Recollections of a Case Officer in Laos, 1962-1964: Part 2

by Richard D. Holm

Continued from last month

Phou Song

The accommodations at Phou Song turned out to be similar to Ban Na, but the setting was surprisingly different. Again, I found myself watching a Helio depart, leaving me, this time, in a Hmong village high on a mountain in north Laos. Phou Song was bigger than Ban Na. It occupied less than a third of a large, flat area more than halfway up the mountain for which it was named. It was near the edge of a precipitous drop into the valley. Because of the large open space next to and behind the village, Phou Song had a large drop zone and a landing strip that could easily accommodate twin-engine STOL aircraft. Thanks to the AID program, there was a warehouse for storing rice, clothing, and other materiel that was regularly distributed to nearby villages.

Phou Song was more secure than Ban Na because the only approaches to it were easy to monitor and block. The nearest PL camps were at the far end of the valley and on the other side from our village. The majority of the men from the area were fighters. Phou Song was a focal point for our program’s efforts in the area. The PARU leader, Prasert, and his team members were quite friendly. The team and I occupied two houses near the warehouse at the edge of the airstrip. I quickly decided that I liked Phou Song.

Hmong Fighters working with Air America

Flying . . . and Walking

My work at Phou Song was more demanding than at Ban Na. Besides the routine things like logistics and training, I had to move around constantly. I would cable Landry explaining that I had to go to this or that village and needed a Helio for the day, and early the next morning, one would arrive. Prasert frequently went with me, but, after I got to know the region, I sometimes went alone. On those occasions a lot depended on the availability of French (or sometimes even English) speakers.

In the villages that I visited, we would talk about what nearby enemy units were doing and about needs of all kinds. We supplied everything from weapons and ammunition to schoolbooks, medicines, rice and salt, uniforms, building materials, and money. For some of these things, I was simply the middleman making arrangements for an AID delivery to a given village.

Sometimes, no plane was available or the place I was going had no landing strip, so I would take a Hmong patrol and a couple of the PARU and walk. We limited these walks to distances that could be covered in less than two days, round trip. More than that took too much of my time.

These trips were especially challenging. From Phou Song, the bulk of the walking was strenuous—it was either up or down. Moreover, it was the middle of the rainy season, and the frequent rainstorms made the mountain trails muddy and slippery. The first times out were real tests. Everyone was watching to see how the foreigner would handle the trails. Suspecting that I would have a hard time, they made it as easy as possible for me. I took no pack, just my weapon and web belt. The small Hmong soldiers carried packs plus their weapons and food and water.

Hmong Soldiers

An Emergency Situation

Shortly after I got to Phou Song, I scheduled a plane to take me to three villages in our region. At the second village, a colleague was waiting for me. He said that a Helio had gone down and that the pilot might be injured. Members of a Hmong patrol thought that they had seen where the Helio hit the side of the mountain. This was a serious situation. If a plane or chopper went down, every possible effort would immediately be made to rescue those aboard. We all knew that if something happened, our colleagues would come after us. We decided to lead a Hmong patrol to the crash site. I wrote a note informing Landry of our decision and gave it to my Helio pilot to deliver.

Eight Hmong accompanied us. There was a sense of urgency. We maintained a fairly fast pace and took few rests. The first couple of hours we headed downhill toward the valley below. The Hmong thought that the plane was on the far side of the mountain in front of us. There were PL positions near there, so a chopper rescue was not feasible.

The jungle on the valley floor was thick. There was a trail of sorts, but the undergrowth had almost closed in. We had to cross the valley and head up the mountain in front of us. Despite the terrain, we managed to traverse the area in less than two hours.

At mid-afternoon, we started to climb. We were having no trouble keeping up with the Hmong. We climbed for about three hours until almost nightfall, and then started looking for a place to spend the night. We came to a clearing and saw a hut at the far end. It was abandoned, and we moved in.

That night, I did not fall asleep right away. I thought about where I was and what I was doing. I was more isolated and vulnerable than I had ever been, but I was doing what I definitely thought was right. I felt lucky to have the chance that only a few ever have of actually making a difference. I was confident that I could handle whatever might come up and felt sure that the patrol would succeed.

The next day we started climbing again. Two Hmong had left at daybreak to do a reconnaissance above us. As we pushed ahead, I was struck by how much we depended on the Hmong. We had no idea where the plane might be and no landmarks to use to get there—or back. They realized the situation, but they also counted on us for the support we could call in. There was great mutual trust and respect.

An hour or so after we started, the two scouts reappeared. I could tell by their faces that the news was bad. They talked excitedly with the patrol leader and then he gave it to us in French. The pilot was dead—he had probably died on impact as the front of the plane was smashed in. There had been no fire. They had hidden the pilot’s body away from the crash site.

The two had seen activity far below them that caused them to think a PL unit might be moving up the mountain from the opposite direction to check out the crash site. We had no idea how many PL might be coming, but prudence dictated a retreat. We started back, and the walking was easy because we were headed down and around the mountain. Then we heard the welcome sound of a Helio. My colleague pulled out his emergency line-of-sight radio. The pilot must have had his mike open because he picked us up right away. But we received more bad news. Intelligence reporting available in Vientiane indicated that PL units had moved into the valley that we had come through. We were cut off. Taking no chances, Landry planned to get us out by helicopter as soon as possible.

The Misty Lao Highlands

Evasion and Escape

It took us 10 minutes to retrace our steps to a clearing higher up and put out a marker—the patrol leader had one in his pack that he used when receiving parachute drops while on patrol. One Hmong was posted on the trail just above the clearing with instructions to come running when he saw the chopper. None of us wanted the helicopter to stay on the ground for more than a couple of minutes.

We called the Helio and they told us that the pilot was en route and would be in position in five or 10 minutes. As soon as a large cloud filled the valley and obscured vision, the chopper came in. We heard it before we saw it. The pilot hugged the side of the mountain, then swung around and touched down right in the middle of the clearing. He even had the door facing us. The Air America pilots were truly outstanding—they had incredible skills and guts.

Concern and Relief

Although it made perfect sense at the time, we had gone off on what turned out to be an unauthorized dangerous mission. If an Agency officer were to fall into enemy hands, there would be hell to pay in Washington. A lot of nervous people had been following developments when it became known the night before that we were out looking for the downed pilot.

Lair and Landry were waiting for us in Vientiane. They looked relieved and happy to see us. Lair suggested that “next time” it would not be a bad idea to wait for instructions.

His typically low key comment belied the concern and the responsibility he felt very strongly. We were two of the eight young American officers for whom he was accountable. These young officers were spread thinly and worked hard—we would not have had it any other way. We took our losses even in those early days—both Agency officers and the pilots who were supporting us. But we got the job done.

Friends, who worked directly with Landry in the office, later told me that he had been genuinely concerned and really torn as the situation developed. On the one hand, he was frustrated and irritated that we had made the decision on our own to leave with the patrol. He knew that it would be dangerous. But he also was proud of us. In the end, he was so relieved that we were back safely that he did not yell at us.

Withdrawal Preparations

I spent a few additional weeks in Phou Song working to expand our program. But time soon ran out on us. As a result of political decisions in Washington relating to the 1962 Geneva Protocol on the Neutrality of Laos, word came that we were to be withdrawn from Laos.

This was a bitter pill. All of our observations and reporting had indicated that the VC had no intention of pulling any of their units out of Laos. To the contrary, their activities, especially in east-central Laos, were increasing. Despite the evidence that we had provided, the State Department was determined to live by the conditions of the Protocol that Ambassador Harriman had signed.
My fellow Agency officers and I argued—successfully, it turned out—that it would be wrong to leave the Hmong high and dry. Two advisers discreetly remained at Long Tieng, Vang Pao’s headquarters, to monitor the situation.

Initially, Lair and Landry moved their program headquarters to Nong Khai, just across the Mekong River in Thailand. To get there from Vientiane, one could take a five-minute flight or catch a ferry across the river—the ferry was just a small tug-like craft with an underpowered engine. The arrival of the gaggle of foreigners was a jolt to what had been a sleepy little town. The local population adjusted quickly, however, and welcomed the boost that our presence gave to the economy. Among other things, the sale of Singha beer jumped noticeably.

Singha Beer

Udorn, a much larger Thai town about 50 kilometers further south, had a large airport with a long concrete runway built by AID. Udorn became a major US airbase and staging area for combat and supply flights into Laos in support of US efforts to support the Lao government. Eventually, in early 1963, Lair and Landry moved their program headquarters to a new facility in a restricted-access compound at Udorn airbase. Their effort had grown too large to be managed out of a rented house in Nong Khai.

Meanwhile, in late September 1962, Landry told me that I would be taking over their project in the Panhandle, which was in its early stages. The North Vietnamese were occupying and exploiting a large chunk of eastern Laos, and we needed information on exactly what they were doing. The Panhandle area stretches from just north of Thakhek, a small Lao town on the Mekong River, to about midway between Savannakhet and Pakse to the south. It is bounded on the west by the Mekong, which is also the border with Thailand, and on the east by the Annamite mountain range, which forms the border with North Vietnam.
I was surprised. I had not expected to get a project to handle on my own, and the prospect was appealing. I would be working with ethnic Lao, and the objective was to collect intelligence on the VC. The operation was in the process of shifting its headquarters from Thakhek, to Nakorn Phanom, across the Mekong in Thailand.

Read more of this incredible account next month!