Escape from Saigon Page 22

  Just the end of another era, thought Carwood as he watched them go. Leaving the roof, he wondered how the Romans felt when the Visigoths chased them out.

  As the ambassador’s helicopter headed toward the sea, its pilot set a course for their waiting carrier, the USS Okinawa. When they cleared the coast he spoke the three prearranged code words into his helmet mic:

  “Tiger! Tiger! Tiger!”

  Wednesday, April 30

  YOU LOOK LIKE YOU COULD USE some java, Mr. Carwood.” The Marine held a thermos filled with coffee from the commissary, a welcome sight. He handed Carwood a mug. “Long night, sir.”

  Carwood looked up and saw that the darkness had become dawn. Like the Marines and the last of the embassy staff, he had worked through the night to keep the operation moving, making sure the mobs outside the compound didn’t get in and the thousands of Vietnamese still inside were protected while the evacuations continued. Meanwhile, the choppers roared in every few minutes, flying out of the darkness from every direction, landing both on the embassy roof and in the courtyard, touching down only long enough to load up another few dozen evacuees and then blasting away in a fury of rotor wash and noise. Now that the evacuations had ceased, Carwood felt drained and empty, like he had been through a battle.

  “Thanks, buddy,” he said, inhaling the hot brew. “Reminds me of a night I spent at a Special Forces camp on the Song Ve River in ’67. I was just passing through, but we got probed around midnight and it was all-hands for the rest of the night. We never knew where they were coming from or when. The gunships were on constant rotation around the perimeter, chewing up the scenery nonstop while dust-offs shuttled out the casualties.”

  “Yes, sir. I was at Khe Sanh around that time. Incoming mortars and rockets day and night. Wasn’t no picnic. Last night was a bitch but at least no one’s shooting at us here.”

  No sooner were the words out of the Marine’s mouth when a burst of incoming automatic rifle fire sent them and everyone else in the compound running and ducking for cover. More shots followed, which gave away the shooter’s position on a nearby rooftop.

  “Is anyone hit?” the gunnery sergeant yelled from behind them. After several replies assured him that there were no casualties—as of yet—he bellowed, “Uncle Sam gave you Marines rifles for a reason! Someone get a bead on that sonofabitch and put him down!”

  The shooter opened up again and bullets spattered off the patio and embassy walls. A woman screamed somewhere beyond the swimming pool. Two Marines immediately returned fire from opposite ends of the courtyard. Carwood looked to where they were aiming—at the top of a building less than a block away. The Marines’ rounds found their mark. The shooter’s head snapped back and his rifle, easily recognizable as a black M-16, toppled over the roof ledge and fell to the ground several stories below.

  “Do you think that was VC or NVA?” asked the Marine with the coffee. “Are they here in the city already?”

  “Based on that M-16 he was firing, I’d say he was on our side—or used to be,” the sergeant replied. “There are plenty of ARVN troops and South Vietnamese civilians really pissed off that these people in here might be getting out of the country without them.”

  “We got reports last night that the evac choppers were taking fire from positions along the river between here and the ships,” Carwood added. “Turned out the only military off in that direction were South Vietnamese. There’s a lot of hard feelings right now.”

  With the sun up the day was quickly growing hotter. Before the shooting, Carwood had been thinking about shedding the flak jacket he’d worn through the night. He decided to keep it on, at least for now.

  He went back into the embassy and climbed the stairs to the fourth floor, where he found Timson and three other CIA staffers smashing the remaining communications equipment. They were taking turns bashing the gear with a sledgehammer so heavy that the men could barely swing it, and each time the sledge struck the Sat-Comm console the machine’s powerful magnets held it fast, requiring two or more men to pull it free. The men were soaked with sweat, but they laughed like schoolboys as they gleefully destroyed what had been their most important career work until two days ago.

  “Listen up,” said Carwood. “Now that the ambassador’s offshore we don’t know when the airlift will resume or even if it will resume. There are still a lot of people in the courtyard that have to be evac’ed. I can’t believe CINCPAC or the ambassador, who’s probably debriefing the admiral right now, will simply abandon them. But whatever happens from this point forward, you’ve got to be ready to grab the next chopper that comes in—you may not get another chance.”

  “Yeah, with the embassy staff out of here, things are breaking down pretty quickly,” Timson said, panting with effort as he lowered the sledge. “People are already looting the lower floor offices. They’ll be up here as soon as they know we’re gone.”

  “So finish up here as quick as you can and get to the roof. I’ll send some of the Marines up with you. Barricade yourselves up there and wait for a chopper—there’s not much more you can do here.”

  “What are you going to do, boss?”

  “I have to get over to Gia Long. We’re still taking our people out of there, no matter what CINCPAC says or does. I don’t know if I’ll be able to get back here, so you’ll be on your own. Just be sure you’re up on the roof when your chopper comes in. And be on it! That’s an order!”

  * * *

  It didn’t take long for Thu and Vinh to reach the street where the CIA kept its offices and apartments for the station chief and senior officials. The building, an otherwise featureless multistory cube with balconied apartments and a rooftop penthouse, was nevertheless one of Saigon’s more desirable addresses. The fact that the American Central Intelligence Agency used it for their headquarters was an open secret in Saigon.

  Now, as Thu and Vinh abandoned their motorbike and ran to what they knew could be their last chance to escape Saigon, it was clear that far too many of Saigon’s residents knew what they knew. The building was surrounded by hundreds of people hoping to leave on one of the helicopters landing and taking off from the roof. Unfortunately for those still out on the street, the gates were locked and Marine guards held their ground inside, keeping the crowds at bay.

  Vinh and Thu looked for a way around the mob and into the building. After ten frantic minutes of searching, encountering one locked door after another, they couldn’t find an unsecured point of entry.

  “What can we do now?” Vinh said. His limp was worse after the fall from the motorcycle. He tried not to let it show, but Thu had noticed.

  “Thu!” The voice seemed to come out of nowhere. “Thu! Up here!”

  They looked up and saw the face of a Marine guard above them at the top of the courtyard wall. Miraculously, the guard—who was usually assigned to the embassy’s security staff—had recognized Thu in the swarm of people milling around the building. He waved them toward a small service door in the wall, then met them there and, before anyone else could notice or react, let the pair through and into the yard.

  “Take the stairs to the roof,” said the guard. “Elevator’s no longer working. When you get up there, you’ll have to queue up with everyone else, but we’ve got choppers coming as fast as they can to take people out. We don’t know how long we can keep it up—or keep everyone out—so you’d better get moving.”

  “Thank you, corporal! Thank you!” Thu said, taking his hand.

  “Don’t thank me now,” he replied. “Thank me when we’re all out on the ship. Now move out!”

  They made their way up to the eighth floor, ascending slowly through the darkened stairwell, surrounded by people they couldn’t see. Whether from anxiousness, or resignation, or emotional exhaustion, no one spoke. Vinh struggled with each step.

  When they finally emerged onto the broad, flat roof of the building, they found a long line of people ahead of them, all waiting their turn to climb a ladder leading to the top of a small c
ooling tower that served as a makeshift helipad. Air America Hueys were coming in at ten-minute intervals, taking a dozen or more people at a time off the roof.

  Three of the helicopters swooped in, quickly loaded the evacuees, then flew off again before Thu and Vinh reached the bottom rungs of the ladder. They inched upward, hoping to be among the next group out. As another chopper was about to land, word spread through the crowd below that NVA tanks and troops were nearing Gia Long Street. When this news reached the rooftop, people began to panic. The crowd behind Thu and Vinh surged forward the instant the Huey touched down above them.

  Thu looked up and saw Carwood in the helicopter. The people on the ladder began pushing past one another, fighting and clawing to get into the Huey, threatening to overwhelm it. The chopper wobbled precariously as it hovered above the cooling tower roof, unable to overcome the weight that increased with each person that grabbed on to it. Carwood tried shoving them back, then he reached out and punched a man away from the door, sending him tumbling backward.

  Thu’s eyes locked on Carwood’s. He recognized her and called out, but his words were lost in the commotion of the helicopter and the yelling mob. He waved her toward him.

  She turned around, expecting to see Vinh close behind her, but he was far below, struggling to climb. “Go without me!” he screamed. Thu hesitated. She looked up at Carwood, then turned back toward Vinh and loosened her grip on the ladder.

  As she slid down the ladder into Vinh’s arms, she whispered, “I slipped.” Clinging to one another, they watched the Huey lift off and speed away. Carwood was gone.

  The helicopters stopped coming after the melee on the rooftop. Reluctantly, Thu and Vinh made their way back down to the courtyard. As they stepped out onto Gia Long Street, a North Vietnamese tank rumbled into view at the far corner, followed by a squad of rifle-carrying, pith-helmeted soldiers.

  The couple could only stand and silently watch as the soldiers approached, realizing they now had no chance to escape Saigon.

  “Perhaps it won’t be too bad,” Vinh said at last, holding Thu close. “We are together. That is what matters.”

  * * *

  The thunder of artillery faded as the Huey swiftly covered the distance between Tan Son Nhut and the South China Sea. When it crossed the coast, Matt Moran looked down at the white sand beaches of Vung Tau, the picturesque peninsula resort early French colonials called Cap Saint Jacques, the “Pearl of the Orient.”

  Sitting in the co-pilot’s seat, Matt felt a pang of homesickness as he recalled the idyllic days he’d spent there with Pham on in-country R&R, and it suddenly reminded him that he hadn’t spoken to or sent a message to her in the week since he’d landed in Saigon. She knew the country was imploding and would be crazy with worry by now. He had to get a message out as soon as they landed, he thought—whenever and wherever that might be.

  As the coastline receded behind them they could see nothing but a vast, empty ocean ahead. Somewhere out there, they all prayed, was the American Seventh Fleet. That thought gave them little comfort at the moment. It was a stomach-churning ride as Phuong struggled to maintain a steady altitude. Battered by powerful air currents off the alternately night-cooled, sun-warmed water, the overweight chopper rose and fell in dizzying leaps, sometimes sinking hundreds of feet in seconds toward the foaming waves, then rising again like an express elevator as a warm thermal propelled it back up into the sky. Matt and Phuong were strapped into their seats in the cockpit, but behind them on the cargo deck the wind tore at their passengers through the gaping open doors. They could only cling tightly to the children and one another, crying out each time the helicopter pitched wildly.

  Matt and Phuong anxiously scanned the cloudless sky. The sun, at first blinding as it rose out of the sea directly ahead of them, was now high enough over the water to let them see without their dark helmet visors. Suddenly, Matt stiffened and yelled.

  “Chopper at ten o’clock! There’s another behind him!”

  “It’s one of our Chinooks!” Phuong replied. “And I’ve got a couple of Hueys coming up on our port-side rear!”

  “Phuong, I see ships on the horizon, south-southeast! Looks like a friggin’ city out there!” Matt squirmed around against his seat harness. “Everyone! U.S. Navy, straight ahead!” They looked at him blankly and he realized there was no way they could hear what he was shouting. He gave a two-thumbs-up gesture, grinning madly. “Almost home!”

  Phuong raised a finger to signal Matt, then he tapped a gauge on the instrument panel.

  “We’d better be,” he said into his mic. “We’re pretty close to bingo, as the jet boys say. Out of fuel!”

  Within minutes the sky around them was swarming with helicopters, all converging on the steel-gray ships ahead. With no control tower to guide them, each pilot had to set his own course and somehow ensure that his airspace didn’t encroach on other choppers flying above, below, and beside him at airspeeds of a hundred knots or more. Adding to the confusion, dozens of pilots were now in contact with different ships below, many of them talking on different radio frequencies, in English and in Vietnamese—an airborne Tower of Babel, thought Matt.

  “We’ve got to find a carrier!” he said to Phuong. “We can’t put this thing down on a ship unless it’s got a helipad, and I’m not seeing any from here.”

  Phuong shook his head. “I’m not seeing any carriers either! There should be three or four.”

  “They may be running behind this group.”

  “Yeah, way behind.” Matt was worried before. Now he was really worried. “Phuong—how long can we stay airborne?”

  “Not long! We have to set down somewhere very soon! If we can’t find a ship big enough to land on, I can hover on one until we get everyone off!”

  “Everyone but you! What’ll you do?”

  “I’ll ditch in the water and hope they pick me up before the sharks get me!”

  They flew in silence, each man searching for an open deck somewhere among the ships below. The ocean that had seemed so empty minutes ago was now crowded with vessels of every size and description. Some were South Vietnamese Navy ships, some civilian cargo steamers, even some tiny fishing skiffs. All were jam-packed with refugees standing or sitting on their decks. They passed what looked like a large commercial trawler that had so many people that it was hard to tell which way the boat was facing.

  Well, any port in a storm, thought Matt. He eyeballed the fuel gauge. It was either broken or stuck—as far below the empty mark as it could go. Despite the cool air blowing through the Huey, he was soaked with sweat.

  “There!” Phuong yelled. “That ship’s got a big afterdeck. We have to go for it—no more time on the clock!”

  Looking left and right to avoid the choppers that seemed to be everywhere around them, Phuong pitched the nose steeply and dove for the ship. The briskly snapping ensigns on the ship’s radar mast told him the winds at deck level were strong, causing the monstrous bulk of the destroyer to pitch and roll on the ocean swells. He decided to take it straight in, drop the tail at the last moment, and flare down quickly, hoping the air cushion generated by the Huey’s rotors—the “doughnut”—would give them a soft enough landing even on a heaving ship. After hundreds of hours on the cyclic, much of it in combat under fire, he trusted his nerve and his flying skills. Still, he whispered a silent prayer to his ancestors—just to be sure.

  “Watch out!” Matt yelled as a dark shadow three times their size—a twin-blade helicopter as big as a locomotive—careened into view off their starboard side. Phuong veered left and down as the Chinook passed within yards, its prop-wash driving them toward the water. The Huey dropped like a stone and suddenly they were looking up at the ship’s deck railings. Phuong went to maximum power, fighting the controls. The Huey’s turbine screamed and the chopper shuddered and shook like a wet dog, but their rapid descent slowed, then stopped, and gradually they began to rise.

  “Whoooee!” Matt cried. “Phuong, you are numbah one chopper
pilot! But let’s not try that again!”

  Phuong let out a long breath. “Roger that! We need to put this bird down, and now!”

  They lifted toward the destroyer’s deck and Phuong zeroed in on the helipad, a tiny circle painted on the afterdeck. They never saw the Huey coming at them from out of the sun, above and behind them, until both choppers’ shadows converged on the ship’s deck, just as they touched down.

  The second Huey was wildly out of control, its panicked pilot attempting to find room on the crowded stern only to discover that he had badly miscalculated. Before he could lift away, his skids contacted Phuong’s spinning rotor blades, shattering them into a thousand pieces, throwing shrapnel in all directions. As the ship’s crew dove for cover, the still-airborne Huey spun crazily, careened off the roof of Phuong’s now-rotorless chopper, and slammed into a steel cargo locker, then bounced hard, rolled twice, and pitched over the side of the ship.

  As they watched in horror, helpless to react, Phuong, Matt, and the others in their Huey clung to anything they could hang on to as their bird slid sickeningly across the ship’s deck, following the other helicopter’s debris-strewn path.

  Just as it reached the edge of the deck, the Huey’s skids hooked the mangled railing, preventing the Huey from falling into the ocean. It hung there, threatening to break loose, as sailors rushed in to pull the occupants to safety.

  Matt was the last one to scramble out. He looked at the wreckage, then back at Phuong.

  “You’re one hell of a pilot, Captain,” he said with a wink, “but I think your landings need a little work!”

  * * *

  The lead tank of the People’s Army Fifth Tank Brigade, its number 843 carefully painted on its turret, sped unimpeded along the wide boulevard toward the Presidential Palace. Sitting in the open turret hatch, enjoying the morning breeze that fluttered the red pennant above him, Colonel Binh Ang Le marveled at the fact that they had met so little resistance entering the city. He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised. The streets were littered with South Vietnamese Army uniforms, and on nearly every corner the young men who presumably discarded them wandered aimlessly, dressed only in their underwear.