Ford still denies this, but what the hell? It hardly matters anymore, because not even a criminal geek like Nixon would have been stupid enough to hold a nationally-televised press conference in the wake of a disaster like Da Nang and compound the horror of what millions of U.S. viewers had been seeing on TV all week by refusing to deny, on camera, that the 58,000 Americans who died in Vietnam had died in vain. Even arch-establishment commentators like James Reston and Eric Sevareid18 were horrified by Ford’s inept and almost cruelly stupid performance at that press conference. In addition to the wives, parents, sons, daughters and other relatives and friends of the 58,000 American dead, he was also talking to more than 150,000 veterans who were wounded, maimed and crippled in Vietnam … and the net effect of what he said might just as well have been to quote Ernest Hemingway’s description of men who had died in another war, many years ago—who were “shot down and killed like dogs, for no good reason at all.”
My memories of that day are very acute, because it was the first time since I’d arrived in Saigon about ten days earlier that I suddenly understood how close we were to the end, and how ugly it was likely to be … and as that eerie chorus about “Bye bye, Miss American Pie” kept howling around my ears while we ate our crab salad, I looked out across the Saigon River to where NVA howitzers were hitting sporadically in the distant rice paddies and sending up clouds of muddy smoke.
MEMO FROM THE GLOBAL AFFAIRS DESK:
As more American journalists fled from Saigon to Hong Kong, Thompson worked to capture the chaotic climate in his article drafts.
May 2, 1975
HST/Endgame
(cont.) “The day the music died …
So bye bye, Miss American Pie …
drove my Chevy to the levee, but the levee was dry
Them good ole boys were drinkin whiskey and rye,
Singin this’ll be the day that I die …
This’ll be the day that I die.”
zip Jann it’s been 24 hours since I wrote the stuff above, and I’ve been running around the city half mad on Reactivan, dealing with the first wave of press refugees from Saigon with all their nasty stories and also watching the first “fall of Saigon” films coming in from the fleet … but I am not supposed to have seen any of this film or talked to any of these people, for the record, so in the following text I’ll attribute most of what I picked up today to my private sources at the Mongol/Transworld News Agency (see below) and my time is getting so short now that I can’t afford to do any more legwork if I want to get this in for the current issue, so from now on it will have to read like a hastily-composed memo … although once I get this done I can go back and squeeze some of these sources for what appears to be a vast amount of good detail and gonzo-style material for the main piece. Also, according to the people I spent all of tonight with, Laura Palmer will probably not be able to file anything substantial for this issue because she is said to be trapped with all the others.
(cont.) “The day the music died …
So bye bye Miss American Pie; drove my Chevy
to the levee, but the levee was dry …
Them good ole boys were drinkin whiskey and rye,
Singin this’ll be the day that I die …
This’ll be the day that I die.”
There was not much music in the last days of Saigon, but what little there was died very suddenly and violently in the last few days of April, 1975 when the eleventh-hour cease-fire agreement that was supposedly on the verge of being ratified by both sides blew up and disintegrated in a frenzy of bombings, street-fighting and heavy artillery blasts that turned the long-delayed American evacuation into a nightmare of panic and confusion … and most of the good ole boys in the Anglo-American press corps who’d been sitting around drinkin whiskey and rye in the hotels around Lam Son square for lo these many months are now steaming across the South China Sea toward Manila, aboard U.S. aircraft carriers. They were hauled out of Saigon by CIA pilots and U.S. Marine helicopters, and we will hear their collective story soon enough.
It will not be especially pleasant—but not nearly so weird and ugly as the stories that we will probably not hear for quite a while, of those who were left behind in the panic to flee what is now called Ho Chi Minh City. Saigon is no more.
On the day after the final “American evacuation” from Vietnam, I was sitting on the long, open-air balcony of the dining room at the Repulse Bay Hotel in Hong Kong, brooding over a late breakfast of bloody marys and crab-meat … reading the front page of the South China Morning News while a heavy monsoon rain pounded down on the small fleet of blue rowboats tied up on the beach in front of the hotel. The beach had been crowded yesterday, but now it was empty and rain-swept as the hotel balcony, which had also been crowded yesterday at this lazy hour of the morning … but there is nothing gentle about a monsoon rain in Hong Kong, and just before noon a rising wind began lashing an occasional sheet of warm water across the red linen table cloths on the balcony and a busload of Dutch tourists who had just arrived for lunch were herded inside to the dining room. They went eagerly, happy to get out of the rain and staring in obvious puzzlement at me and the only other person on the balcony who refused to leave.
He was a young-looking American with damp blond hair and blue eyes, wearing Levi’s, cowboy boots and an olive-drab Air America19 pilot’s jacket. We were both sitting at tables right next to the railing when the wind began lashing gusts of rain across the balcony, and when the waiters started herding the Dutch tourists inside they left both of us alone. He was drinking a San Miguel beer and writing very intently on a red-white-and-blue striped Air Mail letter tablet; the only sign he gave of acknowledging the rain was to move his chair about a foot closer to one of the tall concrete pillars and into a position precisely downwind from the weather, where he signaled one of the Chinese waiters for another bottle of San Miguel and kept on writing in his tablet.
By this time my newspaper was getting too wet to read, and I saw him glance up briefly when I moved my two bloody marys and my silver pot of coffee to a table about six feet away from the railing, to a table that was not so exposed to the storm … and from that half-dry vantage point I could watch him still filling his damp red-white-and-blue pages while I read the South China Morning News’s account of how U.S. Marines had used their M-16 rifle butts to smash the fingers of desperate South Vietnamese trying to climb over the barb-wire topped wall into the American Embassy compound in Saigon yesterday, trying to get aboard the Air America helicopters evacuating the last of the journalists, businessmen, U.S. Embassy staffers and other American refugees out to waiting aircraft carriers, just off the Vietnam coast.
Neither one of us had been a part of that final, nightmarish scene—because it was impossible, as we both knew, for anybody who’d escaped from Saigon on Monday to be on the balcony of the Repulse Bay Hotel in Hong Kong as early as Tuesday. The U.S. Marines’ refugee flotilla was still somewhere out in the South China Sea, probably headed for the U.S. Navy base at Subic Bay in the Philippines.
MEMO FROM THE GLOBAL AFFAIRS DESK:
May 4, 1975
Laos
I have finally arrived in Vientiane, after a long and torturous five-day journey from Saigon, via Hong Kong and Bangkok. When I walked into the Lane Xang Hotel last night, sometime around two-thirty in the morning in a drenching monsoon rain, the man at the desk first refused to let me register because he said I had no reservation … which may or may not have been true, depending on which view of the understandably scrambled Indochinese mind one subscribes to in these menacing times—but in fact I had sent a cable from Hong Kong, requesting a large room with a king-size bed, quick access to the pool and a view of the Mekong River, which flows in front of the hotel.
After a fairly savage argument, the night-clerk agreed to a compromise. He would give me the best suite in the hotel for as long as I wanted, provided I gave him twenty green American dollars at once for the company of his daughter for the rest of the night. He described her as a “young
and beautiful student—not a bar girl” who spoke excellent English and would certainly have no objection to being awakened at three in the morning and hauled over to the hotel by taxi in a hellish rainstorm, just in order to make me happy.
“Look,” I said. “You are dealing with a very tired person. The only thing I need to make me happy is a long sleep in a big bed with nobody bothering me. I have nothing against meeting your daughter; I’m sure she’s a wonderful person—but why don’t I just give you twenty dollars and never mind about waking her up tonight. If she’s free around noon tomorrow, maybe we can have lunch at the White Rose.”
The man winced. Nobody’s “daughter” goes near the White Rose. It is one of the scurviest and most infamous bangios in all of Indochina—even worse than “Lucy’s” in Saigon—and the moment I said that name and saw the man’s face I knew I’d said both the right and the wrong thing at the same time. He was grievously insulted, but at least we understood each other…. So he had one of his assistant pimps carry my bags up to #224, a rambling suite of rooms half-hidden under the top flight of wide white-tiled stair/ramps that rise out of the middle of the Lane Xang lobby. When I first went into #224, it took me about two minutes to find the bed; it was around the corner and down a 15-foot hallway from the refrigerator and the black-leather-topped bar and the ten-foot tan couch and five tan easy chairs and the hardwood writing desk and the sliding glass doors on the pool-facing balcony outside the living room of #224 … and at the other end of the hallway, half-hidden by the foundation of the central stairway, was another big room with a king-sized bed, another screened balcony, another telephone and another air conditioner, along with a pink-tiled bathroom with two sinks, a toilet and a bidet, and a deep pink bathtub about nine feet long.
“We normally charge fifty dollars a day for this one,” he said. “But in your case, I’ll sell it for forty.”
“You must be sick,” I said. “I had a better suite than this at the Continental in Saigon for twenty—with two beds and a ceiling fan.”
He stared thoughtfully at the ceiling and sucked on his gums for a moment, then looked me in the eye and said: “Okay, I’ll sell it to you for twenty-five.”
I shrugged. “Why not?” I walked over to the refrigerator to get some ice, but there was none. Both he and his henchman were baffled … until I had a look at the wiring and saw it was not plugged in. None of the lamps were plugged in either—along with both air conditioners and the hot water heater in the bathroom. Suite #224 had obviously not been used in quite a while.
I asked the night-clerk if he would get me a bucket of ice. Somewhere in the bowels of my luggage I had a film-can full of extremely powerful Cambodian red, along with a quart of Jack Daniel’s I’d just bought in Hong Kong, and the prospect of a few iced drinks along with a pipeload of paralytic hallucinogens seemed just about right for that moment … followed by fifteen or sixteen hours of stuporous sleep.
But my new buddy, the bashful pimp, had not yet tied the knot in his half of the bargain. “Very good,” he said finally. “I will order your ice when I go downstairs to call my daughter.”
“What?”
“Of course,” he said. “You will like her. She is very beautiful.” Then he smiled and held out his hand. “Twenty dollars, please …”
I hesitated for a moment, listening to the rain pounding the palm trees outside my window, then I reluctantly pulled out my wallet and gave him a twenty-dollar bill. I had seen enough of Vientiane on the drive into town from the airport to know I’d be in very grave trouble if I got thrown out of the Lane Xang at three-thirty in the morning in the middle of a blinding monsoon, hauling an electric typewriter and a soft-leather suitcase, with no currency except U.S. and Hong Kong dollars, and not speaking a word of Laotian or even enough French to beat on somebody’s door and ask for directions to another hotel…. No, I couldn’t stand that; but I wasn’t sure I could stand the kind of nasty scene I suspected this humorless, fat little hustler was planning to lay on me, either. As he opened the door to leave I said, “That money is for ice, okay? Just bring me a bucket of ice and keep the money yourself. I’ll talk to your daughter tomorrow.”
He paused for a moment, looking back at me, but his eyes were blank and I could tell his brain was busy with other matters. Then he pulled the door shut behind him and left me alone in the room. I slumped back on the couch and opened the bottle of hot bourbon, propping it up on my chest and my chin so I could drink with only a slight movement of my lower lip while I listened to the rain and tried not to think about anything at all….
FROM JANN WENNER, ROLLING STONE:
Thompson finally received a response from Wenner.
May 6, 1975
(Cable & Wireless)
GOT YOUR LETTER MONDAY ALL IS UNDERSTOOD AND GENERALLY AGREEABLE LAURA FILED EXTREMELY GOOD LAST NIGHT IN SAIGON AND THE RIDE TO GUAM PIECE WHICH WE’RE JAMMING INTO THIS ISSUE SHE’LL BE WELL COMPENSATED FOR ALL HER WORK REST ASSURED ITS UP TO YOU TO TAKE AS MUCH TIME AS YOU WANT IN THE SOUTHERN PACIFIC I AM JUST CONCERNED THAT DURING THAT TIME THAT YOU CONTINUE WRITING SO THAT THE STORY KEEPS GOING ON IN YOUR MIND YOU’RE THINKING ABOUT IT MAKING PROGRESS AND HAVE IT ACTIVELY UNDERWAY WE ALL WANT THIS TO BE A GREAT ONE I DO HAVE IN MIND FINISHING UP THE ANTHOLOGY WHEN YOU GET HERE BUT THERE’S NO HUGE RUSH I WILL BE OUT OF TOWN ANYWAY UNTIL MAY 16 AND NATURALLY WOULD LIKE TO SEE YOU THROUGH SAN FRAN WHEN I’M THERE I DID REMEMBER OUR DISCUSSION ON THE POLITICS SECTION AND WOULD NOT HAVE SO PLACED THE PIECE EXCEPT THAT IT WAS THE VERY LAST DAY AND IT WAS THE BEST OF THE FEW SOLUTIONS WE HAD THE NEEB PHOTO WAS SENT BACK TO YOU IN HONG KONG C/O NEWSWEEK IF YOU COULD GET BACK INTO SAIGON IT CERTAINLY WOULD BE WORTHWHILE WAITING AROUND OR VACATIONING IN A PLACE WHERE YOU WOULDN’T BE TOO FAR AWAY BUT IF NOT SELAH THE ONE THING THAT MIGHT BE WORTH DOING ON THE WAY BACK TO SAN FRAN IS TO STOP IN GUAM FOR A DAY OR TWO AND SEE THAT REFUGEE CAMP AND PICK UP ALL THE STORIES THAT THE GIS WILL START TO TELL ABOUT THE FIRST DAYS OF SAIGON WHICH THE OTHER PRESS WILL HAVE MISSED SINCE THEY WILL ALL HAVE MOVED ON I ANTICIPATE NO HASSLE ABOUT YOUR EXPENSES JUST AS LONG AS YOU SUBMIT THOROUGH ACCOUNTING ACTUAL EXPENDITURES—YOU WILL BE REIMBURSED ON THE ACCOUNTING YOU PROVIDE HAVE A GOOD TIME SERIOUSLY CONSIDER THAT GUAM STUFF IT MIGHT BE JUST PERFECT IN TERMS OF LITTLE SAIGON LOOK FORWARD TO SEEING YOU IN SAN FRAN CALL ME IN NEW YORK IF YOU HAVE ANY QUESTIONS
JANN
TO DOUG SAPPER:
Doug Sapper was a former Special Forces operative in Southeast Asia.
June 1, 1975
Woody Creek, CO
Doug …
This is just a quick note to say thanx again for The Help, as it were, in Bangkok. At 50 cents a hit, that shit is the cheapest miracle on the market—except maybe for that 25 cents a pound weed those dope-addict bastards were smoking up in Laos.
Anyway … I remember you saying you were thinking about heading for Africa, so I thought I’d send a note and not lose track of you. I’ll be here most of the summer, but after that I can’t say—although you can always reach me at the Owl Farm or c/o (Tom) Benton’s Studio, Box 1561 (I think) in Aspen …or c/o the Jerome Hotel Bar in Aspen. …As for RS, my relationship with them was plunged into ugliness when I got back here and learned that the owner/editor had cancelled my health/medical insurance—without telling me—just before sending me to Saigon.
Shit… and you thought you were working for useless assholes.
But I’ll still be writing for RS, and what interests me right now is the idea that you might be able to do a relatively short (1000–1500 words) piece on your own views of the realities and general relationship between the U.S. press/media/etc. and the U.S. military & politics establishment in Southeast Asia during the past 10 yrs. …In other words, a personal commentary on how you viewed the press, for instance, when you worked with the Special Forces (with Examples, Names, Details, weird stories, etc.) and then bringing it all up to date with any stories & examples you might recall from Saigon, Cambodia, Laos or Bangkok—with a special eye on the question of w
hether or not the U.S. (or any other) press knew what was going on, at the time, and how they treated that knowledge…. The same kind of focus, more or less, that Tim Crouse and I brought to the coverage of the press in the ’72 campaign. Nothing especially brutal or heavy, but just a relative press outsider’s opinion of how hip the press was to the realities of the moment.
I have no idea what you might or might not do with this idea, and I don’t recall ever discussing it with you—but it seems to me that you have a definitely unique kind of vantage point, when it comes to watching the U.S. press in combat & under pressure. We could handle the thing any way you want: From a bylined first person piece, to a completely anonymous critique—but either way I think it should be in the first person, and I’d frankly prefer your byline, if possible—although I’ll guarantee your anonymity if you think it’s important.
Let me know on this ASAP, because I’m laboring mightily to bring forth something big & heavy for publication by the end of June. In terms of money, I can guarantee you $500 for a 1500 word piece if they use any part of it—which usually puts them in a sort of untenable position where they have to pay for anything I commission; the only hook in this, however, is a nasty story on today’s Wash. Post wire about my mano a mano gig with the RS editor.
Well …“When the Tough get going, they should first know the lay of the land….” Who said that? I think it was that vicious, half-mad but germ-free lunatic….
Hunter
TO GEORGE C. BLUESTONE:
George C. Bluestone, an attorney for a debt-collection agency in New York City, had written to Thompson regarding his unpaid London hotel bill from the previous autumn.
June 1, 1975
Woody Creek, CO
Dear George …
I hate to be the one to lay this on you, old sport, but I have a feeling that you’ve stepped in some very weird shit this time. I have no idea who you are, or what kind of law you practice—but I suspect I’m in a pretty good position, George, to assure you that this one is going to be different.
Fear and Loathing in America Page 84
