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Phan Nhật Nam’s Memory of April 30, 1975

2024; University of California Press; Volume: 19; Issue: 2 Linguagem: Inglês

10.1525/vs.2024.19.2.91

1559-3738

Phan Nhật Nam, Alex-Thái Đình Võ,

Vietnamese History and Culture Studies

Everything happened on the morning of April 30, 1975.Death began to cast its ominous dark shadow at 6:15 p.m. on April 28, when a string of bombs swiftly fell from under the wings of an A37 aircraft, piloted by the treacherous Nguyễn Thành Trung, onto the Tân Sơn Nhất runway. The bombs hit the runway, destroying the power plant system. For the first time since its establishment, Tân Sơn Nhất sank into darkness, illuminated only by flames. Finally, starting at 1 a.m. on April 29, Tân Sơn Nhất struggled, gasped, and gradually submerged in the infernal flames as a barrage of heavy artillery and rockets rained down relentlessly, fired by communist troops from Đồng Dù, Củ Chi, Gia Định, and the Hậu Nghĩa border. Their 130mm shells and 122mm rockets fell incessantly and precisely. In the midst of the thick smoke and roaring flames, Tân Sơn Nhất writhed, convulsed, collapsed, and gasped for breath. The killing continued until dawn.The generals had already left, and the high-ranking officers had abandoned their posts, but Flight Lieutenant Trang Văn Thành stayed. Thành alone went to where the C119 Hỏa Long military aircraft was stationed, started the engine, and flew up into the blue sky to defend and save Tân Sơn Nhất. From above, Thành could easily see the positions of the communist artillery units. They were openly attacking, firing at Tân Sơn Nhất without any concealment, from nightfall until the dawn of April 29. Thành tilted the wing, directing the nose of the Hỏa Long to the targets, and unloaded 7.62mm bullets and all the firepower from the two 20mm cannons mounted under the wings. Out of ammunition, Thành turned back to the runway and manually reloaded the aircraft. With no time to think further, he returned to the sky above Tân Sơn Nhất airport—the gateway to the South. He looked down at the communist artillery positions, which had temporarily ceased their operations due to his attack. It turned out that the desperate and formidable attempt by Thành became South Vietnam's final hope for rescue. Thành tilted the wing, firmly activated the fire control system next to his seat, and was all alone with his target. He was all alone, yes, just him alone—Flight Lieutenant Trang Văn Thành—Thành Thiếu Sinh Quân [Thành, the Young Cadet]. Thành descended lower to ensure the accuracy of his shots. The fuselage of the aircraft trembled violently. Fire! Fire! Fire spread across the left wing of the aircraft, next to the fuel tank and beside his seat. Thành forcefully released the emergency latch to escape from the aircraft. Everything got stuck. He used his hands to push open the cockpit door and ejected himself, with the parachute deploying powerfully. The lines and strings of the parachute got entangled. He was held tightly by the parachute and the frame of the cockpit. Fire blazed! Fire roared. The pilot was engulfed in flames, perishing in mid-air.Below on the ground, I observed the death of my compatriot (at that time, I didn't know who that was) when the [PAVN] SA7 heat-seeking missile flew up and split the fuselage in half. I stood at the gate of Tần Quý Mai Camp of the Eighth Airborne Division, looking across at the Tử Sỹ Đường House of the Air Force and then up at the sky. I clearly heard the pilot's inaudible screams as he struggled in the sea of fire. I had a reaction: To live is unavailing. To die is unavailing. To go to the United States is unavailing. To remain in Vietnam is unavailing. I spoke these words and then calmly returned to my home in Phú Nhuận.On the morning of April 30, 1975, I searched my bag for all my documents, including the Central Military Liaison Committee's military certificate, salary card, press card, and identification card with number 41, and then threw them all into the sewer in front of Khai Trí bookstore on Lê Lợi Street. Consider me dead! It feels like I said these words the day before, on the 29th, when I saw the burning plane. I clutched two cameras tightly to my chest. At the very least, I still possessed the necessary equipment to perform a task, to carry out a duty. These are indispensable images for the future, so that there will be someone who knows and who understands, I reminded and consoled myself. It's merely a means for me to cope in a tough position. In the face of this pathetic and tragic circumstance, I made my way to Lam Sơn Square, in front of the National Assembly headquarters. Sài Gòn was desolate, everywhere around it. Suddenly, it started to rain. A short rain with big, heavy drops, gloomy.Two communist Chinese Molotova vehicles (I only learned they were Zin [Soviet ZIL157] trucks after going to prison) came slowly through the roundabout near Bến Thành Market. People on the street looked up, staring blankly. The cars arrived in front of the National Assembly building, and a group of young women jumped out. A man wearing a beret, probably the commander of the female soldiers' platoon, stepped out of the cabin, gave orders, directed, and pulled each person into their "battle" positions. Two Japanese journalists and I walked to the platoon leader sitting on the steps. All three of us raised our cameras, adjusted the angles, and set the lighting. The young girls sat motionless and serious. They all wore new uniforms, blue shirts, black trousers—the cloth still had traces of tailor's chalk—with bandoliers of bullets crisscrossing their chests and stomachs. Brand new bullets, bright red.From the corner of Givral restaurant in Lam Sơn Square, at the beginning of Nguyễn Huệ Street, a crowd gathered to watch the "Việt Cộng soldiers." Two more trucks unloaded troops in front of the Rex Theater. The soldiers jumped down, rushing and scrambling toward the verandas. From the National Assembly, I walked through the Passage Eden. The sound of pounding and breaking came from foreign establishments, iron doors were shaken and smashed, large glass windows shattered, and belongings were scattered and hurriedly pulled onto the streets. The crowd grew larger and louder. People pushed and shoved, cursing and fighting. The crowd ran toward Building Brink, the Đồn Đất area, and Grall Hospital, places where the American expatriates had abandoned their premises.Suddenly, everyone stopped to listen carefully. Someone committed suicide. Someone else was shot dead. Who? A soldier, not sure, only saw his military uniform. Where? Outside, near the Vietnamese Marines monument. The conversation was interrupted, hurried, and lost amid the heavy breathing, the frantic footsteps of the crowd advancing toward the warehouses, the premises filled with precious items, food, and canned goods. There was the sound of gunshots. AK rifles and shadowy figures rushed into the main gate of City Hall. I ran after the communist soldiers with two youths holding a red flag. In reality, it was just a piece of red fabric. Briefly, I stopped and glanced toward the Vietnamese Marines monument, where the soldier had just died. I bent over, feeling nauseated. The morning of April 30, 1975. Amid the sound of tank tracks breaking through the gates of Independence Palace, there was a small, dry gunshot that lodged into the head of Lieutenant Nguyễn Văn Long, the national police officer.I mounted my bicycle and pressed down on the pedals firmly, riding along Lê Văn Duyệt Street, past Đũi Market, where my friends (such as Bùi Giáng, Tạ Ký, and Nguyễn Xuân Hoàng) were sitting happily yesterday, full of life (now this suddenly seems very long ago). I arrived in front of the gate of Nguyễn Trung Hiếu Camp, the base of the First Airborne Battalion, and asked Second Battalion Leader Trần Công Hạnh, "What is your plan?" Hạnh looked silently at the congested street filled with people running in panic toward downtown Sài Gòn. His eyes were dry and restless after days and nights without sleep. Hạnh decisively said, although exhausted and broken: "I still have five hundred soldiers; all the platoon leaders are waiting for my orders. What can I do, where can I go?!"I rode my bicycle into Chí Hòa Officer Quarters, determined to visit my younger sibling. Who knows, it might be the last time. Turned out, it was indeed the last time! There was a company of Airborne troops (actually just over a platoon) responsible for securing the residential quarters under the command of Major General Hồ Trung Hậu [deputy commander of the Airborne Division before 1972]. Major General Hậu was spreading a map on the jeep's hood, discussing it with a group of soldiers. When he learned that the surrender order had been carried out, he flung the map away and roared, "Motherfucker—son of a bitch!"I spoke to the second lieutenant, the leader of the platoon, saying, "I just met Mr. Hạnh outside the gate of the First Battalion. Mr. Hạnh has no objections, he's telling everyone to go home." Second Lieutenant Huỳnh Văn Thái firmly replied, "I won't surrender. My platoon and I will head to the dock." Thái gathered his platoon, shouted sternly, lined them up, and gave the command to move. The platoon of soldiers left the quarters through the Tô Hiến Thành gate, turned onto Nguyễn Tri Phương Street, and headed toward the Trần Quốc Toản Fish Market, toward the dock. However, the Paratroopers of Lieutenant Huỳnh Văn Thái did not reach Bạch Đằng dock; they arrived at the roundabout of Ngã Sáu Chợ Lớn and formed a circle, raising their guns to the sky, and loudly proclaimed: "Long live the Republic of Vietnam! This is where we die, father!" Then, consecutive grenades exploded after their resolute declaration for the South.Later, I learned that Bắc Hải Street, a small alley leading to Ông Tạ Market, which I had just passed through, was the site of a dignified sacrifice carried out by an entire family in order to die with their country. Major Đặng Sĩ Vĩnh was from the first [graduating officer-training] class of Nam Định and also the brother-in-law of Hà Thượng Nhân—the pen name of Major Phạm Xuân Ninh, a senior figure in the journalistic and literary world of the South Vietnamese military. Vĩnh was an officer of the Special Intelligence branch, secretly transferred from telecommunications to handle international communications. Vĩnh's eldest son, First Lieutenant Đặng Trần Vinh, was an officer in Section Two of the Joint General Staff. Father and son had a discussion after the surrender order was issued. "It's up to you son, but I have already made up my mind as I've told you before.""Dad, if you have made up your mind like that, your grandchildren and I are also in agreement."Consequently, the whole family consumed a strong poison that they had prepared beforehand. First Lieutenant Đặng Trần Vinh concluded the tragedy with a gunshot that shattered his skull after saluting the Golden Flag with Three Red Stripes [the South Vietnamese flag], shouting a phrase that made even the mountains and rivers ache with sorrow: "Long live the Republic of Vietnam!"At the same time as the generals of the Republic—like Nguyễn Khoa Nam, Lê Nguyên Vỹ, Trần Văn Hai, Lê Văn Hưng, Phạm Văn Phú, and Hồ Ngọc Cẩn—tragically met their ends, many others whom no one knows also died resolutely with the South. I crossed the boundary of life and death on the morning of April 30, 1975, with a sense of guilt—the guilt of survivors. This feeling had begun on March 15, 1975, when I followed the convoy of refugees along Provincial Road 7 from Pleiku to Phú Bổn, then to Tuy Hoà, and when I was standing on Hải Vân Pass on March 25, watching a procession of people fleeing from Quảng Trị and Huế to Đà Nẵng. I heard angry and resentful words spoken by a barefoot woman with disheveled hair. She lifted her áo dài to reveal a child who had died a long time ago in her arms.On the morning of April 30, I pedaled my bicycle with tears mixed with blood; on my shirt, on my fingertips, where the handlebar rubbed, the smell of blood was intense. This resulted from my approach to take photos of the second lieutenant and the paratroopers who had committed suicide. The eyes of the deceased stared fiercely at me. Two cameras that had just captured those "historical moments" were snatched by someone on the roadside, but I didn't care. I don't know how I made it back home or at what time, but this was truly the longest, most exhausting, and most horrifying journey I had ever experienced. My throat was bitter, my mouth dry, and my mind hollow. When I reached the end of Hồ Biểu Chánh Street, I was exhausted. I got off the bicycle and staggered forward. Someone was standing under a star apple tree in front of a shuttered house, beckoning me with a desperate gesture…My God…Why are you still here…Why, why are you still here? Nguyễn Xuân Hoàng asked me with a distressed voice, his eyes wide with fear. I knew my friend was afraid and worried about my fate, not about his own situation. The pain eased a bit. I avoided his troubled and intense gaze because I really wanted to take his trembling hands that were gripping the bike's handlebars and burst into tears with him. He was the witness of the moment I returned from death.