Goodnight Saigon

by Charles Henderson

  The Frederick and the Durham took a single CH-46 aircraft and support detachment each, while the Blue Ridge hosted two detachments of UH-1E Hueys, and the Dubuque carried seven CH-46 helicopters, crews, and ground support, plus jammed her bowels with the remaining three companies of First Battalion Marines, their supporting amphibious assault vehicles (amtracks), artillery, tanks, and other heavy movers. For the Marines assigned to the Dubuque, it would be a very tight and uncomfortable voyage to South Vietnam.

  Although they had solved the logistics problems and now had the unit’s task organization filled, the Marines still sat far from Da Nang, hurriedly trying to mount out for the rescue. The day pages for that final week of March 1975 seemed to fly off the calendar while the majority of the newly activated Thirty-third Marine Amphibious Unit, most of their air assets, and all of their heavy gear still waited on Okinawa for their ride to arrive.

  While the northern provinces of South Vietnam fell like a house of cards, the rapid pace of events pressing toward Da Nang outstripped Marine Corps planners’ ability to adjust ongoing preparations in Okinawa, changing from green side out to brown side out by the hour. Every plan put to paper seemed destined to be overtaken by events.

  In the coming days, before the bulk of the 33rd MAU could depart Okinawa, General Hoffman ceded to a plan organized by Third Marine Division commander, Major General Houghton. It virtually deactivated the 33rd MAU, sending Colonel Gray elsewhere, and then designated the unit as the Amphibious Evacuation RVN Support Group, with the Ninth Marine Amphibious Brigade’s chief of staff, Colonel Dan C. Alexander, in command. Their mission changed from that of a Marine Corps combat landing force, bristling with tanks and artillery, to that of shipboard security forces, now prepared to take aboard evacuees and refugees, rescuing them at sea.

  Chapter 11

  COLLAPSE OF DA NANG

  DA NANG, RVN—THURSDAY, MARCH 27

  WHITE SMOKE DRIFTED from the hibachi wagon parked on the sidewalk in front of where Le Cong Than and a young pair of his Viet Cong soldiers had perched on the seawall above the Han River, across the street from the American consulate. The three guerrillas slowly nibbled and savored the braised beef skewered on sticks that the Forty-fourth Line Front commander had bought and shared with his two comrades.

  As they sat in the warm sunshine and happily chewed the tasty, thin strips of spicily marinated, flame-roasted flank meat, the guerrillas eyed every person entering or leaving the consulate, paying particular attention to the numbers of soldiers that they saw on post outside and meandering inside when the big gates swung open. While the men made mental notes of their sightings, three United States Marines dressed in stiffly starched, drab green uniforms with their trousers bloused above spit-polished boots, each man carrying a rifle and wearing a pistol, walked across the street and bought barbecue from the middle-aged man with the hibachi wagon. During the brief wait for their purchases, the Americans said hello to the Viet Cong trio, who in return nodded and bowed respectfully to the men, flashing their most innocent smiles.

  It seemed ironic to Le Cong Than that at another time and another place these very Americans could have just as easily died by his bullets, or he by theirs. In another place and time, likewise, they could have embraced each other as comrades. Their friendly smiles and casual exchanges of greetings felt strange and somehow sad to him. Like himself, these men filled the billets of pawns in a great political exchange bartered with blood, driven by men who rarely feared for their own safety, dwelled in relative splendor, and too often held little value for the lives of the men who died for their purposes.

  “These orange sodas that you have in your tub of ice, may we have three please,” Than said to the hibachi man.

  The man leaned down and took out three bottles and snapped off the tops with an opener tied to his wagon’s push handle with a cotton string, turned nearly black from oil and grime from the man’s hands.

  “Also, I think that my sons and I would like to try the roast chicken too,” Than said, pointing at a row of breasts turned dark golden as hot grease sizzled through their crispy skins.

  “These are my favorites,” the hibachi man said, skewering three large breasts on sticks and handing them to the trio who wore straw, conical hats and black muslin shirts and pants.

  Than unfolded a stack of pink and orange Republic of Vietnam five-hundred-piaster bills and peeled off three. The man lifted the lid on a finger-smudged and well-worn Roi Tan cigar box to extract change.

  “Keep it as a tip, my friend,” Than said, imitating the occidental custom, as his two so-called sons smiled.

  “Thank you, sir,” the hibachi man said, closing the box lid quickly and returning to his mundane chores, tending the roasting chicken and beef and wiping away grease spatters with a badly oil-and-soot-stained cup towel.

  “What news of the war do you hear?” Than asked casually, tossing his empty beef stick into a nearby trash barrel that the city had stationed at the curb and then taking a drippy bite of the tangy braised chicken.

  “Even though the Communists have begun firing some rockets and artillery on the city this morning, I still believe that the Americans will finally come. They will land here any day,” the man said hopefully. Then the man looked Than in the eye. “I am friends with the people in the consulate, and they assure me that the Marines from Okinawa, Hawaii, and from Camp Pendleton in California, USA, have boarded a great fleet of ships and now steam our way to turn back the Communists.”

  “This is true?” Than said.

  “They have many CIA working here,” the hibachi man told Than in an almost whispering voice, casting a pall of apparent secrecy over what he disclosed. “I am their friend, and they tell me many things when they come here to buy lunches.”

  “Ah,” Than said in a praising tone, supporting the man’s ego. “How do they come to trust you with such information? You might very easily be a Viet Cong spy.”

  The man untied his apron, pushed it aside, and then lifted his white shirt, exposing a spiderweb of scars punctuated by large, round pocks covered with thin, slick tissue.

  “They trust me because of these,” the man said proudly. “I served for nearly three years as a patrol scout for the Marines here, the Seventh Regiment, based just south of Da Nang. I was a Vietnamese Marine Corps sergeant, assigned to them. I got these scars on Charlie Ridge, in the mountains southwest of here.”

  “You do not blame the Americans for your wounds?” Than asked.

  “The Communists shot me!” the hibachi man said. “The American Marines saved me. They flew me by helicopter to Charlie Med, where the American doctors gave me American blood and took out the Communist bullets and shrapnel.”

  “Many have suffered such as you,” Than said, considering his own men who carried similar scars from combat.

  “Too many, I think,” the hibachi man said.

  “Yes,” Than said, honestly agreeing with the vendor. “Did you return to service after that?”

  “No, sir,” the hibachi man said. “I lost one of my lungs, part of my stomach, and some other things, so I am medically retired. I get a small pension each month, and I sell food and drinks from my cart.”

  “I can see now why you are such a trusted friend of these Americans here,” Than said.

  The hibachi man smiled proudly, retied his apron, and began again adjusting the chicken and beef as it cooked over the bed of grease-flaming charcoal.

  “I gather that you have come to Da Nang to escape the NVA attacks,”the barbecue vendor said, turning his head over his shoulder to speak to his three new friends. “I see so many people from Hue, Tam Ky, Quang Ngai, and Chu Lai now filling the city. They crowd all the streets, so we can hardly get around. Everyone seeking refuge.”

  “Certainly, yes,” Than said, trying to sound excited, and his two comrades nodded emphatically with him. “We have a farm just northwest of Tam Ky, and the North Vietnamese raided our home three days ago. They took nearly everything from us and set us o
n the road. Lucky for me, I had my money hidden, and I managed to sneak back and retrieve it so that while we have no home at the moment, we do have resources.

  “These are my sons, Ty and Giap. Their mother, and their wives and children, all fled with us to Da Nang. We have our camp just up the roadway beyond the guard station, by the riverbank, on the concrete walkway below the seawall. Many people have also camped there.

  “My sons and I decided to try and hear some news from the Americans, so we came. Then we smelled the smoke of your fire. It smelled so good that we decided to eat before we ventured across the street.”

  “Oh,” the hibachi man said, “I do not believe that the Americans will tell you anything, nor even allow you through their gates. With so many refugees flooding Da Nang, they have this street blocked from most traffic, except for people such as myself and those with official business at the consulate. This is one of the few places that one can come where there is not yet utter chaos.”

  “Yes, and that is why my family camped on the river, just beyond the blockade,” Than said, elaborating his lie to a more convincing truth. “We feel safe knowing that just above our heads we have armed soldiers guarding the street.”

  The hibachi man looked a half block up the street where two armored personnel carriers sat in the middle of the thoroughfare with their machine guns trained on the foot traffic, bicycles, and handcarts that ventured past the soldiers standing guard. They allowed no motorized vehicles beyond them. The crew of ARVN military police searched every bag and package, bicycle and cart, and examined the push cart vendors’ licenses too. Pedestrians who carried no packages passed easily with only random questions asked them by the guards.

  Than and his two subordinates, who accompanied the colonel as bodyguards among other duties, had quietly studied the blockade, watching the security processes and evaluating their risks in passing the checkpoint. Satisfied, the three Viet Cong passed off their pistols and bicycles laden with weapons and explosives, hidden in packages tied in high stacks on the racks behind the seats, to comrades who now awaited the guerrilla trio’s return.

  Before dawn, Than and the Forty-fourth Line Front had begun infiltrating Da Nang, moving easily with the vast throngs of refugees that now crowded every street and alley and choked Highway 1 to a standstill. Every hotel in and around Da Nang overflowed, and temporary shanties sprang up in every open spot along the thoroughfares and between the buildings.

  Da Nang’s police force had days ago found itself overwhelmed and badly losing control. Chaos seemed to grow by the second. General Truong ordered his military police, along with as many support soldiers as he could spare from the defense lines, to bolster the city’s law enforcement efforts. As the pressure mounted with each passing hour, it seemed that only the stretches of a few hundred feet running before government buildings and friendly foreign consulates represented the only real order that the police and military could now manage, and the current tide of humanity, shocked this morning with sporadic Communist shelling, threatened those checks.

  “When the Americans come and the Marines land,” the hibachi man said, “Da Nang can then begin to relax. They will turn back the Communists, and people can return home.”

  “I wish that they were here now,” Than said. “I am very frightened for my family.”

  “Yes, I have heard about scores of cowards who have chosen to desert rather than fight. They shed their uniforms, but kept their weapons, and in rogue bands roam the backstreets. These traitors have begun looting homes and businesses and robbing defenseless people,” the hibachi man said and spat on the ground to illustrate his disgust. “We have always had the cowboys, renegade gangs of criminals, but we managed their few numbers. Now, these deserters have gone cowboy too and present a very big danger to everyone. We all fear for our families, not only from the VC, but more so from these new cowboys.”

  “That will stop soon, I am certain,” Than said confidently. “Even if the Communists come here, they will put an end to such evil.”

  “What are these?” the soldier that Than had introduced as Giap said, pointing to a basket of odd-looking oblong objects, fried golden with flat sticks jutting from them.

  The vendor picked one up, squirted mustard on one side of it and ketchup on the other side, and handed the hot corn dog to the young man.

  “Take a bite,” the hibachi man said. “An American hot dog, covered with a cornmeal batter and deep fried. They call it a corn dog. I thought they were common everywhere, even in Tam Ky.”

  “Oh, I have seen these quite often, from vending carts in Tam Ky,” Giap said, blushing as he bit off the top of the corn dog. “I have never taken the time to eat one, until now. After seeing them for so long, my curiosity about how they tasted could wait no longer.”

  “Do you like it?” the hibachi man said.

  “Quite good!” Giap said, eating more.

  “Here,” Than said, handing the man four more five-hundred-piaster notes, “put however many this will buy into a bag, and we will take them back to our family. They might enjoy a new treat.”

  Filling a sack with eight corn dogs, the hibachi man tucked the bills in his cigar box and watched as the Viet Cong trio walked back toward the guards at the blockade. He kept watching them as they calmly stood and spoke to the sentries, bowing and nodding, opening the sack of corn dogs. Then the three men casually walked past the checkpoint and disappeared into the crush of refugees.

  INSIDE THE UNITED STATES CONSULATE, DA NANG

  “WHERE’S MINE?” Walter Sparks said to the trio of Marines he met as they jogged up the concrete stairs at the edge of the courtyard inside the American consulate.

  “I didn’t see you around when we left, Staff Sergeant, or I would have asked,” Sergeant Bill Spruce said, with corporals Leonard Forseth and Ronald Anderson flanking him, their hands filled with beef on sticks, chips, and sodas.

  “Just kidding. In meetings before daylight this morning. You couldn’t have known if I even wanted anything,” Sparks said, putting the Marines at ease. “Anybody wants me, I will be right back. I’m just going to run across the street, grab a snack, and see what news old Nguyen knows.”

  “He was talking to three VC when we left him,” Spruce said with a laugh.

  Staff Sergeant Sparks sprang down the remaining steps and trotted across the corner of the consulate courtyard and past the sentries who opened the vehicle gate to let him out since two days ago they had permanently blocked the pedestrian gate. As he stepped down the driveway, first looking for trouble both ways, he saw the familiar face of his old friend Nguyen, the hibachi man, smiling at him, holding up a dripping cold can of Coca-Cola and a corn dog.

  “I talked to three VC, just now,” Nguyen said. “They spent thirty-five-hundred piasters on beef and chicken and corn dogs, and orange sodas.”

  “Hungry crew, weren’t they,” Sparks said. “Sergeant Bill already told me that you had three VC here.”

  “He did?” Nguyen said, wide eyed and excited.

  “He was joking, relax,” Sparks returned. “He didn’t know.”

  “They were VC though,” Nguyen said. “Truly!”

  “How do you know?” Sparks asked.

  “They know nothing about corn dogs,” Nguyen said. “They also don’t smoke any cigarettes or even ask about tobacco.”

  “That makes them VC?” Sparks said.

  “Maybe,” the vendor said. “Maybe not.”

  “What else they do?” Sparks asked.

  “They sit here, eat, watch the gate,” Nguyen said, pointing at the whitewashed walls and front portal of the American consulate.

  “Probably VC then,” Sparks said, pouring ketchup and mustard on his corn dog and then reaching for a bag of Fritos corn chips. He handed the vendor five hundred piasters and took the Coke and chips in his free hand. “I’ll let the spooks know about it. They might come over and talk to you later.”

  Nguyen the hibachi man smiled at his friend and wiped his hands on his
apron as he watched the Marine walk back across the street and disappear through the consulate gates.

  NEAR THE SOUTHERN OUTSKIRTS OF DA NANG

  TRACERS FILLED THE night sky above Colonel Hoang Duc The’s head, arching and crossing each other by the thousands of rounds fired. The Thirty-eighth NVA Regiment’s commander watched as bursts of 130-millimeter artillery punctuated the light show that rained a hail of steel and lead. The furious downpour quickly decimated the defenses of the Fifth ARVN Regiment, dug in at the big iron bridge that crossed the Cau Do River, on the southern outskirts of Da Nang.

  The Second NVA Division, comprised of the First, Thirty-first, and Thirty-eighth regiments, and now reinforced with the Fifty-second NVA Brigade, had routed at much of the Second ARVN Division’s forces that defended Tam Ky and Quang Ngai on March 24 and then, two days later, took Chu Lai. With those southern enclaves overwhelmed, the NVA left behind elements of the First and Thirty-first regiments, which had led those attacks, to take a respite from battle and mop up. Meanwhile, Colonel The and his Thirty-eighth Regiment, now leading the charge, pointed the Communist army’s spears toward Da Nang. Taking point on the attack, they quickly leveled the few dug-in remnants of the Fifth ARVN Regiment and now adjusted the brunt of their firepower on what remained of the First and Eighth regiments of the 258th South Vietnamese Marine Brigade, who along with the 369th Marine Brigade now represented the only tactically sound units left defending Da Nang. Together their warriors numbered something fewer than six thousand strong.

  Colonel The’s men first engaged the Fifth Regiment north of Tam Ky and quite literally had to run after their prey to keep them in range, once they had broken the defenders from their strongholds. The ARVN hardly returned any fire before beating their hasty retreat. At one point, the colonel had to order his men to drop their packs and sprint after the fleeing soldiers.