The Improbable Journeys of Billy Battles

Chapter 16-1

Chapter 16Another three months passed, and I was becoming an

old hand in Saigon. Not only did I know my way around town, but I

was also acquainted with the best spots to get good street food

such as that delicious soup called pho. I knew most of the street

vendors and a few of the pousse-pousse boys by name, and my

understanding of the local language was improving, though my

ability to speak it was still far from adequate.

Of course, I was acutely aware that the

natives viewed me as an uninvited interloper. I rationalized that

feeling by telling myself I was not one of the French masters the

people so resented and that I was not a permanent resident. In

short, I felt very much at home in Saigon.

Then one day, I received a letter from

Katharina, and my contentment was rudely interrupted. The letter

was about a month old, which was about the time it took for mail to

travel from the U.S. and Europe to Cochinchina in 1896. She was in

Chicago, and she was not happy. I had written her two months before

while she was still in Germany and told her that if I returned to

the United States at all, it would be to Denver and not Chicago. I

explained that after more than two years away, I needed to spend

time with my daughter and mother.

Her letter was dripping with disappointment.

And naturally, I felt guilty. It was bad enough that I still felt

guilty for having left my daughter behind in Denver. Now I had more

penance to deal with.

One evening, an Annamite man appeared at

Difranco’s house with a message for me. I had just finished writing

a letter to Katharina telling her that I had decided to return to

Denver, and that after spending ample time there, I would also be

coming to Chicago.

The man spoke no English and very little

French. He told Linh Thi and Difranco in the local dialect that Ba

was ill and wanted me to go with him and to bring along Dr. Son. Ba

was in Tay Ninh Province along the border of the French

Protectorate of Cambodia. The man would guide me to him.

“Not a good idea for you to go alone,

William,” Difranco said. “I will go with you and take a few of our

security men. That is dangerous country up there. In any case, we

can’t leave until tomorrow. It is ill-advised to travel at

night.”

Linh Thi was beside herself, pleading with

Difranco not to go. I felt responsible for her distress and told

Difranco that it was not necessary that he come with me.

“This is one of Ba’s men… He knows Ba and I

are friends. Nothing will happen to me.”

Linh Thi looked at me and then at Difranco.

“I think William is correct. He will be okay.”

I nodded at Linh Thi. “Look, he wants me to

bring Dr. Son so I will not be going alone. Let me see if he will

come along.”

Linh Thi quickly grabbed a piece of paper

and a fountain pen and wrote Dr. Son’s address on it along with a

short note in the Viet language. She then handed it to the

messenger and told him to take it to Dr. Son’s house.

“What did you write?” I asked.

“I asked if he would be willing to accompany

you to Tay Ninh tomorrow to attend to Ba.”

Difranco looked at Linh Thi and then at me.

“That’s fine, but I am still going with you, William. After all, I

made a promise to your mother that I would look out for you,” he

said with a grin.

“Christ, that was eighteen years ago,” I

said.

“My, doesn’t time fly,” he responded. “In

any case, I am coming with you.” With that, a crestfallen Linh Thi

left the room.

We were up and ready to go by five the next

morning. One of Difranco’s two-horse carriages was waiting on the

drive in front of the house. The distance to Tay Ninh from Saigon

was close to sixty miles, which meant that we would need to take

four extra horses so we could change them about every twenty-five

miles.

Dr. Son had replied to Linh Thi’s note. He

would join Difranco and me on our journey. The three of us climbed

into the carriage behind the driver. Three of Difranco’s men and

Ba’s messenger rode saddle horses. As she always did, Linh Thi

thrust a large basket of food at Difranco and then whispered

something in his ear. He laughed aloud.

“What did she say?” I asked.

“She said if I get killed, she will kill

me.”

The road to Tay Ninh was like several others

we had traveled to Difranco’s plantations. It was dry and dusty and

cracked by a merciless sun. It led out of town to the northeast

through a brown terrain covered with the shriveled stubble of

desiccated rice fields. We were in the heart of the dry season,

which meant the heat was intense, often rising to 105 degrees.

The blistering sun beat down on us as our

contingent moved along at no more than ten miles an hour. We would

need at least ten hours to reach our destination not far from a

dormant volcano that Dr. Son said was named Núi Bà Đen or Black

Virgin Mountain.

The mountain, he explained, was the center

of an ancient myth about a woman named Bà Đen, who committed

suicide on the peak after the soldier she loved betrayed her for

another woman. As we continued, we passed one thatched village

after another, most situated on the edge of parched tropical

forests.

Along the way, we wondered what might be

ailing Ba.

“I am sure it must be malaria,” Dr. Son

said. “I have brought along a few bottles of Warburg’s Tincture

just in case. It’s an antipyretic remedy containing quinine and

herbs that the British use effectively in India. If it’s something

else, like dysentery, then I am sure I will find something in

here.” He patted his leather medical bag.

About five hours into our journey, we

stopped at a small village situated along a muddy stream. There we

changed horses and took an early lunch at a small open-air

restaurant covered by a sagging thatched roof. We ate pho soup

garnished with green onions, ginger, basil and lemon wedges. Large

bowls of boiled rice adorned the table along with a platter of

stir-fried pork with peanuts, lime, and basil. A Nước mắm pha

dipping sauce was also served. It was a delightful meal even though

it was served in what most Westerners would consider primitive

conditions.

It was close to five o’clock in the

afternoon when we arrived at a spot where our road intersected with

two others. Ba’s messenger told us to wait, and he rode off down

the smaller of the two roads. We moved our horses and carriage into

the shade of the forest and relaxed on the fresh green undergrowth.

An hour later, Ba’s messenger returned with a squad of twelve armed

insurgents.

They led us down the same road for about

three miles, and then we turned onto a smaller pathway barely wide

enough for Difranco’s carriage. That path curled upward through

dense jungle-covered hills and forests of swaying coconut palms.

Difranco, Dr. Son, and I were walking now because carriage’s wheels

sank into the wet forest floor with us in it.

As we walked along the trail, I noticed a

couple of the insurgents turn to Dr. Son and point out things on

the ground and in the jungle. I caught up with Dr. Son and asked

him what they were showing him.

“They were showing me where they put mẹo

lừa,” he said. “I don’t know how to say it in English, but in

French, it is traquenard. Maybe stupid traps might be

a good translation.”

“We call them booby traps,” I said.

“Yes, well, they were showing me how to

avoid them by knowing the markings that are designed to alert

friendly forces.”

We walked a while longer, and then one of

Ba’s men stopped and pointed out a small sapling broken and bent

from the top with most of its branches stripped from it. One branch

was left on the sapling, and it pointed down the trail ahead of us.

It was a sign designed to warn friendly forces.

“Có một cái bẫy mìn 100

mét về phía trước,” the man said to Dr. Son.

“He says there is a booby trap about one

hundred yards ahead.”

A bit further on Ba’s man held up his hand

for us to stop. Then he knelt down and cleared away an area

camouflaged by brush and undergrowth on top of a thin thatched mat

that covered a rectangular area about two feet wide and four feet

long. He lifted the thatched mat to reveal about two dozen bamboo

stakes with the sharpened end facing down at an angle.

“Mẹo lừa,” the man said, flashing a pleased

smile at us.

“Mon Dieu, comment brutale,” Difranco

said.

“Brutal” was the correct word. The intent of

this trap was clear. If an enemy stepped into the trap, he would

not be able to remove his leg without sustaining grave damage. The

razor sharp sticks would rip the flesh from his leg when he tried

to pull it out.

The insurgent then closed the hatch and

returned the brush and undergrowth until it looked just like the

rest of the path. We continued on our way. Behind us, Difranco’s

driver maneuvered the horses and carriage around the trap.

About fifteen minutes later, we came to a

ring-shaped encampment protected and fortified along the outer rim

by dozens of bunkers and trenches.

A two-hundred-yard swath at the front of the

camp had been cleared of trees and brush, giving defenders a clear

field of fire clear at any attackers or unwanted intruders. At the

camp’s rear and flanks, fully exposed and parched rice paddies

stretched some seven or eight hundred yards, affording insurgents

an unobstructed view of any military force that might attempt to

attack from those positions.

Inside the camp’s parameter were a dozen or

so thatched huts built on stilts, twenty or thirty raised sleeping

platforms, a couple of cook houses, and a few larger huts that

served as command posts.

We were led to one of the larger huts, and

that is where we found Ba. He was lying on a flat bed of bamboo and

yellow matting. Near him on a shelf stood a statue of Buddha.

Smoking joss sticks sent a fragrant swirl into the air. A handful

of men squatted cross-legged near Ba, pouring over maps and talking

softly.

When Ba saw us enter, he raised himself up

on one elbow and smiled weakly.

“You came,” he said faintly. Then he coughed

and fell back onto the mat.

Dr. Son was the first to go to Ba. He

quickly examined him and then turned to Difranco and me.

“He doesn’t have malaria or dysentery. He’s

been shot.” Moments later, he issued orders in the Viet language to

boil several pots of water. In the meantime, he cut away Ba’s shirt

and turned him onto his side. A dark red and black wound revealed

where a bullet had entered his back near a kidney. Someone had

cauterized the wound without removing any shell fragments.

Then, turning to one of the men who had been

examining the maps, he asked when Ba had been shot.

When he heard the answer, Dr. Son stood up

and said, “Mon Dieu, Ce est un miracle qu’il ne est pas mort.” He

then turned to me and said, “He was shot a week ago. It’s a wonder

he is not already dead.”

Dr. Son then ordered a wooden table moved

into the hut from one of the cook sheds. He spent a few minutes

washing down the wooden table with scalding water and then had Ba

placed on it.

Ba looked up at Dr. Son, apparently in pain.

“Thank you for coming…”

“You know, of course, that I am an

ophthalmologist, not a surgeon,” Dr. Son said. “I specialize in the

eyes, not bullet wounds.”

As he spoke, Dr. Son began removing

instruments from his bag. He also produced a liter bottle of

chloroform and a small mask that he placed over Ba’s mouth and

nose. He then proceeded to sterilize an array of scalpels, forceps,

clamps, and needles. When he was ready, he turned to Difranco and

me.

“I may need your assistance… Please wash

your hands in hot water. And keep the flies away.” He poured a

small amount of chloroform onto the mask and watched as Ba’s eyes

rolled up and closed. Then he turned him over onto his stomach and

reopened the cauterized wound. Immediately, a rivulet of dark-red

blood poured forth. Dr. Son handed me a bundle of gauze

bandages.