The Last 30 Hours of Saigon

O n March 10, 1975, the North Vietnamese army launched what would turn out to be its last offensive against the South, sending more than 100,000 troops down the Ho Chi Minh Trail. In two days, the army was able to take Ban Me Thuot in the Central Highlands. By the end of March, the North Vietnamese army entered Da Nang unopposed, triggering an airlift of Americans and South Vietnamese. On April 27, 16 divisions of North Vietnamese troops began their final assault on South Vietnam’s capital. What follows is a chronology of the last, desperate 30 hours before the fall of Saigon.

APRIL 29

3:45 a.m. Saigon is awakened by the thunder of Communist rockets and 130-millimeter artillery fire pounding Tan Son Nhut Air Base at the edge of the city. Saigon has been under siege for two days, with 16 divisions of North Vietnamese troops--about 150,000 soldiers in all--encircling the capital in an ever-tightening stranglehold. The shelling of Tan Son Nhut halts the airlift already in progress and makes a swift and orderly evacuation virtually impossible.

The first of the Soviet-made SA-3 rockets explodes next to the U.S. defense attache office, killing two U.S. Marines, Lance Cpl. Darwin L. Judge of Marshalltown, Iowa, and Cpl. Charles McMahon Jr. of Woburn, Mass. They are the last Americans to die on South Vietnamese soil. A C-130 transport plane is destroyed as its pilot tries to lift off through the barrage of incoming artillery fire, but the crew and passengers manage to escape.

From the sanctuary of the Continental Palace Hotel, Western correspondents monitor an account of the attack over a radio frequency used by the U.S. mission: “The ICCS (International Commission for Control and Supervision) is burning. . . . The back of the gymnasium has been hit. . . . My God, we’ve got two Marine KIAs (killed in action).”

Another report comes in: Communist forces are beginning a ground assault in the outskirts of Saigon, with the heaviest fighting reported along Highway 1 less than 10 miles from the western edge of the capital.

9 a.m. The horizon is dotted with South Vietnamese helicopters heading out to sea, where a convoy of 40 U.S. rescue ships are on standby 200 miles from Saigon in the South China Sea. Five Vietnamese helicopters and two Air America choppers descend on the Blue Ridge, the command ship of the rescue fleet. One of the Air America helicopters lands first, then a Vietnamese Chinook helicopter sets down almost on top of it, the propellers of the two aircraft clanging together, disintegrating, sending jagged pieces of metal across the flight deck. The doors of the Chinook open, and women clutching crying children emerge. Sailors shove the disabled aircraft over the side so that other helicopters can land. Pilots are told to ditch their helicopters into the sea. Some perform amazing feats of aerobatics. One takes his Chinook up to about 100 feet, pushes the stick to the left, then leaps out the right side.

9:54 a.m. The shelling of Tan Son Nhut has subsided. Two American C-130s circle high above the air base, their pilots requesting permission to land. Gen. Homer Smith, head of the U.S. defense attache office, sends word to the pilots to descend to 16,000 feet and prepare for landing in 16 minutes.

10:10 a.m. Smith radioes Adm. Noel Gayler, commander in chief of the Pacific Fleet, with a disturbing report that sets off alarms all the way in Washington, where members of the National Security Council are monitoring radio transmissions from Saigon. The situation at Tan Son Nhut is getting out of control, Smith reports. There is a near-riot on the runways, which have been flooded by panic-stricken crowds. A Vietnamese-operated C-130 has been abandoned on one of the runways with its engine still running. Another C-130 is being blocked from taking off by a jeep. Smith says that all hope of landing any more C-130s is lost. Any evacuation, he says, will have to be carried out by helicopter. The two C-130s circling above the air base are told to leave.

Ambassador Graham Martin receives word from South Vietnamese President Duong Van (Big) Minh that the Americans have 24 hours to leave the country. Martin then recommends to Washington that “Option 4” be implemented. This refers to a section of the contingency plan headed “(IV) Helicopter Extraction.” The first three options involve evacuation by fixed-wing aircraft and hinge on Tan Son Nhut being open. Evacuation by helicopter is considered the option of last resort because of the greater risks involved. Ironically, the very people the first three options hoped to save, including thousands of South Vietnamese long associated with the Americans, have thronged on the runways and are preventing the planes from landing.

10:51 a.m. Word finally arrives from Washington: Begin Operation Frequent Wind. An announcer on American Radio Services sends out the prearranged Mayday signal. “It is 105 degrees and rising,” he says. His music selection is “White Christmas” by Bing Crosby. It is broadcast, along with the “weather report,” at 15-minute intervals. That message sends the last remaining Americans to 13 landing zones throughout the downtown district. The landing zones are all atop American-owned or -operated buildings. Meanwhile, waves of F-4 fighter bombers take off from American bases in Thailand to provide air cover for the helicopters. In addition to the 40 U.S. rescue ships in the South China Sea, there are 6,000 Marines, 120 Air Force combat and tanker planes and 150 Navy planes to help in the operation.

Noon As word of the evacuation spreads through the streets of Saigon, America’s 30-year involvement in the Indochina war begins its tumultuous, surrealistic end. At the American Embassy’s main gate, grim-faced Marines in full battle gear use rifle butts to smash the fingers of those among the panic-stricken crowd trying to climb the 10-foot-high walls. Some people try to jump the wall and land on the barbed wire. Others clear the wall, only to be thrown back outside. Mothers hold up their children, pleading with the Americans to take them.

At the central post office, crowds of people claw their way to the telegram counter. Cable traffic quadruples to 20,000 messages as the pleas for help get sent out across the globe. Western correspondents gather at Saigon’s main hotels, from which they are led to various landing zones. Some correspondents, however, elect to remain behind.

An abandoned American bowling alley becomes a makeshift waiting room for thousands of South Vietnamese desperate to leave the country. A sign on the wall provides an eerie notion for these frantic, desperate moments: “Tat tat ca den, may lanh va quat khi ra ve,” it says, “Turn off the lights, air conditioners and fans when leaving.”

Elsewhere, the city’s main thoroughfares are jammed with vehicles of all types--bicycles, pedicabs, motorbikes, taxis, small trucks--anything that can roll. The hot, humid Saigon air is blue with exhaust fumes as the procession of motor vehicles zooms endlessly past abandoned sidewalk cafes. Many families huddle in their homes, afraid of what will happen when North Vietnamese troops finally arrive. Not everyone is gripped by fear, however. Some merchants have already begun stocking the black uniforms favored by the Viet Cong.

1:00 p.m. The first of the American helicopters passes over the American Embassy to a tennis court at the U.S. defense attache office next to Tan Son Nhut Air Base. Landing two at a time, the helicopters disgorge squads of Marines--860 in all--to reinforce the 125 Marines already at the scene. The helicopters quickly pick up a load of evacuees and leave. Angry Vietnamese guards fire in the air and at the evacuees, shouting, “We want to go too.”

Throughout the day and night, wave upon wave of American helicopters swoop down on the capital, pluck evacuees off the landing zones and ferry them 200 miles out to the rescue fleet. Chaos lurks around every corner as the capital is enveloped by panic and confusion.

The Saigon River provides an escape route for countless evacuees who take boats down to the port of Vung Tau, where hundreds of ships are jammed with refugees.

Meanwhile, the South Vietnamese air force stages its own evacuation. Planes pour into Utapao Air Base, a U.S.-run facility about 110 miles southeast of Bangkok. By nightfall, 74 planes bring in 2,000 Vietnamese civilians and soldiers.

6 p.m. Helicopters land at the U.S. Embassy compound, bringing in Marine reinforcements. There are two landing zones at the compound--the embassy roof, which can withstand the weight of a CH-46 and its 20 passengers, and the parking lot, where the larger CH-53s will each pick up 50 passengers.

By nightfall, the evacuation at Tan Son Nhut has been accomplished, but the rescue operation at the embassy continues. Sheets of rain pelt the city, and visibility drops to a mile or less. Some helicopter pilots rely on flares fired by Marines within the embassy compound to guide them to the landing zones. Others home in on flashlights. Waves of helicopters arrive and leave 10 minutes apart.

Outside the compound, the Vietnamese crowd grows uglier. Floor by floor, the Marines retreat toward the roof of the embassy, followed by looters. Abandoned offices are transformed into junkyards of smashed office equipment and ransacked file cabinets. Marines barricade the doors leading to the roof. The evacuation at the embassy continues through the long night.

APRIL 30

4:30 a.m. Ambassador Martin is the last American official to leave. Tempers are frayed, both in Washington and Saigon. Martin has drawn up a list of about 500 Vietnamese to be evacuated and has refused to leave until they are all safely gone. He is on the phone to Washington, asking permission to extend the deadline for the evacuation. Finally, a young pilot strides into Martin’s office and hands the ambassador a scrawled message. “The President of the United States directs Ambassador Martin to come out on this helicopter.” Martin puts down the phone, walks up to the chopper and flies out. Only a contingent of about 30 Marines remains.

By dawn, the streets of the City of Sorrows are deserted.

7:53 a.m. The Marines huddle on the embassy roof and wait for a chopper. Firing a red smoke grenade, they guide in a CH-46 helicopter. As it touches down, the Marines scramble aboard, completing the evacuation of 900 Americans and about 5,000 Vietnamese.

10:24 a.m. South Vietnamese President Minh, who has been in power less than a week, surrenders unconditionally. “The Republic of Vietnam policy is the policy of peace and reconciliation, aimed at saving the blood of our people,” he says in a five-minute radio broadcast. “We are here waiting for the Provisional Revolutionary Government to hand over the authority in order to stop useless bloodshed.”

11:05 a.m. Tank No. 879 of the First Battalion of the People’s Liberation Armed Forces bursts open the gates of the Presidential Palace. There is little resistance from the palace guards.

Col. Bui Tin, the ranking officer of the People’s Liberation army in the capital, accepts Minh’s surrender. Referring to the celebratory gunfire outside, Tin says: “You have nothing to fear. Between Vietnamese, there are no victors and no vanquished. Only the Americans have been beaten. If you are patriots, consider this a moment of joy. The war for our country is over.”

Evacuation Under Fire 1. On April 29, North Vietnamese troops launch a pre-dawn rocket attack on Tan Son Nhut Air Base, triggering a massive helicopter evacuation of Americans and South Vietnamese. 2. Wave upon wave of helicopters swoop down on Saigon to pluck evacuees from rooftops while fighters fly air cover. Thousands of refugees flee by boat on the Saigon River to the SouthChina Sea, where American rescue ships are on standby. 3. By dawn of April 30, about 900 Americans and 5,000 Vietnamese have been airlifted out of the city. The South Vietnamese government surrenders unconditionally at 10:24 a.m.