Goodnight Saigon

by Charles Henderson

  Hundreds of thousands of people jammed every avenue surrounding the American embassy and the Defense Attaché’s Office compound. Finally, the turmoil reached such an impossible level that the armed shuttles had to cease their operations.

  At sea, hundreds of airplanes and helicopters swarmed to the armada of American ships. Beneath them, thousands of small crafts and barges pushed their way to the United States vessels. While they felt deep resentment and now even hatred for the Americans in the end turning their backs on their long-fought and costly war, the desperate South Vietnamese still flocked to their old protectors for final salvation.

  As the South Vietnamese helicopters landed on the decks of the navy ships, crews immediately pushed the aircrafts over the sides, making room for other choppers to land. Now and then a light airplane would dip low over the water and people would leap out, some to their deaths. Then the pilotless aircraft would crash into the sea in the midst of the countless small boats that dotted the water.

  No one could even estimate how many of South Vietnam’s people died at sea that day and night. No doubt thousands.

  Through the midst of the turmoil, as tens of thousands of South Vietnam’s population fled toward the waiting American ships, the man who had said that anyone who ran from Saigon was a coward, former Premier Nguyen Cao Ky, landed a helicopter that he commandeered and personally piloted to the deck of the USS Blue Ridge. Dressed in a clean flight suit, with a silk scarf around his neck, he quickly ducked below decks to the senior officers’ staterooms. Meanwhile, navy deck crews pushed the Huey that he had flown into the churning South China Sea.

  BASSAC RIVER SOUTH OF CAN THO

  THICK CLOUDS LOOMED over the swampy jungles along the Bassac River as Marine Staff Sergeant Boyette Hasty stood watch at a gunner’s station on the LCM piloted by Consul General Terry McNamara. He had just begun to relax and believe that they might actually slip past any Viet Cong or NVA patrols watching the river when a sudden stream of machine-gun fire chopped through the water and cut across the raised front ramp of the landing craft.

  “Everybody down!” he screamed and immediately opened fire with his rifle at the shoreline where he now saw twenty or more Communist guerrillas jumping into boats. He waved at Sergeant Terry D. Pate and Corporal Lee J. Johnson to also open fire and help try to suppress the Viet Cong from closing in on them.

  In the LCM that trailed the craft piloted by McNamara, Sergeant John S. Moore, Hasty’s assistant NCO in charge, along with Sergeant John W. Kirchner and Corporal Lawrence B. Killens also opened fire on the Viet Cong that now entered the river from both sides.

  Terry McNamara pushed the throttle levers full forward and kept hitting them, trying to encourage more thrust from the diesel engine that pushed the heavy landing craft through the water at hardly more than a dozen knots. Meanwhile the Viet Cong rode in the long wooden canoelike sampans, powered by small gasoline engines. The shallow-drafting boats skimmed quickly through the water, easily closing on the bulky LCMs.

  Slamming magazine after magazine into his rifle, Boyette Hasty kept thinking of the nonchalance that Ambassador Martin had shown when he took the four helicopters from Can Tho and left these 318 people to fend for themselves. Pouring round after round into the prows of the Viet Cong boats, the Marine sergeant thought of the callous disregard for life and utter disloyalty that the American CIA contingent at Can Tho, along with their local operatives, had shown them. To him, their betrayal had now risen to a capital crime. They commandeered two of their helicopters, stole the consulate’s two best landing crafts, with their machine guns and food and water provisions too, and left the remaining Americans, including one of their own people, twisting in the wind.

  At this point, had he seen any of that bunch of CIA wastes of skin, he would have opened fire on them too.

  “They’re gaining on us!” McNamara shouted, crouching low and steering the flat-bottom boat in the center of the river, trying to maximize the distance between the pursuing Viet Cong and his two LCMs.

  “We’re getting low on ammo too,” Hasty called back.

  “That fog up there?” McNamara said, pointing to what looked like a gray curtain stretched across the river and surrounding jungle swamps.

  “Rain, sir,” Hasty said. “I think it’s rain!”

  In a moment, a hard downpour shrouded the two landing crafts as Terry McNamara steered onward, glad that he had a steel helmet covering his head.

  Within seconds, as the rain pounded the two hard-driving landing crafts, the density of the downpour cloaked both shores from view, and the Viet Cong suddenly quit firing at them, losing the two vessels in the rain.

  The heavy deluge kept both boats covered as they cruised past the dangerous narrows they had dreaded before they had launched on their Can Tho Yacht Club expedition down the Bassac.

  As though God had kept an eye on their travel, the clouds parted and the rain stopped as the two vessels left the river and entered the South China Sea.

  “Where is the ship!” Terry McNamara shouted at himself when he scanned the horizon in every direction and saw nothing but horizon. Graham Martin had promised him that a ship would be waiting at this very spot, waiting to pick them up. The bitterness of a day of betrayal wore deeply into his emotions, and he clamped his jaws tight in order to refrain from bringing distress on his passengers.

  “Staff Sergeant Hasty,” McNamara shouted. “Get these passengers prepared for some rough going. We’re heading into the open water. These flat-bottom boats have a miserable ride, so try to make everyone as comfortable as you can. We need to get far away from shore, however. Those VC will come hunting us.”

  EARLIER IN THE afternoon, First Lieutenant Johnny Johnson and his detachment of security Marines aboard the Military Sealift Command vessel Pioneer Contender had lain off the mouth of the Bassac River, exactly where American embassy coordinators had instructed them to rendezvous with the evacuating contingent from Can Tho. In the afternoon sun, his sentries spotted two LCMs emerge from the river, into the open water, and make way for the freighter.

  Two helicopters had landed on the amphibious dock ship USS Vancouver (LPD 2) earlier that afternoon and had discharged the bulk of the CIA employees from Can Tho. Therefore, the master of the Pioneer Contender concluded that between the people aboard the two LCMs and the two helicopters, the evacuation of the Can Tho consulate had succeeded perfectly. He turned his ship to the east and proceeded to rejoin the fleet.

  AS TERRY MCNAMARA and his charge of twenty Americans and 298 South Vietnamese refugees pressed their two landing crafts beyond sight of shore, he knew that as long as he remained on his easterly course, he would eventually find friendly ships. After a sixty-mile harrowing ride down the river, a firefight with Viet Cong, and now an empty sea, the commodore of the Can Tho Yacht Club reassured himself that the situation could not get much worse. At least with nighttime they could more easily pick up the position lights of seagoing vessels and steer toward them.

  AMERICAN EMBASSY, SAIGON

  WITH DARKNESS CAME bitterness and open hostility among the endless sea of people that pressed themselves against the locked gates of the American embassy. Regimental landing team Marines stood picket duty around the compound walls and used their rifle butts to smash the fingers of South Vietnamese who attempted to climb the fence and get inside. The people had quickly realized that the ticket to evacuation rested on their cunning or their sheer brute strength to slip through the gate as the Marines opened it for the last of the shuttle buses to enter, or to climb over the barbed wire-topped barrier that surrounded the compound.

  “One more bus!” Sergeant Terry Bennington shouted to Sergeants Bobby Frain and Steve Schuller, now manning the front gates with him. Behind the trio of embassy Marines, a dozen RLT leathernecks stood in groups of six on each side. As Bennington and his two fellow MSG sentries unbarred the gate and let it fly open, allowing the bus inside, the regimental Marines joined them in pushing the entrance shut against the unyielding t
ide of people pushing the other direction.

  As the bus slid past and several dozen South Vietnamese rushed inside, Bennington radioed Major Kean on the roof to let him know the shuttle had arrived.

  “I think we just let in another four Viet Cong corporals,” he said on the radio. “They’ll sure feel funny waking up in Guam.”

  Steve Schuller had just turned and laughed at Bennington’s comment when in the corner of his eye he saw the crazed ARVN soldier lunging at him with his rifle, a bayonet fixed at its muzzle. He jumped to dodge the thrust but felt the blade sink into his side. Then from his other side he saw Terry Bennington swing his M14 rifle straight up, catching the angry attacker on the chin with a vertical butt stroke. It sent the mad soldier tumbling backwards, and the regimental Marines pushed the gates shut.

  “Man down,” Bennington shouted on his handheld radio.

  “How bad?” responded Major Kean.

  “Sergeant Schuller took a bayonet through his side,” Bennington said. “I had him go take a break and plug the hole. I’m sending him topside to be radioman for you. He’s no good down here now.”

  In the courtyard on the opposite side of the embassy compound, Colonel John Madison and his staff from the United States Joint Casualty Resolution Team worked feverishly, processing refugees by the hundreds. On the forms he filled out the names and gave them copies of the papers that provided them a presidential parole for entry into the United States. The parole stated that the person named faced great risk if he or she remained in Vietnam and therefore would receive refuge in America.

  Ousted Cambodian President Lon Nol had received just such a parole and now applied for a driver’s license in his new hometown of Honolulu. Nguyen Cao Ky received his days ago, while still grandstanding among his faithful. Ky’s wife had already flown to San Francisco ahead of him, along with thirteen other women and children, also waving the parole papers at the customs guards they rushed past. As VIPs, they did not have to wait in lines or endure any searches. Ky’s wife went to stay with relatives in the San Francisco Bay area, where she would await the arrival of her husband.

  As the Joint Casualty Resolution staff filled out the papers, verifying mostly that the refugee put a correct name in the blank on the form, Colonel Madison then sent the processed Vietnamese passengers in groups of twenty to the rooftop and to the parking lot to board the outbound transport choppers. As the night grew later and later, he noticed that many of the people had begun to get jumpy, worried that not enough time remained to get them out.

  It seemed that every time he sent a new bunch to the landing zones, twice as many new faces appeared.

  “Look, all of you will get out,” the colonel told the people. “Just relax. We’re not leaving anyone behind.”

  THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, DC

  A FEW CHERRY blossoms still lingered on the late-blooming trees that grew along the Potomac near the Jefferson Memorial. President Gerald Ford stood by one of the tall windows behind his desk in the Oval Office, looking toward the river and the now leaf-covered cherry trees that, although they blossomed beautifully, never bore fruit.

  A gift from Japan, the sakura, the nonbearing fruit tree, raised an ironic parallel in the President’s mind. How much like them was Vietnam now? For ten years America had cultivated the small nation, spilled its sons’ and daughters’ blood urging it to bloom. Today, just as the trees that lined the Potomac by the Jefferson Memorial had done in the recent weeks, the blooms dropped to the ground. Vietnam would never bear its costly fruit.

  “Sir,” a voice came from the curved door that disappeared into the Oval Office wall.

  “Don, come on in,” the President said to Chief of Staff Don Rumsfeld.

  “Update on the situation in Saigon,” Rumsfeld said, handing the President the two-page flash message.

  “It says that the South Vietnamese are trying to storm the gates at the embassy and at the DAO compound,” President Ford said. “I’m afraid that this will only lead to big trouble. Order the Marines and remaining embassy staff to evacuate now. No more South Vietnamese evacuees. I want only Americans on these helicopters now.”

  “One other thing, sir,” Rumsfeld said. “Kissinger wants to see you about Ambassador Martin. Apparently, the secretary of state has gotten wind of a plan the ambassador is trying to hatch that gets him to the French embassy, where he can continue negotiations with the North Vietnamese.”

  “Tell Henry,” President Ford began to say, “no, I will talk to Henry. Have him come on over.”

  “He has that State Department black tie dinner tonight,” Rumsfeld said.

  “I think that can wait until we get this done,” President Ford said. “History will appreciate the reasons for his tardiness at that dinner.”

  “Yes, sir,” the chief of staff said and walked toward the door.

  “Don,” President Ford said, “when you send my evacuation order to Saigon, be sure that you specifically address Ambassador Martin. I want him out of the embassy on the next helicopter. Is that clear?”

  AMERICAN EMBASSY, SAIGON

  “SIR, GENERAL CAREY on the horn,” Steve Schuller called to Jim Kean.

  The major took the handset and put it to his ear. “Yes, sir, Major Kean here,” he said.

  “Major,” the 9th MAB commander said, “we just got a flash message from the President. The President directs that no more Vietnamese evacuees fly out on your helicopters, only Americans. The Dodge City and the Alamo at the DAO compound are clearing as we speak. I want you people to start doing the same.

  “Now, very important! The President specifically directed that Ambassador Martin depart the embassy on the next helicopter out.”

  Jim Kean immediately jogged down the stairs and found Ambassador Martin seated behind his desk. His aide-de-camp, Brunson McKinley, stood by the desk when the Marine stepped inside the ambassador’s suite.

  “Sir, I just received orders from President Ford, via General Carey, that all further evacuations of South Vietnamese cease and that all the remaining Americans now evacuate,” Kean said.

  “I’m awaiting a response from the French ambassador,” Martin said in a tired voice. “We still might have a chance if I can get over there and go to work.”

  “Sir,” Kean said. “President Ford specifically ordered you out on the next helicopter.”

  The gray man, whose face now looked drawn and haggard, stood and looked around his office.

  “Well, I guess that’s it then,” Martin said in a calm and low voice.

  Major Kean had already taken down the United States flag and had carried it in his hand, folded in a triangle, when he came to Ambassador Martin’s office. As the beaten diplomat stepped out of his spacious grand suite for the last time, Kean handed him the embassy’s national colors.

  As Graham Martin waited for his helicopter to set down on the roof and his signal to board, Brunson McKinley, jogged down to the courtyard to get an update of the situation down there for the ambassador before he departed.

  “Colonel Madison, how goes it? Making any headway?” McKinley asked.

  “This is a mess. Everyone is very concerned about being left behind. It’s past 2:00 a.m., and I see no end to it,” Madison said.

  “We’ve got six more helicopters inbound, so all these people will be fine on them,” the aide-de-camp reassured the colonel. “However, my bird looks to be landing, so I need to run.”

  Marine Major Gerry Berry sat in the left front seat of his CH-46 Sea Knight helicopter, idling his aircraft’s twin rotors as he awaited Ambassador Graham A. Martin to step aboard. He had already loaded more than thirty of the remaining staff and now only waited for Martin.

  “So long, Major,” Martin said as Jim Kean assisted him up the short climb of stairs into the side door of the helicopter. Then the major looked at pilot Gerry Berry and gave him a thumbs up.

  Kean took a few steps back and knelt to the ground as the twin-rotor helicopter cycled up and then raced into the darkness, headed
to the American armada seventeen miles off the point of Vung Tao in the South China Sea.

  “Tiger, tiger, tiger,” Berry called on his radio to the command vessel, USS Blue Ridge. “Tiger, tiger, tiger.”

  “Go ahead, Tiger,” responded the voice on Berry’s radio.

  “Tiger’s out of his cage,” Berry said, signaling that he had the ambassador aboard.

  A few moments later, Jim Kean walked into the courtyard and called Master Sergeant John Valdez to his side.

  “Top, it’s time for us to start packing up and getting on the roof,” Kean said. “Start rounding up our Marines, and we will fall back and barricade ourselves inside the main building. It’s got to be coordinated because as soon as you pull the guys off the wall, the people will flood through.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Top Valdez said and caught the attention of Terry Bennington and Steven Bauer.

  Major Kean walked to Colonel Madison and took him aside from the crowd of several hundred South Vietnamese still waiting for the helicopters.

  “What do you mean!” Madison exploded. “The ambassador has just assured me that all these people will be taken on the next six helicopters.”

  “Sir,” Kean said, “the ambassador has just left.”

  “What do you mean?” Madison said.

  “Last bird off the roof had him on it,” Kean said. “You need to get your people back inside the building, and then I’m pulling my Marines off the wall.”

  “No, you don’t, mister!” Madison stormed. “We’ve got a responsibility for all these people!”

  “Colonel, the President of the United States has ordered you and me to get out of here. No more South Vietnamese evacuees,” Kean said and walked away.