Pulling Out
|
The President and the Vice President met with the 9-11 Commission yesterday with the predictable jokes going before, you know, the one’s about Mr. Cheney having his hand up the back of Mr. Bush’s shirt, playing Edgar Bergen to the President’s Charlie McCarthy.
But it didn’t seem to play out that way and everyone is civil this morning. Maybe it is because of the bad news from Baghdad. Ten troops were killed yesterday, and the Marines announced a strategy for puling back from Falluja. Commanders on the scene indicate they have found a former Baathist General to take charge of the local scene and put an Iraqi face on things.
I don’t like coincidences, but there is one of them today. It was on the 30th of April in 1975 that the North Vietnamese Army and the Provisional Revolutionary Government of South Vietnam poured into the capital.
A few hours later the AP link to the world and the international phones went dead, at 7 PM local time, and an announcement was made through Radio Hanoi that the city’s name had been changed to honor Ho Chi Minh.
The last week before the victory there had been a few loose ends to tie up. The North could have advanced more swiftly. Although the Americans had pulled all ground combat units out of the South in 1973, there was still a significant presence in the capital. Recognizing that the end-game was in progress, President Ford made a sad presentation to Congress, an appeal for funds to stop the armored offensive the North had sworn in Paris they would not conduct.
The Congress demurred. It was done with Vietnam. Accordingly, the President ordered the Joint Staff to devise a contingency plan for the evacuation of the remaining Americans, should it come to that. The Joint Staff called the plan “Frequent Wind.”
I was not there. I sat the war out on a student deferment at college like the Vice President. I did not have enough clout to get a billet in the Guard or Reserve, and by doing nothing, the war passed me by. Oddly, it was an animated political argument about this very situation that eventually delivered me to the deck plates of the USS Midway, but that would be three years later. Some of the crew were still aboard from 1975.
Midway had the longest history of all the big deck ships in the war. She had been present at the beginning of the conflict, and her airplanes had shot down the first MiGs the North flew against the Americans. But at this moment in 1975, Midway was the flagship of the last combat major operation of the American war in Vietnam. On the outskirts of town the Vietnamese armor waited for General Giap’s signal to advance. Off the cost a wild aerial circus was in progress.
The implementation of Frequent Wind had been delayed as long as possible. The Secretary of State, Mr,. Kissinger, argued in his elegant manner, that the beginning of the evacuation would accelerate the capitulation, and spark a panic.
Forty-four Navy ships, 6,000 Marines and two hundred and seventy assorted Navy and Air Force planes had been staged to bases around the South China Sea, and over the last week 40,000 American and South Vietnamese refugees were flown out Saigon’s Tan son Nhut Air Base to the Philippines and Thailand.
A C-130 transport was shot down by a rocket, and the fixed wing air bridge out of Saigon began to close. Two Marines guarding the Defense Attaché compound there were killed by artillery. President Ford convened a meeting of the National Security Council. He decided that “Option Four” of the Joint Staff plan should be executed, and at 10:45 PM on the 28th of April, the order was given to evacuate the airfield.
The panic was beginning. With Tan son Nhut closed, the U.S. Embassy was the last collection point in the city. Armed Forces Radio began to broadcast the song “White Christmas” by Bing Crosby. It was the signal for American citizens to grab their passports and report for collection.
It rained in torrents. Hundreds of Vietnamese tried to scale the wall around the Embassy, terrified of what was to come. Floor by floor, the Marines withdrew toward the roof of the embassy with looters right behind them. Tear gas hung in the humid air. Ambassador Martin determined that the Embassy would close at Five PM, and ordered the communications equipment destroyed.
I had a copy of the last message sent from the Chief of Station there. It was classified, for no particular reason, and I had to get rid of it. I will never forget it though. It was terse: “I’m the last one here. I have to go. Saigon out.”
Out over the South China Sea, military helicopters filled with Vietnamese military and their families flew east, looking for decks on which to land. One South Vietnamese pilot set his chopper down on top of another whose blades were still turning. Others ditched their craft and had to be fished out of the water. A Navy Search-and-rescue helicopter crashed, killing two. They would be the last to die, unless you count the poor Marines in the Mayaguez rescue attempt weeks later.
It is hard to put a final period to a confusing time. Frequent Wind pulled out 1,373 Americans and 5,680 South Vietnamese. Another 32,000 desperate Vietnamese were making their way to sea in sampans and rafts.
On the roof of the embassy, the last Marine security detachment waited. There was no radio contact, and in the confusion they considered that they might have been forgotten. They determined that they would make a last stand where they were, defend in place and the hell with it. The plaque honoring the seven Marines who died defending the embassy in the Tet Officensive was being crow-barred off the wall for scrap, or for souvenir de guerre. When I was there, twenty years later to the day, some of the brass cartridges were still on the roof. But the Marines were not forgotten. The last American helicopter to leave Saigon dodged its way in and extracted them. The last official message from Saigon was broadcast with Souls Onboard, and flew below treetop level and followed the Saigon River to the seas. The crew saw the North Vietnamese tanks waiting to enter the city.
At sea, order was restored. On Midway, the Air Boss in the tower was astonished to see a little Cessna 160 better known to the Forward Air Controllers of the era as the 0-1/L-19 (Bird Dog). The aircraft was in the drab colors of the Republic of Vietnam Air Force and making a blistering 64 knots forward progress. It had no tail-hook and its pilot had never seen an aircraft carrier before. A note was thrown from to the deck. The pilot wanted to land on the ship.
The Air Boss ordered the landing area cleared of helicopters, and asked that the Captain bring the ship into the wind and increase speed to recover the aircraft. Midway’s mighty engines responded to the bells for “all ahead” and the great gray ship surged in the water, white foam cut by the sharp bow.
Astern, the Bird Dog followed the ship. It’s forward speed was diminished by the wind over the deck, and the ship’s forward progress subtracted from the airspeed of the little airplane combined to make it float over the round-down at the same speed I would have parked a Lincoln Continental, back in the day. It gently planted itself on the deck and the brakes squeeed and it came to a stop, a perfect Three Wire landing.
Vietnamese Maj. Bung Ly climbed out of the cockpit and helped his wife and five children climb down on the black non-skid deck. The Flight Deck crew rushed forward, cheering.
And then it was over. The pull out complete. The war was done.
That one, anyway.
Copyright 2004 Vic Socotra |
April 30, 2004
DailySocotra
