The Company Man

The Company Man

Barry Michael Broman, Risk Taker Spy Maker (Casemate, 2020)
When we think of the CIA, we tend to envision men in grey suits walking through a foggy Berlin night or some other European city. Those familiar with the Vietnam war know about the CIA’s nefarious activities, or at least think they do. But in this memoir of his storied career, Barry Broman reveals a much broader range of CIA activities in southeast Asia, particularly in Burma and Cambodia. It is often an eye-opening read.
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Broman spent his childhood in post-war England. He then developed a passion for photography back in the US and began his career as a wire service photographer based in southeast Asia. He visited Vietnam and Thailand, where he mixed with royalty and Hollywood film-makers. Broman returned to the US to attend university and then joined the Marine Corps in 1967. He saw action in Vietnam but is careful to point out that the war was ‘not all blood, guts, and incoming rockets.’ Broman believed in the mission, and he argues in his memoir that Vietnam was a ‘just war but poorly fought. That experience perhaps primed him for joining the CIA, which he did in 1971.
Most of Broman’s CIA career was spent in southeast Asia. He served in Phnom Penh, which was surrounded by the Khmer Rouge, and got out just in time before the city fell. He started again in Thailand before stints at Langley and in France recruiting Cambodian dissidents. Rising through the ranks, Broman became Deputy Chief of Station for Southeast Asia then Chief of the Thai-Burma branch of the East Asia Division. In the latter stages of his career, Broman served under President Clinton, who he singles out as no friend of the CIA. Broman retired in 1996. As a retiree, he published photography books, made a documentary film, and began a serious art collection.
This is an entertaining memoir full of stories and characters. Alongside his regular work, and sometimes part of it, Broman trekked through Nepal, participated in a rat hunt, made a clandestine documentary with Henry Rollins – it did not go well – played darts with John Le Carre, met Aung San Suu Kyi, and had many other encounters with all kinds of strange and interesting people. However, such a breadth of experience sometimes takes away from the depth in that we don’t know that much more about CIA operations other than the surface information Broman provides. Nevertheless, Broman’s memoir adds to our understanding of CIA operations in southeast Asia where they were obviously busy. Broman is also an engaging writer, and this book skips along nicely.

Portugal’s Vietnam?

Portugal’s Vietnam?

Al J Venter, The Last of Africa’s Cold War Conflicts (Pen & Sword, 2020)
It’s the 1960s, and a guerilla war has broken out with communist-backed forces fighting mainly in the jungle against a western power. And it is all but ignored in the western media because this isn’t Vietnam; it is Portuguese Guinea and a conflict on the periphery of the Cold War and the dying embers of European colonialism. The brutal war will last for a decade until the Portuguese left. Al Venter was there reporting on the war, and this book is what he saw and what he thought about it.
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This book is not a typical narrative history of the war in Portuguese Guinea; rather, it is more of a series of despatches and essays covering a range of topics from local events to the global aspects of a proxy war fought against a Cold War backdrop. Venter opens with the build-up to the war. On one side, Portugal had colonised Guinea in the 1500s and was determined not to lose it. Ranged against them were two guerilla forces, the most important of which was the PAIGC, backed by neighbouring countries, the Soviet Union, and Cuba. Venter discusses the major problems that Portugal had to overcome, the foremost of which was their relative poverty compared to other western powers, but also the terrain, the evasiveness of their enemies, and desertion and draft-dodging amongst others. Venter’s ‘hero’ in all this is General Antonio de Spinola who arrived in 1968 to turn around what appeared to be a losing effort. Venter works through Spinola’s more enlightened approach to colonialism while hitting the PAIGC hard when the opportunity arose. Venter participated in patrols, with the ever present menace of landmines, and he visited Portuguese bases to get a feel for frontline conditions. He also provides commentary on the war effort and is scathing towards some of the Portuguese leaders who, Venter argues, sold their country down the river in Guinea.
If you are looking for an objective history of the war in Portuguese Guinea, this is not for you. Venter leans heavily towards the Portuguese, and it is their war he is mostly interested in despite his respect for the talented PAIGC leader Amilcar Cabral. There is no doubting Venter’s bravery, however, in seeking out his stories, and this book is at its best when he is reporting from the field. This book joins a long list of Venter’s wartime experiences in Africa and elsewhere, and it is well worth reading to gain insight into the nature of post-WWII colonial struggles in Africa albeit looking through the Portuguese lens.

The Hidden Heroes

The Hidden Heroes

David Hebditch, Covert Radio Agents 1939-1945 (Pen & Sword, 2021)
Imagine being stuck in a dank cave or halfway up a jungle mountain for months on end with one mission to carry out, watch for enemy ships and report them back to your country, all the while risking torture and execution if you make a single mistake. That was the duty of an incredibly brave cadre of radio operators during World War II. David Hebditch surveys their work, and their fates, in this riveting book.
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Hebditch sets out by explaining recruitment and training for this most dangerous of wartime jobs. It is hardly surprising that he uncovers the most extraordinary cast of characters, both men and women, that made it through the process, be they British, Australian, Soviets, or any of the nationalities fighting the Nazis. Hebditch tells their stories; of British and Norwegian agents, some skulking in Norwegian caves, covered in lice, and only emerging at night; of Australians lugging massive radio sets around small, Japanese occupied islands; of radio operators dropped into occupied France not knowing who to trust when they arrived. They did know that an implacable enemy tracked and hunted them even as they reported the movements of enemy ships or assisted the resistance. Hebditch includes Soviet agents operating throughout Europe in his survey, though I was not sure if this fell too far into the broader espionage category rather than the mission specific activities of the coastwatchers or the Jedburgh teams. Throughout his book, Hebditch weaves many technical aspects of the agents’ tradecraft and the counter-measures taken to track them down, and he describes the inter-agency rivalries that sometimes led to disaster.
This is not an exhaustive study by any measure, but for the casual reader, Hebditch brings to light many operations and characters they may never have heard about. The author also provides enough information for us to understand how operations were conducted. There are a few snarky asides that Hebditch could have excised, but that is a quibble on style rather than a complaint about the content. He adds a good number of photographs to illustrate his text, which is a bonus, particularly on the technical material. Hebditch’s book works as a surface treatment of this fascinating subject, and is well worth reading.

The Emperor’s Men

The Emperor’s Men

Peter Williams, Japan’s Pacific War (Pen & Sword, 2021)
As the World War II generation finally departs, it is a sobering thought that most of the available understanding of how that conflict was experienced remains Anglocentric. Military history in particular requires a more global perspective. Match that chasm to the still popular perception of the Japanese as mindless automatons charging recklessly into battle with no fear of death, and you can see the need to create a more complete picture. For Japan’s Pacific War, Peter Williams interviewed over forty Japanese veterans, allowing us, in a limited way, to see who was on the ‘other side’ and what they did.
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Across 25 chronologically arranged chapters, Williams allows the Japanese veterans to tell their stories with few interruptions other than for clarity and to check the historical record. The veterans fought on land, air, and sea, though the emphasis is on land combat. We join the veterans at the start of the war and follow along with their initial victories. Their high morale is evident, but the problems that plagued the Japanese war effort start to show. Even in the early campaigns, the soldiers were hungry, and as the war progressed, their logistics completely broke down, resulting in starvation – Williams notes some cases of cannibalism by the truly destitute. The Japanese relied on speed and manoeuvrability in their early gains, but when the tide turned, they found themselves outgunned and increasingly undermanned. They were not helped by tactical naivety that saw them attack relentlessly or dig in and refuse to retreat unless the circumstances were truly desperate, thus the creation of the popular myth of mindless Japanese soldiers. That attitude was aided by their fear of capture, though those who were captured expressed surprised at the humanity of their enemies. Most of Williams’ interviews were from Japanese who fought Australians, who were often described as tenacious but cautious. They had less respect for the Americans. Most of the experiences of the Japanese can be placed inside their cultural bracket, but when they were beaten and knew it, their distressing plight echoes across all military history. The Japanese martial culture reasserts itself, however, through the shame and guilt some survivors felt after the war.
Since John Keegan and other historians revolutionised military history to examine war from the ground up, the collected memories of soldiers have proved to be an invaluable resource. Translated Japanese accounts are still relatively rare, however, particularly those related to fighting Australians. Williams’ interviews are therefore a significant addition to the field. But memory is often faulty, either subconsciously or deliberately, and soldiers’ memoirs must be treated with caution. Williams mentions this in his introduction, but by presenting his material seemingly as lightly edited source material, he mostly skirts this issue. It is left to the reader to investigate the veracity of these narratives when set against the backdrop of what we know about the often appalling Japanese behaviour in World War II. Nevertheless, these are fascinating accounts that offer important insights into the combat experiences of Japanese warriors.

The Last Body Count

The Last Body Count

James H. Willbanks, Hamburger Hill 1969 (Osprey, 2024)
The Vietnamese called it Dong Ap Bia, just another mountain in South Vietnam. But the Americans who fought there would name it Hamburger Hill. Operation Apache Snow should have been a straightforward assault to take the high ground at the north end of the A Shau Valley from the NVA and block access into the interior of South Vietnam. But the Americans and their ARVN Allies bit off more than they could chew, and the attack became a ten-day battle of attrition that led to serious military and political consequences. In this new Osprey book in their Campaign series, James H. Willbanks tells the story.
The A Shau Valley, Willbanks notes, was one of several gateways into South Vietnam; one which the US had tried to close in 1966 but remained a thorn in their side into 1969. Their new plan, set for May 1969, would be to take down NVA bases in the valley and disrupt their logistics. Willbanks reviews the respective commanders, of which Lieutenant Colonel Weldon F. Honeycutt appears most often in the following narrative, and the organisation of the forces about to fight for control of Dong Ap Bia, designated Hill 937, and it’s neighbours. Operation Apache Snow opened on 10 May with a US barrage and helicopters inserting infantry into their jump-off areas. Honeycutt was in charge of the assault on Dong Ap Bia, but what he did not know was that he was badly outnumbered by a well dug-in NVA force. Forebodings of an NVA trap soon spread amongst the advancing US soldiers, then they ‘kicked over a hornet’s nest’ of enemy fire. The attack bogged down despite intense artillery fire and aerial bombardment. As attempt after attempt failed, US casualties grew while their morale dropped, which wasn’t helped by numerous incidences of friendly fire, but Honeycutt drove them on. Finally, after ten days of intense fighting, the NVA resistance collapsed. But only a few weeks later, the US withdrew its forces, sharpening the question, was it worth it? Politically, Willbanks makes clear that it was not, although US generals in Vietnam thought otherwise. US public opinion, already waning after the Tet Offensive, turned irrevocably against the Vietnam War, and Nixon called for the policy of Vietnamization. Hamburger Hill would therefore be the last action of its kind.
Hamburger Hill is one of the better know Vietnam War battles, partly through a 1987 movie dedicated to it, and because it was such a politically contentious affair back home in the US. If you have not heard of it, Willbanks’ introductory survey is a useful starting point. He controls the broader story well while picking out illustrative parts of the action on the ground. Willbanks’ narrative is heavily one-sided with the NVA set up as a mostly faceless enemy and bodies to be counted in the aftermath, but I doubt that most of his readers will object to that bias. He is ably supported by Osprey’s informative colourful maps and flavourful artwork. This is a book that provides a window into the Vietnam War, and beginners and ‘veteran’ readers alike will enjoy it.