Tet 1968: An 11-year-old's eyewitness account

A guest essay by Maribeth Theisen

Maribeth Theisen lived in Saigon, Vietnam in the late 1960s when her father was the manager of Air America, including during the 1968 Tet Offensive. She was just 11 years old.

“I have vivid memories of that period of time,” she wrote. “The aftermath changed the trajectory of my life.”

Connect with her on Instagram, Facebook, or via her travel website, mbsworld.online.

Tet, the Vietnamese Lunar New Year is Feb. 10 this year. Image from Freepik.com

The sounds of firecrackers are deafening. Chi Nam and Bot told me that Tet is a celebration of the New Year and also everyone’s birthday. Every person is a year older at Tet, even if they were only born a couple of months ago. The servants say that the new year is celebrated at this time because of the moon, but it feels odd to celebrate a new year at the end of January; the calendar says the new year began on January 1st. And what fun can it be to not have your own personal birthday? I like having New Year’s and a birthday. 

As I head downstairs for breakfast, Mom yells out over the din, “I hope it’s quieter on the base!” I know it needs to be quiet for her to play golf. Whenever I caddy for her, I have to stand still, not fidget with the clubs, and not say anything before she swings, so she can concentrate.

I hear Lon, Dad’s driver, blowing the car horn outside the metal gate at the end of the driveway. Bot scurries to open the latch, running in time with the fast rhythmic firecrackers. I wonder, What’s Dad doing coming home? He just left for work.

Mom and I meet him as he comes through the open door of the house. He has a look of complete disbelief on his face, as he points his finger toward the sky. “They’re shooting real bullets out there!”

I’m confused. I don’t recall anything about bullets being part of Tet.

“What are you talking about?” Mom asks. 

“It’s not just fireworks. I couldn’t get onto the base. The front gate was barricaded and people were running around shooting at each other. Let’s go see what’s happening from the roof!”

Eddie Adams, AP via Manhhai flickr

We hurry upstairs and out onto the third-story terrace. The air is filled with patches of smoke, that rise into a connected haze. It smells like gunpowder. Nearby, we see people up and down the block, hanging rows of firecrackers from the second story and lighting them from the ground, as they pop, pop, pop all the way up. Hundreds explode within a couple of minutes. It’s exciting, to see and hear them exploding one right after the other, but it seems like a waste because they’re gone right away. 

As we look further out, we see choppers flying low, with gunmen shooting toward the streets below. It reminds me of war movies my brother used to watch on TV. 

“What’s happening?” I yell. The images swirl together with a rushing in my head, and a dizziness that reminds me of dreaming.

“I think the war has entered the city. I’ve got to get to the base!” Dad barks back.

I follow as Dad bounds down the stairs and I watch him pacing back and forth, ranting and raving. “We need a goddam phone!” When he sounds mad like that, I get scared and it helps to be quiet and stay out of his way.

The rumbling sounds of mortars, that we usually hear in the distance, are closer, and louder, like when a thunderstorm moves nearer to your house. I wonder if I should be scared, but Dad seems to be more worried about how to get to work. After one abrupt explosion, the electricity goes out. 

Not again. I wonder how long it will be out this time.

I watch Mom walking briskly toward the kitchen and I hear her instructing the servants: “No open refrigerator. No open freezer.” Then she returns, with a firm look on her face—the kind she used to get when we would pack up to move to a new base, and we’d have to sort the things that were going with us from the things that we would leave behind. 

“Don’t leave the house,” Dad orders us, his head nodding like the period at the end of a sentence. “I’m going back to the base.” He turns, and dashes out, signaling to Lon. Lon drops his cigarette, rubs it into the driveway with his shoe, and opens the door for Dad.

“Be careful!” Mom yells. We watch silently, as the servants open the gate, and the sleek, black car disappears into the haze of gunpowder.

Mom immediately starts scurrying about, gathering candles and matches and flashlights, in case the lights don’t come back on. I hear the servants speaking Vietnamese to one another in hushed tones. Everyone else is busy and I don’t know what to do with myself. It’s too noisy to read or play anything. I can’t figure out what’s going on. I don’t know if I’m safe. I feel more lost and alone than usual, but I’m glad that Mom is around because she always knows what to do. When other people are busy with their feelings and the things their doing, I don’t know what I should feel. I do wonder about where Dad is. 

The afternoon passes noisily. While Mom is in her bedroom with the door closed, I play with my tiny cars, and I play jacks—only I pick up chopsticks instead of jacks. I go outside and hold Cowboy close. Her weight feels reassuring on my lap. I feel her gentle, wet tongue licking my face as I bury it in her soft, gray poodle fur. “You’re okay,” I tell her softly. It makes me feel a little better. 

It’s dark outside--unusually late when Dad arrives back home, followed by a jeep full of Army guys. The fireworks and guns and bombs are still going off. One of the soldiers installs a short-wave radio in our living room, behind the bar. Dad pours himself some gin. Everyone seems to be moving quickly and concentrating hard. I don’t know what’s happening, and I’m nervous, but I know not to bother them. And, if the grown-ups are here with me, at least I know they will take care of whatever happens. 

After the soldiers leave, Chi Nam feeds us dinner by candlelight. Dad tells us what’s happening, after he takes a few gulps of his martini. “The Viet Cong have launched an offensive all over the whole country. They knew people would be home celebrating instead of working, and they knew the noise of the fireworks would mask the sounds of their weapons.”

“What’s gonna happen?” I ask. I want him to tell me he can make it stop, or that he can take me somewhere safe. 

“We have stronger forces. We can fight them back.” Who is this “we,” I wonder. Is it the Americans? The South Vietnamese?

“What do we do?” Mom asks, gesturing toward herself and me. 

“Nobody’s allowed to go anywhere. There are no passenger planes flying in or out. You should be safer here than at the base anyway. But, I’m going to have to attend to my crews and keep my planes in the air.” Looking right at me, he adds, “I know you’ll be good troupers.”

I have a sinking feeling inside and know better than to say or ask anything more. I hate it when I hear that old, Air Force family talk. We have to hang together. We have to run a tight ship. We have to watch each other’s backs. It usually means that whatever I want or need doesn’t matter. Dad’s job is always first. The family’s needs come somewhere after that. Mine come dead last. 

After dinner, we turn off the flashlights and sneak out onto the terrace. I see red dotted lines coming down from the sky. They’re beautiful, like a Roman candle, but they zip down, instead of shooting up. “What are those?” I shout, over the tumult. “Tracer bullets,” he hollers back. “They put a light in between every so many bullets to show the gunmen where they’re shooting.” It’s funny how those bullets can be so pretty, and I can feel shook up at the same time. He doesn’t look alarmed, though, so maybe I’m not supposed to be, either.

When I get into bed and under my mosquito net, it is so noisy, I have a hard time going to sleep. Because the electricity is still out, I try to read Nancy Drew’s The Quest of the Missing Map, but the candle isn’t bright enough.

I peer through the mesh netting at the magazine posters of Ringo Starr, and Michael Nesmith on the wall. They’re like my friends, familiar faces smiling back at me.

I think about other girls in America, who are waking up to these same handsome smiles on their bedroom walls, and I want to trade places with them. They are waking up to quiet, happy houses. They’ll have their cereal, go to school, chase the boys, tattle on the girls, and make faces behind the teachers’ backs. They might get mad if their brothers call them names, but they’re safe. The only thing that makes my life like theirs is these posters on the wall.

My parents are in the next room, but can they save me if the shooting gets closer? 

I could not help but try to capture the expression of a child’s innocent horror.

Thanks to Maribeth for sharing her experiences here. If you enjoyed this post, please leave a comment, letting her know.

My weekly “Stories of Vietnam” highlights the many stories of Vietnam that exist in the American milieu—from the war, to travel tales, to my own family saga.

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