To the newspaper publishers in New Orleans, I expl
To the newspaper publishers in New Orleans, I explain, “It is not easy to describe in these lovely surroundings in this lovely American city the total chaos that is enveloping the people of Saigon, who for better or worse participated in America’s grand scheme to make South Vietnam a bulwark against the communism that is now overrunning it.” I’m asked how long Saigon has left. I predict it will fall within the month. They seem stunned.
So is my wife, Nina, who explains that my mother, Jane, who was visiting us in New York at the time, can take care of our children while she accompanies me back to Saigon to take care of her own relatives. Nearly everyone we knew wants to leave because they fear that their connections to the earlier French authorities and to the Americans will imperil their future under a communist regime. My father-in-law once worked for the French colonial government and was chief secretary to the Saigon National Assembly for a time. One brother-in-law is a senior logistics officer in the South Vietnamese army, and the other is an economic consultant to the current government. Within a week or two, fortunately, they were all able to leave.
Ambassador Martin has a major problem handling a potential exodus of hundreds of thousands of Vietnamese who want to leave while making sure the several thousand Americans still in the country are able to get out. He tells me that after the war, there was a real danger of violence. “The feeling against Americans could have become a very dangerous thing. At this point, General Loan, a police chief during the Tet uprising, had told one of our people, If you think you are going to march all the Americans to the airport and leave, you will find you are fighting us on the way out.”
Later, widely criticized for his handling of the exodus, the ambassador explained to me after the war, “My preoccupation was to maintain certain stability in Saigon. We did manage that. This meant you could not suddenly pull out all the police, even those who had been helpful to you. Although we had a responsibility to them, you did not pull out all of the senior Vietnamese military, without whom there could be no continuity of command for the military cordon, which was formed around Saigon and ready to fight, and still with a considerable combat capability.”
And as the powerful communist military machine that is capturing everything along the coast is preparing to wheel in from the east and west toward Saigon, the ambassador still has to deal with a desperate President Thieu, who remains adamant that America come to the rescue. A quick visit to Saigon is arranged for the last American force commander in Vietnam, General Frederick Weyand, who agrees to recommend to President Ford many hundreds of millions more dollars in financial aid. But no further aid materializes.
The air hung thick with the scent of jasmine and desperation. It was a strange brew, this New Orleans air, carrying the weight of a world collapsing on the other side of the globe. I, a seasoned journalist, was trying to explain the unimaginable to the newspaper publishers, these men accustomed to the slow, deliberate unfolding of news.
“Saigon is on the brink,” I said, my voice a tremor in the stillness of their opulent office. “The dominoes are falling, and the communist tide is rising.”
Their faces, hardened by years of print and profit, registered disbelief. The American public, they argued, was weary of Vietnam, of the endless war. How could it possibly end like this?
“It’s a matter of days,” I insisted, my stomach churning with the weight of the impending tragedy. “The city is a powder keg, and the fuse is lit.”
The publishers, bless their skeptical souls, seemed unconvinced. Yet, in their eyes, a flicker of apprehension began to take root. They were not fools, these men; they understood the power of a story, the grip of a headline.
Back at my hotel, I shared the news with Nina, my wife, a woman of steely resolve. Her calm demeanor, though a mask for the fear that gnawed at her, was a beacon in the gathering storm.
“We must get our family out,” she declared, her voice firm. “Mother can take care of the children in New York. I will go with you.”
Her words were a lifeline. My own family, woven into the fabric of Saigon’s pre-war society, faced an uncertain future. My father-in-law, a former French colonial official, my brother-in-law, a logistics officer in the South Vietnamese army, and another brother-in-law, a government advisor – all were caught in the vortex of impending chaos.
In the days that followed, a frantic scramble for escape commenced. The city, once a vibrant tapestry of life, now throbbed with the heartbeat of panic. The American embassy, besieged by a sea of desperate faces, became a refuge, a lifeline for those seeking to flee the coming darkness.
Ambassador Martin, a man wrestling with the weight of history, was caught between the demands of his country and the pleas of a nation in its death throes. He faced a daunting task: to shepherd his people to safety while trying to maintain some semblance of order in a crumbling world.
“We can’t just abandon them,” he said, his voice tinged with the sorrow of a man bearing the burden of countless lives. “But the situation is volatile, and the danger is real. There’s a sense of animosity toward us, a fear of retaliation.”
His words echoed the grim reality of the situation. The South Vietnamese army, demoralized and outmatched, was barely holding back the relentless tide of the communist forces. The city, once a symbol of American resolve, was now a crucible of fear, a tomb for dreams.
General Weyand, the last American force commander in Vietnam, made a brief, desperate visit to Saigon. He saw the city, felt the pulse of its despair, and understood the gravity of the situation.
“We can’t just walk away,” he said, his voice a plea to a nation that had grown weary of war. “We have a moral obligation to help.”
Yet, despite his pleas, the American purse strings remained tightly closed. The nation, scarred by the Vietnam War, was not ready for another open-ended commitment.
As the days turned to nights, the rumble of tanks and artillery fire grew louder. The city was a fortress under siege, a final stand against the encroaching darkness. The air was thick with the smell of fear, the taste of despair.
Saigon was falling. The American dream had died in a city of jasmine and blood. And in the shadows of a fading empire, a new chapter in history was being written, one stained with the tears of the vanquished and the grim triumph of the victors.
