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1975: Saigon surrenders
I posted this same thing, at a place they might care.
Never one to slight the mental range of the majority of ACS posters, I share with you now, also.
And the feeding frenzy can begin.
The war in Vietnam ended today as the government in Saigon announced its unconditional surrender to the Vietcong.
The President, Duong Van Minh, who has been in office for just three days, made the announcement in a radio broadcast to the nation early this morning. He asked his forces to lay down their arms and called on the Vietcong to halt all hostilities.
In a direct appeal to the Communist forces, he said: "We are here to hand over to you the power in order to avoid bloodshed."
The announcement was followed swiftly by the arrival of Vietcong troops. Their entrance was virtually unopposed, confounding predictions of a bloody and protracted last-ditch battle for the city.
War ends
The front line of tanks smashed through the gates of the presidential palace within minutes, and at 1130 local time (0330 GMT), decades of war came to an end.
Vietcong troops, many barefoot and some no more than teenagers, rounded up government soldiers, and raised their red and blue flags. The looting which has ravaged the city over the last 24 hours stopped, and power was restored later in the day. Only the United States embassy remained closed and silent, ransacked by looters.
Saigon was immediately renamed Ho Chi Minh City. A statement by the Provisional Revolutionary Government, or PRG, in Paris, promised a policy of non-alignment, and the peaceful reunification of Vietnam.
The British government is now urgently reviewing the possibility of recognising the PRG. France has already recognised the new regime, and other Western countries are preparing to follow suit.
Frenzied evacuation
The capitulation of the South Vietnamese government came just four hours after the last frenzied evacuation of Americans from the city. President Ford, who has requested humanitarian aid for the Vietnamese, let it be known that he was proud to have saved what Vietnamese he could in the last, frantic helicopter evacuation.
But there is said to be deep humiliation in the United States government at the desperation and chaos of the final hours of America's presence in Vietnam.
The President ordered United States ships to remain indefinitely off the Vietnamese coast to pick up refugees: but even this gesture has been snubbed by the North Vietnamese, who have prevented any more refugees from fleeing.
South Vietnamese civilians outside the US Embassy in Saigon scrambled to reach evacuation helicopters on April 29, 1975. (AP Photo)
HO CHI MINH CITY
Unparalleled panic
By H.D.S. Greenway, Globe Staff, 4/30/2000
he helicopter that took me away from Saigon rose from the compound of the American Embassy in a sudden squall. I could see below me panicked masses in the rain-washed streets desperate to get away. To the north, ammunition dumps were blowing up and fires raged in the distance.
We crossed the coast in the gathering dark where an American fleet lay waiting offshore to receive us. South Vietnamese helicopters, like butterflies borne on an offshore wind, landed briefly on the ships before being tossed overboard to make room for more, or, as if exhausted, fell into the sea themselves. What happened to their crews I do not know.
All about us in the darkness were the flotillas of overcrowded boats - the first hemorrhaging of Vietnamese that would grow to more than a million in the years to come. It was April, 29, 1975.
America's last day in Vietnam began with the sound of artillery shells bursting in the city. There had been weeks of rising tension as the South Vietnamese Army disintegrated before a North Vietnamese offensive, and this time there were no American troops, planes, or even advisors to help them.
Unparalleled scenes of panic had unfolded in the northern cities with hundreds trying to claw their way aboard the last departing boats and planes, some even hanging onto the wheels of aircraft as the debacle spread south.
On little transistor radios that reporters had, we could hear the communication traffic between the American Embassy and the airport. ''Tan Son Nhut (airport) being heavily shelled,'' said a voice. ''Four rounds in five seconds on the flight line.'' Two US Marines from the embassy had been killed: Corporal Darwin Judge and Corporal Charles McMahon, the last Americans to die in the Vietnam War. The first had been Lieutenant Colonel Peter Dewey, an officer in the OSS, who was ambushed trying to reach this same airport in 1945.
In the last weeks of April 1975, Americans and Vietnamese who worked for them had been flying out of the city to Guam, to the Philippines. Now those flights would end and the only way out would be by helicopter.
All Americans had been issued a map with instructions telling them where to report ''should it be felt necessary for US personnel to report to their designated assembly areas....'' The word ''evacuation'' was never mentioned in the instructions. We were told to keep tuned to the radio for a weather report announcing: ''105 degrees and rising,'' which would be followed by 30 seconds of Bing Crosby singing ''White Christmas.'' This would be the signal to report to designated areas and await the helicopters. I never heard the signal nor met anyone who ever did.
I decided to go to the embassy, where, during the day, surrealistic scenes would unfold, with hundreds, perhaps thousands, of Vietnamese clamoring at the gates to be let in, and the embassy staff shredding documents and burning money, lest it fall into enemy hands.
When the helicopters arrived, the wind from their rotors sent shredded secrets bursting from their bags and flying over the walls into the city that was about to be abandoned. It was clear by afternoon that not all the Vietnamese that had been compromised by working for the Americans were coming with us. The knowledge of the coming betrayal kept many eyes averted. Many Vietnamese left behind would spend up to 20 years in concentration camps being ''reeducated''; many would die of neglect and malnutrition.
At first the city seemed not to realize what was going on, but as afternoon came, word spread and Saigon began to seethe with the rolling-eyed fear of animals caught in a burning barn. The crowds outside the embassy increased while American Marine guards beat back those who tried to climb over the wall, heedless of the barbed wire. As if from drowning passengers around a sinking ship, a moaning clamor arose outside the compound as the Vietnamese outside saw the helicopters come and go without them.
Cobra gunships swooped over the rooftops, ready to fire if the evacuation was impeded, but except for a few shots fired by angry South Vietnamese soldiers, the evacuation went on without hindrance and none of the helicopters was lost.
Later that evening, US Ambassador Graham Martin would arrive aboard a rescue ship by helicopter with his dog, which he had taken pains to rescue, and the following morning, North Vietnamese tanks would crash through the gates of Saigon's presidential palace. The 30-year war was over.
This story ran on page M17 of the Boston Globe on 4/30/2000.
Never one to slight the mental range of the majority of ACS posters, I share with you now, also.
And the feeding frenzy can begin.
The war in Vietnam ended today as the government in Saigon announced its unconditional surrender to the Vietcong.
The President, Duong Van Minh, who has been in office for just three days, made the announcement in a radio broadcast to the nation early this morning. He asked his forces to lay down their arms and called on the Vietcong to halt all hostilities.
In a direct appeal to the Communist forces, he said: "We are here to hand over to you the power in order to avoid bloodshed."
The announcement was followed swiftly by the arrival of Vietcong troops. Their entrance was virtually unopposed, confounding predictions of a bloody and protracted last-ditch battle for the city.
War ends
The front line of tanks smashed through the gates of the presidential palace within minutes, and at 1130 local time (0330 GMT), decades of war came to an end.
Vietcong troops, many barefoot and some no more than teenagers, rounded up government soldiers, and raised their red and blue flags. The looting which has ravaged the city over the last 24 hours stopped, and power was restored later in the day. Only the United States embassy remained closed and silent, ransacked by looters.
Saigon was immediately renamed Ho Chi Minh City. A statement by the Provisional Revolutionary Government, or PRG, in Paris, promised a policy of non-alignment, and the peaceful reunification of Vietnam.
The British government is now urgently reviewing the possibility of recognising the PRG. France has already recognised the new regime, and other Western countries are preparing to follow suit.
Frenzied evacuation
The capitulation of the South Vietnamese government came just four hours after the last frenzied evacuation of Americans from the city. President Ford, who has requested humanitarian aid for the Vietnamese, let it be known that he was proud to have saved what Vietnamese he could in the last, frantic helicopter evacuation.
But there is said to be deep humiliation in the United States government at the desperation and chaos of the final hours of America's presence in Vietnam.
The President ordered United States ships to remain indefinitely off the Vietnamese coast to pick up refugees: but even this gesture has been snubbed by the North Vietnamese, who have prevented any more refugees from fleeing.
South Vietnamese civilians outside the US Embassy in Saigon scrambled to reach evacuation helicopters on April 29, 1975. (AP Photo)
HO CHI MINH CITY
Unparalleled panic
By H.D.S. Greenway, Globe Staff, 4/30/2000
he helicopter that took me away from Saigon rose from the compound of the American Embassy in a sudden squall. I could see below me panicked masses in the rain-washed streets desperate to get away. To the north, ammunition dumps were blowing up and fires raged in the distance.
We crossed the coast in the gathering dark where an American fleet lay waiting offshore to receive us. South Vietnamese helicopters, like butterflies borne on an offshore wind, landed briefly on the ships before being tossed overboard to make room for more, or, as if exhausted, fell into the sea themselves. What happened to their crews I do not know.
All about us in the darkness were the flotillas of overcrowded boats - the first hemorrhaging of Vietnamese that would grow to more than a million in the years to come. It was April, 29, 1975.
America's last day in Vietnam began with the sound of artillery shells bursting in the city. There had been weeks of rising tension as the South Vietnamese Army disintegrated before a North Vietnamese offensive, and this time there were no American troops, planes, or even advisors to help them.
Unparalleled scenes of panic had unfolded in the northern cities with hundreds trying to claw their way aboard the last departing boats and planes, some even hanging onto the wheels of aircraft as the debacle spread south.
On little transistor radios that reporters had, we could hear the communication traffic between the American Embassy and the airport. ''Tan Son Nhut (airport) being heavily shelled,'' said a voice. ''Four rounds in five seconds on the flight line.'' Two US Marines from the embassy had been killed: Corporal Darwin Judge and Corporal Charles McMahon, the last Americans to die in the Vietnam War. The first had been Lieutenant Colonel Peter Dewey, an officer in the OSS, who was ambushed trying to reach this same airport in 1945.
In the last weeks of April 1975, Americans and Vietnamese who worked for them had been flying out of the city to Guam, to the Philippines. Now those flights would end and the only way out would be by helicopter.
All Americans had been issued a map with instructions telling them where to report ''should it be felt necessary for US personnel to report to their designated assembly areas....'' The word ''evacuation'' was never mentioned in the instructions. We were told to keep tuned to the radio for a weather report announcing: ''105 degrees and rising,'' which would be followed by 30 seconds of Bing Crosby singing ''White Christmas.'' This would be the signal to report to designated areas and await the helicopters. I never heard the signal nor met anyone who ever did.
I decided to go to the embassy, where, during the day, surrealistic scenes would unfold, with hundreds, perhaps thousands, of Vietnamese clamoring at the gates to be let in, and the embassy staff shredding documents and burning money, lest it fall into enemy hands.
When the helicopters arrived, the wind from their rotors sent shredded secrets bursting from their bags and flying over the walls into the city that was about to be abandoned. It was clear by afternoon that not all the Vietnamese that had been compromised by working for the Americans were coming with us. The knowledge of the coming betrayal kept many eyes averted. Many Vietnamese left behind would spend up to 20 years in concentration camps being ''reeducated''; many would die of neglect and malnutrition.
At first the city seemed not to realize what was going on, but as afternoon came, word spread and Saigon began to seethe with the rolling-eyed fear of animals caught in a burning barn. The crowds outside the embassy increased while American Marine guards beat back those who tried to climb over the wall, heedless of the barbed wire. As if from drowning passengers around a sinking ship, a moaning clamor arose outside the compound as the Vietnamese outside saw the helicopters come and go without them.
Cobra gunships swooped over the rooftops, ready to fire if the evacuation was impeded, but except for a few shots fired by angry South Vietnamese soldiers, the evacuation went on without hindrance and none of the helicopters was lost.
Later that evening, US Ambassador Graham Martin would arrive aboard a rescue ship by helicopter with his dog, which he had taken pains to rescue, and the following morning, North Vietnamese tanks would crash through the gates of Saigon's presidential palace. The 30-year war was over.
This story ran on page M17 of the Boston Globe on 4/30/2000.
May our government never lead us into such a quagmire again.
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