Escape from Saigon Read online

  “Wait till it dries, then give it back to me.” She then dunked the photo into a pot of tea, swirled it around a couple of times, and held it over the stove to dry it again. The American pulled a blank exit visa from a stack, swiped the back of the photo with a brush full of mucilage from a pot and glued it to the visa along with tax stamps. He hung it on a string to continue drying.

  In turn, each of the refugees was handed their new counterfeit exit visa. As the refugees admired their new documents, Jean Paul instructed Dessault, “Now as soon as we get ten, put them on the army truck. It’s right around the corner. You will see it. Go quickly. Close the back. The driver will take you to Tan Son Nhut. Good luck.”

  Before the group departed, the Vietnamese woman sized up the evacuees. Pointing to a fiftyish man and to a woman of about the same age, she said, “You are the father. You are the mother. These are your children and those are their husbands and wives. The little ones are your grandchildren. You are a now a cook. You have a job at a restaurant in Orange County, California.” She handed them a card. “Now say, Orange County.”

  “Arange ca thi.”

  “No, Orange County.”

  “Arange cow thi!”

  “All right, don’t talk. Just nod yes, no. Go.”

  For hours, Father Dessault brought a steady stream of refugees to Le P’tit. As quickly as each group arrived, Jean Paul funneled them through the alleys to the apartment where they got their counterfeit exit visas. Then another ten or so would arrive. When they couldn’t fit one more soul into the truck, the driver drove for the air base and shuffled them onto C-130 refugee flights. Meanwhile, another truck would return empty, ready to take the next group on the first leg of their journey to freedom.

  Saturday, April 26

  THEY WORKED THROUGH THE NIGHT AND by sunrise Jean Paul and Father Dessault had smuggled more than 260 people through their counterfeit visa operation and onto the departing C-130s. As quickly as the planes landed at Clark Air Base in the Philippines, they taxied to the terminal and unceremoniously disgorged the refugees from their rear cargo ramps. The moment the last stragglers exited, the crew chiefs raised the ramps and the planes returned to the runway and took off. On the way back to Saigon, they refueled in midair to cut their time on the ground at TSN, where they risked being struck by artillery. Midair refueling also shaved time off the return flight. Back at Tan Son Nhut, they picked up more refugees and a fresh flight crew and made another about-face to Clark.

  On and on it went. Finally, Jean Paul began to worry.

  “Okay, Padre,” he said. “We’ve got to close down. We can’t risk our operation or the people running it. The White Mice are bound to discover our little scheme. Round up everyone who’s left and keep them out of sight until tonight, then bring them here. Only this time, we’re heading for the Saigon River.”

  * * *

  Right on schedule, twenty-eight refugees showed up as soon as it was dark. Jean Paul loaded them into two trucks, one driven by him and Dessault, the other by Carwood and the Aussie pilot, Cameron Fletcher. He shoved a few thousand U.S. dollars into his pockets and a chrome-plated .45-caliber pistol into his waistband. “Plus les choses changent plus elles restent les memes.” The more things change the more they stay the same, Jean Paul uttered, recalling his own escape from Hanoi two decades ago. This time though, Jean Paul was alone. His parents were dead. His brothers and sisters had all gone off to Paris. His wife had divorced him. He was alone save for the Vietnamese cargo in the back of the army truck, Father Dessault sitting shotgun. Carwood and the Aussie pilot followed in the second truck.

  “Over there. We’re taking the embassy yacht,” Jean Paul told the priest. The vintage yacht, with its flawlessly maintained white-painted hull, varnished mahogany, and polished brass fittings, was a sharp contrast to the sampans and barges and patrol boats that plied the river. The yacht had seen glorious days as a party boat for dignitaries, generals, journalists. “We are going to steal it right out from under the nose of the U.S. government. Too bad you are a priest. This would be a story to tell the grandchildren.”

  While Father Dessault and the Aussie waited, Jean Paul made his way across the dock and sneaked up the gangway. He pulled out his pistol and held it behind his back. He wanted to make sure the Padre saw the gun. He crept along the upper deck, inching his way toward the wheelhouse, all within view of Father Dessault. When he reached the door, he slowly turned the knob, and eased the door open enough to slip inside and shut it behind him.

  The captain, who was seated at the wheel, whirled to face the intruder.

  “It’s about fucking time you got here.”

  “I had to make it look good for the Padre. Christ, I thought you were going to leave!”

  “You think I would leave without putting on our little charade? Can’t have the ambassador telling everyone all is well and then have it look like he ordered the embassy yacht—one of the U.S. Navy’s prized possessions—to leave because he thinks it is too dangerous here. I hope your Padre friend has a big mouth and tells everyone how we were hijacked and forced to leave.”

  “I weel make sure of it,” Jean Paul replied with an exaggerated French accent. “Okay, let’s get our passengers onboard. I’ll tell the Padre that you thought taking a bribe was better than being tied up in the engine room. He’ll never suspect.”

  Jean Paul signaled for the two trucks to pull up to the ramp. His human cargo scrambled aboard and were hidden below decks. A U.S. Navy ship had become another overloaded vessel on its way to the open ocean—the shiny yacht squeezed in among the freighters, fishing boats, sampans, and makeshift rafts built from scavenged lumber and truck tires that clogged the Saigon River that night.

  Before they got under way, Jean Paul summoned one of the refugees who spoke a fair amount of English and told him, “You are in charge, now. The captain has been well paid to get you all out of here. No need to use force. Here is some cash. You may need it to bribe the harbormaster, or who knows who out there. Take it. Take the pistol.”

  The captain smiled and nodded in agreement as he fired up the diesel engine.

  As Jean Paul turned to leave the bridge, the captain called out to him, “Hey, maybe I’ll see you in the States. Maybe you’ll get a house in Falls Church out of it, maybe a liquor store too.”

  As they tossed the lines onto the dock, Jean Paul walked down the gangway with Father Dessault and got in the truck. They drove back to Le P’tit, this time following Carwood and Fletcher in the other vehicle.

  The rumble of artillery from Ton Son Nhut picked up, died down for a minute or two, then picked up again.

  “It’s going to be fine.”

  “Yes, it will be fine.”

  “I wonder, Jean Paul, have you got any of your Hennessy left?”

  “I think I may have a bottle or two stashed.”

  “Look, Padre. The prostitutes have all gone.”

  “Yes. Now I start to worry.”

  Sunday, April 27

  LISE! NBS NEWS … IS LISETTE Vo here?” Carwood called out, as he stood on a wooden beer crate in front of Le P’tit’s long cypress bar. He held a sheaf of manila envelopes and looked for familiar faces among the crowd of journalists packed into the café this afternoon.

  “Collins, Emile … okay, there you are.” As Collins emerged from the WC, Carwood thrust the official-looking envelope into his hands. Collins puzzled over it, wondering what all the commotion was about. The envelope was sealed with a label that read U.S. Embassy Standard Instructions and Advice to Civilians in an Emergency.

  “Hey, pay attention, people!” Carwood said loudly, trying to restore order as conversations regarding the mysterious envelopes broke out around the room.

  “Esposito … Legend? Jack Star … Tribune?”

  “Whoa, I’m here! Give me my packet,” Lisette called out from a table by the piano. “I’ll take Sam’s, too. Go ahead, cross him off,” she said as she took the envelopes labeled Lisette Vo, NBS News and Sam Esposito,
Washington Legend.

  “Jack Star? You here?”

  “Yeah, I’m here,” the Tribune reporter answered from his perch on the piano bench.

  Carwood asked the people in front to pass his envelope to him, adding, “Hey Jack, didn’t you cover World War II? Time you went home, sir.”

  “Yeah, I was at the Big One, smart aleck. I covered Korea, too!” Star testily replied. “And I wrote my copy with a quill pen.”

  “Okay, moving on. Esper?”

  “Present.”

  Carwood handed the packet back to the table where George Esper was seated with a group from his office. “Here, take this one to Peter. Make sure Arnett gets his personal copy.

  “Mike Ebara … Asahi Shimbun? Here you go.” Carwood tossed the packet to him.

  After fifteen minutes, Carwood had distributed all the envelopes but one. Turning to Jean Paul he added quietly, “I’ve got envelope for you as well, Jean Paul. Here you go. Looks like you are now a correspondent for Agence France-Presse. You’ll need a cover if your other plans don’t work out.”

  “Thank you, my friend, that is most thoughtful,” Jean Paul replied. “But I will not be going with you. I have other things to do before I leave. Don’t worry, I can take care of myself.”

  “Okay, then. All right, listen up folks!” Carwood called out. He again asked Jean Paul if the door was locked.

  “I’ve been through every newspaper, wire service, and broadcast office in the Caravelle and across the street at the Rex. Not too many of you guys are left. Most of the offices look like no one has been in them for weeks. I guess if you want to find journalists at this point, you look for them in a bar,” which got a halfhearted laugh.

  Carwood went on, “These are your instructions and exit packages for leaving Vietnam. Each packet contains your helicopter landing and embarkation point. These pickup points are not the same for everyone and none of them are at the embassy—so please, when you hear the signal, do not all head for the embassy. Your ride won’t be there.”

  “Care to share the signal with the class?” Esper chimed in.

  “Okay. This is for your ears only. When the evacuation is ordered, the secret code will be broadcast on Armed Forces Radio and you will immediately proceed to your pickup point. Have your bag packed. If you have a wife, if you have a girlfriend, if you have children, bring them with you to the embarkation point. Do not expect to come back for your dependents. This is not a dress rehearsal.”

  Carwood again looked around the café to be sure he was speaking only to journalists.

  “Please stay tuned to Armed Forces Radio 90.1 FM,” he said. “You will hear a code phrase: ‘The temperature in Saigon is 105 degrees and rising.’ This ‘weather report’ will be followed immediately by the song ‘White Christmas.’ When you hear ‘White Christmas,’ go! And, let me be clear, share this information with no one! I repeat, no one!”

  Mike Ebara raised his hand.

  “Yeah, Mike. What’s up?”

  “Mr. Carwood, how does ‘White Christmas’ go? Can you tell me please? I’ve never heard that song.”

  Before Carwood could respond, Jack Star turned around on the bench, put down his beer, and began playing “White Christmas” on the piano. A few people in the crowd started singing along. Then a few more and then everyone joined in.

  “I’m dreaming of a white Christmas, just like the ones I used to know. Where the treetops glisten, and children listen to hear sleigh bells in the snow …”

  “Okay, a children’s song. For Christmas.” Mike nodded, indicating he got it.

  “No, Mike, not a children’s song. It is a song about two soldiers—friends—who must put war behind them. It is a song about coming home.”

  * * *

  Carwood waited at the bar after the others left. It wasn’t long before he heard a quiet knock on the door. It was Thu, as they had planned.

  “Come inside, quickly,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  He handed her the last envelope and repeated what he had told the journalists.

  “This is your way out. Remember—you won’t be leaving from the embassy. That will be the central evacuation point, but we’ve arranged other sites scattered around the city. You, and your husband Vinh, will be extracted from a different location. It’s all in there. I’ll see you before then, but we can’t talk about this. Not to anyone. Meanwhile, listen to the radio for the signal. When you hear it, don’t hesitate. Just go.”

  * * *

  Jean Paul had not seen much of Lei Hoa since the couple divorced five years ago.

  When she walked in this time, she was as beautiful as he had remembered. How did I blow it with one of the best-looking women in Saigon? he thought as he leaned forward over the bar to see two pairs of eyes looking up at him. Twin girls, Solange and Sandrine, four years old with long, straight black hair tied back and the most stunningly liquid blue eyes. Jean Paul had seen such eyes in only one other person—his mother.

  “It’s about time you got here, I was ready to send someone to kidnap you and the girls. We need to leave. Right now. Girls, Lei Hoa—meet my friend from Melbourne, Cameron Fletcher. He’s giving us a ride.”

  Lei Hoa looked incredulous. “What? We’re driving to Thailand?”

  “No, ma’am,” Fletcher countered, “We are going for a ride in my little silver airplane. Would you like to go up in my airplane, girls?” he asked, directing his question to the twins, who nodded enthusiastically.

  “Oh, right, we’ll casually drive over to Tan Son Nhut. I will fly away with my girls and we’ll go shopping in Bangkok tomorrow.”

  “Partially right,” Fletcher agreed, “Except we will not be departing from Tan Son Nhut.”

  Lei Hoa was becoming worried, bordering on fearful. As she drew her daughters closer she said, “The only other airport is at Bien Hoa. There is no way we can get there either. The North has cut off the highway. What are you talking about?”

  “The North Vietnamese are invading from the east and north, blocking us from reaching Bien Hoa. But Vo Van Kiet highway to the west is still open. They’ve taken Vung Tau to the south but it will be weeks before their forces can interrupt travel west of Saigon. The highway is clear, at least for now. That is where we are headed.”

  Lei Hoa interjected, “Okay, then what? There is no airport there. What are you talking about?”

  “You know the cement plant? It’s about twenty kilometers out of town. It’s huge. I know you have seen it. That is where we are heading. That is where the plane is. You, the girls, Jean Paul, and me—we are going to fly out from there right under, or should I say over, the noses of the North Vietnamese Army.”

  Jean Paul hesitated and then added, “Fletcher, I’m sorry to tell you but I have added a few more passengers to our manifest—two Vietnamese women who worked at NBS and three Vietnamese guys from the Legend. They have to come with us, too. I made a promise.”

  “That’ll be swell, mate, the more the merrier!” Fletcher answered as he looked over the group. “Weight could be a bit tricky. Five adult Vietnamese, I’d say about 250 kilos. The twins about thirty, tops. Then you and me at around eighty kilos each. Should make for an interesting ride.”

  Fletcher explained that they would fly out in an Air America plane, a Helio Courier that the company kept hidden at the cement plant—presuming the fuel had not been siphoned off.

  No one, especially Lei Hoa, looked assured. Even though the Helio was built for short takeoff and landing, it would take some doing to get off the ground with eight adults and two children aboard.

  * * *

  Air America operated a hodgepodge fleet of airplanes—as small as Cessna 150s and as large as C-130s. Among them were a dozen or more Helio Couriers secreted in locations all over South Vietnam. They typically flew into Laos, where the pilots would buy opium from local tribesmen in exchange for small arms and cash, which the indigenous tribes then used to fight the North Vietnamese. It was a secret guerilla war, being run by t
he United States a kilometer or two beyond the border.

  After picking up the opium using airstrips hacked into the jungle, Air America would then fly at night to undercover locations—among them the cement plant. There, they would destroy the opium by burning it. A quantity always seemed to slip through the cracks. This was instead processed into the purest heroin in the world, so pure and so powerful that it didn’t have to be injected, it only had to be smoked to get high.

  Since the Helio needed only four hundred feet to take off—less in a strong headwind—they could fly into and out of clearings in tribal villages deep inside heavily canopied jungles that were barely visible from the air. When the pilots returned at night, they landed with their engine at barely above idle and without navigation or landing lights. No one ever suspected that the pasture right in front of the plant was a runway, or that the factory—a few kilometers outside the city center—was its hiding place.

  * * *

  As Jean Paul reached up to shut off the light over the bar, a satchel bomb landed in front of Le P’tit. The explosion that followed knocked everyone to the floor, showering them with broken glass and filling the room with smoke.

  “Stay down!” Jean Paul ordered as he saw two figures advancing toward them. As they stepped to the curb, one of the men raised a weapon and sprayed a short burst of machine gun fire over their heads.

  “Come out with your hands showing!” the other man yelled. “No harm will come to you if you obey. You have ten seconds. Come out now!”

  Jean Paul crept toward the bar on his belly. Fumbling with his keys, he felt underneath the bar until he found the keyhole that unlocked a front panel, giving him access to a secret compartment. Still hugging the floor, he reached in and grabbed an AK-47 and slid it across the floor to Fletcher. He then grabbed a pistol—an American .45.

  “Lei Hoa, take this,” Jean Paul whispered as he racked the slide on the pistol to chamber a round. He reached into the compartment again, and pulled out another AK-47 and a dozen loaded magazines in a canvas bag.