Escape from Saigon

by Michael Morris

  At that moment, an American colonel that Riordan recognized from the embassy ran up and tore the guards away from the soldier, then hustled the officer through the gate, blocking the guards from the man.

  “Get on the plane!” he shouted over his shoulder to the soldier.

  The officer tried to protest. “My country still needs me! How can I turn my back on it now?” he yelled back, anguish in his voice.

  “Don’t be a damn fool,” said the colonel. “You can see that it’s over. We’re all leaving! Get on the plane and take care of your family!”

  The soldier hesitated then bolted toward the woman, scooping up the two smallest children as they ran together to the plane. The C-130’s big Allison engines were thundering and its props spinning as the family ran onto the tailgate ramp, which the crew chief quickly raised to block any further interference from the Vietnamese on the tarmac. The engine roar swelled as the plane rolled forward onto the airstrip.

  Riordan strapped himself into a sling seat and for a moment felt a confusing mix of relief and regret. As the plane soared into the sky and out toward the Pacific, he looked through a porthole window at the receding coastline. He wondered what would happen to Saigon and to the people on the ground when the NVA invaded. And he wondered whether he—or any of his fellow refugees—would ever return.

  Saigon, South Vietnam. Monday, April 28—In a desperate attempt to save Saigon from being destroyed by advancing North Vietnamese troops, South Vietnamese officials have announced this morning that Gen. Dung Van Minh will be installed as president in ceremonies to be held later today. Minh will replace President Tran Van Houng, who earlier this month replaced the ousted Nguyen Van Thieu.

  Minh, or “Big Minh” as he is known here, is an influential military and political leader. He is regarded as a neutralist who will act in accordance with Hanoi’s wishes. According to sources on both sides of the conflict, he is in the best position to negotiate a quick end to the war.

  With Saigon in chaos and the South Vietnamese government desperate to end the fighting, there is little hope of preserving any remaining vestiges of South Vietnam and the life the people have known here since the nation was partitioned in 1954.

  The situation is perilous. Communist forces are less than a mile from the city center, travel between Saigon and Bien Hoa has been cut off by the North, and the Viet Cong openly hold their own news conferences in Saigon. Saigon residents are scrambling to get on mercy flights out of Tan Son Nhut Air Base, where transport planes take off within no more than five seconds of one another.

  Though the Northern army artillery batteries are poised to obliterate the runways of TSN air base, they continue to hold off, fearing a reentry of American air and ground forces massing offshore in a flotilla of warships. Although the North’s forces are poised to obliterate Saigon’s remaining defenses, including Tan Son Nhut Air Base, its only lifeline to the outside world, they continue to hold off …

  Esposito/04/28/1975/Saigon/URGENT

  -30-

  Sam finished typing his story into the Telex and waited in silence for a full minute. Another minute passed, then the green Telex machine chimed bing, bing, bing loudly and began printing a reply:

  Received Legend/04/28/1975/DC/ Understood URGENT.

  The message confirmed that his copy had reached the Legend’s wire room half a world away. His one-page “take” would be ripped from the Telex, rolled up, and placed inside a plastic cylinder, then shoved into a metal tube to be delivered pneumatically to the International Desk. When the cylinder landed in the editor’s in-basket, its red band marked URGENT ensured it would get immediate attention.

  Sam gave his copy one last look before tossing it into the wastebasket. The Telex machine again came to life with an insistent bing bing bing and began typing another note:

  04/28/1975 Esposito: Come Home/Need you home/ Int. Ed.

  Sam read it without bothering to rip the paper from the machine. He then toggled off the power switch, shut off the light and ceiling fan, and walked out of the now dark and vacant Legend news bureau where he had worked for a dozen years. As he locked the door behind him, he thought about tossing the key through the mail slot, but changed his mind. He might yet have another story to file before he went home, he thought, shoving the key into his pocket.

  As he headed back to his apartment at the Caravelle Hotel, he noticed that the mobs of people begging for exit visas had diminished, but there were still people hanging about desperately seeking an escape.

  “You—American! You help get me exit visa? I pay you.”

  “I know you, mister. You bao chi, you smart man. You remember I help you one time? You help me now?”

  Now there were waves of people walking, biking, pushing carts—all heading for one of two destinations, south to the Saigon River or west to Tan Son Nhut. Today’s rumor for those who heard it: Forget the paperwork, forget IDs, forget visas, just show up. Show up, tell a good story, and you’ll get out.

  At the Caravelle, Sam rode the elevator to the eleventh floor and walked down the exterior hallway to his apartment. As he opened the door, a sleepy female voice came from within.

  “Sam? You’re back, I must have fallen asleep, what time is it?”

  “It’s nearly ten o’clock,” he answered as he removed his clothes, dropped his glasses on the nightstand, and slid between the cool sheets. Her jet-black hair cascading on the pillow and the warmth of her full breasts were ample reason for Sam to return.

  “You feel so good Lise,” Sam whispered, as they made love and then fell back onto the sheets, idly watching the ceiling fan slowly twirl above them, feeling the coolness of the breeze on their naked bodies.

  “Wow, this beats ‘emergency sex,’” Lisette sighed, recalling how they became lovers. “Emergency sex,” was their running joke and repeating it over and over again was their way of maintaining a distance between them.

  But this time Lisette felt it was different. Sam felt it, too. “Sam, we’ve done it. We did our job. It’s over. We can go home. You and me. Today. We can put on our clothes, walk out the front door and catch a ride to Tan Son Nhut. We’d be on a flight within the hour. It’s that simple. What do you say, Sam? Let’s go home.”

  Sam smiled broadly over the thought of leaving without a moment’s hesitation, skipping the heartfelt goodbyes and vows to keep in touch. He wanted to be with Lisette. But then a thousand thoughts raced through his mind. He hadn’t been back to the world in ten years. Where would he, they live? Would the Legend still want him? But mostly he thought, would covering Washington politics or writing ponderous editorials bore him to death.

  Caressing Lisette, his eyes met meet hers, and it brought him back to the present. He now wondered, am I ready for another go. But just then the phone rang. He fumbled for his glasses and put them on as he clumsily reached for the receiver.

  “Hello?”

  “Ha, ha, Ong Esposito! You and lady friend have good time?” came the voice on the line. “This your friend from the North.”

  “Christ! Don’t you guys have anything better to do than follow reporters around? Who the hell is this?”

  “You remember me? This is your friend from the cyclodrome.”

  That got Sam’s attention. “Lise, give me something to write with, quick!” She fumbled around until she located a ballpoint pen and a hotel stationery pad and handed them to him.

  “Yes, I remember you now. What—no more secret messages and meetings? Now you call me? Brave North Vietnamese fellow talking to a decadent American?”

  “Your friend Captain Trung, he wants to say good-bye to you. He gives me instructions. Be at Tan Son Nhut before dusk. Hide outside the fence west of the runway. Take your TV friend with you and tell her to bring her camera. Trung promises to have a present for her, a special show for her American Uncle, Uncle Walter!”

  Sam covered the mouthpiece and turned toward Lisette.

  “Hey, Lise!” he whispered. “He’s got a news tip for you that he
says will get you on the NBS Evening News, maybe then Walter Cronkite will know who you are! How is it that these fuckers know so much about us and what we watch on TV, and we don’t know shit about them?”

  To prove his point, Sam asked the caller, “Hey, asshole—who’s a better pitcher, Catfish Hunter or Bill ‘Spaceman’ Lee?”

  “What?”

  “Catfish Hunter or Bill Lee. Who is the better pitcher?”

  “Of course, Catfish Hunter, he win Cy Young last year. But I still root for Red Sox!”

  “How do you know this shit?”

  “I listen to your American baseball on Armed Forces Radio. Learned English, too, from your guy who says ‘Goood Morning Vietnam,’ and DJ Chris Noel—she is one hot babe!” The caller hung up.

  “Holy crap, Lise, we get our asses handed to us twelve thousand miles from home, and meanwhile they know that Americans are pulling out their TV tables, popping their Swanson chicken dinners in the oven, and sitting down to Walter Cronkite. Mom says to Dad, ‘Hey, let’s watch the news. Let’s watch some villages burn. Let’s watch our boys getting slaughtered on Hamburger Hill. Too much to take, Dad? Twist the dial, no problem. Hey, let’s watch M.A.S.H. instead—same shit, only the blood’s fake and the jokes are real!’”

  Lisette pulled the sheets over her head—her way of letting Sam know she was ignoring him.

  “Lise, put on your clothes, we’ve got things to do.” He handed her bra to her and, as she reached for it, he snatched it away, adding, “Well, maybe we do have some time …”

  * * *

  WBYX-TV

  Washington, DC

  Ms. Lisette Vo

  Correspondent, NBS NEWS

  Saigon, South Vietnam

  Dear Ms. Vo,

  I have admired your work on NBS-TV news for many years. You have certainly done a superlative job of bringing the Vietnam War home to millions of Americans who have come to trust your judgment and honesty. Your Peabody Awards are but a small testament to what you have achieved.

  But now, the Vietnam War has nearly ended. That chapter in American life is quickly coming to a close, along with your involvement in it as a journalist. I am sure you must thinking about your future.

  I hope you will think about including us when you consider your options for future employment. I would like to invite you to visit with me and our news people here at WBYX. We are working on something very new and very exiting—totally unprecedented when it comes to bringing the news to TV viewers. It’s cable. We’ll deliver news twenty-hours-a-day, seven-days-a-week, nonstop. This is the future. Broadcast is over.

  I would like you to consider being a part of it.

  Please let me know when you return to the States. If you do decide to come and see us, give me a call and we’ll arrange for your travel to Washington.

  I am very much looking forward to visiting with you here in Washington.

  With warmest regards,

  Edward Foster III

  Chief Executive Officer

  WBYX-TV

  * * *

  Hidden among the tall weeds surrounding Tan Son Nhut, Sam, Lisette and Tuan waited as dusk approached. Trung had promised Lisette a story worthy of NBS Evening News, and Lisette had nothing to lose by taking him at his word.

  The three had picked a spot close enough to the runway to watch the departing mercy flights pass overhead barely three-hundred feet above them. As quickly as one plane got airborne, another was already rumbling down the runway. Between the cargo and passenger planes, a lone A-119 gunship lumbered down the runway and took off.

  The twin-tail A-119, originally a cargo hauler, was retrofitted for use as a defense and attack plane. Its squared-off shape and capacious fuselage had earned it the nickname “Flying Boxcar.” In this version, its side cargo doors had been removed to accommodate four six-barrel Gatling guns, each capable of firing six thousand rounds of ammunition per minute. The guns ejected so many spent cartridges and at such a rapid clip that flight crews brought snow shovels on board to gather up the brass and throw it overboard. Every fifth bullet on the ammunition belt was a tracer that glowed bright red to illuminate the firing trajectory. In attack mode, the A-119 looked like it was spewing fire.

  For the past month these gunships patrolled the skies above Tan Son Nhut. If the enemy dared to fire at the airfield, the A-119 would answer with so much firepower that the gun emplacement, along with the soldiers manning it, would be vaporized. The A-119s dealt a similar hand to the increasing number of snipers hidden in the weeds around the base—half of them Viet Cong hoping to knock an enemy plane out of the sky, and the other half South Vietnamese who were angered at being abandoned and fired at their own people as they flew away. Sometimes the snipers fired at each other.

  As they watched one aircraft after another fly out, Sam, Lisette, and Tuan sat, mystified as to what Trung had in store for them.

  * * *

  The air traffic controllers had their hands full. There were so many outbound flights that there was almost no separation between takeoffs, a normal procedure to avoid turbulence. The tower focused on a single objective: launch as many planes as possible as fast as possible. It was the Berlin Airlift in reverse; instead of bringing supplies into a beleaguered city, the mission was to get people out. The evacuees included American contract workers and their families, American sympathizers, Vietnamese who had worked for the Americans, and the hundreds of orphaned children of Americans and ethnic Vietnamese.

  A C-130 loaded with refugees and fuel was first in line on the taxiway. Before he reached the runway, the tower ordered, “VN5673, cleared for takeoff runway Zero-Seven right.”

  The pilot inched his plane forward. As he started to turn onto the active runway, he simultaneously pushed the throttles to the firewall. He quickly glanced to the left, making a final check for any aircraft that might be approaching. What he saw made him hit his brakes. A tight cluster of dots appeared on the horizon, a smudge in the sky that grew larger and more distinct with each second. The objects were heading toward the runway without landing lights or red and green navigation lights.

  “TSN Control, we have traffic approaching, do you want me to hold short?”

  The controller also spotted the unidentified craft. So had Saigon’s air defenses. An F-5 fighter squadron out of Bien Hoa Air Base a few miles away had been scrambled. The A-119 gunship patrolling above TSN began to climb so that it could launch a counterattack against the intruders from above.

  The air traffic controller’s voice was calm. “VN5673, you are cleared for immediate takeoff. Can’t promise runway Zero-Seven will still exist if you hold for incoming traffic.”

  The pilot glanced left again. Reality sunk in. An enemy fighter squadron was closing fast. He repeated, “Cleared for takeoff,” to let the controller know he got the message, then he turned his craft onto runway Zero-Seven, applied full throttles, and pulled gently back on the yoke. The C-130 rapidly gained speed, became airborne, and climbed away from the field.

  With the taxiway jammed and enemy aircraft closing in, the tower controllers looked over the field. Despite the pressure and peril, this was their domain. They were like the guys who play speed chess in New York’s Washington Square, who can instantly form a mental picture of where every piece is on the board and where it needs to move. And, like the chess players, the tower controllers were thinking six moves ahead.

  The next plane moving up the taxiway was another C-130. With the first craft barely airborne, the controller ordered: “Cleared for takeoff, runway Zero-Seven right.” The pilot obliged immediately.

  “That’s two. Three to go,” the controller told his counterpart in the tower. As the enemy squadron continued its approach he added, “Maybe the A-119 will get them. If they can intercept in time, we’ll be good for at least another day of flying.”

  The next aircraft lined up on the taxiway was an Air America DC -3, followed by a VNAF C-47. The air traffic controller directed the Air America flight to taxiway Whiskey Three
, which intersected the active runway. The order meant the DC-3 pilot had to cross the runway between planes taking off. The pilot obliged and made the turn. With his feet hard on the brakes, he used the seconds he had to rev up the twin Pratt & Whitney turbine engines so that he could slingshot his plane across the active runway. It worked. Before he traveled fifty feet the DC-3 rose off the ground and began to climb.

  Air Traffic Control had swept every plane into the air except for the C-47, which remained at the end of the taxiway, farthest from the approaching enemy.

  “VN6553, hold your position,” the tower ordered.

  “VN6553, holding position.”

  “Taxiway Whiskey Eleven is now the active runway,” the controller announced. “You are cleared for takeoff.”

  “VN6573 cleared for takeoff,” the pilot replied as he picked up speed on the narrow taxiway. Not only was he taking off toward the enemy fighters, he was taking off with wind at his back. The C-47 would need faster groundspeed and much more runway to get airborne. With a full load of passengers and fuel, his takeoff roll would be longer. Just as the first of the attacking aircraft—Trung’s Dragonfly squadron—crossed the outer marker, the planes dropped two bombs on the adjacent runway. The C-47 was heading straight for the attackers.

  Then the second wave of Dragonflies flew past, releasing their bombs for a direct hit on the runway. The C-47 pilot pulled back hard on the yoke and forced his plane into the sky.

  As the A-119 jockeyed into position to attack the enemy aircraft, two of the fighters split off, gaining altitude and an advantage over the lumbering gunship. Prey had now become predator as the Dragonflies turned their twin guns against the A-119. The bullets pulverized the gunship’s aluminum tail boom. Mortally wounded, the A-119 spun in lazy corkscrew loops toward the earth. One parachute, another, then another, blossomed in the sky as the plane smashed into the airfield below, killing the pilot.