Tom Glenn's Blog, page 173

My Predecessor in Saigon (2)

Saigon, 1975: A piquant detail about the effect of my predecessor’s management style came from one of the guys who arrived not long before the end in Saigon as a replacement for another man returning to the states. In the room that the departing man had lived in, the new man found a drawer full of the most hideous and outrageous neckties he’d ever seen. The staff, as it turned out, had met the boss’s demand that they wear ties, but they expressed their disapproval by wearing the most outlandish ones they could find. As I later learned, Americans in Saigon all knew who the NSA people were by their wild ties.

As it became clear that Saigon was going to fall, I turned my full attention to getting my guys and the wives and children of the married men out of the country. The ambassador, persuaded that the North Vietnamese would never attack Saigon, despite the overwhelming evidence I was providing him, forbade me to evacuate my men and their families. So I used every ruse I could think of to get them out. I lied and cheated and stole. But I succeeded. All 43 of my men and all the families were gone by the time I escaped under fire on the night of 29 April after the North Vietnamese were in the streets of the city.

In my concern for my men, I made an error. I managed when I should have led. To wit: I withheld from them that the ambassador wouldn’t allow them to leave the country. And until very recently, I thought I had succeeded in keeping that unpleasant news from them. Then, toward the end of last year. I had lunch one day with one of my former subordinates. He told me they all knew about the ambassador’s order. They had read my outgoing eyes-only messages to my boss, General Lew Allen, the Director of NSA, telling him of my problem and what I was doing to solve it—sending people out under false pretenses. My guys were a lot smarter—and more devious—than I had given them credit for.

After all but two of my men were evacuated, I finally got them out on a helicopter on the afternoon of 29 April. I went out that night. We hadn’t slept and had barely eaten the last week we were holed up in the office as the North Vietnamese attacked Saigon. By the time I arrived in Honolulu toward the middle of May, still wearing the clothes I’d been evacuated in, I was suffering from amoebic dysentery and pneumonia as a result of prolonged sleep deprivation, inadequate diet, and muscle fatigue. My predecessor, now the NSA chief in Hawaii, met me at the airport. He took one look at me and said, “You can’t be seen around here looking like that.”

I’m not being coy about not giving the name of my predecessor. It’s still classified.

My Predecessor in Saigon

A recent exchange with one of the guys who worked with me in Saigon reminded me of the problems I had when I first arrived in-country. My predecessor, something of an autocrat, had tried to compel his workforce to act like country gentlemen while working in a war zone. He insisted that they all wear ties to work, even though no other American government office in Saigon followed that rule—in a tropical climate, short-sleeved dress shirts with an open collar was standard. He also demanded that that these young bachelors (only a few were married) live lives of decorum and genteel propriety. No wild parties, no consorting with local females, as little alcohol as possible. After the guys regularly disobeyed him, he had his security office tail them and surreptitiously surveil their dwellings.

One of the first things I did when I took over was to have an all-hands meeting. I told the guys no more ties. Even I didn’t wear one. I asked them to stay out of trouble, but if they did run into a problem to let me know before word got to the U.S. embassy, and we’d work together to straighten things out.

I had learned long before that to be a success, I had to be a leader, not a manager. You lead people, and you manage things. I let my people know that I was there to do all I could to help them excel in their work. My job was to lift them, not hold them down.

I never had a single problem. My men, who were already experts at their jobs, worked harder than I had any right to expect. They routinely put in twelve-hour days, just as I did. As the fall of Vietnam got closer, we were working seven-day weeks and sometimes sleeping at the office. Their achievements in detecting what the North Vietnamese were up to and foretelling what they’d do next and where amazed me.

More tomorrow.

Marine General Al Gray (5)

General Gray has been kind enough to stay in touch over the years. We appeared together at a number of conferences, and he shared the stage with me in 2016 at the National Security Agency when I told the story of what happened to me, an NSA employee, in Saigon.

Two other details about the general are worth mentioning. Scott Laidig, in his biography of General Gray (Al Gray, Marine: The Early Years, 1958-1975, Vol 2), briefly mentions General Gray’s rescue of me in a detailed narrative about the fall of Saigon. He notes that I was seriously ill. I’m honored to be included in the long list of achievements that General Gray accomplished during those terrifying days.

The other detail is a short conversation that the general and I had sometime in the mid-1960s. I asked him why he never married. His answer: “If the Marine Corps wanted me to have a wife, it would issue me one.” The general did marry later. I’ve never met his wife. If I ever do, I’ll keep that memory to myself.

Marine General Al Gray (4)

At about 1400 (2:00 p.m.) on 29 April 1975, the Marines finally evacuated the two men, Bob and Gary, who had agreed to stay with me to the end as Saigon fell. Unlike the period of preparation, when the Marines flew to Saigon in mufti and on civilian helicopters, now they were in full uniform and came in on Marine choppers. But they also enlisted Air America, a civilian corporation operating in South Vietnam, in the evacuation. The company used little Hueys, the slicks, Bell UH-1 Iroquois helicopters, for transporting their employees around the country.

As night fell, rains started. I pleaded with Al Gray to delay my departure until I got confirmation that Bob and Gary were safe on a ship of the 7th Fleet, but he was having none of that, and in words I can’t repeat, told me to get on that helicopter now. I did as I was told. I carried with me the .38 revolver I’d slept with on a cot, first in my office, later in the comms center when everyone but Bob, Gary, and me was gone. And under my arms were the two flags that had stood on both sides of my desk, the stars and stripes and the gold and orange banner of the Republic of Vietnam (South Vietnam).

For some reason, Al put me on one of the slicks. No sooner were we airborne than I saw tracers coming at us. We took so much lead in the fuselage that I thought we were going down. But we made it. When we were “feet wet”—over water—the pilot immediately dropped us down to just above the ocean. My stomach felt like it had stayed high above us.

After we landed on the Oklahoma City, the flagship of the 7th Fleet, in the pitch black and pouring rain, sailors relieved me of my .38, but I wouldn’t give them the flags. Today those flags are in the Cryptologic Museum at Fort Meade, Maryland.

I was in terrible physical shape. I’d done without food or sleep for days. When I got back to the states, I was diagnosed with amoebic dysentery and pneumonia due to sleep, deprivation, inadequate diet, and muscle fatigue. It took some months for me to recuperate.

But I did recuperate. That was 43 years ago. During those years, I published four books, 17 short stories, and various nonfiction articles. I lived to see my children grow up, marry, and have children of their own.

I owe Al Gray those 43 years. If it hadn’t been for him and his Marines, I’d have died in Saigon. How do you say thank you for a gift like that?

Marine General Al Gray (3)

As the fall of Saigon got closer and the 7th Fleet cruised in the South China Sea in preparation for the evacuation of Americans and some Vietnamese from the city, the Ambassador was doing everything he could to hamper the effort. He wouldn’t allow Al Gray and his Marines to dress in uniform, fly their own helicopters into the country, or stay overnight. So Al and his troops, in civilian clothes, had to fly in and out each day from the 7th Fleet via Air America slicks, the little Hueys, the UH-1 choppers that could only carry eight to fourteen people. Al’s form of protest was that wild outfit he was wearing—an outrageous Hawaiian shirt, shorts, and shower shoes.

It didn’t matter. Ambassador or no Ambassador, the Marines had landed. They’d carry out for the evacuation the instant it was ordered.

The next time I saw Al, he was in full uniform. This time he’d flown in from the 7th Fleet on a Marine helicopter. The pretense was over. Saigon was falling.

Before that, around four in the morning on 29 April, we received a message telling us that Frequent Wind Phase Four had been declared. The was the codename for the evacuation.

I telephoned the embassy. “The evacuation has been declared,” I said. “Get us out of here!” The lady I talked to was polite, even gracious. She explained to me, as one does to child, that the embassy could do nothing for us—we were too far away, and, although I probably didn’t know it, the people in the streets were rioting. Of course I knew it; I could see them. I uttered an unprintable curse. She responded, “You’re welcome.”

When the Marines from the 7th Fleet landed, I tracked down Al Gray and asked if he could fit us in with his guys when he pulled out. He reassured me he would.

More tomorrow.

Marine General Al Gray (2)

A reader who is herself a veteran thanked me for posting on Al Gray. She and I agree: at a time when our national leaders have become spectacularly self-serving, we do well to honor a Marine commander who always put the welfare of his troops ahead of his own: Al Gray.

So let me continue my discussion of Marine General Al Gray occasioned by his picture on the cover of the July 2018 Leatherneck:

In the spring of 1975, as the fall of Saigon loomed, I had moved from my villa after my wife and children were evacuated. I spent full time getting my staff of 43 guys and their families out of Saigon even though the U.S. Ambassador, Graham Martin, had forbidden me to evacuate them. I sent them out on phony vacations, fake business travel, and trumped-up home leave. By the last week of April, I was down to a handful of men. We were short on food, and sleep had become a luxury. North Vietnamese shelling got closer each day.

One day, I was on my cot I my office trying desperately to get much-needed rest when the door chime sounded. I took my .38 revolver to the door and looked out the peephole. Outside was a middle-aged American man with reddish hair. He wore the wildest Hawaiian shirt I had even seen—colors so bright they hurt my eyes—shorts, and flip-flops. This in a war zone. He gave me a round-handed wave and a silly grin. I recognized him. It was Al Gray. I’d never before seen Al out of uniform. I didn’t think he owned any civilian clothes. And I knew he avoided coming to Saigon. He hated bureaucracy, and his job was in the field with his troops.

I put aside the .38, and we went in my office and we talked. I told him everything I knew about the military situation, but he knew more than I did. What he didn’t know in detail was what was going on with the friendlies. I told him about the unruly, desperate crowds jamming the streets and now ten to fifteen people deep outside the perimeter fence of our compound and my worry that the fence might not hold. He explained to me that he’d been named the Ground Security Officer—the man in charge—for the evacuation of Saigon once it was ordered.

More tomorrow.

Marine General Al Gray

The cover of this month’s Leatherneck magazine shows a picture of Al Gray, the Marine officer who saved my life during the fall of Saigon. Inside is an extensive article on General Gray. It mentions briefly his work in the evacuation of Saigon in April 1975.

Al Gray is a hero to Marines. I’ve never met a Marine who didn’t know who Al Gray is. He started his career as an enlisted man, later attained officer status. In his early years, he worked in the signals intelligence business but then became a combat commander.

I first me Al Gray in the early 1960s in Vietnam. In those days he was a captain. As we both crisscrossed South Vietnam, we kept running into one another. And my work as the signals intelligence guy in support of Marine units in combat meant that I was kept up to date on the latest about Al—where he was and what he was doing.

I always enjoyed the rank equivalency I shared with Al. As he moved up in the Marine ranks, I did the same as a civilian employee of the U.S. government. After the fall of Saigon, as I joined the executive ranks, he became a general. The parallel continued until he became Commandant of the Marine Corps. At that point, I stopped calling him Al and addressed him as “sir.”

I’ve told the story of General Gray’s rescue of me from the fall of Saigon before in this blog, but it’s worth repeating.

More tomorrow.

Who Shot at My Escaping Helicopter?

I’ve decided to post again the text from more than a year ago about my escape under fire during the fall of Saigon. I can’t say it any better now than I did then:

On the evening of 29 April 1975, I escaped from Saigon as it fell. My flight from Tan Son Nhat, on the northern edge of the city, was part of Operation Frequent Wind, the evacuation of Americans and some South Vietnamese as the North Vietnamese took the city. I flew out on a slick, a little Huey, rather than one of the big CH-53s. As soon as we were airborne, I saw the tracers coming at us. We took so much lead in the fuselage that I thought we were going down. But we made it. In the dark and the rain, we flew out to the South China Sea where the ships of the U.S. 7th Fleet were waiting. The pilot, despite the pelting rain and the pitch black, circled repeatedly. Finally, very slowly, he descended and landed on the floodlit helipad of the Oklahoma City, the flagship of the 7th Fleet. He told me later that he, an Air America civilian pilot, had never before landed on a ship.

Two aspects of the escape intrigue me even today.

First, why was it raining? The monsoon season, with its spectacular downpours, wasn’t due until the following month. Did the monsoon come early to coincide with the fall of Vietnam to the communists?

And second, who was firing at us?

Background: I don’t know how many U.S. and Vietnamese helicopters carried people from the city during Operation Frequent Wind. My guess is that it was hundreds. The North Vietnamese by the evening of 29 April were already in the streets of Saigon. They had a full complement of anti-aircraft weapons. And yet, as far I know, not one chopper was shot down. They could have brought down dozens, but they didn’t.

In puzzling through what happened, I’ve concluded that the North Vietnamese didn’t want to impede the U.S. flight from Vietnam. Had they fired at our helicopters, we could have inflicted great damage on them with the combat aircraft we had in the vicinity. Besides, all they wanted was for us to leave.

So who shot at the Huey I was in?

My best guess is that it was the South Vietnamese military whom we were abandoning to their fate. They had large weapons with tracer ammunition—used to show the shooter if his bullets are hitting the target. And they were both furious and desperate as we flew away and left them to the mercies of the North Vietnamese.

I escaped alive, though they certainly tried hard to bring me down. I can understand how they felt. In the end, I was the lucky one. They were all killed or captured by the North Vietnamese.

The 1967 Battle of Dak To (8)

So the common belief that the 1968 North Vietnamese Tet Offensive took the U.S. military by surprise is untrue. They were forewarned. NSA published a report forecasting country-wide attacks, and I alerted General Westmoreland. No one believed us.

As noted in a recent post, I called that dilemma the Cassandra Effect. Like Cassandra, I was blessed with knowledge of what would happen in the future and cursed that I wasn’t believed.

With an irony worthy of Satan, it happened again at the very end of the war. In April 1975, I warned Graham Martin, the American ambassador, that the North Vietnamese were about to attack Saigon. He refused to believe me and didn’t call for an evacuation. He told President Ford and Secretary of State Henry Kissinger that the evidence of a forthcoming attack could be dismissed—it was due to “communications deception.”

He forbade me from evacuating my 43 subordinates and their families. I’ve reported here in detail how I used every ruse I could think of to get me people safely out of the country. By 27 April, all but three of us—myself and the two communicators who had volunteered to stay with me to the end—were gone. The attack began on 28 April. The two communicators were safely evacuated the next afternoon. I went out after dark that night under fire in the pouring rain.

My South Vietnamese partners, the men I was working with, weren’t so lucky. The North Vietnamese killed or captured some 2,700 of them. Those who survived were sent to “re-education” camps, really concentration camps, where many of them died.

The Cassandra Effect. And I will never cease grieving over my Vietnamese comrades who died because my warning went unheeded.

The 1967 Battle of Dak To (7)

As the battle for Dak To drew to a close, the enlisted men of the 4th Infantry Division (not the officers) continued to be entertained by the presence of a high-ranking civilian—me—in their midst pretending to be one of them. My cover was that I was an enlisted grunt, and as I reported earlier, I lived with them and ate C-rations sitting beside them in the dirt. They decided to treat me to a slamming ride along the perimeter in an armored personnel carrier (APG), and of course they took snapshots of me in my uniform they had paid a tailor to decorate with name tags, my rank, and the unit crest. The ride ended unceremoniously when the guy driving went over an “unexpected” rise at top speed, and I flew completely out of the APG.

I left the highlands in December when the offensive was all but over. Occasional artillery and rocket attacks continued (one destroyed the tent in which I’d been working), but intercept showed withdrawal, regrouping, and preparations for a nation-wide offensive which was launched the following January, the Têt Offensive. The night before I left, there was to have been farewell party, but it had to be replaced by a quick get-together in the operations tent. Everybody was too busy to take time out. After that, I knew the noble men I worked with would never change.

I moved south to support U.S forces near Bien Hoa, just north of Saigon. When I got there, I saw all the same communications indicators we were picking up in the highlands. U.S. signals intelligence units all over the country were seeing the same patterns. We realized that an offensive was going to occur throughout the country starting at the end of January. NSA pulled together all the evidence and foretold the Têt Offensive.

I warned General Westmoreland, commander of Military Assistance Command, Vietnam (MACV). He didn’t believe me and didn’t prepare.

The Cassandra Effect writ large.

More tomorrow.