'This Is It! Everybody Out!'

Among the approximately 1,400 Americans and 5,600 South Vietnamese who were evacuated from Saigon just before the last escape routes from the city were cut off last week was TIME Correspondent Roy Rowan. From the U.S.S. Mobile in the South China Sea, he sent this report:

The emergency plan had called for the evacuation of the remaining Americans in three stages--on Tuesday morning, afternoon and evening. But by 10:30 a.m. Tuesday, with Tan Son Nhut air-base under pounding by rockets, mortars and 130-mm. artillery, word came from the American embassy: "This is it! Everybody out!"

Correspondents and cameramen in the Continental Palace Hotel swarmed down the stairs, through the lobby and out across Lam Son Square in single file, a ragtag army lugging typewriters, shoulder bags, TV cameras and sound gear. Our designated assembly point was down near the Saigon River four blocks away. Armed policemen in the square eyed us menacingly. There was no question: this formation clearly signaled the final departure of Americans from the Indochina war.

The day before, Lam Son Square had echoed with the sound of carbines, M-16s and rooftop machine guns. Now the square was quiet, the pavement under our feet baked to cooking temperature by the morning sun. I glanced at my watch: it was 10:42. People peered through iron gates that had been pulled shut because of the 24-hour curfew. Their eyes were easy to read. "You're leaving us," they said.

Our assembly point faced the statue of Viet Nam's 6th century naval hero, Trang Hung Dao. A landing zone had been prepared atop the building. But the South Vietnamese navy had placed 50-cal. machine guns on top of the building next door, posing a threat to the departing Americans. Picking up our gear, we trooped on to another assembly point.

Nobody knew what the plan was.

Would the "helos" pick us up from a pad on the roof? Or would buses take us to Tan Son Nhut, which had been under Communist attack for twelve hours? At 35 Gia Long we discovered that the building door had been padlocked. There were no instructions, only a faded Sign: UNIVERSITY OF MARYLAND, SAIGON EDUCATION CENTER. A few French civilians joined our group.

Mme. Madeleine Morton, owner of the best restaurant in Saigon, the Guillaume Tell, greeted her customers. "I am trying to go to Bridgeport, Con-nec-ticut," she announced. At 12:20 two black buses finally arrived and were quickly filled.

Rumbling along in low gear, the buses began a circuitous tour of Saigon. Were they searching out more Americans? We didn't know. "Graham Martin sightseeing excursions," cracked one correspondent. Every few blocks the buses stopped, perhaps unsure if the road ahead was clear. An ARVN soldier rushed up to our bus and banged against the door. "Take me out!" he yelled. The Marine guard on our bus slapped him hard across the back. "Goddam, we took out 25,000 Vietnamese."

Over a VHP radio we tuned in to the mission wardens' control center (code-named "Dodge City") and learned that the U.S. embassy was in trouble. "Marines to the gate as soon as possible," the operator called. Minutes later: "There are 2,000 people in front of the gate. It's getting hostile." Still later: "The gates are open. We've lost control of the crowd."

The buses began to move again and headed toward Tan Son Nhut--right into the rocket belt. Guards at the gate were firing at the buses. Pillars of black smoke rose from the airbase ahead. Over the radio we heard our own Marine escort ("Wagon Master") ask Dodge City, "What's the situation at the gate?" "Bust it if necessary," came the reply.

We did not have to. Inside the airbase, a damaged American helicopter, one skid broken off, lay on the ground, its rotor still spinning. A tremendous explosion rocked our bus as a North Vietnamese 130-mm. shell hit the Air America terminal just across the road. "Don't panic!" shouted our Marine escort.

Crouching and running, the passengers raced into the Defense Attache's Office, a reassuring structure with thick cement walls. From time to time we could feel the building shudder from incoming rockets. About 500 evacuees were already waiting in line. One Marine passed out green tags ("For you, not your baggage," he explained). Another, stripped to the waist, walked down the line with a bucket of ice water, reviving the dehydrated evacuees. "You might as well sit down and be comfortable," an officer told us. "We've got 500 people ahead of you, and the second show doesn't start for two hours." The walls quivered from a barrage of shells outside the building. "Sounds like the second show has started out there already," a correspondent remarked.

One woman, caught between a bus and the building when a shell burst, was carried inside unconscious, but only from fright. A European walked down the line asking everybody to sign a 500-piaster note he wanted to keep as a souvenir. Sister Fidema of the Good Shepherd Convent in Saigon knelt over her suitcase and prayed. "I've been here four years," she said later. "These have been good years until this week. But this has been the saddest ever." The day before, 90 children from the convent had been taken out to Tan Son Nhut but had been unable to get on a plane before the rocket attack began. "Oh God, I hope they got home," said Sister Fidema.

For the first time all day we began to get information. "The helos," we were told, "are on the way." Word was passed down the line: one suitcase and one handbag per evacuee. Just as our group of 50 prepared to leave, that rule was changed to make way for more passengers: the Marine at the door shouted, "No baggage!" Suitcases and bags were ripped open as evacuees fished for their passports, papers and other valuables. I said goodbye to my faithful Olivetti, grabbed my tape recorder and camera and got ready to run like hell. The door opened. Outside I could see helmeted, flak-jacketed Marines--lots of them --crouched against the building, their M16s, M-79 grenade launchers and mortars all at the ready.

We could view the whole perimeter.

There was a road leading to a parking lot, and on the left was a tennis court that had been turned into a landing zone.

Two Sikorsky CH-53 Sea Stallions were sitting in the parking lot. I raced for it. Marines, lying prone, lined the area, but they were hard to see because their camouflaged uniforms blended with the tropical greenery. I almost stepped on a rifle barrel poking out from under a bush as I entered the lot.

The Sea Stallion was still 200 ft. away, its loading ramp down and its rotors slashing impatiently. Fifty people, some lugging heavy equipment despite the order to abandon all baggage, piled in, one atop another: correspondents, photographers and Vietnamese men, women and children. The loadmaster raised the ramp, the two waist gunners gripped the handles of their M16s, and, with about a dozen passengers still standing like subway straphangers, the helicopter lifted off. As the tail dipped, I could see towers of smoke rising from all over Tan Son Nhut.

Beside us was a second Sea Stallion.

Tilting and swaying in unison, the two machines gained altitude. Saigon lay below, brown and smoky in the afternoon light, its serpentine river cutting a wide and winding swath through the city. I glanced at my watch: 3:52, five hours and ten minutes since our evacuation had commenced at the Continental Palace Hotel. I tried to pick out the hotel from the air, but we were already too high, slipping southeast over veined paddyfields toward the sea.

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