Tom Glenn's Blog, page 164

Symposium: The Tet Offensive

I interrupt my series of posts on chaos as Saigon fell to report on a symposium I attended yesterday given by the National Cryptologic Museum Foundation entitled, “The Tet Offensive.”

Dr. Tom Johnson, whom I worked with during the Vietnam war while he was an Air Force officer, was the keynote speaker. It was he who suggested that I attend.

The pamphlet listing the events of the day had on its cover a picture of the Minnesota Vietnam Veterans’ Memorial with the words from Archibald MacLeish: “We were young. We have died. Remember us.” The full text of MacLeish’s poem reads:

The young dead soldiers do not speak.

Nevertheless, they are heard in the still houses:

who has not heard them?

They have a silence that speaks for them at night

and when the clock counts.

They say: We were young. We have died.

Remember us.

They say: We have done what we could

but until it is finished it is not done.

They say: We have given our lives but until it is finished

no one can know what our lives gave.

They say: Our deaths are not ours: they are yours,

they will mean what you make them.

They say: Whether our lives and our deaths were for

peace and a new hope or for nothing we cannot say,

it is you who must say this.

We leave you our deaths. Give them their meaning.

We were young, they say. We have died; remember us.

End of quote. Those words, even after all these years, still bring tears to my eyes.

More tomorrow.

Chaos at the End (2)

Further quotes from my novel, Last of the Annamese, on the North Vietnamese stand-down just before the fall of Saigon:

The eerie calm prevailed. Analyses from stateside agencies surmised that the North Vietnamese were regrouping, but the embassy responded that the North Vietnamese were waiting for President Thieu to step down so that they could begin negotiations with the U.S. and the South Vietnamese. Monday [28 April 1975] afternoon, the embassy announced that President Thieu had left office and was fleeing the country. Troiano told Chuck that Thieu was flying with his family to exile in Taiwan.

The sitzkrieg continued into Tuesday [29 April 1975]. Chuck had become inured to the routine of disaster, the endless repetition of gruesome details as the republic disintegrated, but the uncanny quiet unnerved him. He knew now what was going on. Unhampered by threats, external and internal, the North Vietnamese could take the time to do a thorough preparation for the coup de grâce. Almost as an afterthought, a dispatch from the field reported that the North Vietnamese had completed the occupation of Xuan Loc.

End of quote. The novel depicts faithfully what I was going through. I struggled to get the last of my subordinates safely out of the country until, by 26 April, only three of us were left: me and the two communicators who had volunteered to stay with me to the end, Bob Hartley and Gary Hickman. The three of us locked all the doors throughout the office suite and stayed twenty-four hours a day in the comms center. We took turns resting on the one cot we had. And we waited for the end.

More tomorrow.

Chaos at the End

With the fall of Saigon imminent in April 1975, turmoil took over. The streets, overflowing with refugees fleeing into Saigon to escape the advancing North Vietnamese, became impassable for vehicles. Mobs demanding evacuation surrounded our compound at Tan Son Nhat, on the northern edge of Saigon. The throngs were ten to fifteen people deep. We could no longer get in or out of the gates.

In the midst of the turmoil, the battlefield became quiet. I described the sudden quiescence in Last of the Annamese. Chuck Griffin, the novel’s protagonist, is at work in the Intelligence Branch of the Defense Attaché Office (DAO) inside that compound. The General Smith referred to is General Homer D. Smith, who actually was the chief of the DAO:

[Chuck] prepared himself for the grind through the mountains of incoming traffic, but for the first time he could remember, the total take was less than an inch high. Nearly all the classified message traffic was codeword signals intelligence reports that had originated in the states. The rest was the usual screed from the Liberation News Agency [the North Vietnamese propaganda broadcast] and news reports from the wire services. What was going on? The Republic of Vietnam, its northern provinces ripped from it, lay quivering. The North Vietnamese watched like a cat toying with a wounded bird. With little to post or report, Chuck, on Troiano’s [Chuck’s boss] orders, drafted a cable to Washington, info General Smith, updating the estimate he’d given General Weyand [the U.S. Army Chief of Staff who had visited Saigon]. In it he listed the sixteen North Vietnamese divisions known to be positioned and the two believed to be close by for a three-prong attack against Saigon.

He flipped on Sparky’s portable to get the latest ARS [American Radio Service] reporting on the war. He heard news about Hollywood films and debates in Congress followed by songs from Dionne Warwick and Al Martino. Nothing about Vietnam. Toward noon word arrived that the embassy had commanded ARS to cease all reporting about the war. Troiano speculated that the ambassador was afraid of panic.

End of quote. Throughout Last of the Annamese, the character of Chuck Griffin is a stand-in for me. I attribute to him experiences I myself had. Wherever possible, I used the names of the real people involved as Saigon fell, e.g., Generals Smith and Weyand.

But I never used the name of the ambassador, Graham Martin, in describing scenes that actually took place. The actions taken by Martin are those depicted in the book. Other sources have long since corroborated his failure to believe the intelligence presented to him and to prepare for the fall of Saigon.

More tomorrow.

The .38 Snub Nose Pistol (2)

The revolver in Tuyet’s possession proves ironic. The weapon, which Chuck gave her, was to protect herself and her son. That’s not how she ended up using it.

As Saigon is falling, Chuck is safely evacuated to the Midway, a ship of the U.S. 7th Fleet, but Thanh and Tuyet are still in Saigon. Chuck is ill with the same maladies that affected me due to privations during and after the evacuation—exhaustion, amoebic dysentery, and pneumonia. He’s in sick bay. Colonel Troiano, his boss in Saigon, sits with him:

Troiano pulled his chair close to the gurney. “I discussed it with the Commander [the ship’s doctor who is caring for Chuck], and we decided to tell you instead of waiting. We don’t want you to get the word somewhere else.”

The base of Chuck’s spine tingled. He sat straight. “What?”

“Tuyet’s dead, Chuck.”

It was a sledgehammer to his chest.

“We found out,” Troiano went on, “from Radio Liberation. It’s moved into Saigon—they’re calling it Ho Chi Minh City now. So you’ll know all of it, I’ll read a translation of their broadcast from 0600 this morning.”

He took a paper from his breast pocket, unfolded it, and read.

“The running dogs of the imperialists are now all either dead or captured. Yesterday our valiant troops seized the so-called Joint General Staff of the puppet army almost without resistance. Only one of the puppet officers, the infamous Marine Colonel Pham Ngoc Thanh, the notorious butcher of Phat Hoa, tried to fight us. Our forces quickly overcame him and his wife, holed up in his office. Unable to face the strict justice of the people after we captured him, his wife produced a snub nose .38 pistol, the weapon of cowards, and killed the colonel and herself before our troops could stop her. Her treachery is typical of the running dogs . . .”

Troiano took a deep breath. “It goes on, but that’s the important part.”

Tuyet dead. Like Molly. And Philippe, Angélique, Thanh. And [his son] Ben. He’d known it before Troiano told him. Now there was no denying, no escape.

“I’ll stay with him,” he heard Troiano say.

End of quote. The bitter irony of how Tuyet used the snub nose pistol Chuck gave her—she, like so many other South Vietnamese, chose death rather than life under the communists.

The .38 Snub Nose Pistol

Toward the end of Last of the Annamese, as the fall of Saigon gets closer, the protagonist, Chuck Griffin, gives Tuyet (the woman he loves who is in a name-only marriage with his friend, Colonel Thanh) a pistol to defend herself in case the North Vietnamese trap her. Here is the text from the novel:

Chuck holstered his Beretta, thrust the .38 snub nose with a box of fifty rounds into his briefcase, and walked through the fusty heat to JGS—it would be faster than driving through the glutted streets. Still no monsoons. The heat and stench forced him to breathe through his mouth. . . .

[At Thanh’s office,] Chuck walked through the main entrance to the courtyard. Tuyet hastened around the corner of the house. As she came close, he saw the stress lines around her eyes and mouth. He took the .38 snub nose and the ammunition from his briefcase. “I don’t know what will happen at the end, but you must be able to protect yourself and Thu [her six-year old son].”

She eyed the revolver.

“Please,” he said.

Hesitantly, she took the pistol and ammunition and slid them into a pocket in her full skirt.

He sighed. “Thank you. It’s loaded and there’s no safety switch. Be careful.”

“Thanh taught me to fire guns when we lived in Da Nang. I know to be cautious.”

“I’ve got to go.”

She stepped toward him, stopped. “‘No war but this.’ You remember? . . . . As the fighting comes close to Saigon, the birds have gone away.”

Chuck lifted his face to the trees. It was true. No birds. “They were wise.”

End of quote.

More tomorrow.

My Most Precious Possessions (4)

As a result of the imbroglio over the medal for the South Vietnamese general, the leadership of NSA became more friendly toward me. Besides, I was doing very well as the leader—not manager—of a large group of employees on an important mission. And the fervor against Vietnam cooled. In time, the agency leadership reviewed what happened during the fall of Saigon and decided that I should be rewarded for getting all the NSA employees and their families safely out of the city before it fell and then escaping under fire myself.

So they awarded me the Civilian Meritorious Medal for my work during the fall of Saigon. I was again an employee in good repute. That medal today is one of my two most valued possessions.

Meanwhile, something like a year after the fall of Saigon, my guys who had worked with me there planned a dinner in Washington, D.C. where they could talk with one another and reminisce. They invited me to join them. At the end of the meal, they presented me with a plaque. It was titled the “Last Man Out Award.” The text inscribed on it expressed their thanks for my courage and leadership that got them all safely out of the country before it fell. That plaque is my other most prized possession.

I have a friend who talks constantly about money. He brags about how much money he and his children have and the high monetary value of his possessions. I smile and say nothing. Money couldn’t buy what I have—my medal and my plaque celebrating what I was able to do as Saigon fell. I’m richer than he is.

My Most Precious Possessions (3)

Over time, NSA and its leaders softened their disdain for the Vietnam war and their coldness toward me. One incident was crucial.

A South Vietnamese general I worked with in Vietnam—my counterpart—escaped at the end by getting to the U.S. embassy just before Saigon fell. He was evacuated safely while his subordinates remained in place awaiting his orders. They were still waiting for word from him when the North Vietnamese got to them. They were all either killed or captured. Those captured went to “re-education camps,” really concentration camps, where the death rate was very high. That general, in other words, abandoned his troops.

As the fall of Saigon grew nearer, I reported to my boss, General Lew Allen, the Director of NSA, on the emotional breakdown of that general. He had become hysterical, subject to crying jags. I was doing my best to keep the signals intelligence effort among the South Vietnamese going because it revealed what the North Vietnamese were doing. Because of the personal subject matter, my messages to General Allen were eyes-only, not to be shared with other NSA personnel.

Some time after the fall of Saigon, NSA hired that Vietnamese general. Since I held him responsible for the deaths or captivity of 2700 soldiers I’d worked with, I wanted nothing to do with him. NSA decided to present him with a medal. I was invited to the ceremony and refused to go. The NSA deputy director, Ann Caracristi, called me on the carpet. How dare I refuse to attend the ceremony? I told her about my messages to General Allen, who had moved on and was no longer director, about the South Vietnamese general’s despondency and final abandonment of his troops. She told me General Allen had destroyed all his eyes-only messages and had never told her about the South Vietnamese general’s behavior. She didn’t cancel the medal ceremony, but she allowed me to boycott the event.

I can’t tell you the name of that general. It’s still classified.

More tomorrow.

My Most Precious Possessions (2)

Once I was back in my own house with my own family, in July 1975, my physical health improved. Since I couldn’t seek therapy for my Post-Traumatic Stress Injury (PTSI), I treated myself. I knew that I couldn’t bury my grisly memories. If I did, they’d come back to haunt me. I had to face them head on. So I forced myself to bring them into my conscious mind the hideous events I’d witnessed and participated in during all those years I was supporting army and Marine units on the battlefield. I relived the fall of Saigon with its unspeakable tragedies. I made myself remember the grim details about moments I still can’t talk about.

And I employed two coping mechanisms that eventually helped me come to terms with my past.

First, I wrote. I’d been writing stories since I was six years old, so writing down what had happened was natural for me. To describe the macabre episodes, I had to remember the gory details. It worked. I learned to manage my emotions. And all that writing ended up producing seventeen short stories and four novels now in print.

Second, I volunteered to take care of people worse off than I was. At the height of the AIDS crisis, I worked with men dying of the disease. Over a five-year period, I had seven patients. They were all gay; they all died. Then I worked with the homeless and finally spent seven years as a hospice volunteer, ministering to the dying. I learned that when I was focused on people who needed my help, my gruesome memories receded into the background. I learned that compassion heals.

My volunteer work had another benefit I wasn’t expecting. Caring for the dying moved me so deeply that I wrote a novel about a straight man caring for a gay man dying of AIDS. It was published in 2014 as No-Accounts.

More tomorrow.

My Most Precious Possessions

When I returned to the real world (the U.S.) after the fall of Saigon in May 1975, I was at an all-time low. I was ill with exhaustion, amoebic dysentery, and pneumonia and suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress Injury (PTSI). My wife and children were in Massachusetts staying with her father. When I finally got to Maryland, I telephoned her, told her I was in bad shape, and desperately needed her. I begged her to come to Maryland and help me. She said no. She wouldn’t return until I got our house back. We had leased it to another family for our three-year tour in Vietnam, and we were back a year early. I finally was able to pay off the people in the house and regain possession of it in July. Only then was my wife willing to come back to Maryland.

So I was left on my own to struggle with my physical and psychological problems. I was able to get medical help, but I couldn’t seek psychological counseling. Back in those days, people lost their security clearances if they went for psychotherapy. I had top secret codeword-plus clearances. And even though my marriage was coming apart, I still had to support my wife and four children. So I gritted my teeth and endured the panic attacks, nightmares, irrational rages, and flashbacks.

I stayed in cheap motels—I had very little money—and as soon as I was physically able, I went back to work at NSA. The agency didn’t give me a warm welcome. The employees saw the war in Vietnam as shameful. They didn’t want to talk about it. I and the forty-three guys who had worked for me in Saigon were shunned as though we were tainted. I was moved from job to job within the agency. I told no one about experiences during the fall of Saigon. They didn’t want to hear about it.

More tomorrow.

My Last Warning to the Ambassador (5)

So many readers have asked my why Ambassador Graham Martin didn’t believe the overwhelming evidence from signals intelligence that the North Vietnamese were about to attack Saigon. I can only speculate.

Martin’s son had died in combat in Vietnam. Perhaps he couldn’t bring himself to believe that the North Vietnamese would be victorious. To do so would mean accepting that his son had died in vain.

And Martin’s reporting to Henry Kissinger, the Secretary of State, and to President Ford emphasized the positive—how well the South Vietnamese were doing—and downplayed the negative—that the North Vietnamese had already conquered more than half the country and were intent on achieving complete victory. He partly reflected and partly contributed to optimistic tone that the U.S. government was presenting to the public.

I still shake my head in wonder that we refused to face the defeat that was staring us in the face and failed to prepare for it. The consequences for me are life-long. The 2700 South Vietnamese soldiers who had worked with NSA during my thirteen years on and off in Vietnam were all killed or captured by the North Vietnamese after we pulled out and abandoned them. I still grieve over their loss. These were men I knew and admired for their bravery and toughness.

Because the ambassador refused to allow me to evacuate my staff, I lied and cheated to get them and their families all safely out of the country, but I was still in Saigon when it fell to the North Vietnamese. My hearing was permanently damaged in the shelling at the end, and I was physically ill from exhaustion and inadequate diet when I finally escaped by helicopter under fire on the night of 29 April 1975—after the North Vietnamese were already in the streets of the city.

So I don’t know why Ambassador Graham Martin failed to heed my warning. I only know the consequences.