Star looked over his article, trying to figure out a follow-up story he could build onto it. Dong wanted Thieu to step down, and he demanded that all of the American military disguised as “civilians” leave the country. He also made it clear that the Viet Cong considered Ambassador Martin a military and political advisor. So he had to go, too.
Good luck with all that, Star thought, sipping his coffee.
Everyone was waiting to see what the American Congress would do, if they would continue to dump money and military assistance on what was beginning to look like a losing proposition. And then there was the question of whether the Russians would become involved—or perhaps even the Chinese, despite the lack of love between Beijing and Hanoi.
“Any chance of getting a cup of coffee?” Sam Esposito asked, as he pulled up a chair and sat down without waiting for an answer.
“Sure, why not?” Jack replied, gesturing for the waitress. “By the way, you missed a real opportunity, Sam. You should have come to the press conference yesterday. Colonel Dong was in rare form, licking his chops over the North’s impending victory, making the usual demands—we can all have peace if only Thieu resigns, Martin leaves, all Americans get out of the country, blah, blah.”
“Nothing new,” Sam answered. He tried to sound casual but realized he had been scooped. “Did he say anything about us journalists? Anything?” He made a throat-slitting motion with a butter knife.
“He said the ‘impartial’ reporters could stay, but he doesn’t approve of the ones who, as he put it, ‘write harsh falsehoods about us.’ That’s a direct quote.”
“Write harsh falsehoods! Now there’s a description. Isn’t that what they pay us for?”
* * *
It took some doing, but with help from the airline’s office in Saigon, Matt managed to arrange for a bus and a driver willing to transport the family to the air base. When they arrived, they encountered an overworked Air Force staff sergeant who was processing people for evacuation.
“Name?”
“Moran, Matthew C.”
“Citizenship”
“USA.”
“Employer?”
“San Diego State. Teaching assistant.”
“How many?”
“Twenty-three.”
“You’re only allowed to sponsor ten. You’ll have to pick ten.”
“Can’t.”
“Teaching assistant? Yea right. Look, you’re a student. You can’t take care of ten people, let alone twenty-three. See that line of people waiting their turn? I don’t have time. Pick!”
“Well … this is my wife’s mother and this is her father. The one standing next to her is her uncle and that’s her uncle’s wife and my wife’s cousins and …” He pointed to each individual in turn, describing how all were related.
“You pick. I’ll abide by whatever decision you make.”
“I can’t pick.”
“Well, neither can I …”
Matt thought about it for a minute, then added, “Sergeant, you look a little busy here. I speak Vietnamese. I can help you process all these people a lot faster. How about this—I’ll do the translating, and you let all of my people get on the plane.”
“They go, you stay, right?”
“Yup.”
“Deal.”
A cheer went up as the sergeant motioned each relative up to the desk and filled out their exit visas. Matt shepherded the group onto the airfield, where they boarded a shuttle to a C-130 that would take them to a refugee camp in the Philippines.
At the plane, the last man in Matt’s group, the oldest among them, hesitated when he stepped out. He looked at Matt and said, “We are still without one of our family.”
“I thought we brought everyone here!” Matt replied. “Who’s missing?”
“Pham’s sister, Nuoc. She wanted to stay behind. She’s in love with an officer, a helicopter pilot who is fighting now. She would not leave without him.”
“Ong Quanh, there’s no more time!” Matt said. “I’ve managed to get you all manifested. This could be the last flight out—you have to go.”
“But you are not going. If you stay, you could find her, help her understand. She must join us before it is too late.”
Matt couldn’t believe what he was hearing. It was impossible. Find one woman in all of Saigon while it was falling apart and the North Vietnamese were knocking at the door … convince her to leave with him when everyone in her family couldn’t do it … and then figure out how to get the hell out of the country—when, by that time, there might not be a way….
“Sir, you must get on the plane!”
The man looked at him impassively, unmoving.
“Ong Quanh … okay, if you go ahead and board with the others, I’ll do what I can to find her.”
“And convince her to leave.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Then we will wait for you, and Nuoc, at our destination.”
The man took both of Matt’s hands in his and gave a slight bow, then turned and began to walk toward the plane. He paused and added, “You are a good man. Our Pham is fortunate to have found you. And I know you will find her sister and bring her to us, wherever we are.”
* * *
By the time the last flight took off, it had grown dark and the air base terminal was quiet again.
Those unable to board a flight resigned themselves to having to wait until flights resumed the next day and began looking for places around the terminal to camp out.
The sergeants manning the desk were done for the day.
“Hey, you guys really helped us out,” Matt said. “Can I buy you a drink?”
“Sure, by now I could use a beer,” one sergeant replied. “And let us buy you one for handling the translations.”
“Let’s hit the Caravelle for a few Ba Muoi Bas,” said Matt. “I’ve still got to round up one lost sheep, but right now, I need a night off.”
Monday, April 21
THE ARTILLERY SHELLING HAD GONE ON all night in the outskirts of Saigon. The sound of explosions was by now part of the rhythm of the city, like taxi drivers blowing their horns and pho vendors clicking their paddles as they hawked their freshly made soup for breakfast.
A particularly loud series of explosions rattled the masking-taped windows at the NBS bureau almost to the point of shattering. But Lisette paid less attention to the shock wave from the blast than to the Official South Vietnamese Government press handout Tuan dropped on her desk.
It was only two lines—brief and to the point:
April 21, 1975 —President Nguyen van Thieu will deliver a significant address to the credentialed press corps at 11 a.m. today, Presidential Palace, Grand Ballroom.
* * *
The press handout arrived a day after the People’s Army had finally overrun and captured Xuan Loc, some thirty miles northwest of Saigon. The battle there raged for ten days. In the end the North prevailed, leaving nothing left to protect Saigon from fifteen People’s Army divisions supported by Russian-designed tanks and artillery units. The only thing holding the commanders back from marching on the city were the reins being held by politicians and diplomats in Paris.
Now, not only was the last strategic city between the PAVN and Saigon defeated, but the fighting left the South Vietnamese Army demoralized and broken. Deserters discarded their uniforms, sought out villagers willing to exchange peasant clothes for their guns, and began walking to Saigon. There, they hoped to disappear into the crowds—obscurity being their last refuge.
“What do you think, Tuan? This has to be big this time? Right?”
Tuan stood in front of her desk. He already had their film camera hanging from his shoulder. He looked so anxious to get going that Lisette felt she was staring at a six-year-old boy who needed an immediate visit to the WC during an outing at the zoo.
They rode the creaky elevator down from the relative quiet and safety of the eleventh floor and headed outside. The street was packed with people. Chun
ks of masonry that had shaken loose from nearby buildings during last night’s shelling were everywhere.
“There’s no way we can get my car through the crowds,” Lisette said, staring at the waves of people on bicycles, motorbikes, and on foot. Nearly everyone seemed to be carrying as much as they could possibly manage—burlap bundles tied with sisal rope, cheap brown suitcases, thin plastic bags. The rat-a-tat-tat of machine-gun fire in the distance punctuated their cries of fear and desperation.
“Wait here,” Tuan said as he thrust his equipment into Lisette’s hands and ran around the corner. Within minutes he returned on a Honda, spun it around and urged Lisette to climb on the back. He barely waited for her to get her balance before he twisted the gas full on and popped the clutch. Tuan shouted and blasted the horn to scare people out of the way, drove up on sidewalks, and zipped through alleys about as wide as the handlebars.
“Slow down, for crying out loud, Tuan; you’ll kill someone, maybe even me!”
“Hang on. This announcement is going to be something big, very big, Lisette! I feel it,” Tuan shouted as he gunned the machine up over a curb and down again to avoid hitting a pile of masonry in the street.
* * *
“You certainly have your ways of getting around town,” Lisette said with a sarcastic shake of her head as their motorbike screeched to a stop in front of the Presidential Palace. They flashed their press passes and the gate guard told them to leave the motorbike, then he opened the tall wrought-iron gate just wide enough for them to enter the grounds on foot. Lisette had to run to keep up with Tuan, who was practically sprinting across the wide plaza toward the palace.
Inside the ballroom, the area where the bombs had nearly destroyed the building two weeks earlier was cordoned off. The mosaic floor was scuffed and dirty and there was no sign of any attempt to repair the damage. The deep maroon drapes with their gold piping and matching tassels were closed and drawn tight—a safety measure so that, if another explosion should occur, no one inside would be showered with flying glass.
Fearing they would be taken prisoner, or worse, if the North took over the country, few American reporters remained in Saigon. The room was packed with mostly Vietnamese and foreign journalists—called TCNs, or third-country nationals. They had already set up their cameras and mics in the space allotted to the press directly in front of the podium. The president’s staff people stood off to the side, waiting.
Tuan set up next to a cameraman who worked for President Thieu’s official biographer. He passed Tuan a cigarette, which Tuan tucked behind his ear to smoke later. Tuan whispered something to him. The man shrugged. Then they both started to laugh, catching themselves as Nguyen Van Thieu appeared.
President Thieu had come to power as part of a military junta and presided over South Vietnam after he was officially elected president in 1965. A powerful leader who had taken over a fractious government and galvanized the nation for a decade, he now walked hesitatingly as he ascended the two stair steps to a temporary raised platform. He stopped to shake hands and pat the arms of his closest military and civilian advisors as he made his way to the podium.
Then, quietly and without preamble Thieu began: “Why do I resign today? Because today is the day that the aid issue is undergoing debate and bargaining in the United States. The 722 million dollars promised by President Ford is not enough and the communists know this. All they need to do is escalate their attacks to gain military victory without the need of negotiating.”
He went on, voice shaking, “The United States has not respected its promises. It is unfair. It is inhumane. It is not trustworthy. It is irresponsible. At the time of the 1973 peace agreement, the United States promised to replace equipment on a one-by-one basis, but the United States did not keep its word…. Is an American’s word reliable these days?”
By now, a few reporters were running from the assembly hall on their way to their offices to Telex the news—hoping to scoop their competition.
Lisette and Tuan remained and continued filming. “We need the 722 million dollars plus the B-52s to return,” Thieu went on. “The United States did not keep its promise to help us fight for freedom, and it was in the same fight that the United States lost fifty thousand of its young men.”
A few reporters saw a tear in the president’s eye, though his staffers argued he was wiping the sweat from his brow. No matter. By now Thieu had gone off script. What had started as a dignified resignation speech became a rant:
“Watergate undid American resolve in aiding Vietnam and Washington deserted its ally…. By the time Spiro Agnew visited Saigon he spoke coldly, referring only to Vietnamization of the war. He spoke of continuing military and economic aid but not of Nixon’s promise to send American troops and B-52s if needed.”
Finally, in an effort to underscore the paucity of military resources and U.S. assistance, Thieu reached the core of his message: “We could not hit a single hair of the North Vietnamese leg. I now put myself under the order of President Tran Van Huong.”
On cue, Huong rose expecting to assume his place at the podium, but Theiu then rambled on. Indeed, he rambled for so long that, bit by bit, the cameramen detached their cameras from their tripods. Some of them walked right up to the podium and, within inches of Thieu’s face, snatched their mics away, leaving tags of gaffer tape stuck to the dais. The diminishing respect for the president who had led South Vietnam through ten years of war was palpable. But Thieu seemed unfazed. Trancelike he vowed, “The South will fight on to defend the territory left to it. My army will defend the homeland against the communist aggressors.”
After an hour and a half, Huong mercifully moved Thieu gently aside and took to the podium. He said only, “United we live, divided we die,” and walked off as aides announced the conclusion of the press conference.
With that, Thieu’s reign ended. He walked from the platform while Lisette tagged alongside of him. As he headed toward his private quarters, she stuck her microphone in his face and used her secret weapon—her impeccable Vietnamese. Hearing an American journalist speaking like a well-educated native got Thieu’s attention.
“Ong Thieu,” she called out, continuing in Vietnamese, “Do you blame Gerald Ford?”
Thieu stopped short. He looked incredulous. “Ford? You mean Kissinger! When Kissinger negotiated the ceasefire two years ago he accepted the presence of North Vietnamese troops in South Vietnam. Kissinger led the South Vietnamese people to our death!”
Thieu invited Lisette to walk with him. When they reached the ladies’ WC, he pushed opened the door and, with a gesture somewhere between a gentle hand over her shoulder and a shove, Thieu forced Lisette into the lavatory with him.
“Now we can talk. You have covered my presidency for a long time. I have seen you many times and answered your questions. You are American, yes?”
“Well, Vietnamese and American. My father is Vietnamese.”
As she spoke with Thieu, she kept her camera running to record his voice. Even though she would not have him on film, a private voice-over interview with the prime minister on the last day of his regime would be her biggest scoop yet.
“Why do you not have a Vietnamese name?”
“My name is La Anh Thi Vo. That’s what is on my birth certificate. My parents called me Lisette in America because it sounds more Western and they wanted me to be accepted by the other children.”
“Your father? Where is he?”
“In Washington, D.C. He works for Total, the French petroleum conglomerate.”
“Will he return to Vietnam, or has he deserted us too?”
“He became a U.S. citizen last year.”
“More abandonment. Ha!”
“I’m sorry.” Lisette shrugged.
“Do you know Massachusetts? Is it very near Washington?”
“Yes, I know Massachusetts.”
“And Harvard University. You know Harvard? I want to know about Harvard. I want my children to go to Harvard.”
“I am s
ure your children will be welcomed at Harvard.”
“I want to be very near there, too. Someone told me Newton, Massachusetts, is very near Harvard and very nice. Do you know it?”
“Only a little bit.”
“Cold?”
“Yes, cold. In the winter. But pleasant the rest of the year. And warm.”
“Very smart people live near Harvard, is that right?”
“Yes, I suppose.” By now Lisette could hear a commotion outside as staffers anxiously searched for the former president, who seemed to have vanished.
“It is settled. I shall one day live in Newton, Massachusetts, and my children will go to Harvard. You will visit me and my family there.” Thieu seemed more composed now, almost fatherly.
“Sir, good luck to you. I hope you will be safe. You did try. I know you tried. A lot of people in America know you tried.”
Gesturing to her camera—Thieu knew she had been recording the conversation all along. He added, “Please tell them in America. Remind them that I tried. Thank you, La Anh. Good-bye.”
Thieu held the door open for her. As she rushed out, she nearly collided with Tuan.
“Got it,” Lisette told him, patting her camera. “Come on. We have to drive out to Tan Son Nhut and see if we can send your film with this interview today.”
“Lisette, this is very good! Now the war will end soon!”
* * *
“You know, Sam,” Jean Paul mused as he absentmindedly polished the bar and asked Sam to lift his elbows while he mopped up in front of him. “We always think the door is going to remain open for one more day. There will be the one more troop ship. Tomorrow, there will be the one more cargo plane waiting on the tarmac. Tomorrow. Then, tomorrow, you will make a dash for Tan Son Nhut. But no one ever tells you when that last plane leaves. Tomorrow, you will stand there on the tarmac. You will stand there for five minutes, maybe ten minutes, wishing it was yesterday.”
Escape from Saigon Page 11
