DONG HA AND CAMP CARROLL'S BETRAYAL

Ngoc, my fixer, travel agent & waitress

Dong Ha today, in central Vietnam. This was a strategic crossroads town during the war.

After you’ve been in Asia for a while, you get to learn that through western eyes, most of the people that you meet here are actually older than they appear. Ngoc, my local fixer in Dong Ha, is a good example. This young lady looks fresh out of high school, appearing to be all of 18 years old.

“I am 25,” she tells me. Maybe it’s her petite size that throws me off; she’s barely five feet tall. I’m glad to hear she’s older than she looks, since I need to consult someone with experience. Ngoc is my travel agent for the old De-Militarized Zone (DMZ), the infamous Highway9, and everything else I’m doing in this part of Vietnam.

“I work here two year,” she tells me, in between taking and making phone calls in Dong Ha. Ngoc is a busy woman. In addition to arranging my route and driver, she also takes my lunch order. In this junction town, she works in a combination restaurant and travel office, making her both waitress and travel agent. Speaking passable English, Ngoc has found me good deals, arranging reliable guides during my stay. She’s one of those rare people you find while traveling. A little ball of energy, she has the ability to multi-task. Bright, friendly and energetic, she has enough smarts to get ahead in any corporation, but she’s stuck here in Dong Ha. Still, for this town, she has a well paying job.

I come into the restaurant/office at early and late hours, and she’s almost always there. “I work 12 hour every day,” she tells me. As if that isn’t enough, she only gets one or two days off a month. I’m reminded that despite communism’s promise of helping the workers, in today’s Vietnam there is little done to give laborers sufficient days off, or overtime pay.

“My grandfather VC. He die from Americans,” Ngoc told me. She never knew her grandfather; he was killed before she was born. She says she doesn't have any problem with Americans today; Ngoc has arranged many trips around the DMZ for returning American war veterans. Soon after, Ngoc hands me a plate of chicken fried rice at my table. I wolf it down, just as my driver arrives.

“You go with him,” she tells me, pointing out the door. I look at my vehicle for the day, and groan. There are few taxis in Dong Ha, so I’m stuck hanging onto the back seat of a motorbike, and today it looks like rain. My new guide is Nguyen. His English isn't fluent, but he’s able to get his point across. Nguyen is a former ARVN soldier; he was drafted near the war's end.
 
“I work(ed) in office," he tells me, "I work maps." Rather than a frontline soldier, his job was at a base in Quang Tri. Nguyen was luckier than most. Working inside a base, he was relatively safe from the fighting. “(When) I have 18 year, war finish,” he says. His unit surrendered to the NVA when Quang Tri fell. Like the soldier Duc I knew in Saigon, Nguyen was sent to a ‘reeducation’ camp. But since he had only been a soldier and low ranking private for six months, he was released in less than a year.

Bizarre sight: Vietnamese home built right next to old US built hangar on former Dong Ha Air Base

Nguyen hands me a helmet, and off we drive into Dong Ha’s streets. Located near the coast, Dong Ha is just 12 miles south of the old De-Militarized Zone that formerly divided North and South Vietnam. Trucks barrel through town on Highway 1, the main roadway along the coast. This throughway intersects with the westward reaching Highway 9, and from here the Laotian border is only 33 miles away as the crow flies. During the war, that proximity to the borders of North Vietnam and Laos made Dong Ha a very strategic place.

Nguyen winds the scooter through Dong Ha streets, before stopping in a residential neighborhood. I hop off, and I’m puzzled by what I see. I’m right next to one of those old half-cylinder shaped, US built concrete military hangars. These are the exact same kind still in use at Ton Son Nhat airport, but this one is different. It isn’t intact. A large hole has been blown into the side of it, almost big enough to walk through. The concrete on these protective hangars is very thick and strong, this hole must have been created by a massive explosion. 

Vietnamese memorial by ex-Dong Ha Air Base hangar

This was the site of Dong Ha Airfield, once a forward US Marine base. Since Dong Ha was so close to the DMZ, it was well within range of North Vietnamese artillery and it was attacked many times. During one heavy shelling in 1968, the base’s ammunition dump was hit, and the flames and explosions here continued for hours. Most of the aircraft parked here, and much of the base, were destroyed.

I walk around to have a look inside the old hangar. Not surprisingly, there are no traces of aircraft left. Inside I see a couple of workmen doing carpentry in the hangar’s dim light. They don’t even look up, they’re so engrossed in their work. Piles of building materials and other junk are stacked up inside.  Since the damage to the hangar wall wasn’t repaired, that hole in the wall probably occured during the 1972 spring offensive, after the US Marines had already turned the base over to the ARVN. During fighting that year, much of Dong Ha town was destroyed by the advancing North Vietnamese Army (NVA). 

Dong Ha Air Base  was not surrendered back to nature like other bases. Strangely, it was turned into a residential neighborhood. It’s a bizarre sight to see this old military airport hangar closely surrounded by small family homes. One house was built so closely, that it nearly touches the hangar itself. Dong Ha Airfield exists no more, but the town has been rebuilt into a transportation hub. All this areas imports and exports going to and from Laos pass through here, as well as all of Vietnam’s north – south road traffic. There’s a memorial next to the damaged hangar, and at its base, I find a small ceramic bowl, filled with the remains of incense sticks from Buddhists praying here. This used to be an American base. I wonder, who were they praying for?

Decaying memorial on former Camp Carroll

There’s much more to see outside Dong Ha, so we climb onto Nguyen’s scooter, and head out of town. I lean forward as Nguyen tells me about the rural roadways back then. “In the wartime, it was bare. No trees, no houses,” he tells me. The NVA laid mines along the roads, hoping to disable American tanks or trucks. These were sometimes detonated by civilian vehicles. “We had buses, but we afraid of the mine,” Nguyen continues. “Sometimes bus hit the mine, and people die.”

We buzz along Highway 9, and I look at the skies, which have been gloomy all day. They finally open up. Nguyen pulls over, and pops open the seat compartment. I’m relieved to see that he has raingear for both of us. We don ponchos before we get too drenched; soon we’re back on the road. 

He turns south off highway, and his scooter struggles to carry us both up a long hill. Then he pulls to a stop next to some kind of strange, artsy concrete sculpture that appears to be  under construction. I think this is a strange place for a sculpture, out in the middle of nowhere. Then I look at it closer. What this really is, is a war memorial that is falling apart. In recent years, local people came and carted away parts of this memorial to sell for scrap. Most of the surrounding fence is gone, and they’ve cut away all the metal pieces that they that could get. I had already seen this done to old buildings and bunkers on old bases, but this is the first time I’d seen a memorial made by the post-war communists defaced for scrap.

One of the informational plaques has been torn away, but the other is still there, and Nguyen translates it for me as follows, “This Hill 241, had very strong American artillery army base along Highway 9.”

Aerial view of Camp Carroll during the war. (Photo: USACMH)

Hill 241 was the NVA’s name for this post; American troops remember it as Camp Carroll, a heavy artillery base inhabited by US Marine and Army troops. Like many American bases in Vietnam, it was named after an American soldier killed near the base. In this case, it’s named after Marine Corps Captain James Joseph Carroll. During NVA attack, he was mistakenly killed when fired on by an American tank. This type of combat casualty was known as ‘friendly fire’, a really self-contradictory military euphemism. 

Walking around the former base, I see sections of sandbags lying in the dirt, like those I found in the highlands. We encounter one concrete foundation, which is the former foundation for the base mess hall. This strategic base once had 16 heavy cannons, including the feared 175mm artillery guns. These massive cannons could fire 174 pound projectiles as far as 20 miles away. As American troop numbers were reduced towards the war’s end, Camp Carroll was turned over to South Vietnam’s military (ARVN) in 1970. Later, the ARVN colonel in command surrendered the entire base to the NVA, without firing a shot. That same colonel now owns a hotel in Hue today... At the top of the memorial here, the stone lists the year of his surrender, 1972.

Camp Carroll today. It's been reduced to farmland.

On one of the dismantled concrete friezes lying flat on the ground, I can make out the frightened face of an ARVN soldier, with his hands in the air as he surrenders. More than 400 ARVN soldiers were taken prisoner here. After Camp Carroll was taken, Dong Ha, the town I was in earlier, fell soon afterwards.

Nguyen tells me that in the post-war years, the only visitors that bother to come all the way up here were American war veterans that served in Camp Carroll. That explains the dilapidated state of the memorial. The government had no interest in preserving the old base, it is more useful now as a farm. Rubber trees, pepper plants, and cassava grow on a hill that used to be covered with bunkers, tents and artillery. On this gloomy day there aren’t even any farmers present, only a water buffalo chewing on grass.

I ponder the difference that I saw between Dong Ha, and here. Dong Ha is at a major crossroads, so it has been rebuilt. But since Vietnam is now reunited, Camp Carroll’s location is no longer strategic. With the heavy guns long ago captured and carted away, this former military base is now nothing more than a quiet, unimportant hilltop in central Vietnam.

HIGHLAND TOWN OF PLEIKU

Arriving at Pleiku Airport in the Central Highlands

I’m airborne again, only this time I’m not flying on a big comfy jet. Today I’m only in a two engine propeller plane, just a puddle jumper really. This trip will be much different then my earlier destinations. On Vietnam’s coast I had plenty of tourists to keep me company, but there are few westerners where I’m headed. I’m about to enter a more remote region of Vietnam. The seatbelt sign comes on, and we start our descent near the southern end of the Truong Song Mountains. I'm arriving in Pleiku, in the central highlands.
 
Looking out the window, it's not what I expected. I thought I’d be surrounded by rugged mountains, but there are only a few mountains off in the distance. The altitude here may be higher, but topography around Pleiku is mostly low rolling hills. It’s not as green as I was expecting either. The trees around the airport are all young, since this area was so defoliated with Agent Orange during the war.
 
Touching down, I look across the empty tarmac. There are no other planes or jets in sight. This was once the military airport known as Pleiku Air Base, run by US and Vietnamese Air Forces. The largest and busiest airport in the highlands, it was once loaded with planes and helicopters. Now there’s only one vacant government helicopter sitting off to the edge of the airfield. There is so little traffic, that one whole section of tarmac is no longer maintained, and has grass and weeds growing up through the cracks. Pleiku is in a poor province, so there are few flights to the highlands these days. In the new terminal, I spot a tall older westerner with a faded US flag on his cap. Approaching him, I can make out three tattoos on his aging forearm shaped like military medals. I introduce myself, and meet Larry, a friendly American war veteran from North Carolina.

“I came back to have a look with my girlfriend,” Larry tells me. He was an Army soldier here in 1969, and he’s glad he came back. He had been visiting some of his old haunts further south. He was surprised at what he found, so many old buildings had been torn down, removed for new construction and businesses, “Like Bien Hoa,” he said, mentioning another large, former air base. “Today it’s an industrial area. Everything is changed, it’s hard to find some of the places where we were before.”

Pleiku today is more developed than during the war years

I’m relieved to meet two other Americans here, but they soon hop into a taxi and depart. Pleiku doesn’t get many foreign visitors. I grab a late taxi, load up, and head out. Leaving the airport, we drive by barracks now occupied by the Vietnamese Army. It’s a sleepy looking facility, and all the soldiers I see walking about are unarmed. The only activity I see is a platoon of enlisted men doing calisthenics. With their dark green pants and white t-shirts, they look like a recruiting film. 

The taxi drops me at my hotel, after checking in, I head back out the doors to get to know this highland town. Pleiku was once a group of humble villages of the Jarai minority tribe. Then French colonists arrived, and it grew to be the provincial capital. The French referred to the Jarai and the rest of the hill tribe minorities as ‘Montagnards’, meaning ‘mountain people’, and the name stuck.

Walking through Pleiku now, I see few hill tribe folk. People I encounter are ethnic Vietnamese, who have moved to Pleiku in droves. The villages are long gone and the downtown is modern, by Vietnamese standards. Compared to crowded and polluted Ho Chi Minh City, it’s much more orderly, clean and pleasant. There are few old homes, most of buildings around me are relatively new. In this highland town where most homes had only one story, there are now countless apartment buildings. These changes weren’t just due to urban planning, it was also due to the war's destruction.

Can she really drive in traffic?

When the communists began advancing across the highlands in 1975, there was a chaotic, emergency migration eastward towards Vietnam's coast. Soon after the North Vietnamese Army (NVA) began to rocket and shell Pleiku, the South Vietnamese Army (ARVN) retreated from the city. When the civilians realized what was happening, the population of Pleiku fled with them in fear. To deny the communists use of Pleiku, departing ARVN torched many buildings, further adding to the destruction. As packed columns of military and civilian vehicles headed for the coast, they were attacked by the NVA, killing not only at the retreating ARVN, but also fleeing civilians. The panicked evacuation was horrendous, and thousands died in the chaotic exodus. It was the most tragic and costly retreat of the war.

In the 1980’s much of Pleiku was rebuilt, partly with Soviet aid, and today the population is triple what it was during the war years. This is mainly due to the influx of so many Vietnamese who moved here from the northern provinces, since the conquering government of the north encouraged them to move here.

Kpa Klong, who fought the Americans

It was a long road back, but Pleiku has been rebuilt. As part of the government’s changes in the south, Pleiku is now referred to as ‘Gia Lai’ on many official maps.

Looking around the commercial district I see few cars, and as I saw in HCMC, many locals use motorbikes as if they are pickup trucks. Outside the market, I watch one woman pack her small motorbike with a load of nine foot long stalks of sugar cane. I wonder how she’s going to make it through traffic with such a wide, oversized load. The police seem to have less visibility here than in other parts of Vietnam. That doesn’t mean that they aren’t around, since there are plenty of plainclothes police. Perhaps they keep a low profile to please the minorities. 

As I check out Pleiku, I notice that most traces of the former American military  presence are gone. Even most American made buildings have vanished. I do spot one bit of historical evidence, when I stop at a local hardware store. Piles of gear are stacked outside on the sidewalk, and among a pile of chains and springs, are old US Army ammunition cases. They may be discolored and rusty, but they’re still waterproof.

Walking through a town square, I come to a statue dedicated to Kpa Klong, a Montagnard fighter who died in 1975. Wearing a loin cloth and carrying a carbine, he’s about to throw what looks like a pipe bomb. From one of the local hill tribes, he used to fight the Americans. Friezes on the statue’s pedestal show him gunning down American soldiers, and attacking an American tank using only a hand grenade.

 

A dog guarding a tank? Really??!

Kpa Klong and his village may have joined with the communists, but the reality is that most hill tribes sided with the Americans during the war. The highland minorities have suffered discrimination from the majority Vietnamese for centuries, and the US ideas of equal rights and democracy appealed to them. They desired to continue practicing their own religions and languages, so they had no love for communists, and still don't. The Americans also provided arms to the Montagnard militias, giving them their own means for self-defense. It’s sad, but true that many Vietnamese refer to the highland minority peoples as savages, even today. Not surprisingly, occasional unrest and uprisings in the highlands against the Vietnamese government have continued.

I stop at the Gia Lai Museum, to find the doors locked and the lights off. After finding a staffer, she opens the front door to show me why it’s so quiet. Artifacts and boxes are piled up everywhere, the museum is closed for renovations. Before I leave I walk behind

The remains of a US made Huey helicopter, and a spotter plane

the building, and I’m startled by a furry yellow dog barking at me from behind a chain link fence. Strangely, the dog is tied to an M-41 tank, with a .30 caliber machine gun mounted on top. A dog protecting a tank! Piled in among other wreckage around it are an old howitzer, and the remains of various American made aircraft, including an A-6, two Huey helicopters, and two spotter planes.

As I check out all the wreckage, the dog never stops barking at me. He’s the junkyard dog, for a military junkyard. Since the museum is closed, I imagine that his barking at me now, is probably the most excitement that this dog has had all week. 

I head back to my Pleiku hotel. Time for Vietnamese cuisine.  Next stop, a local restaurant.

THE 'TORA BORA' OF SOUTH VIETNAM

Tuc Dup, the 'Tora Bora' of Vietnam's Mekong Delta 

 I’m approaching some kind of freak of geology. The Mekong Delta is generally flat, but I’m staring at one enormous, gargantuan mountain of rocks. As our 4X4 drives closer, I see that this isn’t a pile of just rocks, it’s a pile of massive boulders. Somehow, nature piled all of these massive boulders here onto one place, forming a towering hill that rises high above the flat expanse of the surrounding landscape.

This is Tuc Dup, one of the few high vantage points in the Mekong Delta. It’s not tall enough to be classified as a mountain. But its higher altitude gives it not only a great view of the delta beneath, it also made it easily defended. The solid rock boulders that form the hill made  superior natural defenses. This made Tuc Dup an ideal location for a rebel stronghold; the Viet Cong's 'Tora Bora' in the delta. 

The flag of the former Republic of Vietnam, crossed out

From the bottom, I look up at this jagged, intimidating hill. I know that climbing this will be a good workout. As I start up, I can see a large flag of old painted on a boulder, the former yellow and red striped flag of the Republic of Vietnam. This is a rare sight in today’s Vietnam. The former South Vietnamese flag is rarely seen anywhere in public. But the flag now has a black 'X' painted across it, to remind visitors that the south didn’t win the war.

A long curving walkway of wooden steps eventually runs out, and soon I enter one of the many cave entrances of this strange hill. With the boulders piled every which way, the large gaps between each boulder are large enough to form natural passageways and caves. The former soldiers here managed to chip away the rock to widen some openings, and make some of the walkways more accessible. 

The passageways form an elaborate network. I make my way through, rock hopping from boulder to boulder. Some of the areas are difficult to fit through. Like the Cu Chi tunnels, some openings are tight for an American, but easier for the shorter and thinner Vietnamese. 

Entering one section,  I find wood was brought in to make platforms, to make the caves more livable. Daylight reaches in, and I look above to see parted boulders form a natural skylight. Dead vines hang downward along the heavy rocks. I’ll bet they used to put containers out here to catch water during the rainy season. With no plumbing, it was a real chore for the VC to carry water all the way up here every day.

A natural skylight in the caves

Weaving through the cave network, there are openings here and there that lead back out to the hill’s exterior. Reaching one, I climb out onto a boulder and look at the surrounding landscape. Green farming fields below stretch all the way to the horizon. Behind me, one of the larger boulders has a lot of holes and chips in it. A sign near it translates as, “Bomb Trace Marks”.

Even a US made 500 lb bomb dropped from above, didn’t do much damage to this 30 ton solid rock boulder. So despite numerous bombardments, the Viet Cong held onto Tuc Dup for years. During the course of the war there was so much heavy bombing here, that the locals gave Tuc Dup the nickname of ‘$2million dollar hill'.  

This ended with a final battle, and according to the government version here, the siege and fighting for Tuc Dup raged from November 16^th, 1968 until March 24^th, 1969. The VC in these caves faced both American and ARVN forces. Helicopters  and jets attacked from the air, with ground troops and tanks attacking by land. This hill of boulders became a sort of 'Alamo' for the Viet Cong.

View of the surrounding countryside from upper cave opening

As I continue through, up, down and through this strange network of caves, I pass through other inner rooms. Other stone signs posted on the boulders list their former function. “Dried Rice Cave” and “Cave of Support Unit 61” One is named, “Cave of the No Name Soldier". I recall hearing that after the war,  the bones of anonymous fighters who died on Tuc Dup were left lying up in these caves for years. Those bones and other remains of the war have since been removed. The stone passageways of Tuc Dup are now filled only with rubble, disturbed by the occasional visitor.

Reaching another overlook, I peer down at the land in front of the strange hill. The unexploded bombs have been removed from the earth, and now it’s a family park. Vietnamese families come here to relax on weekends these days.

Captured US made weapons on display

There are some small restaurants and cafes, most of which have hammocks hanging in them for their patrons to relax. There is a pond with pedal boats, and an enclosure with live alligators.

To remind visitors that this is more than a park, at the base of the hill sits a small museum, with a large bomb crater out front. Filled with the usual captured small arms, the place is empty. Rather than look at war relics, the visiting families would rather eat in the cafés, and spend the afternoon relaxing in a  hammock. 

This is precisely where I find my guide Nga. Since she didn’t want to make the long climb up the hill with me, she’s been reclining in a café hammock, chatting away with a local waitress. 

Old bomb crater outside museum at base of the hill

Nga is one of my more interesting translators I’ve had in Vietnam. Besides guiding me around the delta, she also occasionally works as an actress. On the way here as we passed a village, she told me, “I was in movie here, days ago.” The film was a love story, and she had a supporting role in the film.

She described for me another movie she acted in, when she played the role of a captured Viet Cong cadre. In that difficult role, she had to act in an interrogation and torture scene. That wasn’t an easy role, that’s for sure. 

Hammocks where Tuc Dup's visitors relax

As we are on our way out and heading for the 4X4, we spy a shooting range, and stop in for a look. This is much like the firing range I saw in Cu Chi, except that the prices are lower. Whether firing an AK-47 or a semi-automatic AR-15, the price per bullet is only 10,000 Dong (about 55 cents.) I’m not surprised its cheaper here, since Tuc Dup is remote and gets far fewer visitors than Cu Chi. I look toward the targets, and I’m amused to see that between the firing line and the backstop, there are neat rows of green plants. They are growing some kind of crop out in the middle of the firing range.

Since I’ve already shot a few rounds when I went to Cu Chi, I decline the offer to shoot here. But I’m surprised when my petite guide Nga speaks up, saying, “I want to try.”

The Tuc Dup firing range, where crops grow??

She buys some bullets, and takes her place at the firing line. The muzzle of the AK is bolted to a post, in order to keep wayward shooters from firing high and out of the range. With the assault rifle loaded, Nga takes aim at a target of a tiger.

POW! Her first shot rings out, and she giggles nervously. Then she takes her second shot. POW! She stops, lets go of the weapon, then walks to a bench and sits down. “I’m scared,” she says.

Nga now lives in a Vietnam without war, and guns these days are a rarity, not available to the general public. Unlike in the past, when the VC fighting force included women like her,  Vietnamese women today rarely touch firearms. “First time in my life I shoot,” she tells me. “I a little scared.”

As a child growing up in the Mekong Delta, she had survived the war. She was so young that at the time, she didn’t really know what was going on. Meanwhile, others in her family were involved in the conflict.

“My grandfather was VC,” Nga told me. He had been a commander in the delta until he died in 1966. The story handed down through her family, is that he was killed by Americans. They say that his death had been witnessed by her uncle. She tells me her uncle was so frightened by what he saw, that he had wet himself.

With such a terrible story to tell, I would think that Nga would hold a grudge against Americans like me, and she doesn’t. She had never known her grandfather, and as a devout Buddhist, she takes the route of forgiveness. It also probably helps that her grandfather’s side eventually won the war. For Nga, like so many other Vietnamese I’ve already spoken to, the war was so long ago, and is better left in the past. 

PRESIDENT'S UNDERGROUND COMMAND CENTER

Military maps line the walls of the underground command center below the former Presidential Palace

It’s so quiet down here and empty. Lonely even. As far as I can tell, I’m the only one down here. I’m below ground, only this time I’m under Saigon's former Presidential Palace. I’m in what used to be the most technologically advanced basement in all of Vietnam. More than a basement, I’m in an underground military command center.

It’s late in the afternoon, and the other visitors have left, so I have the entire lower level all to myself, and it's eerie. I’m in the command room where maps line the dark red walls. The huge maps reach from the floor to the ceiling. There are even more maps down here, than there were outside the president’s office a few levels above me. In a military command center, field communications are crucial. That takes a lot of electronics equipment, so most of the rooms down in this maze are devoted to communications. Much of the old American made equipment still remains, although all the cables are gone. In room after room, I find transmitters, teletype machines, receivers, switchboards, and old rotary phones. Signs in imperfect English list the former function of each room: “THE SIGNAL TEAM CHIEF ROOM”, “FIXED RECEIVING SITE SECTION”, “TELETYPEWRITER SECTION”, and “THE HIGHFREQUENCY RADIO ROOM”. 

Once buzzing with military activity, the President's command center is now eerily empty

Farther down a hallway, I enter a small room with only a twin bed, and two phones on a night table. It’s nothing special; only the elaborate wood frame of the bed gives a hint of its former importance. The sign reads, “THE COMBAT DUTY BEDROOM OF THE PRESIDENT”. Thieu may have slept down here during the Tet offensive when the palace was briefly under attack, but he was long gone before the tanks arrived in 1975.

Captured US made radio equipment is still found in many rooms

Down the hall near the kitchen, I get to a nearly bare white walled room. It’s been emptied of its contents, leaving only a desk, chair, and an empty gun rack for M-16s. This was the “SECURITY SECTION” for the president’s guards. An elite group, the guards even had an indoor shooting range in the back of the palace to keep their shooting skills sharp. During Thieu’s years in power, his security team protected him well for most of the war years. But when the communist tanks finally invaded the city and broke through the front gates, they put up no resistance at all. With the palace captured, the remaining loyal palace staff and guards were arrested, with most were sent off to ‘re-education camps’. They joined hundreds of thousands of South Vietnamese soldiers and government officials in the camps, some never to return. 

Old Motorola radio gear, originally given to South Vietnam as aid from the USA

Even though I’m below ground level in this bunker basement, I come across stairs going further underground. Access is blocked here, but I can’t help wondering if this is the escape tunnel going to the former Deputy Governor’s Palace, where the former dictator Diem hid before he was killed in the 1963 coup. As curious as I am, I go no further. I’ve heard that section of tunnel isn’t safe anymore. Plus, as an American in Vietnam, I wouldn’t expect much leniency if I was caught in a restricted area. I really don’t want to spend time in a Vietnamese jail.

Having already seen the lowest level of the palace, I decide to go see the highest. After climbing a few flights of stairs in dingy stairwells, I find myself up on the palace rooftop. As I reach the top level, I’m startled to find myself on a large covered terrace, that was once used for official receptions. A riser to one side of the terrace must have been used for live bands. Perhaps President Thieu and his wife once waltzed across this fine wooden floor, as ministers and honored guests looked on. With more interest in the surrounding scenery, I open the clear glass doors, and step across to the back railing.

On the adjacent rooftop below, I’m surprised to see another Huey helicopter parked there, marked with the flag of South Vietnam. Back in the day, President Thieu used to fly around to the provinces by chopper, meeting politicians, and rallying the troops. With the war on, flying around the country was much safer for him than driving.

Rooftop of the Palace. A Huey chopper once flew President Thieu around South Vietnam. A red circle marks an old bomb strike from 1975.

From this same vantage point, I can see the sight of the second airborne attack on this locale. In the spring of 1975 as the ARVN defenses were crumbling, a South Vietnamese pilot decided to defect to the communists. He took off in his US built F-5 jet, and before heading north, he unleashed two bombs onto the rear section of the palace, where the president’s living quarters were. Out in front of the parked Huey, two large circles have been painted on the repaired rooftop, marking the bomb strikes from the pilot’s asassination attempt. A large piece of rusty bomb shrapnel lies close by. Since the palace had been built strong enough to survive an attack, no one was killed, but it was another propaganda victory for the communists. With an audacious attack on the palace, it was becoming evident that the end was near.

US made F-5 fighter that was flown by defector to bomb the Palace shortly before the war ended

Walking to the opposite rooftop railing, I look down on the front lawn. When the final push came weeks later and the NVA tanks broke through the front gates, the tank crewman scrambled out of their armored vehicles and ran right into the palace. Encountering no resistance, one of the crewman ran all the way up the stairwell to the roof, and stood at the railing where I am now. As TV news cameras rolled, he then waved a Viet Cong flag from the rooftop, for all of the world to see. The communists had taken the palace, and the war was done. Looking around me, I’m amazed to see that there is no plaque up here to mark the event.

For some time after the surrender, the former Independence Palace became a government office building. For a while it was officially named the “Office of the Military Management Committee of Saigon”. A giant portrait of Ho, two stories tall, hung above the front entrance. That portrait has since been removed, perhaps because the current government has become less dogmatic. Still, there is a flag flying from the palace rooftop today, only now it’s the flag of the Socialist Republic of Vietnam. 

View from atop the Palace, from the exact spot where a North Vietnamese soldier waved a Viet Cong flag to signal the end of the war.

 

GRIM MEMORIES & NEW BEGINNINGS

US made Huey helicopter (right) & F-5 jet (left). Captured after the US left, the jet was repainted, 'USAF'.

Ho Chi Minh City (formerly Saigon) is home to the Ho Chi Minh City Museum, where I had discovered the dictator Diem's old tunnels. This should not be confused with the Ho Chi Minh Museum dedicated to Ho Chi Minh, nor with the Ho Chi Minh Campaign Museum. Ho Chi Minh-Ho Chi Minh-Ho Chi Minh!

Does this sound confusing? All of this Ho jargon certainly confuses the tourists visiting Saigon, which may explain the low attendance at all three of these museums. Still, by wandering through these historical sites, I learned that many of these old buildings were once occupied by presidents, prime ministers, colonial governors, and the Americans. After sorting through the propaganda, I unexpectedly found many more fascinating places which were key not only to the Vietnam war years, but to understanding Vietnam today.

An old Huey helicopter sits in front of the old US Information Service building, now a museum

Following the war’s end, the communist government opened one of the world’s most controversial museums. Named, “The Museum of American and Chinese War Crimes”, it became the most visited museum in the country. Later in 1995, when diplomatic relations with the USA improved, the name was officially changed to a less pointed title. As I entered the museum complex, a Vietnamese staffer explained why. “Now we have relationship, more friendship with Americans,” she explained. “We don’t think so much about the past. Change name to ‘War Remnants Museum’.” She’s right in saying that the Vietnamese don’t think much about the past, at least not here. As I look around, I notice that almost all the museum’s visitors are foreign tourists.As I step beyond the walled entrance into the compound, I recognize the 1960’s American architecture of the main building. During the war, this structure used to house the US Information Service. How ironic.

Japanese peace activists play traditional music in Saigon.

Looking around the grounds, it appears as though I’ve walked into a US military yard sale of heavy weapons. There are planes, tanks, howitzers and a Huey helicopter, all booty captured from the ARVN by the North Vietnamese Army at the war’s end.

The very first exhibit is a glass case, holding the book, “In Retrospect, The Tragedy and Lessons of Vietnam.” The author was former US Secretary of Defense, Robert McNamara. The display lists one of his quotes: “Yet we were wrong, terribly wrong. We owe it to future generations to explain why.” After all that went wrong with the war here, McNamara had a lot of explaining to do.

Walking around, I notice most photos here were taken by western journalists. It seems that the communists had plenty of money for weapons, but not much money for quality cameras. In museums across Vietnam they have relied on the foreign press for the war’s best photos. Vietnam was the first war in history where the international press corps had virtually free access to almost everywhere. Having a free press running around Vietnam was something the US military would later regret. Many of the journalists would regret it too. 33 of them died during the war in Vietnam.

In front of the main building, sits an old captured F-5 fighter jet, with new white paint along the side reading, “U.S.A.F.”. It’s a weak attempt at propaganda, since no American held airbases were ever taken by the communists during the war. Although F-5’s were built in America, this jet was captured from the South Vietnamese military after the Americans left, and later repainted.

2 Mercedes with the Prime Minister's motorcade entered the museum compound

The museum has its share of both propaganda, and truth. They focus on American, French, and ARVN war crimes. With numerous official investigations and photographic evidence, it is already accepted fact that most of these atrocities occurred. But there is no balance. Not surprisingly, none of the atrocities perpetrated by the communists are mentioned here at all. In keeping with communist propaganda traditions, the Vietnamese government has not owned up to the war crimes their side committed. As the old saying goes, the winners write the history, at least within their own borders.

The quietest part of the complex, is the war atrocities section. If you’ve ever walked through the Holocaust Museum, these exhibits have the same type of atmosphere. There are photos of American soldiers torturing Viet Cong suspects, and photos from the My Lai massacre. These photos aren’t fakes, they were taken by westerners long before the era of digital photography.

Nearby, are mock-ups of tiger cage like prison cells that the ARVN used to hold Viet Cong prisoners. There is no mention of the bamboo tiger cages that the VC used to hold American prisoners in equally barbaric conditions.

A new Ford SUV with the Prime Minister's security team sits parked by an old US built M-48 tank

A crowd gathers nearby, and I go see what is grabbing their attention. It’s a display on Agent Orange. Here we see the effects on humans from all that defoliant sprayed over Cu Chi, and so many other rural areas. There are numerous graphic photos of Vietnamese children with birth defects. The most moving display is a see through enclosure holding two preserved, badly deformed fetuses whose mothers had been exposed to the toxic chemical.

These displays are so disturbing, that some cannot bear to view them. I met two Indonesian women outside who refused to enter this section. “It’s too sad,” they said. I don’t blame them. As the old saying goes, war is hell, and for many the images here are far too upsetting. The graphic photos and grim displays here, are the closest the average civilian of today will ever come to seeing the horrors of war.

Fortunately, the place isn’t all propaganda and gloom. From a side room, I hear the sound of enchanting Asian music. Entering a large room, I’ve come upon a concert by a group of senior Japanese peace activists. They are playing traditional string instruments, with a lone singer accompanying them. They are surrounded by children’s paintings, and a sign on the wall behind them reads, “Wishing for a peaceful and friendly world.” These seniors were anti-war activists from the Vietnam era.

The concert is not just for the visitors, but also for three communist war veterans that are present for the occasion. One woman is a former Viet Cong, who was captured and imprisoned for years during the war. As the concert ends, she greets the visitors. Looking at me, I’m surprised when she smiles broadly, and reaches out to shake my hand. If she still feels any animosity towards Americans, she’s certainly not showing it.

As I prepare to leave, I see some new vehicles have entered the compound. Looking rather out of place, right in front of an American M-48 tank, is a beautiful new black mercedes limousine. Since it has covered flag posts at the front corners, I reason it must be a diplomatic vehicle. To the side of the tank, looking like a tank in its own right, is a full size black Ford sport utility vehicle. With tinted windows and police lights on the roof, it was obviously a security escort. The motorcade also included a Chevrolet mini-van. They were brought in here temporarily since parking is scarce on Saigon's city streets.

Curious, I inquire if there is a foreign ambassador nearby. “It’s for the Prime Minister,” a helpful staffer tells me. There’s a sure sign of change. Vietnam trusts not only vehicles from Germany to protect their Prime Minister, but also vehicles from America.

Like the woman told me earlier, Vietnamese today don’t think so much about the past, and desire more friendship with Americans. The foreigners have more interest in this museum than the Vietnamese do. Relations have changed between Vietnam and America, and thankfully they have changed for the better.