When a nation could not sleep

In 1975, VietnamNews editor-in-chief Traàn Mai Höôûng was a young war photographer. His story of marching into Saigon with the troops who liberated the city, and what he saw as the tanks crashed through the gates of the Independence Palace.

(by Traàn Mai Höôûng, VNS May 8, 2000)

As if it was yesterday, I can see the 203rd Brigade’s tanks rumbling out of a rubber plantation outside Bieân Hoøa to form a prong of the general offensive on downtown Saigon. It was April 29, 1975.

In the afternoon sun, the half-red, half-blue flags fluttered on tank-tops covered with red dust. Soldiers of Regiment 66, who had just received the "Determined to Win" flag, marched along on both sides of the tanks chanting victory songs.

At the field headquarters of the second Army Corps, General Nguyeãn Höõu An, commander, took out a handkerchief to wipe his spectacles, his hands gently trembling, eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep, obviously too deeply moved to hide his feelings.

Traàn Bình, political commissar of Division 304, who received a war correspondents’ team from the Vietnam News Agency to the field headquarters of the eastern front, was no less anxious. I knew how the commanders felt as the historical moment approached. As former head of the military news office and a close colleague of media-men, Bình whispered into our ears as we turned on the transceiver to contact Hanoi: "Ask them to discreetly let my wife know that I am here."

At that moment, the thoughts of every serviceman were centered around his native village. At the front, the vast "base" behind them was symbolised into a banyan tree, a river landing, a mother who’d been waiting for decades for the return of her son, a wife who "wept only on the day of reunion"...

We immediately sent Traàn Bình’s private request to Hanoi, it being an open secret that all the regular army corps of the revolutionary forces were already deployed around Saigon. The enemy’s last defense line had been broken, and final victory was anticipated by the hour.

A few days earlier, fierce battles had taken place at the eastern entrance to Saigon. We were attached to the field command of the second Army Corps close to the Nöôùc Trong military base, one of the last strongholds of the Saigon army. Stationed within range of enemy fire for several days and nights, the battle-hardened generals had to prepare for the imminent battles even as they tried to meet the requirements of the larger campaign: ensuring co-ordination between different prongs of the offensive, finding out the way to keep casualties and destruction of the city to the minimum, keeping enemy fire and airports under control and occupying the bridges on the march.

We were accompanying the 203rd Tank Brigade and the 66th Infantry Regiment. Our old Soviet-made command-car was dwarfed by T54 tanks, armored troop carriers and giant GMC trucks. The whole detachment was moving towards the Bien Hoa – Saigon highway. All bridges along the highway had been occupied by special task force units. The last enemy strongholds still remained. Gunfire resounded ahead of us, signaling fighting, the last battle of the war, was still on. Our car stopped at a cross-roads and we saw young soldiers sharing dehydrated foods with each another beside their tank on which was emblazoned: Thaàn Toác (Lightning speed). Further ahead, a military truck fully loaded with ammunition cases was trying to overtake other vehicles. The tank soldiers yelled to us: "Please take a photo that we can send home!" While I aimed my camera at them, the thought, unbidden, flashed through my mind: Who among them would fall down in these final moments?

That night, we slept in a rubber plantation outside Bien Hoa. I looked through the foliage at the stars twinkling in the night sky, unable to sleep. The earth echoed with the sounds of all sorts of gunfire. The order for attack might come at any time. Tomorrow, we would march into Saigon. We were anxious about finishing our work, about the possibility of dying. But the sense of being witness to an unforgettable moment in the history of our nation prevailed over all other emotions. Generation after generation of Vietnamese had fought for national independence, and many among them had laid down their lives. On the stretch of land where the army units were "marching into history," so many of them would not witness this moment. Tonight, all over Vietnam, perhaps millions of houses were still lit, and millions of families sleepless. I recalled the days when we accompanied the eastern army detachment on the march into Hue, Ñaø Naüng, Phan Rang, Phan Thiet, Quy Nhôn, Nhatrang... along the central coast. All this within a month. History was evolving at a speed of decades in a day.

At dawn on April 30, our detachment moved straight into downtown Saigon. We crossed the bridge spanning the Ñoàng Nai River. The order to attack came as we were moving into the city. Enemy machine-gun nests on both sides of the road kept spitting fire. Our car veered sharply to the right or left of a tank to avoid point-blank firing. We were moving towards Dinh Ñoäc Laäp or the Independence Palace. The convoy was led by tanks followed by armored troop carriers and trucks with 130mm cannons providing supporting fire along the road, belching black smoke into the sky. At certain places our tanks had to lower their cannon to fire point-blank at retreating Saigon ships. From inside the city, people rushed out in the direction of Bieân Hoøa by all means available, forming a stream of people a dozen kilometres long on the highway. A heavy downpour failed to dampen their enthusiasm as they - wearing no raincoats - waved and greeted the incoming liberation forces from either side of the road.

While pausing on the highway, an officer of Division 304 riding in the same car with us turned on a transistor. General Döông Vaên Minh was ordering his troops to cease fire, a little too late in the day, as final defeat stared them in their faces.

We kept close to the convoy proceeding to the city center. Here was Saigon! Leâ Vaên Duyeät, a large road, looked small as the convoy approached it. People poured out, standing on both sides of the road. The revolutionary flags kept secretly in each house were out in the sunshine. Amidst all the noise in the city that day, I could distinctly hear the fluttering of flags. I recalled the flag-handover ceremony held for Regiment 66, the main unit of the offensive on Saigon from the east. In the middle of the luxuriant green rubber plantation, the soldiers stood silently beside their tanks, listening to the chief commander: "Please put up this ‘Determined to Win’ flag atop the Presidential Palace of the Saigon puppet administration, the final target of the military campaign conducted by generations for the independence and reunification of our country."

A little boy named Nguyeãn Duõng, living in Toân Thoï Töôøng Street, climbed into our car, embraced me, and stuck his head out of the car’s window shouting: "It’s the day we’ve long waited for!" Leâ Vaên Cöông, a tailor owning a shop on the highway, together with hundreds of young people, rode his motorbike along with the convoy into the city center. Clutching our car’s window with one hand, he launched into a rendition of a well-known song composition by Van Cao: 

                  "Carried away by the singing, Unit after unit of soldiers are returning... "

Others, including us, joined him.

Our car headed towards the Independence Palace. The driver was at a loss as to which way to go. After asking onlookers a few questions, we arrived on the spot. The leading tanks had already crashed through the iron gates of the palace. General Döông Vaên Minh’s cabinet had declared unconditional surrender. We met on the first floor the key cabinet members: President Döông Vaên Minh in his usual brown shorts and Prime Minister Vuõ Vaên Maäu... They wore doleful, worried expressions.

They expressed their willingness to hand over the administration, and a representative of the revolutionary armed forces said what has gone into history: "You cannot hand over what you no longer have."

When we moved into the entrance of the Independence Palace, a western journalist upon recognising his colleagues threw up a camera into the air in joy. Jubilant, Boris Gannep, a German journalist working for the Progress newspaper told me: "I’ve waited for a long time for this day. It’s a wonderful victory."

After taking snapshots of the historic moment at the Independence Palace, photographer Vuõ Taïo and I borrowed a command car from General Hoaøng Ñan, Deputy Commander of the second Army Corps, and drove to other places in the city: the US Embassy building on the Thoáng Nhaát – Maïc Ñónh Chi road, deserted and still bearing traces of a helter-skelter retreat. At the Prime Minister’s Office of the Saigon puppet administration, we saw papers and seals scattered all over the floor. The headquarters of the Defense Ministry was strewn with dozens of jeeps. The Department of Police building was filled with guns and ammunition. At General Cao Vaên Vieân’s Office, we saw pieces of bread left over on the table... We drove to the Beán Thaønh Market, the Nhaø Roàng Wharf, and along Nguyeãn Hueä boulevard. Everywhere people were talking, laughing and even crying for joy. The mood was festive all over the city.

We returned to the Independence Palace late in the afternoon and wrote our reports. I finished my report as night fell. All Saigon was lit up. Flares lit up the sky over the city. I could not sleep that night as well. Nor could Vietnam.