The Airdrop

TIME Correspondent John Mecklin flew with a French air-force unit one night last week as it dropped paratroop reinforcements into besieged Dienbienphu. His report:

In the bare, dimly lit squadron headquarters at Hanoi's Bach Mai Airfield, the lieutenant colonel pulled on his overalls and told us: "The operation tonight is called Polo. The drop planes are Banjo One, Two, Three, and so on. Ours is the command plane, but we will also carry a load of 60 parachute flares to drop if the Viet Minh attacks and our comrades on the ground need light for shooting. Our radio identification is Luciole. Let's go."

At 2212 hours, Luciole, a battered C-47 of countless missions, heaved reluctantly down the runway and climbed through the moonlit mist. The crew started preparing flares, and their job was typical of the makeshift means the French must so often use in Indo-China. The flares were designed for bomb-bay release, but tonight they would have to be shoved by hand from the C-47's door. The delicate business of arming them must be done after takeoff. A sergeant flung one flare tail cap on the floor and swore. "It's defective," he grumbled. "This happens all the time. The bombs are too old." He pointed to the date stenciled on the flare bomb by its U.S. manufacturer: 1943.

The Chinese Accent. Crew Chief Sergeant Robert H. appeared with a jug of coffee. He said that this was about his 30th mission to Dienbienphu. What's it like? "Haven't you heard? The Viets have flak guns," he replied. "It gives you some interesting sensations. Forgive us please, messieurs, there's no sugar for the coffee." Sergeant K. interrupted: "It's tougher on the ground." Sergeant H. continued: "Last night we had to make six passes over the drop zone. The first one was O.K. Then the Viets spotted us. Tracers came up zzzt zzzt zzzt all around us. Our plane was hit 13 times." That sort of shooting at night is conclusive evidence that the Viet Minh gunners have Chinese radar. Said Sergeant K.: "They shoot with a Chinese accent."

An hour out from Hanoi, Colonel D. blacked out the plane. A few minutes later, Sergeant K., hunched over a radio set, reported: "We have contact with Dienbienphu." Deep down below us, a brilliant white light floated in the air for a few seconds, then died out--perhaps a Communist mortar flare. Luciole started weaving on a gentle, irregular pattern.

The Flick of Death. The night was cloudless but hazy. The four main French strong points were blacked out except for shielded lights in a special pattern to guide Banjo One, Two & Co. into the drop zone. From Luciole, the zone looked pitifully small--500 meters at the southern end of the main airstrip--and the slightest miscalculation of wind or navigation could make a parachute, whatever its cargo, drift into the barbed wire or the Viet Minh lines. At intervals of a few seconds, sometimes minutes, there were more lights--delicate white fragments in the blackness. Some were Viet shells hammering the French positions. Some were French shells reaching out into the foothills, where the Communists were gathering for their third offensive. Flicks of light came and vanished before the eye could focus on them, and each flick meant the risk of death for the man below.

The drop planes went in. Paratroopers leaped out to reinforce the garrison. At 2350, air-ground liaison reported: "So far, all goes well. Every stick has hit the drop zone." Luciole lazed on through the sky.

The colonel scribbled notes on the traffic below. The crew chief began a letter to his wife: "Ma chere petite." Above us, Privateer bombers also kept vigil, waiting like Luciole's flares for a Communist attack. The French keep bombers and at least one flare plane in relays over Dienbienphu every night.

The Lone Beacon. At 0050, air-ground reported: "Banjo Six is going in."Tracers arched over the drop zone. On Banjo Six's second pass, there were more enemy tracers and white bursts of flak following the plane. Banjo Six reported one hit but no casualties. At 0103, a mortar flare bloomed over the drop zone and revealed, for an elusive moment, the trenches and scarred earth below. Then mortar shells burst in angry red balls across the drop zone. For the paratroopers that was the toughest drop of the night.

We resumed our vigil. "We are lucky tonight," said Sergeant K. "The Viets are being polite." Two hours later, it was time for us to head back to Hanoi, and Sergeant K. radioed brief word down to the defenders of Dienbienphu: "End for me. See you tomorrow." As Luciole turned homeward, the drop-zone lights blinked out save for one lone navigation beacon in the dark, a bright symbol of the garrison's famous stand.

This file is automatically generated by a robot program, so reader's discretion is required.