A Year in Vietnam: 1964, Memoir of a Unique Experience

By Doris Gracy

ALONE IN A COUNTRY AT WAR.
As the young wife of a USAF pilot, the writer is not authorized to accompany her husband when he receives orders for Vietnam. She decides to go anyway, on her own, and ends up in the country before her husband.
Join her, as she arrives alone, the day after a coup, and in the middle of a cholera epidemic. Accompany her through her fears, challenges, and joys. You will be at her side as she taps into a hidden western culture that seems to flow as an undercurrent beneath the noise and clamor of an over-populated city. You also will witness her interaction with the Vietnamese people, and learn how she developed such a great affection for them and their country.
BOTTOM LINE
It is the author's hope that the readers will develop a similar fondness for this lovely country and its beautiful and gentle people, as they travel vicariously with her through the pages of this book.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
DORIS GRACY received her M.S. in Microbiology from The Ohio State University. While she has enjoyed a long professional career in the laboratory, she always has maintained a passion for travel and a love of writing.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Doris Gracy
• Release date: Nov 16, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311879981

Doris Gracy

Doris received her M.S. in Microbiology at The Ohio State University. While she has had a long professional career in the laboratory, she always has maintained a passion for travel, and loves writing about her experiences.

Book preview

A YEAR IN VIETNAM: 1964

Memoir of a Unique Experience

Copyright 2014 by Doris Gracy

Published by Gee Gee Books

Smashwords Edition

CONTENTS

Dedication

Preface

Chapter One - My Arrival

Chapter Two - On My Own in Saigon

Chapter Three - Living in a Villa

Chapter Four - My Own Apartment

Chapter Five - A Letter to My Senator

Chapter Six - Nha Trang

Chapter Seven - Cho Ray Hospital

Chapter Eight - Shopping in Saigon

Chapter Nine - Shopping for Children

Chapter Ten - A Break to Hong Kong

Chapter Eleven - A Break to Bangkok

Chapter Twelve - Back Home in Saigon

Chapter Thirteen - Christmas in Saigon

Chapter Fourteen - Our Departure

Epilogue

DEDICATION

PREFACE

SO OFTEN WHEN I have tried to describe an event that took place while I was in Vietnam, I have given up, and ended with the words, You had to be there. It seems that only those who were there at the time can grasp the full significance of my explanation. Nevertheless, I finally have tried to put together a detailed and factual account of that year, revised from the journal I kept in 1964. I feel it is important to document this eventful year in my life, not only for my family, but also for anyone who is interested in that critical time in our history. Entirely from my own personal perspective, it is a true story of actual events and real people. It is my hope that anyone who reads these pages can be there, through all my fears, challenges, and joys, as they relive that year with me.

If this book falls into your hands, I hope you will read it with an open heart. I hope, as you see the year unfold, that you can understand why it remains indelible in my memory, even after so many years. And I hope you will see Vietnam as I see it, a beautiful and lush country, with lovely and gentle people, thrust into a war that was not their choosing.

CHAPTER ONE - MY ARRIVAL

FROM MY WINDOW SEAT on the Pan American Boeing 707, I watched the puffs of smoke swirling up from the dreary sweep of Vietnam’s Mekong Delta, and the uncanny feeling hit me that we were flying over a war zone. Soon my plane would be landing in Saigon (today known as Ho Chi Minh City), and I would be alone in a strange, third world country, in the middle of a guerilla war. Two months ago Vietnam’s ruler, Ngo Dinh Diem, had been assassinated, and only yesterday there had been another coup in which General Nguyen Khanh had seized power. The country also was now in the middle of a cholera epidemic. I was scared.

It was February 1st, 1964. My husband, Frank, a U.S. Air Force pilot, had been assigned to the Air Commando Unit at Bien Hoa (pronounced Ben Wah) Air Base, about 20 miles northeast of Saigon. I was not authorized to accompany him on this assignment, but I had learned that Vietnam was still issuing tourist visas to Americans, and so had decided to go on my own and live in Saigon, hoping to see him from time to time. Now I was beginning to wonder if I had made a mistake. In fact, as carefully as we had planned to arrive simultaneously, Frank, traveling on military aircraft, had been detained in the Philippines due to the cholera epidemic, and I had no idea when I would see him again. Traveling before the days of email, cell phones, and even dial-direct land phones, we had lost contact with each other completely.

The seat belt sign came on as the pilot announced the estimated time of our touchdown in Saigon. One lady, on her way to Singapore, exclaimed in horror to no one in particular: You mean this plane stops in Saigon?

She was even more incredulous when she learned that was my final destination. There were only a few people on the plane, and I wondered myself if anyone else would be getting off in Saigon.

Shortly I felt the change in altitude as the plane made a steep, straight-in approach—presumably to avoid enemy fire—and soon we were on the ground at Tan Son Nhut Air Base in Saigon. The reality of war was even more apparent as we taxied by row after row of military aircraft, with men dressed in camouflage fatigues scurrying busily among them.

Our own plane finally came to a stop a few yards from a low, dreary, sand-colored building, where I would proceed through immigration and customs. Unlike today, there was no ramp to lead to the building—I had to deboard and proceed on foot. As I stepped off the cool, air-conditioned plane, the heat seemed to rise visibly from the tarmac under my feet and combine with the sultry air overhead to envelop me in a hot, humid cocoon. As I tried to take a deep breath, I wondered at the same time how I would be able to tolerate this hot, humid climate for a year. Luckily, it never would seem so oppressive to me in the year ahead as it did at that first moment.

I had expected English-speaking agents at the passport control point, as had been the case in all foreign countries I had visited previously. But here all the business was transacted by sign language. The agents were courteous, but not once did they speak—not in Vietnamese, not in English, and not even in French, which was their second language. Most people, myself included, when attempting to converse by sign language, cannot resist the urge to accompany their signs by conversation in their own language, even though they know they can’t be understood. I noticed others giving in to the same frustrating impulse, and were asking questions in their own language. I, myself, was jabbering with every gesture. But the Vietnamese officials remained silent, and only pointed, gestured, or shook their heads.

Soon I was relieved to find that my one piece of luggage had arrived with me; and when I finally emerged from the customs area, Pan American personnel showed up and escorted me to their bus for a free trip to my hotel. There were only five passengers on the bus. Saigon was not a favorite tourist destination.

The thirty-minute ride into the city of Saigon was an experience in itself. It was close to noon when everyone was hurrying home for lunch and a two-hour siesta before returning to work around three in the afternoon. It seemed to me that the whole population of Saigon must have been on the streets. There were hundreds of two-wheel conveyances—bicycles, motor-bikes, motor scooters—scores of three-wheeled cyclos (pedi-cabs), many buses, and hundreds of small cars, the majority of which seemed to be the blue and white Renault taxis.

There were very few traffic lights, but at some of the intersections there was a traffic cop, dressed in a white uniform, who stood in a little box or podium in the middle of the intersection and extended his arms in the direction of the flow of traffic. (Later I learned most Americans called these traffic cops white mice.) In all other areas it seemed to be every man for himself. Some people honked their horns just before they entered an intersection, and blasted right through without slowing down. Others didn’t bother to honk, but blasted through anyway—occasionally you could hear brakes screeching. At one point cars were jammed in the intersection from all four directions, until someone finally pulled over so the traffic could continue. Our bus driver thought nothing of crossing the centerline into oncoming traffic to get around another car.

When I finally could take my eyes off the road, I began observing the people. Just like all the books had said, there were the beautiful, petite girls in the graceful Vietnamese dresses and conical hats, usually with their long, dark hair flowing out from beneath the hats. The dresses were many different colors—often very bright colors. With these they typically wore bright-colored, matching, high-heeled wooden shoes. Later I would learn that even the inside soles of the shoes often had designs on them. The dresses had very high Mandarin collars that seemed to come almost to the chin, with long sleeves, and ankle-length skirts that were split on each side from the waist all the way down. The skirts were not gathered or full, but perfectly straight. These were worn over long, full pants, usually white satin or silk. Most of these girls seemed to be around five feet tall and I would guess weighed around 100 pounds, or perhaps even less.

Many of the bicycles and motorbikes were being ridden by these girls, dressed in their beautiful dresses, and I noticed that they used a definite technique. They fastened the back panel of their dresses to the back seat of the bicycle and let it balloon up in the breeze; the front panel they draped over one of their hands, which also was gripping the handle bar. A beautiful silhouette! The Vietnamese name for this dress is ao dai (pronounced ow [rhymes with how] dye, or in the north, ow dzye). Ao dais are still worn in Vietnam today.

Another common scene was the peasant women in black, pajama-like trousers with white over-blouses, often carrying two large heavy baskets of food or other items, the baskets attached to each end of a pole they balanced across their shoulders. Many of the children I saw were dressed in only a shirt—no pants, no diaper—and some were even completely nude.

After my exciting ride, I finally arrived at the hotel where I had a reservation, the Continental Palace, on the corner of Dong Quai and Tu Do Street. My room was located in the annex, across Tu Do Street (pronounced Two Doe), the main shopping street. It was a large, comfortable room with a huge bed, but drably furnished. Although it was air-conditioned, it also had an old-fashioned, three-bladed fan suspended from the ceiling. The private bath was adequate—except I soon discovered there was no hot water. There was no bathtub, but a shower, which was on an elevated platform with a wall around it about four inches high, with no shower curtain. The shower nozzle itself was about six or eight inches in diameter, and came straight from overhead, the water coming out like gentle rain—cold rain. There was a bidet, but I didn’t attempt to use it, especially with cold water. The bath towel I really loved. It was about six feet long and three feet wide—perfect to cuddle up in after a cold shower.

Double doors opened onto a small balcony. I opened them, anxious to see the view—but it was one of other doors and other balconies. Only if I went all the way outside and looked straight up could I even see the sky. One morning it was so dark in my room that I thought it was raining, and took my umbrella with me when I left to go outside, only to find the sun shining brightly.

Here in this room I was to wait until Frank came, and then we would decide on a plan of action. I unpacked a few things and then finished the book I had been reading on the plane, and fell asleep and slept until dark. I had a bad case of jet lag.

CHAPTER TWO - ON MY OWN IN SAIGON

I FORCED MYSELF TO wake from my nap that first evening, and went down to the hotel dining room to eat about eight o’clock. The dining room was open-air, sidewalk level, and quite pleasant; but I was concerned about sitting there, exposed to anyone on the sidewalk who wanted to stroll