Honorable Exit

by Thurston Clarke

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  Air America pilot Marius Burke flew to Vung Tau on April 26 to oversee the evacuation of the Vietnamese families of the company’s Filipino mechanics. Most of the mechanics had lived in Vietnam for years, married local women, and were threatening to strike unless Air America evacuated their families. Even though the company would be crippled without them, the embassy and the DAO had not included their dependents on any evacuation lists. The Philippine government was more sympathetic and sent an LST and a senior Foreign Ministry official, a Mr. Sabalones, to Vung Tau. About a thousand of the mechanics’ relatives had arrived on April 25 expecting to board the workboats that Burke had hired to take them to the LST. Vietnamese officials stopped them from leaving because they lacked passports and exit visas, and they spent the night sleeping on the beach. The next morning, the Filipino mechanics began refusing to service Air America aircraft.

  Had Burke failed to get their families aboard the LST before it weighed anchor, the Saigon evacuation might have unfolded differently. With fewer Air America helicopters available to extract people from rooftops, Hubert Van Es might not have taken his iconic photograph, Dr. Huyhn might never have treated patients in Atlanta, and Janet Bui might not have become a biotech researcher in Southern California.

  Burke took Sabalones aside and said, “Hell, let’s just load them up in helicopters and fly them directly out to the ship.” The young diplomats on Sabalones’s staff were appalled at the prospect of flouting South Vietnamese law, but he asked Burke, “You could do that?”

  Burke said, “Sure!” and summoned three Air America helicopters to Vung Tau. They shuttled six hundred relatives to the LST before nightfall. Burke loaded the remaining four hundred onto a barge and motored them out to the LST after dark. The next morning Sabalones asked Burke if there was anything he could do for him in return.

  “As a matter of fact, there is,” he said. He proposed that Sabalones evacuate the families of Air America’s Vietnamese personnel and some of the company’s nonessential employees.

  Sabalones said his LST had room for an additional four hundred people, but before boarding them, he would need a letter from the U.S. embassy promising to accept responsibility for them after they arrived in the Philippines.

  Burke called Jacobson and explained the situation. So far, Jacobson’s approach to the evacuation had been erratic. He had permitted Martindale to fly to Phu Quoc and collect his former employees, but that had involved moving evacuees around within South Vietnam. On April 1, he had panicked and ordered an Americans-only evacuation from Nha Trang. He had vetoed McNamara’s plan for a riverine evacuation, only to have Martin overrule him. Because he owed his current position to Martin, he tried to act as he imagined Martin would have wanted, and so he told Burke, “Not only no, but HELL NO! For all I know you could be putting ARVN soldiers on board. I wouldn’t touch that with a ten-foot pole!”

  Like many Air America pilots, Burke had a chip on his shoulder when it came to State Department personnel like Jacobson. Some of the resentment stemmed from the fact that although the pilots were not handsomely paid, they considered themselves more dedicated and committed to the Vietnamese than U.S. military or government personnel, not least because they were volunteers. Burke claimed to fly “for the love of the people” and for the camaraderie and danger rather than the money. After Jacobson refused his request that the embassy assume responsibility for the Air America dependents, he said, “If you won’t send me a letter so our Vietnamese families can leave on the LST, would you at least send me a photograph of yourself?”

  “Why do you want it?” Jacobson asked.

  “So I can make copies and distribute them to our flight crews. That way, when the evacuation begins, they’ll know who not to pick up.”

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  As Dan Berney and Bill Ryder’s Green Wave “stowaways” were reaching international waters on April 25, Richard Armitage, who had arrived on the last Pan Am flight the day before, was meeting at South Vietnamese naval headquarters in Newport with his friend Captain Do Kiem, the deputy chief of naval operations, and with Commander Chung Tan Cang, who headed South Vietnam’s navy. Armitage told them that the Pentagon wanted them to order their ships to sea if the Communists attacked Saigon, and proposed that their vessels proceed to Con Son Island and rendezvous there with a U.S. warship that would escort them to the Philippines. He was in effect asking them to commit an act of treason by removing an entire branch of South Vietnam’s armed forces before an official surrender. Their decision would determine whether thousands of Vietnamese sailors and civilians became American citizens and whether Kiem would spend years in a concentration camp, like other military officers of his rank, or teach mathematics and science at a New Orleans high school and become the grandfather to six American-born children.

  Cang and Kiem agreed to evacuate South Vietnam’s fleet. Two days later, on April 27, Armitage returned to Newport to hash out the details. He suggested that Kiem tell the crews of the smaller patrol boats to report to their bases for “reasons of security” so they could travel together in convoys and meet the larger vessels off the coast. Kiem proposed canceling long-term repairs, concentrating on fixing his most seaworthy vessels, and shortening the length of offshore patrols so his warships could quickly return to their ports.

  They danced around the issue of the sailors’ families. Armitage had suggested that the crews in the delta return to their bases with their families but had not said what would happen to those families once Kiem ordered the fleet to sea. The Pentagon had given him the authority to evacuate South Vietnam’s navy—not as many family members, friends, and other civilians as Kiem’s officers and men could cram aboard each vessel.

  Armitage knew that the sailors would not abandon their families, and Kiem knew that Armitage knew this. But each was reluctant to say it. Kiem also knew from articles in U.S. newsmagazines that a majority of Americans opposed admitting large numbers of Vietnamese refugees to their country. Gathering his courage, he said, “You know of course that they’ll come. The sailors won’t leave without their families.”

  Armitage thought, “Of course I know that. I’ve lived with these fellows long enough to know that.” But by admitting that he knew it, he could be responsible for sending tens of thousands of unauthorized refugees to the United States. Forbidding Kiem to include the families was also not an option. The sailors would defy him or attempt to escape with their families on small vessels or through the airport, leaving their ships behind.

  He stared at Kiem and remained silent. As he had intended, Kiem interpreted his silence as approval. “He didn’t say yes, and he didn’t say no,” Kiem remarked later while recalling Armitage’s courageous silence.

  By saying nothing, Armitage had opened the door to thirty thousand new American citizens, although at the time he was not sure how many ships would escape and with how many passengers. Later during their conversation Kiem said, “Of course we have room for more than just the crews and their families,” adding that although the families would have priority, he also intended to evacuate “friendly non-naval personnel.”

  Again, Armitage remained silent.

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  Erich von Marbod had stopped in Thailand to persuade his friend General Kriangsak Chomanan to permit South Vietnamese Air Force planes to land at Thai bases. The next day he was in Saigon, explaining his mission to Graham Martin. He had seen Martin three weeks earlier when staying at his residence while serving on the Weyand mission. He was shocked by how much Martin had deteriorated. His skin was even grayer, and he looked more sick and exhausted.

  Martin warned him that by emasculating South Vietnam’s armed forces, he might be sabotaging the chance for a negotiated peace. He expected a cease-fire within three days, he said, followed by a coalition government, and after that, he told von Marbod, “you will have all th
e time in the world to salvage American matériel.”

  Von Marbod persuaded a Vietnamese Air Force pilot to helicopter him to the front lines. A young airborne lieutenant agreed to accompany him as a guide. After arriving at the battlefront, von Marbod interviewed a senior officer who told him that he had sent a battalion of teenagers to help the Eighteenth Division hold Xuan Loc and that only a third had survived. Another officer reported that although President Ford had declared the war “finished,” he and his men would fight to the death. Von Marbod met a soldier who had lost a leg but had insisted on remaining and was firing on enemy positions. His bravery left von Marbod “overwhelmed and ashamed.” The helicopter that had brought him to the front failed to return. He assumed it had been diverted or shot down. The airborne lieutenant who had guided von Marbod to the front found a soldier who was willing to brave enemy fire and drive him back to Saigon on the back of a motorcycle. North Vietnamese troops were certain to overwhelm this position soon, and von Marbod urged the lieutenant to return with him. “I can’t go,” he said. “I can’t leave my country.” He handed von Marbod a letter to his wife in Paris on a folded piece of paper and asked him to mail it. He explained that they had been living there before he volunteered to return and fight for his country. It was a farewell note from a man expecting to die.

  During the next several days von Marbod met with Nguyen Cao Ky, who had formerly served as South Vietnam’s prime minister and air marshal. Although Ky was not on active duty, he maintained considerable control over the VNAF. Von Marbod also met with the current commander of the VNAF and his staff at his headquarters at Tan Son Nhut. He convinced Ky and the VNAF commander that while U.S. aircraft belonging to the VNAF should be used to fight the Communists, they should never be surrendered to enemy forces. He then provided them with the map coordinates and landing strip information for three Thai air bases where VNAF pilots could land their aircraft. He promised that the air defense weapons at these bases would be “cold,” that U.S. Air Force personnel would sign for the U.S. aircraft, and that the planes would be returned to the VNAF if the military situation at Tan Son Nhut “stabilized.”

  Von Marbod saw Martin again at the embassy three days later on April 28. Since their previous meeting Martin had read Colonel Summers’s report of his April 25 liaison flight to Hanoi during which the North Vietnamese had requested that the U.S. JMT delegation remain in Saigon and that the embassy stay and negotiate a “new role” for itself—developments that had confirmed Martin’s belief that a cease-fire and negotiations were imminent. He told von Marbod, “We have a deal,” and showed him Kissinger’s April 25 cable. He repeated his earlier admonition that von Marbod not do anything to degrade South Vietnam’s armed forces, because their aircraft and ships were certain to be valuable bargaining chips. He predicted a cease-fire within three days, followed by thirty days to form a coalition government.

  Von Marbod accepted Martin’s invitation to have lunch at the residence and was shocked to see that his wife was still there. “For Christ’s sake, Graham,” he said, “put Dottie on a plane now!” Martin shook his head. She was staying because her presence reassured the Vietnamese.

  After lunch von Marbod returned to the front lines to search for evidence of Martin’s imminent cease-fire. He flew over North Vietnamese armored columns traveling bumper to bumper toward Saigon and landed at a medical aid station where he reported seeing “the dead and the wounded, the dying and the insane,” but no indication of any cease-fire. He landed at the Bien Hoa air base, heard sporadic gunfire, and saw crates of helicopter parts, electronic equipment, and U.S. high-tech gear. The officers had fled, leaving a few enlisted men to wander across the runway. Upon returning to Saigon, he asked Armitage to assemble a team and fly to Bien Hoa and remove or destroy the equipment.

  Armitage persuaded four U.S. servicemen to accompany him. They found the hangars and warehouses deserted except for a few ARVN stragglers. Armitage promised to fly them back to Saigon if they protected his team and helped pack up or destroy the equipment.

  Back at Tan Son Nhut a DAO intelligence officer showed von Marbod intercepts of North Vietnamese radio communications ordering its troops to take the Bien Hoa air base and kill everyone inside. Von Marbod radioed Armitage and said, “Ricky, I can’t tell you why, but I’m sending a helicopter to pick up you and the guys.” He did not mention the radio intercepts on an open line because it would tell the Communists that their communications had been compromised.

  “I’ve got a problem with that plan,” Armitage said. “If we try to jump on a chopper we’ll be shot by the thirty Vietnamese soldiers who are here protecting us from the bad guys. I gave them my word, Erich, and we’re too many to fit into a helicopter.”

  Von Marbod called Seventh Air Force headquarters in Thailand and arranged for a transport that had been heading for Saigon to divert to Bien Hoa. It landed just as North Vietnamese troops appeared on the far side of the runway. The pilot lowered his ramp and slowed without coming to a full stop. Armitage and his team sprinted across the tarmac and clambered aboard as the Communists opened fire. An ARVN soldier on a motorcycle gunned his engine and sped up the ramp. As the pilot corkscrewed into the air, North Vietnamese troops swarmed across the runway.

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  When CIA agent Jim Parker returned to General Hai’s headquarters outside Can Tho on April 26, he found a wasteland of dismantled tents and empty bunkers. A North Vietnamese armored column was kicking up clouds of dust on the horizon while heading for Saigon. The following evening Parker told his bodyguard Loi, who had arrived from Vi Thanh with his family, that he should bring them to his apartment in the CIA’s Coconut Palms compound the next evening. By then, he said, he would have finished flying the KIP to the fleet and could put Loi’s family onto one of McNamara’s LSTs. Chau’s house was dark when he drove past, so he decided to return the next day to visit his children. He telephoned his wife in Thailand and said that he would be home soon, bringing the two newest members of their family.

  Before boarding an Air America helicopter the next morning, he experienced a sense of dread that he remembered feeling before setting off on hazardous missions in Laos. He had been planning to deliver his first group of KIP to the ship that Admiral Benton had promised Glenn Rounsevell, but the navy air controllers knew nothing about his mission. The USS Vancouver finally agreed to let him land. Armed marines surrounded his helicopter and escorted him to the captain. Parker explained that the embassy had approved his flight, the Vietnamese were U.S. government employees, and he had to return to Can Tho to coordinate the rest of the evacuation. The captain was suspicious but grudgingly agreed to accept his Vietnamese.

  Parker spent the remainder of the day in Can Tho, coordinating the other flights. The Air America pilot assigned to fly the last group of KIP to the Vancouver was supposed to land on the roof of the American club when he returned. He told Parker that he was unfamiliar with Can Tho and might have difficulty locating the club after dark. Parker agreed to go along and guide him back. As soon as they landed on the Vancouver, marines escorted Parker to the bridge. The captain told him that no one on the fleet knew anything about his “ratty-looking people” and that he was going to transfer them and Parker to an MSC freighter, the Pioneer Contender. “Now, go say good-bye to your helicopter,” he said. “You belong to me. And to those people of yours down there.”

  Parker imagined Loi and his family waiting for him in his apartment, and Chau and her children standing next to their plastic suitcases by their front door. He protested that he had important business at the consulate.

  The captain promised to send a workboat to collect him from the merchant ship the next morning. Parker could then summon a helicopter to collect him from the Vancouver. “It is the best deal I’m offering,” he said, “and I have been very good to you. Plus, you don’t have any choice.”

  Parker joined the Vietnamese in the loading are
a where they were waiting for the workboats. The marines were guarding them with drawn weapons. “Hey!” Parker said. “These are not VC. They are pretty good people.”

  The crew of the Pioneer Contender were haunted by the rapes, executions, and suffering they had witnessed on their ship during the evacuation from Da Nang. Despite multiple cleanings their ship still smelled faintly of feces and death. After arriving on the ship, Parker told Captain Ed Flink that his refugees were U.S. government employees whom the Communists might execute. Flink said that he had heard that story before. He grumbled about accepting Parker’s people but provided them with food and medical care, treating them more humanely than the Vancouver had.

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  While helicopters were collecting the CIA’s KIP on April 28, Terry McNamara had been attending Major General Nguyen Khoa Nam’s weekly briefing. When he and Nam had coffee alone afterward, he was torn over how much to tell him about the consulate’s evacuation. Nam had forbidden the departure of military-aged men, and McNamara knew that some of the men on his A- and B-lists were military aged, including his translator. He decided to inform Nam that he was reducing the consulate’s American personnel, but not reveal that he had already sent some of his Vietnamese employees to Saigon or that he was preparing to take more down the Bassac. They had become good friends, and as they parted, Nam said in a pleasant but firm voice, “If you have to go suddenly, please do not attempt to evacuate any military—particularly officers.” As they shook hands, Nam held McNamara’s hand for several extra beats.