The World Looked Away

Quoc and Loc watched the helicopter slowly swing first to one side, then the other, in an ever-increasing pendulum motion. Then it suddenly crashed into flames. Bodies, aircraft parts, and still-spinning rotors flung around and beyond the site. The crash hit just 100 yards from Quoc.

Abandoning the motorbike, Quoc and Loc ran for their lives back to their parents’ home. Inside, the family was huddled around the radio; all holding each other, with forlorn looks in their eyes. On the radio, General Minh’s voice was saying, “I hereby order all military forces of the Republic of Vietnam to surrender. Lay down your arms.” Quoc looked at his brother and said just two words, “We’re dead.” Sobs filled the air, sucking the air out of the home, and the hope out of their hearts. They sat immobile, unable to speak.

After some moments, Vo was the first to move. She ran to where Quoc stored his uniforms and collected them all in her arms. She walked up to Quoc and Loc, puzzled looks on their faces. She commanded them, “Both of you, take your uniforms off. We’re burning them.” Quoc and Loc dutifully complied. Vo and Xuong were soon in the street, with a can of gasoline. They soaked the uniforms and set them ablaze. A funeral pyre of military identity rose into the sky, with the acrid smell of burning cotton and thick black smoke filling the air, their nostrils, and their hearts. Quoc, now wearing civilian clothes, watched as his mother’s sensible act was replicated up and down the street. Piles of clothing were ablaze and weapons of all sorts – perhaps a hundred or more – were scattered in the street.

Quoc’s mother intuitively knew that in the period between the South’s defeat and the arrival of Communist forces, there would be no rule-of-law. She recognized that Communist sympathizers would be out for revenge. She scoffed at Minh’s announcement. There was now no government and no power, she said, only people bent on looting, revenge, or both.

Some individuals in the street had criminal intent. Paradoxically, many were just giddy with victory. Throughout the area, Quoc and his family heard endless pistol and rifle shots, aimed into the air by people who clearly did not understand or care that gravity would bring the bullets back down. People flooded the streets and became engulfed in crowds, engaging in mayhem that ranged from firing the abandoned weapons to looting unoccupied houses or businesses. Some celebrated, others were just curious. Most seemed to follow the crowd.

Quoc’s family remained in the home, behind the locked door. They occasionally peeked through the blinds and observed the frenetic activity in their own neighborhood, imagining similar chaos in the rest of the city. A feeling of doom hung over the family.

Late that afternoon they heard a lone jeep driving down the street. It was an American M151A1 jeep, the mainstay of the U.S. Army throughout the war. Only this jeep was not occupied by soldiers, just a driver and a young woman in the black pajama-like uniform of the Viet Cong. She was standing on a seat, holding an AK-47 in her arms, aiming it at the sky and firing in every direction. She had an idyllic smile on her lips, and her hair streamed behind her as the jeep flew down the street. It could have been a propaganda poster. But it wasn’t. It was the afternoon of April 30, 1975. The Communists had arrived at their doorstep.