I saw the movie Oppenheimer recently. I was ready for the three-hour marathon but somehow I was not ready for one of the final scenes in which President Harry S. Truman brusquely dismisses scientist Robert Oppenheimer, nearly kicking him out of the Oval Office. Just before that door closes we hear the Commander-in-Chief all but snarl, “Get that crybaby out of here.”
The Oppenheimer movie poster echoes with the promise, and the curse, of nuclear power.
Though that particular scene was contrived, Hollywood-style, the derision was real enough. Ray Monk, author of Robert Oppenheimer: A Life Inside the Center, confirms that Truman didn’t like crybaby scientists but he was in favor of the bomb because it ultimately saved lives.
According to a biography.com article, the President insisted that his pragmatic attitude—if not his mannerisms—were all about respect for human life
Truman . . . maintained for the rest of his life that the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki saved hundreds of thousands of Allied lives by hastening the end of the war.
I feel decidedly uncomfortable with this. If Truman were genuinely concerned with saving lives when he gave the order to drop the atomic bombs in early August 1945, where was that sensibility when Ho Chi Minh, the president of the Vietnam Democratic Republic, wrote to him in January 1946?
Ho Chi Minh’s letter to President Truman can be seen at docsteach.org.
Ho Chi Minh’s letter states that because of the continued French occupation in Vietnam “millions of people will suffer, thousands will be killed and invaluable property will be destroyed, unless the United States would step out to stop that bloodshed and unlawful aggression.”
Truman ignored this correspondence—he did not even deign to answer. It’s hard not to imagine that had his sensitivity for saving lives extended to the Vietnam situation, the entire American experience in Indochina in the 1960s and 70s could have been avoided.
But he didn’t respond, he turned a blind eye and thus it was that the Welch family blithely moved to Saigon in July 1974.
In the middle of August, I turned eight. In a quirky coincidence, the 18th was also the birthday of my father’s CIA compatriot, Hal Bowman.
A Vietnam birthday. I wonder what I wished for.
About that time—29 years after the dropping of the A-bomb, and 24 years after Truman sent the first U.S. military "advisors into Vietnam—my father wrote to his sister:
The kids are adjusting well to Saigon. The boys are constantly going to the DAO (Defense Attaché's Office) facilities at Tan Son Nhut Airport to play basketball, softball, weightlifting and see movies;
The DAO at Tan Son Nhut Airport, US Army photo, Public Domain
Michelle's main interest is horseback riding at the local French club "Cercle Hippique."
Cercle Hippique—an unlikely oasis in the city of Saigon. Photo from the “saigon-vietnam” blog.
In the letter, he pulls up just short of calling the younger siblings—John, Jimmy, Kim, and I—“crybabies:”
The rest of them wander around saying, "I haven't got anything to do" and that in itself keeps them busy.
Our whining may have been what gave my parents the bright idea to turn the fish pond in the rock garden at the center of the house into a “swimming pool.”
“Yesterday we fixed the little pool so that it would hold water and the kids are having a ball in it which helps so that I do not have to spend every afternoon at the other pool," wrote my mother.
My father’s August letter did speak quite soberly about the military situation:
The peace and ceasefire in Vietnam are curious. As I write we are hearing the artillery outside town sending rounds of 155s into enemy territory. Danang is hit with 5 dead yesterday and the general level of fighting kicked off by the North Vietnamese is rising daily.
A war? Oh, no! Just an unsuccessful ceasefire.
If you read widely about Saigon in 1974-75 you will find that “hearing the artillery outside of town” is not uncommon. I don’t recall the sound exactly, but I do remember sitting beside my father as we drove down a city street one evening.
I pointed to the rosy fireworks blooming along the skyline.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Artillery,” he replied.
Was it just my imagination, or did he seem uncomfortable saying that to a child who had just celebrated her eighth birthday?
I certainly didn’t want to be a crybaby so I just nodded as if I knew what the word “artillery” meant. I resolved to feel safe. After all, who in their right mind would send troops or children into a country that was fated to fall?
Kat, even though we have purchased your book I still look forward to these posts. Your description of your 8-year old self pretending to understand the word "artillary" and connecting it with the pretty fireworks in the city is heartbreaking and beautifully written.
Kat, even though we have purchased your book I still look forward to these posts. Your description of your 8-year old self pretending to understand the word "artillary" and connecting it with the pretty fireworks in the city is heartbreaking and beautifully written.