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Unlike the fight against the French, whom he took on largely within what is now North Viet Nam, Giap today must wage war by remote control, with every foot of the long line of command under potential attack day and night. He must wield the most cumbersome logistical system since Hannibal brought his elephants over the Alps, winding down through the mountains and jungles of Laos and Cambodia. Captured diaries of infiltrators tell harrowing tales of the journey. Marchers carry 70-lb. packs up 40° slopes, cope with insects, snakes, mud, hunger, disease and even, occasionally, the attacks of wild animals. "Five of the men have died of malaria," observed one diarist. "Food situation getting critical," noted another, "will have to cut ration below 500 grams. The word tonight is that there is no rice stored at the next two stations." And once Giap's men arrive, he must keep them supplied by the same tortuous, 800-mile route. Every pair of 81-mm. mortar rounds fired by Giap's men in the South represents a three-month hike down the trail by one man.
Guitars & Tennis Rackets. Unable to view or even get close to the battlefield itself (unlike Westmoreland, who tours his commands four times a week), Giap must rely on reports from his commanders in the field that he cannot check —which probably leads to a rosier picture of the war than is justified by facts. While Hanoi, thanks to the careful targeting of the U.S. bombers, as a population center is probably safer than any place in South Viet Nam today, its atmosphere is hardly conducive to clearheaded armchair generalship. Bomb shelters are everywhere: at 8-ft. intervals between sidewalks and curbs sit concrete, barrel-sized holes for individuals to jump into, pulling manhole covers atop them. Slit trenches deface Hanoi's lovely leafy parks, where the flame trees last week were still in bloom, trunks neatly whitewashed.
Along the streets, under billboards depicting exploding American aircraft and vicious, monkey-faced American soldiers bayoneting pregnant women, flow two sorts of traffic: myriads of bicycles and camouflaged military trucks, Uncle Ho's yellow star embellishing their radiators. Creaky old French trams still clatter by in trains of twos and threes punctually every ten minutes—unless stopped in their tracks, as happens ever more frequently when U.S. planes demolish a nearby power source.
In some ways, Hanoi is even prospering. A good rice crop after two mediocre ones has put more food in the shops, and people look well-fed. Uncle Ho's austere example in private dress is losing emulation: Hanoi women are beginning to blossom in bright, gaily patterned blouses, and modest but earnest suits are replacing the peasant tunics of the men. "The State Store," once an elegant French department store, offers secondhand violins, guitars, and there are tennis rackets, jerseys and soccer boots for the boys who still gambol under the Red River Bridge. But there are also shortages, and some inflation, notably in the price of fish, shrimp, fruit and vegetables.