The patrons were an interesting cross section. Some were part of the wandering backpacking crowd that seems to thrive on the cheap prices of Southeast Asia, while others were young Vietnamese drawn by the trappings of American culture.
Many American war veterans also frequent the DMZ Bar. The veterans were the easiest people in the world to identify—mostly white men aged sixty-five and older. Many were Marines, and quite a few had served multiple tours. They would identify the name of their unit and point out when and where they had served. We traded tales; they told me their stories and I told them mine. I rarely met a veteran who wasn’t glad to talk about his time at war. As our stories unfolded, the beer seemed to come to our table like it was on autopilot. At a dollar a round, we were all generous hosts.
I like the DMZ Bar. I think that pitching the past to veterans passing through is a great idea, it’s capitalism at its finest. The war caused so much death and destruction; why not turn it into today’s entertainment?
To the west of Hue lies the site of a major battle. . Anyone who remembers anything at all about the Vietnam War remembers the siege of Khe Sanh. President Johnson was so concerned that the siege would result in an American defeat—one like the French suffered at Dien Bien Phu—that he had a model of the battlefield constructed in the White House. While Johnson closely followed the progress of the siege from his office in Washington, many of us at home watched daily television reports and hoped for the best.
Khe Sanh Combat Base was located in the northwest corner of South Vietnam, right below the DMZ and just ten miles from the border of Laos. The U.S. initially used Khe Sanh as a Special Forces camp, a spot from which to monitor and harass North Vietnamese troops and supplies moving down the Ho Chi Minh Trail. By late 1967, the base had been heavily reinforced and served as the western most anchor of a defensive line that ran just below the DMZ from the border of Laos to the South China Sea. Nearly seven thousand troops, mostly U.S. Marines, fought to control the hills overlooking the base.
The North Vietnamese chose Khe Sanh as the place to go on the offensive against U.S. and South Vietnamese forces, committing some twenty-seven thousand troops with artillery and tanks to the battle. The siege of Khe Sanh began on January 21, 1968, more than a week ahead of the Tet offensive. Whether Khe Sanh was a diversion to focus attention away from Tet or whether the Tet offensive was an effort to draw troops from Khe Sanh is still debated.
For seventy-seven days, the North Vietnamese pounded the combat base, dropping in an average of one hundred and fifty rounds a day. Khe Sanh was cut off from resupply by ground, the only help came by air, sometimes by parachute drops. Marines were in a dire situation, with shortages of food and water, especially at the hill outposts.
U.S. air power played a major role in turning the tide. Aided by electronic sensors that helped locate enemy troops, massive B-52 bombers were used as close air support for the first time in the war.
The North Vietnamese, as they so often did, faded away to fight another day. By April 3, the siege of Khe Sanh was over. In one of those strange and inexplicable decisions that were so common during the Vietnam War, the U.S. decided that the Khe Sanh Combat Base really wasn’t that critical and abandoned it less than two months later.
After making a stop at the Khe Sanh Combat Base on my way to Laos, I visited a second time a week later with my tour group. The base is located a few miles outside the village of Khe Sanh, in an area known for its coffee plantations. What’s left of the metal-surfaced airstrip lies on a plateau surrounded by the foothill peaks that saw some of the most intense fighting of the war. A small museum portrays the siege as a heroic communist victory (both sides claim to be winners). There are some interesting examples of the seismic and acoustic sensors used by the United States, as well as exhibits of the uniforms, weapons, and kits used by both sides. Nearby is a reconstructed bunker, plus several U.S. aircraft brought in after the war. Scattered around the site are piles of spent ordnance, large metal clumps that appear to have been shaped by a frustrated sculptor.
The coffee at Khe Sanh was some of the best I’ve ever drunk. I enjoyed sitting in the shade outside the small gift shop drinking coffee, reflecting on the courage of U.S. Marines and talking with the local merchants. I had to be careful, though; too many questions by me would get in the way of their selling a cup of coffee and a bag of Oreos. Khe Sanh is a small place, well away from the cities, and in rural Vietnam, every source of income is valued.
TWENTY-SIX
HO CHI MINH CITY
Ho Chi Minh City was the final stop on my return trip to Vietnam. I had visited the capital of South Vietnam several times during the war, back when it was known as Saigon. The old name still hasn’t disappeared; locals more often than not still call the place Saigon.
Our flight landed at Tan Son Nhut airport, once the home to the Seventh Air Force and the bustling headquarters of the air war in Southeast Asia. As we taxied to the terminal, I was immediately struck by the presence of two USAF military transport aircraft, parked in the same location they used to occupy forty-five years ago. During the war, the giant C-141 Starlifters flew for the Military Airlift Command, transporting troops and supplies around the world. The C-141s have been largely replaced by later models, but the aircraft still bear American insignia. Decades after the United States left Vietnam, the return of the USAF to Tan Son Nhut seems to have brought things full circle.
The aircraft were actually in Ho Chi Minh City as part of the advance work for President Obama’s first visit to Vietnam. The President was in Hanoi when we arrived in Saigon and was due to land in Ho Chi Minh City the following day. Our guide proudly told us that Obama would be staying in a hotel right across the street from our lodging, as if the proximity to the head of state made our rooms a bit more valuable.
The Vietnamese are proud that every sitting president since Bill Clinton has visited their country. (The election of Donald Trump would come six months after my visit.) They truly value a good relationship with the United States. Mr. Obama is held in high esteem by the Vietnamese, though he appeared to have few admirers among U.S. Marine Corps veterans in my group.
The USAF aircraft on the runway at Tan Son Nhut were just one of the many ironies I encountered while traveling in Vietnam. So often during my trip, I was struck by the paradoxes of this modern nation that, despite winning the war, still seems to be in the thrall of the country they defeated.
Free market capitalism seems firmly entrenched in the communist nation of Vietnam, the country has embraced the West, and its citizens are searching for the same freedom and prosperity that the United States has long enjoyed. Today, there’s a Burger King located less than a half mile from where I lived during my year at Da Nang. During the war, the Air Force mess hall’s cuisine was so bland and unappealing that sometimes I had to force myself to eat; I would have paid dearly for the endless supply of Whoppers today’s Vietnamese enjoy.
Each morning when I put on my shoes, either the sneakers or the leather tops, one quick glance at the label on the back of the tongue tells me that my footwear was “Made in Vietnam.” I’ve returned to the country where I once served, but my shoes have done me one better; they have returned to their birthplace. If you are partial to American hotel chains, you can find them in nearly all the major cities. Hilton, Hyatt, Marriott, and many others provide luxury accommodations, mostly to international travelers. One night’s stay probably costs more than most Vietnamese earn in a month, but the country is embracing tourism in a big way.
The 1968 Viet Cong attack on the U.S. Embassy in today’s Ho Chi Minh City, one of the most significant events of the war, is commemorated by a striking monument that honors the fallen soldiers of the Tet Offensive. Tet, a military defeat for the Viet Cong, was nevertheless a major psychological blow for the United States. Millions of Americans watched as the Viet Cong breached the U.S. embassy walls. The Tet Offensive showed us that the light at the end of the tunnel was receding, rather than coming nearer.
The long and destructive Vietnam War was followed by an even longer decade of unadulterated communism, a failed worker’s paradise. Today’s Vietnamese want a better life, and they’re willing to work for it.
Looking back, it sometimes seems that things would have been a lot simpler for everyone if the Vietnamese had just let us win the war.
There are few places in Vietnam that capture the spirit and the atmosphere of the war as fully as the Reunification Palace. Once the home of the President of South Vietnam, the palace fell to North Vietnamese tanks on April 30, 1975. Since that day, time has seemed to stand still at the palace. Today, it’s possible to immerse yourself in a bygone era; the buildings and furnishings have been preserved much as they were at the end of the war. If Richard Nixon or Henry Kissinger dropped by, they would definitely recognize the place.
The French originally built a residence for their governor-general on the site of the current palace in the 1860s. After they were forced out in 1954 at the end of the First Indochina War, Ngo Dinh Diem, the president of the new Republic of Vietnam (South Vietnam), moved in. In 1962, the palace was bombed by members of Diem’s own air force. The President ordered a new palace to be constructed on the same site and was careful to include a large bomb shelter in the new plans. Diem was assassinated in 1963 and never had a chance to live in his palace.
President Nguyen Van Thieu occupied the palace for most of the war, resigning less than two weeks before the fall of Saigon. South Vietnam’s last president, Duong Van Minh (better known as Big Minh), the leader of the coup that deposed and murdered President Diem in 1963, surrendered to the communists. After the overthrow, the Presidential Palace was renamed Reunification Palace.
The palace and grounds look the same today as they did in 1971, when I first saw them on a USO tour. The whitewashed concrete building, an example of 1960s modernist architecture, was designed by a Vietnamese architect who was careful to incorporate the “feng shui” principles of balance and order. The décor and furnishings in the palace take you back to the 1960s. There are the usual staterooms, reception rooms, and living quarters, done mostly in earth tones and pastel colors; but you’ll also discover rotary phones, thick plush carpets, a movie room with reels of film, a game room with a barrel-shaped bar, tennis courts, a helipad, and much more. It’s the kind of place you’d see in one of the early James Bond movies.
Down in the fortress basement you’ll discover hallways with map rooms and ancient-looking radio equipment. The bunkers look very similar to Winston Churchill’s War Rooms in London; a veritable redoubt in a war-torn nation.
The Reunification Palace provides a sweeping overview of the rise and fall of the government of South Vietnam. The communists celebrate the collapse of the American-backed government and the reunification of the nation, but the Palace lets the facts speak for themselves. There is little of the shrill, hardline propaganda found in the communism of Stalin and Mao.
The war museums of Vietnam are another story. Visitors are ambushed at every turn by history, devoid of insight or balance and written in the bloated communist style. The vocabulary, overwrought and full of propaganda buzz words, borders on the absurd. We read of “puppets,” “stooges,” “henchmen,” “air pirates,” “imperialist war mongers,” etc. These written words, the vernacular of the war, seemed to be confined to the museum. I never heard anyone use them in speech. I imagine they will eventually fade with time.
A good example of the harsh rhetoric is the War Remnants Museum in Ho Chi Minh City, one of Vietnam’s most popular attractions, especially for foreign visitors. The museum opened in 1975 as the Exhibit House for U.S. and Puppet Crimes. By 1990, the Cold War had ended and the Vietnamese were struggling in a failed communist state marked by poverty and corruption. Feeling that perhaps a relationship with the capitalist West wasn’t such a bad idea after all, the museum was renamed the Exhibition House for Crimes of War and Aggression. By 1995, diplomatic relations had been established between the two countries and the U.S. embargo had ended. A new sign went up: the “War Remnants Museum.”
Both sides suffered during the Vietnam War; death and destruction was the common denominator. But the story of the conflict is mainly one-sided in today’s museum exhibits. The War Remnants Museum in Ho Chi Minh City and the Vietnam Military History Museum in Hanoi tell the same basic story: foreign invaders—the French at first, the Americans later—occupy the country of Vietnam and terrorize the people. Communist revolutionaries, exhibiting great heroism and sacrifice and following the guidance of Uncle Ho, lead the people to victory. In Vietnam, like other communist countries, truth is a function of power; propaganda is state-controlled.
Both museums feature large amounts of captured or abandoned American military hardware, as well as a few pieces belonging to the victorious North Vietnamese. Hanoi proudly shows off a MIG-21, the major fighter aircraft of the North Vietnamese Air Force. Tank 843, which crashed the gates of the Presidential Palace in Saigon on April 30, 1975, somehow ended up in Hanoi rather than Ho Chi Minh City. A bizarre sculpture made up of pieces of wrecked U.S. aircraft occupies much of the museum courtyard in Hanoi. The symbolism is clear: the pride of American airpower, reduced to a junkyard scrap heap. The message is patriotic hyperbole at its best.
The courtyard of the War Remnants Museum in Ho Chi Minh City has its own arsenal of American military hardware. I discovered an A-37 Dragonfly similar to the one I flew in my first Air Force assignment. You can also find an F-5 fighter flown by the South Vietnamese Air Force, a Huey helicopter, and an A-1 Skyraider, plus numerous tanks, artillery pieces, and large piles of bombs, shells, and mortars. As one sign tells us, these are the instruments of war brought to wreak havoc on the peace-loving Vietnamese.
The outside is interesting, but the main message is on the inside of the museum. Agent Orange, unexploded ordnance, napalm, the My Lai Massacre, Bob Kerrey’s alleged war crimes—all are prominently featured. If you somehow missed the message, there’s even a guillotine used by the French to execute criminals and the “tiger cages” in which the South Vietnamese kept prisoners.
The Viet Cong and North Vietnamese soldiers play a relatively small role in the exhibits. There is no mention of their war crimes and little boasting about their military prowess. The museum is designed not to celebrate the communist victory, but to make as strong a case as possible against United States’ involvement in the Vietnam War.
I was glad I visited the War Remnants Museum, in spite of its overly anti-American message. Time tends to recast most wars as patriotic and heroic endeavors; those killed and wounded are sometimes seen as mere statistics rather than flesh and blood human beings. The War Remnants Museum never lets you forget the human toll of the war.
Today’s Vietnamese seem to have moved well beyond the sentiments expressed in the War Remnants Museum. The war is history; they are more interested in the future than in the past. The very same day that I visited the museum, President Obama, during his stop at Ho Chi Minh City, announced that Bob Kerrey had been appointed chairman of the American-sponsored Fulbright University Vietnam, the country’s first private university. Since I had just seen a display in the War Remnants Museum accusing Bob Kerrey of war crimes, this announcement came as quite a surprise to me.
In 1969, Kerrey led a Navy SEAL team on a midnight raid on the Mekong Delta village of Than Phong, which resulted in the death of twenty unarmed Vietnamese civilians, including women and children. Less than a month later, his actions during another mission, in which he was injured and later lost the lower part of one leg, resulted in him receiving the Medal of Honor.
After the war, Kerrey enjoyed a successful business career, served as Nebraska’s governor and United States senator, and even ran for president in 1992. Around 2001, the story of the Thanh Phong raid surfaced in the media, threatening to reopen
old wounds from a war that both sides were trying to put behind them. Kerrey acknowledged his role in the raid and said that the incident was a tragedy that has haunted him for years.
How can a man labeled a war criminal by a nation be chosen to head one of its major universities? The Vietnamese government and people, doing their best to adopt an attitude of forgiveness and reconciliation, appear to be a few steps ahead of the museum curators. Still, time heals many, not all, wounds. Kerry’s appointment generated a lot of controversy in the Vietnamese and American media, with many calling for him to be formally held accountable for his actions in Vietnam.
Unlike the My Lai Massacre, most of the Vietnamese I spoke with were unaware of the Than Phong Raid. Like many Americans, they seemed to confuse Bob Kerrey with the then-current Secretary of State John Kerry (Kerry was a naval officer who also served in the Mekong Delta area, before later joining the Vietnam Veterans Against the War).
Bob Kerrey’s actions, which resulted in him receiving the Medal of Honor, speak volumes about his character and bravery. Most Vietnamese believe his devotion to the people of Vietnam is genuine and sincere and welcome his appointment.
My trip to Southeast Asia involved several in-country flights, a couple of itinerary changes, and dozens of simple problems made difficult by the need to communicate in a foreign language. Breaking through the language barrier was always a challenge, but thankfully, all through my journey I had a guardian angel of sorts looking after me.
Every few days, I would get a call from Phuong, a local Vietnamese helping me with travel arrangements. I never met Phuong (she lived in Hanoi), but she seemed devoted to making sure that things went smoothly for me. I would recognize her soft, soothing voice instantly. “John,” Phuong would ask, pausing for a moment, “how was your day?” She would then carefully lay out my itinerary, give me simple, direct instructions and help me avoid the snares of foreign travel.
Racing Back to Vietnam Page 20