Saigon (63 page)

The leaves of the tamarind trees along Saigon’s deserted lunchtime boulevards hung limp in the fierce, saturated heat of Friday, November 1, as the tanks, armored personnel carriers and artillery pieces of the forces in revolt roared through their shade towards the Gia Long Palace. The unsuspecting population of the city heard their rumble only dimly at first through a haze of sleep; it was one-thirty P.M., midpoint of the daily three-hour siesta, and Big Minh and the other insurgent generals had chosen the date carefully — All Saints’ Day, a Catholic holiday — so as to catch the president and his defenders off guard. The fitfully slumbering city came abruptly awake at that unfamiliar hour, however, when Marine units spearheading the rebel battalions ran into a fierce barrage of gunfire from the palace defenders, that reverberated through the enclosed canyons of the capital’s streets like spring thunder. 

On the deserted roof of the Caravelle Hotel, Naomi Boyce- Lewis stood beside her Scottish cameraman, biting her lower lip in suppressed excitement as he panned his lens slowly across the wide panorama of tree-lined boulevards radiating from the Cia Long Palace. From that high vantage point, the attacking forces moving into the city down the three northern highways from Tay Ninh, Ben Cat and Bien Hoa looked like slow-crawling columns of predatory insects converging by communal instinct to destroy some threat to their existence. and as he filmed them, Jock whistled softly in appreciation. 

I’ve got to hand it to you, Naomi — whoever tipped you off about this knew his stuff all right. I don’t know how you do it — or maybe I do, but I’m not saying.” As he shifted to cover a new angle of the advance, he winked at the soundman, who was leaning over the parapet holding his long microphone towards the roar of the advancing armor. 

The English journalist delivered a mock punch to the side of his jaw with a small fist and smiled affectionately. “You’ve got a monorail mind, Jock —just concentrate on getting our exclusive coverage in the can, will you, please. The competition are going to come stumbling out from under their mosquito nets any minute now to start trying to catch up.” 

“Was it that rugged American diplomat with the come-to-bed eyes who wants to spite the American press corps? Have you been working your siren spell on him, Naomi?” 

“No comment, Jock —just keep filming.” 

In fact Guy Sherman had surprised her by appearing unannounced at the door of her room in the Continental Palace before breakfast that morning. Although he had affected a casual air, she’d noticed that his manner was tense beneath a surface calm, and he had insisted on entering the room and turning on the bedside radio before he spoke. Then he had explained in little more than a whisper that what he was about to tell her would be in the strictest confidence, and when she had given him her word that she would never reveal the source of her information to anyone, he said: “Today’s the day, Naomi! Get your camera team up on the Caravelle roof for one-fifteen. Then you’ll have a fine view of the cavalry coming over the hill.” 

It had been the first time she had seen Guy for a week. They had met on the Continental terrace for drinks on a number of occasions in the clays following Thich Quang Duc’s suicide and eventually had begun to dine together regularly. As the conflict deepened following the raids on the Buddhist pagodas, student riots had broken out, several Buddhist leaders had sought asylum inside the American Embassy, and Ngo Dihn Nhu was reported to be suffering Hitler-style brainstorms as the situation deteriorated. With Saigon drowning in a sea of intrigue and plots and counterplots proliferating daily, Guy had become an invaluable source of information to her; with a wink or a nod he had smilingly confirmed or denied any rumors she had discussed with him, and largely because of his help she had provided consistently accurate and well-informed coverage of the growing crisis, which had won her praise and acclaim in both England and the United States In the course of their frequent meetings, a teasing. bond of intimacy had also grown up between them; they both made frequent lighthearted allusions to the selfish motives that drew them to one another, but at the same time she had sensed that the strong attraction Guy had flippantly confessed to at their first meeting was growing into a deeper infatuation. 

She herself was no longer sure that the desire to cultivate a highly knowledgeable source of information was her sole reason for meeting Guy so regularly; as time passed and the crisis grew more confused she had come to have a genuine regard for his seemingly unshakable confidence in the American mission in Vietnam, and whenever she was with him his dark good looks and his air of vigorous masculinity always gave her a comforting sense of security in a city which seemed to become more dangerous with each passing day. On more than one occasion after dining together late at night they had strolled through the darkness of the tense city, acutely aware that their senses were mutely in tune, that they were drawn physically to one another. But always she had called a halt at the brink; always she had subordinated her emotions to her hard-headed determination to stay on top of the story and she had deliberately parted from him on these occasions with a murmured endearment and a smiling hint of promise for the future, This calculated ploy had produced precisely the effect she had desired, and Guy, seemingly accepting that she was holding herself in check till the story had run its course, began to take her increasingly into his confidence. For this reason she had been puzzled that he had stopped contacting her during the last days of October, but when he had appeared unexpectedly at the door of her room that morning she had known by his expression and the barely suppressed excitement in his voice that nothing had changed. 

After delivering his message he had made to leave, but then he turned back and took her hand impulsively in his. “Stay tuned to me, Naomi,” he’d said with deliberate emphasis. “If you do, I’ll make sure you keep ahead of the opposition on the inside story tot). Okay?” 

“Okay, Guy, thanks — and good luck.” Feeling her own excitement rising in response, she had returned the pressure of his hand, and he had dashed from the room. She had begun immediately to make her preparations, renting several different cars and stationing them secretly at various selected locations around the center of Saigon to ensure that she and her camera team remained mobile during the inevitable dislocation that would catch the other film and newsprint journalists off guard. She had alerted Jock and their soundman to steer clear of the rest of the press corps and had sought out two or three Western visitors who were due to leave the city later that day and arranged for them to try to carry out her undeveloped film to Hong Kong. 

One of the rented cars with its Vietnamese driver at the wheel was waiting in a side street close to the Caravelle Hotel, and as soon as she was satisfied that Jock had enough general rooftop shots of the initial rebel advance into the city, she led the way down the stairs to the street at a run. 

But the unfolding coup d’état that from the high vantage point had seemed simple and dramatic was at street level confusing and incoherent. During a quick tour of the city center, they heard distant scattered flurries of small arms fire, but by the time they had tracked down the shooting they found that the crack Marine spearhead units had already seized their primary objectives; the main police headquarters, the two radio Stations and the central telephone exchange had obviously been occupied by the rebels without much trouble, but there was little to film except small groups of steel-helmeted Vietnamese troops in leopard camouflage leaning casually against the walls. Armored cars were guarding the approach boulevards to the palace, standing still and silent in the roadway, their guns leveled and their hatches closed despite the stifling midday heat, but otherwise Naomi had to be content with pictures of anonymous infantry columns or truckloads of helmeted troops who rushed by without giving any indication of whether they were being deployed by the rebels or by the president. 

Here and there the ominous, dun-colored bulk of a tank was visible squatting astride a road junction; in the peaceful, civilized streets of the city the sight of these war machines was, as the plotting generals had obviously intended, frightening and intimidating, and Naomi repeatedly ordered their driver to turn around and seek another route. From time to time a T-28 wheeled across the burning, cloudless sky to release a burst of rockets on the Gia Long Palace, and this always drew a rattle of heavy machine-gun fire from its defenders — but no concerted bombing attack or artillery barrage was mounted. By filming at the limit of his telephoto lens along some of the approach boulevards, Jock got pictures of the Presidential Guard preparing for a last-ditch stand; batteries of mortars, antiaircraft guns and even tanks were being dug in among the shrubs and tamarinds of the formal gardens, while on the roof heavy machine gun posts had already been set up around the glass and wrought-iron cupola. Dense barbed-wire entanglements had been strung around the palace railings in preparation for the siege, and it was obvious that the stubborn president and his brother were determined to resist to the bitter end their own army’s efforts to unseat them. 

The people of Saigon, startled from their siestas, eventually began emerging from their homes. Few vehicles ventured onto the boulevards that had become a battleground, but pedestrians thronged the sidewalks, peering fearfully at the stationary tanks and watching the passing troops with anxious eyes. They scattered and dived for cover whenever the boom of a tank’s cannon, deafening in the confined streets, or the stutter of a heavy machine gun sent shells and bullets crashing through the branches of the tamarinds, but in the intervals of calm, small children rushed squealing from their hiding places to scoop up the empty brass cartridge cases. Gradually the sound of small arms fire and the crump of mortars were heard with greater frequency as the rebels attacked the Ministries of the Interior and National Defense; more planes dived down, their cannon pounding streams of shells into the pro-Diem navy frigates moored in the Saigon River and when her frightened driver bolted unexpectedly, Naomi herself drove the car to the Majestic at the foot of the old Rue Catinat so that Jock could cover this fierce battle between the Vietnamese navy and air force from the hotel roof. While it was in progress she did a brief filmed commentary standing by the parapet, pointing out that although it was not apparent in the confusion, the insurgent generals were slowly tightening their ring of steel around the Ngo Dinh brothers trapped in their palace. 

As soon as the brief river battle ended, Naomi called Guy Sherman’s number at the embassy to try to check on what was really happening behind the scenes — but a brusque American voice told her that Mr. Sherman was “not available.” When she asked at what time she would be able to contact him, the voice told her even more brusquely that Mr. Sherman would be taking no calls at all for the rest of that day. 

At that moment, Guy himself was reporting in by telephone to the CIA acting chief of station, who was seated in an adjoining office in the embassy. Over a secure line from the headquarters of the ARVN Joint General Staff close to Tan Son Nhut airport, he was giving details of the rebel battle order that had just been handed to him on a typewritten sheet of paper by Major General Duong Van Minh. 

“Two Marine battalions, two battalions of Airborne troops and two battalions of the Fifth Division are all now deployed downtown under the command of junior officers,” said Guy, speaking in a calm voice. “They started moving into the city three-quarters of an hour ago behind forty tanks and armored cars. The airport was secured before the armor began rolling, and additional units have been deployed to block and defend against any counterattack by forces loyal to Diem from outside Saigon. First reports from the unit commanders indicate all objectives are being seized against minimal resistance Feeling a tap on his shoulder, Guy covered the mouthpiece and turned to find one of Big Minh’s aides beside him. 

“Come quickly, Monsieur Sherman,” whispered the Vietnamese officer in French. “The staff meeting is assembling.” 

Guy nodded and turned back to the telephone, lowering his voice. “The launching of the coup was timed to coincide with the regular Friday luncheon meeting of all senior staff officers here,” he said quietly. “Those officers not involved in the planning are about to be told what’s happening — I’ll report again in half an hour.” 

Guy replaced the receiver and hurried in the wake of the aide to the crowded conference room. Big Minh was already on his feet on a dais at one end, and as Guy entered he saw him set the spools of a big tape recorder spinning. Many of the officers present looked tense and pale, and their uneasy expressions deepened at the sight of an American civilian. The moment Guy seated himself unobtrusively at the back of the room Minh began speaking. 

“The day the people have been waiting for has come,” he announced in a ringing voice. “For eight years the people of Vietnam have suffered under the rotten, nepotistic Diem regime but now the armed forces have come to their rescue. While we were taking luncheon today Marine and Airborne battalions have moved into Saigon to surround the palace. All police stations, the radio stations, the Ministry of the Interior and other strongpoints are already in the hands of our forces 

As he was speaking, doors at either end of the conference room opened to admit two dozen armed troops in full battle order, carrying American M-i6 automatic rifles. They ranged themselves quietly around the walls, and many of the senior staff officers blanched visibly at the sight of them. 

“The aim of myself and those officers who have planned this coup with me,” continued Minh, “is to depose Ngo Dinh Diem and his brothers and set up a military council which will govern in their place until democratic civilian rule can be restored. I shall act as interim president. Some of you have already sworn your allegiance to us, but others among you have yet to make up your mind. To those I would say that we have made this move today because, to cap the long catalogue of crimes committed by the Diem government, Supreme Counselor Nhu has recently begun secret negotiations with Hanoi. This crass betrayal of everything we’re fighting for was the final straw which goaded us into action. And we trust all of you here will have the good sense to join with us He paused and let his gaze roam meaningfully around his audience. “Perhaps I should inform you, gentlemen, at the outset that the commander of the navy was told about this coup while on his way here today under armed escort. But he refused to forswear his allegiance to Ngo Dinh Diem, and was promptly executed by his escort on my orders. Other officers whose loyalty we are doubtful about are at this moment under close arrest in the basement of this building. They include the commanders of the air force, the Airborne Brigade, the Marines and Minh paused once more to heighten the impact of his words. “. . . and Colonel Le Quang Tung, the commanding officer of the Special Forces.”