Vietnam Labyrinth: Allies, Enemies, and Why the U.S. Lost the War

By Tran Ngoc Chau, Ken Fermoyle and Daniel Ellsberg

One of the few Vietnamese Army officers who also saw substantial service in Ho Chi Minh’s National Liberation Army against the French, Tran Ngoc Chau made a momentous and difficult decision after five years with the Viet Minh: he changed sides.
Although his brother Tran Ngoc Hien remained loyal to the North, Chau’s Buddhist training and his disillusionment with aspects of the communists’ philosophies led him to throw his support to the nationalists and assist the Americans. It was a decision that would cost him dearly when former military school colleague Nguyen Van Thieu, fearing a political rivalry, imprisoned Chau—by then a lieutenant colonel and the Secretary General of the National Assembly’s Lower House—despite popular sentiment and the support of Americans like John Paul Vann and Daniel Ellsberg.
At every turn Chau stood on principle, however, opposing government corruption, refusing favoritism, and remaining steadfast in his dedication to democracy. His principles would cost him again when, after the fall of Saigon, he was imprisoned in a North Vietnamese re-education camp and even after release kept under continuous surveillance.
His detailed memoir reveals an astute understanding of the Vietnamese political situation and national culture that failed to register with U.S. leaders—and offers valuable insights into how to cope with similar conflicts in the future.
As Ellsberg has put it, “Vietnam Labyrinth is unmatched, both for its narrative and for lessons to be learned for our current interventions.”
Also 04 Activeable in e-book formats, 978-0-89672-777-9

• Language: English
• Publisher: Texas Tech University Press
• Release date: Dec 15, 2012
• ISBN: 9780896727779

Tran Ngoc Chau

Tran Ngoc Chau escaped from Vietnam via Indonesia among the masses of boat people seeking refuge in the late 1970s, reestablishing himself and his family in the United States with the encouragement of American friends.

Book preview

1: ROOTS OF THE PAST, SEEDS OF THE FUTURE (AUGUST 1945)

As the Imperial Seal and Royal Sword were passed from Emperor Bao Dai ¹ to Tran Huy Lieu, ² I knew I was part of a truly momentous day in Vietnamese history. This abdication by the last ruler of a traditional Vietnam dynasty and transfer of power to Tran Huy Lieu, representing the revolutionary government of Ho Chi Minh, ³ was significant, not merely symbolic. Roots from Vietnam's past were being torn out, and seeds for the future planted in their stead. It marked a turning point for the nation: the beginning of events that would affect Vietnam, and me personally, more than anyone dreamed at the time, in ways we could never have imagined.

Who could have foreseen that I would be, in turn, a Viet Minh cadre; a South Vietnamese officer and government official; mayor of Danang, and a provincial governor under both President Diem and the generals who ruled after the coup in which Diem was assassinated; secretary general of the National Assembly's House of Deputies—and then a prisoner in both South Vietnamese and Communist prisons? In the coming years I found myself just inches and seconds from death many times. I visited other countries and met people from faraway places, including American ambassadors, generals, and such well-known men as Daniel Ellsberg, William Colby, John Paul Vann, Edward Lansdale, Sir Robert Thompson, Rufe Phillips, Richard Holbrooke, Keyes Beech,⁴ and many more. I would even, when arrested and imprisoned by President Thieu in 1970, be the focal point of an international cause célèbre that reached into the U.S. State Department and was reported worldwide in newspapers and magazines.

I had no inkling about any of those things on that early autumn day so long ago. The date was August 30, 1945; the place was the Citadel in Hué, where the emperor traditionally lived and worked. Such events seemed as unlikely for my future as the idea would have been just a few years earlier that our traditional leader would step aside in favor of Ho Chi Minh. Ho at that time was virtually a nonentity, known to very few Vietnamese after spending three decades in exile, mostly in Russia and France (utilizing a variety of cover names), studying and attempting to gain support in other countries for an independent Vietnam.⁵

Signs of excitement and change appeared everywhere in this city of mossy walls, blue water, and glossy green trees. Hundreds of thousands of men, women, and children poured into the Citadel area from all corners of the city. More people flocked in from surrounding villages. All waved the new red and yellow flag of the revolution, adding splashes of vivid color under the gray overcast skies. Milling crowds created an atmosphere that was charged with energy and anticipation.

Hué, Vietnam, and its people—indeed the entire world—had changed drastically in the last few years. Repercussions from the fall of France early in World War II were felt in Indochina. France surrendered its colonial power to Japan in 1940 and thereafter functioned as a puppet government under Japanese control. The situation, beneficial to both sides, continued until March 1945. The Japanese, threatened by an imminent invasion from Indochina, mounted a coup that overthrew the French administration. There were a few brief battles, but eventually all French not killed were captured and sent to prisons or internment camps. Japan granted Vietnam independence within its Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere and installed Bao Dai as ruler.⁶

Just six months later, bowing to the power of two atomic bomb blasts, Japan surrendered to the Allies—and the Vietnamese rose up to join Ho Chi Minh's fight to prevent France from taking back control of its former Indochina colony. The Japanese-supported government with Bao Dai as its figurehead had not really had time to begin functioning effectively. Meanwhile, the Viet Minh, which had spearheaded resistance against Japan, now emerged as the strongest of several nationalist factions. To many Vietnamese, Ho seemed to be the best hope to achieve eventual freedom for their country. (Being perceived as too closely associated with the Chinese compromised other potential or would-be nationalist leaders. After living in exile in China, they accompanied the Chinese troops who marched into northern Vietnam during this period. The result was that most Vietnamese viewed them suspiciously, regarding them as intruders, not true nationalists, so they were unable to muster wide support across the country.)

The dragon was awakening! On this day a new and revolutionary Vietnam began putting an end to the old, traditional Vietnam, as well as to the eras of French colonialists and Japanese imperialists. This was the setting for Bao Dai's abdication. The emperor stated with fervor and a sense of the dramatic that he would rather be a citizen of an independent country than the king of a slave nation! He had agreed to become Ho Chi Minh's supreme counselor. The ceremony today would make his abdication official, transmitting the mandate of heaven to the down-to-earth Ho. It attracted a crowd of thousands of my fellow countrymen who felt a sentimental attachment to the emperor. It was an emotional time for all Vietnamese, perhaps even more than most for me.

Slightly more than twenty years earlier I had been born in this city to a Confucian-Buddhist family associated with the Nguyen dynasty since the seventeenth century. My ancestor, the duke of Tien Duc, Tran Phuoc Thanh, came from Quang Nam province, where a monument erected in his memory still exists. His descendants served in the Imperial Court until the Tay Son brothers took over the country.

My grandfather, Tran Tram, the great scholar⁷ and a royal cabinet minister, was gloriously eulogized at this death by Huynh Thuc Khang, himself a noted scholar.⁸ This was an unusual tribute because Huynh refused to cooperate with the French-controlled government and normally showed no respect for any of the mandarins. Both my grandfather and my father, a chief judge, like most other mandarins of their fading Confucian- and Buddhist-educated generation, were strong nationalists. They never resigned themselves to French rule, but accepted the fact that it existed. They managed to use their positions to make the lives of their compatriots as bearable as possible under the colonial system.

Bao Dai was the last of the Nguyen dynasty, founded by his ancestors in 1802 when they became the sole rulers of a unified Vietnam. (He and his father Khai Dinh played only a symbolic leadership role under the French colonial system, which controlled taxation, finance, defense, and most other important matters—leaving the Vietnamese administration little to do.) He had not earned the same degree of respect and esteem that some of his predecessors enjoyed, due to his sometimes profligate ways and his collaboration with the French.

He was impressive in his abdication, however, and he was the emperor. That raised his stature, and the huge crowd cheered wildly for him.⁹ Many remembered back to 1932 when Bao Dai, then just eighteen years old, hoped to institute reforms when the French relaxed their control over him slightly. Unfortunately, the young emperor, though intelligent, lacked the courage of his convictions. His enthusiasm waned, and he resumed a life of pleasure. This pleased the French, but lost Bao Dai the respect and support of Ngo Dinh Diem, a capable, honest member of the emperor's court up to that time. A fervent nationalist, Diem later was to become president of South Vietnam.

I was proud that his final act as emperor was meaningful, dignified, and patriotic. That meant a great deal to most Vietnamese. We needed the feelings of patriotism and pride in the Vietnamese nationalistic spirit that Bao Dai's words yesterday had inspired in us, for these were trying times. On that day, seeing the new revolutionary flag—red, with a yellow star—flying proudly above the Citadel strengthened my feelings of national pride. The flag was the brave symbol of our infant nation, struggling against long odds to reunite and regain its independence after some eight decades under French rule.

The Vietnamese nationalistic spirit, a term I use for lack of a better, more precise one, is something that is difficult for people from other countries to understand. Think of it as a blend of pride in one's country and its history, patriotism, and a continuing desire to throw off the yoke of alien oppressors who subjugated Vietnam over the centuries. A lack of understanding of the power of this nationalistic concept hinders most books and reports about the Vietnamese war, just as it has made things difficult for would-be conquerors of the country down through the centuries. It might best be explained by a famous poem written by the great national hero Ly Thuong Kiet, commander of the Vietnamese Army that defeated the Chinese invaders. His words motivated Vietnamese forces when they faced a Chinese army in 1076 and in other battles ever since. Well-known through the centuries, even by the most illiterate peasants, the poem served time after time as the national battle cry against foreign invaders:

Vietnam belongs to the Vietnamese;

That was scripted in the Divine Testament.

Whoever refuses to heed this and comes to invade

Will surely be exposed to defeat.

Hué is a shortened form of Thuan Hoa, the old name of the territory that included the city. An older name for it was Xuan, which meant enriching spring and was given to the city in 1802 by Emperor Gia Long, founder of the Nguyen dynasty. It became the royal seat in 1760, and then capital of the unified Vietnam in 1802. Hué had been my family's home for many years, so it is not surprising that I loved it and felt very much at ease there. In truth, however, it was difficult not to love Hué. The French fell under its spell during their occupation of Vietnam, as did many others over the years.

High, mossy brick walls surrounded the ancient Citadel. Tall trees inside the walls shaded narrow streets lined with imposing houses and quaint palaces that had served as offices. My grandfather had lived there. Small lakes and ponds covered with beautiful lotus flowers shone like colorful mirrors here and there around the buildings. Koi and carp swam gracefully and serenely in them as they had for many years, oblivious to the chaos and winds of change raging above their watery homes. The blue waters of several smaller rivers flowed around the Citadel's high walls and joined the larger, serene Perfume River, which divided Hué into two parts. One was the old city; the other part was the modern city established by the French during the decades of their rule, which ended in 1954.

Modern villas and colonial-style mansions hid under tall trees and behind a profusion of flowers on the southern side of the river. The French had reigned here for sixty years, giving Hué a distinct culture and character overlaid on its traditional ways. Only rich Vietnamese families and government mandarins could afford to mingle and socialize with the French. This was a city of the rich and privileged. Even after the French finally left Hué, the psychological after-effects of that wealth and privilege continued to intimidate the common class of Vietnamese.

Mountains form an almost theatrical backdrop for Hué, while the South China Sea stretches out to the horizon on the city's east. Numerous Buddhist pagodas and Confucian temples of striking traditional architecture testified to the mixed religious heritage of Vietnam. With other historic symbols of Vietnam's traditional culture, they were located throughout the old city of Hué. Catholic churches, of more modern and European architecture, clustered in the newer, largely French, section of the city. (Vietnam was approximately 85 percent Buddhist or Confucian at the time, less than 15 percent Catholic.)

These two faces of Hué symbolized the division between the new and the old. Traditions were fading. Architecture and monuments like those in the Citadel had been giving way for some time to more modern structures favored by the French—just as mandarins who followed the Confucian philosophy had been gradually replaced by French colonialists and the new class of Vietnamese mandarins they installed as administrators. Many of the old mandarins were scholars and teachers who taught as much by their deeds and example as they did from books or by the words they spoke. The modern Frenchified Vietnamese were more concerned with their careers and material things than philosophy or teaching—or ethics.

On the map, Vietnam resembles a mythic dragon, with its head staring defiantly at its gigantic neighbor to the north, China. It bears two smaller neighbors, Laos and Cambodia, on its back. Lapping at the rest of its body are the waters of a part of the Pacific Ocean that the Vietnamese still refuse to call the South China Sea (because of antagonism created by China's many attempts to conquer Vietnam in the past). Now, in this early autumn of 1945, the Vietnamese dragon was straining restlessly at its bonds, anxious to be free once more.

World War II was barely over, but our own conflict was just beginning. And we were to face many foes. Very shortly after the ceremony that made Bao Dai's abdication official, ill-trained and poorly equipped volunteers of the National Patriotic Organization (official name for the Viet Minh¹⁰) found themselves battling an unlikely alliance of British, French, and, yes, Japanese troops.

Not many people understand the situation of Japanese troops in Southeast Asia immediately after World War II. It's true that Japan surrendered unconditionally to the Allies. It's equally true that, in Indochina, Japanese military forces were ordered by the Allies to hold their positions, retain their arms, and maintain security. The rest of the world might have regarded Japan as a defeated enemy, but in Vietnam it appeared that nothing had changed. Soldiers retained their Rising Sun banners and their weapons, arms that were both feared and coveted by Vietnamese nationalists who hoped to establish the country's independence. Those weapons continued killing my fellow countrymen for months after the official Japanese surrender, something many Americans to this day find hard to believe.¹¹

As it happened, I faced combat for the first time as a Viet Minh squad leader in an attack on a Japanese detachment of some 200 men. Such attacks during that time had two purposes: first, to free Vietnamese territory from the control of the foreign invaders, and second, to capture arms we knew would be needed in the struggle to establish an independent Vietnam.

That was still ahead of me, however. I had returned to Hué just a week earlier from the Dalat-Djiring and Nha Trang sector, which included the southern and highland areas of Annam (Central Vietnam). I had served there for the past year as a courier in a Viet Minh intelligence unit.¹² I was on leave to visit my father, who was seriously ill. He had suffered bouts of pneumonia for years; my mother was ill also. Only my youngest brother lived at home; my two elder brothers and sister (with her family) were serving in the Viet Minh.

My father was retired, and he and my mother lived a frugal life in their home on the outskirts of Hué. Father spent most of his time praying and teaching the concepts of Buddhism. When I reported to them the situation in the country, and my own current role, my father said little. He merely reminded me of the principles of loyalty to the country and filiation to the people.¹³

I had volunteered in 1944 to join my two older brothers in the Viet Minh resistance to the French and the Japanese forces that then controlled them. I was twenty at the time, a student at the lycée and a Boy Scout.¹⁴ Earlier, as was traditional in my family, I had spent seven years as a Buddhist student.¹⁵ In dedicated Buddhist families it is not uncommon for a son to be selected to become a bonze, or Buddhist monk. This brings great honor and joy to the family. Thus, at age nine, after my elementary education at a regular school and under a family tutor, I began training for the life of a bonze. I had an option, however; I could return to a normal secular life anytime I desired. A farewell ceremony at the family's altar marked the occasion. On my first few days at Truc Lam pagoda, I began a life of daily prayers and vegetarian meals.

I was ordained in a ceremony with others, to be on probation as a bonze—with our heads shaved for good. From then on I was under the personal tutelage of the Most Venerable Thich Giac Tien as I began my religious training and lived the life of a bonze. I enjoyed the new lifestyle and devoted myself to it enthusiastically. Thus, when I was sent a few years later to Bao Quoc pagoda (the name means Preciousness of the Nation, implying that it was the cradle of the spiritual essence of the country), the first modern Buddhist seminary, to further my regular and religious education, I was well prepared. However, as I matured over the following five years, I realized I was not capable of continuing in the religious life. I confessed as much and was allowed to return to normal life—promising to myself to abide by the basic Buddhist rules as a good layman.

I returned to my family at age sixteen, and enrolled in a private lycée. While at the lycée, my brothers and I joined the Boy Scout Organization led by Ta Quang Buu. As early as 1942 the organization had become a hotbed of nationalistic activities, with many members joining various clandestine groups working against the French. One such group, Youth for National Salvation (Thanh nien cuu quoc in Vietnamese) recruited my brother and me.

When France collapsed early in World War II and Hitler established the puppet Vichy regime in Europe, the French in Vietnam realized that nationalists would try to take advantage of the situation. They funded and encouraged several youth organizations designed both to divert young Vietnamese and to exert some control over them. The move boomeranged. The nationalist spirit proved stronger than loyalty to the colonialists among French-educated Vietnamese whom the French trusted to organize and guide the groups. These leaders seized the opportunity to recruit and set up anti-French activities. We worked undercover to develop a spirit of nationalism and to prepare the youths mentally for a revolt against the French when the time arose.

I served in the clandestine Intelligence Service of the Viet Minh in the very early stages of its existence. I worked primarily as a courier¹⁶ under Nguyen Linh, then a deputy police commissioner in the French Security Agency. He had also been recruited by the Viet Minh to serve as an undercover agent for the Resistance. His Viet Minh mission: to detect Vietnamese who infiltrated nationalist groups for the French, and to compromise those who were hard-core French loyalists. With the Japanese becoming more influential in Indochinese affairs, the French assigned Linh to Dalat, where the Japanese High Command established headquarters for all of its espionage activities. Linh's job was to monitor Japanese activities there. I followed him to Dalat in early 1944 to act in a minor role as liaison for Linh, so he could avoid being detected in suspicious circumstances by French surveillance.

When invading Indochina in 1940, the Japanese adopted a policy of ruling the conquered territory from behind the scenes. The French colonial administration served as a front for Japan, much as the puppet regime of Marshal Philippe Pétain did for Germany in Europe. By late 1944, however, American victories increased in the Pacific Theater and speculation was that Indochina would be the target of the first U.S. invasion of the Asian continent. Agents from General Charles de Gaulle's Free French forces parachuted into Vietnam, bringing weapons and orders to strike against the Japanese the moment such an invasion occurred. (De Gaulle wanted to reestablish French control over Indochina and planned this move to counterbalance favorable U.S. reaction to the determined resistance efforts of Vietnamese nationalists.)

The Japanese, concerned by growing antagonism toward them by the Vietnamese, planned as early as September 1944 to oust the French administration and grant independence to Vietnam.¹⁷ The date for this move had been set for April 25, 1945. With the move by the Free French, Tokyo advanced the coup d'état to March 9, 1945, and moved swiftly to neutralize French colonial forces, which represented a potential threat from within if there was an invasion.

Not all the French were happy in their roles as collaborators, and many in the military very likely would have welcomed an opportunity to strike at the Japanese in support of an Allied assault. Moreover, assisting the Allies would weigh favorably in postwar efforts by France to reassert control over Indochina. It would also restore a measure of French pride and prestige, which had suffered greatly as a result of being under the thumb of the Japanese for five years. French colonialists would be pleased to regain face, knowing how important that is in Asia.

On March 9 the Japanese ordered the French governor to place his army at their disposal. He did not comply, so Japanese troops seized French garrisons. Some units surrendered (at Hanoi, for example) and were interned peacefully. Some resisted, and were slaughtered. Any semblance of French power and influence disappeared overnight. Fortunately, Linh learned about the Japanese plans on March 4 and alerted the Viet Minh. This advance notice enabled the organization to rescue many of our agents and supporters who had infiltrated the French colonial infrastructure or were in other positions that might have put them in jeopardy from the Japanese.

With the French system eliminated as even a token government and at the instigation of the Japanese, Emperor Bao Dai declared Vietnam an independent state under Japan's protection, with himself as chief of state. Bao Dai attempted to create a new Vietnamese administration in Hué to replace the ousted French, designating Tran Trong Kim as prime minister. Kim, a sincere and honest patriot, succeeded in attracting a variety of respected Vietnamese to form his cabinet. They launched an attempt to recover from the prevailing chaos and to build an independent Vietnam. This was not what the Japanese wanted, however, and though they obviously were losing the war (we had no idea that the atomic bomb would hasten its end less than six months later), they still controlled Indochina. The Japanese replaced the French governors with their own and placed the French Security Agency under their direction.

Tran Trong Kim quickly found his government as much controlled by the Japanese as the previous Vietnamese government had been by the French. Other factors also complicated his efforts. For one thing, recovering from the administrative breakdown caused by the sudden ouster of the French proved almost impossible. In addition, Allied bombing caused a communications breakdown, crop failures and famine created havoc in Tonkin and Annam, and the Japanese imposed direct military rule over Cochinchina.

But the rising tide of nationalistic sentiment was beyond the control of the Japanese, Tran Trong Kim, or circumstances. Young people, intellectuals, and the masses were ripe for revolt. By the time the Japanese surrendered, Viet Minh cadres had emerged as their leaders. In particular, the former Boy Scouts of Ta Quang Buu, members of Phan Anh's Frontline Youth, and the Avant-Guard Youth of Dr. Pham Ngoc Thach provided the Viet Minh with tens of thousands of active cadres. Most served in the military. Not all nationalist groups joined Ho Chi Minh and the Viet Minh initially, but they were overwhelmed by the forces that rallied to Ho, and most formed ranks with the Viet Minh for the sake of national unity.

Ho Chi Minh and the Viet Minh refused to support the Bao Dai regime and continued their policy of harassment and resistance against the Japanese. They hoped that this would weigh in their favor after the war ended. On April 27, 1945, Ho met for the first time with Major Archimides Patti, the American OSS officer (Office of Strategic Services, forerunner of the CIA) whose team infiltrated into North Vietnam from China. His mission was to gather intelligence on Japanese strength, positions held, and logistics capabilities, as well as to establish liaison with Vietnamese resistance groups. I'm sure he was also ordered to assess the caliber of the resistance fighters and how much support they could offer in the event of an Allied invasion.

Major Patti was impressed with Viet Minh efforts, especially the intelligence network that the organization had established. He welcomed the hard intelligence that our network developed on the Japanese. The Americans found it to be accurate and reliable. In turn, the major and his men provided a limited amount of radio equipment and small arms.

Major Patti also filed favorable reports with his headquarters on the capabilities of the Viet Minh and the results of the resistance movement that its nationalistic members had waged over the previous five years. Despite this, and the major's personal sympathy for the Vietnamese cause, the OSS team was ordered to end its mission and leave Vietnam in October 1945. The American brass at that time had no desire for U.S. military representatives to become embroiled in any way with the fighting that had begun between the Vietnamese and the French, often aided by the Japanese.

2: A JOURNEY OF AWAKENING (1945)

Afew weeks after Bao Dai abdicated his position as emperor, passing over the symbols of chief of state to Ho Chi Minh's representative, I set out on a memorable four-day journey. It brought me a new understanding of, and appreciation for, the Vietnamese people. As I explained earlier, I was born into a family of mandarins who had a long history of honorable service in varied provincial and imperial court positions. We lived comfortably, if not ostentatiously.

In retrospect, I realize I had been somewhat spoiled and insulated during my early years from many ugly realities that most Vietnamese faced during that time. The seven years I spent studying in the Buddhist monastery altered that to some extent. The life had been demanding, with none of the comforts I enjoyed before, but it was still out of the mainstream of Vietnamese life in many respects. I underwent privations, but voluntarily, knowing that I could return to my normal life.

Even my experiences during the prior few years working in intelligence for the Viet Minh changed my perspective to only a limited extent. For the most part I socialized with the same classes of people I had known all my life. My contact with peasants and working-class Vietnamese was restricted. As was true for many others in my situation, I understood little about the difficulties and hardships that these countrymen of mine faced every day of their lives. Nor did I appreciate the intrinsic value of these rural compatriots, and the vital role they played in helping shape Vietnam's destiny.

Like many others of the privileged classes who enjoyed the benefits of an education and comfortable living, I suppose I had looked down on the illiterate farmers and others who made up the bulk of Vietnam's population (about 25 million at that time). I admit these things with some shame—a sense of regret and guilt that began to surface on the four-day train ride from Hué to Trai Mat, south of Dalat. During that time I looked at people from all walks of life, in particular the farmers, through new eyes. I began to understand the great gap that existed between the privileged Vietnamese and the French colonialists, who were determined to reestablish their rule, and the underprivileged in this country. We saw many reminders of that as our train took us southward.

For me, that trip was a journey of awakening.

A patriotic fervor swept the country during the days following the emperor's dramatic abdication. High schools were closed, as teachers and students left to join the swelling army of Viet Minh recruits. The new soldiers scurried around buying themselves uniforms and trying to purchase weapons, usually from Japanese soldiers. (Many Japanese were willing to sell, finding more security in cash than guns that they knew would soon have to be surrendered to Allied troops anyway.)

Tens of thousands of these volunteers filled the streets, all willing to fight to establish Vietnam as an independent nation once more. Most had little or no training; very few of those who managed to obtain firearms even knew how to load, aim, and fire them. About half had only machetes as personal weapons. The men who led them frequently had no more military training or skills than the novice troops themselves.

When I boarded the train at the Central Station in Hué I saw many of my friends and school classmates. Nearly all of them were from well-to-do families and spoke French fluently. I don't know how significant the journey proved to be for them or how many shared the awakening I experienced during the four days to follow. As we rode the overloaded train through the countryside we received an enthusiastic welcome at each of the many stations where we stopped. Whether it was day or night, in the mountains, amid rice fields, or by the seaside, people gathered to greet us, to acclaim the volunteers who were being sent to help in the battles for the South. People even lined up, row upon row, along the railroad tracks, to wave and cheer us on as we rolled past them.

At each station young children gathered, chanting patriotic and traditional Vietnamese songs. I remember that one song popular at the time went like this:

It's time for the valiant army to launch forward,

The country was resounding with the cry of war.

Forward we all go on a glorious march,

Fighting bravely for final victory.¹

Old men and women considered the volunteers their adopted children, and vied with each other to embrace the new soldiers. Emotional tears mixed with cheerful laughter from those of us on the train as well as from the people who came to show us their support for the cause of Vietnamese independence. It was an impressive expression of the nationalism and deep desire for our country's freedom that bound us together in a new brotherhood, whether we were city dwellers or farmers.

The people along the way brought food and other refreshments, offering it free to any of us who wanted to partake. Most of those welcoming us were peasants or men and women who eked out difficult existences in low-paying jobs. Many could ill afford the generosity they showed in sharing their food and drink with us. We knew that most were living on short rations voluntarily, to help relieve the serious famine caused by Japanese policies, implemented by their French lackeys in the puppet government. Before the Japanese conquered Indochina, Vietnam had exported large quantities of rice. The Japanese, however, were more interested in industrial crops: jute, peanuts, and especially cotton, to use in making gunpowder. At their bidding the French forced more and more rice-growing acreage to be used for nonfood crops.

Add to this the fact that the Japanese confiscated large amounts of rice for their troops, and the result was growing shortages of the country's main food staple. The problem really became severe by the summer of 1945. Dikes along the Red River in the North had not been maintained well during the years of Japanese occupation and gave way in several areas during the rainy season. Some of the area's best rice-growing areas flooded, wiping out a significant quantity of the normal harvest. Since the North produced only slightly more rice than it consumed in the best of times (most of the surplus exported had come from the South), a terrible famine developed. More than two million people, out of the total population of twenty-five million, starved to death.

In the South and Central sections of the country, the Viet Minh called for everyone to set aside each day a portion of the rice they would normally eat to help their desperate northern countrymen. Most people responded, and the move had an additional benefit. It helped all Vietnamese feel common bonds: anger toward the French and Japanese, sympathy from those who shared their rice, and gratitude from those who received it.

How could these illiterate men and women, young and old, living in the obscurity of their rural villages, feel so strongly about driving out the French and regaining independence for Vietnam? Why did they care so much for national independence, and what were their expectations from it? This was one of the first widespread outpourings of the national spirit I experienced, and to this day it remains one of the most impressive examples that I witnessed personally. If these people, living under miserable conditions in rural and city areas, could care so much, how could we not do likewise?

We felt guilty, remembering that we had often looked down on the peasants in the past like so many of the educated Vietnamese did. We realized that, without the uprising, we would have lived as our fathers lived, accepting the de facto rule of the French. With self-satisfaction we would have enjoyed the privileges that they accorded to us, ignoring the miserable living conditions suffered by most Vietnamese, in cities as well as in rural areas. The awakening had begun! Now the peasants rallied to the cause of Vietnamese independence once more, spurred on at least in part by another emperor, Bao Dai, and his declaration that he would rather be a free citizen than a slave emperor. He had his flaws and had made mistakes, but he set an example for millions of other Vietnamese when he made that statement and abdicated in favor of Ho Chi Minh.

The French obviously were determined to reestablish their prewar control over Vietnam and the rest of Indochina. For the moment, however, they were unable to take aggressive military action because they lacked sufficient troops and transportation; they also lacked weapons and other equipment. This soon changed as the Allies, especially England, came to their aid.

Our nationalist forces, enthusiastic as they were, faced problems that prevented them from taking immediate advantage of the French weaknesses. We had even fewer weapons than the French.² Also, the Vietnamese volunteers were poorly trained. Some had fought as guerrillas in the resistance, and a few had prewar military training under the French.

Had I known what was to happen soon after my arrival in Cau Dat, I would have volunteered for the army immediately and quit the clandestine intelligence organization. Instead, still aflame with enthusiasm and patriotic zeal, I reported immediately to Nguyen Linh, chief of my intelligence unit.

He first inquired about my father's health, then asked eagerly about the events at Hué and what I had encountered during my trip. I launched into an excited account of the scene at the Citadel, when Bao Dai handed over symbols of the Mandate of Heaven to Ho Chi Minh's representative. Then I gave him a detailed report on the tumultuous receptions we received everywhere on the trip south. Linh exulted over the positive reaction of our people, from all areas and all classes, to the prospect of driving out the French and winning independence for a united Vietnam once again. He hung on my every word as I described how they cheered for the volunteers on the train, how they chanted patriotic anthems all along the way, and how they lined up to share with us food and drink from their own meager supplies. We talked far into the night.

Finally, exhausted, I went to my room for some much-needed sleep. I wanted to be well rested so I could resume my duties as quickly as possible. Little did I realize that soon I would lose all enthusiasm for the intelligence organization and work that had been the focus of my life for three years—and that I would soon make a decision that would change my life dramatically.

We enjoyed comfortable quarters in Cau Dat, a little town some fifteen kilometers from the center of Dalat. Situated at an elevation of about 1,500 meters, Dalat was another resort built by the French as a cool oasis in which they could escape the heat and humidity of lowland summers. Many French officials and prosperous businesspeople had second homes there, beautiful villas set among silk trees (mimosa), pines, and other evergreens. It was an exclusive area; aside from the workers who served the French, only the most elite Vietnamese were seen there usually. Businesses were run by Chinese, rich Vietnamese, and some French.

Usually a quiet backwater, Cau Dat was filled with crowds when I arrived. Refugees from Dalat and Vietnamese volunteers, many of them new volunteers like those who had ridden the train south with me, swelled the normal population. As had happened in other provinces a few days after the Japanese surrendered to the Allies in August, people in the area responded to urgings of the Viet Minh cadres and took over the administration. By the end of August, the entire country, north to south, was under the de facto leadership of Ho Chi Minh. Bao Dai recognized this reality when he abdicated and accepted the title of Ho's supreme counselor.

A few weeks earlier the Japanese had launched an all-out attack to drive the Vietnamese administration and its ragtag troops out of Dalat.³ Actually, the Vietnamese government, such as it was in those confused, disorganized days, had no real military forces at the time other than local volunteers who formed a paramilitary organization of sorts.

Not much effort was required to clear the Vietnamese from the city, and now the Japanese were in full control of Dalat. That was why Cau Dat was crowded with government officials, civilian refugees, and a motley collection of army and paramilitary troops. The new provincial command had issued an order that Dalat itself was in a state of military blockade, and that no supplies or other assistance would be allowed to enter the city. The plan was to starve the Japanese and French inside the city into submission. The blockade was effective, causing a serious shortage of food inside Dalat.

Tea plantations and small factories, which processed a variety of exotic teas, surrounded the Cau Dat area. The French, who had built and lived in large colonial-style villas, owned nearly all of these operations. The Vietnamese who served them as workers and servants lived in slums bordering the tea plantations. However, since the Japanese conquest of Indochina, the French had deserted their homes and moved into Dalat. Our intelligence unit was quartered in three of the villas the French had left behind.⁴

I awoke from my sleep feeling refreshed and ready for a bright, new day. It was a somber morning, however—cold and cloudy—which somewhat dampened my spirits. As I looked out of the villa it seemed the crowds were especially large and animated. The city seemed too small for the thousands milling in its streets, and there was tension in their excitement. The gray, forbidding skies seemed curiously appropriate for the ominous air of agitation that the people generated. I shivered slightly, and hurried to find out what was happening.

Bits of muttered conversations drifted to my ears. An execution…, I thought I heard someone say. And from another quarter came something about three spies. Unlikely, I told myself, but they would know at headquarters. I made my way there as rapidly as possible. I learned quickly that indeed there was to be a public execution of three people, two men and a woman, that afternoon at the railroad station. That was grim news—made even more shocking when I learned that Hong, the young woman accused and condemned, was an acquaintance. I had met her through Huong Giang, a girl of my age who was a good friend at the time.

The men were accused of collaborating with the French. Hong's crime was that she had been caught trying to sneak into Dalat with food for her mother, who was a governess for a French family that lived in the heart of the city. I knew everyone involved: the young woman, her mother, and the French family. The latter included a professor from the lycée, his wife, and their three teenage children. All were charming and friendly people. The professor and his wife were definitely not overbearing colonialists. In fact, they had developed great affection for our country. I remembered them saying that they would like to see an independent Vietnam, independent of direct French rule, though perhaps still allied to their mother country. They hardly seemed like dangerous enemies of the people.

I immediately went to see Nguyen Binh, a local cadre, since he was a member of the committee that had sentenced the trio to death, and inquired about the situation. I tried to save the young woman, arguing vehemently that her life should be spared. After all, I said to Binh, what crime had she committed other than trying to get food to her hungry mother?

My arguments were in vain. The decision has been made, Binh said, and it cannot be reversed. The revolution demands harsh measures. Apparently the committee felt that there was too much confusion at the time and that it was necessary to begin enforcing discipline if the objective of national independence was to be attained. That was my understanding of the situation, at any rate; I was of very junior rank at the time and had no authority, of course, so it was not felt that I needed any further explanation. During our discussion Binh stressed one point as though it was a lesson I must learn: The revolution is brutal in character because brutality is necessary to meet the challenge of our enemies, the French and their associates and lackeys. That was my introduction to the concept of revolutionary brutality.

The day remained cold and cloudy, almost as though the weather reflected the mood of the events. By afternoon, several hundred people had gathered around the railroad station at the invitation of the provincial committee. When I arrived, the three condemned persons were standing, tied and blindfolded, awaiting their fate. As I looked at the young woman who was about to die I could feel myself trembling inside, almost as if I were she. Suddenly the image of her mother, who was blockaded in the city and could not be there, appeared in my mind. I imagined the anguish she must be feeling, for I was sure she knew what was happening; news passed readily and rapidly between Dalat and Cau Dat despite the blockade. I realized tears were running down my cheeks. It became too difficult for me to look at the condemned anymore. I sat down, losing myself in that human mass and ignoring the voices around me. All became quiet in an instant; then a lone voice read the sentences.

A short, sharp burst of rifle fire shattered the silence that followed—and it was all over. Three lives were wiped out in a split second. The crowd dispersed quietly, but I remained seated there, oblivious to everything, long after everyone else was gone. My brain was numb. Finally the cold penetrated my consciousness and I returned to my quarters. I was still dazed, shocked, and sickened by the execution. I couldn't sleep, and I vomited all night long.

As a Buddhist, killing was unthinkable to me—but as a fighter for national independence, killing was unavoidable. I was ready to face killing and death on the battlefield. But deaths like those I witnessed that sad day were inconceivable to me. They could not be justified according to my beliefs. I felt that, except on the battlefield or when facing imminent danger, taking someone's life was inexcusable, especially so abruptly and with no real trial. I couldn't bear the image of that young woman being executed so callously and after such a simplistic judicial procedure.

What made my shock even worse was the realization that my own intelligence unit had played a major role in capturing and accusing the three people who had been shot as spies. Would future actions of mine have similar results? I found it difficult to face that possibility, and I realized that performing my assignments in the future might be difficult. Would I be able to turn in reports on anyone when I knew those reports might have tragic results, whether I felt the results were justified or not?

Then I made a decision: I would rather serve in our combat units. The duty might be more hazardous, but I would be fighting openly against foes who were also armed and prepared to kill. I could no longer serve with good conscience in the clandestine intelligence service. I would rather kill or be killed than be implicated in executions over which I had no control.

The decision cleared my mind, but just then I suffered my first malaria attack. It kept me in bed for two weeks, suffering from depression as much as the malaria. Nguyen Linh came to see me while I lay in bed tossing with fever. I told him I wanted to transfer to a combat unit, without adding any explanation. He accepted my decision without question—but for the wrong reason. He suspected I had loved the young woman, and asked me if that had been the case. No, I told him bluntly. It was the process leading to the condemnation and execution of the three accused spies that disturbed me. I did not think the killings were justified. I explained my doubts that I could continue to serve effectively in the organization that had been instrumental in that process. At first Linh tried to dissuade me, but he finally realized how strongly I felt. He agreed to let me go and gave me a letter of recommendation.

Two days later I presented his letter at a military training center for cadres in Trai Ham. I filled out papers with information about my date and place of birth, my parents, and so on. The training center provided food, housing, and classrooms in two large villas, vacated by the French, that overlooked the Dran valley. Beyond that, we had to be self-sufficient. The commandant was Pham Thai, a northerner about thirty years old. Four instructors assisted him. We were scheduled for one month of training, but it was cut to fifteen days so we could be sent to take part in an upcoming action against 200 to 300 Japanese troops holed up in the former Phan Rang provincial headquarters compound near Thap Cham. More of the training time was devoted to political lectures than to military subjects. Many of the lectures stressed the need to replace suffocating French colonialism with Vietnamese independence. Others stressed how to live with and among the people, how to live together within the unit, and how to improve physically, intellectually, and in our new profession as soldiers.

We learned about our weapons and how to use them, though none of us fired more than ten shots. I realized very quickly that most of our military training would consist of on-the-job experience, and that our leaders would be learning tactics and similar skills right along with us. After fifteen days we assembled and moved out to the Thap Cham area for our baptism in battle. I was appointed leader of a squad in the newly formed platoon.

As we were gathering ourselves for a war of liberation, the forces that would be arrayed against us were readying themselves also. Ho Chi Minh made his second attempt to win U.S. support for an independent Vietnam, sending a request for help to President Harry S. Truman. Perhaps President Truman felt like his predecessor, Franklin D. Roosevelt. On January 1, 1945, just three months before his death, FDR made this remark to Edward R. Stettinius, his secretary of state: I still do not want to get mixed up in any Indochina decision….Action at this time is premature.⁵

At the conference of Allied leaders in Potsdam one month before Japan surrendered, plans had been made to disarm Japanese troops in Vietnam. The country was to be split at the sixteenth parallel, with Chinese Nationalists disarming Japanese in the North and the British taking responsibility for the South. Implementation of the plan began in September 1945—and it brought disaster in both halves of our divided country.

The British commander, General Gracey, was miscast. A colonial officer with limited political experience but a genuine affection for his Indian troops, he held the paternalistic view that ‘natives’ should not defy Europeans. Officially, his was not to reason why. Lord Louis Mountbatten, the Allied commander for Southeast Asia, told him bluntly to avoid Vietnam's internal problems and merely handle the Japanese. But Gracey, guided by his prejudices, violated instructions. Despite Ho's assertion of Vietnam's independence in Hanoi on September 2, he said publicly even before leaving India for Saigon several weeks later that civil and military control by the French is only a question of weeks."⁶ In the absence of French troops immediately, however, the British postponed disarming Japanese units and used them against what they considered the rebel regime. Lord Mountbatten (Louis of Battenberg) reported on October 2, 1945, that the only way he could avoid using British/Indian forces was to continue using the Japanese for maintaining law and order and this means I cannot begin to disarm them for another three months.⁷

A young American OSS lieutenant colonel, Albert Peter Dewey, though pro-French himself, disapproved of Gracey's Francophile bias and was ordered out of the country by the British—under suspicion of collaborating with the Viet Minh. Dewey, with background as an author and foreign correspondent, wrote a prophetic note before leaving: Cochinchina is burning, the French and British are finished here, and we [the United States] ought to clear out of Southeast Asia.⁸ He was killed in an ambush on his way to the airport, the first of nearly 60,000 Americans killed in Vietnam. The French and Viet Minh blamed each other for his death.

Meanwhile, Ho Chi Minh held firm command in the North, but floods that burst Red River dikes in the summer of 1945 had aggravated food shortages created by the Japanese. The first of the Chinese Nationalist troops, designated by the Potsdam plan to disarm Japanese units in North Vietnam, arrived in Hanoi in September 1945. Eventually 200,000 of them, under General Lu Han, swarmed into the North.

They resembled a horde of human locusts. Hungry, tattered, and even barefoot, many racked with scurvy and other diseases, their ranks included poor peasant boys and ragged soldiers dragging along their wives and children. They had plundered villages during their march down from China….Once in Hanoi they continued to pillage promiscuously. They barged into private homes and public buildings, stealing light bulbs and unscrewing doorknobs, and they pushed through markets, filching fruit and vegetables, even biting into bars of soap they mistook for food.⁹

I knew a little about these events at the time and learned more details in the following months and years. My attention during those weeks was concentrated on my own small part in the revolution, uprising, War of Independence—call it what you will.

3: FIRST COMBAT: AN INAUSPICIOUS BEGINNING (1946)

The day of reckoning arrived. The first shot I fired at an enemy in combat was aimed at a Japanese soldier. Did I hit him? I still wonder. My weapon on that November morning late in 1945 was a French mousqueton , one of the six firearms allotted to our squad of fourteen men. We also had another French mousqueton, two Japanese rifles, a German Mauser, and a British Sten. We received about fifty rounds of ammunition per rifle for this attack on the Japanese in a former provincial government headquarters not far from Thap Cham. Those without firearms carried machetes.

The compound included the provincial governor's mansion, the treasury building, a school, and a hospital. Vietnamese volunteers had been blockading it for several weeks, repeatedly asking the 200 Japanese occupying it to abandon their position and give up their arms. (This was three months after the Japanese had officially surrendered to the Allies.) They were willing to compromise, but rejected the terms proposed. Though the blockade was effective, the Japanese seemingly had adequate supplies, and their plight was not desperate enough for them to agree to the Vietnamese demands.

We spent two days preparing for a decisive battle to oust the Japanese from their refuge. The commander and his political commissar first worked out a detailed plan and went over it carefully with all company commanders and platoon leaders. Tra, my platoon leader, in turn took me and the other squad leaders during the day to where we could see our attack positions, how we were to advance, and our objective. The Japanese by now were accustomed to seeing us move around and had driven off our previous sorties with ease. They paid little attention as we scouted the positions; at least we drew no fire.

The plan called for my platoon to launch a diversionary attack as soon as the sun set; the rest of the task force would lay down a preliminary volley of fire to keep the enemies' heads down. We hoped the Japanese would concentrate on our platoon long enough for our main attack to get well under way. My platoon's real objective, a small building behind a mass of well-laid barbed wire on a corner of the compound, would be attacked only after another company had taken the big building next to it.

Our machine guns and 60 mm mortars (the nearest thing to artillery we had) opened up promptly at sunset and poured heavy fire into the compound. Strangely, the Japanese did not shoot back, not even a single round. But we did hear shouting and movement. This odd response created some confusion and a bit of anxiety. The three squads in my platoon began the planned diversion on schedule, alternately advancing and providing cover fire for each other. As we approached a thick hedge of hibiscus on the perimeter of the compound, a series of explosions burst from the bushes. Two of our men went down, seriously injured by booby traps laid for us. Grenades had been connected to trip wires and secured in the thick hibiscus foliage. We set them off when we tripped the wires concealed in the path of our advance.

Suddenly shooting started again on the other side of the compound; we could hear shouting, amplified by megaphones, and the sound of horns. The Japanese apparently began firing back, but at a very slow rate. Mines exploded; one building caught fire, lighting up the entire area. A team in the squad next to mine opened a breach in the wire, causing the enemy to begin firing at us in earnest. I spotted the location of one Japanese soldier. I was sure it was a live enemy, not a dummy, because I saw the muzzle flash of his rifle when he fired. I aligned my sights on him and pulled the trigger. In my excitement I forgot the little training I'd had and neglected to clamp the butt of the mousqueton firmly against my shoulder. I soon learned why that was so important.

The short-barreled mousqueton, a French carbine, had vicious recoil; my 140 pounds were no match for it. The rifle went flying one way and I went flying another, landing on my derriere, to use the polite French term. Or flat on my butt—in the more colorful terminology of the American friends I was to make later. I thought at first that I had been shot but quickly realized I was only the victim of my own weapon, an inglorious beginning to a military career. Happily, it was not typical, and later events proved that I was a good soldier. All of us who took part in that fight and survived learned lessons that were valuable in future firefights.

As it happened, my personal experience set the tone for the entire operation. In the end we had won a victory, but the canny, experienced Japanese troops pulled several surprises that made it a hollow one. The enemy kept up a barrage of small-arms fire long enough to stall our advance completely. We shot back only sporadically, conserving our slender supply of ammunition. The Japanese fire slackened, but grenades and mines kept exploding. We suffered heavy losses, and those assigned to medical evacuation duties were busy with our wounded. One platoon succeeded in breaking through the barbed wire near the compound's main building but was unable to move out quickly because they became entangled in many rows of loose barbed wire hidden behind the outer perimeter. The platoon was wiped out almost entirely.

The shooting continued for an hour that seemed much more than sixty minutes. Then we were ordered to stay in position and to shoot only if the Japanese fired on us. No more shots came from inside the compound. After the din of the previous fighting, it seemed almost unbelievably quiet. Explosions and sudden flare-ups in one of the burning buildings punctuated the silence periodically. During this lull, my platoon leader was gravely wounded trying to break through the barbed wire and was evacuated. His deputy was killed at the wire a short time later. The company commander asked me to take over as platoon leader. As my first duty I checked on all the men in the platoon's three squads. It took me an hour to locate everyone and to learn that we had fifteen casualties: six killed, nine wounded and evacuated. Only twenty-eight men remained in the platoon, including five who were wounded but stayed with us.

The Japanese set fire to the ammunition dump and a few buildings to cover their withdrawal, then escaped from the back of the complex in the darkness and confusion. They moved through a gap in the perimeter of our lines to the undefended riverbank to rejoin the main Japanese force in Dalat. We had been attacking empty buildings for much of the night. Most of the shots we heard during that time had been firecrackers, and the soldiers we fired at during that time had indeed been dummies. The latter had been dressed in authentic uniforms and ingeniously rigged so they could be moved, making them very lifelike.

Our headquarters command decided not to pursue the Japanese. Instead, we began clearing up damage from the battle. A big victory celebration gathered momentum as people came in from the surrounding countryside to honor our feat. They brought food in plenty, rejoicing that their entire area from the provincial headquarters to Thap Cham, a span of more than ten kilometers, was now liberated. Never mind that the Japanese fooled us in so many ways, that we had suffered unnecessary casualties, or that the enemy had slipped through our lines and escaped. To the people, all the volunteers were heroes. They brought us fruits, hogs, chickens, a goat; I was more exhausted by receiving congratulations and gifts than by my new duties as platoon leader.

For two days we stayed in the compound school, taking over quarters recently used by the Japanese. With the company commander and his political commissar, we reviewed the performance of the company in action. Then each platoon, squad, team, and individual was reviewed. This kind of assessment was standard practice among the Viet Minh, and I feel it was an important element in developing the organization's military capabilities.

These reviews or critiquing sessions were more extensive than most military debriefings. They began at