war with the French? The answer

was quick in coming. I would stay with Dr. Son. I couldn’t, in good

conscience, leave him here in the jungle.

“Damnation. I figured you would say that,”

Difranco said.

“But you should go,” I said. “If they catch

you here, you could lose everything, including your freedom.”

Difranco nodded and flashed a grin. “Okay…

but don’t tell your mother I left you alone in the jungle.”

I laughed. “She will never know. Just leave

two of the saddle horses behind and let me get my Colt and

ammunition from the carriage.”

Two hours later, I watched Difranco and his

three men leave the base camp. It was a strange sensation seeing

his carriage disappear along the narrow pathway. I found myself

feeling oddly alone. Perhaps it was the fact that I was in the

middle of an inhospitable jungle unexpectedly involved in an

insurgency that I knew nothing about nor had any allegiance to.

After they had gone, I returned to Ba’s hut.

He was sitting at a small table with the three other commanders. I

couldn’t understand what they were saying, but it looked like they

were working out the details of how to lure the French militia

forces into an ambush and defend the base camp.

Dr. Son got up from his chair and motioned

for me to join him outside.

“It is probably good that Mr. Difranco

left,” he said. “I don’t think the other commanders were

comfortable with him being here.”

I hadn’t thought about that. Even though

Difranco was more Italian than French, the fact that he was a

plantation owner didn’t endear him to the insurgents.

“So what do you think is going to happen?

And how long do you want to stay here?”

“Ba needs a least a week of medical

attention in order to recover properly,” Dr. Son said. “As for the

attack, it can come anytime. The camp is on high alert, and they

have patrols out on every possible approach so the attack will not

be a surprise.”

I wondered how many trained soldiers and

modern weapons the insurgents had. It was difficult to tell. There

were women, children, and elderly in the camp in addition to the

guerrillas.

“I heard one of the commanders say they had

about three hundred armed men,” Dr. Son said. He added that another

leader revealed he had brought about five hundred M93 Mauser rifles

and three dozen cases of smokeless seven-by-fifty-seven-full metal

jacket ammunition—all purchased from Thai gun runners.

As we stood outside, the sky suddenly

darkened and unleashed a torrential rain. We were still in the dry

season, but the rain forest was still subject to downpours every

few days. The rain, hard as it was, felt good, and both of us stood

there getting soaked.

Ten minutes later, the rain stopped as

suddenly as it had begun, and I decided to walk the parameter of

the base camp to see for myself how its defenses were set up. I

buckled on my holster and shoved the Colt into it. It felt good

having the heavy revolver on my hip again. Ba ordered a man to go

with me so I wouldn’t inadvertently trip a booby trap.

There were thirty bunkers positioned around

the circular parameter of the base camp, all deftly concealed by

earth, trees, and shrubs. Each bunker was approximately twelve feet

from side to side and ten feet from the front to back. Only about

ten inches of the bunker was above ground. Solid teakwood logs

framed the exposed portion of the bunker with eight-inch high

openings cut into them so defenders could fire their rifles at

attackers. Inside each bunker was a case of new M93 Mauser rifles,

several wooden boxes of ammunition, medical supplies, food, and

water.

The bunker system had been well thought out.

Defenders could stay in the fortified shelters for days at a time

without having to leave for food, medical supplies, or

ammunition.

Two days passed, and Ba seemed to be getting

stronger. I asked Son when he thought we could leave. Son indicated

it would be another three days.

I had spent much of my time taking care of

the two horses Difranco had left behind for us. They needed some

good feed, and I managed to scour up some corn, beetroots, oats,

chaff, and carrots. I took them out of the camp to graze a little

and pried mud and dirt from the heel and frog of their hooves with

an improvised hoof pick made from bamboo. I also curried them as

best I could and lubricated the saddles and other leather tack with

gun oil.

Taking care of those horses made me a little

homesick. For a few fleeting moments, I thought I was back in

Kansas or Colorado and not in some Asian rain forest waiting for an

attack. I convinced one of the commanders to have some men help me

build a makeshift corral with a large lean-to for shade. I was

worried that the horses would bolt at the first sign of shooting,

and having them in a corral would help prevent that.

When I wasn’t working with the horses, I

spent time with Ba in his command hut. He was improving day by day

and now was actually able to walk around the camp. It was painful

for him, but he said it was important that his men see that he was

okay.

He asked me questions about Difranco. I told

him how he had fought for Italian independence with the Italian

patriot Garibaldi and how he was not really a supporter of French

colonialism.

“Yes, but he has four or five plantations

and employs hundreds of my people as coolies,” Ba said. “I have

heard some stories about poor conditions on a few of those

plantations.”

“I have been on all of his plantations, and

I only saw one where the people were not well treated. Difranco

fired the French foreman, shut down the plantation, and spent a lot

of money in making it a safe place to work.”

Ba didn’t respond.

“Look, I am not making excuses for Signore

Difranco or for French colonialism. But it seems to me that helping

to develop the economy of Cochinchina with exports of agricultural

products can be a good thing for the people.”

“Are you aware that some French-owned

plantations make their workers get up at five o’clock in the

morning to cook their own food? Then they work six days a week from

six in the morning until seven in the evening in the hot sun except

for fifteen minutes at noon to eat, drink, and relieve

themselves.”

I wasn’t about to argue with Ba. I had heard

the horror stories of native workers being mistreated by French

overseers. I had heard of workers being caned with bamboo rods on

their bare buttocks and the soles of their feet until the skin

resembled shreds of raw meat. I had heard of workers being locked

in dark, windowless rooms for days without food or water. I was

told of women workers who were taken from their husbands and

repeatedly violated by French and Viet foremen until many committed

suicide out of shame.

However, I knew Difranco, and I knew he was

a good man and did not condone such treatment. Nevertheless, I knew

I was never going to convince Ba that Difranco was not a foreign

exploiter of the native population. Even if he paid them a fair

wage and provided decent housing and medical care for them, he

would still be an invader.

“He is still a foreigner who is here because

the French masters are in control of everything,” Ba said. “There

will be a price to pay someday for this abuse, but I fear it will

not be in my lifetime.”