Hey, all!
Okay, so since I haven't updated lately I thought I'd gift you with the first chapter of a short multi-chapter fic. So this is it. Seeing how this is the last fic I'm writing for 2014, consider it a special New Years Eve gift.
So now get ready to be bombarded with historical facts and strained accuracy! This story takes place at the very end of the Vietnam War in 1975 during the infamous Evacuation of Saigon (if you've seen Miss Saigon, you might be very familiar with this event). What was basically happening was that the city of Saigon was left mostly untouched by the war, however the Northern Vietnamese (aka, the people the USA was fighting against) were marching to Saigon to get to the National Palace, the seat of power. No one wanted to be around when the Northerners came, so literally thousands of Vietnamese gathered outside the American Embassy to try and get a way out of the country. I tried to keep everything as accurate as I possibly could-it took a crap-ton of research, but I think the finished result made it all worth it. Seriously, this whole evacuation was a complete mess, so if you get confused, believe me, no one will judge.
There will be future UsUk in later chapters, so if you don't like that pairing, now's the time to back out. Also, I apologize profusely if I screw it up. I'm not a romance writer, so bear with me.
So, with that in mind, here is my last fic update of 2014. Happy New Years, everybody!
-M. Rykov
April 29, 1975
10:00 A.M.
The sweltering heat seared across Alfred's back, making his shirt sticky with sweat, plastering it to his skin. He ran about the compound, coming to a standstill at an office door that hung ajar. Alfred stumbled past the overturned chair and scattered papers and glanced out, watching the crowd swarming at the gates of the Embassy, ramming into the sealed gates like blind flies. Soldiers perched on the top of the walls were offering their hands to a select few individuals, hauling them across the way to safety as each new Southern Vietnamese was ushered into the lower floor of the compound. The frantic laps and wheezes of wild wind slapped against the dusty ground, spraying Marines in layers of sand and dirt.
The Northern Vietnamese were marching into the city. Saigon was surrounded. There was no where left to run. The people had lapsed into panic once it became clear that the city—relatively untouched by the war—would fall to the Northerners. They had speedily packed their belongings into purses and pillowcases, tugging at their children's arms with such brute force they looked like oversized rag dolls, stomping over the streets to get to the Embassy for hopes that they would be allowed to build new lives for themselves in the States. Evacuations were being organized, and while Alfred was one of the primary people of importance, thousands of staff members and Southern Vietnamese that had proved to be liable assets to the American effort were waiting their turns.
Chaos reigned out there. The sun had driven them to madness, and they begun to throw themselves against the gate to get in. As much as it pained him, he knew that those gates could not risk getting beaten down. The flood would break, and with that, all half-hearted organization would be lost. Alfred removed his glasses, streaked with grime, and rubbed his eyes.
God, what a mess.
"Captain Jones!" A young Marine who looked like he belonged in high school popped his head into the boiling office, startling Alfred. "We need your assistance behind the Chancery building."
Alfred immediately took from the window and followed the young man down the hall in a quick jog. "What's going on?"
"There isn't room for the CH-53's on the roof. Lieutenant Colonel Kean has called for his Marines to chop down some trees in the Chancery's parking lot so that they have a suitable place to land."
They burst through the door and into the parking lot, the frantic echoes of civilians locked outside the compound immediately meeting their ears. The lot itself was a slab of burning asphalt, crackling under the scorching heat. Civilian cars mingled with military convoys, Marines scrambled around howling orders at one another, the panic slowly beginning to take center stage. As Alfred could see, some of the trees that bordered the lot had already been toppled over; men were dragging them by their roots and branches, throwing them aside to clear the new impromptu landing zone. Those brandishing electric saws sliced through the slender trunks and stood back as the willowy masses rushed to meet the ground. They were sprinting from tree to tree, hardly taking notice if anyone had been caught beneath one.
Lieutenant Colonel Jim Kean, the designated leader of the evacuation, rushed up to Alfred, red in the face and too hurried to salute. "Jones, good you're here. Move some of these vehicles, would you?"
"Yes, sir." Alfred immediately sprung to action, pushing his damp hair back from his eyes as he and a small group of Marines went to work shoving at a small vehicle, a simple white car that probably belonged to some poor bastard who worked at the Chancery.
"Wait a sec!" one of the older Marines shouted. He slung his rifle off his shoulder and gave no word of caution when he slammed the butt of his gun into the driver's window. Glass spurted from the frame like blood from a wound, scattering around their feet in glistening shards.
The men around him yelled in surprise, accusing that he could have at least warned them before he nearly poked their eyes out.
"If we don't put these fuckers in neutral it's gonna be a bitch to move them!" the Marine shouted over the commotion. Alfred glanced at his uniform, catching the name Sawyer embroidered against the mud-caked fabric. Sawyer ducked his head into the car and cursed.
"Shit. Any of you know how to drive stick?" Alfred knew how, but he felt that his strength would be better suited to pushing rather than being at the wheel. Luckily, a few men raised their hands. Sawyer nodded. "Great, how about you guys take two men with you and push the rest of these bastards out of the way, yeah?"
The group broke off into tiny sects around the parking lot, spreading like insects as they stuck to vehicles like bees to honey. Alfred remained with Sawyer and the young man who had summoned him earlier. Apparently, the younger Marine knew how to drive a stick shift, clambering into the car and effortlessly putting it in neutral. Once the tires loosened and the car was liable to move, Alfred and Sawyer pushed at it from the back. Other men followed in suit, heaving them around the lot and away from all the movement. The effort had made Alfred hotter, his hair sticking to his forehead and his chest burning with every mouthful of air.
Sawyer, just as short of breath, nodded as they pressed the vehicle against the far south side of the lot. "Okay, next one."
And on they all went to the next car.
12:00 P.M.
It took about two hours for the lot to be substantially cleared, pushing and shoving at these bodies of lugging metal and crushing them up against one another like scrap metal. The noon sun had reached its blistering center point in the sky, buzzing whirs from the electric saws rode the air like bees, circling Alfred's dizzy head as his heart sped and pounded painfully against his ribs. By the time they were pushing aside their last car, the muscles in Alfred's arms were screaming in protest, aching and sore, taut and cramping. He let out a loud breath as he and Sawyer managed to press the car in a heap on the outer circle of the parking lot. The sun beat down on them mercilessly.
"Piece of cake, right?" Sawyer laughed breathlessly, rolling up the sleeves of his sweat-soaked uniform. "Thanks, man."
Alfred struggled to take in air. "No problem."
Sawyer ran off to join the other Marines as they chopped down trees and hauled them aside. Alfred approached Kean; the man was sweating buckets.
"Now what, Lieutenant Colonel?"
Kean gestured wearily to the blinding sky. "Some Hueys are supposed to be coming down on the rooftop. They're dropping off evacuees from all over points of the city."
"Right, but at what time?"
Kean shook his head. "Don't know. Apparently Ambassador Martin didn't allow the helicopter evacuations until 10:51, so who knows how long it'll take for General Carey to get them here."
Alfred was in disbelief. "You mean you think the orders are barely getting to Carey?"
"I don't know, Jones. I really don't."
"But it's already noon, and those people are pushing at the gates out there!" Alfred pointed in the direction of the flooding crowd hording just outside the Embassy. "They're crushing each other to death to try and get it, you really think those gates are gonna hold them off any longer?"
"It's not my fault that the orders are being sent so late, Jones," Kean bit irritably. "You think I don't know that people are trampling over themselves to try to break their way in? There's very little I can do."
"Okay, but can't we at least help out a few more families?" Alfred said, softer this time in an attempt to keep Kean's good spirit. "I mean, there's little kids out there, sir—"
"I know, Jones. I know…" Kean turned his head to spit on the boiling asphalt. "…But we can't save all of Vietnam. Hueys aren't meant to carry so much weight."
"Fine, but what about the Sea Knights? Or the CH-53s? Those carry a lot more weight, right?"
Kean sighed impatiently. "We'll save who we can, captain. I can promise you that." He turned his head to the sound of the screaming civilians just beyond the walls, held back only by a fence of creaking metal. "For now, all we can do is wait."
3:00 P.M.
Over the past few hours, just as Kean had promised, Hueys had dropped off a few evacuees and flew off to the Embassy. Marines had to reassure them that they were indeed set to leave Vietnam and that helicopters weren't circulating them to the source of impeding danger just to keep up a well-constructed ruse.
For all the Hueys that looped the skies, there were still no signs of the CH-53s. Alfred tsked crossly.
Looks like Ambassador Martin was slow on the uptake after all.
He had considered taking shelter back in the Embassy, but it was bursting at the seams with people. Frankly, Alfred was warm enough to know that if he was to go squeezing in between crowds now he would pass out from heat stroke.
"So why did Martin send Carey the order so late?" Alfred asked Kean, who had been barking out orders to a few Marines to find some luminous paint to draw a big H on the lot's asphalt. It was to alert the incoming helicopters of the new landing zone and it was not to be delayed.
"He wanted to see the damage for himself," he responded gruffly, wiping the sweat from his upper lip. "He didn't believe that Saigon was as bad as it is."
Alfred snorted. "Wow."
Kean looked to Alfred grimly. "The man is only trying to keep us together…"
The Motorola Walkie Talkie that he kept clutched in his hand crackled. Kean tuned it and spoke down into it, a grainy voice coming through the coarse speaker in a rapid twine. Alfred couldn't make out the speech over the commotion, and before he could ask, Kean was already starting back towards the Embassy. "Excuse me; I've got to get up to the roof."
"What for?"
"The first waves of birds are coming through, so get everyone ready."
At that, Kean disappeared into the Embassy doors, a loud cacophony of blaring phones, shrieking voices, and crying children exhaled from the building as soon as the door opened. Alfred could feel the body heat from the room, and the sudden waft only made him lightheaded.
Alfred and a few other Marines who had heard Kean's order began to disperse, gathering their men and shouting out orders for them to ready themselves. The hard part was only beginning.
Feeling that he should help with guiding the helicopters, Alfred decided to brave the heat of the indoors and make his way up to the roof. The moment he entered the Embassy, he was met with a frantic cluster of people. Vietnamese men and women heaved their way through the crowd, children shrieked for their lost mothers as they held pillowcases filled with ragged clothes, Embassy staff wove in and out of the crowd, gathering important documents and making short last-minute phone calls on behalf of those who wanted to say goodbye to their families. Vietnamese mingled with English, sparring around wildly as bold women clung desperately to his uniform, begging for him to help them get their husbands and children through the gates, pleading for them to deliver them safely to America. Alfred couldn't stand to look at any of them for too long, so he gently shook them off and gave them a sad smile before driving his way through the bumbling sea.
He had initially opted to take the stairs up to the roof, but the entrance was packed with a clump of people waiting for the helicopters, determined to be one of the first ones up and out of the city. Alfred then settled to take the elevator when a few Marines from outside joined him. They all crammed into the elevator, the heat even more unbearable in such small quarters. Alfred felt like he was being suffocated, hot air stifling his lungs as he tried to breathe past the rush. They hurried up the steps leading to the roof, apologizing as they bumped against a few people who were waiting for their own turn up the roof, and burst through the door. A crowd of evacuees had already begun to gather there: Embassy staff members, refugees, and even a few news reporters were flinching against the commotion. Alfred followed everyone's gazes up to the sky, having to squint to see the tiny black dot that was the first helicopter approaching to carry away evacuees.
Kean grabbed Alfred by the arm. "Alright, captain. Stand here with the rest of the evacuees; you're getting on this first helicopter."
"What? No, I'm not going!" Alfred yanked his arm away. "There's no way, I'm staying here to help you."
Kean's lips thinned dangerously. "With all due respect, Jones, there can't be any question when it comes to this. The minute that helicopter lands, you have to get on it."
Alfred stubbornly stood his ground. "No. I'm not."
Kean didn't look in the mood to argue. "I admire your boldness, but now's not the time to pick a fight. I've been given specific orders to make sure you evacuate Saigon as soon as—"
"And I'm telling you that I'm not going," Alfred repeated vehemently. "There are plenty of people who need to be evacuated much sooner than I do, and I'm not taking that chance by taking anyone's place."
"Your heroism is admirable," Kean snapped. "But you have to get on that helicopter. You're the National Representative of the United States of America, and if you don't get the hell out of here as soon as possible—"
"I can't die if that's what you're worried about—Well, I mean I can, but I'd come back. I'll be fine here, sir, and I know that you've been given specific orders, but I'm not going to run away when people need our help."
Kean's expression notably softened. "We're already running, Jones."
It was true. They were running, but Alfred didn't want to admit that. He knew that the Americans were no use to Vietnam anymore—hell, their fight was done for all the way back in 1973. There was simply no point in any of them being there, and now, to dodge the bloody bullet that was stalking towards the city, they were running like cowards.
Alfred clenched his jaw. "I'm. Not. Going."
Kean stared him down as the helicopter came closer, it's wings already chopping through the wind and swirling the air about them as it hovered. Upon seeing the approaching helicopter, the crowd rallying outside the gate went wild, charging against the wiry walls, reaching their hands over their heads, begging to be rescued.
"Fine," Kean bitterly acquiesced. "Have it your way."
Just as he went to guide the helicopter down, loud cracks whistled off into the air. At first, Alfred thought it was someone in the crowd lighting firecrackers, trying to get the attention of the helicopter's pilot, but as everyone screamed in panic and ducked their heads, it became clear that those splintering booms were actually gunshots.
"What's the hell is that?" Alfred shouted as he joined the Marines at Kean's side, crouching forward to avoid being hit.
"Those are them cowboys!" one of the Marines replied. "Goddamn looters!"
"Will someone let a policeman know that some son of a bitch in the building across from us is shooting at our helicopters?" Kean demanded.
One of the Marines broke away and descended down the stairs, shouting apologies as he made his way down. The helicopter was already sporting a few bullet holes, but nothing too damaging. It must've hovered above them for a while; the gunshots had temporarily subsided, but the people below them continued to shout.
Kean and a few Marines finally guided the thing down, standing clear as the helicopter made its seventy-foot vertical descent down to the Embassy's roof, hitching up bulbous waves of wind as it came down. The helicopter's choppers had begun to slow, and immediately, before it could even have a successful touchdown, Marines began ushering evacuees inside. As they boarded, Kean had climbed up to meet the pilot and was using their headset to get in contact with the Seventh Fleet, telling them that the original plan of requiring only two helicopters for the evacuation wasn't going to be enough.
Alfred was among those that hauled people into the helicopter, trying to match up children with their mothers, intent on making sure no one got separated along the way. One woman was crying joyfully, thanking him profusely in broken English. A young husband and his wife stared up at him in wide-eyed disbelief, a little boy and his teenage mother clung tightly to one another.
"Alright!" Kean came off headset and ordered for everyone to step back. He took a short glance to Alfred in silent questioning, one last effort to get him on the Huey. Alfred shook his head in reply.
It took a while for the helicopter to get up as it struggled with the weight. It went straight up, abandoning the traditional translational maneuver where the pilot leaned the helicopter forward and then up. It was dangerous how many people were packed inside; Alfred estimated that they were at least doubling the weight that these things were meant to carry, but as it began its steady ascension into the air, a tiny breath of relief washed over him.
The guns were firing again, and the remaining people waiting on the rooftop had begun panicking.
"God damn it!" a voice yelled. "Someone take care of that fucking shooter!"
The helicopter flew gratefully off, carrying away the first batch of evacuees. And now, the next one was coming.
The CH-53s had begun arriving at the same time, nestling in the parking lot as more and more evacuees were being pulled from the building and into these heavier aircrafts.
"Jones, you really should be getting in one of those birds!" Kean shouted over the roar of another incoming helicopter.
Alfred brought forward a group of evacuees closer. "Not a chance in hell!"
Helicopters came in and came out, landing and taking off, being packed and lugged like airborne mail. CH-53s were lifting in and out, taking Marines with them, families, news reporters, refugees. Anyone who had waited on the roof was being ushered into these aircrafts, disappearing into the sky as they made their course to the waiting aircraft carriers out at sea. Every time a new helicopter strayed in, Kean made a beeline to the pilot to borrow their head sets, keeping as much constant contact with the Seventh Fleet as he could.
The civilians outside the Embassy that had managed to loot guns were still shooting at the helicopters as they flew in and out, causing many of them to land with a considerable amount of bullet holes. The shots would subside for a while, but as soon as another helicopter made its appearance, it would start up again. It was a routine that no one seemed to have the power to fix.
"Get 'em out of here!" a Marine yelled to a pilot as they loaded up the next helicopter.
This recent helicopter was proving to be a bit problematic. The thing was really fighting to fly—it would attempt to lift off, but would shakily come right back down. Its belly was filled beyond its absolute limits; it was a futile endeavor to try to get it into the sky with so many people clambering inside.
"Okay, take some people off!" Kean ordered.
Alfred was reluctant to do so, knowing how badly these people wanted to leave as soon as humanly possible, but unless they wanted to lose a helicopter to overflowing weight, hard feelings would have to be put aside. They took off a few people and stood back. The helicopter tried again, but it still refused to lift.
Kean bowed his head, entirely chagrined. "More!"
More people were escorted off. After the helicopter had been relieved of its burden, it finally began to take off. Kean rushed to the pilot and commanded him to park the helicopter as soon as they were cleared to land on the aircraft carriers. It had proved to be underpowered and was thus useless in the evacuation. Once that helicopter blew off, another came in its place. More people were packed, more people were stuffed.
It was an unforgiving pattern.
Land, pack, take off, repeat. Land, pack, take off, repeat. Land, pack, take off, repeat.
And it seemed to never end.
5:00 P.M.
Alfred couldn't remember exactly how many helicopters landed in those blurred hours, it seemed like the supply was endless as he helped people into them, pausing only minutely for a quick breath before another flew in to take on the next group of hysterical evacuees. He had been ordered by Kean a few times to run quickly down to the parking lot to check progress there.
The Sea Knights had finally begun to make their appearance, gigantic Chinooks that landed in the parking lot with practiced grace as Marines began to dive in, strapping themselves to their seats before they took off and disappeared.
Once progress on the roof had smoothed over, Kean had begun running back and forth, trying frantically to keep in contact with the Seventh Fleet over the sea as helicopters flew out too quickly for him to catch a chance on the head set. On one of his runs, Alfred took particular notice that he had begun to limp.
"Lieutenant Colonel, how're you holding up?"
"Just peachy, Jones." Kean had started back to the stairwell down from the roof when Alfred came next to him.
"You're limping."
Kean huffed shortly. "Yeah, bad ankle. Swollen."
"Don't you think you should sit down?" Alfred suggested. Kean looked over his shoulder at him incredulously. Alfred realized how dumb he must have sounded and shook his head, waving his arms around in a dismissive manner.
"Never mind, never mind! Just—just be careful!"
Kean grunted in response, obviously in a rush, and ran down the steps to the elevator. Alfred went back to his own job, directing evacuees into the Hueys and hastily assuring them that they would be safe on the awaiting ships.
Land, pack, take off, repeat. Land, pack, take off, repeat.
And repeat.
And repeat.
7:00 P.M.
Alfred had remembered being told that no evacuations would take place after five in the evening.
However the Embassy was still packed; people were still waiting to be airlifted. Night was falling. Alfred knew there would be no way that all these people would make it out by five in the evening. Though despite the time limit that had been ambiguously insinuated, helicopters kept dutifully flying in, not once lagging in the silence of orders. As it began to get darker, Kean had it so that Mission Warden vehicles and sedans that were pushed aside in the parking lot were gathered accordingly to light the landing zones for the pilots. Alfred had scrambled outside and started one of the engines, ordering for the rest to be kept idle under Kean's command. As long as the light shone, pilots wouldn't delay.
Then hell broke loose.
"A flight limit is going to be imposed," Kean announced once Alfred climbed back up to the roof. "Now we have to count whose getting out and who's not getting out. Give me numbers, quickly!"
The Marines ran out back down the stairs. The crowds had died down and the stairwell down to the Embassy building was clear. All that was left was the remaining civilians down near the Embassy's ground floors just outside the Chancery.
Alfred glanced confusedly at Kean, his word choice setting him aback.
"What do you mean we're counting whose getting in and whose getting out?"
Kean said nothing as he had begun to descend down the stairs.
"Aren't we taking everyone out with us?" Alfred asked, a gaping pit already opening in his stomach.
Kean pressed his lips together. He then looked Alfred straight in the eyes. "No, captain. We can't. We're coming to the end here, and we still have our remaining Marines to think about."
"But… But we promised all those people that we'd take them."
"I understand what we promised them, but if a limit will be imposed, then there's no way we can remain here and pack all these people into helicopters. We have to think about our men first."
Alfred couldn't believe what he was hearing. There had to be at least over four hundred people down in the Embassy, waiting to be lifted to safety, and he couldn't bear thinking that after all their efforts, they wouldn't be able to save everyone after all.
"There has to be more helicopters coming," Alfred pressed feverishly. "There has to be—Ford wouldn't have us leave behind all these people—"
"We need to think about ourselves, too, Jones." Kean had begun to limp away from Alfred as he spoke. The cool night air was a dramatic change from the earlier heat, and while it was a welcoming relief, it did nothing to soothe Alfred's nerves. His heart squeezed in his chest and he felt a tremor slithering through his hands, a trickling shiver creeping along his spine.
"But the civilians…"
Kean paused before the elevator and sighed, his head bowed. "I know, captain."
Alfred shook his head. "We promised them."
Kean looked up to him with dismal eyes. "I know, captain."
8:00 P.M.
There was a sudden lull in helicopters. It was most likely in conjuncture to the flight limit, and while it was a rational response, the men couldn't help but feel a bit jittery about the wait. Long moments passed where the night went silent, devoid of the rhythmic thrum of helicopter wings that Alfred had grown so accustomed to. The men were still scampering around the Embassy, striding into the crowd with an admirable professionalism and hardly looking anyone in the eye as they counted them off, gathering up the numbers as they walked past the people they had promised to bring to safety. They looked over them all with a cool disregard, flitting over them like they were animals, never settling, never still. Never bothering to smile at the mother with her infant children, damning themselves if they spared a glance at the elderly couple cramped in the corner playing with threadbare cards, shoving past the two beautiful little girls that munched at stale bread as they daydreamed about their future lives in the United States.
Alfred couldn't join the Marines for their count, he couldn't.
He couldn't stand to look at those people and know that they were going to be left behind after all. There had been such inflating hope for them; they were spoon-fed freedom, cradled to the pledge of a newer joy, and now, after hours and hours of waiting, after hours and hours of tireless labors, they were to be deceived after all. Kean had told him nothing was set in stone yet, but all hope seemed to be lost.
Alfred flopped bonelessly against the wall, a glass of whiskey in his hand as he looked out over the Embassy's third-floor bar. A sad little room, once dimmed with a lush, smoky light as men and women alike smoked their cigars and drank in their lives, their youth and their inspirations, waxing poetry or recounting fond memories. That was all dead now. Alfred drank from his astringent glass.
This was really the end.
The men who were at the bar were completely smashed, most of them slumbering on the hard floors, draped over the counter like cadavers. Many of them Alfred recognized as South Korean diplomats, all who had been guaranteed a fair flight out of the Embassy far away from Saigon. He considered waking them up, but reconsidered it when he realized that he would have to tell them that they were probably being left behind.
He swirled his drink before taking a final gulp. The whiskey made his chest warm, tickling his ribs and tingling under his tongue. He rested his head back against the wall and closed his heavy eyes.
I never thought it would end this way.
Vietnam had been a war wrongly fought. Alfred had entered it in full zest, eager to push out the communists and declare the world free of those fearful ghosts, but the fantasy had soon faded and reality came bursting to the dream.
He had lost so many men in the past fourteen years. So many children had raised their flags and cried out for patriotism, eager for the day they turned eighteen to enlist, singing so innocently about obliterating the Communist Party and rendering the world to its rightful state as a sleek paradigm of the United States. Alfred had looked at them all with pride, such swelling pride that filled him with hope and excitement, the taste of power so fresh to his lips and broiling hotly in his veins as they flew out, one by one, holstering their rifles and waving widely to their golden plains, their violet skies, their ivory coasts.
And when they returned, it was in boxes.
Alfred rubbed at his forehead and put the glass back down on the bar's cluttered counter. He grabbed a clean napkin from behind the shimmering bottles and cleaned his glasses, his vision suddenly sharp without the streaks of soot on the lenses. He blinked around the room, taking in the sleeping men and running his hand through his dirty hair. It was in that moment that he realized that he had never felt so useless.
"I'm sorry," he whispered aloud in a papery voice. No one stirred.
As Alfred turned to leave the room, he heard the faint thundering of an approaching helicopter.
9:30 P.M.
Most of the Marines were gone now. The man named Sawyer had left two helicopters ago. The young man that had summoned Alfred to the parking lot to cut down trees had just been carried away. A majority of the remaining men were the ones guarding the gates outside, austere and unmoving, quietly snubbing the idea of taking anymore civilians over the walls, no matter how much they begged or how much they screamed. A few brave souls had tried to breach over the entrance, but Marines would fire warning shots to keep them subdued.
It was all Alfred could do to keep himself from throwing open the gates and shoving them all into the tiny Hueys.
11:00 P.M.
There was another lull in helicopters. Alfred was exhausted and had himself another drink.
The numbers were counted. Four hundred civilians would be left behind if the lifts didn't regularly continue.
Alfred drank on their behalf.
AND NOW!
Clarifications!
So, about them cutting down trees and clearing cars away in the Embassy parking lot: that is all very true. Since there wasn't enough room for those big ass Chinooks on the roof, and since there wasn't much choice, someone got the idea of using the parking lot as a landing zone and cleared away the trees so that the helicopters had room to land. It took them two hours to clear the parking lot, AND it was hotter than hell. I think a whopping 112 degrees Fahrenheit or something crazy like that.
Lieutenant Colonel Jim Kean (June 30, 1941 - May 5, 2008) was in charge of the evacuation. This man literally went through hell trying to lead everyone out, and while I'm probably not portraying him to justice, he was unfathomably calm and collected through out the entire process. He did run back and forth during most of the evacuation, and did borrow helicopter pilot's headsets constantly to keep up contact with the Seventh Fleet. I wasn't sure if I was to label him as a lieutenant colonel or a major, because a lot of articles said both, but lieutenant colonel eventually won out because it was the one that came up the most. His story on the evacuation (which is incidentally the place I got most of my research) is here: . . Very interesting; if you're a war nut like me, you should go check it out.
Hueys are UH-1 helicopters. They're nicknamed Huey for some reason. I don't really know why. CH-53s are basically helicopters on steroids (they seriously kick ass) and Sea Knights are the CH-46s, and they basically look like a big, long helicopter. Please Google these images. I'm crap at describing them.
Ambassador Graham Martin (1912-1990)was appointed as Ambassador of South Vietnam in 1973 and was a committed anti-Communist who severely underestimated the severity of the situation in South Vietnam to such an extent that he continued to believe Saigon was unaffected by the incoming Northerners. This is why he continuously refused to allow the evacuation to be executed.
The Seventh Fleet had their aircraft carriers on standby to receive the evacuees that were flying in from Saigon. These are the people that Kean kept trying to keep in contact with so that they were aware of the number of people that were being evacuated. If you really want to know more about them, look them up, their purposes in the Vietnam war were pretty interesting.
South Korean diplomats along with four hundred other evacuees waiting for their turn at evacuation were indeed left behind.
Until next time, lads!