The Viet Cong, officially the National Liberation Front of South Vietnam, was a political faction and guerrilla force who battled the South Vietnamese and United States. Their goal was to unite Vietnam and implant a communist government. The group was established in 1960 and took on the title of National Liberation Front to encourage non-communist South Vietnamese to join the group. The Viet Cong staged successful ambushes against the United States and other anti-communist forces. The guerrilla force is most known for their booby traps and fast-paced attack styles. Their most notable operations include the Tet Offensive and an attack on the US Embassy in Saigon. The group was officially dissolved in 1976 after Vietnam was reunited and made into a communist country, although after sustaining heavy casualties in the 1968 Tet Offensive, they were never much of a threat again.
Rematch vs. Irish Republican Army (by Jar teh marksman)
The battle starts as 4 IRA members are inside a warehouse, checking their weapons. One IRA member is standing on the rooftop, keeping a watchout. 5 Viet Cong members approach from behind the warehouse. Suddenly, one notices the IRA member standing on the top. They split up, as 4 go to raid the warehouse, and one goes around another way. The one that is going around the other way, notices a ladder leading to the top of the top of the warehouse.
The IRA member on top suddenly hears a noise. He turns around, to find himself falling to the ground after being pushed off. The other 4 Viet Cong soldiers break into the building. One starts spraying his RPK, hitting one IRA member. Not long after, he is hit and killed with an HK21. IRA:
Viet Cong: The IRA member pushed off of the roof, slowly regains conciousness. Trying to ignore the pain, he gets back up, AR-15 in hand. He notices the 3 unknown soldiers vacating the premisis. He sees his other soldiers, and follows behind the Viet Cong. One IRA member turns around a corner, and torches a Viet Cong member. Shortly after, another Viet Cong member pulls out his AK-47, and delivers a few rounds straight into the IRA member's chest. IRA:
Viet Cong: One IRA member finds himself in a jungle-like area. As he hears shouting from behind, he starts running. A Viet Cong member starts following behind, Tokarev in hand. The IRA member hears the shouting getting closer, so he turns around, and starts firing his AR-15. It hits the VC in the leg. Just as he thinks he's successful, he falls and gets impaled on Punji Stakes.
Viet Cong: The remaining VC notices, and tries to shoot him. It doesn't succeed, because the IRA member has already disappeared. The remaining VC then slowly advances out of the jungle. He enters a building, but then is grabbed and thrown down to the ground. He grabs the leg of the IRA, and trips him up. The remaining VC gets up, and tries to step on the IRA. He rolls out of the way, and jumps up. Seeing that the VC is standing in the doorway, he pushes him back outside, closes the door, detonates a Nail Bomb, and blows the VC away.
The IRA opens the door, and looks down at his kill. He pumps his fist into the air, and calls out "IRELAND!!!" in victory.
The experts believe that the IRA won because of their better weapons and training.
Battle vs. Revolutionary United Front (by Urbancommando77)
In the Mekong Delta, three VC guerrillas protect a Rat Tunnel. One of the guerrillas see four RUF Rebels and one rebel in a stolen Sampan. "Look!" The guerrilla yelled in Vietnamese. Two of the guerrillas pull AK-47s out and the other one grabbed his MAT-49. One of the Guerrillas yell in vietnamese and fires rapidly, hitting two of the Rebels.
One of the rebels pull a Galil and fires several rounds into the guerrilla.
The rebels charged at the Guerrillas. The VC guerrilla guards retreat into the tunnel. One of the rebels run to the side of the tunnel. He looked down the rat tunnel to see a hail of bullets. The rebel recoiled and fell to the ground and springs up as the other rebels looked at his untouched face. The rebel walked around the corner where his fellow rebels couldn't see him. All the rebels heard was wire snapping, leaves rustling and a painful scream. The rebels ran around the corner to see a twitching body in a punji stick pit.
The remaining two place an IED and run to the sampan. Two VC soldiers climb up just to be blown to shreds by an IED
One of the guerrillas climb up and planted a claymore and pulls out a Tokerev. The rebels fired their makorovs wildly at him, but the guerrilla lunged into cover. One of the rebels pulled out an RPG and fired above the cover, horrebly injuring the VC guerrilla. The rebel pulled his makarov back out and ran to the guerrilla. The guerrilla loaded his tokerev and killed the rebel, a few seconds later, he died.
The last guerrilla exited the rat tunnel and charged at the rebel with his bayonet. The rebel pulled his machete out and sliced the guerrilla's arm. The VC guerrilla stabbed the rebel six times.
The guerrilla went to the sampan and washed his wounds off.
WINNER: VIET CONG
While the RUF had superior equipment, Viet Cong had the home field advantage, as well as superior tactics and knowledge of the terrain that won them the day.
Battle vs. Free French Forces (by Cfp3157)
Five Free French soldiers have escaped prison and run all the way to Afghanistan. The Soviet Union has also been facing problems with Mujahadeen rebels, and North Vietnam has decided to lend support to their Soviet allies. The North Vietnamese have sen typical NVA and Viet Cong rebels. A squad of Voet Cong are patrolling the Afghan mountains in search Mujahadeen, and stumble across the Free French. So now the battle set....
The Viet Cong leader wipes the sweat from his face. He rests on a rock, setting his AK-47 aside. The rest of the squad rest as well, checking weapons or drinking from canteens. Two Free French soldiers are partolling their cave and see the five armed men. They aim their rifles. "Qui êtes-vous? Que faites-vous ici? (Who are you? What are you doing here?" he asks them. The five men quickly get up, but the Free French take it the wrong way and fire their STG44's, managing to kill one of the Cong. The leader quckly grabs his AK and sends a burst into the chest of a Free French, killing him. The three other rebels come out of the cave, and a fire fight ensures. Eventually, the Viet Cong leave to ambush the four French, and they suceed. Two French rebels run past a rock, and a Cong sparys one down with his MAT-49. The French rebel throws a Molotov, but it does nothing but get the Viet Cong to run to different cover. The two men get in a firefight, neither getting an edge. The French leader sneaks up behind the Cong and shoots his Sten into the man. Meanwhile, the Viet Cong fires at another French rebel with his buddy. The French aims his Lee-Enfield and fires a shot into the Viet Cong regular's shoulder. The two other French rebels show up, but one trips over a POMZ mine, killing him. The Free French leader gives suppressing fire as the other rebel slowly walks forward, firing his rifle. The wounded Cong tries to kill him with his Tokarev, but is just killed. The other Viet Cong jumps from his hiding spot and sprays him down with his AK-47. The two men leave the scene, closely pursued by the last French man. The regular fires at him while the leader plants another POMZ-2 mine. The French aims his MAB Modele M1935 and wounds the leader, but he feigns death. Understanding what's going on, the regular retreats from the French rebel. The leader runs past, but sees the POMZ. He disables the mine, but the surprise kicks in....and the F1 grenade blows the rebel up. The Cong regular puts his leader on his shoulder and carries him back to the Soviet camp.
WINNER: Viet Cong
The Viet Cong won because they simply had the more advanced weapons, and the fact that most Viet Cong fought the French during the first Indochina War and had plenty of experience in combat.
Battle vs. Special Task Force (by Manthila)
A group of STF soldiers arrive and sees the village . STF soldiers move closer to village and a single STF soldiers trips a POMZ mine alerting the Viet cong and scaring the Vietnamese women.The vietcong soldiers come out of their huts and the STF soldiers take positions around the camp
Viet cong soldiers starts firing at the STF with AKs and RPKs while a sniper takes aim with his Dragunov and STF soldiers fires back with M4s and Ulitimax MG killing the Vietnamese women caught in crossfire.
The rest of the viet cong soldiers attempts to retreat while taking cover behind huts.Taking the chance STF leader signals to advance and the STF Ultimax gunner suppressing viet cong soldiers.
The STF troops run and take cover behind huts but Viet cong sniper who was hiding behind near a hut snipes the ultimax gunner giving the chance for a viet cong soldiers to fire back at STF soldiers who took cover behind huts.
taking the chance the Viet cong leader ,the sniper and a soldier retreats while the remaining soldier is firring his AK-47 at the STF soldiers.
The STF leader and the soldier goes chasing the viet cong soldiers while the STF sniper takes his MP5 and goes to help the rest. STF squad chasing the Viet cong soldiers gets ambushed by Viet cong soldiers hiding behind trees with MAT-49 and AK-47s with several shots that blasted his head into pieces The STF leader quickly reacted with shooting his M4 at the viet cong soldiers head and takes a several stary bullets to his arm and leg before taking cover behind a tree.He takes his Glock17 and waits for the enemy to come in range.
The viet cong leader out of ammo throws away his AK and takes his tokarev and signals the viet cong sniper armed with the MAT-49 to surround the STF leader.
The STF sniper hearing the gunshots rush to help and sees the leader surrounded and fires several bursts from his MP5 at the Viet cong sniper hitting him in the arms,chest and neck and fire several bursts and the Viet cong leader who is running away
The STF leader fires his glock at the Viet cong leader injuring him and unable to he takes cover behind the tree and fires his tokarev at the STF sniper until he runs out of ammo.STF sniper emptied his entire magazine on the Viet cong leader and goes back to help his commander and looks at the sky watching Sri lanakn Bell 212 Twin Hueys and Bell 412s arrive.
Although the viet cong were able to stand against Americans and even winning a strategic victory during the vietnam war they couldn't stand up against a force that has both technology and experience fighting in jungles compared to american soldiers who didn't have any experiance or enough training fighting in thick jungles.
The battle begins somewhere is the jungles in Vietnam as 5 Gurkhas are patrolling,as they are walking 1 of the Gurkhas gets past over the POMZ-2 mine trap and he explodes.
Then the Viet Cong begins their assault with their pistols and MAT-49s,but one of the Viet Cong members gets shot by Enfield No.4 rifle in the chest.
One of the Gurkhas shot a Viet Cong member in the arm with his revolver,but the Vietnamese soldier shot him with his MAT-49,but he gets blown up by Mills bomb
Then Viet Cong team runs away and the Gurkhas followed them,but one of the falled into a punji trap,in the same time one of the Viet Congs was shot into the back with a sten submachine gun.
As a runnig 1 of the Gurkhas get shot in the head by a Tokarev pistol,but the Viet Cong pistolmen get stab in the gut with a kukri
Then the both warriors clashed in a close range dual Gurkhas with his Kukri and Viet Cong with his machete,first the Viet Cong slash a the Gurkha and only hit the chest making a small scar,but the Gurkha got too angry and with the last slash the Vietnamese neck killing him.
After seeing his opponent is dead the Gurkha shouts "Ayo Gurkhali!" (The Gurkhas are here!) in victory.
Gurkhas won because they are better trained and have better weapons.
Battle vs. Iraqi Republican Guard (by Deathblade 100)
A cell of Viet Cong guerrilla fighters return to their jungle camp after a day of raiding NATO forces. The leader draws his Tokarev from its holster and starts to clean it. Another guerrilla leans a shovel against a tree and loads his MAT-49 submachine gun, while one of his colleagues watches with his own MAT-49 in hand. The other two rest their RPD light machine guns against the walls of a hut, that the cell is using as a base.
A twig snaps in the distance, as five members of Saddam's Republican Guard stagger through the undergrowth. Two of the guard have Skorpion submachine guns drawn, while another two have their RPK light machine guns at the ready. Their commander leads the advance, Browning Hi-Power in hand.
As the Guard advance, one of the Viet Cong emerges from the undergrowth and fires his MAT-49 at them, killing one. A burst of fire from a Republican Guard's Skorpion quickly cut him down. Another pair of Vietnamese guerrillas open fire with their RPD light machine guns, wounding one of the Iraqis in the leg. As the Republican Guard start to withdraw from the guerrillas, the wounded soldier hits a tripwire and triggers off a POMZ-2 Mine/F1 Grenade hybrid.
As the VC give chase, a Republican Guard soldier turned and fired his RPK killing one of his pursuers. A Republican Guard soldier trips and falls into a Punji Pit, injuring him. The Republican Guard commander stops and fires his Browning eight times into the jungle in an attempt to hit one of the pursuing rebels.
The Republican Guard quickly entered a nearby city and went to counterattack against the rebel forces. The three remaining Viet Cong operatives enter the city only for a Russian RGD-5 Grenade to go off at one of the guerrillas' feet. A shot from a Tokarev TT-33 caught a Republican Guardsman in the chest. As the last two VC advance into a building, a Republican Guard's Combat knife swiftly cuts his throat. A burst of fire from a RPD machine gun kills a Guard, who was behind a wall.
As the last Viet Cong member turns a corner, the Republican Guard commander walks up behind the guerrilla and points his Browning Hi-Power at the Viet's head. The Viet Cong guerrilla attempts to draw his Tokarev but the Republican Guard simply mocks him in Arabic as he cocks his Hi-Power and fires at point blank.
The Republican Guard commander raises his pistol in the air and yells "Allahu Akbar!" in victory.
While the Viet Cong were definitely fearless guerrilla fighters in the jungle, once the terrain had changed the Republican Guard quickly retaliated. While the Viet Cong had the initiative when it came to their limited technology, the fact their weapons were known to jam (RPD) or were simply just down to blind luck (Punji Stakes, POMZ-2/F1), Combine this with the VC's lack of formal training and logistics and it soon became obvious that the Republican Guard would be the victors.
Battle vs. Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam (by ArmInAss)
[Tamil Tigers: I I I I I I] [Viet Cong: I I I I I I] A six-man squad of Tamil Tigers had come upon a deserted jungle village; their mission is to patrol the area for any possible threats operating in the vicinity. Meanwhile, a six-man squad of Viet Cong operatives is sneaking through the village, alert for any enemies that may see them. On the village plaza, the two groups unwittingly came upon each other, both surprised to see the other. Thinking that their enemies had sent the other to wipe them out, both squads raised their AK-47s and Vz. 58s and fired, killing one of the other. [Tamil Tigers: I I I I I] [Viet Cong: I I I I I] Both squads quickly dispersed as they kept firing, and the fighting scattered throughout the war-torn village. One Tiger chased after a VC into the forest, where he fell to a punji stake pit. [Tamil Tigers: I I I I] Meanwhile, one of the VC saw a Tiger carrying a Milkor MGL hide behind a stone wall. He switched from his MAT-49 to his RPG-2 and aimed it right at the wall. The Tiger, however, saw it coming and gets away as fast as possible as the wall explodes into bits. He immediately fired back with his MGL. The VC’s legs sprung to action, managing to evade just as the MGL scored its first shot on where he stood before, but he was blown to bits when the MGL’s second shot just right near him. [Viet Cong: I I I I] The Tiger turned, only to see the VC who ran into the forest before, armed with an AK-47. Recognizing the grenade launcher he’s holding, the scared VC ran into the village, as the Tiger fired each shot where he thought the VC is running into. Suddenly, a VC sprang behind him and stabbed him at the right of his back, piercing his lung, and falling down. The VC, from before, thanked his comrade for saving him before he suggested taking the enemy’s grenade launcher. Unbeknownst to them, the dying Tiger detonated something beneath his clothes, a suicide belt. And then it happened, an explosion thundered throughout the village. [Tamil Tigers: I I I] [Viet Cong: I I] The rest of the VC and the Tigers came to see what happened. The two VCs are armed with a MAT-49 and an AK-47 as their weapons, while the three Tigers are armed with an Enfield No.2 revolver, a Sterling SMG and a Vz. 58. The VC managed to fire first with the MAT-49, killing the Tiger armed with the Vz. 58. The Tigers fired back with their Sterling and Enfield, but the VC managed to retreat. [Tamil Tigers: I I] The Tigers gave chase to the VCs, trading fire as well. The VC armed with the MAT-49 soon exhausted his ammo, and hid inside a hut. By a stroke of (bad) luck, the Tiger armed with the Sterling found him inside and fired…with only two rounds remaining, both only wounding the VC in the stomach. The wounded VC hastily grabbed his Tokarev from his holster as the Tiger went for his Enfield as well. The VC managed to fire first with only a millisecond earlier than the Tiger, scoring hits in the Tiger’s chest, and got hit in the chest several times too in return. The Tiger fell back, dead, but the VC attempted to move and failed to do so. His spine has been hit, and he’s losing blood at an alarming rate. He just laughed at his stroke of bad luck as he awaited his inevitable death. [Tamil Tigers: I] [Viet Cong: I] On the other hand, the last Tiger and VC are trading fire with their rifles, eventually running out of ammunition, and switching to their handguns. The Tiger ran out of ammo first. As he frantically tried to reload, he only then noticed the VC right now before him, aiming his Tokarev. The Tiger spat at the VC, goading him to finish it. The VC obliged and pulled the trigger, only to fire no shot. The Tiger unsheathes his Piha-Kaetta and swipes at the VC, but the VC evaded, putting some distance between them. As the Tiger stood into a battle stance, the VC puts a bayonet to his AK-47, cursing that he had run out of ammo before going into a battle stance too. The knife showdown begins as the VC tried to land a thrust. The Tiger moved to the side, but the VC swipes it in his direction. The VC then charged as the Tiger swiped and evaded, landing flesh wounds at each other, the Piha-Kaetta landing a cut on the VC’s hand gripping the AK on the front, and the bayonet swiping on the Tiger’s belly. Still, other than that, all their attempts against each other missed, and the showdown went on for some time, till the Tiger’s Piha-Kaetta met the AK Bayonet blade by blade. The VC withdrew then charged again, but the Tiger evaded to the side, and gripping the VC’s AK this time as he slashed on the VC’s arm, fully cutting it. The VC howled in pain, allowing the Tiger to take hold of his other arm and cut it off too. Armless, the VC fell on the ground, defenseless before the Tamil. The Tamil proceeded to carve open his stomach and wring out his nemesis’ intestines with his Piha-Kaetta. The VC screamed in agony at his slow and painful death. [Viet Cong: ] By the time he is done, the VC is completely lifeless, his insides turned out. The Tiger smiled, satisfied at his work, before raising his Piha-Kaetta in the air and shouting “விக்டரி!” FINAL COUNT [Tamil Tigers: I] [Viet Cong: ] —DEADLIEST WARRIOR: Tamil Tigers—
The Tamil Tigers’ weaponry, while as reliable as the Viet Cong weaponry, packs more firepower than those of the VC, but their weaponry alone did not win the battle. The Tigers also had on their side greater ferocity in combat. On the other hand, the Viet Cong had excellent combat organization, training and logistics, but so did the Tamil Tigers. Finally, the Tigers, as a whole, are much more able to offer heavier resistance and even engage in a drawn-out war than the VC.
Battle vs. Taliban (by MilitaryBrat)
A Viet Cong squad leader is creeping with his 4 men in an abandoned Soviet city in the summer time. His name is Tuan and his men are named Kim, Huu, Hoc, and Hoang. Kim is struggling with the load of his RPD machine gun. It weighs more than the AK-47 he's used to carrying.
"Hey you, be careful with that machine gun. If you break it you won't have any weapon to use."
"Sorry Tuan, I'm not used to this weight."
"You were the one who wanted this weapon Kim," Hoang said "Carry your weight."
On the other side of the burnt out city, 5 Taliban fighters are on patrol. The leader, named Osama is leading his 4 men, named Omar, Nadir, Muhammad, and Ahmad. Nadir is looking at the Soviet symbols on the buildings and billboards in confusion.
"Osama, something tells me we're not in Afghanistan anymore."
Osama, a short man with a black beard, a fat face, and scar extending over his nose and across both of his cheeks said in reply, "Yes Nadir, I see that. You don't have to point out every single f*****g detail to me."
"How will we get back to Afghanistan, Osama?" Muhammad asked.
"How am I supposed to know? I'm Osama the goat herder not Osama bin Laden."
About 3-5 sweeps of the city later............
"Hey Tuan," Hoc started, who are those people over there? They look, brown."
Tuan takes his captured American binoculars and looks through them to see the Taliban fighters emerging from an ally about 100 feet away. The Taliban however have also spotted them. Tuan wipes the sweat off his face and thinks long hard for about 3 minutes, he then says to his men:
"Open fire on them!!!!!!"
About 3 minutes earlier............
Osama spots the 5 Vietnamese men and tell his men to observe them.
"They could be Americans."
"But Osama," Ahmad says "They aren't white, aren't all Americans white?"
"No they aren't. Maybe they're Mexicans." Omar says.
"Omar's right." Osama says. "Either way we should open fire on them."
At about the same time Tuan gave the order to open fire, Osama did as well. The RPD of the Viet Cong barking to life with a 20 round burst of belt fed ammo. The Taliban had not had time to set up their Machine gun, but they fired their PPSH's, killing Hoang, while Kim kills Omar.
Viet Cong: 4
Tuan and his squad displaced and some went into allys and others went into buildings. Kim lugged his machine gun up 2 stories and set up behind an office desk with his A-gunner Huu. Osama and the rest of the Afghans pursued them all. Osama comes across Hoc and shoots at him but only manages to get off one round which lucky for him hits Hoc's leg, piercing his artery and knocking him to the ground. Hoc attempts to grab his Mat-49 which fell out of his hands, but is stopped by Osama's combat knife in between his shoulder blades.
Viet Cong: 3
Kim and Huu are sitting behind an overturned desk in an abandoned Soviet office building. The heat in the building is making them sweat which distracts them. They suddenly see Nadir trying to creep up on them and they turn his body into swiss cheese.
Viet Cong: 3
Muhammad comes right after Nadir and thinks to himself, "Alright, there's two men in there. One with a machine gun, the other possibly with a weapon himself." He decides on using Nadir's weapon for suppressing fire, then uses his grenade. He throws it into the room with the two and kills Huu while Kim is knocked on his ass. He tries to execute him with his combat knife but is killed himself with Kim's Tokarev.
Viet Cong: 2
Tuan is scanning an alley behind a hotel and sees something, a turban. He takes aim with his Mat-49 and fires. The turban falls down,but to his dismay Tuan didn't kill anyone. Ahmad jumps out of a dumpster with his combat knife and tackles Tuan. Tuan however pushes Ahmad off him and pulls out his machete, swinging it at Ahmad like a baseball bat, eventually scoring a home run in the form of decapitating Ahmad.
Viet Cong: 2
Osama has heard the shooting from the office building and is going to investigate. There he sees the bodies of Muhammad, Nadir, Huu, and Kim. All dead from the fight.
Viet Cong: 1
Osama spots Tuan coming out of an ally seconds after killing Ahmad and looks for a weapon to use. He decides on Nadir's Ppsh and goes to kill Tuan. Tuan has picked up a Tokarev from Hoc's corpse. He looks for the last Afghan and sees him running towards him trying to make his Ppsh work, he decides to duck down into cover while he fixes his Ppsh and Tuan shoots at him.
"Damn, why won't this piece of junk work?" He removes the magazine to see that Nadir had no ammunition. Meanwhile, Tuan has made his way over to Osama and taps him on the head with his Tokarev as Osama tries to reload. Osama looks up and sees the barrel of the Tokarev in his face. Tuan pulls the trigger, shooting a bullet into Osama's head.
Viet Cong: 1
Tuan then raises his fist and gives a victory shout.
Please consider a contribution to why the Viet Cong won.
Battle vs. Afghan Mujahideen (by 3shady)
Winner: Afghan Mujahideen
Battle vs. Imperial Japanese Army (by MilenHD)
A squad of five Imperial Japanese soldiers were travelling through the jungles of Vietnam, as Japan has decided to conquer it. Not far away a Viet Cong member set his mine trap and they were awaiting the Japanese, as he was ready he hid himself in the nearby bush ready to give his allies the signal to attack.
The Viet Cong squad appeared from the bushes and started to fire their guns at the Japanese, but the Japanese threw his Kiska grenade blasting one of the Vietnamese and after firing his Type 100 he killed another Vietnamese.
The Viet Cong started to return deeper into the jungle where the Japanese followed them, the remaining Japanese decided to split up and find them, and as the two of the Japanese were running after the Viet Cong, a Viet Cong member appeared and fired his MAT-49 at the Japanese soldier killing him at the moment, only to get burned to crisps by the other Japanese soldier's flamethrower, who was behind him seconds ago.
The Japanese soldier, knew he was in danger and a Viet Cong soldier was firing his Tokarev TT-33 at him, but the Vietnamese started running away, and the Japanese was spraying his flamethrower, making jungle fire, but suddenly while he wasn't watching, he felt down into the Punji trap.
The Vietnamese decided to find his team mate and as he was running, he got shot in the leg by the Nambu pistol of the Japanese soldier, but suddenly his pistol jammed and as the Vietnamese guerrilla stood up, pulled his machete and as the Japanese Imperialist pulled his shin gunto , both of them started dueling, but as the Vietnamese was losing the blood from his leg, the Japanese used the option and pierced the guerrilla's abdomen, killing him.
As he turned he was shoot in the head by the last Vietnamese soldier. The last Japanese emerged and fired his Nambu missing, and both warriors fired at each other missing most shots and as they had to reload, the Vietnamese grabbed the fallen machete and charged at the at the Japanese, slicing his throat.
As the Japanese Imperialist was killed, the Vietnamese raised his bloody machete and shouted in victory.
The Viet Cong had home advantage and had better weapons. Simply the Imperial Japanese Army were beated by the USA, and the USA were defeated by the Viet Cong.
Battle vs. Waffen-SS (by El Alamein)
My Love, the Phoenix
1. Une mise en scène colonial
Heurtebise Vigot sat up in bed, squinting at the morning light that filtered white through the curtains and onto his bedsheets. He yawned, rubbed his eyes, and looked over to find vacant the spot where Phuong had slept the night before. Though he expected it—it was par for the course at this point—he still felt a jolting twinge, disappointment mixed with that bitter longing that only the touch of a woman could satisfy.
Vigot swung his legs over the edge of the bedframe, kicking over his worn black jackboots that sat expectantly on the wooden slats of the apartment floor. He took a deep breath, looking out the window into the city of Huế, across the Perfume River where the majestic walls of the venerable Purple Palace proudly stood—a symbol of the old imperial capital, rich with a history that continued to unfold as trucks bearing swastikas rumbled down the pockmarked, battle-scarred streets.
A low touch on his shoulder made Vigot jump. He turned to find a small, unassuming woman, her arm outstretched, holding a peaked field cap with a skull insignia. Her waist-length black hair was pulled back and tucked over one shoulder, draped over her áo dài tunic. Her dark eyes sparkled with playful mischief as she pushed the cap into Vigot’s rough hands.
“Phuong,” he managed after a pause. “I thought you’d left.”
“Heurtebise,” she chided. “I cannot stay in bed as late as you, my dear. Not even on a Sunday.” Her French was very good—to be expected of a petit bourgeois girl, educated in the lycée system of the colonial yesteryear. “Besides, I had to visit my mother before it got too late. She’s ill. And I don’t want people suspecting.”
Vigot allowed his gaze to soften momentarily as he looked down into Phuong’s eyes. His hands dangled limply at his waist, his fingers playing with his field cap as he watched the late morning light dance across her face. But the moment passed—fleeting, transient, like every night he was able to spend with her. His days of leave tended to be spent alone with Phuong, him sitting up in bed in the small apartment while she brewed tea on the stove or read him poetry, vestiges of Vietnamese greatness from the old imperial time. Vigot felt a stirring sense of latent pride, what pride remained as a Frenchman, when he detected traces of his battered national image still present in a diluted form here, in his old Indochine.
“When will you be back?” Phuong asked, sitting down on the bed, swinging her legs back and forth as she watched Vigot dress into his uniform.
“It’ll be hard to say, dear,” he answered idly, pulling his boots on. “The Standartenführer wants us to report for inspection. That probably only happens if we’re moving out for operations.”
Vigot finished readying himself in silence while Phuong simply watched, peering at the Frenchman with wide eyes that he perceived as childish in their curiosity. “Don’t you worry,” he told her, laying a heavy hand on her shoulder. “I’ll write. I’ll see you soon.” He kissed her, straightened himself, brushed his calloused hand across her cheek.
Unterscharführer Heurtebise Vigot’s heavy, jackbooted steps clunked down the wooden floor and out the front door. He stopped and turned, giving Phuong one last glance, one last wave, one last weary smile, before he marched dutifully to report in.
Phuong stood watching in the doorframe. Once Vigot had rounded the corner, and after a few minutes had passed, she, too, shut the apartment’s front door, stepping out into the yard. Giving a quick glance over her shoulder, Phuong bent down to the low brick wall that lined the perimeter of her apartment’s patio. There was a loose stone—the bottom row, fourth brick from the corner. She pried it loose and unearthed a small divot, a little semicircle scooped out of the dirt where an old Tokarev pistol lay patiently. It wasn’t loaded… not that it was supposed to be, at least, not yet.
Slipping the gun into the back of her áo dài, so that it went behind her tunic and into her baggy black trousers, Phuong replaced the brick and slowly stood up. To any casual observer, she may as well have stooped to pluck an errant weed or check for the morning newspaper. Such was the art of her war.
2. A Catalyst
Heurtebise Vigot stood at attention in line as Standartenführer Kammberger inspected his motley unit of Waffen-SS soldiers. The early afternoon heat was oppressive, to say nothing of the humidity that seemed to sit on Vigot’s shoulders and tug at his hairline under his cap, which was by now drenched with sweat. But obediently he stood, his chin pointed up and out, his eyes focused on a spot far in the distance as Kammberger’s face loomed into his field of view.
“It’s a pity there weren’t more Frenchmen like you, Vigot,” Kammberger commented, bored but unmistakably haughty. “Perhaps, then, we’d might not have run through your lot in six weeks.” This was nothing new, but Vigot’s ears burned nonetheless. Kammberger continued his lazy inspection, as if the Vietnamese afternoon with its rolling haze and relentless mosquitos conspired to pass him over and pile on to his troops.
He swept down the line of his men. They stood in front of the SS headquarters in Huế, an old French colonial building repurposed for the German occupiers. Kammberger’s unit was a motley, disorganized, piecemeal crew, a patchwork of nationalities and ethnicities that in no way represented the vision of pseudoscientific racial purity that Hitler’s Schutzstaffel was purported to promote. There was Bogdan, a massive Ukrainian with a leering grin that sported fewer teeth than women he’d raped on his own personal warpath while attached to his unit. There was García Fernández-Trujillo, a Spanish Francoist who had initially fought in Russia with the Blue Division at Leningrad. There was Ståhlberg, a Finn and a veteran of the Winter War with the Soviet Union, who had probably attained more legitimate kills in combat than the rest of the unit combined.
But Kammberger had made sure to mold his multinational force into an entity that obediently carried out the whims of the Nazi racial project. For all their oddities and quirks, when it came down to putting a bullet in the head of a target, these SS troops were experienced. They all had their own ways of dealing with it. Bogdan took to the bottle, making him even more lecherously dangerous, an effect that seemed to last even after he sobered up. Ståhlberg would simply shut down after the violence had stopped, lost in some dark place that he had first seen fighting the hordes of uncamouflaged Soviets that traipsed their way into ambushes—machine guns with overlapping fields of fire and a rain of smoldering Molotov cocktails that chopped men into pieces and sent their tanks bursting, melting in on the crew like a steel casket.
Kammberger’s inspection carried on for more than an hour, an exercise that he seemed to relish with sadistic delight while he whittled away the Sunday afternoon. Finally, though, he dismissed his men, tacitly letting his troops loose to vent their frustration and pent-up energy across the streets of Huế. Vigot would have liked nothing more than to nestle back into Phuong’s embrace at her apartment, but he dared not call attention to her with his unit around—particularly not with that oaf Bogdan’s ears always perked for news of a new "friendly" face to meet. Besides, the Standartenführer was inviting his men to a bar for drinks, this time on him, a rare occurrence that must have been the product of his good mood from the pointless drilling.
“Vigot, you know what I like, just order me a cold one this time, will you?” Bogdan’s breath reeked of alcohol even as he crashed down at the bar stool next to the Frenchman, his massive arm thundering down on Vigot’s shoulder. Vigot had always been popular, but in Huế, his native French meant he could converse easily with some of the more educated locals, something that not even Kammberger could manage with his broken, stuttering excuse for the language. The SS men crowded around the counter, clamoring for their drinks. They left their rifles leaning up against the wall in the corner, mostly relaxed. The bemused bartender, a short Vietnamese man in his fifties who went by Jacques, though that was certainly not his real name, arranged the orders and made small chat with Vigot.
“Nothing for you today, monsieur?” Jacques asked, laying it on quite heavily with the slavish obeisance to the occupying troops. Vigot ignored the insincerity, though Kammberger picked up on the intonation and grinned smugly to himself. “No, Jacques, thank you,” Vigot replied. He cast a dark look in his commander’s direction, careful to ensure the Standartenführer didn’t see. Men like Kammberger reveled in that type of self-serving postulation, though Vigot thought it little more than one weak man bending his spine before another even weaker still.
The troops loosened and opened up after a couple of rounds of beer. García belted out his wartime favorite, “Primavera,” a song that the rest of the men enjoyed despite not understanding the lyrics. Vigot had been the only one who had bothered to ask García what the words meant the first time he sang the song, and hearing it again, his thoughts turned again to Phuong.
“Springtime, far from my homeland, springtime, far from my love…
“Springtime, without flowers and without breezes…
“Springtime, on the banks of the Volkhov, and its waters that flow to Ladoga…
“Flow on singing this saddest of songs, a sad song of love and of wartime…
“A sad song of wartime and of love.”
Vigot had always liked García better than the rest of his squadmates. Maybe it was because they came from similar parts of Europe, similar “cultured” cultures. Maybe it was because most of the rest of the squad bordered on psychopathic even at the best of times.
Bogdan was shitfaced drunk, tears pouring down his face as he listened to the Spaniard croon. Ståhlberg was already staring off into the distance, hunched over his bottle, his hands clasped tight so that his knuckles shone white.
Down at the corner, two of Vigot’s comrades—a couple of Germans, a pair that made it a point to berate and look down on squadmates who weren’t fellow Deutsches Volk—sauntered over to a young street urchin hawking sodas. The common language was French, the boy speaking it considerably better than the Waffen-SS soldaten.
“Five marks! Five marks! I can get you the coldest Coke on the street!”
“Five marks? Look at this enterprising pip, Karl!”
“Where are your parents?” Karl asked, sternly, but trying to warm up to the kid.
“Come on, you’ll make five marks back fast! Five marks! For two Cokes!” The boy reached up and started to tug on the SS man’s tunic.
Vigot tuned out and turned his attention back to García, who was getting to his favorite verse in the song, the verse that extolled the virtues of the Spanish forces at Leningrad and their courage in the face of Soviet counterattacks.
“But, when the enemy advances, drunk and without a drop of valor…
“The stanzas of Cara al sol rake through the air more fiercely than our shrapnel!
Cara al sol, that song, ancient and yet new, Cara al sol is the best of all hymns!
Cara al sol as we fall in battle, just as our country asked of us!”
Vigot turned to ask Jacques a question, maybe some small talk or pleasantry, but saw the barkeep cast a long glance out the open window to the street corner. Not realizing that Vigot had seen him, Jacques quickly ducked out behind the bar and disappeared into the back of the building.
Suddenly, there was a scuffle at the corner where Jacques had been watching. The child was struggling with the Germans, who had their hands clamped tight around his arm as he fumbled with a small, dark, round object. The two Germans were pushing the kid away, who tripped, turned, then lobbed the thing at them. It bounced a couple of yards into the bar. Vigot turned to face away, trying to shield himself—Jacques was now nowhere in sight—a second before a massive wave of heat and pressure literally forced his head down onto the countertop with a thud. An instant later, there was a deafening boom, the sound of glass shattering, bodies and furniture flying through the air.
An instant later, there was a deafening boom, the sound of glass shattering, bodies and furniture flying through the air. The pressure waves crashed across Vigot, reverberating through his chest and making him feel sick. He was halfway across the living room, covered in glass, bleeding, panic-stricken. He could hear nothing except the incessant explosions raining down overhead, but he knew that he was screaming Colette’s name at the top of his lungs.
He crawled, unable to stand, each motion a taxing effort, a battle against that fear that left his legs without function. He dragged himself across the floor, his sleeves ripped away by the debris, slicing his arms on the glass and splinters of his home now cast across the ground.
It was a strenuous journey. He had trodden that same path just the night before, with their blackout curtains drawn shut. Colette was afraid, but she clung to Vigot as they sat and held one another on the sofa. The war with the Germans had a quality of unreality that had endured through to that night. After all, who really could have processed the swiftness of the German advances, the magnitude of the French collapse? Was this not the same Germany that wasted years in its futile incursions across mud-soaked trenches in the last war? Vigot rationalized this to Colette, who reached her hand up to his lips and whispered, “Just sit.”
“I’ll protect you,” Vigot murmured, grasping her finger in his hand. “We’ll be all right. We’ll figure it out. We always do.” They endured the oppressive silence of the blackout as long as they could, but the summer night was tempting and they were young. That last night out in the open… that was the last night where Vigot really found himself his own man, his own person.
But that had been last night. The falling bombs sliced through time, forcibly separating Vigot from his memories as if they had passed centuries before. His painful odyssey across the twisted, burning remnants of his house ended when he saw Colette’s broken form limp at the foot of the staircase. Her head was tilted back with her black hair sprawled across her face, but he could tell from her pose that she was dead. Still, he pulled himself across the floor, reaching his tattered arms out until he grabbed her, unresponsive, and gingerly pulled her pale blank face up to his.
“Colette… Colette…” he repeated, choking. It still hadn’t quite registered as real, but Vigot nonetheless found he couldn’t breathe. A nearby bomb, spiraling down from one of the metal German beasts buzzing overhead, shook the house, throwing Vigot and Colette hard into the wall. The banister on the staircase snapped, the wooden beam crashing down and bringing Vigot’s misery to a merciful, if temporary, end.
4. Tit for Tat
Vigot lay stunned in a puddle of liquid. There was a lot of screaming, a lot of stamping about.
“Get up, Frenchman!” Kammberger’s face suddenly swam into view, his stiff grip roughly hauling Vigot to an unsteady stance. Taking stock of his surroundings, Vigot found the bar in a state of ruin. The tables and chairs were overturned, the walls painted with scorch marks and dotted with dimples from fragmentation. Bogdan sat in the corner, looking unharmed, incredulous at the display before him. García was clutching his head in his hands. Ståhlberg the Finn was out at the street corner, looking down at the tattered corpses of the two Germans. x8 The blast had scooped them up and riddled them with shrapnel.
Kammberger fumed as he rushed out onto the corner. Most of the men were at least slightly wounded, with the exception of Bogdan, still slumped in his seat. Kammberger himself sported a gash across his chin, which dripped blood down his collar, but he seemed to take no notice as he ranted. “Partisans! Terrorists! Beasts with no mothers!”
He spun on the spot, his eyes rolling across the scene. “The windows were left open!” he shrieked, pointing a vindictive finger to the bar. “That bartender didn’t want them damaged! He knew they were planning this! He knew we would stop by!”
Vigot instantly recalled Jacques ducking out. But he stood silent, unwilling to provoke the Standartenführer into action born of anger. It gave Vigot a small degree of power, a small sense of control, to withhold the information from his commander.
It mattered little. Kammberger was beyond furious, spluttering in his attempt to take stock of the situation. By now, the majority of the unit had arrived to inspect their fallen comrades. Many, especially the other Germans, were ready for revenge.
“Unit! Fall in! We’re doing an inspection now! I want any subversive elements, any partisans, to be dealt with on the spot. You have my authorization.”
Their rifles and other armaments at the ready, the Waffen-SS troops dispersed. The crowd of Vietnamese civilians who had come out to see the aftermath of the explosion scattered, fearful of the soldiers and well aware of what treatment to expect. Vigot reluctantly fell in alongside García and Ståhlberg, their rifles up as they corralled those too slow to clear the area in time. Bogdan and the Germans fanned out down the street, pounding on front doors and barking orders at the bewildered people stumbling out.
Within a few minutes, Kammberger had before him a few dozen civilians standing, hands raised half-heartedly behind their heads. “Frenchman!” he growled at Vigot. “I want you to let these people know that we will not tolerate banditry. We will not put up with partisan operations in this city. And if these activities do not cease, they can expect reprisals.”
The shock that had clouded Vigot’s mind dissipated in surprise as he realized what his commander meant. He cast a hesitant glance over at the group of people huddled about, crouching submissively, coughing, with silent tears streaming down their cheeks. “Reprisals? I… I don’t think they even speak French, Standartenführer, how—”
“It’s just as well. No need to waste our words on them. They’ll learn their lesson the hard way. What else can one expect from these people, really?”
Kammberger unholstered his Walther and briefly surveyed the assembled crowd of civilians. He pointed the pistol at an old man with a child clinging to his knees and fired. The man dropped, buckling like a stone tossed down a well. The crowd shrieked and started to run, prompting the rest of the SS troopers to open fire. The staccato reports of rifle fire overlapped with the rapid chatter of submachine guns as the SS men vented their frustration and rage, letting loose in a cathartic display of unbridled brutality. Kammberger was so beside himself that he resorted to firing his pistol directly into the air, then at the facades of buildings lining the streets. Those who were at the periphery of the group disappeared down alleyways, into buildings, trying to hide from the ongoing massacre.
Vigot found himself staring down the barrel of his rifle into the face of the street urchin who had thrown the grenade, now wide-eyed, his face streaming with tears. The child trembled, his eyes swimming as they peered out into Vigot’s hesitant gaze. The echoing cracks of his comrade’s weapons suddenly made him flinch. He lowered the rifle. Vigot didn’t have long to contemplate his dilemma though—his mind flying back to Phuong, back to Colette—when Bogdan muscled his way over and pushed Vigot aside. “You’re the little devil that caused all this, weren’t you?” he snarled, stamping his boot down hard on the boy’s chest. The kid coughed, his head shooting upwards in a spasm right into the barrel of the Ukrainian’s rifle.
“No!” Vigot suddenly found himself shouting, putting his hand on the rifle and pushing it down. Bogdan stopped and shot Vigot a deeply suspicious glare, rife with mistrust. “No,” Vigot repeated again, subdued, as Bogdan shook off Vigot’s grip and readjusted his aim. Vigot looked up mutely at Bogdan, watching the kick of the rifle jerk up into his shoulder with the fatal shot. x9 Bogdan’s hand worked the bolt, ejecting the spent casing of the fatal round and chambering the next, intended for another victim as of yet unknown.
All around them, their fellow soldiers were carrying out similar coups de grace on the poor wounded civilians who had the misfortune to survive the initial volley. Kammberger had composed himself, more or less, so that his sadistic violence took on its usual form of impassionate, surgical precision rather than the manic frenzy that had gripped him at the onset of the shooting. Vigot looked up at Bogdan, who was turning away from the boy, ready to move on to his next victim. Something seized him, something instinctive, and he let out a cry of anger as he swung his rifle butt at the Ukrainian’s head. Bogdan ducked, wordlessly spun on the spot, grabbed the butt of the rifle and shoved hard, driving the barrel into Vigot’s neck and pushing him to the ground. He dug harder, his face contorted into a manic picture of demented fury as Vigot spluttered for breath, his eyes bulging out and his head tilting down to look at the pavement as he suffocated. He looked down at a sight he had seen dozens of times before, of his own reflection shimmering in the rivulets of blood that streamed down the street and into the gutter. His gaze mechanically followed the flow of the liquid, flashing back an upside-down reflection of the city’s roofline.
At the end of that stream, still calmly bubbling its way down the road, with her face fixed in an expression of horror and a Kalashnikov rifle slung across her back, stood Phuong.
5. The Self, the Family, the Party
Half an hour before the explosion at the bar
Phuong sat on the floor in her small apartment next to the rest of her cadre, facing Brother Kien. He had organized a session of self-criticism, that old Marxist practice where the cadre members took turns admitting their ideological failings and asserting a promise to do better in the future. But Kien, a low-level party official from the North, sent across the Ho Chi Minh trail to assist in the politicization of the guerrilla movements in the South, found himself frustrated with the Southerners and their cultural differences.
“You do not have a monopoly over the revolutionary spirit!” Phuong had spiritedly protested.
“Sister Phuong, you must reflect on your own shortcomings before the party,” Kien responded, his brow furrowing under his tan pith helmet. It was large and conspicuous, with a red star at the center, but Kien liked to wear it for clandestine occasions such as this—he felt it lent him an aura of revolutionary credibility. It seemed to help little with Phuong though. “Please remember, dear sister, that not too long ago you were part of the imperialist system.”
Phuong almost exploded with indignation. “So I was educated in the lycée as a girl! Are we to say that such histories cannot be cleansed with the revolutionary spirit, Brother Kien?” Kien frowned, chewing on his lip as he contemplated her challenge. When no response proved forthcoming, Phuong pressed on the attack. “You Northerners may feel that we in the South have much to answer for in the way of a betrayal to the party’s ideology. But keep in mind that this type of monopoly is an integral part of the imperialism against which we stand united!” After a pause, she belatedly added, “Brother Kien.”
“Very well, Sister Phuong, your input has been noted,” Kien finally answered. “Thank you all for participating in today’s self-criticism. Now we will briefly adjourn—I am expecting a guest, but we will convene within the hour.”
Phuong stepped out to the front yard. As she gazed out across the low wall of her apartment’s yard, a small, wiry boy of no more than sixteen shyly approached her. “Sister Phuong,” he muttered, unable to meet her gaze. “I think you have the revolutionary spirit.” In spite of her frustration with Kien, Phuong couldn’t help but smile at the boy. “Thank you, Brother Bao,” she responded, kindly. She reached out her hand and let it rest on his shoulder.
“Sister?” Bao asked. “You know how Brother Kien says that we all share a revolutionary love, as brothers and sisters in the struggle? Well… do you think… I mean, that is to say… do you think that extends to us as well?”
“I think you should go back inside and join the others,” Phuong said, smiling patiently. “I don’t think it’s the revolutionary love you’re worried about, brother. But you are very young still. It is best to focus your energy on the cadre’s operations right now.” Bao’s face flushed red and he nodded, looking timidly down at the ground.
As Bao slunk back in to the apartment, Phuong looked up to see someone hurriedly pedaling a bicycle toward her unit. Reaching back hesitantly toward the Tokarev holstered in her áo dài, she relaxed when she recognized Truong, an older cadre member—an undercover operative who worked as a bartender, alias “Jacques.”
“Sister Phuong,” Truong nodded in greeting as he slid the bicycle to a halt and leaned it against the wall. “I must speak with Brother Kien as soon as possible.”
“Brother Truong,” Phuong replied. “Please, come in. He is expecting you.”
Phuong stepped in first, making eye contact with Kien. As Truong followed her, Kien led the way into the apartment’s small bedroom while the rest of the cadre members conversed quietly in the main room.
“Brother Truong,” Kien said quietly, sitting down on the bed where Vigot had dressed just a few hours earlier. “Did you see the operation through?”
“Yes, Brother Kien,” Truong answered. “I was there to ensure that Cu had the grenade.”
“And is he okay?” demanded Phuong, concerned.
“I saw him scamper away after throwing the bomb,” Truong assured her. “Besides, he’s a resourceful little one. You shouldn’t worry about these things. The soldiers were completely off-guard. They thought they were buying Coca-Colas from him.”
Kien laughed but Phuong shot him a look. “For shame!” she said reproachfully. “Revolutionary spirit is one thing, but Cu is only a child. He does not know right from wrong, never mind what revolution means.”
“Well, look, I think it’s best that we go down there and see if we can survey the situation. Who knows? Maybe we’ll even be able to repurpose some leftover weapons for the party!” Kien waved his hand as he stepped into the main room. Phuong hesitated and grabbed Truong’s shoulder.
“You’re sure that Cu is okay?” she demanded.
“Look, Sister, I didn’t see where he went, but I know that he got out of there right after throwing the grenade,” said Truong. “I’m sure he will be able to take care of himself until we get down there.” He shrugged her hand off his shoulder and followed Kien, who was assembling the rest of the guerrillas.
Bao looked up at Phuong as she entered the room, realized he had made eye contact with her, and hurriedly snapped his gaze down to his knees as he sat hunched on the floor. “Get up,” Kien told him, as he distributed rifles and pistols to the group. “We shouldn’t need to use these,” he assured them, “but it’s best to have them on us, just in case. You all know your routes. Let’s get moving.”
Truong was already pedaling down back the way he had come on his bicycle as the rest of the cadre spilled out the doorway and took their different routes. Phuong hastily slung the Type 56 Kien had given her over her shoulder, the Tokarev still tucked into her trousers. Slinking down the alleys towards the bar, she didn’t slow down for the homeless children peddling their mismatched wares, nor did she offer any explanation or assurance at the curious and frightened faces that peered out from back windows at the young woman with a rifle as big as she was. Once the sound of gunfire erupted into the afternoon stillness, Phuong broke into a run. Hurtling from the alleyway, she nearly collided with Truong, who had been standing in shock next to his bicycle.
The bar had suffered evident damage from the grenade’s explosion—there were blast marks on the wall and part of the roof had come down, but Phuong swept her gaze immediately to the mass of corpses piled in the street. A group of occupying soldiers walked about, abusing the bodies and shooting anyone who stirred. She watched in horror as she spotted little Cu, splattered in the blood of the adults who had fallen around him, looking up at one of the troopers, who pointed a long rifle down into his face and pulled the trigger. Phuong gasped—choked, gagged, but couldn’t pull her face from the scene.
The trail of blood puddling from the bodies had snaked its way over to her and Truong. The soldier who executed Cu grabbed the rifle of a fellow trooper, pushed him to the ground, and started to attack him. The pathetic figure squirmed, slowly losing energy as the life was squeezed from its body. Its head flopped, tilted, then looked up and over at her.
It was Heurtebise.
Before either Phuong or Vigot could quite make sense of seeing the other at that precise moment, in the precise social roles they were currently performing, Truong raised his own armament, a MAT-49 submachine gun, and opened fire on the Waffen-SS soldiers. He hit one of the German soldiers across the midsection, dropping him. x7 Kien, Bao, and the rest of the cadre emerged on the scene and quickly provided supporting fire as Kammberger screamed orders at his men. García dropped to the ground and propped the body of one of his victims up in front of him, just in time as a barrage of small arms fire descended on him. Bogdan dropped Vigot’s rifle and let him go. The Ukrainian swung up with his STG-44, and returned fire, forcing Truong to abandon his position out in the open and scramble for cover.
“Frenchman! Vigot!” shouted Kammberger. “Get your ass over here! On the double!”
Vigot was grabbing his throat and stooped, frozen in the center of the crossfire, his eyes still glued on Phuong’s horrified gaze.
“Phuong! Don’t just stand there!” Kien yelled as he rattled off a burst from his rifle. “Help us!”
Vigot reached his arm out to Phuong, his fingers stretched out. He stumbled, lurching forward unsteadily, his boots splashing in blood. Phuong flinched, turning on the spot and disappearing back into the alley. Vigot took off bolting after her, no weapon, no coherent thought in his head as the live rounds buzzed back and forth between the two skirmishing sides.
“Vigot! Vigot!” Kammberger howled, bellowing over the din of the fight. “Deserter! Traitor!”
Kien had noticed Phuong’s flight as well, but turned his attention to one of his guerrillas as the man took a round to the forehead. x8 Three of the Waffen-SS soldiers emerged from behind a corner, where their unit’s truck had been parked behind the bar. They carried the body, belt, and barrel of an MG-42, respectively, and hit the deck mid-assembly.
“Focus on the machine gun!” Kien shouted, but no sooner had he given the order than the weapon opened fire, belching a path of metal that chewed up two of the Vietnamese guerrillas who stood up to aim with their weapons. x6 Kien reached his arm up around Bao’s neck and pulled the young boy to the ground, moments before the terrifying buzz of the machine gun’s fire traced a path over their heads.
“Fall back! Fall back!” Kien’s orders were wholly unnecessary, as the rest of the cadre had already fallen back to defensive positions further down the street. He scrambled on his elbows and knees behind a car, then chanced a sprint into a nearby house’s yard with Bao. The MG-42 chased them but proved to be slightly too slow, licking the pavement at their heels and sending bits of the cobblestone road flying up at their faces.
Kammberger had snatched up an MP40 from one of his fallen men and was letting loose, fully automatic, in the direction of the retreating guerrillas. The shooting petered off and Kammberger gave the order to cease fire.
“I want you all to hunt them down! Use your trucks, your motorcycles, don’t let them get away!” Kammberger yelled. The Waffen-SS unit sprang into motion, around the corner of the bar where their vehicles sat, idle.
“Standartenführer!” Bogdan stepped to the side and placed a meaty paw on his commander’s shoulder. “Vigot took off running into the alley. He was refusing to shoot, too. And he tried to stop me from shooting during our operation. He attacked me with his rifle.” Bogdan’s face shone up with glee as his commander’s face twisted into a scowl.
“Follow me. We’re going our own way. We’ll catch that little rat.”
Kammberger motioned to his staff car, not bothering to wait for Bogdan to open the door for him. “Just drive, drive!” he shouted.
The staff car peeled down the road, moments before a motorcycle with a sidecar and a troop transport truck barreled out and after the guerrillas. Ståhlberg drove the motorcycle, García bouncing alongside him in the sidecar. The rest of the German troopers followed in the truck.
Truong was pedaling furiously on his bicycle, nearing the entry to Phuong’s apartment, when he heard the roar of oncoming motors. He panicked, swerved, and crashed the bike on the curb, scraping open his knee and leaving a nasty, raw, bleeding gash. He recovered his submachine gun, which had skittered into the street, and hopped over the low wall of her patio. He found the font door unlocked—he could have sworn he saw Phuong ducking out the back door, her long hair swirling in the air behind her. But Truong didn’t have long to dwell on that.
The sound of the vehicles slowing down gave away his misfortune. There was a pounding on the door—too sudden to be the occupying soldiers—and rapid Vietnamese begging to be let in. Truong froze for a moment before he scrambled, recognizing the voices of fellow cadre members. Two of his fellow guerrillas pushed past him into the apartment right as angry shouts in German chased them, followed by a hail of bullets that scythed through one of the partisans. x5 Truong popped up from the window and rattled off a burst from his MAT-49.
Outside, the two German SS troopers formed up alongside the perimeter of the wall. Ståhlberg and García went around the back of the troop transport and struggled to lug out a heavy Panzerschreck. One of the German soldiers readied a stick grenade, sharing a brief nod with the point man, and lobbed it through the front window seconds after the point man shattered it with a heavy blow from the butt of his rifle.
A shower of glass shards cascaded over Truong’s back and shoulders, moments before a heavy thud announced the entry of a grenade. He scrambled, hands and knees over the broken glass, fumbled with the grenade, and tossed it back outside into the patio. There was a brief shout of alarm before a concussive blast stunned Truong and threw him onto the floor.
One of the Germans had picked up the grenade to toss it back again, but the fuse had run out right as he lifted it next to his head. x6 His fellow trooper had dived to the other side of the patio wall, right as Ståhlberg and García loomed up with the Panzerschreck across the street. Truong had already determined his position was untenable and was in the process of fleeing, one foot already out the back door. Then a massive explosion—bigger still than the grenade—consumed Phuong’s apartment, as the Panzerschreck’s warhead surged forth and slammed into the living room’s back wall with a boom. Covered in blood, Truong didn’t even wait to check for the other cadre member, who had effectively been incinerated, charred, and battered beyond recognition in the blast. x4 As the echo of the boom swirled into an uneasy silence, the SS unit burst into the house. They found the corpse of their victim, but bloody footprints led out the back and painted a path out through an alley.
Truong stumbled, wounded, knowing that the occupying soldiers were hot on his trail. There was no way he would make it to their encampment past the outskirts of the city. He only hoped that Kien, Phuong, and Bao would make it. He hauled himself over and propped himself up against the low patio wall, grimacing as he checked his injuries.
Ståhlberg and García slowly followed the bloody footprints, halting as they disappeared around the corner. The German SS trooper stacked up behind them. They readied their MP40s and confronted Truong, who looked up at them with his last vestige of strength.
His eyes were glassy, losing focus as he managed one last vindictive grin. The German trooper instinctively turned, far too late for it to make much difference. García’s face contorted in shock, unable to move before the grenade laying limp in Truong’s lap detonated. Ståhlberg’s face showed resigned acceptance, perhaps relief, that his life of war was coming to an end. x3 x3
The fighting had driven the SS and the guerrillas out of the city. But they were on a warpath, and prepared themselves to take the battle further into the wilderness that lay beyond.
7. Confessions and Confidants
Ten minutes earlier
Phuong’s feet carried her down the alley as her mind went blank, blank from the shock of Cu’s death and Heurtebise’s sudden appearance, in uniform, at the scene of the crime. Her hair flowed behind her in long ribbons, long snaking streams that mirrored the trickles of blood chasing her on the sidewalk.
“Phuong! Phuong! Wait!”
Then hands were on her shoulder—rough hands, but gentle ones, that turned her around.
“Why are you running?” asked Papa, his weathered eyes glimmering with kindness. The wrinkles in the corners scrunched together as he blinked, blinked in relief to hold his little daughter in his arms again.
“I thought they had taken you away!” Phuong whispered. She reached out and intertwined her little girl’s fingers in his. “I thought you weren’t coming back.”
“You know they wouldn’t have been able to keep me away,” he said. He looked like he had aged twenty years in the three months since his arrest. That was what had scared Phuong when he first stepped through the courtyard and into the main room.
“Where’s Phuoc?” she asked, craning her neck over her father’s shoulder. Her older brother had been taken away with her father—the government had cracked down on political agitators, on students, on the Buddhist priests.
“Where’s Phuoc?” Phuong repeated more forcefully, pulling her face back down to look her father in the eyes. Her little heart froze when she saw he was crying. She had never seen that before, and she was struck with fear and a dawning comprehension that nonetheless baffled her child’s mind. She buried her face in her father’s chest, beating her tiny fists on his shoulders as he wrapped his hand over the back of her hand.
And then the room was suddenly filled with relatives, with siblings and cousins, and Phuoc’s face decorated the wall and the altar where the candles and incense and flowers sat. All of the faces had been unknown, unfamiliar faces—great-grandparents and great-aunts, ancestors who had never existed in Phuong’s little world. But now there, on that table where before had been only photographs and memories that belonged to other people, was Phuoc—her hero, her idol, her big brother, her protector.
“He’ll protect you still, now, you know,” her father whispered into her ear, taking her aside as the family strode past and over the grieving child, not noticing. “Just like you’re remembering him now, he’s remembering you too.”
“Do you promise, Papa?” Phuong asked, blinking through the hot tears that splashed off her round face and onto the floor.
Phuong’s father brushed her cheeks with the backs of his fingers and managed a brave smile through the pain that was etched across his worn, haggard face. It was almost too much for young Phuong to bear. His eyes flickered up to the ceiling, dropping a tear that betrayed the courageous façade he labored to maintain for the sake of his daughter. But the moment passed, and he looked back down and swallowed. “I promise.”
The environment was suffocating, too much for Phuong to handle. So she broke away from her father’s embrace and tottered unsteadily out into the courtyard, trying to shake free from her emotions, trying to shake free from a reality that doggedly pursued her into the streets. From behind, voices chased after her.
“Phuong! Phuong! Wait!”
Then Phuong turned, stopped—there was Heurtebise, his face covered in blood, his eyes painted in horror and fear. He reached his arms around and grabbed her in an embrace.
“Heurtebise,” she managed.
“Phuong, Phuong…” he murmured, rocking, as he held her. “Phuong. Forgive me. Forgive me.”
She pushed him away unsteadily, held him at arm’s length. Her eyes scanned his body, just as unsteady as she. Here they stood, still touching, yet a chasm yawned between them.
“We can’t do this here,” she finally answered. “Come. Just—come.” She grabbed his arm and pulled him down the twisting alleyways until they came upon her apartment.
“We don’t have much time,” she told him, unlocking her door. “Sit.”
Vigot sank unsteadily down onto the floor, looking up at Phuong. She knelt down beside him and cast her gaze into her bedroom, where they had sat together just that morning. “I’ve been part of this movement for a long time,” she said. “We’re directing this for our own sakes. It’s about being unselfish. It’s about putting the people before… before oneself. It’s about—”
“It’s okay,” Heurtebise said, reaching out for her hand again. “It’s okay. Phuong, it’s your home.” Then his expression shifted. “Phuong, I tried to stop them out there. It’s just that—”
“Sometimes you’re too late,” she said, finally letting him rest his hand rest in hers. “Heurtebise. We will all have to answer for what we’ve done some day. You will have to accept me for who I am because you need my help. And I will have to accept you for who you are, because I need yours as well.
“I don’t know what will become of us, but right now we need each other. And we can’t stay here.”
Phuong stood up suddenly, rushed across the room, peered out the window. The sound of oncoming motors rumbled down the street. Truong preceded the noise, pedaling frantically on his bicycle before crashing and tumbling into the curb outside the apartment. She turned, grabbed Vigot by the hand, and rushed out the back door. They hopped over the low wall of the back patio, into a neighbor’s unit, then over the neighbor’s wall and onto the opposite side of the street. A small motorbike—a motorized scooter, really—leaned against the wall. Phuong stooped to overturn a brick and pick up some keys, Vigot looking down in surprise at the pistol that jutted up from her trousers.
“Get on,” she said breathlessly. Vigot wrapped his arms around her waist. If he hadn’t been so overwhelmed by the situation, he might have been amused at the prospect of himself clinging tightly to this small woman as she hurtled down the city streets and out to the rice paddies that lay beyond. His mind ran a million miles an hour as the gravity of his decision slowly started to sink in. Kammberger would not take desertion lightly—and he was a man petty enough to raise hell and earth to bring a transgressor to his sick perversion of justice.
The motorbike came to a gentle halt at the treeline that sprouted up at the edge of the rice fields. The city of Huế loomed in the distance so that its impressive imperial walls glowed purple in the fading light. A small dirt path led off into the jungle. Phuong gripped Vigot’s hand tightly in hers, reaching down to draw her Tokarev in her other hand. She looked him in the eyes.
“Heurtebise. I care about you. I do. I need you to trust me.” She paused. “Do exactly as I say.” She leaned in and kissed him—briefly, before turning and whisking him into the undergrowth. The thick jungle canopy swallowed up the long shadows cast by the setting sun, plunging them into a twilight state of semidarkness. Vigot found himself holding his breath, clutching Phuong’s hand tightly. This was no longer an issue that triggered amusement—he was squarely out of his element and entirely in danger. He would need to rely on Phuong to survive.
8. A Dance in Darkness
“Standartenführer.” Bogdan’s heavy breathing pierced the silence. He lowered the binoculars and pointed out, across the rice paddies, where the jungle broke up the horizon. “They’re there, all right. I saw them go in.”
Kammberger leaned across the passenger’s seat and snatched the field glasses from the Ukrainian’s hands. He spotted the small motorbike, resting squarely in the center of a small dirt path that disappeared into the treeline. “Bring the radio,” he motioned to Bogdan. “We might need it yet.”
The two men crossed the rice paddy, their big black boots sinking in the soft earth, churning up mud as they approached the motorbike. The light of the dying day was just strong enough to make out two pairs of footprints—a small set, left in sandals, and a larger one, left in the same unmistakable tread that Kammberger and Bogdan were now themselves leaving behind.
“Vigot,” Kammberger whispered to himself.
Up ahead, Phuong motioned for Heurtebise to stop as they approached a bend in the path. She drew a small pistol’s magazine from where it was tucked in her sleeve, rolled up, and inserted it into the Tokarev. “We’re here,” she breathed, squeezing his hand.
As Vigot craned his neck around the path, he saw a small thatched hut, windowless, with an entryway so low and narrow that it seemed even Phuong would have to duck to get in. But before he could raise any query, he found himself staring down the barrel of a rifle, an angry face looming behind it.
“So, this is how you make your dramatic entrance?” Kien snarled at Phuong, keeping his eyes trained on Vigot’s uncomprehending face. “I think you have a lot of explaining to do, and I think it’s going to start now.” He motioned for Vigot to enter the hut and waited for Phuong to follow.
It was dark inside, but as Vigot’s eyes adjusted he saw another guerrilla—a teenaged kid, by the looks of it, who glowered at the Frenchman, though his features momentarily softened when Phuong followed. Phuong sat, cross-legged, and looked over at Kien. She maintained eye contact even as her commander tried to stare her down. Eventually, he gave in and broke the silence. “I know you have your own ideas of what constitutes a revolutionary spirit, but I must admit, Phuong, even this surprises me. Why are you leading the enemy into our lair?”
“He is not an enemy!” Phuong protested vehemently, gesturing with her pistol. Kien looked at it, as if he had just noticed the weapon clutched in her hand. Deciding there wasn’t much he could do about that at the present moment, he merely tightened his grip on his rifle and kept it trained on Vigot’s face. “I know this man. He tried to stop them at the bar today,” she said.
“Well, he didn’t damn well accomplish much there, did he?” Kien said accusingly. His voice dropped to a dangerously low tone, his speech even and deliberately measured. “Phuong, you need to take some time to seriously ask yourself where, exactly, your priorities lie. So, we’re going to have to have a talk with some party members. In the meantime, I’m going to have you reassigned. It seems that having kept you stationed at home was not the best allocation of the party’s resources after all.”
Phuong said nothing, her gaze fixed on Kien’s scrutinizing face. He briefly cast a glance over to Vigot and then looked back at Phuong. “Cavorting with the enemy,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Is this what you want Cu’s sacrifice to have been for?”
Incensed, Phuong rose to her feet, diving forward and tackling Kien. “His sacrifice?” she shrieked, finally losing her composure. “His sacrifice? You tell me, Brother! What was that for? Because I damn well don’t know!”
Bao crawled forward and tried to haul Phuong off the commander. Kien pushed her violently and stood as much as he could in the hut, swinging his Type 56 in a broad motion and jutting the barrel into Vigot’s chest. Bao took advantage of the confusion to snatch the Tokarev from Phuong’s hands and held it, tentatively pointing it at Vigot’s head.
“Enough!” Kien roared.
“That wasn’t his sacrifice to make!” Phuong screamed, trembling, as Bao tried to restrain her.
“I said, enough!” shouted Kien. “I’ll deal with you later, Sister. But right now…” He turned his cold gaze back to Vigot. “Get up!” he ordered in French.
The pair marched out into the jungle, Bao and Phuong trailing at a distance. “Down,” Kien said in French, kicking Vigot in the back of his knees. He hit the dirt floor with a dull thud, landing on all fours. He raised his head and took one final glance over at Phuong, whose face was contorted in a brokenhearted fury. Vigot admired her one last time, admiring the strength she displayed before him. “Not even a tear, my love,” he whispered, letting one slip down his cheek.
Kien shoved the cold barrel of the rifle against the back of Vigot’s head, but at almost the same time a series of shots punctured the air. Kien stumbled back, jerking unnaturally as several rounds landed in his chest. x2 Bao ducked and hit the ground, his hands over his head. Vigot was unceremoniously hauled to his feet and found himself staring face-to-face with Kammberger.
“Hello, Frenchman,” he snarled.
Bogdan pushed past them and looked over at Phuong. “Well, now, Vigot, you never told me you had such a pretty friend.” He cast Vigot a sideways look, raising his eyebrows and pulling his lips back in a hideous grin that showed off his broken smile.
Kammberger slammed the butt of his pistol into Vigot’s stomach and threw him back to the ground. “You traitorous wretch,” he hissed, crouching down and putting the barrel of the pistol to his face. “Did you really think you could just walk away from me?”
But then there was a shrill cry, a muffled thud, and Vigot and Kammberger looked up at Bao, who had thrown himself against Bogdan and swung the Tokarev at his head. The burly Ukrainian caught the guerrilla’s wild attack, crushing Bao’s wrist in his meaty grip.
“Sister Phuong!” Bao grunted through the pain. “Get out of here! Go! Go!”
He cast a desperate gaze at her as Bogdan pushed his wrist backwards, snapping the bone with a terrible crack. Bao’s final, shrill cry of pain morphed into a series of gurgles as Bogdan forced his body weight on the boy, stamping out his breath and his life in the jungle mud. x1
Bogdan sat up, kneeling on the corpse of his victim—his final unfortunate prey. He licked his lips and swung his head over to Phuong, who had recovered the Tokarev and instantly fired two rounds directly into his groin. Bogdan doubled over, reaching his hands down to the wound, trying to stem the blood spilling out from between his legs. Less than a second later, Phuong pushed the gun up against his head and pulled the trigger. x2 The bullet went in at the top of his head and came out his mouth, shattering the few teeth that remained and flying out in a spray of saliva and blood. Bogdan’s lifeless head snapped back for a brief moment before slumping down over his chest.
Phuong then turned the Tokarev over to Kammberger, who was watching slack-jawed at the scene unfolding before him. She emptied the magazine into the Standartenführer, who was standing over Vigot. Her shots sent him crashing to the ground, his Walther skittering out of his grasp and into the mud. She rushed over to Vigot and wrapped her arms around him, cradling his head as he tried to check himself for wounds.
“Heurtebise,” she choked.
Vigot reached up and touched her face, a surge of emotion crashing over him and leaving him weak. Phuong’s energy, too, was spent, and she slumped onto him in exhaustion. They lay there in the quiet of the jungle, their ragged breathing puncturing the silence.
“Phuong,” Vigot said, looking over into her eyes. “I—”
Then there was a ragged, raspy growl, a hideous sound of laughter, and Vigot forced himself into a sitting position. Kammberger had dragged himself over to Bogdan’s massive corpse, with the radio still strapped across its back. All of Phuong’s shots had missed it, and the SS commander vindictively held the receiver up to his mouth and stared Vigot in the eyes.
“Battalion, battalion, this is Standartenführer Kammberger. I am calling in coordinates for an airstrike on my position.”
Vigot rolled over in panic, reached across Phuong, and grabbed her Tokarev. He sat up and pointed the pistol at Kammberger, frantically pulling the trigger, but the magazine had been spent on Bogdan. The SS commander finished his coordinates and waited.
A crackle of static followed before a distant voice faintly radioed in. “Copy that, Standartenführer.”
“Over and out,” Kammberger managed, before letting the receiver slip from his hands. His devilish grin flashed through the jungle as Vigot stumbled to his feet, propping Phuong up on his shoulder. But it was too late—the jungle path was dense, but they were still close to the city. The roar of engines droned overhead and a massive gulf yawned up in the earth before them. x1 There was a thundering boom, and Vigot found himself airborne, floating, and then—pain.
9. Letting Go
The pressure waves crashed across Vigot, reverberating through his chest and making him feel sick. He was halfway across the jungle clearing, covered in dirt, bleeding, panic-stricken. He could hear nothing except the incessant explosions raining down overhead, but he knew that he was screaming Phuong’s name at the top of his lungs.
He crawled, unable to stand, each motion a taxing effort, a battle against that fear that left his legs without function. He dragged himself across the floor, his sleeves ripped away by the debris, slicing his arms on the metal fragments of bombs and splinters of the jungle now cast across the ground.
The deafening crashes of the airstrike continued, shaking the earth and coursing through his body, relentless blows from above. And yet, in spite of the chaos, in spite of the rain of death and steel, he kept his eyes fixed on Phuong’s limp form that had been tossed into a crater.
It couldn’t end, not like this, not after everything they’d been through. But Vigot reached his hand out to her limp form and found it unresponsive. His heart leapt into his mouth in an instant of white-hot, sickening panic. He rolled her over and realized he was staring at Colette.
Then she opened her eyes and suddenly the bombs seemed to stop, faded away into the distance as she reached her hand up and caressed his face.
“Hello, Heurtebise,” she said.
“Colette,” he managed. “Is it… am I…?”
“It’s not time, yet, my dear,” she said patiently, kindly, though a little sternly. “It’s not your time to go yet. And it’s not hers, either.”
“Phuong?” he asked uncomprehendingly, his voice tinged with a little guilt.
“It’s okay, Heurtebise,” Colette said. “I know. And she’s good for you. You just need to be good for her.”
There was a span of silence. Heurtebise couldn’t bring himself to say anything. Colette waited, the ghost of a smile playing across her lips.
“If you’re going to do that—I mean, if you’re going to be good for her, you have to let me go,” she finally said. Her eyes shimmered, reflecting Vigot’s gaze as he realized what he needed to do.
“Can you let me go?” Colette asked. Her fingers slipped through Vigot’s, an ethereal memory fading into obscurity.
Vigot’s mind went back—back to those years long gone, back before the war. Could he really ever be sure they had actually happened? Perhaps it was some distant dream from a fever, some illness from which he was only now starting to recover. Colette’s face started to blur, started to seem less real. Vigot could only truly remember the previous morning—the white bedsheets and Phuong, holding his peaked field cap, watching and chatting while he dressed.
“Goodbye, Colette,” whispered Vigot.
“It’s okay, Heurtebise,” her voice echoed, swirling into the mist of his memory. “It’s okay, Heurtebise.”
“It’s okay, Heurtebise,” Phuong repeated, wrapping her hand around his sweat- and blood-soaked head.
The storm passed as he came to his senses. The earth was churned up, the trees were cast aside like so many troops fallen in battle. The light of the moon pierced the clearing and lit up Phuong’s face, drawn tight with concern, slowly loosening with relief.
“I love you, Phuong,” Heurtebise said, finally realizing it as he stared up at her.
“I love you, Heurtebise,” Phuong said.
As the night closed in on the jungle, the moon bathing the two lovers in its luminescent glow, something of a peace closed in on them. One was an occupying soldier, one was a revolutionary guerrilla. They would have much to work out in the coming weeks, in the coming days—even in the coming hours. And yet at that moment, in that little war-torn corner of the world, there was only Phuong and there was only Heurtebise.
At the end of a very close match, the result is inconclusive. The Waffen SS had several important advantages. They were a profesionally-trained and profesionally-equipped military force, while the Viet Cong were irregulars who lacked many of the logistical advantages afforded the SS in a straight-up firefight. Additionally, a lot of the SS weaponry was of better quality. Finally, the Waffen SS were experienced killers who had plenty of combat experience against the Soviets and Western Allies, fighting ferociously down to the last days in the Battle of Berlin.
The Viet Cong, for their part, had several advantages of their own. As guerrillas fighting defensively, as they would have done historically during the wars against France and the US, they were able to dictate the engagements largely on their own terms. They were a highly motivated political fighting force, fighting in defense of their country and what they believed to be their people's revolution. Importantly, they were a good deal better off mentally, since the Waffen SS suffered serious psychological casualties as a result of their participation in an active genocide. While the Viet Cong did commit war crimes, nothing they did came close to the sheer scale of evil violence unleashed against civilians across Europe by the SS.
Because the Waffen SS and Viet Cong are very different fighting forces, and because their strengths and weaknesses really define who they were as fighters, it remains difficult to conclusively determine who would win in a direct engagement. But, hopefully, this can be seen as a conclusion worth reaching. It is my hope that this matchup addressed many of the historical inaccuracies from the Deadliest Warrior episode, and I also hope that you learned something new about one or both of these warriors from this blog. I welcome comments and constructive criticism, and I look forward to future Deadliest Warrior rematches from you all.To see the original battle, weapons, and votes, click here.
Battles here were deemed to be unfair or otherwise not in accordance with wiki standards, and have been removed from the statuses of the warriors and displayed below.
Battle vs. Medellín Cartel (by The Deadliest Warrior)
Viet Cong: Four Viet Cong operatives are sneaking through a series of warehouses in a district plaza. One Communsit Kinh (a term used for North Vietnamese people) bends down and begins to set up the explosive F1/POMZ trip-mine trap, as the rest of the group sneaks in a building where voices speaking in Spanish can be heard.
The building is occupied by four Medellin Cartel members, and they are about to send off a shipment of cocaine to one of their clients. One of the Colombian thugs grabs a bag full of cocaine and money for one of the Cartel's clients as 3 of the the VC troops watch. Deciding that this place would be excellent to set up their headquarters, the Viet Cong jump out, with MAT-49's and AK-47's firing. The Cartel member with the drugs and money jumps aside and is struck in the leg.
The Cartel members quickly dive for their weapons and begin to fire back. One jumps back up, M60 in hand, and a quick burst from the machine gun downs a Viet Cong carrying an AK. The gun jams, however, and the two other Cong attackers kill the thug with their own rifles.
The Viet Cong rush in, and the other Cong who had set up the booby trap rushes in with them. The Medellin Cartel retreats, shooting wildly over their shoulders as they take off, tthe wounded member quietly staying behind. He takes out his Dual-Uzis and stumbles after the VC soldiers, but takes a wrong turn and ends up lost in his own hideout. Unluckily he stumbles upon the trip-wire and the resulting blast kills him.
The Congs hear the explosion and grin amongst each other, knowing they have one less opponent to deal with. One of the Congs is holding a TT33 pistol, and as he turns the corner, shots ring out. Confused, the Viet Cong looks wildly around, but never sees the Cartel thug with the Colt pistol as the Colombian pulls the trigger one final, deadly time. He is shot up by the other two Viet Congs who are toting their submachine guns and assault rifles.
The Viet Cong are not aware that the last Medellin Cartel member is still alive, so they head back to the meeting room and grab as many weapons, money, and drugs as they canbefore they load it all in a truck and begin to drive away, planning to return later to loot the rest. Down a side alley, the Cartel boss hears the motor of his truck and ducks behind some trash bins as the truck drives by. Waiting for a moment, the boss steps out again and triumphantly raises a detonator over his head. The Viet Cong looks in the rear-view mirror and tries to stop the car in terror, but is too late. As they open the doors to get our, the Cartel boss blows up the bomb under the truck, sending flames and shrapnel flying all over. The Cartel boss laughs to himself and walks back to his meeting room to report the attack to his boss.
Although the VC supporters claimed that their "victory" in the Vietnam War would have them prevail, the Cartel supporters knew that the Cartel's more heavy-hitting weaponry and squad-combat experience would have them prevail.
The battle has been declared unfair for the Medellín Cartel because of the poor loadout the author gave to them.
Battle vs. Irish Republican Army (by Omnicube1)
Five IRA members are in Vietnam and are demanding a captured Viet Cong operative to them the location of his leader. He refuses and the IRA members torture him with jumper cables. Suddenly, a bullet rips through the jaw of one the IRA operatives. One IRA sniper raises his M1 Garand M1C and targets a Viet Cong marksman wielding a Dragunov SVD. The snipers fire at each other but miss. The IRA squad hear screams and come under heavy fire from the Viet Cong. The IRA team leader raises his Browning Hi-Power and finishes off the Viet Cong captive. One IRA member fires his AR-18, killing a Vietnamese assailant. But one of his comrades raises his Uzi and kills off the Irishman wielding the rifle. An IRA operative shoots his Thompson M1921 and wounds the Viet Cong squad leader. While downed, he raises his Stechkin APS, switches it to full-auto, and releases a torrent of bullets at his assailant. The two remaining Irishmen fall back into the jungle. The Vietnamese leader yells for his men to fan out and search for them. They pair up and creep through the jungle. Two standard Viet-Cong grunts hear a click. They look-up and see that an IRA member above them has lit the rag to his Molotov Cocktail. He smirks and hurls the incendiary device at them. The two grunts are set ablaze. The Viet Cong leader aims his AKM rifle and kills the Irishman wielding the Molotov. Suddenly, two rounds hit the chest of the leader. He falls to the ground and bleeds out. He draws his Stechkin APS and demands in Vietnamese for his assailant to come out. Another bullet flies and lands itself into the forehead of the squad leader. The remaining Viet Cong sniper waits for his target. He immediately sees his enemy and fires the last round in his Dragunov. The round hits the IRA sniper in the right chest, causing him to fall to the ground. The Viet Cong operative walks up to him and smiles at him. He pulls the pin of his F1 Grenade and shoves the grenade down the bullet wound of the IRA member. The Vietnamese sniper walks away and smirks when he hears the sound of the grenade detonating.
WINNER: VIET CONG
The experts believed that Viet Cong won due to having more reliable weaponry and using their skills to ambush the IRA and defeat them.