Prospective cover of a new book expected to be published in the winter of 2012
Preface
Đức
was a spindly leader of a gang of homeless kids roaming the sidewalks of “my”
block of Tu Do Street in Saigon. We met in 1965 when Tu Do, the former Rue
Catinat, still displayed traces of its former French colonial charm; it was
still shaded by bushy and bright green tamarind trees, which would later fall
victim to the exhaust fumes of tens of thousands of mopeds with two-stroke
engines and prehistoric cars such my grey 1938 Citroen 15 CV Traction Avant, the “gangster car” of French film classics.
This car was nearly my age, a metric ton of elegance on wheels -- and very
thirsty; eight miles were all she gave me for a gallon of gasoline, provided
her fuel tank had not sprung a leak, which my mechanic managed to seal swiftly
every time with moist Wrigley gum harvested from inside his cheeks.
As you will presently see, my friendship with Đức and my love for this car were entwined. In
truth, it wasn’t really my car. I had leased it from Josyane, a comely French
Hertz concessionaire who, as I later found out, was also the agent of assorted
Western European intelligence agencies, including the BND, Germany’s equivalent
of the CIA. I had often wondered why Josyane rummaged furtively through the
manuscripts on my desk when she joined my friends and me for “sundowners” in
Suite 214 of the Continental Palace. I fantasized that she was attracted by my
youthful and slender Teutonic looks and my stiff dry martinis. She never let on
that she read German; why would she want to stare at my texts if they were
incomprehensible to her? Well, now I know: She was a spook, according to the
Dutch station chief, possibly one of her lovers. But that’s alright! I loved
her car and she loved my martinis, which she handed around with amazing grace,
and she was welcome to my stories anytime; after all, they were written for the
public at large.
But my mind is wandering. Let us return to Đức. He was a droll twelve-year old with a
mischievous grin reminding me of myself when I was his age, a rascal in a large
wartime city. True, I wasn’t
homeless like Đức, although the British Lancaster bombers and
the American Flying Fortresses pummeling Leipzig night and day during the final
years of World War II tried their best to render me that way. Like Đức, I was an impish big-town boy successfully
bossing other kids on my block around. Đức was different. He was an urchin with a high sense
of responsibility. He protectively watched over a gang of much younger orphans
living on Tu Do between Le Loi Boulevard and Le Than Ton Street, reporting to a
middle-aged Mamasan headquartered on
the sidewalk outside La Pagode, a
café famed for its French pastries, and the renowned rendezvous point of
pre-Communist Saigon’s jeunesse dorée.
Mamasan was the motherly press tycoon
of that part of the capital. She squatted there outside La Pagode surrounded by stacks of newspapers: papers in Vietnamese
and English, French and Chinese; the Vietnamese were avid readers. She handed
them out to Đức and his wards and several
other bands of children assigned to neighboring blocks.
From what I could observe, Đức was Mamasan’s
most important lieutenant, the head paperboy at the busiest end of his
block. His turf was the sidewalk
between Givral, a restaurant renowned
for its Chinese noodle soup as well as the most authentic French onion soup in
all of Southeast Asia, and the entrance to the shopping passage in the Eden
Building, which housed the consular section of the West German embassy at that
time and the offices of the Associated
Press. I fancy that I was one of Đức’s favorite clients because I bought the Saigon Daily News and the Vietnam Guardian from him every day,
and the Saigon Post and the Journal d’Extrème Orient. Sometimes I
allowed him to cajole me into paying for a couple of Vietnamese-language
papers; not that I could read them, but I was intrigued by their frequent empty
spaces, the handiwork of government censors.
One late afternoon at the onset of the monsoon
season, Đức and I became business
partners. The massive clouds in the tropical sky were about to burst. Sheets of
water threatened to descend on me with the force of a guillotine blade
transforming Saigon’s principal thoroughfare into a gushing stream. I hastily
squeezed my Traction into a tight
parking space outside Givral’s, a
muscle-building exercise given that this front wheel-driven machine lacked
power steering and was propelled by a heavy six-cylinder motor made of cast
iron. Exhausted, I switched off the engine by which time I was lusting for a
bottle of Bière Larue on the
Continental Palace’s open-air terrace when Đức stopped me.
The old Traction’s
front doors opened forward, thus in the opposite direction of the doors of all
modern cars. As I tried to dash out, Đức stood in my way pointing at the windscreen sticker
I had been issued that morning by my embassy. It bore the German national
colors, black, red and gold, and identified me as “Báo Chí Đức,” a German journalist. This was meant to
protect me in case I ran into a Viet Cong roadblock on my occasional weekend
jaunts to Cap Saint-Jacques, now called Vũng
Tàu, a
seaside resort once known as the St. Tropez of the Far East. It actually did
shield me in those days. Whenever I ran into a patrol of black-clad Communist
militiamen, they would charge me a toll and let me go, but not before issuing
me a stamped receipt.
“You Đức!” he shouted delightedly. “My name Đức. We both Đức. We like brothers!”
We
shook hands. Now I had a younger brother in Saigon; later I learned that his
remark meant even more: it was wordplay.
Đức is also the Vietnamese
word for virtuous.
Having established our bond, he wouldn’t let me go,
though. “Okay, okay,” he said. “Rain coming, Đức, rain Number Ten.” I knew Saigon street jargon
well enough to realize that my new brother wasn’t talking of the tenth
rainfall. No, “number ten” meant the worst, the pits, something definitely to
avoid.
“Okay, okay,” Đức continued. “You Đức, you Number One (the best). You and I do business,
okay?”
Then
he outlined our deal: I was to allow him and his wards to seek shelter in my Traction. It would become their bedroom,
which they promised to keep immaculately clean. If I wanted to leave any
valuables in the car, they would be safe. Its lock no longer worked; this much
Đức had already ascertained.
“Okay, okay, Đức?” he pleaded impatiently.
I nodded. He whistled, and at once eight toddlers
rushed out of several doorways and piled into my Traction. Three curled up on the back seats, two on the jump seats,
one each in the legroom separating them, one girl took the right front seat,
another squatted on the generous floor space under her feet, and Đức naturally took his place behind the
steering wheel.
“Bonne nuit, Đức, you number one!” he said, slamming the
door and winding up the window. At this moment a torrent of rain poured down on
the Traction and on me. The kids were
safe. I was drenched to the bones within seconds. I ran into the Continental,
needing more than a Larue. First I
had a shower in my room, then a whisky on the terrace. As night fell I kept
staring across Tu Do Street at my large Citroen
with steamed up windows outside Givral’s.
This sight pleased me. These children were warm and dry. In all my years in
Vietnam I rarely felt as happy as on that evening, an uncommon sensation in a
reporter’s life.
I am dedicating this book to Đức because in my mind he personifies qualities
that formed my affection and admiration for the people of South Vietnam, and my
compassion for them after their abandonment by their protectors and their
betrayal by some, though not all, members of my profession. Like Đức, they are feisty and resilient; they don’t
whine, but pull themselves up by their bootstraps, and they care for each
other. When they are down, they rise again and accomplish astonishing things. I
am in awe of the achievements of the hundreds of thousands of South Vietnamese
living and working close to my home in southern California. I am full of
admiration for those former boat people and survivors of Communist reeducation
camps, those former warriors suffering in silence from Post-Traumatic Stress
Disorder and other severe ailments caused by torture and head injuries received
in combat.
I hope that Đức’s adolescence and adulthood turned out to be a
success story as well, but I don’t know. We lost contact a couple of years
after our first encounter. Was he drafted into the South Vietnamese army and
eventually killed in combat? Did he join the Vietcong and perhaps die in their
service? Was he among the thousands of civilians butchered by the Vietcong
during the Têt Offensive of 1968? Or did this crafty kid manage to flee his
homeland after the Communist victory of 1975? Perhaps he is alive at the time
of this writing is a successful 58-year old businessman or professional in
Westminster, California, just up the road from me; perhaps he is reading this
book.
I thought of Đức when two wonderful Vietnamese friends invited
me to address a convention of former military medical officers of the South
Vietnamese Army. They had been urging me for some time to write my wartime
reminiscences. “Do it for us,” they said, “do it for our children’s generation.
They want to know what it was like. You have special credibility because as a
German you had no dog in this fight.” Then, after listening to my anecdotes
such as the one about my encounter with Đức,
several of
those retired physicians, dentists and pharmacists in my audience said the same
thing, and some bounced my speech around the Internet.
I do not presume to rewrite the history of the
Vietnam War or even give a comprehensive account of the nearly five years I
spent in Indochina as a correspondent first of the Axel Springer group of
German newspapers and subsequently as a visiting reporter of Stern, an influential Hamburg-based magazine. I beg my
readers not to expect me to take sides in the domestic squabbles between South
Vietnamese factions, quarrels that are being perpetuated in the huge
communities of Vietnamese exiles today. When I mention former Vice President
Nguyen Cao Ky, for example, this does not mean that I favor him over former
President Nguyen van Thieu, or vice versa; I am just here to tell stories,
including some about Ky and some about Thieu, without wishing to pass judgment
on either. Theirs was an unenviable lot, and they deserve my respect for having
taken up an appalling burden.
But there is something I wish to make clear: I did
not welcome the victory of the Communists in 1975. I did not believe they
deserved this triumph. I have been a witness to heinous atrocities they
committed as a matter of policy, a witness to mass murder and carnage beside which
transgressions against the rules of war perpetrated on the American and South
Vietnamese side –- clearly not as
a matter of policy or strategy – appear pale in comparison. I know that many in the
American and international mass media and academe have unjustly, gratuitously
and arrogantly maligned the South Vietnamese and are still doing so; I almost
exploded in anger when even I heard Bill O’Reilly, by no means a card-carrying
liberal, refer to the Saigon leadership on Fox television as, “those corrupt
clowns.” I was disgusted by the way returning GIs were treated by their fellow
countrymen and am shocked by the fact that the continued suffering of South
Vietnamese veterans is not deemed worthy of consideration by U.S. journalists.
This book is a collection of personal sketches of
what I saw, observed, lived through and reported in my Vietnam years. It is a
series of alternating narratives about experiences ranging from the horrific to
the absurd, from glamorous to frivolous pursuits, from despair to hope. But to remind
my readers and myself that this is ultimately a book about a tragic war that
ended in defeat for the victims of aggression, I will insert a brief reflection
underscoring that effect every few chapters, beginning with a description of a
mass murder the Communists committed during the 1968 Têt Offensive.
I owe gratitude to many people: the absent Đức, my Vietnamese family in Orange County, Quy
and QuynhChau, better known as Jo, and her sister Tran and
Tran’s husband Di Ton That, as well as the countless Vietnamese, American,
French, British and German friends I made in Vietnam. I also wish to thank the
Vietnam veterans whom I served as a chaplain intern at the VA Medical Center in
St. Cloud, Minnesota, and the psychologists and ministers with whom I worked in
order to provide those former soldiers with pastoral care. There is my friend
and editor Peggy Strong, and there is, first and foremost, Gillian, my wife of
50 years who has stood by me and endured our long periods of separation caused
by my assignment to an enchanting war-torn country I have come to love.
Uwe
Siemon-Netto
Laguna
Woods, Calif., October 2012.
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