Tom Glenn's Blog, page 80

Lost in a Strange City

As I have mentioned several times in this blog, my work during the thirteen years I was in Vietnam has been largely declassified at my behest, but my assignments after the fall of Saigon in April 1975 remain classified. During my time in Vietnam, I had established a reputation for being very effective at working on the battlefield and supporting military units in combat with information derived from secretly intercepted enemy radio communications. So in the years after the fall of Vietnam to the communists, I was sent to a number of different places around the world to do the same kind of work. My knowledge of seven languages other than English served me in good stead.

Without revealing any classified information, I can tell of one of my adventures in a foreign city that will remain nameless. I was assigned to work for several months out of the U.S. embassy in that city. My cover was that I was an equipment repairman sent to work temporarily in the embassy, so I wore the clothes of a working man.

One afternoon when I had time off, I decided to go on a sightseeing walk through the city. For several hours I tramped through the streets marveling at the strangeness and beauty of the ancient metropolis. As the sun reached toward the horizon, I figured I’d better head back and realized that I had lost my way. For an hour or so, I wandered, searching for familiar streets but found none. The fact that I spoke the language of the country was classified, but speakers of English were few and far between. To find my way back, I had to ask for directions in the country’s native language.

It worked. People on the street were more than happy help out a lost stranger, obviously an American, and were complimented that I’d gone to the trouble of learning their language. And, as it turned out, I wasn’t as far from the embassy as I thought. As soon as I arrived, I went straight to the director of security and confessed that I had violated regulations by speaking the local language in public. He was more than a little amused. With a grin he couldn’t hide, he told me he’d let it go this time but don’t ever do it again.

I didn’t. I’d learned my lesson.

April: Anniversary of the Fall of Vietnam (2)

As April progresses, I’ll be continuing my recounting of the events of April 1975 when I lived through the fall of Saigon. This post is the second of my remembrances.

After I evacuated my wife and four children on 9 April, I paid the three servants we’d had (a maid, a cook, and a nanny for the children) multiple times the wages due them and suggested they move out. I knew that, with the city under siege, none of us would be safe in a residential villa. First I moved to the Brinks Batchelor Officer Quarters (BOQ) in downtown Saigon but soon realized I’d need to be with my men at my office around the clock. The office was in the DAO Building on the northern edge of the city. So I moved there. I set up a cot in the front office (my office) of our office suite. The cot sat between the two flags that stood beside my desk, the stars and stripes and the orange and gold flag of the Republic of Vietnam (South Vietnam).

Freed from the time-consuming commute through the city now mobbed by refugees as the North Vietnamese came closer each day, I spent full time arranging for my 43 subordinates and their families to leave Vietnam. American Ambassador Graham Martin, the final authority for all Americans in Vietnam, refused to call for an evacuation. The Hungarian member of the ICCS (International Commission for Control and Supervision, a group set up to monitor the so-called cease fire supposedly in effect) had persuaded him that the North Vietnamese had no intentions of attacking Saigon. Rather, they wanted to form a coalition government “with all patriotic forces” and rule jointly. This from a representative of a communist government allied to North Vietnam. I repeatedly told hm of the overwhelming evidence from the intercept of North Vietnamese communications that an attack was imminent and urged him to start an evacuation as soon as possible. He refused to believe my warnings and forbade me to send my people out of country.

I disobeyed him and flagrantly violated his orders. To safely evacuate my people, I lied and cheated and stole to find ways to get them on planes flying out of Vietnam. Some I sent out on fake vacations, others on phony business travel, still others on bogus home leave.

More next time.

Surrounded by Beauty

At this time of year, I am reminded that I live a life surrounded on every side by beauty. To start  with, my house is filled to overflowing with beautiful pieces of art from all over the world gathered during my years of working abroad. Two of my favorite pieces typify the splendor: a copy of the head of the Virgin from Michelangelo’s Pietá hangs on the wall above my reading chair in the sunroom. And a replica of the head of the Egyptian queen Nefertiti stands in an honored spot in my piano room.

But all that pales beside the magnificence of spring. Everywhere I look these days, I see the blooms of the season bursting forth. All around the pond at the back of my house are trees in white, pink, and red bloom. Below them are forsythia heavy with yellow blossoms. Then there are white and yellow daffodils waving in the gentle spring breezes. Nearby are azaleas, apple and cherry trees, and flowering quince. And the tulips are up, ready to loom.

In short, everywhere I turn I find the glory of new life springing forth. I know that it will be followed by the blaze of summer color, the melancholy of autumn, and the desolation of winter. I will be reminded again that the seasons are a metaphor for the ages of human life. I will be forced to remember that I am far into the winter of my allotted time on earth. But I’ll be comforted knowing that I’ll be around for more springs in years ahead.

Wildlife Nearby

I live in Columbia, Maryland, one of America’s great cities. As I have reported here before, the back of my house looks to the north on a pond or small lake perhaps a hundred feet in diameter half filled with water reeds. All around the pond are trees, of every variety I know of, and lower-growing brush. This pond, which has no name I’m aware of, is one of many bodies of water throughout the city. Ponds are everywhere, and there are several lakes. The largest that sits between Route 29 and the commercial center of the city (including its famous mall) is named Lake Kittamaqundi.

Throughout Columbia interspersed among the homes and village centers are wild areas filled with tress and crisscrossed by macadam walkways. One such walk encircles the pond in back of my house. Joined to it are many more miles of walk that allow me to go on foot to any point in the city.

Because of the preservation of broad sections of wild land and lakes and ponds within the city, I regularly see all manner of animals as I sit on my deck overlooking the pond. The most common are squirrels who scamper through the trees. But I also often see deer in the open field to the east of my house and all along the narrow stretch of land between my patio and the waters of the pond. Geese and ducks are regular visitors to the pond, usually announcing their arrival and departure flights by loud quacking and honking. Occasionally I see a single fox loitering close to the water, and once a month or so, I spot a single rabbit munching on grass. Once, maybe a year ago, I watched a pair of raccoons in a tree that overlooks my deck, and one day last week I saw for the first time a lone beaver dip into the pond then come back up on dry land.

All this is only possible because of the foresight and careful planning of the founder of Columbia, the late Jim Rouse. I am privy to observing wildlife because I live in what is arguably America’s finest city. I will always be grateful to Mr. Rouse.

Time in Exile (2)

I appealed to the director and deputy director of NSA for respite from my exile to no avail. The president’s orders were not to be questioned. I came away with the impression that no one at NSA was cleared for the operation the president was pushing. I got the feeling that NSA leadership was embarrassed by my dilemma but was powerless to act.

To fill the empty hours, I read from the stack of waiting books I always have in my study. I brought in a portable typewriter and worked on my own novels and short stories. I got caught up and even ahead in my letter writing. I was an avid runner in those days, so I allowed myself long runs several times a week, occasionally covering over ten miles.

When, after weeks of banishment, I still didn’t resign, my captor upped the pressure. The heating in the room was turned off. Bulbs in ceiling lights were removed. It got dark and cold in there. So I invested in a space heater and a floor lamp. I brought in turtleneck sweaters and heavy sweatshirts to stay warm.

The president, as it happened, was late in his second term. As winter closed in, he left office and a new man moved into the White House. I immediately appealed to NSA to intervene in my behalf. As soon as it did, my exile was ended. But I didn’t go back to my assignment on the intelligence budget staff. Instead, I returned to NSA. Soon thereafter I was assigned to a responsible and challenging job.

Over time it became obvious to me that the entire episode of my expulsion from the budget staff job had embarrassed the NSA leadership. The less it was spoken of, the better. If anything, the entire episode probably helped my career along because of management’s desire to make reparations for a president’s egregious error.

Over time, as a result of my devotion to the principles leadership as opposed to management and the great success it brought me, I ended up in the high executive ranks at NSA and was able to retire with a generous annuity that has allowed me to write full time.

As is standard for me, I used the fact of my ostracism in my fiction. It became Gene Westmoreland’s story in my novel Secretocracy published last year. But because persecution of intelligence professionals became one of the hallmarks of the Trump administration, I set the story during his time in office.

I have no complaints, but I wouldn’t advise up and coming government employees to defy the president. It doesn’t usually work out.

Time in Exile

I may have already mentioned in this blog the story of my time in exile, but I haven’t told the whole story. So I’ll tell it now. I’ll never forget it.

Many years ago, the National Security Agency (NSA—my employer) assigned me for a three-year tour to work on the Intelligence Budget Staff subordinate to the Director of National Intelligence (DNI), the highest-level executive in national intelligence who exerted control over all seventeen of the U.S. intelligence agencies. While there, I reviewed and approved funding proposals from all over the intelligence community and was blessed with security clearances and access to classified projects I’d never heard of before and have heard nothing of since. That I was given the assignment at all was a testament to my good standing in the intelligence community.

One day I received a proposal from the President of the United States. I’m reluctant to say which president it was because of the extreme secrecy of the planned operation. A mere handful of government officials, me included, were allowed to know of its existence. The undertaking it proposed would include clandestine actions in a number of overseas locations on foreign soil. I refused to fund the project on the grounds that it was clearly illegal—it broke multiple laws then in effect—and violated many international treaties to which the U.S. was signatory.

The president was furious. He stripped me of my security clearances and banished me to a warehouse in a seedy and desolate neighborhood of Anacostia. He didn’t want to fire me outright because I could sue the government if he did. That might mean court cases and news headlines about his pet project. The caretaker at the warehouse advised me to arrive and leave the premises during daylight hours because the streets weren’t safe after dark.

I was given no work to do and assigned to a basement room perhaps twenty feet wide whose front wall, with a door that opened onto the hallway, was a large glass window. The only furniture was a desk and a chair. People who worked in the building regularly passed through the hall and took particular pleasure in gawking at me through the window while talking and laughing among themselves. I discovered a curtain on the hall side of the window and closed it in hopes of a little privacy. The next group of workers who went by opened the curtain and watched me.

More tomorrow.

April: Anniversary of the Fall of Vietnam

April is always a sad month for me. It was in April 1975 that South Vietnam fell to the North Vietnamese communists. I was there, watching it happen. So was my family, my wife and my four children. The U.S., foolishly believing that the war was over and ignoring my warnings, made the assignment in South Vietnam a “gentleman’s tour,” no longer a hardship tour in a war zone, so I was allowed to have my family with me. I succeeded in getting my wife and children out of the country forty-one years ago today, only twenty days before Saigon fell. That same day the North Vietnamese launched their attack on Xuân Lộc, about which more anon.

My wife had been hesitant to leave. The American embassy assured her and other dependents that they could disregard reports that the North Vietnamese were about to attack Saigon. Then, on 8 April, forty-one years ago yesterday, a renegade South Vietnamese air force pilot, who had defected to the North Vietnamese, bombed the presidential palace, close to our house. That persuaded my wife it was time for her and the children to leave.

To my way of thinking, the death knell for South Vietnam was the decision by the U.S. government to cut off financial support for the South Vietnamese government. That assured that the government forces wouldn’t have the needed gasoline to move forces and drive tanks. Lost weapons would not be replaced. Some troops would not be paid. All hope of avoiding defeat was gone.

Central to the final defeat was the battle for and eventual loss of the crossroads town of Xuân Lộc, some 45 miles northeast of Saigon. In hopes of stalling the advance of the People’s Army of Vietnam (PAVN, i.e., the North Vietnamese regular army), the Army of the Republic of Vietnam (ARVN) committed almost all their remaining mobile forces, especially the 18th Division, under Brigadier General Lê Minh Đảo, to the defense of Xuân Lộc. The battle raged from 9 to 21 April 1975. It ended when the town was captured by the PAVN 4th Army Corps led by Major General Hoàng Cầm.

Throughout this sad month, I’ll be continuing the story of the fall of Vietnam. I hope readers will be patient with me as I recount the sad tale.

The Gun Ratio (2)

This morning’s Washington Post features a front-page article announcing that President Biden is going to initiate a series of actions to curb gun violence in the U.S. What President Trump ignored for four years is finally getting attention from the nation’s top executive.

Meanwhile, reactions from readers to my post of yesterday about gun deaths in the U.S. made me realize that most Americans have no understanding of the lethality of firearms. Those of us who have lived through combat on the battlefield are, these days, few and far between. The percentage of Americans who have seen men killed by guns is vanishingly small.

But I’ve seen it. Many times during my thirteen years on the Vietnam battlefields and later elsewhere, I witnessed the horror of what firearms do to the human body. I know, first hand, up close and personal, the unspeakably gruesome consequences of bullets tearing men apart.

What do we have to do to persuade Americans that we must rid ourselves of this monstrosity? Why do some Americans, particularly Republicans, resist movements to reduce the number of firearms in the hands of American citizens?

I don’t know the answers to these questions. I welcome suggestions from readers.

The Gun Ratio

Yesterday’s Washington Post featured an editorial about the number of children killed by guns in the U.S. Some 30,000 have died as a result of gunfire over the past ten years, making guns the second-highest cause of children’s deaths in the U.S. That’s just children. The U.S. has an annual rate of 3.96 deaths per 100,000 people from gun violence, more than eight times higher than the rate in Canada and a hundred times higher than in the United Kingdom.

As reported by the Pew Research Center, “In 2017, the most recent year for which complete data is available, 39,773 people died from gun-related injuries in the U.S., according to the CDC.” The gun ownership rate in the U.S. is 120 guns per 100 people. We have more guns than people.

More statistics: Every day, more than 100 Americans are killed with guns and more than 230 are shot and wounded. Fifty-eight percent of American adults or someone they care for have experienced gun violence in their lifetime. Approximately three million American children witness gun violence every year.

Throughout the world, the ratio between the number of guns and the number of gun deaths per country is consistent—the more guns, the more killed by gun. The only way we can reduce the numbers killed by gunfire is to reduce the number of guns we have.

Many Americans argue that gun ownership and usage is part of our tradition and culture—to be an American means to own a gun. That’s why we have the Second Amendment to the Constitution. I argue that it’s time the U.S. joined the rest of the civilized world and reduced our gun ownership to the lowest level possible. I have always contended that to maintain that the Second Amendment should be interpreted to mean what gun ownership is unlimited is to misread the Amendment. But just to be sure, we should begin at once to work toward a rewrite of the amendment to assure the limitation of gun ownership, or better yet, abolish the amendment altogether.

It’s long since time that the U.S. joined the sane nations of the world in reducing gun ownership to near zero. Only by doing that can we save almost 40,000 lives a year.

Classified

I spent thirty-five years working with the nation’s most secret information. I was an employee of the National Security Agency (NSA), but my assignments for temporary duty to other agencies and government staffs exposed me to a variety of restricted data. In the various jobs I held, I was cleared not only for the three standard categories of classified information—confidential, secret, and top secret—but also for codeword and eventually compartmented data, the most closely held information in the government.

One result is that I knew a great deal about what was going on in the world. In later life, after I retired from the government and no longer held clearances, I began to occasionally have trouble remembering which of my memoires were of classified information and which were of open source (unclassified) data.

The issue came up recently during my discussions with George Veith (he goes by Jay) about his new book, Drawn Swords in a Distant Land: South Vietnam’s Shattered Dreams (Encounter Books, 2021). I read the book and did a question-and-answer piece with Jay for the Washington Independent Review of Books—I’ll post the URL for that article as soon as it’s published. During our give and take, Jay was taken aback that I was so nonchalant about one of the major revelations in the book. It was about a set of events I had known about from classified sources for decades. I had actually forgotten that the source of my knowledge was secret material.

The story turned out to be more personal and complex. Jay had learned the information in question from a South Vietnamese officer living in the U.S. since the fall of Vietnam in 1975. I recognized the name of the officer and realized I had known him. He had been the chief of one of South Vietnam’s intelligence units. One of my jobs back in those days was to keep friendly South Vietnamese officials informed. I had passed on to the officer highly classified information he needed to know to do his job. It was the same information that many years later that officer revealed to Jay. It turned out that, ultimately, I was the source of one of the major surprises in Jay’s new book.

I can’t see how the public exposure of informati0n from more than forty years ago can do any damage in today’s world. The reason the data was classified was the sources and methods that led to our discovering it. Until 2016, much of the story of my work in Vietnam was still classified. It was declassified at my behest so that I could write about it. So surely Jay’s disclosure does no damage.

And yet the story of Jay’s discovery of information that I was the source of more than forty years ago is disquieting. What other surprises lay ahead?