With the weather closing in, nimbostratus cloud now spreading out over the valley above Dien Bien Phu in a low, metallic-gray ceiling, the American air cavalry still had smoke to contend with. The aerial armada of helos carrying the battalion had to turn back — to the delight of Pierre LaSalle, who, from the safety of Hanoi, kept filing stories critical of the U.S. presence.
General Jorgensen called Freeman at Second Army’s HQ at Phu Lang Thuong. “Douglas. Harry Jorgensen here. Washington’s pressing me. They want to know if we can hold Disney Hill or whether you should pull out before casualties become unacceptable?”
“General, we have pulled back. By God, I hate to have to admit it but we have, and we’re still being hit. Those bastards of Wei’s are swarming out of those goddamn holes like ants. Trouble is—” There was a sizzle of static on the line. “—trouble is, we can’t pull back any farther, otherwise we’ll be waist high in paddy water.”
“I’m not saying pull back as far as Lang Duong, but if you can get out of the paddies onto higher ground, we can maybe move some armor in.”
“Negative. We’re between a rock and a hard place here. We withdraw any farther, we’ll have to fight waist high in mud. Turn into a goddamn turkey shoot for the Chinese. No, we’re going to have to make our stand where we’ve dug in between the base of the hill and the rice paddies. ‘Least TACAIR can hit the hillside.”
“But the choppers can’t see where they’re going.”
“General, you get me helos to bring those men in tonight, and I’ll counterattack.”
“What?” It was like being down twenty to zip in the Rose Bowl at halftime, Jorgensen thought, and the losing coach telling you he was going to win the game.
“Last thing they expect, General,” Freeman continued. “I’ve got — mortars… I need is the men.”
The static was getting worse, but whatever Freeman had said, Jorgensen told his aide in an aside that it was going to take more than mortars. Freeman’s forces were already running low on ammunition, and despite some blind drops into the smoke and mist, most of the ammo crates had disappeared underwater. Anyone who had to leave his weapon and pack behind, wading out to try to retrieve them, was at especially high risk, as Chinese snipers at the edge of the smoke used the sodden parachutes as range markers.
“Douglas…”
“Yes, General.”
“I’m sorry for my remarks—”
“My fault,” Freeman cut in. “I have a penchant for sounding off when what I should do is shut up.”
“You’re the best field commander for Second Army, Douglas. I’ll try to get you those helos.”
When Jorgensen hung up, Freeman, in an uncharacteristically paranoid moment, under the stress of battle, wondered aloud to Cline what Jorgensen had meant when he said he was “the best field commander for Second Army.”
“For Second Army?” Freeman said, hypothesizing that Jorgensen might have meant he wouldn’t be the best field commander for any other U.S. Army.
“I don’t think he meant that for a moment,” Cline told Freeman. “He means you’re the best man for the job.” Cline paused. “For the situation we’re in.”
Freeman turned on him. “The situation we’re in, Major, is a retreat. By God, is that all he thinks we’re good for? I told him I was going to counterattack, and I will. Damn it,” Freeman said, pacing up and down before the situation map, “I need a prayer for good weather — like Georgie Patton had at Bastogne. Get some air cover. Bob, get that senior padre of ours to see to it.”
Embarrassed, Cline opined that the padre was probably pretty busy with the wounded that the “dust-offs”—or Medevac choppers — had brought back to Phu Lang Thuong’s field hospital.
Freeman looked surprised. “I thought all our wounded were going straight to the Tampa?”
“They are, General, but there were so many wounded in Disney that there was a backup of choppers all the way off Haiphong harbor, so some came back and unloaded at Phu Lang Thuong’s field hospital. As I said, the padres are pretty busy.”
“What’s the matter with you? Goddamn prayer only takes a minute. I want a prayer and I want to see a copy of it. Padres know the right wording.”
“Yes, sir.”
Reluctantly, Cline made his way toward the field hospital, feeling more embarrassed by the second until he realized that if you believed in God, Freeman’s request, a symptom of “Disney”-induced stress, made perfect sense. He realized then that what really bothered him was his own angst, the persistent question he harbored at the back of his mind as to whether or not God had made man or man had made God. Freeman’s order for a prayer was forcing Cline to confront his own uncertainty.
“I’ve already said prayers, Major,” the overworked padre told him. “I’m praying for every man that’s wounded on our side as well as on the Chinese.”
“I don’t know whether the general’d appreciate that.”
“The general’s not God, Major, though sometimes he acts like it.”
“Look, Padre, I don’t want to get in a slugfest with you. The general’s ordered a prayer, a prayer for good weather so we can get proper air cover.”
“To kill more Chinese?”
“No,” the major said, feeling his temper rising. “To get out of this murderous trap our boys’re in.”
The padre said nothing. He’d just administered last rites to a man — a boy, really — whose face had been blown away by a Chinese stick grenade.
“Look, Padre,” Cline told him. “Quite frankly, I don’t give a hoot if you write a prayer or not — I’m not one of your flock — but if I don’t have something on paper to show the boss, I’m going to get reamed out. So, what is it to be? You want to write the prayer or tell him personally that you won’t?”
The padre sighed. “I’ll write a prayer.”
Cline resented the dog-in-the-manger tone. “Listen, Padre, last time I heard you give a sermon — which I was required to attend — you were going on pretty strong about defeating godless communism.”
“I still am — but not men.”
Cline rolled his eyes impatiently. “That’s like saying you want to fight Nazism but you don’t want to kill Nazis. Can’t be done, Padre. Will you write it now—please?”
The padre took out his pen and notebook and wrote, Dear Lord, we ask of you that you give us fair weather so that we may have time to withdraw our men from this catastrophe.
Cline read it. “Jesus Christ, Padre — that won’t do it.”
“How do you know what God wants?”
“I’m talking about the general. He reads this — this ‘catastrophe’ and withdrawal bit, he’ll go ballistic!”
Wordlessly, the padre took the note, crossed out catastrophe, put danger instead, and changed withdrawal to rescue.
“That’s a bit better,” Cline told him. “But it’s only — I mean it’s kind of short, isn’t it? Can’t you tart it up a bit?”
“You mean puff it up?”
“Yes,” Cline said angrily. “Puff it up. Now!”
The padre wrote again, looking up now and then, collecting his thoughts.
Cline read it. “Okay, fine. Thanks, Padre,” and he walked off.
“You’re welcome. And Major?”
Cline turned around. “Yes?”
“No offense to you or the general-it’s been a bad day for all of us.”
Cline nodded appreciatively. “I hope your prayer works, Padre.”
Freeman read the prayer aloud as he buckled on his holster. “ ‘Dear Lord, we most graciously beseech you to put a halt to this inclement weather so that our soldiers may more safely regroup against the attacks of the enemy and may proceed in this United Nations effort to bring peace once again to the region. Amen.’ “
Freeman shook his head in disappointment. “I don’t know, Bob. It’s all right, I suppose. Adequate, but there’s no majesty in it, no pizzazz! Almost think he was praying to the Secretary General of the U.N. We want a prayer for battle, for victory. This is a weasel prayer, not a prayer worthy of Second Army — not for warriors! Damn it!” He crushed the note. “I’ll write it myself, and you can deliver it to him, and I want him to use it in the next service. By God, our boys deserve better than this.” He rewrote it and read it to Cline.
“Dear God, we ask for a cessation of this inclement weather so that our men may advance against our foe, defeat them in battle, and so drive the godless hordes back to their Communist enclaves. And may our victory be so decisive that the warlords of communism will pause before committing further acts of war against those who fight in your name. Amen.”
Cline said it sounded great, and delivered it to the padre. It was said that night at 1900 at the hospital. A half hour later a typhoon, “Harold,” struck North Vietnam, the cloud cover descending even lower, the torrential downpour ruling out any possibility of TACAIR support for Freeman’s beleaguered troops.