Escape from Saigon Read online

  Copyright © 2017 by Michael Morris and Dick Pirozzolo.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  Cover design by Laura Klynstra

  Print ISBN: 978-1-5107-0298-1

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-5107-0299-8

  Printed in the United States of America

  This book is dedicated to our wives, Karen and Jane, who have steadfastly encouraged and supported us through the years.

  And to all who have sacrificed for their country, then and now.

  Escape from Saigon is based on true events. Although the situations and characters have been dramatized, the story was inspired by real people and actions that occurred at the time.

  Foreword

  Keep quiet! Don’t shout!

  The Ambassador won’t leave till

  Everyone’s out

  The choppers are on their way

  There’s room for you all

  They’re climbing over the wall!

  Get back!

  Tell you, don’t shout!

  The Ambassador won’t leave till

  Everyone’s out

  The Ambassador just sent an order to

  Freeze

  That’s it!

  No more Vietnamese!

  (From “The Fall of Saigon,” Miss Saigon)

  Tuesday, April 1, 1975

  Tan Son Nhut Air Base, South Vietnam

  THE GROUND CREW GUIDED THE MAMMOTH C-141 Starlifter into place between two tall, protective steel revetments. The jet’s tailgate ramp lowered even before it rolled to a stop and the plane’s crew chief hopped down, waving the waiting jeeps forward. Bags followed down the ramp, each carried by a soldier dressed in tan tropical-weight khakis, followed by a tall man in U.S. Army olive-drab jungle fatigues. Unlike the soldiers waiting on the tarmac, the man’s fatigues were new, impeccably clean, and freshly starched. Four black stars were embroidered on each lapel.

  One of the ground crew snapped to attention as he recognized the officer—General Weyand, the U.S. Army Chief of Staff. The soldier began to raise his arm, but before he could salute, the officer cut him off.

  “At ease, soldier!” the general barked. “You don’t salute your officers in a combat zone, so don’t do it for me! You might as well paint a big red bull’s-eye on my backside!”

  “Yes sir!” the soldier stammered. “Your chopper’s waiting for you, sir. It’s the one over by the C&C shed, this way.” He pointed across the field to a low tan corrugated metal building. A single-rotor UH-1D helicopter—a Huey—sat in front, its blades slowly beginning to turn.

  As he looked at the chopper, the general reflected on the fact that, when he was stationed here, every aircraft on the field would have carried a U.S. Army insignia. Now, Air America—the CIA’s covert air operation—was painted on both sides of this bird. And something else had changed since the war. Like the general’s uniform, it was new and clean. The general nodded to the soldier, then waved his aides toward the first jeep and hopped in the front seat.

  “Let’s get moving! I don’t want to keep the ambassador waiting!”

  * * *

  The chopper’s blades were spinning furiously and its turbine roar had peaked to a deafening level by the time the Vietnamese base workers loaded the general’s gear into the Huey and the officers strapped themselves into the sling seats behind the pilots. When the starboard-side machine gunner could see that all were aboard and ready he spoke into his helmet mic, letting the pilots know they were good to go. A sudden upward lurch was followed by a steep tilt forward as the chopper lifted off and rapidly gained altitude.

  “Sir,” the gunner shouted to the general over the din, “our flight plan is to reach altitude till we’re beyond the base. The North Viets have brought up some heavy weapons in the past weeks and they’ve been picking off aircraft between here and the city. Once we’re on our way we’ll drop down to the deck where we’re not such an easy target for antiaircraft. There’s always the threat of small arms, but we’ll be movin’ right smart—it’d take a mighty quick gunner to even draw a bead on us.”

  The general nodded in agreement, then sat back and, like the others, welcomed the cooler air that came with the altitude. Their uniforms were already soaked through with sweat from the few minutes they had been on the ground. Vietnam was still as hot as he remembered. Too damn hot!

  * * *

  As the Vietnamese ground crew turned away from the cyclone of dust and sand thrown up by the Huey’s rotor blades, one of the men pulled a cloth from his pocket to cover his face. It was a Western-style bandanna, bright red with a white paisley decorative pattern, the kind of bandanna the cowboys in American movies—like Clint Eastwood, his favorite—wore around their necks. The man had asked one of his GI friends to buy it for him at the Base Exchange.

  No one among the workers noticed as the man shook the cloth vigorously, as though attempting to shake out the dust and sweat he had wiped from his face. No one except the teenager lying in the tall grass beyond the air base fence. This man was dressed in typical Vietnamese black pajamas, but he had carefully camouflaged himself head to foot with freshly cut leafy branches, and his exposed face and hands were smeared with dark mud. He had lain motionless in the grass for three days, waiting for this moment. When he saw the waving red bandanna, he crawled from his position toward a shallow ravine with a small stream at its bottom, discarded his camouflage and washed off the mud, then followed the watercourse away from the air base.

  * * *

  The Huey rose until it reached its cruising altitude some twelve hundred feet above the sprawling air base. It traced a half-circle across the sky, then banked toward the distant city and, within seconds, was a distant speck against the clouds.

  The man in the grass soon reached his military unit, the encampment concealed in a bamboo grove less than a mile from the air base perimeter.

  “Comrades!” he shouted. “A high-ranking American officer has arrived and is en route to Saigon. His helicopter will be over our forward defenses in moments! Contact them now to be ready to intercept them!”

  A young woman wearing a commo headset and dressed in dark green military garb—the uniform of the People’s Army of Viet Nam, or PAVN to her southern enemies—immediately began keying her radio handset, alerting similar units hidden farther to the west.

  Deep in a patch of jungle scrub that offered a direct line of sight to the highway leading to the city, the signal was received and other PAVN soldiers hurried to their prearranged firing positions. They pulled camouflage tarps away from the big twin barrel antiaircraft gun that had served them so well in their march south. A week earlier they had used it to shoot down an attacking A-1E Skyraider, a low-flying fighter-bomber used by the South Vietnam Air Force. It was a major accomplishment that had cheered and emboldened their comrades. Now, with a helicopter approaching their position, they had a
chance to strike another blow that would bring them one step closer to victory.

  “When you hear the helicopter coming, set your sights on the highway at treetop level,” ordered their captain, a man whose hatred of both the Americans and the Saigon regime was legendary among his troops. Though born in the south, he took obvious pleasure in destroying the local forces whenever they clashed. He allowed no mercy, no prisoners, and no surrender, each time demanding that they wipe out the enemy down to the last man, and anyone who failed to follow his orders faced scathing retribution.

  The rapid, heavy drumbeat of rotors—an unmistakable sound that characterized all Hueys—began to grow louder from far off in the east. “Ready your weapons!” the captain hissed. “Be prepared to fire on my command!”

  Flying at maximum airspeed, the dark form of the Huey took shape and quickly grew in their sights. Nose pitched slightly down, moving at well over one hundred knots, it jinked and swerved to follow the twisting roadway, no more than twenty feet over the heads of startled pedestrians and bicyclists. A formidable target, but one the waiting soldiers could not miss at this range.

  “Get ready!” the captain ordered as the sound grew to a roar and the chopper flew toward their field of fire.

  At the very last moment, another voice directly behind the gunners yelled, “Stand down! Do not fire your weapons! Do not fire!”

  Startled and confused, the soldiers turned and looked from their officer to the man who now stepped up to their gun position. This officer commanded the tank troop that had been attached to their company since the battle for Ban Me Thuot days earlier. Because he outranked their captain, the soldiers had no choice but to comply. They lowered their rifles and the antiaircraft gunner released his grip on the firing handles.

  A moment later, the Huey blasted past their position unscathed, scattering peasants’ hats and leaving a dust-choked whirlwind in its wake as it flew off toward the heart of the city.

  * * *

  General Weyand’s aides held tight to anything they could lock their hands on and sat ashen-faced as their Huey skimmed the treetops, banking and swerving scant feet above the highway, flying at maximum speed on its way toward Saigon. Unlike his aides, the general was enjoying the ride, grinning like a schoolboy with each sudden maneuver, a soldier once again in his element.

  They never saw the enemy antiaircraft emplacement hidden in the bamboo grove as they flew past.

  Deep within the grove, Captain Vo Giang seethed as he watched the helicopter—within seconds already far beyond their gun sights—clatter off toward Saigon.

  “You let them get away!” he said, barely able to keep his anger in check. The officer who ordered them to hold their fire, Colonel Binh Anh Le, commander of the People’s Army Fifth Tank Regiment, outranked Vo and was in charge of his unit. Vo could not countermand or question a senior officer. But he also could not help showing his displeasure that the colonel had let such a prize escape. “Our watchers told us there were important American military officers onboard! We had them in our sights!”

  “Yes, Captain Vo. That is why I ordered your men to let them pass! Do you want a resumption of the American war now that we are so close to victory over the South? Do you want their jets and troops to return to kill more of our people? Shooting down a helicopter carrying their emissaries would be a grave mistake—one that would only prolong this bloodshed and delay the inevitable.”

  “But they have killed so many of our comrades! Caused us years of suffering! They deserve to die!”

  “Perhaps so, Captain. But now we must be careful not to repeat the past. We must be strategic in our thinking—and our actions.”

  “And what if they are here to help the Southern forces repulse our advance? What if they are already plotting to return with their troops?”

  “That is a chance we have to take. Remember, we have watchers in many places—in the government offices in Saigon, and in Paris where the diplomats are also fighting our war. You may not know this, but they have told us to be patient now, to allow the events to unfold as they are. The South is defeated—they do not yet accept it. We have overrun their forces on the battlefield and taken the entire country. Now we have completely surrounded their last holdout, Saigon. The Americans know this, and they know they have no other option than to allow the government to collapse.”

  “Then we should attack quickly and hasten their fall!”

  “Be patient, Captain. My superiors have told me that we must give them time—a grace period to let the cowards run away, like cockroaches fleeing from the light. The Americans are already evacuating their people. Their aircraft land and take away hundreds with every flight. We can afford to let the cockroaches leave with them. We have no need for traitors or those who might try to undo the victory we are about to achieve.”

  Hearing this, Vo’s fury only increased. “Let traitors go? They should be made to pay for the years of suffering they have inflicted on us!”

  “As we have done to them, Dai uy. We need to wait a little longer.”

  “How much longer?”

  “The birth date of our comrade leader Ho Chi Minh is less than one month from now, and May Day is within weeks. So we will invade and claim our victory no later than the first of May. Until then we must keep our forces in check! Our sappers and combat units are already infiltrating the city. We can harass our Southern brothers—those who are still willing to fight—destroy their remaining defenses and let them feel our might, and lay the groundwork for our takeover when the signal is given. There may be fighting in the streets when that happens, so prepare your men. You may yet have an opportunity to shed blood for Saigon, Captain Vo. Let us both hope it is theirs, and not yours.”

  * * *

  Le P’tit Bistrot, Saigon

  “The artillery. Listen. It’s stopped,” Jean Paul Pellerin commented absentmindedly as he polished glasses behind the long cypress bar at Le P’tit Bistrot.

  “Yeah, just enough shelling for the North to let us know they’re knocking on the door, but not enough to piss off the Seventh Fleet,” Sam Esposito said as he took up his usual spot at the far end of the bar. “They never take out the runways, though. The last thing they want is for the New Jersey to come back with its sixteen-inch guns.”

  Le P’tit was the unofficial headquarters for the four-hundred or so credentialed news correspondents, local and foreign cameramen and photographers whose press passes got them on board the Hueys and unfettered access to the fighting. There were at least twice as many hangers-on—mostly reporters from the Saigon papers and freelancers who came to the war zone because it seemed cool and hoped to get a job at a major newspaper or TV bureau.

  Army and Air Force press relations officers could always be counted on to be there to rub elbows with the press. Now and then an author like Jamie Sullivan would show up. After two weeks in-country, he thought he knew everything he needed to know about the war and the GIs who fought and died in it. He wrote Yellow Fire, Red Heat, a book that became a best seller, often quoted by naïve congressmen during foreign policy speeches.

  Le P’tit afforded Sam the two things he needed—a steady stream of Hennessy, which he drank straight up in a rocks glass, and a telephone that worked most of the time. If Sam wasn’t at the Washington Legend office—which was conveniently located across the broad Nguyen Hue Boulevard just outside the door—everyone knew they could find him at Le P’tit.

  “On the house, Sam,” Jean Paul said as he poured out an inch of cognac and slid the glass across the bar. Jean Paul always made sure that Sam got the seat next to the house phone and the stack of overseas newspapers and magazines that he kept for his customers. If a newcomer who didn’t know the ropes sat in Sam’s seat, Jean Paul would politely mention that Sam was expected any minute and would be needing the phone, “So why don’t you sit here where you don’t have to move, and what can I get for you today?” he would say, so smoothly that there was never a protest.

  “What’s the occasion, Jean Paul?
” Sam asked.

  “It’s April first. All Fools’ Day. And since we are both here, that makes two fools—a good excuse to celebrate, maybe with two drinks.” Jean Paul poured himself a Hennessy as he spoke.

  * * *

  Cholon District, Saigon

  Vinh Anh Nguyen woke to the sound of rain and thunder. As he listened to Thu quietly breathing beside him, he could feel the heat from the sunrise and he realized he must have been dreaming of rain. The distant thunder was real enough, however—it continued to rattle the rattan sunshades at the windows and echo across the broad rice paddies beyond the city. But he was mistaken about this, too. It wasn’t thunder but the sound of artillery pounding away in a steady, staccato rumble.

  Every day now, the sound of artillery and exploding bombs were heard around Saigon. And the attacks were getting closer, now no more than a few kilometers from the city’s outskirts. It had become so commonplace that people in the street didn’t even look up when an especially loud barrage struck somewhere off in the distance. They simply shrugged and continued about their business. Our army will hold them back, they would say, but with little conviction. Or, the Americans will have no choice but to return to help us now. Again, with little conviction.

  Without U.S. soldiers to help them, the South’s army was steadily losing the war. Thu worked for the few hundred Americans that still remained in the city, at the U.S. Embassy and other government buildings in and around Saigon. But the soldiers with their helicopters and jets and ships were all gone, almost three years now. They had been an inescapable presence throughout Thu’s life, and now the entire country, and Saigon especially, seemed empty and less vibrant. Empty and afraid.

  Vinh felt a pang of grief and homesickness as he thought about his older brothers, both lost forever fighting Ho Chi Minh’s communists, and about their once-beautiful ancestral home in Quang Ngai along the coast, destroyed by the war, and about the rest of his family, his mother and father. All gone now.

  But he had Thu. Beautiful Thu. When they were young she was the most desirable girl in their village—in the entire province—the girl the heroes of the war thought they would win for their own, but she had chosen him instead. She had married Vinh over the objections of her father. Vinh knew this hurt her deeply, yet she never showed regret. And she chose him despite his handicap. The polio that almost crippled him and left him with a withered leg and an enduring limp was “a blessing,” she said, “because it kept him out of the war.” As always, she was right. She was as smart as she was beautiful, and she loved him. That was his real blessing.