Escape from Saigon

by Michael Morris

  * * *

  General Weyand gazed down at the streets from his Visiting Officers Quarters suite on the top floor of the U.S. Embassy. He checked his watch. The news conference was less than an hour away. Below, the local Vietnamese embassy workers were queuing up at the front gate, ready to show their IDs to the Marine guards so they could to be let through. Off to one side, another group of Vietnamese, clutching papers, clamored for the guards’ attention. After brief conversations, all of them were turned away.

  Weyand shaved and brought the spit shine back to his boots with a couple of quick swipes with his handkerchief. He dressed in freshly-pressed tropical fatigues. Weyand thought about the message he wanted to convey to the press, and especially to the South Vietnamese Army. He wanted to tell them that America believes South Vietnam is strong and will never abandon its friends in Asia.

  As he was going over it in his mind, a Marine sergeant knocked at his door.

  “Your chopper’s coming in now, General. Can I take your gear up to the helipad?”

  As Weyand climbed the steel stairs to the roof and emerged into the sunlight, Martin and Weyand’s South Vietnamese Army counterpart, General Cao Van Vien, were already boarding the Huey.

  Returning the Marine’s salute, Weyand boarded the chopper and, within seconds, the Huey rose and turned toward Tan Son Nhut. Weyand moved easily between the worlds of politics, foreign affairs, and the military. A Berkeley graduate and a veteran of three wars, he had risen to become Army Chief of Staff despite his lack of a West Point pedigree. He was at once a dedicated soldier and an intellectual. He had no trouble telling three presidents and members of Congress that the Vietnam War lacked a clear mission. Throughout America’s involvement, no president had ever sent a command letter to the general staff stating the desired outcome. The war was a rudderless ship without a destination.

  Despite his criticism over the lack of civilian guidance, Weyand was trusted and respected for his candor. After the briefing he would board a Military Airlift Command C-141 Starlifter and head directly to Washington, where he would brief President Ford and Secretary of State Henry Kissinger with his assessment of conditions on the ground. That was the easy part. Ford and Kissinger were eager to give Thieu as much money as needed to keep the North out of Saigon, money needed to make the NVA pay for every inch they advanced with their soldiers’ lives and force a negotiated end to fighting. After that, Weyand would meet with Congressional leaders and testify before a recalcitrant Congress. Weyand had already made up his mind to hit them hard. He was determined to get every dollar the South needed to push the North back to the DMZ and shove their asses into Haiphong Harbor. He wasn’t going to lose South Vietnam. Not after twenty years. Not on his watch.

  * * *

  By the time Weyand’s chopper landed, the embassy staffers had already brought in the podium and attached the Seal of the United States to it, and had put out more than enough folding chairs for the press.

  Looking over the setup, Sam nudged Lisette. “Look,” he said, “they placed the podium so the airport runway will be directly behind the big muckety-mucks. When you’re filming, you’ll get the flights taking off and landing like its LaGuardia. Everyone back in the States will see it and think, ‘Just business as usual here at Tan Son Nhut, folks. It’s perfectly safe, no North Vietnamese Army in sight.’ Outstanding!”

  The embassy was eager to project an impression of normalcy, but it had set up the conference between two tall steel revetments that protected parked fighter jets from enemy bombardment. Only a highly unlikely direct hit could take out the ambassador, the generals, and their entourage.

  Weyand was resolute as he stood at the podium beside Martin and General Vien. He again went over his objective in his mind. He needed to get it through their heads—South Vietnam’s army is up to the task, and we don’t abandon our friends.

  The number of press people he needed to convince of America’s stalwart support had dwindled by now. Most of the accredited correspondents had left for jobs back in their home countries or in another hotspot, if a boring stateside assignment was not in their psychological makeup. Peter Arnett and George Esper were both hanging on, reporting for the Associated Press. Fox Butterfield, whose coverage of the Pentagon Papers had won him a Pulitzer, was there from the New York Times. Butterfield had plopped himself into a folding chair in the first row, the only place with enough room to accommodate his long legs and size-twelve feet.

  Sam sat in the back row to pick up bits of conversation between Lisette and the local Vietnamese journalists whose sympathies shifted with the wind. Lisette never minded translating a few juicy tidbits for him.

  As much as Ambassador Martin wanted to ignore it, he began by acknowledging just how grim the situation was. If he expected to have any credibility with the press, he needed to admit that Thieu had already abandoned the northern part of South Vietnam. City after city was falling to the NVA.

  “It’s obvious to all that the situation here in South Vietnam is precarious,” Martin began. “But, after consulting with General Weyand and our diplomatic staff on the ground”—embassy speak for the CIA—“we are assured that Saigon will hold.”

  When Weyand walked up to the podium to stand next to Martin, he remained silent for several moments. On the taxiway behind the dais, a long row of aircraft—C-130s and C-47s, an occasional commercial airline flight, and some small private aircraft, were clearly visible. They were waiting their turn to take off, having to squeeze between the continual stream of aircraft that were landing on the distant runway.

  It looked like the comings and goings of any busy airport, save for the fact that the planes leaving were packed with refugees and the arriving flights were bringing in munitions and supplies for South Vietnam’s army. The planes would land, dump their cargo of weapons and ammunition, refuel, and load up with more South Vietnamese heading for refugee camps in Guam, the Philippines, and Thailand. Unfortunately, the South Vietnamese Army was in such disarray that most of the war materiel eventually wound up in the hands of the enemy.

  Shouting above the noise of planes running up their engines before takeoff, Weyand told the handful of journalists, “There have been many, many instances of great and heroic fighting by the South Vietnamese. I am confident that, given our support, they will fight just as those soldiers have fought in the past.”

  Gesturing toward General Vien, Weyand continued, “I leave here with great affection and respect for the people of South Vietnam, and I will do all in my power to be of assistance to them. I want to express the strong personal support of President Ford and his personal determination to help the South defend itself against an invasion by North Vietnam.”

  Weyand looked directly at General Vien to make sure he got the message.

  Martin then leaned into the microphone and added, “I have every assurance from the president of the United States and Congress that we will continue to support our ally in the fight against this communist takeover of Southeast Asia. The president will go before Congress to seek additional aid, and we,” he covered the mic and coughed before continuing, “we … we believe that the United States will continue to assist South Vietnam, militarily and economically.”

  As he looked up, every hand shot into the air.

  “General Weyand, how long …”

  “General Weyand, will American armed forces return …”

  “General, what is the current status of forces in-country …”

  Weyand scanned the seats looking for a reporter he could trust. He wanted a question that would enable him to reinforce the message one last time. Tell them what you are going to say, say it, then tell them what you said was the Army way, and it had stood by him for over three decades.

  He noticed Esposito in the back row. Weyand met Sam when he commanded the U.S. Army in Vietnam during the communists’ Lunar New Year Tet Offensive of 1968. That January, the Viet Cong emerged from their tunnels and other hiding places around Saigon to fight the South Vietnamese i
n the streets. After the fighting died down, correspondents in Vietnam romanticized the Viet Cong and lauded them for their determination, cleverness, and success. In reality, Weyand’s soldiers crushed the attackers and the VC never recovered from their defeat. Esposito was the only reporter who got it right and, in Weyand’s view, reported on the enemy rout accurately. Sam’s story ran front page in the Legend—the paper every Congressman reads over morning coffee—and won him a Pulitzer. The victory won Weyand an additional star.

  “Sam, you have a question?” Weyand asked. He expected a softball question from Esposito, the easy opening he needed to reinforce his message about stopping the spread of communism in Southeast Asia and forcing a negotiated peace.

  But Sam would have none of it. His response was more like a shot than a question. It would have been impetuous in private, but this was in the presence of the U.S. Ambassador, the chief of the South Vietnam Army, and reporters from the U.S., Japan, France, Germany, Australia, as well as the local communist press.

  “General, are you now willing to admit that America has abandoned South Vietnam?” Sam asked.

  “Motherfucker!” Weyand muttered under his breath. No one could hear him, but one didn’t have to be a lip-reader to get the gist—and Tuan certainly got it on film for the evening news.

  Weyand could not have been angrier if Sam had burned the American flag in front of him. The veins in his neck pulsed and his face turned red. Despite his anger, his demeanor remained calm.

  “Thank you for that question, Sam,” he replied. “The South Vietnamese have been trained and equipped by the finest military organization in the world—the United States Army! Our support, America’s support, is unflagging. Saigon is safe. South Vietnam is safe. Next question? … The lady in the back row. State your name, please.”

  “Lisette Vo, NBS News. General Weyand, there are four aircraft carriers moving into the South China Sea. Another dozen warships are on their way, and an Air Force Tactical Air Command squadron is right over the border at Udon Air Base, as are our B-52s at U-Tapao, Thailand. That’s a lot of firepower. If the NVA attempts to invade Saigon, will the United States re-enter the war? Can the South Vietnamese count on U.S. air and ground support to defend their country?”

  “Lisette, both you and I know that Hanoi fears an aerial assault by our Navy fighter squadrons. And they do not want to risk renewed shore bombardment from our battleships. That’s not counting the return of our Army and Marine ground forces. Hanoi won’t take that chance. Not with the Seventh Fleet offshore. If the North ever reaches Saigon—and it’s still questionable whether they can—they’ll stand down outside the city. They will not provoke the United States of America.”

  Peter Arnett, who wrote his notes on scraps of paper, chimed in with a question about whether the NVA would simply drive down Highway One to attack Saigon in a bid to cut off the city and starve its people.

  “We don’t plan the enemy’s strategy for them,” Weyand answered.

  Esper didn’t ask any questions at all. He preferred to work the room—find a naïve junior officer and flatter his ego by assigning the man more authority than he actually possessed. “So tell me, Lieutenant Phillips,” he would casually ask in his disarming way, glancing at the soldier’s name badge, “Are we pulling out all the Vietnamese SEALs operating undercover up North?” Esper knew that at least a dozen South Vietnamese sailors and soldiers had been trained alongside the U.S. Navy SEALs on Lake Michigan. It didn’t take much to figure out why, or what they might be up to.

  “George … you must have me confused with someone else,” the lieutenant sighed.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m FIGMO, I’ve been assigned to Hickham Air Force Base, Hon-o-lu-lu, and I’m leaving on the general’s plane. Yup, goin’ back to the world. Nothing but sun, surf, and Spam for me.”

  FIGMO was universal Army slang. It meant Fuck it I Got My Orders and applied to those who were moving on to their next duty assignment and could care less about their present situation.

  Back at the podium, the general was anxious to wrap it up. Before anyone could ask another question, he nodded to his aide, who twirled a hand in the air, signaling the pilots in the Starlifter cockpit. On cue, the inboard engines came to life as the general ducked away from the podium and hustled toward the tailgate ramp. Within seconds the outboard engines began spooling up. The embassy staff hurried the reporters out of harm’s way as the massive cargo plane turned onto the taxiway. The jet wash blew over chairs and shook the embassy seal from the podium, sending it rolling into a ditch.

  “Sam, let’s go,” Lisette urged. “I’ve got Tuan’s footage. Now I need to get the film out on the next flight to New York. And you need to get back to your bureau to Telex your story to the Legend.”

  “Some story! Here’s the headline: Ford Sends U.S. Army Chief of Staff to Saigon; Fails to Mention City Is Surrounded. Ambassador Urges Calm! Yeah, another American SNAFU—situation normal, all fucked up.”

  When Lisette returned to her car, she dumped the raw film into an orange onion sack with NBS NEWS stenciled on it. She tossed the bag into the backseat as Sam sat next to her, going over his notes.

  Starting her Citroën, she sped to the base operations building where she asked the duty officer to hold the next plane going out. He radioed the pilot of a C-130 that was getting ready to taxi and told him to “hold in place,” saying that a film sack was on its way. Lisette jumped back into her car and raced to the plane. The pilot slid open the cockpit window, gave Lisette a wave, and dropped a kite string to the ground. Lisette tied the sack to the string and he reeled it in. In a few hours, the C-130 would be met in Hong Kong, where the film would be processed and sent on its way to New York.

  As they passed the now-slumbering sentries on their way out of the main gate, Lisette glanced in the rearview mirror and saw the C-130 lift off the runway behind them, heading toward the South China Sea. She said to herself, “I want this on the Evening News, dammit!”

  Thursday, April 3

  THE AIR CONDITIONER IN RIORDAN’S OFFICE blew a continuous stream of cold air at his face, but all he could feel was the clammy sweat suddenly soaking the back of his shirt.

  “Boss, I can’t burn everything!” he said into the telephone, now slippery against his palm. “How do I sort out what’s important from what’s not in one day? I couldn’t do that in a week!”

  As usual, the landline connection to the bank’s headquarters in New York—over wires that stretched eight thousand miles via undersea cable and another three thousand miles across the continent—was filled with static, making conversation difficult. But Riordan had no trouble hearing Harmon, his manager, throwing a fit on the other end.

  “We chartered a plane for you! You need to get yourself and your staff on it and throw everything in the furnace before you leave!” Harmon yelled. “It’s a hundred-plus degrees in Saigon every fucking day—why else do you think your shithole office even has a furnace?!” He was through arguing with Riordan. The head office had given him an order, pointedly reminding him that there were thirty-four American employees in Riordan’s branch and if they fell into the hands of the North Vietnamese Army it was Harmon—not Riordan—who would be held responsible.

  “What about my plan to get everyone else out—all the SVN nationals working here? The VC know they work for us and will slaughter them when the NVA take the city!” Not if, Riordan thought. When.

  “If your people—your people, not the goddamn South Vietnamese who have been living so good off the American dollars we pay them—aren’t out of there tonight I will fire your ass and leave you behind to deal with the North Vietnamese!”

  The line went dead. Riordan knew that Harmon would make good on his threat if he wasn’t on that plane. But Harmon didn’t work with them—with Mrs. Em Bah, who had been Riordan’s interpreter and unofficial liaison to the Vietnamese community for the past three years, or with Cao, who drove him everywhere, or Vinh, who had a bad limp but w
as happy to run messages for them all over the city. There were over a hundred South Vietnamese employed by the branch in one way or another. Riordan knew he couldn’t have kept the office open without them. And he was responsible for them, not Harmon.

  “Well, screw you, Harmon,” he muttered to himself.

  “Sally,” he said to his secretary, “I need you to arrange for a bus—a big one, full-size—to be here on Friday. And round up all the SVNs, tell them I want to meet with them here tomorrow. Everyone needs to be here. What I have to tell them is important.”

  Sally had watched Riordan on the phone and had heard Harmon screaming on the other end of the line. She was worried then. Now she was frightened. “Are we closing the branch?” she said.

  “Yes,” said Riordan. “And you and the rest of the staff—only the Americans and third-country nationals—have to pack quickly and be on a charter flight that’s coming in to Tan Son Nhut tonight. You’re being relocated to Hong Kong temporarily, until this gets sorted out. I know it’s short notice, but we’ve all seen this coming. Now you’ve got to go, and hopefully you’ll be able to come back once things settle down.”

  “You’re not coming with us?”

  “Not right away. I’ve got to get the rest of the people who work with us out of Saigon, before the North Vietnamese roll in. The ARVNs can’t stop them. You’ve seen the news—it could be as soon as a week or a matter of days, but the NVA will take Saigon, and after that no one knows what will happen.”

  He looked at the calendar on his desk. Three pretty Vietnamese girls in flowing ao dais—the elegant, high-collared white tunics, slit to the waist and worn over colorful silken pants, that were the traditional dress for Vietnamese women—smiled back at him from the photo.