Goodnight Saigon

by Charles Henderson

  Thao, Mai, South Vietnam’s most renowned novelist and newspaper publisher, author of more than fifty books.

  Tran, Ninh Thi, wife of Nguyen Giap Ty, also worked as a typist for various American government agencies, including the defense attaché.

  Tu, Tran Da, one of South Vietnam’s most renowned novelists and poets.

  Ty, Nguyen Giap, retired South Vietnamese Army lieutenant colonel, awarded the Bronze Star by American forces, was terminal manager at the Port of Saigon at war’s end.

  AMERICAN CIVILIAN LEADERS AND DIPLOMATS

  Ford, Gerald R., President of the United States.

  Francis, Albert, Consul General of Da Nang.

  Kissinger, Henry A., Secretary of State of the United States.

  Lehmann, Wolfgang, Deputy Chief of Mission, United States Embassy, Saigon.

  Martin, Graham A., United States Ambassador to South Vietnam.

  McKinley, Brunson, Ambassador Graham Martin’s aide-de-camp.

  McNamara, Francis “Terry,” Consul General, Can Tho

  Peters, Richard B., Consul General, Bien Hoa.

  Spears, Moncrieff, Consul General, Nha Trang.

  AMERICAN MILITARY

  Babel, Sergeant Philip A., USMC, Marine Security Guard, Saigon, among the last eleven Marines to depart Saigon.

  Bauer, Corporal Stephen Q., USMC, Marine Security Guard, Saigon, among the last eleven Marines to depart Saigon.

  Bennington, Sergeant Terry J., USMC, Marine Security Guard, Saigon, among the last eleven Marines to depart Saigon.

  Berry, Captain Gerald L., USMC, pilot of Lady Ace Zero-Nine, the Marine CH-46F helicopter that flew Ambassador Graham Martin from Saigon at 4:58 a.m., April 30, 1975.

  Carey, Brigadier General Richard E., USMC, Commanding General of the Ninth Marine Amphibious Brigade and operational commander of Operation Frequent Wind.

  Carlson, Lance Corporal Eric, USMC, Marine combat correspondent, photojournalist, assigned to 9th MAB, based at III MAF Public Affairs Office, Okinawa.

  Carr, Staff Sergeant Joseph, USMC, Marine combat correspondent, III MAF Public Affairs Office, Okinawa.

  Cook, Captain Doug, USMC, copilot of Swift Two-Two, the last American military helicopter to fly from Saigon.

  Ebert, Sergeant Carl, USMC, Marine combat correspondent, III MAF Public Affairs Office, Okinawa.

  Frain, Sergeant Robert L., USMC, Marine Security Guard, Saigon, among the last elveen Marines to depart Saigon.

  Gevers, Sergeant Duane R., USMC, Marine Security Guard, Saigon, among the last eleven Marines to depart Saigon.

  Gray, Colonel Alfred M., USMC, Commander of the Fourth Marine Regiment and Regimental Landing Team 4, American ground forces ashore in the evacuation of Saigon.

  Hargis, Sergeant Gregory E., USMC, Marine Security Guard, Saigon.

  Harp, Captain Tilford, USAF, copilot of C-5A Galaxy 68-218, which crashed shortly after takeoff from Tan Son Nhut Air Base in Saigon on the inaugural flight of Operation Baby Lift.

  Hasty, Staff Sergeant Boyette S., USMC, NCO in charge of the Marine Security Guard detachment assigned to the United States Consulate, Can Tho.

  Holden, Captain Tom, USMC, pilot of Swift Two-Two, the last American military helicopter to fly from Saigon.

  Houghton, Major General Kenneth J., USMC, Commanding General, Third Marine Division.

  Hughes, Sergeant Stan, USMC, gunner aboard Swift Two-Two, the last American military helicopter to fly from Saigon.

  Johnson, Colonel John M., USMC, Assistant Chief of Staff, Operations (G-3), III Marine Amphibious Force (III MAF).

  Judge, Lance Corporal Darwin D., USMC, embassy Marine killed in action at 3:58 a.m., April 29, 1975 by enemy 122 mm rocket, one of last two Americans killed in action in Vietnam.

  Kean, Captain James H., USMC, Major selectee, commanding officer, Company C, Marine Security Guard Battalion, among the last eleven Marines to depart Saigon, stranded on the roof of the American embassy until the morning of April 30, 1975.

  Madison, Colonel John, USA, senior member of the Joint Casualty Resolution Team.

  McCormick, Sergeant Michael A., USMC, assistant NCO in charge of the Marine Security Guard detachment at Nha Trang consulate.

  McMahon, Corporal Charles, USMC, embassy Marine killed in action at 3:58 a.m., April 29, 1975, by enemy 122 mm rocket, one of last two Americans killed in action in Vietnam.

  Neeley, Chief Warrant Officer Robert, USMC, station manager and officer in charge, Far East Network, Okinawa, American Forces Radio and Television Service.

  Norman, Corporal David E., USMC, Marine Security Guard, Saigon, among the last eleven Marines to depart Saigon.

  Nystul, Captain William C., USMC, among last Marines killed in action in Vietnam, pilot of the Marine CH-46F that crashed at sea near the USS Hancock.

  Painter, Staff Sergeant Roger F., USMC, NCO in charge of Nha Trang consulate Marine Security Guard detachment.

  Poggemeyer, Major General Herman, Jr., USMC, Commanding General, III Marine Amphibious Force.

  Schlager, Gunnery Sergeant Robert W., USMC, NCO in charge of the Bien Hoa consulate, among the last eleven Marines to depart Saigon.

  Schuller, Corporal Steven T., USMC, Marine Security Guard, Saigon, among the last eleven Marines to depart Saigon.

  Shea, First Lieutenant Michael J., USMC, among last Marines killed in action in Vietnam, copilot of the Marine CH-46F that crashed at sea near the USS Hancock.

  Shelton, Captain Jerry, Third Marine Division Public Affairs Officer, III MAF Public Affairs Office, Okinawa.

  Smith, Major General Homer D., Jr., USA, Defense Attaché, Saigon.

  Sneed, Corporal Jimmie D., USMC, Marine Security Guard at Nha Trang consulate.

  Sparks, Staff Sergeant Walter W., USMC, NCO in charge of the Marine security forces assigned to the United States Consulate in Da Nang.

  Sullivan, Staff Sergeant Michael K., USMC, Assistant NCO in charge of the United States Embassy, Saigon Marine Security Guard detachment, among the last eleven Marines to depart Saigon.

  Thurman, Gunnery Sergeant Russell R., USMC, Marine combat correspondent, photojournalist, and public affairs representative for the 9th MAB, based at III MAF Public Affairs Office, Okinawa.

  Tingley, Sergeant Steven L., USMC, Marine combat correspondent, III MAF Public Affairs Office, Okinawa.

  Tompkins, Lance Corporal Donald, USMC, administrative clerk and driver, III MAF Public Affairs Office, Okinawa.

  Traynor, Captain Dennis “Bud,” USAF, pilot of C-5A Galaxy 68-218, which crashed shortly after takeoff from Tan Son Nhut Air Base in Saigon on the inaugural flight of Operation Babylift.

  Valdez, Master Sergeant John J. “Top,” USMC, noncommissioned officer in charge of the United States Embassy, Saigon detachment of Company C, Marine Security Guard Battalion, among the last eleven Marines to depart Saigon.

  Weyand, General Frederick C., United States Army, Chief of Staff.

  Wood, Sergeant Christopher, USMC, crew chief of Swift Two-Two, the last American military helicopter to fly from Saigon.

  AMERICAN CIVILIANS AND WESTERN JOURNALISTS

  Arnett, Peter, Senior Correspondent, Associated Press, Saigon Bureau, from New Zealand, remained in Saigon after the Americans left on April 30, 1975.

  Daly, Ed, flamboyant founder, Chairman and Chief Executive of World Airways, made the last evacuation flight from Da Nang aboard one of his company’s Boeing 727 jetliners on March 29, 1975.

  Davis, Neil, motion picture photographer under contract with NBC News, photographed the NVA tank crashing the gates at Saigon’s Presidential Palace.

  Dawson, Alan, Bureau Chief, United Press International, for both Vietnam and Cambodia.

  Halstead, Dirck, photographer for Time-Life.

  Healy, Ken, World Airways Boeing 727 jetliner pilot in command of the last evacuation flight from Da Nang.

  Kennerly, David Hume, White House photographer for President Gerald R. Ford.

  Lea, Jim, correspondent and bureau chief, Okinawa Bureau,
Pacific Stars and Stripes, United States Information Agency.

  Van Es, Hubert “Hugh,” Dutch freelance photographer who received the Pulitzer Prize for shooting the famous photograph of the Huey helicopter hovering over the PanAm building rooftop in Saigon with people climbing a ladder to get aboard the aircraft.

  Williams, Derek, CBS News sound man, began working in Far East in Cambodia and eventually wound up in Saigon.

  Chapter 1

  GOODNIGHT SAIGON

  REPUBLIC OF VIETNAM—WEDNESDAY, APRIL 30, 1975

  THE CHOPPER WAS nearly out of gas.

  Just like the war.

  Over. Except for this last act: the outbound flight of a single United States Marine Corps CH-46 Sea-Knight helicopter, call sign Swift Two-Two, a transport from Marine Medium Helicopter Squadron 164. Her departure off the rooftop of the American embassy in the heart of Saigon would forever symbolize the closing scene of a long and tragic play.

  The fighting. The frustration. The nearly three decades of conflict. Done.

  The more than ten years of American soldiers losing their limbs, hearts, and lives. Finished.

  Lifting from that last acre of American concrete in the Republic of Vietnam, low-fuel warning lights blinking as its rotor blades turned through a cloud of tear gas and lost hope, this dull green bird—at 7:53 on Wednesday morning, April 30, 1975—brought down the Vietnam War’s final curtain.

  With Saigon disappearing behind the trees, the twin rotorcraft cast her fate on dwindling fumes, just as the people of this besieged country had done for so many weeks. Now the hopes of a fallen nation, the fate of its people, flew in the wind that spiraled with the twisters that danced along the chopper’s blades.

  Beneath the wash of wind and lost hope, inside the aircraft’s belly, rode eleven tired Marines—the last American soldiers to depart South Vietnam.

  Yet much more than these eleven passengers and aircrew of four journeyed with that helicopter on this final voyage from Vietnam. Aboard it traveled the hearts of millions: the wounded, the dead, the homeless, the families broken apart; people who had suffered the many years of this war; and nations who had divided themselves, ruined their innocence, and lost their children. Tired, bleeding memories and regret also rode on that shuddering green bird.

  Grown men cried that day—men who had given their courage, their dedication, their blood to a cause now lost. They had zipped shut too many black bags filled with too many friends who had given their lives trying to win over there. For these, the flight of that last chopper out of Saigon represented despair.

  “What did we die for?” they asked. “For what did we suffer and pay such a price?” And they shook their fists as they watched the helicopter race toward the sea. “We never lost a battle, so why did we lose the war?”

  Other men cried that day—men who had given their courage, dedication, and blood. They also had pulled shut too many shrouds wrapped around too many friends who had given their lives trying to win this war. For them, the flight of that last American helicopter confirmed victory.

  They waved flags and raised their fists triumphantly. They pointed skyward at this last vestige of American superiority and cried out to the world as the helicopter flew away. “You see? Do you see? We did finally prevail!”

  On the streets, in the villages, inside shanties and chateaus, people hid, terrified. Their eyes too followed the helicopter, and they cried, “Why did you forsake us?”

  They feared what lay ahead. This thing that had finally come would kill many of them and enslave more. And they shook outstretched hands angrily as the helicopter departed. “We believed in you!”

  Aboard the ships, thousands clung to rails and watched in bewilderment as the chopper rushed toward them. Their world—home, wealth, country—had all shrunk to a spot the size of their feet on the deck of a ship that belonged to someone else. They raised their faces and cried, “Now what shall we do?”

  Many, whose temples sprouted gray but had once bristled dark when they gave everything over there, defiantly proclaimed, “This is not our doing! We did not lose this war. Our brothers died for freedom’s cause—for liberty!”

  They angrily stuck their middle fingers skyward as this last chopper flew. “Those damned communist pig-fucking war protesters. They did this. Those damned communist pig-fucking congressmen and limp-willed politicians. They gave it to them. We won it, and then they gave it away!”

  In Canada and on the streets of New York, San Francisco, and cities scattered between, others whose hair now shown gray but had once flowed darkly, woven with flowers when they had stood in objection, also watched the helicopter fly. Angrily, they raised their middle fingers too.

  “We told you so,” they heralded. “This illegal, immoral, terrible thing our country did. There was no other end possible but this. We were right. Thanks to us, it has finally stopped.”

  Men and women and children watched the television films of that last flight—those last Americans to leave this terrible war. And they breathed a sigh in resignation. “It is done. Now the healing can begin,” they reassured each other.

  These made up a tired America, a divided and deeply fractured America. They needed something good to come after enduring so much bad: assassinations, civil unrest, out-of-control inflation, drug abuse, gasoline shortages, Watergate. At least this war—one of the greatest tragedies in United States history—had ended. The last soldiers now headed home.

  All who watched as that helicopter flew could at least agree on one thing: It was over. Finally.

  As Swift Two-Two raced through sporadic ground fire toward the sea, those last American vets of Vietnam’s war considered little beyond their small world. Symbolism, popular opinion, who was right didn’t matter. Healing, victory, loss—it all spun in an indefinable cloud.

  For them, reality raced beneath their feet, and its grime mixed with sweat that dripped from their faces. Apprehension and fatigue dominated their world at the moment. They didn’t know quite which emotion to grasp: whether to celebrate or whether to cry.

  Two of their brothers had fallen. Killed by an enemy rocket one day ago. Or was it now two? Brand-new kids, they were. Newbees. Just off the boat. Whisked away to stand guard for the Defense Attaché’s Office at some exterior checkpoint by the airport. Hammered with their bowels still full of stateside chow.

  When the rockets hit, way before dawn, two minutes before 4:00 a.m.—rockets always fall at odd times like that, 3:58 a.m., Hotel Saigon time—nurses from the Tan Son Nhut Seventh-Day Adventist Mission Hospital came to help.

  They picked up the pieces: the battered husks that remained of Corporal Charles McMahon, Jr., of Woburn, Massachusetts, and his partner, Lance Corporal Darwin D. Judge of Marshalltown, Iowa. God knows the women in blood-spattered white prayed for the two boys. Christian nurses do that. Surely they did. The last two American souls to depart this war by hostile fire for everlasting life with Jesus.

  Looking over the door gunner’s shoulder at the rising sun, these last eleven who had finally gotten out of Saigon alive wondered. Undoubtedly someone at Dodge City had remembered to reclaim their two brethren. Surely they did. After all, we do not leave our dead. Marines never do that—absolutely never. Cardinal rule number one.

  Safely below decks on the helicopter carrier, the United States Navy Amphibious Assault Ship, the USS Okinawa, they scratched that itch. Marine Corps Major Jim Kean, the boss of this last bunch out—technically the last commander of American forces on the ground in Vietnam—had to ask. After all, they were his boys. Never rest before you count your chicks, leadership rule number one. He had to know.

  However, McMahon and Judge still lay at rest in the morgue outside Tan Son Nhut.

  Somebody from the embassy had called the mission. A nurse had told that caller that someone else from Dodge City had grabbed the body bags and gone. Spirited them home, already, she thought. The nurse just tried to help. She really didn’t know. Scared too, she was. Lots of other dead. And wounded, her
own people.

  Nothing these last eleven souls could have done, anyway. Clear across a town of chaos. Crazed people with guns, really hating Americansat that point. These boys couldn’t have done a damned thing but gotten themselves killed too.

  They would have, though. Climbed the wall. Screw the major. Our buds need us. What’s left of them.