Last Man Out

by James E. Parker, Jr.

  Another rocket came zinging overhead and Loi dropped to the ground, but then he was back on his feet by the window, yelling, “Hey Boss, hey Boss, Boss!”

  Another rocket whipped by overhead and Loi kept yelling, but I didn’t hear anything. The air conditioner was going and I was in a deep sleep.

  One of the guards at the rear of the compound had a night-vision scope. He yelled to Loi that he could see the VC across the field. It looked like they were getting ready to fire again. Loi ran around to the front of the house and hit the screen door to the porch with his shoulder. It flew open, but the front door was secured by a small bolt lock. Loi slammed against it as another rocket flew overhead.

  I began to come awake as Loi burst through the front door, and I was wide awake when the rocket exploded in the market behind him. When Loi charged across the living room into my bedroom, I was certain that he was an attacking VC or North Vietnamese. I reached for my 9mm and Loi saw me going for the gun. He screamed and jumped to stop me from shooting him.

  Adrenaline was surging through my body. I had the strength of a thousand men, and Loi and I wrestled mightily—until I recognized him and calmed down.

  Another rocket went off in the market. Trying to protect my body, as I had ordered him, Loi was lying on top of me.

  “Get off me, you fool,” I said.

  My routine during the day remained unchanged. I would wake up around 0730, breakfast at 0800 while I listened to the news on the radio, and then take a Jeep ride to the operations section of 21st Division headquarters to get a report on military activities in the lower Mekong Delta over the previous night. If there was a serious incident, my subsequent visit to the intelligence section would usually focus on the implication of the incident to the overall security of the region. I often visited the Special Police offices on the way back to the compound. If they had a VC suspect in the interrogation center or if they had special intelligence on VC/North Vietnamese intentions, I would go over their reports. We also ran several joint operations and I would meet with the individual South Vietnamese case officers to discuss developments. Some of the bilateral operations were substantive, but most were obviously fabricated to get money from me or to give the Special Police an excuse to travel out of Vi Thanh. As I reported to Can Tho once, “Some of their stuff is chicken salad, but most is chicken shit.” They produced little intelligence.

  In the afternoons I usually went back to the division, but most of the time I wrote reports and managed the few unilateral CIA operations run in the province. The Air America courier flew in from Can Tho twice a week. I would go days without seeing an American.

  At night I refused to be idle. If I grew tired of reading, I invited the guards and translators to play chess. As a group, collectively, they knew how the pieces moved. I faced Loi across the board and the guards and translators stood behind him. Talking fast in Vietnamese among themselves, they discussed every move, sometimes arguing, sometimes poking at different pieces on the board. When they finally came to a consensus on a move, Loi slowly and cautiously advanced a piece. As I reached toward the board to make my next move, often without much of a wait, they looked at me and back to the board, paused, then started talking again. They never won a game.

  On the other hand, I never beat Loi at tennis. Once or twice, deep into the game, I managed to even the score. Then it was as if Loi said, “Oh, what, even?” and he’d slam a serve back at me so fast that I couldn’t react, as if to say he was still in control.

  I asked the compound manager to build a Ping-Pong table so we could play at night on the porch. All my people were very good at Ping-Pong; unfortunately, I was not. One night I said to Loi, who was toying with me as we played, “Loi, I can’t see. The light is reflecting off my glasses. We’re going to have to move the table so the light is over my side.” Loi said okay, so we moved the table down the porch. Not only did Loi’s side have much less light, but we had moved the table so far that he had little room to maneuver. The end of the table was less than four feet from the end of the porch.

  “Hey Boss, this not fair,” Loi said. “I can’t see. I can’t move.”

  “I can’t hear you. Whose serve?” I asked.

  I began to win a fair share of the time, but I constantly had to put up with, “Hey Boss, this not fair.”

  My evenings with General Hung were more serious. He would ask about my family, about the United States, and about current events. He had an interest in American literature and I would often talk about American authors and their works. Although I read two or three books a week in Vi Thanh, I had not read many of the books Hung asked about. For his part, Hung would talk about Vietnamese history and stories of Indochina wars. He always spoke deliberately, slowly. He smiled often, even when discussing serious issues. He was uniquely self-confident and had a calming aura about him. He was very easy to like, and we developed a deep friendship.

  In February, at the insistence of his superiors in Can Tho and Saigon, Hung’s forces attacked a large North Vietnamese unit on the eastern fringe of Chuong Thien, in the infamous U Minh Forest, long a Communist stronghold. The attack was Hung’s largest operation since I had been in the province, and he agonized over the operations plan. He used what South Vietnamese Air Force he could get. Although he had an abundance of artillery pieces left by the U.S. Army, he had difficulty moving the equipment into place because of the paucity of flyable helicopters, and he lacked the right supplies to adequately outfit his attacking force. For example, he had plenty of claymores but no activators, and plenty of artillery ammunition but rusty fuses.

  As it turned out, he suffered extensive casualties.

  His men fought bravely. Reports coming from the field reminded me of skirmishes in Laos. I could understand his anguish, and I knew how proud he was of his men, who were taking casualties but continuing to press the attack.

  When the battle was over and the North Vietnamese had been pushed back into the U Minh Forest, General Hung was not sure if he had, in fact, secured the net advantage. He had used much of his limited resources. For what?

  A few days later the most god-awful odor drifted through my compound. I had smelled it before—rotting flesh, dead people. An interpreter said the division morgue was located between our compound and the orphanage.

  The bodies of many of the soldiers killed during the operation were waiting to be shipped out. In addition to limited transportation, there was no refrigeration and some of the dead were from areas completely controlled by the North Vietnamese. Mercifully, Hung managed to move the bodies within the week. We were almost to the point of abandoning the compound.

  In late February a team from the International Commission of Control and Supervision (ICCS) arrived at Vi Thanh. The team consisted of four nationalities—Hungarians, Poles, Indonesians, and Iranians—westerners, most of them, with round eyes. I was excited and went to see them the same day they came in. They were civil but obviously uncomfortable with me because I was CIA. I was not to be put off, however, and went back the next day. They were correct but unfriendly.

  So Loi and I went out and hit tennis balls. I felt like Robinson Crusoe with his man Friday.

  The following month, Ban Me Thuot fell, and ARVN Supreme Headquarters in Saigon had to realign the standing forces under its command to protect what remained of South Vietnam. Elements of General Hung’s command were transferred to protect the northern edge of Can Tho and the general was asked to accompany the detachment. He was assigned as the deputy ARVN commander for the area south of Saigon.

  On 20 March, Hue fell.

  On 30 March, Da Nang fell.

  In Can Tho, General Hung was courteous to Jim D. and the officers working in military liaison out of the American consulate, but his remarks made obvious that he was more likely to be candid with me than with officers he was meeting for the first time.

  With the collapse of the ARVN forces in the north, military reporting suddenly became job one in the delta. Jim called me to Can Tho on two occas
ions to meet with Hung for a briefing. The second time he told me to move up permanently so that I could meet Hung on a regular basis. Another reason was that consulate staffers often found Air America pilots uncooperative, and many of the pilots were my friends. Jim thought that I could improve the overall relationship.

  I planned to visit Vi Thanh weekly or biweekly thereafter to check on the compound and get a briefing from Colonel Truong, commander of the 21st Division element left behind. My departure was an ominous sign to my interpreters and the staff, especially Loi. As long as an American was on the scene, they weren’t going to be forgotten. They had a fatalistic view about the future and wanted to be at a launch point when the light went out. They were aware that the North Vietnamese were pushing down the coast above Saigon and that most South Vietnamese forces were falling back.

  Promising them that I would not forsake them, I said I would be back as often as I could. They were to continue doing the job and let me know what was going on. I left that day with most of my personal items. I had been in Vi Thanh for nine months, most of the time as the only American. As the Air America Porter was making its tight spiral to gain altitude over the city, I saw the staff standing silently in the compound as they watched the plane leave.

  My work routine in Can Tho differed greatly from that in Vi Thanh. The nights, however, were about the same. Wasn’t much to do in Vi Thanh at night, and in Can Tho everyone went to ground early because of the 2000 curfew. Each morning I walked to the consulate from my apartment down the block, and it was crowded with people trying to get in to get a visa for the States. I had to fight my way through the crowd, past the local guards and U.S. Marines, into the secure base area. The first person I always saw there was Jim D.’s secretary, Phyllis F.

  The general drawdown of official Americans continued. Every morning as I passed Phyllis’s desk I saw piles of automobile, office, and apartment keys from people who had left the previous afternoon or evening.

  After the fall of Ban Me Thuot, the North Vietnamese were moving south without much resistance. Sometimes no one was sure exactly who controlled what area. Some South Vietnamese military forces in the delta deserted their positions. Some South Vietnamese military and provincial officials just walked out of their offices and headed to Saigon to catch planes out of the country. Air America pilots did not want to take just anyone’s word on the security of an area where they were asked to fly or land. Relying on the trust that we had established in Laos, most of the pilots worked with me, as well as “Mac” [alias] and “Sarge” [alias], two other CIA officers at the Can Tho base. Mac, another North Carolinian, had previously worked with Air America in southern Laos and knew most of the pilots. Sarge spoke fluent Vietnamese and was a longtime adviser to the Can Tho interrogation center. He had been in South Vietnam for years and knew the lay of the land in the delta better than any other American in-country.

  The principal officer at the consulate, Consul General (Congen) Francis T. (Terry) MacNamara, had the unenviable job of trying to identify all U.S. citizens in the delta to ensure that they had some way to leave if they wanted to. He was assisted occasionally by Lacy Wright in Saigon, previously a State Department officer at the consulate in the delta. It was difficult to determine sometimes who was entitled to U.S. citizen status. Some Vietnamese women had returned from short marriages with GIs in the States. Even if their status was clear, the eligibility of their extended family was always fuzzy.

  In one case, MacNamara was required to fly to a province close to the Cambodian border for a personal interview. He tried to arrange this directly with several Air America crews, but they either told him to get someone else or said that their helicopters were down for repairs. MacNamara, in fact, had a history of altercations with Air America pilots. Once, he had asked a pilot to shut down in a field in an area that the pilot thought was not secured. After a loud shouting match, the pilot said he was leaving. MacNamara could come with him or walk back. MacNamara, of course, left with him but was fuming.

  MacNamara asked Jim D. to intervene on his behalf with Air America so he could get out to the province close to Cambodia. The next morning I went with MacNamara to the airfield at Can Tho and waited for the Air America helicopters to come down from Saigon. Cliff Hendryx, an old poker-playing friend, was captain of the first chopper to land.

  I asked MacNamara, who had a scrubbed, neat, office-look about him, to wait in air ops until I had talked with the pilot, and I walked up to the helicopter as it was shutting down. Cliff opened the door. His helmet was lying on the console beside him.

  His eyes were bloodshot and he hadn’t shaved in several days. He had a thin, gaunt face, and his stubble made him look like a mountaineer. He also reeked of garlic. The kicker in the back was handing him a slice of watermelon.

  “Muley, how you doing, fuckhead?” Cliff said. Most Air America pilots did not know my real name.

  As he ate the watermelon, with juice dripping down his chin and onto his shirt, I explained what MacNamara wanted and what I knew about the area where he wanted to go, which appeared safe. Cliff picked up a Playboy magazine and put it in his lap to catch the juice. I said I would go along because I knew some of the ARVN in the area. Cliff didn’t voice any objection to the mission. He finished his watermelon and lit a cigarette. He was smoking and spitting out watermelon seeds when MacNamara walked up. The Congen looked at Cliff—the smelly mountaineer—for a long moment. He finally said he had changed his mind, turned on his heels, and left.

  “Well, fuck him,” Cliff said.

  NINETEEN

  The Light at the End of the Tunnel

  An area of increasing concern was Route 4, which ran west and southwest out of Saigon, north of the Bassac River, and down into the delta. Elements of the ARVN 7th Division protected the road, and General Hung arranged for me to be briefed by General Tran Van Hai, the 7th Division commander. Hung said that he had served in the 7th Division himself when he was younger. The American adviser at that time was the legendary Lt. Col. John Paul Vann, a man who became an authority on the ARVN and eventually died in South Vietnam.

  I flew out by helicopter to 7th Division headquarters and met with Hai in his office. An Oriental copy of a U.S. Army officer, he was a neatly dressed chain-smoker with his sleeves folded up above his elbows. He spoke excellent English.

  The eyes in his pudgy face were hard and he was not friendly. I asked him about the situation.

  “You want information, U.S. government man. I want helicopter parts. I want ammunition.”

  “You’re talking with the wrong man, that is not my job.”

  “You are U.S. government. The U.S. government promised to keep us supplied so we can fight. We can do it, we can continue to fight, if we have bullets and planes. Tell your government that and I will tell you what is happening here.”

  “I will. I will report that you are short of supplies.”

  Hai looked at me for a long moment. Finally he said, “You Americans don’t always keep your word to us Vietnamese ‘slope heads.’ ” And he continued to look at me through his cigarette smoke as he waited for my reaction.

  When I did not respond, he shrugged and started his briefing. He said his men had interlocking positions down Route 4 and out to the Cambodian border to protect the underbelly of Saigon. The area was mostly open rice fields. Morale was good, and he could hold out against a division-size North Vietnamese force for a short period of time. Morale would collapse, however, if his division was set upon by a larger force and if its ammunition began to run low, and he expected that a large North Vietnamese unit would attack soon and that he would have no source of resupply. He faced the NVA 9th Division commanded by Maj. Gen. Di Thien Tich, who had been fighting in that area since before 1965.

  “Tich is maybe the best field general the NVA has,” he said. “You know what the slogan of his division is? ‘Obliterate the enemy.’ That’s me. You know what the slogan of the Army helping me is? ‘Fuck your friends.’ ”

  Ther
e was venom in his voice. The ARVN was collapsing in the North, and he was sullen, bitter about his fate. Unlike Hung, Hai was not philosophical about the future. He was angry.

  I suggested that there might be a negotiated cease-fire that would protect the sovereignty of the Government of South Vietnam. The general looked at me without speaking. I had no idea what he was thinking.

  Later, back in Can Tho, I reported on my meeting with the 7th Division commander to Jim D. and told him, in conclusion, that the general wanted more bullets and spare parts. Jim D. knitted his brow and looked at me. “Put it in your report to Washington, then, don’t tell me.”

  I went downstairs to the base map room, where I had set up my work space, and wrote a cable for dissemination to Saigon and Washington. I thought about Balls’s overview that things were okay and his prediction that South Vietnam would survive. Who was right, Balls or Hai?

  Every morning the crowd in front of the consulate got larger. Every morning there were new keys on Phyllis’s desk. Every morning there was bad news about the North Vietnamese push down from the north.

  Sarge, Mac, and I continued to travel throughout the delta as we gathered information and looked after the local staffs in compounds that had been abandoned by departing CIA and USAID officers.

  Wherever we went we promoted the line from our Saigon Station that the delta of South Vietnam had nothing to worry about—there would be a negotiated peace. I repeated this message time and again without blinking my eyes. It was a better out than saying what I believed—that the clock was ticking and the end was near.

  After consultation with CIA management in Saigon, the base chief decided to close some of the compounds in which there were no Americans. Rather than return the equipment in the compounds to Can Tho, Jim decided to turn everything over to the South Vietnamese government officials in the provinces. He told those of us going to the field to terminate all local support staffs, and he instructed the base finance officer to draw a large amount of U.S. and Vietnamese currency from the Saigon Finance Section to cover their termination and separation pay.