by Eric Meyer
“Paul, Ritter, the rest of you, we’ve got enemy coming in.”
They could see the direction in which I was looking. I heard the rattle of the bolts as each of them charged their weapons. Emile, our chief engineer had a Browning pump action shotgun, I guessed his poor eyesight made it a more suitable weapon, provided of course that he got near enough to the enemy to use it. His assistant Joe had an M2 like us, we had shown him how to use it on the nearby marine range, although he had never yet used it to fire a shot in anger. I guessed that was about to change.
I looked carefully over the top again, they were nearly on us, maybe fifty yards away. There were ten of them, running hard to escape the U.S. and ARVN defenders that were hunting them down as they ran directly for us.
“When I give the word, we pop up and hit them with everything we’ve got,” I told them. “They’re spread out in a line, so we each need to take the ones immediately in front of each of us. Stand by.”
They looked grim, this shouldn’t be happening, but at least it was an opportunity to take some revenge. I looked at them all one by one, checking they were ready, a habit of a lifetime.
“Joe, now would be a good time to take off the safety,” I said quietly.
He looked startled, flushed red and bent to unsafe his weapon.
“Let’s hit them,” I said loudly.
We stood up to see the VC almost on us. Paul fired first, short, measured bursts. The M2 only held thirty rounds and like a light machine gun was most effective in quick, well-aimed bursts.
The leader was less than ten yards away, Paul’s shots took him in the body and threw him to the ground. He fired again and the next man went down, I opened fire and took the VCs off to the right of the line, one man went down, then two more. Ritter was firing too, long bursts, he was no infantryman, a former Luftwaffe fighter pilot he presumably thought more in terms of bringing down an American B-17 bomber with long raking bursts of cannon fire.
Nonetheless, a VC went down to his shots. Joe fired several shots but none seemed to have any effect, his boss Emile let fly with the shotgun and another VC went down just before the trench. Paul and I shifted aim and three more went down, the last man made a determined effort to reach us, bleeding from wounds to his hip and stomach. Almost in slow motion, we saw him take out a grenade and pull out the pin. Ritter was reloading, Paul and I were out of ammunition, Joe just stood frozen with fear as the Viet came nearer, swinging his arm to lob the grenade into our trench. As his arm reached the top of its arc, there were two shattering booms from Emile’s shotgun and the VC was flung back, crumpling to the ground.
“Grenade, everybody down!” I shouted. We all ducked, except for Joe and I pulled his legs from under him so that he collapsed to the floor of the trench just as the grenade exploded with a huge ‘whoomph,” a pressure wave hit us, the roar nearly burst our eardrums and the shockwave threw us to the back of the trench.
A shower of earth and grass came down over our heads, and then everything went silent. Warily, I stood up, Paul and Ritter joined me. A platoon of American infantry was heading towards us looking warily at the carnage. They poked the VC bodies to make sure they were all dead and then came over to our trench.
“You guys ok?” their lieutenant asked.
I recognised him, he had arrived in country only two weeks ago, Joe Wright, a would-be lawyer who planned on having the army pay for his education, provided he survived Vietnam, of course.
“Hi, Joe, we’re fine, no problems here.”
His eyes went wide as he looked from us to the bodies and back to us.
“Jesus, you got them all. That was some shooting.”
I nodded. “It’s not the first time we’ve had to deal with these gentlemen, I doubt it’ll be the last.”
“Yeah, ok,” he said hesitantly. “Well, I guess the Captain will be pleased you got these bastards. I’ve got to check around the perimeter, maybe we’ll meet up later for a beer,” he looked at me expectantly.
“I doubt it, Joe, we’ve got a hell of a mess to sort out. I think it’ll be a long time before any of us relax with a beer.”
He surveyed the wreckage of our dreams. “Right, I see what you mean. I’m real sorry, Jurgen, good luck with it. I’ll detail some of the men to remove the bodies as soon as the all clear sounds.”
I smiled and looked around at my people as he strode off with his men following.
“We ought to get going, Jurgen, Nhu and I, we must check in on Helene and Sophie.”
My God, I’d forgotten about them again in the heat of the action. Lan had a strange expression on her face, her pupils were dilated, she was licking her lips, more like a warrior queen than an office manager. Women were strange, I reflected, some were terrified of battle, some hated it and others seemed to find an almost orgasmic delight in its bloody glory.
“Are you sure you’ll be ok, Lan? There’s bound to be more fighting around the city.”
“Of course we will, Jurgen.”
“I’m truly grateful, Lan, just be careful. Can you contact me when you know the score, if the phones are working by then?”
“Of course, if they’re still out of action I’ll try and get a message to you through MACV.”
The U.S. Military Assistance Command, Vietnam, MACV, had their headquarters across the other side of the airfield from our hangar, or what was left of our hangar. Under their guidance, Tan Son Nhat had become one of the busiest airports in the world, with a constant mix of military and civilian flights taking off and landing at all hours of day and night. I wondered how they would react to this attack on their most sensitive area at a time when their commander, General William Westmoreland, had informed the world’s press that the U.S. was winning the war. So far we had enjoyed good relations with MACV and I had no doubt they would agree to pass on any message during the current emergency.
“Very well, do you want to take a weapon?”
She grinned. “And be shot as a Viet Cong spy, you mean?”
Of course she was right, a Vietnamese civilian, a woman, carrying a weapon would automatically be assumed to be a guerrilla, with probably fatal consequences. Only civilians of white European appearance carried weapons in Vietnam.
“You’re right. Good luck, then. Give my love to Helene and Sophie, tell them I’ll be with them soon.”
The women walked across the airfield, for once it was devoid of the usual chaos of aircraft taking off and landing, all flight operations had been suspended after the first mortar shells hit. At least they looked innocent, two young women in long, ethnic dresses, walking hand in hand. We walked over to the hangar and started to look around inside to see what could be retrieved from the collapsed building. That was when the second wave of attacks hit Tan son Nhat. Our first warning was when the rattle of machine gun fire echoed across the airfield. We rushed outside in time to see a saloon car, it looked like an old French Citroen, ram the main gatehouse of the airfield. There was a huge explosion and the gatehouse disappeared, destroyed by the bomb that had been hidden inside the car. I wondered if the driver had managed to get out before his bomb exploded. The communists could be fanatical, it was quite possibly a suicide attack. Then waves of black clad Viet Cong guerrillas stormed through the open gateway, firing on the run. A squad of ARVN ran out to meet them and were cut down almost instantly, totally overwhelmed by the enemy. I heard a whistling sound and we all ducked as a mortar shell landed out on the apron where many American and South Vietnamese aircraft, both fighters and transports, were parked. An F-4 Phantom fighter bomber was hit and exploded as more mortar shells landed around the parked aircraft. Dozens of American and ARVN troops ran out to meet the invaders and a huge firefight developed again, I devoutly hoped that Lan and Nhu had got clear.
A Willys jeep came hurtling towards us, a colonel of the military police jumped out with his aide, a captain.
“Mr Hoffman, I’m Colonel Rathbone, how many of your men here are pilots, we need you to help out?”
; “Three of us, Colonel, how can we assist?”
“Our pilots are off base, some of them anyway, we want you to get these aircraft in the air, now! Come quickly, Mr Hoffman, otherwise there won’t be any aircraft to get off.”
“Colonel, what’s happening, have the North Vietnamese invaded?”
I said it with half a smile, but his look was serious. “It may be, it just may be. They’re everywhere, all over Saigon, even in the embassy.”
Helene, my wife, with our daughter. My God, I’d no idea it was this bad. Would Lan and Nhu even get through?
“Colonel, I need to get to Cholon, my wife is...”
“The base is closed, Mr Hoffman, all of Saigon is under military command, maybe the whole of South Vietnam. No one leaves the base and everyone inside is under the direct orders of the military. You either fly out or end up in one of my cells, Sir, which is it?”
I looked at his determined expression, there was no room for manoeuvre. His hand was on his holstered pistol and his driver had an M-16 held ready for use, though not yet pointed at us. The message was clear, we were in the middle of a military base, their military base and we had better play along.
“Which aircraft, Colonel?”
The atmosphere relaxed. “Are you three cleared for C-130s?”
It was a four-motor cargo aircraft, radically different to our DC-4s but still, it had four engines and wings. I nodded. “That’s not a problem.”
“Very well, climb aboard my jeep, the driver’ll take you across to the ramp, the ground crews are checking them out now.”
“Where are we headed?” Paul asked him.
The Colonel pointed his finger straight up. “There. When you’re airborne you’ll get instructions from the tower.”
We crammed into the jeep and the driver, a corporal, shot over the bumpy grass, across the tarmac and to the ramp where dozens of aircraft were frantically being prepared for flight. As we clambered out of the vehicle two F-4 Phantoms shot into the air and a Lockheed C-141 Starlifter taxied past to begin its lumbering take-off run. Powered by four jet engines, or more correctly turbofans, the Starlifter was the intended replacement for the C-130, bigger and faster. As we watched, the four giant engines screamed as the pilot increased power to maximum and then it climbed sedately into the air. In front of us were several C-130s, a harassed air force officer directed us towards three of them. Each had two MPs stood at the foot of the boarding ladder and an NCO waiting at the top. The officer shouted at the MPs and we were each allowed to board one of the aircraft. As I went up the stairs, the MPs turned and followed me up. We all ducked as another salvo of mortar shells hit the far side of the ramp, thankfully there was no evidence of any aircraft being hit.
“Sir, if you wouldn’t mind, we’d like to get airborne.”
I smiled at the non-com in the aircraft doorway.
“Jurgen Hoffman, pleased to meet you, Sergeant, believe me, I want to get off the ground as quickly as possible.”
As I walked into the cabin the MPs followed. I looked at them, surprised that they had come aboard. The sergeant noticed my expression.
“General’s orders, Sir. Every aircraft being flown by a civilian has to have the MPs on board.
I shrugged. “Whatever, but cut out the Sir, it’s Jurgen.”
He put out his hand. “Vince Robertson, Master Sergeant, I’m the ground engineer in charge of this aircraft.”
I shook his hand and nodded at the MPs. “Gentlemen, if you’d care to strap in I’ll get us in the air.”
They stared straight back at me, ignoring me. One of them had a hooked nose, the classic Semitic feature, obviously a Jew. The German name would be like red rag to a bull to him, I’d encountered it countless times since 1945.
“As you wish. Sergeant, close the door and we’ll get airborne.”
The Master Sergeant closed and secured the door while I made my way into the cockpit. As I was familiarising myself with the controls he came and sat in the co-pilot’s seat.
“We’ll cut the checks short, just get the engines cranked up, Vince. If we do the full pre-flight we’ll still be sitting here when a mortar shell lands in this spot.”
“I hear you,” he replied, reaching forward to press the engine start buttons. One by one the engines fluttered into life. As soon as all four were running, I radioed the tower.
“Just to let you know, Sir, the cabin pressurisation on this bird is not working at present. I was looking at it when the shit hit the fan.”
I nodded and clicked on the radio. “This is air force C-130 on emergency take off, am I cleared to taxi?”
There was a delay of less than two seconds. “Air force C-130, you’re cleared for immediate taxi and take off, wind South Easterly fifteen knots, you’re second in line, watch for another C-130 emergency take off in front of you. Call us when you’re at cruising altitude.”
“Acknowledged.”
I nodded at Vince, he released the brakes and we started to roll forwards. Ahead of us a C-130 was already turning onto the runway, Ritter von Schacht, of course, ever the fighter pilot, he had to show off his superior flying skills. He roared along the runway and took off half way along. I turned onto the main runway, Vince pushed all four throttles forward to maximum and we picked up speed. A mortar shell hit nearby, Ritter’s aircraft had alerted the enemy and now they were making us a target. We bumped and lurched as we hit some of the debris from the mortar strikes, Vince called off the speed and within seconds we had rotated off the tarmac and were climbing steeply.
I levelled out at five thousand feet, Ritter’s aircraft was ahead of me and I was relieved to see Paul slightly behind and to port. At almost a mile in the sky, the chaos in Saigon was clearer and it was much, much worse than anyone had so far anticipated. The whole city had patches of smoke drifting across from lots of fires, many buildings and vehicles were ablaze and occasional explosions, jets of flame and smoke leaping into the air made it clear that the battle was still very much in progress. For this was a battle, there was no longer any doubt of that. We were used to varying degrees of guerrilla assault, but now it looked as if the communists were mounting a major effort to take Saigon. It was astonishing and certainly very daring. I couldn’t help but wonder what was behind their thinking. American and ARVN troop levels in Saigon were enormous and the resources they could call upon vast, more than enough to defeat any attack from the communists, whether Viet Cong or PAVN, the North Vietnamese Army. Then my heart sank as I recognised the area of Cholon, the Chinese quarter of Saigon, where Helene and I had our home with our daughter Sophie. It looked as if the worst of the action was taking place around Cholon and it took all of my resolution not to turn the aircraft around and head back to Tan Son Nhat. Just then the tower came on the radio.
“C-130-6452, vector North-east and set course for Da Nang, copy.”
They were sending us hundreds of miles from Saigon, but in the middle of a battle there was no room to argue.
“Tan Son Nhat tower, this is C-130-6452, set course for Da Nang, copy.”
I heard Ritter’s and Paul’s aircraft called in succession, all routed to Da Nang.
“Vince, are you cleared to fly the C-130?”
The Master Sergeant shook his head. “Only for taxiing on the ground, Sir, I mean Jurgen.”
“Very well. I want to check everything out in the cabin, make sure that everything is secure. We took off in something of a hurry, best not to chance anything breaking loose.”
“I copy that, Sir,” he replied.
“It’s Jurgen, Vince, not Sir.”
“Jurgen, right.”
“I’ll set the autopilot, just keep an eye on everything and give me a shout if any problem crops up.”
I leaned forward and made sure that the autopilot was set for the correct course, altitude and speed and unstrapped. Then I walked through to the cabin. The two MPs were sat in the jump seats behind the bulkhead, the older one gave me a hard stare as I walked past. “Aren’t you suppo
sed to be flying the plane?” he snapped at me.
“Autopilot, Sergeant, Vince will call out if anything needs my attention.” I smiled reassuringly.
“What the hell are you doing back here, you’re checking on us aren’t you?” he continued angrily.
I explained about making sure that everything was secure because of the hurried takeoff.
“There’s no need for that, we can take care of it.”
“Thank you, but as pilot in command I have the responsibility to check it out myself.”
He looked away as I walked on down the cabin making the checks, all the way to the back of the aircraft. When I turned to go back to the cockpit he was behind me.
“Can I help you, Sergeant?”
His face was furious, he’d worked himself into a rage.
“Mister, I swore I’d never share space with a Nazi. If you weren’t flying this aircraft I’d like to break every bone in your body.”
“Well that’s a pity for you, I am flying the aircraft and I’m not a Nazi.”
“Word is you were an SS officer during the war.”
“Yes, that’s true. A fighting soldier, Sergeant, but not a Nazi.” I couldn’t resist adding, “And neither was I a policeman, I was a front line soldier.”
The insult rocked him, if we weren’t in the air I swear he would have attacked me. Instead, he nodded and gave me a cold smile.
“This isn’t over, Hoffman. I’ll be looking for you so you’d better watch your back.”
“I assume this is because of what the Germans did to the Jews, yes? You are Jewish?”