It was now 1 April, an appropriate date for another of Navarre’s black-comic gestures: an orgy of promotions for officers of the garrison, including the advancement of de Castries to brigadier-general’s rank. While Giap’s besiegers continued to dig furiously, advancing trenches and tunnels towards their next objectives, on the morning of 10 April the newly-made Col. Marcel Bigeard directed a counter-attack on Eliane 1. The men advanced singing, spearheaded by a flamethrower-carrier escorted by two sub-machine gunners, into a storm of communist fire. At 1130, after bitter fighting they reached the hill crest – then stuck, having suffered sixty casualties. At dawn on 18 April the hundred-strong garrison of Huguette 6, which was now thought indefensible, leapt from their trenches and ran for their lives, leaping over Vietminh foxholes towards the French lines. Sixty made it.
Throughout the Anglo–American crisis meetings that took place in April 1954, Dulles was obliged to mask his disdain for Britain as a nation, and for her leaders in particular. This sentiment was mutual: Churchill characterised the secretary of state as ‘a dull, unimaginative, uncomprehending man’. In London on 11–12 April, the visitor again rehearsed familiar arguments about the need to fight together against totalitarian threats. Eden was unfailingly courteous, unflaggingly sceptical. It was, of course, a large irony that he should in 1954 reject comparisons with the 1930s to justify Western military action, when two years later as prime minister he would deploy the same analogy to justify Britain’s disastrous invasion of Egypt. As it was, the two men parted with cold civility. The American visitor fared no better in Paris, where foreign minister Georges Bidault declined to agree that France should grant absolute independence to Indochina, an American precondition for intervention. Yet Washington’s hawks remained keen to act. On 16 April Vice-President Richard Nixon told newspaper editors, ‘the US must go to Geneva and take a positive stand for united action by the free world’. Far away in Indochina the French heard of his words, and nursed flickering candles of hope.
2 ‘A TRIUMPH OF THE WILL’
Between 14 and 22 April, the garrison of Dienbienphu lost 270 men. ‘Fragging’ by the disgruntled was not an American invention: one night a soldier tossed a grenade into a bunker full of NCOs, and was summarily executed for his pains. By 14 April, de Castries mustered 3,500 effective infantrymen; two thousand deserters lurked around the fringes of the camp, each night slinking out to compete in a scramble for parachute-landed rations. At the outset the French perimeter extended to twelve hundred acres; this had now shrunk by half. The battlefield resembled a fragment of the 1917 Western Front: a barren, mud-churned wasteland littered with debris, broken weapons and spent munitions, scarred and blackened by bombardment. Few men on either side ventured to expose themselves in daylight. French airmanship remained lamentable. On 13 April de Castries reported to Cogny three bomber attacks on his own troops, together with the parachutage of eight hundred shells into enemy hands. This message ended with a terse, acidulous ‘No Comment.’
The Vietminh displayed marvellous energy and ingenuity in sapping trenches and tunnels into the French positions, together with much courage in their infantry attacks. Yet to the end, the defenders inflicted far more casualties than they suffered. In 2018 Hanoi has still not credibly enumerated its Dienbienphu losses, surely a reflection of their immensity. Prisoners who fell into French hands testified to the dejection prevailing in many Vietminh battalions, among which malaria was endemic. The communist commander’s difficulties were sufficiently serious to cause him to abandon human-wave attacks in favour of more measured tactics, and to stage a succession of propaganda and self-criticism meetings. Political officers sought to inspire their overwhelmingly peasant soldiers and porters by promising that land reform – confiscation of landlords’ holdings – would be imposed in the ‘liberated zone’ within weeks of this battle being won. The most powerful stimulus for these simple men, however, was surely the knowledge that their sacrifices, unlike those of the garrison, were not in vain. They were winning.
On the night of 22–23 April, Giap’s men overran Huguette 1 after bursting forth from tunnels dug into its perimeter. Its senior officer was last seen fighting to the death in the midst of a throng of Vietminh. De Castries demanded a counter-attack, because without Huguette 1 there was little space left for supply drops. Paras were due to start such an operation at 1400 on 23 April, but an hour beforehand it became plain they would not be ready. Chaos ensued: it was impossible to cancel a scheduled air strike by four Marauders and a dozen fighters, which went in at 1345, when most of the available artillery ammunition was also fired off. The Vietminh on Huguette suffered severely, but then enjoyed a forty-five-minute lull during which reinforcements were rushed forward.
By the time two French companies leapt from their positions they met intense fire, exhausted momentum on open ground halfway to their objective, and by 1530 were pinned down and suffering heavy casualties. An hour later survivors withdrew, having lost seventy-six men killed or badly wounded. One of the latter, a Lt. Garin whose legs were mangled, blew out his own brains to forestall an attempt to rescue him. The communists now held half the airfield, and de Castries’ dressing station wrestled with 401 serious cases, 676 less severe ones. An officer told casualties for whom no shelter was available: ‘Those who can’t stand or sit had better lie in their trenches.’
As the Geneva conference drew near, once more Dulles flew to Europe, this time accompanied by Adm. Radford, to renew their pleas to the government of Winston Churchill, and to consult with the French. It was becoming clear to the world that without US action Dienbienphu’s fate was sealed, and the Spectator reflected some conservatives’ enthusiasm for such a course ‘if Ho Chi Minh and the Chinese have to be persuaded by military means that peace is desirable’. On 22 April Dulles and foreign minister Bidault met again in Paris to seek a common policy front for Geneva; Ely and Navarre meanwhile pressed for more US aircraft. When the British joined the talks, Bidault became emotional, perhaps influenced by a copious intake of alcohol: he later claimed that Dulles asked him privately whether he thought nuclear weapons would be effective at Dienbienphu; it seems at least possible this issue was informally raised.
Both Eisenhower and his secretary of state were weary of the Europeans: of the French, because they wanted aid without strings; of the British, because they refused to acknowledge the merits of joining the Indochina fight before the French packed their bags. Britain was also considered pitifully nervous about the Chinese threat to its Hong Kong colony. The old prime minister and his foreign secretary Anthony Eden nonetheless stuck to their chosen course. They rejected Eisenhower’s ‘domino theory’, and declined to support any new military action in advance of Geneva, which Eden was to co-chair with Soviet foreign minister Molotov. As for Churchill, when Radford unleashed his personal powers of persuasion on Britain’s leader at a 26 April Chequers dinner, the prime minister told the American: ‘the loss of the fortress must be faced’. After Britain had been unable to save India for herself, he added, it was implausible that she could save Indochina for France.
Dulles cabled home on 29 April: ‘UK attitude is one of increasing weakness. Britain seems to feel that we are disposed to accept present risks of a Chinese war and this, coupled also with their fear that we would start using atomic weapons, has badly frightened them.’ The British contribution was their most influential and benign in the course of all Vietnam’s wars. Had Churchill given a different answer, while it remains unlikely that Eisenhower would have unleashed nuclear weapons, the Western allies would probably have committed forces to support a fundamentally hopeless French position. Eisenhower’s cables to Dulles make plain that, while he declined unilaterally to deploy US might, he was not merely willing but keen to do so if he could secure the political cover Britain could provide, backed by a token commitment of RAF bombers.
Since 1940 the