“Eager to wash its hands of Vietnam, Congress concluded that more aid was simply a waste. The South Vietnamese would get nothing more from the United States.”
By J.Keith Saliba
IN JANUARY 1973, the Paris Peace Accords had supposedly ended nearly two decades of war in Indochina. U.S. President Richard Nixon, facing a hostile Congress and war-weary public, desperately needed the settlement to deliver his “honorable end” to America’s involvement in Vietnam. But South Vietnamese President Nguyen Van Thieu had been deeply skeptical. Not only did the accords leave South Vietnam to stand alone but permitted some 150,000 People’s Army of Vietnam (PAVN) — known more generally as the North Vietnamese Army (NVA) — troops to remain in South Vietnamese territory. To gain Thieu’s assent, Nixon pledged to respond “massively” if Hanoi violated the agreement and vowed to continue ample military and economic aid.
But ominous storm clouds soon gathered on the horizon. In summer 1973, Congress voted to suspend appropriations for military action in Indochina. Legislators also passed the War Powers Act forbidding the president from committing troops without continuing congressional authorization. Finally, Nixon’s resignation in August 1974 over the Watergate scandal doomed any chance his promises to Thieu would be fulfilled. Still, incoming President Gerald Ford pledged to honor his predecessor’s commitments. But the U.S. economy was reeling from marked unemployment, high inflation, and the shocks of the 1973-1974 Arab oil embargo. That October, Congress slashed military and economic appropriations from the $1.5 billion the previous year to just $700 million for 1975—nearly four times less than the $2.8 billion appropriated in 1972.
The oil embargo had hit South Vietnam’s economy even harder. The combination of U.S. aid cuts and financial woes soon saw its military critically short of nearly everything and an ever-growing portion of its air and mechanized units unavailable for service. By late 1974, both fixed and rotary wing aircraft were restricted to just a few hours flying time a month. Even small-arms ammunition was in short supply, with Army of the Republic of Vietnam (ARVN) soldiers allotted just 85 rounds of ammunition per month. Saigon was even having difficulty paying its troops. Military and political morale plummeted as the South Vietnamese began to realize that the United States had abandoned them. Gen. John Murray, commander of the U.S. Defense Attache Office in Saigon, warned that if South Vietnam wasn’t given “proper support,” it would likely capitulate some time in 1975.
Meanwhile, North Vietnam had only grown stronger. Hanoi had never relinquished its decades-long quest to conquer the South and saw the Paris Peace Accords as merely a way of getting the Americans out. As early as April 1973, Le Duan, the powerful General Secretary of the North’s ruling Vietnamese Workers’ Party (VWP), had ordered the Central Military Affairs Committee to begin preparing the final offensive.
Hanoi used the two-year “peace” lull to dramatically expand the Ho Chi Minh Trail through eastern Laos and Cambodia. This included paved roads and even a 3,000-mile oil pipeline to fuel the coming invasion. Despite the accords’ prohibition of further infiltration, Hanoi gradually amassed an army of 300,000 troops, along with an array of Soviet-supplied tanks, heavy artillery, and anti-aircraft weapons, in the South. By late 1974, Le Duan and the North Vietnamese politburo assessed the situation: South Vietnam’s economy was faltering, President Thieu faced mounting opposition, and the country’s military was on the ropes. While the South could field some 500,000 regular troops and a roughly equal number of Regional and Popular force militia (“Ruff-Puffs”), quality varied widely and morale was low. What’s more, the United States, consumed by its own political and economic woes, seemed to want no part of Vietnam. Would the new Ford administration intervene to save the South? It was time to find out.
Hanoi opted for an assault on Phuoc Long Province — less than 100 miles north of Saigon itself — to test U.S. resolve. On December 13, the 3rd and 7th PAVN divisions, a tank battalion, artillery regiment, and other local sapper and infantry units, crashed across the border from Cambodia. A stunned Saigon rushed in reinforcements, but the defenders never stood a chance.
By the first week of January, all of Phuoc Long was in Northern hands. Of the nearly 5,000 defenders, only about 850 survived. Reaction in Washington was muted. Ford did not even mention Vietnam in his January 15 State of the Union address. Pressed a few days later, the president declared that he could foresee no circumstances requiring the United States to reintervene in Vietnam. For all intents and purposes, said Ford, the war was over for America. Hanoi had gotten its answer.
Le Duan ordered the final drive on South Vietnam, dubbed Campaign 275, to commence. The offensive was to unfold in two stages. The first would see powerful attacks to destroy large ARVN formations, wreck rural pacification efforts, and incite a general uprising against the Saigon government. The second phase would exploit the chaos, ultimately delivering total victory by the end of 1976. To lead the onslaught, Hanoi tapped Gen. Van Tien Dung, chief of communist forces in South Vietnam. Dung’s initial target was the city of Ban Me Thuot about 250 miles north of Saigon. The lightly defended provincial capital of Darlac was located in the southern Central Highlands, a vast and remote expanse of jungle and forbidding mountains. What few troops Saigon could spare for the region were dug in to the north around Kontum and Pleiku, two vital Highlands strongholds. Over ensuing weeks, the communist high command poured in five additional infantry divisions, 15 regiments of tanks, artillery, antiaircraft, sappers, and engineers—some 80,000 troops in all. By early March, PAVN was poised to strike.
Opposing Dung was Lt. Gen. Pham Van Phu, commander of II Corps, a region encompassing the Central Highlands and a large swath of the lowland coast. A capable field commander, Phu nevertheless lacked the formal military education needed to handle a Corps-level command.
The appointment of Phu would cost the South dearly. Fooled by diversionary attacks near Kontum and Pleiku, along with misleading signals intelligence, Phu was convinced the attack would come in the northern Highlands. He deployed just a single regiment of the 23rd ARVN Division, a Ranger Group, and a handful of militia to defend Ban Me Thuot.
On March 4, Dung struck with two divisions. By the time Phu realized he had been duped, it was too late. By March 12, most of the city was firmly under communist control. After a poorly led and coordinated counterattack by the 23rd ARVN commander, brigadier general Le Van Tuong, the last ARVN resistance was wiped out. What remained of the 23rd joined a fleeing civilian throng desperate to escape the city. Chaos and terror soon reigned. All of Darlac province had fallen. It was merely a portent of things to come.
Deeply shaken by the loss, President Thieu then made a fatal error. He had long rejected entreaties to pull back to a more defensible line in the south, believing retreat shatters public morale and destroys faith in the government. But now, abandoned by the Americans and his military reeling, he ordered just that. Under a plan he called “light at the top, heavy at the bottom,” Saigon and the economically valuable population centers along the southern coast were to be protected at all costs. The northern half of the country, however, was to be abandoned.
The new defensive line would run from Ban Me Thuot (which Thieu ordered retaken) to Tuy Hoa on the coast. While retrenchment made sense strategically, the time for such action had long passed. Indeed, transferring troops between Corps zones during times of relative peace was one thing. Affecting an ad hoc strategic withdrawal with virtually no planning and in the midst of a powerful general offensive was quite another.
II Corps’ commander Phu was ordered to pull his regular army regiments out of Pleiku and Kontum and drive south to retake Ban Me Thuot. Ethnic Montagnard forces would be left to fend for themselves. Incredibly, after fighting his way through multiple PAVN divisions, Phu was to then turn back north and relieve Pleiku and Kontum provinces. It was utter madness. Phu chose the eve of the withdrawals to relocate his Corps headquarters to the coastal city of Nha Trang. He left his chief of staff, Col. Le Khac Ly, to direct the incredibly complex operation. The situation quickly devolved into chaos. Panicked ARVN commanders in both cities began pulling out on their own. Montagnard forces, aware that they were about to be abandoned, rioted in the streets. Meanwhile, thousands of terrified civilians poured from the cities, choking the roads and intermingling with withdrawing ARVN, destroying any semblance of military order. Now strung out in a miles-long, shambling column, the horde presented an inviting target. PAVN wasted no time attacking from all sides. Civilians and soldiers caught in the “Convoy of Tears” were slaughtered by the thousands.
By the end of March, the remaining stragglers reached Tuy Hoa. Of the 60,000 troops that had set out from Kontum and Pleiku, just 20,000 made it. Thousands had no doubt deserted to save themselves and their families. Many thousands more had perished on the murderous trek. The 7,000 Rangers tasked with screening the withdrawal had fewer than 700 left alive. Meanwhile, less than a quarter of the estimated 400,000 civilian refugees reached the coast. Most of the Central Highlands were now in communist hands. Hundreds of armored vehicles and artillery pieces had been abandoned or destroyed along the road, and nearly 18,000 tons of badly needed ammunition, along with scores of operational aircraft, had been left to the enemy. In less than two weeks, some 75 percent of II Corps’ combat power was lost. As one South Vietnamese general later put it, the retreat had been the “greatest disaster in the history of ARVN.”
Some 200 miles north, PAVN was pushing hard into I Corps. Despite facing nearly nine divisions, including tanks, artillery, and antiaircraft, commander Lt. Gen. Ngo Quang Truong was holding his own. That would soon change. Per the new plan, Thieu ordered Truong to strip I Corps of the elite Airborne Division and other units and send them south to protect the capital. Hold Da Nang at all costs, he was told, but the rest of I Corps was seemingly expendable. A flabbergasted Truong nevertheless complied. As before, the local population quickly caught wind as ARVN abandoned the northernmost city of Quang Tri province. By March 18, the north-south coastal highway Route 1, was clogged with masses of terrified civilians desperately fleeing south in vehicles, bicycles, and on foot. As in the Highlands, retreating ARVN units quickly became enmired. And as before, PAVN attacked the fleeing throng mercilessly.
Meanwhile, President Thieu could not decide whether he wanted to hold Hue, the ancient imperial capital and site of so much sacrifice and symbolism. With PAVN pressing from three directions, he finally ordered the city abandoned. Many of the civilians who had just survived the deadly flight from Quang Tri again clogged the highway. They were joined by 1st ARVN Division soldiers, many of whom had families in the area. Morale broken, chain of command shattered, and unit integrity gone, many simply deserted to save their kin. Others turned to savagery and abject cowardice. Masses of fully functional equipment, including tanks and artillery, were simply abandoned. Only about one third of the soldiers made it to Da Nang, while thousands of civilians died during the panic-stricken escape.
Da Nang was now swollen with nearly two million refugees, along with deserters and stragglers who wasted no time looting and raping. With all order and discipline gone, the city soon devolved into what one high-ranking officer called a “collective hysteria.” Two PAVN divisions were pushing from the north, while two others had cut Route 1. Any thought of holding out evaporated once the communists began shelling the city. Surrounded, Truong asked for permission to evacuate. Again, the president was noncommittal. After losing contact with Thieu, Truong decided to save what he could. Overland withdrawal now impossible, he chose the sea. As March 29 dawned, soldiers waded and swam out to the boats in good order. But once PAVN artillery gunners found the beaches, any semblance of an orderly embarkation dissolved. Hordes of terrified civilians boiled into the surf, desperate to reach the ships. Untold thousands drowned or were killed under murderous artillery fire. Truong’s soldiers and Marines fared little better. Of the 50,000 troops in and around the city, just 10,000 made it out. As one observer later said, “Da Nang was not captured; it disintegrated in its own terror.”
By the first week of April, PAVN controlled the country’s northern half. The better part of two army corps—half ARVN’s overall fighting strength—had been killed, captured, or deserted. Millions of dollars worth of badly needed equipment, munitions, and fuel had either been destroyed or simply abandoned. Alarmed at the South’s rapid collapse, Ford sent Army Chief of Staff Gen. Fredrick Weyand for a firsthand look. On April 4, Weyand reported that South Vietnam was “on the brink of a total military defeat,” but emergency aid might enable the government to hold Saigon and sue for peace. Weyand suggested $722 million in military aid and another $250 million for economic and refugee relief. Urged on by Secretary of State Henry Kissinger, who feared the global repercussions of a United States that did not honor its commitments, Ford went before Congress on April 10. The United States had given its word to South Vietnam, he said. To abandon that pledge now meant losing credibility in the eyes of friend and foe alike. But the president’s words fell on deaf ears. Already eager to wash its hands of Vietnam, Congress concluded that more aid was simply a waste. The South Vietnamese would get nothing more from the United States.
Meanwhile Hanoi, emboldened by the South’s staggering collapse, upped its timetable for total victory. Redubbing the offensive the “Ho Chi Minh Campaign,” the politburo wanted Saigon taken by the start of the monsoon season in May. Dung now had some 16 infantry divisions, along with armor, artillery, anti-aircraft, and sapper units to achieve his mission. Opposing him were three ARVN divisions in III Corps and another three in IV Corps, along with what remained of the Marine and Airborne divisions, and a few weakened Ranger groups. In all, Saigon had about 60,000 troops standing between itself and oblivion.
Over ensuing weeks, Dung gradually closed the vice. For the most part, ARVN units offered only token resistance. One notable exception was at Xuan Loc east of the capital. In a truly heroic stand, the troops of Brig. Gen. Le Minh Dao’s 18th ARVN Division held out for two weeks against six PAVN divisions. Unlike many senior ARVN officers over previous months, Dao chose to stay and fight alongside his men. That leadership made all the difference. The 18th’s tenacity cost the PAVN 5,000 dead and scores of T-55 tanks destroyed. But it was too little, too late. By April 21, what remained of the 18th ARVN was forced to withdraw from the rubble. The road to Saigon was now wide open.
Meanwhile, President Thieu’s political position was crumbling. After Congress rejected his last-ditch attempt to secure emergency aid on April 17, the president was confronted by a cabal from the political opposition. Quietly resign within six days, he was told, or face public calls for your ouster. Whispers of coup-plotting only added to his anxiety. Thieu conferred with key members of his government to gauge support. When none was forthcoming, he knew the time had come to step down.
On April 22, the president went before the National Assembly. In a rambling, televised address, Thieu lambasted the United States for its “betrayal,” saying it had not “respected its promises,” and called his erstwhile ally “inhumane, not trustworthy, and irresponsible.” He concluded by asking his countrymen to forgive his “past mistakes.” He then stepped down in favor of Vice President Tran Van Huong. Thieu would live out the rest of his days in exile, bitterly complaining of the United States’ “betrayal.” As for Huong, he lasted just 72 hours before handing the reins to Gen. Duong “Big Minh” Van Minh.
Outside the city, any hopes of repeating the 18th ARVN’s valiant stand quickly evaporated. Senior ARVN officers abandoned their commands in droves, fleeing to the safety of Thailand or to U.S. ships off the coast. The rank and file simply tore off their uniforms and melted into the civilian population. With PAVN just outside the city, U.S. Ambassador Graham Martin cabled Washington. It was time to commence Operation Frequent Wind, the plan to fly Americans out of Saigon. Tan Son Nhut airport was no longer safe, so the evacuation would have to rely on helicopters. Over two days, U.S. choppers rescued some 7,100 Americans and South Vietnamese military and civilian personnel, many of them from the embassy rooftop. Frequent Wind remains the largest helicopter-borne evacuation in history. Ultimately, various U.S. operations would rescue some 130,000 South Vietnamese in 1975. Untold thousands more, including those who for years had worked closely with the Americans, were left behind.
On April 29, a PAVN rocket attack on the U.S. Defense Attache Office compound at Tan Son Nhut tragically killed two U.S. Marines: Charles McMahon, 21, and Darwin Judge, 19. They would be the last U.S. servicemembers to die in the Vietnam War. At 5 a.m. the next morning, Ambassador Martin carried the furled American flag that had hung in his office to a waiting CH-46 Sea Knight helicopter bound for the USS Blue Ridge in the South China Sea. A few hours later, one final helicopter lifted the embassy’s Marine security detachment to safety, a desperate throng of South Vietnamese still clamoring at the gates. Just after noon, T-55 tanks crashed the gates of Independence Palace and accepted Minh’s unconditional surrender. After more than 20 years of bitter war, Hanoi had at last realized its dream of a unified Vietnam under communist rule.
J. Keith Saliba is the author of Crucible 1972: The War for Peace in Vietnam. His first book, Death in the Highlands: The Siege of Special Forces Camp Plei Me, won the 2021 Military Writers Society of America’s Gold Medal for history. His work has appeared in Vietnam magazine, On Point: The Journal of Army History, and in the edited volume book series Indochina. Saliba is an associate professor at Jacksonville University and lives in Florida with his family.
