Some weeks after reading Ted Morgan’s Valley of Death, I was whiling away a lazy Saturday channel surfing and watching the baby lay on her play mat while speaking in her magical nothing-language to a stuffed lion. I was also desperately hung over and looking for something, anything, to take my mind off my stomach.
Finally, I settled on the History Channel’s all-day marathon of Vietnam in HD, which is a handsomely constructed documentary, incongruous only for the fact that four of the leads of Entourage provided voice work. (At this point, the baby was taken to another room). I watched nearly all six hours of the program (excluding bathroom breaks for myself, and diaper breaks for the baby), and at the end, hadn’t learned much at all.
This is not to blame the History Channel. To the contrary, I applaud them every time they introduce programming that doesn’t involve pawn shop owners. It’s just that Vietnam in HD didn't set out with a pedagogical aim. Instead, it was experiential and anecdotal, focusing on individual participants rather than overall strategy and policy.
That’s really where we’re at with Vietnam.
As a nation, we’re still processing its impact. It is still too soon for sound and measured judgments. Often, reading about Vietnam is like poking at an unhealed wound. The war is too recent and too complicated to draw bold historical conclusions.
Except for the battle of Dien Bien Phu, the subject of Valley of Death.
Compared to the irregular, asymmetrical jungle warfare between the United States Armed Forces and the North Vietnamese, Dien Bien Phu is a marvel of understandability.
The battle was fought in March-May 1954, and pitted a French Expeditionary Force (French paratroopers, Foreign Legionnaires, Colonial forces, and friendly Vietnamese) against the Viet Minh troops under Vo Nguyen Giap. The French established a base aero-terrestre (essentially a fortified landing strip) deep in northern Vietnam, essentially daring the Viet Minh to attack. Despite daunting logistical difficulties, Giap did just that, laying siege to the French airbase.
The battle developed along static lines that would’ve been familiar to a World War I infantryman (indeed, in the famous conception of French commander Christian de Castries, Dien Bien Phu was like “Verdun, without the Sacred Way”). The French were cut off and surrounded and relied on airdrops for supplies. However, despite some grudging assistance from the United States, the French did not have enough planes and pilots to land sufficient materiel. Moreover, as the Viet Minh closed the noose, it became increasingly dangerous for planes to land.
The French begged the United States to intervene militarily; the United States refused. Dien Bien Phu fell to Giap. This led to the inevitable French retreat from Vietnam. The irony, of course, is that the United States took France’s place within a decade, fighting the same war that it could have helped France execute at Dien Bien Phu.
Dien Bien Phu is a clear turning point in the tangled history of Southeast Asia. It is also a historical moment of high drama. For easterners, it is a story of a long-colonized people throwing off their arrogant oppressors. For westerners, it is another in a long line of “epics of defeat,” in which some moral succor is taken from a doomed battle against long odds. In either case, it is a story that is impossible almost impossible to screw up.
Well, I’m here to state my opinion that Ted Morgan screwed it up.
The problems with this book – and there are many – can be boiled down to a lack of focus. Despite its lazy and generic title, Valley of Death is really about almost everything except the actual battle of Dien Bien Phu. All the secondary aspects of this event are brought to the forefront; meanwhile, the central event, with all its drama and high stakes, recedes into the background.
This central problem is noticeable right away. Interestingly, it manifests itself as a problem of context. In this case, way too much context. I understand this is an odd thing to say. After all, everybody loves context (“context is everything” etc., etc.). In this case, though, the context overwhelms and confuses the story with needless factoids, secondary personages, and myriad unnecessary complications.
The first 86 pages or so is devoted to an overly-detailed discussion of French colonialism, World War II, and the French reoccupation. Here, 86 pages is both too long and too short. It’s too long for a book about a single battle; it’s too short for a full explanation. The resulting reading experience feels crammed-in. And it doesn’t really have to be this way. The focus of the book should be the battle of Dien Bien Phu. The context should be told, not shown. Morgan, though, goes the other way. As a consequence, I immediately bogged down in minor matters. For instance, in a book about Dien Bien Phu, there certainly doesn’t need to be an entire paragraph devoted to the surprise attack on Pearl Harbor, which names each of the battleships sunk during the battle.
Perhaps the best example of this troubling lack of focus can be found in the photographic insert. There are sixteen pages of black and white pictures (of stunningly poor quality), with a total of 29 photos. Of these 29 photos, there are two of Franklin D. Roosevelt, the American president who died nearly a decade before Dien Bien Phu, one photograph of Castries, the French commander, and zero pictures of the Viet Minh commander Giap, or of other French leaders such as Langlais and Navarre.
As the narrative lurched forward, Morgan continues to catalogue minutiae, while failing to develop a clear picture of French strategy. In Morgan’s hands, the decision to build a base aero-terrestre close to the Laotian border, supplied only by airdrops, is never fully explained. Morgan does the bare minimum in explaining the French hérisson (“hedgehog”) approach, or how that tactic came about during the successful defense of Na San by French Group Mobile 7.
I’m not saying this aspect is completely ignored. I’m saying that Na San, a battle that tragically gave the French false hope for future operations, is given a whopping four pages.
Where is Morgan’s attention, then? It’s on the palace intrigue.
Despite the title, and the subtitle, and the picture of soldiers on the front cover, Valley of Death is a diplomatic history. With some sort of balance, with careful segues from jungle-to-conference room, this would’ve been just fine. Simply telling the story of a battle, after all, without any of its wider meaning, would be a waste. But Morgan doesn’t try to find a balance, and his shifting perspectives have all the subtlety of a sledgehammer to the cheek. One paragraph is in Washington; the next in Dien Bien Phu; and then suddenly we’re in Geneva.
The main irritant (leaving aside the clumsy edititing), as before, is misplaced detail. I totally lost count of the number of inanities that Morgan stuffs into the narrative. In one instance, he takes the time to give the reader General Paul Ely’s flight number! (“Ely landed at New York’s Idlewild Airport at 6:30 p.m. on Saturday, March 20, aboard TWA flight 931. The transatlantic voyage in those propeller-driven days took fourteen hours…”). In the meantime, back in Vietnam, men are fighting and dying, but the author barely seems to care. He’s more interested in the grade-D Machiavellian machinations of the French diplomatic delegations.
With regards to the diplomatic negotiations, a little would’ve gone a long way. Morgan feels differently, and these backdoor conversations (will America intervene to help the French or not? Pretend you don’t know the answer and keep reading!) really form the spine of the book. Morgan presents a lot of this stuff as revelatory; the problem, though, is that this is a poorly sourced book. The notes are threadbare and next to worthless, mostly containing naked citations to secondary sources. I need to know about where these verbatim conversations are coming from.
When Morgan actually takes the time to discuss the battle, the product is a shambles. His narrative on the battle is nearly impossible to follow. He does a poor job explaining the layout of the battle-site, the makeup of the troops, and the personalities of the commanders. All this is made worse by his tendency to cut away from the battle for long periods of time, to linger on the diplomats. By the time Morgan returns the story to the battle, you’ve forgotten who is who.
Furthermore, the two battle maps included in the book are near to worthless. Dien Bien Phu is an inherently difficult battle to follow. It wasn’t comprised of a single fortress, like the Alamo, which was overwhelmed by a horde of Viet Minh in one great charge. Rather, it was a series of strong-points, named after women (Eliane, Claudine, Gabrielle, etc.), ringing the airfield. These outposts fell, were retaken, and fell again at different times during the course of the fighting. It is a complicated chronology, one that requires a lot of discipline to explain. As noted before, that discipline is lacking.
I was further frustrated, throughout Valley of Death, by Morgan’s style of writing. He breaks every chapter up into dozens of subheadings (an average of one subheading per page). I don’t know why he did this, or what positive outcome he hoped to obtain. For me, it caused an already unfocused and stuttering narrative to become even more disjointed. Of course, I might just be getting crotchety. Perhaps this is the future of writing, in which even serious history books have to be broken down into easily-digestible soundbites for an audience weaned on Twitter and blog posts.
Normally, I try to avoid name-dropping other books when I write a review. This will be an exception.
Dien Bien Phu is a fascinating world-historical event. The battle’s outcome meant the end of French colonial rule, the beginning of American intervention, and ultimately the most divisive war in U.S. history, one that killed thousands of men, wounded many thousands more, alienated a generation, and caused a socio-political rift that exists to this day.
So if you’re interested in Dien Bien Phu, read Bernard Fall’s Hell in a Very Small Place or Martin Windrow’s The Last Valley. Neither are perfect, but both do a far better job in telling the story of this singularly important battle.