And Now, Civil War

It was the last determined gamble of Saigon's government to reassert its authority. Premier Nguyen Cao Ky was striking directly at rebellious elements in his own army and indirectly at the militant Buddhists. The clash began with the lightning predawn "invasion" of rebellious Danang by Vietnamese marines loyal to Premier Ky. Soon all the sound and fury of incipient civil war had enveloped the crucial northern base town: the clank of tank treads, the rattle of sniper fire, the sodden plop of tear-gas grenades, the sudden sky-shaking roar of strafing aircraft. Danang's chaotic clangor had its echoes in Saigon, where Buddhist demonstrators took fitfully to the streets--only to be dispersed by tough, green-clad riot cops. But beneath the sound and fury, the basic directions of the conflict were quite clear and quite chilling.

No Stomach. In Danang, Ky's strategy was simple but relentless. His 3,000 loyal troops--marines, airborne and Rangers--slowly drove the rebel force of 1,200 into an eight-block area centering on the east bank of the Danang River and three Buddhist pagodas. At the outset, neither side had any stomach for killing: most of the gunfire was purposely aimed high. Government tanks cleared street after street, carefully hosing them with .50-cal. machine-gun fire as they moved forward. Government spotter planes circled the rebel area, dropping leaflets that announced the appointment of General Huynh Van Cao as I Corps commander--the fourth in that thankless role since March--and demanding loyalty. Rebel gunners cut loose at the planes, and put bullets into an American L19 on reconnaissance, forcing it to make an emergency landing near by.

Corps Commander Cao flew off to 1st Division headquarters near Hue in an effort to woo rebellious officers back to Ky's side, but no sooner had he ended his speech and climbed aboard the U.S. helicopter that was to return him to Danang than a South Vietnamese lieutenant took a shot at the chopper. An American machine gunner cut him down with a single burst.

"Dodge City." Back in Danang, the courtesies were over. On the fifth day, the rebels gave up most of their checkpoints, pulled down their multicolored Buddhist flags from the tops of oil barrels, and--except for manning a few streets in the vicinity of the pagodas--spread out through the city as snipers. They were everywhere, firing at anything, and being answered fatally by the heavy firepower of Ky's troops. "Dodge City," grunted a Vietnamese marine. When one grenade-throwing rebel was captured, the loyalist officer in charge of the patrol wasted no words; he whipped out his pistol and shot the rebel through the chest.

Through it all, U.S. Marine Corps General Lewis Walt, commander of the Danang contingent, tried to maintain strict American neutrality. But the fabric came close to tearing when mortar shells--presumably from the rebels--began falling on the U.S. Marine compound. Four Vietnamese Air Force Skyraiders went roaring aloft to send rockets and cannon shells thumping into the rebel-held eastern riverbank, where the mortar fire was believed to have originated. Five or six of the rockets went astray and hit Walt's headquarters compound, wounding three U.S. marines. American reaction was quick: within minutes, four F-8 Crusader jets had scrambled to intercept the Skyraiders and herd them away from the east shore. For a tense ten minutes, it appeared that U.S. and Vietnamese planes would be tangling in an interallied dogfight. Each time the Skyraiders wheeled toward the east, the U.S. jets cut them off. Finally the Skyraiders broke off and landed without bloodshed.

Fini or Not? Ominously aware of the overtones in the pagodas, General Walt had urged Ky's troops not to raid them as Ngo Dinh Diem's troops had done in 1963. His advice was disregarded: shortly before dawn on the sixth day of fighting, the noise of combat reached a crescendo as Vietnamese marines launched an all-out assault on the Tan Ninh Pagoda. Recoilless rifle fire and shells from 90-mm. tank guns ripped through the pagoda for four hours while the stubborn rebel contingent hung on. Finally the Ky troops pushed in--to find the bare concrete floor littered with rubble: chunks of cement, scout hats, combat boots, and a framed picture of the Buddha neatly drilled by a bullet. Slowly congealing pools of blood patterned the floor. Eight rebels had died in the battle, along with two monks. One of the marines pulled down the Buddhist banner and rolled it into a bundle. "Fini," he said harshly.

In Saigon, Buddhist monks disagreed. They began a 48-hour hunger strike. Other Buddhists gathered outside for a demonstration, but Ky's riot police wheeled up quickly in trucks, dismounted behind wicker shields, and swiftly broke up the meeting with tear gas. Next day it was a turnabout: an angry mob of 5,000 Buddhist demonstrators clashed with Ky's "white mice" (national police) and drove them off. But the green-clad riot police soon returned and forced the demonstrators into a block-long area surrounded by barricades.

There, at week's end, the forces stood: Ky for the moment triumphant in Danang, the angry Buddhist demonstrators milling behind their barricades in Saigon, the police nervously fingering their weapons. Militant Buddhist Leader Thich Tri Quang had still to make his move. From Hue, however, he sent an ominous hint of the way things may develop. "As long as Thieu and Ky are in power," he prophesied to the faithful, "there will be bloodshed."

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