Escape from Saigon

by Michael Morris

  Hearing the commotion, Steve Carwood emerged from a nearby office. He told Lisette, “I’ll give you a statement on the embassy and State’s reaction to the Big Minh’s inauguration.” Then, as if to confide some deep-held secret, he told her, “Military defeat always carries with it terrible political repercussions. We can now only hope that the physical suffering of the vanquished can be reduced as much as humanly possible under the circumstances.”

  “What kind of bullshit is that?” Lisette snapped. “You’ve been talking government-speak for so long you don’t even know when you’re doing it. ‘Suffering of the vanquished … under the circumstances.’ Are you fucking nuts? Twenty years of fighting, how many lives? How much suffering and that’s all you can say? Who talks like that? I don’t even know what that fucking means, you asshole!”

  Lisette turned on her heel, giving a now red-faced Carwood no chance to respond.

  * * *

  When she arrived back at the news bureau, Lisette began taking stock of her own situation—the North had surrounded the city, Americans were leaving every minute, “Big Minh” didn’t have a chance of keeping South Vietnam intact, and the brass ring—a job as a network reporter—was still out of her grasp. So much for seeing the Rockettes at Christmas, she thought.

  With her future uncertain, she absentmindedly gazed out the window, watching the street grow increasingly quiet. It was an hour before curfew, which was only enforced sporadically. The local police and soldiers had other concerns than keeping people off the streets at night—mainly saving their own skins.

  When Tuan walked into her office, she told him, “Look outside. You can’t even get a bowl of pho anymore. This is the endgame—Japan, France, and now the last of the Yanks are pulling out. Hell of a mess. I hope you have a plan.”

  “Miss Lisette?” Tuan addressed her with overly solicitous formality from time to time, which always made Lisette feel she was being played. “How is Miss Vo today?”

  “Tuan, I’m okay. But you need to get out of the country. The communists will interrogate you. They will suspect you have secrets. They will question your loyalty because you worked for us, and especially for an American TV network. NBS has plenty of money and influence. We can help get you out.”

  “Thank you Miss Lisette. I will be okay. Vietnam is my country. I don’t want to live in your Orange County. Vietnam is who I am. I will survive here. Here in my home.”

  “How long since the Operation Babylift crash?”

  “Three weeks maybe,” Tuan answered, wondering why Lisette had brought this up.

  “I still cannot get that crash out of my head. I mean, I’ve seen corpses. But dead babies. For fifteen years GIs have been fucking Vietnamese women and leaving a trail of kids behind. What are they going to do with them? Give them to nice young couples in America and Australia like door prizes?”

  Tuan kept encouraging her to continue. He was a good listener—a great listener, in fact. Like Lisette, Tuan had shown up at the bureau unannounced. He was a little younger than Lisette, strong, tall, and muscular—he always said it’s because his mother made him drink milk every day until he was twelve. He was also fearless. Everybody simply assumed he had bought his way out of the army, just another one of the South Vietnam’s “phantom soldiers.” Tuan did nothing to disabuse his employers of that notion.

  After staring silently out the window with Tuan at her side, Lisette finally suggested, “What the hell, let’s take a drive, come on, what do you say?”

  “Sure, let’s do it,” Tuan smiled.

  They walked two blocks to fetch Lisette’s car. Tuan opened the iron gates to the parking spot where she kept her Citroën protected and hidden away from prying eyes. Lisette hopped in and started the engine. She edged the Citroën forward as Tuan closed and locked the gate behind the car then jumped into the passenger seat.

  They drove along the Saigon River. Just weeks ago, outdoor restaurants bustled there and lovers strolled along the river’s edge, watching the lights from the channel markers and passing vessels. Now the restaurants were gone. No one was in sight. The few sampans, fishing boats, and barges that still plied the river didn’t dare use their running lights. They slid by in darkness, carrying refugees hidden from view as they headed for open waters. Their only hope was to be picked up by one of the U.S. Navy vessels patrolling the South China Sea.

  Lisette and Tuan drove along. A raindrop hit the windshield. Then another drop and another after that until a sheet of rain blocked their view. The first storm of the monsoon season had finally arrived. As the wipers slapped the rain away, the sound of artillery in the distance sounded like nothing more than the thunder that accompanies a warm April rain.

  * * *

  Riordan stood at the makeshift desk and watched heat waves blur the outline of a U.S. C-130 cargo plane on the nearby tarmac. A canvas fly had been strung over the tiny processing area to block the sun. It wasn’t helping much. He felt like he was standing under a broiler. Behind him, fifteen of his SVN employees stood in a crowded knot, uncharacteristically quiet, as they waited for the official at the desk to call them up.

  “You—next!” snapped the Vietnamese official, waving Riordan forward. As he stepped toward the desk, the entire mob of people behind him pressed against him.

  “No—only you!” The official was not a happy man. The line of people wanting to board the aircraft was long and he had already turned away dozens, as evidenced by the overflowing trash bin at his side and the papers scattered underfoot. He looked warily at the crowd surrounding Riordan—an old grandmother, women with babies, teenagers, and children. Two of the men looked to be almost the same age as the tall American. “These people all with you?” he demanded.

  “This is my family,” Riordan answered. There was no irony in his voice—they were his family, as far as he was concerned.

  The official looked skeptical but barely glanced at the documents. They carried the seal of the United States government and were signed by a State Department representative. He wasn’t responsible. Slowly, he counted the number of pages—one page for each Vietnamese member of the group. He did not see a page for the American.

  “You do not travel with your family?”

  “I manage the Global Bank office on Tu Do Street,” Riordan replied. “Do you know it? We’re not planning to close the office, so I need to be here … for at least a little while longer.”

  The official fixed him with an unpleasant smile. “Yes, of course. But you will leave like all the Americans soon enough.” He waved the people toward the gate and the waiting aircraft. “Go! All go! Leave your homeland like frightened cockroaches! Go before I change my mind!”

  * * *

  Carwood couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Martin was uncharacteristically upbeat, now that Thieu had been managed out of the way. He was still insisting it was a game-changer. But Thieu’s absence didn’t make a North Vietnamese invasion any less likely—in fact, Carwood believed, it was more likely every day. And from the looks of things, there weren’t many days left.

  They were seated outside on the veranda of the Hotel Continental, a favorite watering hole for Saigon’s well-to-do, foreign correspondents, and the embassy crowd. The ambassador rambled on, almost to himself, while Carwood sat in silence.

  “When Hanoi learns—hell, they probably already know—that Thieu is no longer in the picture,” Martin said, “or in the country for that matter, they’ll finally come to the table. I’ve got to get Kissinger off his ass and let him know the pot’s on the boil and he’s got to move quickly or we’ll lose the advantage.”

  “Sir, it’s not Thieu that Hanoi wants. It’s Saigon. They finally have the South Vietnamese—and us—by the throat, and they’re not about to let go.”

  “Nonsense! Forcing Thieu and his hardliners out is what Hanoi wanted all along. We’ll get the National Assembly to appoint a president who’ll be more conciliatory, someone who understands neutrality, like General Minh, and Hanoi will come to terms
. They’ll accept a power-sharing agreement because it will stop hostilities and make the North look good for a change. And it will mean they won’t have to pacify the entire South, which they’re in no position to do after spending all their resources on war for the past forty or fifty years.”

  Carwood shook his head. “That’s not what our intel is telling us, Mister Ambassador. The scenario we’re seeing and hearing from our sources is that the communists are more than ready, and able, to take over. The ARVN has been routed from every city and province north of Xuan Loc. That’s only one hundred kilometers from here. The North Vietnamese Army is unopposed now. They’ve opened a corridor that runs straight south from the DMZ, and every division they can muster is moving at flank speed toward Saigon.”

  “We still have the Fleet sitting offshore. Hanoi won’t dare invade the city. The bloodshed would be too great. If that happened they would be pariahs as far as the rest of the world is concerned—not that the world doesn’t already see their intransigence.”

  “Sir, Hanoi doesn’t care what the world sees. They never did. They have Saigon surrounded and they see us sitting here like a ripe pineapple, ready for picking. When Saigon falls, the country falls. South Vietnam will no longer exist. That’s what they want. They’ve waited years for this moment, suffered for it—hell, they’ve sacrificed a million or more people on their side for it! They’re not about to pass up this opportunity and share power with any South Vietnam government, no matter how conciliatory.”

  “Keep in mind, Mister Carwood, that the CIA doesn’t run our foreign affairs and Director Colby doesn’t give the State Department marching orders. As head of this mission I’m telling you to back off with your gloom-and-doom scenario! We play this my way. You and your spooks can cut and run if you like, but we’re not abandoning this embassy, not on my watch. Kissinger has directed all nonessential personnel to leave and you can go with them for all I care. I’m not going anywhere. And I don’t want to hear any more about evacuations.”

  “But sir …”

  “Your objections have been noted. I’ll take it under advisement.”

  Without giving Carwood another chance to speak, the ambassador rose, gathered up his dog’s leash, and turned away. As they threaded their way between the seated diners, the little dog stopped, lifted his leg, and peed on the shoe of an unsuspecting Vietnamese woman seated at one of the tables.

  Perfect, Carwood thought, watching the scene play out. That’s the American way. We just get up and leave—and piss on the people we’re supposed to be helping!

  Washington, DC (Weds., 23 Apr.)—Today, President Gerald Ford announced the Vietnam War was “finished as far as America is concerned” but the U.S. still faced a crucial task: the safe evacuation of Americans who remained in Saigon, including the U.S. Ambassador, Graham Martin.

  Thursday, April 24

  THU, COME IN HERE PLEASE!” AMBASSADOR Martin called as she rushed past his office door.

  “Come in. Sit down. Sit down.”

  “Thank you, sir—Mr. Ambassador, I mean,” Thu said as she stepped into his office and looked around for a place to sit. She selected the straight-backed mahogany Chippendale. She wasn’t about to sink into one of the overstuffed, silk brocade chairs that were arranged in a semicircle in front of Martin’s aircraft-carrier-size rosewood desk. Those seats were reserved for dignitaries. Martin especially liked to have admirals from Pacific Command headquarters in Honolulu sit in those chairs. It reduced their height and in doing so chipped away at their arrogance.

  “Tea?” Martin offered, “I can have some sent in.”

  “No, thank you, sir. I’m fine.”

  “How long have you worked for the State Department, Miss Thu? And here at the embassy?”

  “Five years, sir. Five years this May.”

  “You were granted a top-level secret clearance. That means we trust you, and depend on you, especially when we need someone to liaise with the Vietnamese nationals. I also want you to consider our meeting here classified. No need to stoke the rumor mill.”

  “Yes, of course,” Thu replied as she wondered where the conversation was heading. She nervously smoothed the tunic of her ao dai and averted her eyes from Martin’s, focusing instead on the miniature sword on his desk—a gift from the mayor of Saigon.

  “I can count on you, right? Now, you do understand that our government loves to make contingency plans. I want to talk to you about this—the contingency plans,” Martin said.

  “Go on, sir. Please, go on.” Thu was growing impatient. Martin was being hesitant and obtuse. She had work to do. All Thu could think about was the pile of envelopes Carwood had dropped on her desk. He wanted her to look up the names and addresses of every accredited correspondent, cross off the ones who had already left, and write the names of those still in town on the envelopes. He wanted it done right away. She thought to herself, I’ve got a ton of work and everyone inside the embassy is running around like chickens trying to escape the soup pot. Where is this going?

  Martin poured himself some water from a silver pitcher and took a sip. He continued, “Thu, you do understand that when we create plans at the embassy, it doesn’t mean we are actually going to implement those plans.”

  “Yes,” Thu replied, “I understand.”

  “I want to assure you. Even though we have a plan, our personnel are not evacuating. Saigon is safe.” Martin pulled a Gauloises Caporal cigarette from the pack on his desk and lit it with a smoldering cigarette from his ashtray. When he crushed out the old butt, ashes flew everywhere.

  Growing impatient, Thu responded, “Would you not call Operation Babylift an evacuation, sir? You sent those Vietnamese people out. They were mostly the children of GIs. You are also sending Vietnamese out to refugee camps at Clarke Air Base in the Philippines and to Guam. We hear the talk.” She shifted in her chair, trying to avoid having a loose cigarette ember burn a hole in her ao dai.

  “Yes. Yes. But that is on a limited basis. Of course. We have fifteen hundred embassy employees here. They are not being evacuated. Let me be clear, there is no evacuation plan for our employees. And I hope I can count on you to support our mission as long as it takes.”

  “That number, sir. Fifteen hundred employees?”

  ‘Yes, what about it.”

  “That is only the total number of American employees—1,486 to be exact. Why don’t you mention Vietnamese employees?”

  Ignoring her, Martin went on, “I need to know I can count on you. To be here. When I need you. No one is leaving. We are all together—Americans, Vietnamese. It is a contingency plan.”

  “Yes, sir,” she responded. Still puzzled by the whole exchange, she started to get up.

  Martin continued, “Although … you might hear the phrase Frequent Wind, and something about using the roof of the embassy or the CIA station to escape by helicopter. Well, Frequent Wind is the contingency. It’s not going to happen.”

  “Yes, Frequent Wind. It is only a plan. Are Vinh and I included in your Frequent Wind?”

  “There is no need. What good would that do? If it comes to an evacuation, you and Vinh will be included. Is that clear?”

  “Perfectly. Thank you, sir. May I go now?”

  “Yes. You may go now.”

  Thu left the ambassador’s office and, as she walked down the hallway shaking her head in disbelief, she saw Carwood heading toward her.

  Carwood and Thu had worked on the same floor for as long as he had been in Vietnam. Whenever he wanted to keep projects out of his own section—to avoid office rumors—he gave the work to Thu. Like addressing the pile of envelopes on her desk. Carwood admitted to a couple of his friends that he also had an office crush on her. He liked her naïveté and earnestness, to say nothing of her stunning good looks.

  Once, when she was attending English classes for Vietnamese employees, she came into Carwood’s office and showed him an assignment she had completed and asked him to read it. The class had been assigned to write an essay titled
, “Traditional Dishes of Vietnam.” Thu produced a beautifully written, perfectly punctuated essay. She described in elaborate detail the ceramics factory near her hamlet where they produced the traditional hand-painted “dishes of Vietnam.”

  Carwood praised the piece and then started to laugh, suggesting the teacher might have been expecting a report on “dishes” such as spring rolls and pho—not dinnerware. Thu turned red from embarrassment. Her eyes filled with tears. She ran to the ladies’ room and would not come out even at the urging of another female worker Carwood sent in to talk to her. She couldn’t face him, at least not that day.

  For weeks, Carwood tried to apologize. Over time her embarrassment subsided, and the episode became their private joke, creating a permanent bond between them.

  “I’ll get those envelopes done for you right away,” Thu told him, hoping she could avoid questions about her meeting with Martin.

  “I heard you had a meeting with Old Man?” Carwood said. He paused, waiting for her to offer details.

  “Heard? You saw me leave his office a minute ago.”

  “What did he tell you?”

  “I can’t go into it. He told me not to talk about it.”

  “Look, he’s been meeting with every Vietnamese employee here,” Carwood said, interrupting her before she could finish. “Don’t believe the rumors you hear about not evacuating. Does that sound like what he called you in for? It is what he’s been telling everyone. Is that what he told you?”

  “I suppose … that could be what he talked to me about.”

  “Did he mention ‘Frequent Wind’?”

  “Come on Carwood, stop asking. You are my special friend but I cannot tell you.”

  “Never mind. You don’t have to answer. What’s your husband’s name?”

  “Vinh.”

  “Vinh what?”

  “Vinh Anh Nguyen.”