Last Man Out (38 page)

I thought the epitaphs were correct, and the poet wrong. Those Western men who died in Vietnam were not fools, they were patriots, men who died in the service of their country. The fools were Western politicians and bureaucrats who did not know the beauty and vitality of that land, who thought it was a little, insignificant “pissant” country where it would be easy to impose the Western will.

When I went back to Taipei for my first family visit, I found that Brenda had moved the family to the development on Yangmingshan Mountain. Our house, tucked in behind the Chinese Cultural College, was only a five-minute walk to a spectacular view over the city. At night the lights from Taipei went on as far as we could see.

The kids had started kindergarten and Brenda was working part-time. Her life was more hectic than it had been in Vientiane; more to do and more wives around as friends and neighbors. The development swarmed with children and our kids had no lack of playmates. Brenda played bridge and handball and had evenings out with the other wives. My family was very much at home in Taipei.

After I returned to Chau Doc, I spent my days developing information on Cambodian and Vietnamese political and military activities. Part of the conventional wisdom in 1974 was that the North Vietnamese military was stronger than the South Vietnamese, but the long-term consequences of that were not widely discussed. That was because the CIA station in Saigon, an insulated, bureaucratic, personality-driven institution, held the notion that the future of South Vietnam was assured because of secret, off-the-battlefield developments that they were following but of which the field officers were unaware.

As a direct consequence of that perspective, CIA officials in Saigon did not encourage military reporting, particularly reporting from GVN military sources, “liaison sources” as they were called in the trade. Station personnel in Saigon considered
GVN information biased and unreliable. I found it strange that people in my organization in Vietnam did not have the same trust in our South Vietnamese allies as we had had in our Lao compatriots. Maybe because in Laos we ran the war and had a vested interest in winning. In Vietnam, 1974, we only monitored the situation. And those who managed the intelligence collection effort for the most part had political backgrounds and did not care about the opinions of military commanders. That message was conveyed to us in the field by the use of the CIA intel grading system.

Each intelligence report submitted from the field to Saigon and to Washington was eventually given a grade, from “ND” to 20. If a field report was not disseminated to customers in the intelligence community, it received an ND (nondisseminated). A report that was disseminated but judged by the analysts to be of marginal interest received a grade of 1, a disseminated report considered to be of some value received a 5, and a report of significant value received a 10. If a report attracted significant notice and had some hard, critical information that would have an impact on policy, it received a 20. Most liaison reports were graded ND, 1, or at most a 5. On the other hand, political reporting from unilateral agents received 5s and 10s.

The troubling aspect of the political reporting from the South Vietnam countryside was that unilateral Vietnamese agents run exclusively by the CIA were found, time and again, to be fabricators.

There were a number of reasons for that. Most of the CIA case officers who served only one tour in Vietnam did not speak the language, were poorly trained in the esoterica of Vietnamese operations, did not fully understand the complicated interactions within the Vietnamese political arena, were manipulated by their translators and interrogators, and, despite all that, were pressured to produce intelligence reports. The CIA officers who put out the most reports were the ones promoted. Numbers—reports and grades—spoke more clearly than the reports themselves.

Over time, a subculture of professional Vietnamese fabricators, “intel producers,” had developed. Operating in the alleyways of Saigon and on the fringes of the American community in the provinces, they satisfied the CIA’s need for political information—any information. As they moved from province to province they
created agent nets, cultivated relationships with translators, found out what was needed, developed their contacts with CIA officers, and convinced the latter that they had privileged access to Viet Cong or North Vietnamese political plans. When they were placed on a salary, they began selling fabricated reports. They based the information on local newspaper articles or marketplace rumors, or, more often than not, on just pure invention.

It was hard to believe that CIA analysts in Saigon, inundated beneath all that manufactured mush, could have had any idea of what was really happening. Or perhaps the invented political “intelligence” from the phony field sources was so broad that the analysts could choose their own conclusions.

In June, after I had been in-country four months, the CIA base chief called me to his office in Can Tho and asked if I would like to take over a province by myself.

“Yes, sir,” I said. “What province?”

“Chuong Thien.”

“Chuong Thien?” I asked incredulously.

Zee, an old friend, had just been assigned to Chuong Thien. Some people had given him the nickname “Deadman” because, on most people’s maps, Chuong Thien Province was VC-controlled. Only the capital of Vi Thanh, the location of the ARVN’s 21st Division headquarters, was under South Vietnamese control.

“Zee is being transferred out of Chuong Thien,” the base chief said without elaboration. “It is yours if you want it. Go down and show the flag. The 21st ARVN Division has the security responsibility for most of the delta. Even if Saigon Station doesn’t want to know what the ARVN are doing and what they think about the enemy, I do.”

So I took the job and flew down in an Air America Porter airplane that afternoon for a short overlap with Zee. As we approached the town of Vi Thanh, I told the pilot that we were awfully high if that little airport way down there was indeed where we were going. He showed me his map. It was all red around the town, which indicated enemy control. There was no approach area. The only way to get in was to get directly over the town and spiral down. That we did, and he delivered me dizzy to Zee below.

Terry Barker, the local State Department/USAID (United States Agency for International Development) representative, was also on the ramp when I jumped off the Porter. He and Zee were the only Americans in the province, a point they emphasized on our way into town—that the whole American community had shown up to welcome me. They said there was a siege mentality about the place. ARVN forces did not leave town unless they were in battle formation. The badlands began right outside the city gates.

As close as we were to enemy forces and as dangerous as the place was supposed to be, the compound was surprisingly open. A barbed-wire fence ran around the football field-size area where I was to live and work. A single Nhung guard stood by the main gate. I was to inherit a staff of ten local workers, two of whom were translators and ops assistants.

After dropping off Terry at the compound, Zee took me to meet General Le Van Hung, commanding officer of the ARVN 21st Division, who welcomed us warmly. Speaking English slowly but clearly, he said that his division was responsible for the whole lower delta. They were outnumbered but he did what he could, picking and choosing his confrontations. He could not go charging every enemy bunker, because he would lose his men quickly. Because he was in the war for the duration, he had to husband his forces and his resources. He said, matter-of-factly, that he could not turn the tide there. If he began to get the upper hand, he reasoned, the North Vietnamese would bring in more forces.

“Why fight a losing battle?” I asked.

“What are my choices?” he asked, smiling. Slowly, he added, “This is my country.”

On the way back to the compound, Zee began talking about the realities of the war in the same way we had talked about it in Laos. He said Vi Thanh was the worst place in South Vietnam. There was no reason for hope in Vi Thanh. The enemy was all around. He said he had argued with the base chief in Can Tho that we should pull out. Why risk the capture of Americans during the eleventh hour? It is all over, he said. The country is lost.

As he continued to talk, I thought, Well, I know the reason this guy’s leaving. His doomsday reporting contrasted too sharply
with the enormous number of other—primarily political—field and Saigon-based reports that said everything will work out. Zee was calling the cards as he saw them at a time when Saigon Station said the real game was being played under the table, out of sight.

After Zee left, I moved into his room in the two-bedroom main house on the compound. Terry had the other bedroom. That night after supper, Terry suggested that we sit on the front porch. Slumped in a rattan chair, I balanced a glass of tea on my stomach. I couldn’t see Terry sitting half hidden in a chair to my right.

“We’re surrounded by VC and North Vietnamese regulars. Just you and me, you know,” he said. “There are no other Americans around to bail us out if the bad guys come after us.”

“Yep, I’m getting that message. Just you and me down here in godforsaken Vi Thanh.”

“Yep, and I’m a draft dodger,” Terry said quietly.

Because my companion was out of sight, I just stared straight up at the ceiling. Draft dodger? What’s he doing in Vi Thanh with me, surrounded by VC?

“How’d you get here?” I said aloud.

“Damndest thing. I was in college in Texas in 1969, and I didn’t have a clue what I wanted to do with my life though I was aware of what Uncle Sam was doing with uncommitted youngsters over the age of eighteen. I was thinking, I want no part of going to war in Vietnam. Hell, I’m from Texas, Alamo country, but try as I might I couldn’t justify our military involvement here and I was certainly not going to participate as a U.S. soldier. So out of college, to avoid the draft, I joined the Peace Corps. It’s that simple. For the same reason some people went to Canada, I went into the Peace Corps.

“Got sent to a small island on a Micronesian atoll—one hundred by five thousand meters. That’s all. Just me and 350 natives. A resupply ship came by once every two to three months with mail; sometimes it forgot to stop. But on the positive side, I wasn’t in the Army, wasn’t in Vietnam. Then one time when the resupply ship stopped—I had been on the island for a year and a half then, I think—it stopped and there was a letter from my draft board back in Texas, saying, come on home son, your number’s coming up and you got to go do your duty. Whatever you might think,
here in Texas we don’t consider Peace Corps work a deferment.” He paused a moment. “Want some more tea or something?”

“No, I’m okay,” I said. The sun was almost completely down and it was pleasant on the porch. Cool. Terry’s slight Texas drawl wore well, and he told an interesting story. Although he was describing himself as someone very unlike myself, he was a kindred, rational spirit.

“So I went home,” he continued, “took a physical for the Army on a Friday—passed it, unfortunately—and was prepared to go in the Army on a Monday. But Saturday, now I know this is hard to believe but it’s the truth, on Saturday, I got a call from a U.S. Agency for International Development fellow who offered me a job. I called the U.S. Army on Monday and told them to stick it. This was late 1971. Took training for about ten months and USAID sent me to Vietnam. Trying as hard as I could to stay away, it’s where I ended up. I’ve been here in Chuong Thien Province ever since.” He paused.

“And you know what, I’ve become very proud to be part of the U.S. effort to keep this country free. I believe our intentions are noble, and I have humble respect for the soldiers fighting for freedom here.”

“What changed your mind?”

“Being here, knowing the people—they’re good people, you know, hardworking, family oriented, proud. You met General Hung. Colonel Canh is the province chief. I’ll introduce you. These two are dedicated South Vietnamese patriots. And the others here in Chuong Thien, the farmers out there, they have it so tough, but you know, every encounter I have with them, they smile. Every time I fly out to the districts, they seem glad to see me; they smile and ask me to eat with them. They are so humble, so easy to like. And they just want to farm and family. That’s pretty much what they do—farm and family—and I’m a big fan. I think they should be able to do that without the Communists telling them what to do, who to share what with. I can understand why I was unconvinced about our warring effort when I was in college, but I know for sure now that we were right in coming here to help these people stay free. What we’re doing here is worth dying for.”

Texas Terry Barker, I thought, did not betray his Alamo roots.
He was a tough guy, and I was lucky to have him with me in Vi Thanh. He had been there for three years. Wonder if he thought I was Alamo/Vi Thanh material?

I asked if the local security situation was as bad as everyone said.

“Yep,” he said, “maybe worse. The enemy owns the countryside. But I don’t think they are going to come across the field in the back and attack this compound because,” he paused, “they never have. They don’t want to. The Communists want Americans out of South Vietnam, and capturing or killing civilians like ourselves might change Washington’s resolve to get out. Attacking us here would make the papers back home, and the North Vietnamese don’t want negative press. They’re not stupid. They read the papers, too. Even the VC out there in the Chuong Thien boonies know what’s going on in
The Washington Post
. And you know what, we’re low priority to them. What damage do we do? I don’t harm them myself, my USAID programs probably indirectly help the local Communists. And nothing that you do is apparently disruptive.

“So we get along, out here as far from Washington as you can get, we and the bad guys get along. There’s something like a truce between us. Zee didn’t believe it. He thought the end was near, that he was at risk of being attacked on the whim of some local VC commander.”