Chroniclers of Chaos

As Communist forces rolled toward Saigon and tightened their noose around Phnom-Penh, foreign journalists in those two capitals were caught up in an increasingly complex and tragic story that became more and more difficult to report.

In South Viet Nam, the swift advance of North Vietnamese and Viet Cong troops made venturing outside Saigon a dangerous proposition. Yet as days went by, the suffering, disintegration and chaos in outlying areas became at least as important a subject for coverage as anything happening in the capital. "It's getting easier to get a candid view from high-ranking military officers now," said New York Times Correspondent Malcolm W. Browne. "But there is a fatalistic belief that nothing they say or do matters any more." Still, added Associated Press Bureau Chief George Esper, "you have to be present in the field to know."

Rumor Service. Getting there was becoming ever chancier, as the ARVN collapsed before the Communist onslaught. Some newsmen in Saigon were able to buy their way onto a handful of small planes. Others had to be content with piecing together accounts of the war from eyewitnesses, press briefings (including weekly sessions conducted by the Viet Cong in Saigon under the terms of the Paris accords) and an infinite number of rumors. "Just pick up any hotel phone and ask for rumor service," said one correspondent wryly. Ambassador Graham Martin, never a favorite of the U.S. press corps, has discouraged his aides from talking to journalists. Said a U.S. official: "The ambassador has a bug about the American press."

Martin is not alone. As the military situation darkens, newsmen in Saigon sense a rising hostility from the South Vietnamese. The normally bland army newspaper Tien Tuyen (Frontline) last week demanded that the Thieu regime "take strong, hard measures against foreign correspondents" for being "in major part" responsible for Communist gains. As Danang fell, a group of American journalists gave two South Vietnamese marines a lift to the airport. When the marines asked the journalists their nationality, their driver thoughtfully replied that they were English. "That's good," said one of the soldiers. "We're ready to kill any Americans we see."

Anti-American feeling is not yet so obvious in Phnom-Penh, but the 50 or so foreign journalists still there face staggering communications problems and no little personal risk. Telegraph and telephone lines from Phnom-Penh are sadly overburdened, and stories are now normally "pigeoned" out on the return flights of U.S. planes airlifting rice and other supplies to the city. Daily rocket fire from Khmer Rouge troops on the edge of the city has driven newsmen to wear flak jackets and steel helmets whenever they travel to Pochentong Airport, terminus of the U.S. airlift. "The first time I came here in 1972," recalls CBS correspondent Ed Bradley, "you'd go out and cover a bang-bang story, and Phnom-Penh was a nice, relaxing place to get back to." Now, Bradley reports, the suffering evident everywhere in the city has aroused a new sense of commitment. A few days ago, at least a dozen correspondents donated blood at a military hospital, and a number of them have adopted Khmer orphans. Says Bradley: "I don't see how a person can work here and not become personally involved."

In both countries, foreign journalists supposedly hardened to the disasters of war admit that this tragedy has cut deep. "To describe soldiers fleeing in terror and shooting civilians fills me with pain," said the Baltimore Sun's Arnold Isaacs. Other newsmen report torn-up consciences when they get out on the last plane from some provincial capital while refugees remain behind to meet an unknown fate. Members of the Saigon and Phnom-Penh press corps are also beginning to worry about another dilemma: How long to hold on and report before it becomes too late to escape?

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