Reality Continues to Ruin my Life

Chapter excerpt from Karen Kaiser's "Gardens in the Midst of War"

Note from Stories of Vietnam curator, Kat Fitzpatrick:

2025 is getting well under way and thus we are just months before the 50th Anniversary of the Fall of Saigon and the final curtain call of the American War in Vietnam.

At least “in country.”

As we all know all too well, the War has stayed with us over the decades.

Below please find another excerpt from the 2023 memoir Gardens in the Midst of War: Saigon 1973-1975, which will bring you front and center the the chaos of the last days from a civilian’s point of view.

Karen Kaiser (formerly Griffith) was the librarian at the school I attended in Saigon in the 1974 -75 school year. Her book is especially precious to me because it brings to life circumstances and conditions that escaped my 8-year-old’s understanding but that surely impacted me nonetheless.

Cover image from https://historica.fandom.com/wiki/Battle_of_Phuoc_Long

Excerpt from CHAPTER 22: REALITY CONTINUES TO RUIN MY LIFE

January 1975

North Việt Nam captured Phước Bình, the capital of Phước Long Province, 75 miles north of Sài Gòn, and, thereby, gained control of one of South Việt Nam’s provincial capitals for the first time. The long battle decimated ARVN forces defending Phước Bình, who ran out of supplies and ammunition. Morale was low, desertion high.

Leaders in Hà Nội realized the lack of U.S. response signified it would not intervene militarily and that an opportunity existed to destroy the Army of [South] Việt Nam, which seemed to be rapidly deteriorating on its own.

Steve’s Work Diary

7 January 1975: Went to work. Received word on the news that Phước Bình had fallen. No other news. Everyone said that it is dangerous to go out on the road. Security is a day-to-day situation.

On the day before the communists overran Phước Bình, Steve and I returned to Sài Gòn to find a city on low boil. Everything still looked normal, but somehow the hologram had shifted.

The trip back to Saigon from our vacation in the States was a nightmare of missed flights and bad weather, but Muoi welcomed us home with a bouquet and a happy smile. We were two days late, and she worried we wouldn’t come back at all. She’d heard the whispers circulating among the maids in our building—trouble on the way.

“Remember that hot landing yesterday?” Steve asked me, referring to the plane’s speed on touching down at Tân Sơn Nhứt airport. “Did you notice the fortifications at the ends of the runway?”

“Yes ... and no,” I answered. “Why?”

“Well, I think I know what happened. Yesterday—according to the guys at the office—a battle erupted at Phước Bình, which is close to the flight path into the airport. When the pilot started his descent, the tower must have warned him about stray artillery fire. So, he came in high and dropped down fast for the landing. The fortifications were to stop the plane if the pilot couldn’t. We were pretty lucky.”

“Jeez! Do you really think that’s what happened?”

“It’s a definite possibility. And, last night, the VC pumped shells into Phú Lâm near Cholon.”

Phú Lâm, on the western outskirts of Sài Gòn, had once been the U.S. Army’s communications base. In 1972, the U.S. unceremoniously turned the base over to the Army of the Republic of [South] Việt Nam.

“Cholon? That’s where Patty lives,” I said. “Can we find out if she’s okay?”

“I doubt it, now that Wong’s under arrest. He was the go-between.”

“I hate this! Why didn’t we find out where she lives … or at least her Chinese name?”

“Don’t worry,” Steve said. “Things will probably calm down again. Sài Gòn seems the same.”

Despite Steve’s assurance, the city felt different in subtle ways. The signs of change accumulated, one after the other—more military vehicles on the streets, fewer cyclos, more aggressive panhandlers, and fewer tennis players on the courts at Cercle Sportif. Something was brewing, and we were perfectly positioned to get a ring-side seat.

Steve’s Work Diary

8 January 1975: Work as usual with discussions about the 6-month report. Heard on the news that the [aircraft carrier] U.S.S. Enterprise was moving toward Việt Nam.

9 January 1975: There is, of course, a lot of discussion at work about evacuation. If, when, etc. Don Burgess … checked at the consul and seemed to be satisfied with any evacuation plans that have been made.

10 January 1975: Work as usual. Traffic blocked off at Lê Lợi for a pro-government demonstration about the fighting at Phước Bình. Last night, the lights went out at 4:15 AM and came back on at 6:00 AM. This was a result of an explosion at the Tự Đức generating plant, we later found out. Also, a lot of shelling last night.

17 January 1975: On the way to work this morning, we passed a bomb that the VC had placed. This was on Hồng Tháp Thu street in front of the Health Ministry. I don’t think it ever went off.

What … where am I?

I stopped at the top of the stairs and looked around, confused. It took me a minute to realize I’d climbed past my floor and arrived, instead, at the roof of my apartment building, something I’d never done. I headed back down to where Muoi stood holding the apartment door open for me. She looked as bewildered as I felt.

“Chee-chaa! Madame, ou allez?” Muoi said, concerned. Where are you going?

“Ugh, Muoi, I don’t know,” I said, trying to laugh it off. “A silly mistake.”

I didn’t want to alarm her by saying what frightened me—evacuation plans, the fall of a provincial capital, an aircraft carrier cruising toward us, unexploded bombs in the city, heavy shelling at night. I fought to keep a clear head.

Later that night, after Muoi had gone down to her room, Steve and I sat in the privacy of the back bedroom/office and talked about what had happened.

“It was the weirdest feeling,” I said. “For a minute, I didn’t know where I was … must have walked right past Muoi without seeing her.”

“That’s not like you,” Steve observed.

“No, it’s not … and you know what’s odd? When we first moved here, I’d be exhausted by the time I climbed three flights of stairs to the apartment in this heat, but today, I whizzed by without thinking about anything except the latest developments … didn’t think I was on our floor because I wasn’t exhausted yet.”

“That’s called conditioning.”

“Might be good to be in shape. What did Don find out about evacuation plans?”

“As far as he could tell, the mission has designated assembly points around central Sài Gòn. Everybody’s supposed to go to the closest one when they give the signal. Buses will take us to the airport to fly out, probably to the Philippines or Guam.”

“What’s the signal?”

“Whoever Don talked to didn’t say.”

“You’re not making me feel much better, you know.”

“Relax, I doubt it will come to that.”

One hot, super-steamy night when the line between clean-sticky and dirty-sticky was all too thin, we attended a dinner party at the villa of Lynn and Bob Bell, American expats like us. I met Lynn through the American Women’s Association. Bob worked in the Sài Gòn office of Price-Waterhouse, an accounting firm.

They were about our age and had two young children who frolicked about the house, excited by the unusual swarm of activity. In addition to dinner guests, a van carrying a crew with microphones, video cameras, and studio lights arrived.

Bob greeted us on the front porch and explained the reason for the hubbub. We’d be joined that evening by a team from ABC TV News, Tokyo, reporting on a day in the life of an American businessman and his family in exotic Sài Gòn. Would we agree to be filmed? Neither Steve nor I had a problem with that.

Bell’s attractive dining room, with its spotless white linens, fine China, and gleaming flatware, called to us like a siren. The maid held a match to the wicks of the tall, white candles. Flames sprang to life and lighted the room with a soft glow. The fan on the high ceiling hummed, doing its best to relieve the heat. We took our seats.

The TV producer urged everyone to act natural during dinner and ignore the cameras and the microphone dangling overhead on a boom.

“We’ll just hang out in the background.,” he said. “When the lights come on, you guys go ahead and talk normally. Don’t pay any attention to us.” Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain.

“Ready! Action!” he called out.

CLICK, buzzzzz … blinding, white light flooded the room, rendering the candlelight invisible. The hot night became even hotter. Somewhere, people would be watching six American expats sweat on the evening news.

“It’s not going to be easy ignoring them, is it?” Bob said, referring to the TV crew.

“Interesting they’re here now,” said Steve, “with all the new security measures. Do you think they might have a reason besides producing a piece about your life?”

“Who knows? Your guess is as good as mine, but we probably should save our opinions until after they’ve gone.”

“Yes,” said Lynn. “Let’s talk about something else. Karen, who’s your dressmaker these days?”

Small talk accompanied the rest of the meal. Eventually, the film crew packed their gear and left.

Among the guests that night were Al and Jan Topping. Al oversaw Pan American Airlines’ operations in Southeast Asia from an office in downtown Sài Gòn.

“So, Al, what do you make of the latest developments?” Bob asked, refilling glasses with French wine.

“I don’t know,” Al said. “Could be something, could be nothing. At Pan Am, we’re watching and waiting. This war’s been going on so long, conflict has become a way of life.”

“I wonder what these people could do if they weren’t fighting each other,” I said.

“Boy, I’d sure like to find out,” said Jan. “The Vietnamese are industrious. They could do almost anything.”

“What do you think about the TV crew? Are they really just here doing a story about Bell’s, or do they have a different angle?” Steve asked.

“My opinion,” said Al, “they’re here to cover any story that breaks. They probably know about the USS Enterprise and the fall of Phước Bình. A good producer is going to want to be first on the scene for the next thing. They’re anticipating something, but I seriously doubt they’re on a covert mission.”

Faced with uncertain times, Steve and I packed our important possessions to ship back to the states for storage. The ordeal tested our nerves, already under duress.

“Important Possessions” included things on which we’d spent a great deal of time and money—Royal Crown Derby China, bronze flatware, electronics, and oriental rugs. Southeast Asia had been like a regional Grand Bazaar, and we’d taken full advantage.

At United Service Packers, Steve picked up air and surface freight forms. The next step—getting U.S. government approval for shipping, since American taxpayers would foot the bill—provided a lesson in patience.

Because Steve worked on a USAID contract, the bureaucrat at USAID, Mr. Crees, couldn’t sign off on the shipment request without a copy of the contract. He told Steve to go to Embassy Shipping. There, Steve found out they couldn’t approve the request without clearance from the contracting officer. Steve finally acquired the necessary signatures only to be told that he also needed a shipping list … in triplicate.

Vietnamese artisans learned the ancient Chinese lacquerware-making technique sometime during the thousand years that China ruled Vietnam. An art as old as time, lacquerware boxes and bowls had been found in tombs to ease the departed into the afterlife.

Lacquer comes from a small tree of the same name that produces a toxic sap containing urushiol, the same oil found in poison ivy. The juice makes a highly durable, waterproof sealant. Considering lacquer work is hand-crafted, artisans risk a nasty rash if careless.

Families passed the skill from generation to generation until it became a Vietnamese art form. When Vietnam was a French colony, artisans studied at Ecole des Beaux-Arts, in Paris, or the Indochina School of Fine Arts, in Hà Nội and began to create new designs using eggshell, mother-of-pearl, and gold leaf.

Steve and I talked about buying a piece of Vietnamese lacquerware for weeks.

“I’d like to have a small chest or something,” Steve said. “It’s unique, a nice souvenir.”

“True, but I don’t like it,” I said. “It looks tacky, cheap.”

“The fake stuff is cheap looking, but authentic lacquerware is exquisite. Each item has to be sanded and painted by hand. Sometimes, it takes fifteen to thirty layers of painting and sanding to create a finished piece. Let’s look at some.”

We went to the furniture street and soon came across a stunning black cabinet, thirty-five inches tall, with a delicate goldfish design shimmering below layers of transparent lacquer. Its two doors are locked with a brass bar shaped like a tiger. And like the big cat, Steve leaped and bought it.

The cabinet, probably worth more than all of our other treasures combined, added panache to the humble apartment and forever changed my opinion of lacquerware. It was such a delight to look at that Steve decided not to include it with the current shipment of important possessions so we could enjoy its beauty for a while longer before sending it to storage.

***

U.S. President Gerald Ford, ignoring the advice of National Security Advisor Henry Kissinger and that of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, took no significant military action to support South Vietnam’s struggle against the communist invasion. However, he asked Congress for $300 million in military aid for the country.

In no mood to keep throwing money at a lost cause, Congress voted to reject Ford’s request.

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Excerpt taken from the 2023 publication of Gardens in the Midst of War, by Karen Kaiser. You can purchase a Kindle or print copy by clicking here.

About Stories of Vietnam:

Hello, my name is Kat Fitzpatrick and I share a unique panorama of stories about Vietnam.

Stories from the country,
stories from the time of war,
and stories that might expand our horizons.

I hope you’ll join me in honoring this wealth of stories
as we approach the 50th anniversary of the end of the Vietnam War.