Vietnam 67 (1 Viewer)

The Tet Offensive was not about Americans -- The attacks were aimed at destroying the will of South Vietnam.

From the article,

The fighting in Hue, and the wider Tet offensive, is best understood in a Vietnamese context. The attacks were not, strictly speaking, aimed at American forces; they were aimed militarily at ARVN, and psychologically at the South Vietnamese national will. The American military fought gallantly as part of Tet, from Saigon in the south to Khe Sanh in the north. But, as in Hue, the bulk of the Tet fighting fell to ARVN, with South Vietnamese forces suffering two-thirds of the estimated 12,000 allied casualties in the overall campaign.​
 
How the Tet Offensive broke America -- Before the Offensive, troops were convinced they'd win the war. After, all they wanted to do was get home alive.

The author of the piece was a reporter for the Washington Star and concludes as follows:

Col. Rutland Beard, commander of a brigade of army troops with headquarters on “Freedom Hill,” a promontory near Danang, understood his men. “We should have been out of here two years ago,” he told me in 1969. “Let some other people police up the world.” Those were words you never heard pre-Tet.​
 
"Baguettes and the Forever War," by Roger Cranse, who served in Vietnam from 1966 to 1968 and now teaches at Norwich University and the Community College of Vermont.

In October 1967, two regiments of Vietcong insurgents and elements of two regiments of the North Vietnamese Army attacked the compounds of the government district headquarters and the Special Forces A Team in Loc Ninh, Binh Long Province, in southwestern South Vietnam. Nearly all of Loc Ninh’s 3,000 inhabitants fled south to An Loc, the provincial capital, 60 miles north of Saigon, down Route 13.

At the time I was a young Foreign Service reserve officer with the United States Agency for International Development, living in An Loc in an old French office building along with five or six other agency civilians. We were the counterinsurgency workers, the hearts and minds guys. We thought we could win the war by being nice. My job was refugee relief.

I spent my days hauling food, mosquito nets, CARE packages, old clothes from Catholic Relief Services, quilts from the Mennonite Central Committee and other miscellaneous stuff to the refugees in An Loc. Young Vietnamese social workers in pastel-colored ao dais moved among the refugees, distributing these supplies and squatting on their heels with clipboards to register each refugee.

A day or two after the initial attack – the battle kept up for a week – we got word that a hundred or so Loc Ninh refugees had fled north to a small rubber plantation town near the border with Cambodia. My boss told me to go up and check it out. I got on the horn and ordered up a chopper – the only time in my life I’ve had enough power to do something like that. We’d essentially be flying into no-man’s-land: no friendlies around and Charlie everywhere and nowhere at once.

Just a few days earlier we’d got a big shipment of bags labeled “flour for bread.” Somebody had the idea of cutting a deal with our local baker: We’d give him the flour, he’d make baguettes every morning, give us half and sell the rest. Of course this was against U.S.A.I.D. rules, but out where we were nobody gave a d@mn about regulations like that.

The next morning I loaded wicker baskets of baguettes and other supplies on the chopper and flew up to where the refugees were. We landed right on Route 13 in front of a small theater where the refugees were staying. I unloaded the baguettes, spoke with the Vietnamese Catholic priest in charge, and took off. We went back up the next morning and the next. Nothing happened; everything seemed safe.

The fourth day, the chopper landed not on Route 13 but on an overgrown field across the road from the theater. I started walking across the field. At the edge of the field the priest and other people were throwing their hands up in the air. I had no idea what they meant; I kept going. I got to the road, the priest pointed to the field I’d just crossed and said, “Mine field – old French mines.”

That evening, sitting on the veranda of the French building back in An Loc drinking Scotch from the PX in Saigon, I told my colleagues about the mine field. We had a good laugh and I forgot the whole thing. Later that night the Vietcong sent its regular barrage of mortars and rockets onto us. We huddled in bunkers at the edges of the veranda and then, after the attack, drank more Scotch.

I left Vietnam in February 1968, and got on with things: graduate school, family, an academic career. Vietnam became my past. I didn’t think about it much and talked about it hardly at all.

Then one day, a lifetime later, taking a short cut across our campus through a patch of weeds and grass, I thought: I hope this isn’t a mine field.

Some things play along your nervous system long after they’ve happened and long after you think you’ve forgotten them. I hadn’t really forgotten at all. The forlorn refugees in the old theater near Cambodia; the graceful social workers in ao dais squatting on their heels, handing out CARE packages; scary rockets whistling in at night; dicey flights into no-man’s-land – all these had stayed alive somewhere inside while I carried on with my blissfully uneventful life.

My wife and I visited the Vietnam Veterans Memorial early in the new millennium. There are 58,318 names are on the Wall. Half of these deaths were inflicted after the 1968 Tet offensive, after we knew we were on the way out.

No one knows exactly how many Vietnamese died during our war there. Three million is probably a safe estimate, roughly 20 percent of Vietnam’s population at the time – the equivalent of 60 million Americans. Before that, we supported the French in their colonial war against Vietnam’s independence. And after the French lost that war we helped engineer the division of Vietnam, setting the stage for the subsequent “American War.”

But we’ve moved on now; the Cold War is over, there are new challenges in the world, Vietnam was ages ago. Most Americans and most Vietnamese weren’t even alive during that now antique war. But I wonder: Have we entirely reckoned with our moral culpability for tormenting that little country for nearly three decades?

And I wonder too if there isn’t a flaw, something missing in our national character – an inability to see where we might be going wrong and to stop before making a big mistake. And then an amnesia, forgetting the mistake and making it all over again, and then again, and again. Maybe it’s our unshakeable sense of our own rightness, our exceptionalism. We can do no wrong.

In 1972 An Loc was destroyed in a long, bitter battle. I’m sure the old French building is gone, the marketplace, the chopper pad, the bakery.

Sometimes people ask me, “Have you ever gone back?” as if I were returning to a favorite childhood vacation spot. In some ways, I found out over the years, I’ve never left.​

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Roger Cranse, third from right, in Vietnam
 
"A Family Reunion,” by Repps Hudson, a freelance writer and adjunct instructor of journalism and international affairs who lives in University City, Mo.

One day in March 1975, I was covering a story in the Kansas City Power and Light building for The Kansas City Star. But my mind was far away, in South Vietnam, which I knew from constant news reports was under siege as the North Vietnam Army launched its final assault to topple the South Vietnamese regime.

Maps on the evening news showed the northern provinces of South Vietnam turning red as Hanoi’s hardcore troops moved south, rolling through the country that more than 58,000 Americans had died to defend.

I had become so depressed from that drumbeat of news that I walked out onto the fire escape 20-some stories above the Kansas City streets and took a long look over the rail before backing away and deciding to seek psychiatric help.

My worries were personal: My 25-year-old wife, Le thi Nhung, six months pregnant with our first (and only) child, had left Kansas City in October 1974 to return to her family in Vietnam, north of Saigon in Binh Duong Province.

Our marriage was in so much trouble we could not seem to resolve it. The cultural misunderstandings between us were enormous. In great sadness, she had boarded a plane for the West Coast, then on to Saigon, vowing never to return.

We hadn’t agreed to divorce, just to live half a world apart. We hadn’t decided what would happen when it was time for her to give birth in June.

We had met when I was a 21-year-old second lieutenant with the First Infantry Division at our base camp at Lai Khe, on Highway 13, which ran from Saigon north to the Cambodian border. The climate around Lai Khe was unusually cool, and it was one of the best bases in South Vietnam. It was in an old French rubber plantation and had a Vietnamese village inside the perimeter wire.

Nhung was from that village. Her father, a supporter of the South Vietnamese government, had been kidnapped and murdered in the early 1960s by the Vietcong, she believed. She was clearly on the side of the Americans. She worked in the officers and noncommissioned officers club in our company area. She could speak English and was stunning in her form-fitting ao dai.

Far from my home in a farming community near Kansas City, I was taken by her almost instantly. We talked often, whenever my rifle company was back from operations up and down Highway 13, known to us G.I.s as Thunder Road.

In September 1968, I rotated back to the States and left Nhung behind. I was assigned to the Sixth Army Reserve Headquarters in Seattle. From there, I wrote her constantly, but she did not reply. She told me later she was afraid of being hurt. But I was determined. When my two-year active-duty commitment was over, I flew to Saigon so we could marry.

While we waited on her passport and visa, I landed a job as an office boy at The Associated Press in downtown Saigon and worked alongside such stars of the bureau as Peter Arnett, Horst Faas, Nick Ut, Dick Pyle, George McArthur and George Esper. This was how I happened to be working for The Star when South Vietnam was about to fall in spring 1975.

By the time Nhung was with her family and I out of touch with her (phone calls were impossible, and there was no internet), I was a city desk reporter.

I could not keep my mind on my work, since my wife was in a war zone, pregnant with our child. My parents, who lived on our family farm near Norborne, Mo., 75 miles northeast of Kansas City, were likewise frantically worried about Nhung; the future of their unborn grandchild was at risk. What if the Communists took over, sealed the borders and punished anyone, like Nhung, who was sympathetic to the Saigon government?

We tried everything to reach her. My mother, eyes constantly on TV reports, would see a young woman from behind and believe that was her daughter-in-law. She cried and prayed so much through late March and early April.

Finally, my mother wrote to George Esper, a good-hearted man who helped to send many Vietnamese abroad in the final days because they had worked for Americans and, he believed, were vulnerable.

Being farmers, my parents had little money. As a junior reporter, I too had little. Still, somehow my parents managed to send several thousand dollars to Nhung so she could pay the necessary bribes and buy a one-way ticket to the States.

I was at the farm Friday evening, April 11 – just 19 days before Saigon fell – upstairs in my bedroom when the phone rang downstairs. My mother answered it and began crying. I could hear her shouting at me. She was so happy. She yelled upstairs: “She’s back in the United States. She’s coming home.”
After Nhung arrived at the farm, The Star sent a reporter and a photographer to write a story about one of the early refugees from the last days of that long war. I remember what Nhung said: “Human life in Vietnam is not worth more than an ant.”

Our daughter was born in early June. It was a normal delivery.​

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Le thi Nhung with the author’s parents, John and Katharine Hudson, near Norborne, Mo., in mid-April 1975
 
The Myth of Eugene McCarthy -- He pushed LBJ out of the race in 1968 but he was an aloof, uninspiring candidate.

From the article:

Commentators then and since have misinterpreted McCarthy’s upset performance in New Hampshire in a way that sharply misread public opinion and unfairly saddled Johnson with sole responsibility for a war that most Americans — and most American political leaders of both parties — still strongly supported on the eve of the New Hampshire primary

....

The myth of Eugene McCarthy’s New Hampshire crusade (and, somewhat related, the mystique of the New Hampshire presidential primary) has endured through the ages. To be sure, what his student army accomplished was remarkable. But did the results suggest a repudiation of the war in Vietnam? Not exactly. Exit polls suggested that a majority of McCarthy’s New Hampshire voters thought of themselves as hawks. They were unhappy with Johnson, but because he hadn’t escalated the war effort further, and they picked McCarthy to register their displeasure.

...

The McCarthy myth has misled historians and the public into believing that the country reached a turning point on the war in 1968. But Richard Nixon’s victory that fall was of a piece with the votes that propelled an uninspiring Minnesota senator to a freak near-victory over the president earlier in the year — a frustration as much with the limits on the war as with its excesses.​
 
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"Ellsberg, McNamara and the Pentagon Study Heard ‘Round the World," by Rick Goldsmith, the co-producer and co-director, with Judith Ehrlich, of the documentary “The Most Dangerous Man in America: Daniel Ellsberg and the Pentagon Papers.”

In October 1966, Daniel Ellsberg, a former marine working for the State Department in Vietnam, found himself traveling back to the United States on a plane that was also carrying his previous boss, Secretary of Defense Robert McNamara. Mr. Ellsberg took the opportunity to give McNamara extensive notes on his assessment of the seemingly stalemated war in Vietnam, which he saw that McNamara began reading with great interest.

Later in the flight, McNamara summoned Mr. Ellsberg to come and settle an argument he was having with Bob Komer, a special assistant to President Lyndon Johnson, who at the time was assessing the effectiveness of the pacification program in Vietnam.

"Dan, I'm having an argument here,” Mr. Ellsberg recalls McNamara saying. Nodding to Komer, he said, “He says that things are improving, that we're making progress. And I say things are worse, worse than they were a year ago. You're the one who knows. What do you say the answer is?”

“Well Mr. Secretary, I'm most impressed with how much the same things are as a year ago,” Mr. Ellsberg replied.

“You see, that's exactly what I'm saying!” McNamara said. “We've put another hundred thousand troops in there. Things are no better, that means they're really worse!”

The plane landed. In footage from the scene, we see McNamara walking down the walkway; then he steps into a bank of reporters and press photographers. We see Mr. Ellsberg behind McNamara, as the secretary announces to the assembled press corps: “You asked whether I was optimistic or pessimistic. Today I can tell you that military progress in the past 12 months has exceeded our expectations.”

Years later, Mr. Ellsberg picks up the narrative: “I was thinking, ‘I hope I'm never in a job where I have to lie like that.’"

That moment was perhaps a turning point in the lives of both men, whose careers remained entwined throughout the next year, in ways that would change history. In the spring of 1967, McNamara continued to have severe doubts about whether the war could be won militarily. Behind closed doors, he advocated rolling back the massive bombing campaign against North Vietnam, and moving toward a political settlement that would include non-Communist members of the National Liberation Front, also known as the Viet Cong. McNamara’s recommendations did not sit well with the joint chiefs of staff, nor with President Lyndon Johnson himself.

In June 1967, McNamara ordered, without any official announcement, the formation of a Pentagon task force to study the history of United States-Vietnam relations since 1945. It turned out to be a massive project that would eventually run to 47 volumes and more than 7,000 pages, and include countless classified intra-governmental documents between presidents, generals and other top-level government officials.

Mr. Ellsberg, by now working at the Rand Corporation, a think tank whose major work involved advice for the Air Force and Defense Department, was one of the 36 researchers and authors chosen to put together the Pentagon study. He was selected both because of his reputation as a top-notch analyst, in and out of government, and because he had actually spent significant time on the ground in Vietnam, examining the war effort up close.

It is still in dispute what the purpose of this project was. In his memoirs, McNamara maintained that it was “for future scholars to use.” But that raises the question of why “the architect of the Vietnam War,” precisely at a time when the war was facing critical decision-making, and when McNamara himself was in danger of losing his influence, and perhaps his job, would be interested in launching such a massive and expensive study, merely for “future scholars.”

Mort Halperin, one of the two heads, with Leslie Gelb, of the study, said, “McNamara had a sense then … that this was a tragic blunder, that we were in the middle of a catastrophe. And that it was important to try to understand how we had gotten into that catastrophe.”

Whatever McNamara’s goals and motives, he kept the existence of the study hidden from both President Johnson and Secretary of State Dean Rusk. As Mr. Halperin told us for our documentary on Mr. Ellsberg, “We classified the Pentagon Papers study as top-secret, and every page as top-secret, because we considered the existence of the study to be top-secret. But the person we were trying to keep it from was not the Vietnamese who would not have cared at all or the Russians or the Chinese, but Lyndon Johnson. We feared, through the whole study, that if the president found out about it, that he would stop it. Because Johnson knew that McNamara had doubts about the war and believed that there were bands of civilians in the Pentagon determined to do everything they could to get us out of Vietnam.”

Work on the study continued through 1967. McNamara’s doubts about the direction of the war deepened, and his star within the Johnson Administration continued to fall. By February 1968, McNamara was gone, replaced by Clark Clifford, who finally received a copy of the finished Pentagon report in early 1969, five days before his own job would end, with the inauguration of Richard Nixon as the next President of the United States. Clifford claimed he never read the massive report, and neither Nixon, nor his national security adviser, Henry Kissinger, nor anyone else in the administration was interested in its contents.

McNamara was, by now, well aware of the history of lies and deception that the Pentagon study documented. And he knew now, firsthand, what every Administration since Eisenhower, or even Truman, knew — that a Vietnam war was unwinnable by the United States. But McNamara remained the loyal bureaucrat, and, while serving the Johnson administration, and after he left it to lead the World Bank, he never expressed his inside knowledge publically; only decades later, in his memoir, would the full truth come out.

Daniel Ellsberg took a different route. In 1969, he learned from his former colleague Mort Halperin, now working under Mr. Kissinger in the National Security Council, that President Nixon — who in 1968 had campaigned for the presidency on a “peace with honor” platform — had no intentions of pulling out of the war. In the summer of 1969, Mr. Ellsberg, with access to the study at the Rand Corporation because he was advising Mr. Kissinger on Vietnam, took it upon himself to read the entire Pentagon study.

He was horrified by what he read — not only that four presidents, Truman through Johnson, all saw the war as unwinnable, but they each escalated the war effort while lying about the prospects of victory to the American people. And now a fifth president was doing the same, with no end in sight.

Mr. Ellsberg had been influenced during that summer by antiwar activists, particularly draft resisters, and asked himself, “how far I am willing to go to help end this war?” In October 1969, he began surreptitiously photocopying the Pentagon study, and then spent the next 17 months trying to get antiwar senators (such as George McGovern and William Fulbright) and Congressmen (such as Pete McCloskey) to make it public. But none of them took action. In March 1971, with the war now expanded into Cambodia and Laos, and with America even more bitterly divided, Mr. Ellsberg leaked the study to Neil Sheehan of The New York Times.

On Sunday, June 13, 1971, The Times, with an account of Tricia Nixon’s wedding opposite on the front page, published the first of its series of articles on what became known as the “Pentagon Papers.”

The revelations of the Pentagon Papers woke up America to the fact that our own government routine lies to us, on matters of the greatest importance. A Supreme Court case soon followed, in which the government tried to shut down the press’s ability to publish the papers; the government lost. Two years later, revelations about the Nixon administration’s “dirty tricks” and extra-legal attacks against its “enemies” — starting with Daniel Ellsberg — and their cover-up were the basis for Articles of Impeachment being drawn up against President Nixon, which forced his resignation in August 1974. The end of the Vietnam War came, at last, nine months later.

There are many lessons to be drawn from the whole Pentagon Papers saga. One, articulated by the Princeton legal expert Richard Falk, is spoken near the end of our film: “What has remained significant about the release of the Pentagon Papers is the decision, by a public official, to give priority to conscience as compared to career.”​

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Daniel Ellsberg in 1971
 
“Heads Will Die, Tails Will Live,” by Karl H. Purnell, a journalist, who covered the Vietnam War for True Magazine.

There was one ticket available to the press that afternoon of March 6, 1968 on a plane flying into the besieged Marine base of Khe Sanh, and I felt it should be mine. Bob Ellison, a well-known combat photographer known for getting close-up shots during firefights, thought it should be his.

I had just received an assignment from True Magazine, an American publication which liked combat stories written by reporters who were part of the action, to write an article about Khe Sanh and the strange new role of Marines hunkered down in trenches and foxholes instead of attacking or “hitting the beach” in an offensive operation. Ellison would do the photography.

We met at the airbase at Danang early in the afternoon, and I immediately told the 23-year-old Ellison that I should get the one ticket to Khe Sanh, since writing the story was more complicated and took more time than photographing. Ellison explained that it was the other way around and he should go in first.

It was a classic confrontation between two sides of the Vietnam press corps. Both groups tended to disparage the skill and courage needed by the other. I had spent 1967 covering combat situations, and now was feeling like a seasoned war correspondent who should be treated with respect.

Writers often felt superior to photographers in Vietnam. We felt that we had to be literate and capable of assessing and putting together complex situations in comprehensible language, while the people taking photos need only point and click their cameras. This was not really true, and generally writers knew very well that it took a particular kind of skill and courage to get close to the action and photograph the truly important moments. But we didn’t say that.

On the other hand, the photojournalists claimed, writers often stayed away from the action and based their stories by “debriefing” their subjects who had been under fire. There was undoubtedly some truth to that, and certainly there were a number of “Saigon reporters” who rarely left the safety of the city although they filed combat stories gleaned from those who were involved.

But this was Khe Sanh, probably the most dangerous place in Vietnam at that point. We both knew that it was under regular artillery barrage from bases in North Vietnam, just a few miles to the north. We also knew that it could be overrun by North Vietnamese regulars at any time. If we were there when they hit, it would be a huge opportunity for a magazine cover story.

“There’s only one solution,” Ellison said.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“We’ll flip a coin.”

Reluctantly, I agreed. I produced a quarter, which I’d gotten as change from something I bought at the Danang base cafeteria that morning.

“Call it,” I said.

“Heads,” Ellison replied.

Heads came up. Ellison won the ticket.

“Dammit” I muttered. Now it might take me days to get a ride into Khe Sanh, and in the meantime I would have to sit in the press quarters with nothing to do but read and wait for an available plane.
Satisfied that the right person had won the toss, Ellison disappeared toward the tarmac where a line of Marines were boarding the cargo plane for the 20-minute flight to Khe Sanh.

Imagining that I was missing out on a big battle with lots of combat stories to report, I barely slept that night.

In the morning, I reported to the press office and was told that a plane would be going into Khe Sanh at 10:30 a.m., and there was a press ticket available.

I gathered my gear and in a few hours, I could see the flat brown landing field at Khe Sanh as the plane descended toward the beleaguered base.

After landing, I quickly checked with the press officer.

“I’m looking for a photographer named Bob Ellison,” I announced to a Marine lieutenant sitting behind a small desk.

He looked over a manifest of press people at the base and shook his head. “No one here by that name.”
“He came in on a flight from Danang last evening,” I said.

The sergeant looked up. “That flight was shot down coming in over the valley. Forty guys on board.” he said.

I stepped back and tried to assess what had happened. “No survivors?” I asked.

“Nope. Everyone killed.”

I shook my head and started to leave. Then I turned back to the officer: “Thanks,” I said. “I’ll be here for a few days.”

I signed the manifest and then headed off to interview some Marines who were digging a trench.

Now, 50 years later, I still wonder why I lost the toss for that fatal ticket to Khe Sanh with its unspoken bargain: Heads will die, tails will live.”​
 
"We "did,

I apologize, Bromhead. I meant "We" as in the U.S. Didnt me "We" as ...like I was included, as I was too young, like not born yet. No offense intended. {sm0}

From what I have read, and accounts from relatives who were there, Westmoreland and the strategists as a whole were incompetent at best, had ulterior motives at worst. Should have turned Hanoi Harbor into a apocalyptic Forbidden Zone, like in "Planet of the Apes", early in the war, and that would have been about it?
 
The Vietnam War is Over, the Bombs Remain — Unexploded munitions and Agent Orange continue to wreak havoc in Vietnam but the U.S. won’t help.

Nearly 40,000 Vietnamese have been killed since the end of the war in 1975, and 67,000 maimed, by land mines, cluster bombs and other ordnance.
 
The Vietnam War is Over, the Bombs Remain — Unexploded munitions and Agent Orange continue to wreak havoc in Vietnam but the U.S. won’t help.

Nearly 40,000 Vietnamese have been killed since the end of the war in 1975, and 67,000 maimed, by land mines, cluster bombs and other ordnance.

Most U S Veterans never got any real help with agent orange claims on the bottom line ,,most that did were after the majority had died,
 
I apologize, Bromhead. I meant "We" as in the U.S. Didnt me "We" as ...like I was included, as I was too young, like not born yet. No offense intended. {sm0}

From what I have read, and accounts from relatives who were there, Westmoreland and the strategists as a whole were incompetent at best, had ulterior motives at worst. Should have turned Hanoi Harbor into a apocalyptic Forbidden Zone, like in "Planet of the Apes", early in the war, and that would have been about it?

None needed,,none taken ,Some of us who volunteered have a more sensitive trigger,,usually I leave the subject to the "experts",,it ran in the family,,My Father ,48 missions B17 ,bristled at the mention of the "American air pirates" who bombed Dresden ,Hiroshima etc.
 

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