For a week or so, hopes and Vietnamese pride are r
For a week or so, hopes and Vietnamese pride are raised by the valiant last stand of the South Vietnamese 18th Infantry Division at Xuan Loc, a provincial center, 50 miles east of Saigon. Xuan Loc holds the key to the gates of Saigon, anchoring the last defensive line that runs in an arc from the Cambodian border to the South China Sea. The 18th Division is the last of President Thieu’s final reserve, and he names it the Supermen Division as he sends it into action against the formidable communist juggernaut that so far has swept everything before it.
I travel with other reporters to the battle scene a week into the action; our journey begins badly when we realize the bus driver taking us to our helicopter departure point 15 miles away is crazily drunk. At Xuan Loc, we meet the commander, General Le Minh Dao, at his makeshift headquarters amid the tangle of shell-wrecked buildings and destroyed vehicles. The roar of mortars and the crack of machine-gun fire rend the smoke-filled air as the daring general flatly vows to continue stalling the enemy advance, to try and hold on until death. Saigon’s last effective elite marine and ranger units are on their way to help. The Vietnamese air force is also defying anti-aircraft fire with numerous bombing and strafing runs against the enemy.
As we depart on a large transport helicopter sent in especially for us, several dozen local people fight to get on board and are shoved back by rifle-butt-wielding security men. The stubborn resistance at Xuan Loc forces the North Vietnamese commanders to change their final plan, directing units committed elsewhere to the unexpected battle and ordering them to “open the gates” to Saigon. The 18th Division held on from April 9 to April 21, a heroic 13 days still remembered with pride by the uprooted Vietnamese living in the United States.
President Thieu is advised by his senior commanders that the fall of Xuan Loc has wiped out any further attempts to resist. Ambassador Martin also visits him to hint broadly that it is time for him to go. Thieu resigns the next morning and flies off with a planeload of his possessions to Taiwan. In his interview in London, Thieu reveals his lasting bitterness toward the United States. “They abandoned us. They sold us out. They stabbed us in the back. It’s true; they betrayed us. A great ally failed a small ally.”
The dust kicked up by the bus swirled around my ankles, a gritty reminder of the chaos that enveloped Vietnam. The driver, his eyes bloodshot and his breath reeking of rice wine, careened the vehicle down the pothole-ridden road, each jolt a jarring testament to his drunken state. We were on our way to the battlefield, to Xuan Loc, the last bastion of hope for the beleaguered South Vietnamese forces.
The air hung heavy with the stench of fear and burnt rubber. A week into the battle, the 18th Infantry Division, dubbed the Supermen by President Thieu, held the line against the relentless North Vietnamese juggernaut. Their courage, their unwavering resolve, had become a beacon of hope, a flicker of defiance in the face of overwhelming odds.
General Le Minh Dao, his face etched with exhaustion but his eyes burning with determination, received us in his makeshift headquarters, a crumbling building overlooking the battlefield. The roar of artillery shells and the staccato bursts of machine-gun fire were the soundtrack of this grim symphony.
“We fight until the end,” General Dao declared, his voice a low growl. “We will hold the gates of Saigon. We will not let them through.”
His words echoed the spirit of his soldiers, a spirit I witnessed firsthand as we flew back to Saigon, the battleground receding beneath us like a wounded beast. The sheer desperation of the civilians clawing their way onto the helicopter, the desperation in their eyes, the raw terror in their voices, was a stark reminder of the price of war.
The 18th Division held on for thirteen days, a heroic stand that became a legend whispered in hushed tones amongst the Vietnamese diaspora. But it was not enough. The fall of Xuan Loc, the loss of that vital line of defense, signaled the end for South Vietnam. The North Vietnamese juggernaut rolled on, unstoppable.
In Saigon, President Thieu, his face lined with defeat, received the news with a fatalistic resignation. His senior commanders, their voices heavy with the weight of responsibility, urged him to leave. Ambassador Martin, a ghost of American promises, hinted at the inevitability of surrender.
The next morning, Thieu, his eyes reflecting the shattering of his dreams, stepped down. He boarded a plane, a broken man, carrying with him the weight of a nation’s shattered hope. The air he breathed was laced with the scent of betrayal, the bitterness of a nation abandoned by its supposed ally.
In London, years later, Thieu’s words still rang with the anguish of betrayal. “They abandoned us. They sold us out. They stabbed us in the back. It’s true; they betrayed us. A great ally failed a small ally.” His voice, a whisper in the silence of history, resonated with the pain of a fallen nation, a testament to the tragedy of a war that cost so much but delivered so little.
And as I watched the Saigon skyline fade into the distance, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the echoes of the battle, the cries of the fallen, the whispers of betrayal, would forever haunt the air, a chilling reminder of the cost of a lost war.
