Broadcasters: Untold Chaos

By Rick Fredericksen

Just hours after two pilots had taken possession of a Cessna aircraft, they were flying over the Midwest on a lovely autumn morning when their small plane was targeted by F-16 fighter jets. It was September 11, 2001 and the civilians were among the last Americans to learn that our country was under attack. This is one of the little-known stories covered during a 50-year career by former military and civilian news broadcaster Rick Fredericksen. “Some events and newsmakers deserve more attention,” according to the author, who reveals insider accounts stretching from the Vietnam War to the war against terrorism. Background details, often left behind in the reporter’s notebook, are made public in "Broadcasters: Untold Chaos." The tragic saga of CBS war photographer Vinh Ve is a recurring theme through the first half of the book, as we follow the life of this courageous cameraman. He would suffer terribly after the fall of Saigon—even finding himself at odds with the network that made him a legend—only to re-emerge years later when General Norman Schwarzkopf returned to Vietnam as a news analyst. Other topics include real life stories and characters at the American Forces Vietnam Network; a field investigation on the suspected impact of Agent Orange on Vietnamese civilians and former soldiers; how democracy replaced the Khmer Rouge in Cambodia; dining with a tyrant in paradise; and the downfall of a world-famous pop star in Bangkok. "Broadcasters: Untold Chaos" includes 27 historic photographs to illustrate hidden stories that never received proper attention. This written record was made possible by a treasure trove of documentation that was left behind in the shadows of the day’s bigger headlines. "Broadcasters: Untold Chaos" is also intended as a salute to the actual broadcasters themselves, especially foreign correspondents who are often exposed to unexpected dangers. Fredericksen was the last Bangkok Bureau Chief for CBS News.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rick Fredericksen
• Release date: Apr 21, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370373437

Rick Fredericksen

Rick is an American writer and journalist who lived in the Asia-Pacific region for more than 14 years before returning home to the Midwest. He is a Marine Corps veteran of the Vietnam War. Rick covered stories throughout Southeast Asia for multiple news agencies during a decade of residence in Thailand. Rick's latest book, "Broadcasters: Untold Chaos," is part memoir and part history as he re-tells major stories from an insider perspective. Few journalists can boast Rick's diverse experience, which encompasses radio, TV, print and online journalism, practiced during a career with commercial, public and military broadcasters. He is the last Bangkok Bureau Chief for CBS News.

Book preview

Broadcasters: Untold Chaos

By Rick Fredericksen

Copyright 2017 Rick Fredericksen

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Cover design and formatting by Caligraphics

Table of Contents

Vinh Ve’s War

Epic Siege at TV Station

Censorship Infects AFVN

Good Morning, Vietnam

Bobbie the Weathergirl

Protests and Punishment

Censorship Drama Explodes On-the-Air

Congressional Investigation

Vinh Ve Shines, Vanishes

Schwarzkopf’s Civilian Tour of Duty

Threats of Bloodshed

I Meet Vinh Ve

Poor Man, Rich Man

Terrorist Bomb in Bangkok

9-11: Last Plane in the Sky

Lunch with Marcos

Manila Turmoil

The Agent Orange Failure

Cambodia: From Genocide to UN Elections

Road Trip Across Cambodia

Bangkok Journal

Dangerous World Tour

Preface

I initially scoffed when friends suggested writing a book, until realizing that I was sitting on a gold mine of documentation saved over a broadcasting career of nearly 50 years. It was in my blood to hoard these things: several thousand radio and TV scripts, notebooks, videotapes, photos, audio recordings and war letters home from Vietnam. It seemed important that some of this should become part of the written record, especially several big news events and inside stories that I was involved with but which haven’t been properly told. This is my compilation of accounts that deserve more attention. It is also my way of honoring broadcast journalism and the indispensable colleagues who helped me along the way, people like Paul Rhoades, Russ Van Dyke, Bob Sevey, Derek Williams and Rick Lewis. It continues to be a gratifying career.

Special acknowledgment goes to Michele McNabb for her keen vision and essential guidance in the role of manuscript editor.

Cover photo: The 300-foot broadcast tower used by the American Forces Vietnam Network was the tallest structure in Saigon and stood for more than 46 years. An armed lookout had a commanding view from the elevated guard shack about 75 feet above ground.

Vinh Ve’s War

Telex Message: CBS News, Saigon to CBS News Foreign Desk, New York.

We’ve brought on another freelance cameraman to cover the I-Corps region up north. He’s from Hue, so that is his home base. His name is Vinh Ve. Payroll information to follow.

The mysterious, flickering lights first began to appear as darkness closed in on the city of Hue, South Vietnam in 1967. They could be seen from low-flying Huey helicopters, from places as tall as the seven-tiered Thien Mu Pagoda on the outskirts of town, and perhaps through field binoculars from the foothills of the nearby Truong Son Mountains. The intermittent lights pulsated; going from bright white to totally black, but unlike flipping a light switch. From a distance, the curious beams were stationary, and yet there was movement at the same time. At first glance, superstitious Vietnamese didn’t know what to think. Enlightenment, however, came faster than you could change the channel. Television had arrived in the far reaches of South Vietnam. It was one of the good things to happen in a country at war.

The visual phenomenon blossomed as the calendar turned into 1968. On the evening of January 30th, during the Tet Lunar New Year, TV programming included the popular World War II television series Combat. Channel-11 in Hue was a service of the American Forces Vietnam Network, operated by a small group of broadcast specialists. Prior to the arrival of the United States military, television had never been seen in this part of the world. From the earliest transmissions, Vietnamese were enamored with the invention, and U.S. troops welcomed the station’s entertainment and news programming as a reminder of home.

As Sergeant Chip Saunders (played by actor Vic Morrow) was taking his squad into combat against German soldiers on the black-and-white screen, there was little alarm when Vietnamese regional forces opened fire at a group of enemy soldiers probing the outskirts of Hue.

Soon after the shooting started, a lone Vietnamese man dashed past the TV station on his motorcycle and crossed a bridge over the Perfume River near the Citadel complex, just to make sure the ancient imperial capital was secure. It was Vinh Ve, then 31 years old, taking shortcuts in the direction of enemy contact. With him was his CBS-issued 16mm Bell and Howell camera. He was a photojournalist. Vietnam was his beat. The firing subsided, and Vinh Ve returned home to enjoy the New Year with his family. But Hue was on edge.

Earlier that day, President Nguyen Van Thieu had cancelled furloughs for the South Vietnamese armed forces after the communist North Vietnamese and Viet Cong had violated a holiday ceasefire. They hit unsuspecting targets in the northern I-Corps area, the operational zone where Hue was located. Still, the old royal city had reason to feel immune from major attack. Located midway between the warring capitals of Saigon and Hanoi, in some sense Hue was nonaligned. It was a major cultural and religious hub, and home of the prestigious Hue University.

Politically speaking, the city’s large concentration of Buddhists and Catholics disliked war in general and both sides that were waging it. It was about as neutral as any city could be in Vietnam. But the population of 140,000 could sense trouble; shops had closed early that day. Even the house of prostitution had shut down.

An alert had gone out to all AFVN affiliates, not just in Hue, warning that our facilities may be a target for enemy attack, and should be prepared to go off the air. But the men assigned to operate AFVN in Hue that night finished the evening’s broadcast schedule with Combat, followed by The Fugitive, according to a published program schedule.

It was the United States military that had introduced television to southern Vietnam two years earlier, with the deployment of Navy C-121 Super Constellation aircraft—essentially, flying television stations complete with antenna, transmitter, film projectors, videotape machines, and even a small studio for live newscasts. Known as Blue Eagles, they flew in circles about 11,000 feet above Saigon, and later, the Mekong Delta. There was a secondary Vietnamese channel, but for locals and expatriate viewers alike, English-language blockbusters like Bonanza were the prime-time fan favorites. For several hours every evening, the Constellations went on-the-air from the air, broadcasting signals that could be picked up by rabbit ear antennas up to 50 miles away, easily covering the capital city.

To receive the pictures and audio the U.S. government distributed TV sets for less than the cost of one load of bombs, according to Michigan Congressman Charles Chamberlain. He considered television a potent weapon, one that would help defeat the Viet Cong. By the end of 1966, TV Guide reported that 46,000 television sets had been sold at Post Exchanges in Saigon. Throngs of Vietnamese flocked around the small screens in town squares, in store windows, and at coffee shops. Americans watched in rec rooms and military barracks. Later, servicemen bought small portables for private viewing in their hooches.

The historic first broadcast attracted inquisitive Vietnamese to the center of Saigon, where pioneer broadcaster Air Force Master Sergeant Shelly Blunt reported back to AFVN from a small park: They placed two receivers on a platform so everyone could see and hear. It sort of reminded me of sitting in the last row of the Hollywood Bowl. Then he described a bar scene near the Brink Hotel (also known as The Brinks): We noticed a large crowd of people in the street, seemingly hypnotized at what was going on inside. In that moment, a TV set had come between lonely GIs and pretty bargirls.

A couple months after the Blue Eagles signed on, all three aircraft were damaged on the tarmac when the VC shelled Ton Son Nhut Air Base. That’s when AFVN network commanders went to more secure and more reliable ground stations. The broadcasters quickly built a true TV network of affiliate stations extending throughout the country. Hue was Detachment 5. On the day of its official opening in 1967, the Viet Cong responded with a mortar attack. For the Vietnamese in the ancient capital, this was the first television they’d ever seen. When the station’s original 250 printed TV schedules ran out, viewers called in, asking for more.

The TV trailer in Hue, seen here before the attack. Photo courtesy AFVN engineer Ron Turner.

Like AFVN’s other early ground-based facilities up-country, the Hue station was a custom-made truck trailer and had been telecasting for less than a year. It was positioned next to a villa that was formerly the residence of the U.S. Consul at No. 3 Dong Da Street. The AFVN staff previously lived in the house before it was converted into a joint broadcast facility for AFVN and its Vietnamese TV counterpart. AFVN used another part of the compound for office space and equipment storage.

AFVN’s primary audience included the First Cavalry, the 101st Airborne Division, and a large number of nearby Marine units. AFVN’s Officer in Charge was Marine Lieutenant James DiBernardo. Fellow Marine John Deering was his program director. The two, along with the production staff, engineers, on-air personnel and a visiting Army veteran, lived together in a nearby villa that served as their residence.

CBS’s new cameraman Vinh Ve never met them, but he used to ride past the broadcast center on his motorcycle, proud to be a CBS employee. He had planned to drop in over the holiday and greet the men with chuc mung nam moi, the cordial Vietnamese expression for Happy New Year. Ve knew that many of the programs seen on AFVN were produced by the dominant American network that had just hired him, and he dreamed of having his combat film seen around the world on The CBS Evening News with Walter Cronkite.

It wasn’t long after Ve joined CBS that he was rewarding producers with extraordinary war footage. He could load and thread his camera in less than 30 seconds—in the dark! Small even by Vietnamese standards, Ve never allowed his diminutive physique and soft voice to be a hindrance. Standing barely five feet tall, his wispy stature often led to his being underestimated, not to mention being a smaller target. CBS cameraman Derek Williams recalls, Once Ve put on that enormous flak jacket and helmet, he almost disappeared. But Ve found ways to turn that non-threatening silhouette into an advantage by making friends and gaining trust as he blended in with the ARVN (Army of the Republic of South Vietnam) units that he accompanied into combat. He was likeable and fearless.

Vinh Ve was the proverbial one man band. He worked solo, which meant he also had to be an efficient reporter. And no Hue-based photojournalist had better connections in high places. Although he neither looked nor played the role, Vinh Ve was a descendant of one of the country’s imperial families and was proud of his lineage, but in a modest way. He was resolute about living up to his pedigree and reputation, especially in Hue, the cradle of Vietnamese civilization. To this day, Ve may have been the only lensman among CBS’s international line-up of camera crews with royalty running through his veins.

About six hours after the incidental skirmish west of the city, Vinh Ve was at home in bed. The staff at AFVN had signed off for the night and had retired to their quarters. Early the following morning on January 31st, a barrage of 122mm rockets shook the southern sector of Hue, awakening everyone in town. Standing as tall as a U.S. Marine, these weapons had never been fired into the province before, and the population was terrified. This was the moment when the 1968 Tet Offensive arrived in Hue.

Vinh Ve bolted from bed, grabbed his camera and combat helmet, and kick-started his motor bike. The city didn’t feel right; there were more strangers in town than usual. Some were carrying AK-47 assault rifles. Ve patrolled the streets, looking for damage that he might film and send back to the CBS bureau in Saigon. Mortars and recoilless rifles opened up; enemy soldiers attacked the Citadel and also poured into the southern sector, joining comrades who had infiltrated earlier, smuggling in stockpiles of war provisions.

With small arms fire crackling all across the city, Hue was unprepared for the coming battle. There were fewer than a thousand troops at the South Vietnamese 1st Infantry Division based within the walls of the Citadel north of the Perfume River. The American headquarters, in southern Hue, was lightly defended. The combined U.S. presence totaled maybe 200 advisers, administrative staff, and Marine guards, in addition to several dozen tech specialists who were staying at the Huong Giang Hotel.

Epic Siege at TV Station

Riding past AFVN, Ve noticed the lights were on in the villa, one street over, where the Americans lived. The eight-man team of military broadcasters and a civilian engineer, Courtney Niles, an Army veteran employed by NBC International, had a short walk from their house to Hue’s broadcast center where they worked. From their back door at the residence, the broadcasters could see flares and tracers.

With rumors swirling before the attack, MACV (Military Assistance Command, Vietnam) had placed Hue under full alert, according to broadcast engineer Harry Ettmueller, one of only two survivors still alive. With all my contacts, they kept telling me you don’t want to be here for Tet. You need to be on R&R, don’t be here.

The TV compound was shelled in the first hours. A mortar penetrated the roof of AFVN’s maintenance shed. A small group of North Vietnamese Army regulars gathered opposite the nearby AFVN quarters in a behavior that was clearly ominous.

The broadcasters took up defensive positions by windows and doors. The detachment had been issued a heavy M-60 machine gun with enough ammunition to mow down a platoon of invaders, if it came to that. The men also had a collection of mismatched small arms: older carbines, a couple of M-16s, an M-14, a shotgun, one .45-caliber pistol and six grenades. The detachment was never issued its M-79 grenade launcher.

The billet took occasional sniper fire as the enemy conducted preliminary probing maneuvers to test the men inside. The Americans had C rations, water, ammunition and a transoceanic radio. They were no longer just broadcasters; they were, above all, soldiers and Marines. From Arkansas to Rhode Island, they all came from hometowns in the country’s oldest territories: the east, south and Midwest as well as two from New York State.

Vinh Ve, on his small motorcycle, had a stealthy talent for discovering the best camera position for action shots to document the violence of war. His hand-held Bell and Howell, also known as a Filmo (film motion camera), was not capable of recording sound, so Ve traveled with a battery-powered tape recorder which he would leave running while he shot off 100-foot rolls of silent film. Ve sent the exposed footage and cassette tapes back to Saigon along with a dope sheet, listing the scenes with matching audio. Editors could then sync the sound to the corresponding film scene.

Ve knew the enemy would be pressing the attack against the South Vietnamese Army camp within the Citadel complex. He was the first journalist on the scene and informed commanders that he would be filming in the area so they would not confuse him with an enemy agent. So far, he had an exclusive, but was growing increasingly anxious about AFVN’s exposed Detachment 5, beyond the fortress walls.

The TV station was in a vulnerable location on the outskirts of Hue. It appears to be an impossible area to defend, AFVN’s captain in Da Nang would later say. Nonetheless, coverage was excellent for their TV signal; it reached all the way to Khe Sanh, Dong Ha and across the de-militarized zone. The North Vietnamese despised AFVN.

As the Tet Offensive was launched, the American Forces Vietnam Network was broadcasting from nine locations around South Vietnam. Five of them were attacked.

Detachment 5 was under expansion; two newcomers had just arrived in Hue to help launch a new radio service. Army Specialists Steven Stroub and John Bagwell had been working at the First Cavalry Division’s own radio station in An Khe. They were reassigned to AFVN to assure that armed forces radio would be there for the troops when the division relocated to Camp Evans, just northwest of Hue.

For the nine defenders at the AFVN barracks there was no panic, only the blur of uncertainty. Detachment commander DiBernardo called the MACV facility on the house telephone, said Bagwell, the only other survivor alive to tell the story. They told us to stay put. Fighting, they thought, was all over the city. Sometime the next day the line was cut. We were on our own at that point.

Bagwell was guarding the window in the bedroom where he slept. We eluded them for a couple of days and actually thought that we would eventually be rescued.

The defenders heard an American helicopter fly over. As far as they knew, the whole city had been taken, Ettmueller said. They came buzzing over, and the door gunner fired down on is. The stunned men escaped the friendly fire.

With no warning, an enemy soldier appeared in front of Bagwell’s window and fired an AK-47. He’s just a kid, probably 10, 11, 12 years old, Bagwell thought. I could hear one of the bullets go by my right ear and a second later another bullet went past my left ear and the kid was shaking. Poor marksmanship saved specialist Bagwell. When he shot at me I realized I’ve got to kill this kid or he’s going to kill me, so I shot him and he fell in front of the window.

As the radio played, Bagwell heard an AFVN newscast. Somebody they were interviewing, I think it was [MACV Commanding General William] Westmoreland, said, ‘Oh, yes, we knew this was going to happen in Hue.’ We looked at each other and thought, ‘We wish you’d told us.’

Beyond the AFVN residence, the enemy had control over much of Hue, including prestigious real estate: Hue University, the hospital, and government buildings, not to mention much of the Citadel, where Ve was holding out with the ARVN. The invaders had assembled a strike force of 14 battalions, including experienced arrivals from the siege at Khe Sanh. The overwhelming force was poised for the biggest communist victory of the war. And to make matters worse, the allied air power advantage was grounded by fog.

The aggressors were able to move throughout the city, meeting little resistance; some got lost trying to link up with their units. The 2nd Sapper Battalion was targeting the MACV, the U.S. headquarters. It soon became clear this was not another typical hit-and-run guerilla operation; the insurgents were intent on occupying the imperial capital. The battle for Hue was more like the urban