World: By Book & Bullet

By Book & Bullet That picture is lodged in people’s memories. Taken during the recent Communist assault on Viet Nam’s cities, it showed Brigadier General Nguyen Ngoc Loan, 37, chief of South Viet Nam’s 75,000-man national police force cold-bloodedly executing a guerrilla suspect—a thin, frightened, but stubbornlooking man in plaid shirt and pants who had been seized by soldiers in a Saigon street. In no mood to ask questions, the spindly general whipped out his snub-nosed .38 revolver and wordlessly blew the suspect’s brains out. “Many Americans have died recently,” Loan told TV newsmen later. “So have many of my best friends. Buddha will understand—do you?”

Loan’s act caused little stir in Sai gon, where for two years the general has waged a ruthless, successful campaign against street terrorists. His fellow student in pilot-school days and longtime sponsor in government, Vice President Nguyen Cao Ky, dismissed the incident with little more than a shrug. But the execution aroused sharp world opinion, and raised a question that has concerned the U.S. since it took on the Viet Cong: How should prisoners in a guerrilla war be treated?

The question is even more relevant now, since more than 5,500 suspected Communists were captured during the Tet offensive. In previous modern wars, the rare soldier caught out of uniform could expect to be shot as a spy; the Geneva Convention of 1949 in effect denies prisoner-of-war status to spies. It allows soldiers captured out of uniform to qualify for P.W. privileges if they 1) carried arms “openly” or 2) fought “in accordance with the laws and customs of war.” But in Viet Nam, what is a uniform? The Viet Cong dress in the black pajamas of the country peasantry or in ordinary street clothing, like Loan’s victim, and wear red armbands or other identifying badges only in combat. And what, in Viet Nam, are the laws and customs of war?

Supplying Icebreakers. Foreseeing that few field soldiers would be able to judge those matters, the Pentagon in 1966 broadened P.W. status to include all captives, taken in or out of combat, in or out of uniform, with three exceptions: terrorists, saboteurs and spies. U.S. troops are now issued individual instruction cards spelling out how to treat prisoners (they “must be protected against violence”) and even providing such icebreakers in Vietnamese as “Lay down your gun” (“Buong sung xuong”). After questioning, the prisoners are supposed to be turned over to the South Vietnamese for detention.

Even that formula leaves a large group of potential captives unaccounted for. By previous rules of war, terrorists were regarded as the exception; in Viet Nam, they are the rule, waging a widespread, vicious campaign against a civilian population. Thus they unquestionably forfeit P.W. status if captured. But what, short of an Instant firing line, is to be their fate? The U.S. has decided that to be certified as a terrorist, a suspect must appear before an officer’s tribunal (including one military lawyer). Then and only then can he be handed over to the South Vietnamese for civilian criminal trial. South Vietnamese government orders parallel U.S. policy and specifically forbids summary punishment. These can be followed to the letter after a light battle, but often fall by the wayside after a fierce one.

Still, captives are increasingly treated by the book rather than the bullet. Before channeling P.W.s to generally well-managed camps at Bien Hoa, Pleiku, Danang or Can Tho, knowledgeable U.S. and Vietnamese interpreters try to weed out terrorists for criminal trial.

In addition, the South Vietnamese government is forming a military commission to handle the classification of prisoners and a military court to hear national-security cases.