How South Vietnam Defeated Itself - Part 1 Sean Fear

In the early hours of Jan. 30, 1968, the first Communist rockets struck provincial capitals across South Vietnam. A nationwide ground assault followed, and by morning the next day, much of the urban South was besieged, including Saigon’s radio station, the South Vietnamese military headquarters and even the American Embassy. What local papers dubbed the “Year of Sand” — referring to the ubiquitous sandbags appearing in front of the nation’s doors and windows — was well underway.

In the United States, the attacks, which came to be known as the Tet offensive, are remembered as a psychological turning point, the moment when President Johnson is said to have lost the faith of CBS broadcaster Walter Cronkite — and by extension, the public at large. Indeed, though Communist forces suffered substantial losses in manpower and morale, the contradiction between American officials’ buoyant promises and weeks of astonishing televised carnage was never reconciled. But Tet’s political impact in South Vietnam proved equally significant, and no less critical, in determining the outcome of the war.

Still routinely mischaracterized as an American client regime, South Vietnam was home to millions of fervent but factionalized anti-Communists, mostly concentrated in urban centers and provincial capitals. Reacting to the shock of Tet, they set aside longstanding quarrels and rallied in a rare display of solidarity. But the outpouring of constructive energy following the Tet attacks was hastily squandered. Instead, President Nguyen Van Thieu used the opportunity to undertake naked power grabs, compromising the constitutional basis on which his legitimacy was premised, and driving even the most dedicated anti-communists to despair. Post-Tet resolve succumbed to cynical resignation, while military confidence and commitment eroded.

As a result, a moment that could have been a turning point for the country became the beginning of the end. When the government finally surrendered to Communist tanks in April 1975, the South’s political fate had long since been sealed.

South Vietnam may appear, in hindsight, to have been a doomed political experiment. But in the wake of Tet, its supporters felt a new sense of urgency. In spite of the devastating violence, the South’s response to the Tet attacks represented the zenith of anti-Communist nationalism in the country.

Cast for the first time into the forefront of the war, urban anti-Communist political observers were roused to action, and they reached across deep-seated political, regional and religious divides. They channeled their newfound energy into a series of broad-based umbrella groups, including the National Social Democratic Front and the National Salvation Front (or the “Liên Minh,” “The League”). This unprecedented outburst of collective action was propelled by a dawning awareness that the South’s arcane factions were no match for the Communist political machine.

Beyond these uncharacteristic expressions of camaraderie, the post-Tet groundswell also breathed life into the South’s new constitutional system, hitherto scorned or dismissed after the previous year’s rigged presidential election. With the country reeling from the bloodshed, fledgling institutions like the revived National Assembly provided a blueprint for political cooperation, and a forum for republican constitutionalists who, whatever their reservations about the military regime, saw no future for themselves under one-party Communist rule.

Infuriated by the violence, longtime government critics hastened to denounce the Communist attacks. Even the An Quang Buddhist group, whose 1963 and 1966 rebellions had brought the state to its knees, now cast its lot with the new constitutional system. Shaken by the ferocity of the onslaught in central Vietnam, An Quang ruled out accommodation with the Communists. Though there was little love for the South Vietnamese military, the group’s lay leaders opted to take their chances under Saigon’s uneven authority, which they judged far less capable than Hanoi of fulfilling its authoritarian aspirations.

To that end, An Quang raised eyebrows in 1970 by embracing and prevailing in the Senate elections, securing a third of the contested seats. More remarkably, as the political situation deteriorated in subsequent years, An Quang refrained from actively challenging the state, even as traditionally loyal parties took to the streets in anger. An Quang’s unexpected restraint was a critical if overlooked factor in prolonging South Vietnam’s survival, and a symbol of the constitutional system’s squandered potential.

Meanwhile, heartened by the post-Tet spirit of determination and solidarity, the South’s urban civil society implored the state to capitalize on that spirit by carrying out much-needed reforms.

Phan Quang Dan, an opposition leader admired for bravely enduring torture by government henchmen, was one of many who leapt at the newfound possibilities. Dan proclaimed Tet to be “a tremendous opportunity to turn a temporary military success into a decisive political victory — if it is seized upon by the South Vietnamese government to move forward fast, reorganize the military and the administration, wipe out corruption, carry out sweeping land reforms, mobilize active popular participation and achieve national unity.”

This was, to be sure, a tall order. Still, as the military’s cocksure vice president, Nguyen Cao Ky, observed during a March 1968 radio interview, “I know that they” — Saigon residents — “still don’t like us very much, but on the other hand, at least I’m now sure they also detest Communists.”

Within Ky’s characteristically glib remarks, however, lay an uncomfortable truth for Saigon’s ruling generals: Waves of anti-Communist anger after Tet were no assurance of loyalty to the much-reviled military regime.

Consider, for instance, events in the city of Hue, where the gradual revelation of a brutal Communist massacre enraged and galvanized informed Southerners. But while the city’s plight remains a symbol of Communist ruthlessness, reactions at the time were often nuanced, and multifaceted. Penned in the wake of the massacre, Trinh Cong Son’s “Song for Human Corpses” emphasized collective sorrow rather than assigning blame, while the novelist Nha Ca’s “Mourning Headband for Hue” controversially tasked the entire nation with responsibility for ending the bloodshed.

Hue residents, meanwhile, were incensed by Communist kidnappings and executions — but also by indiscriminate American firepower. They reserved special contempt for the South Vietnamese military, which had fled at the first sign of trouble only to pillage the city’s remains once the dust settled.

In this regard, Hue’s experience was not atypical. Flight followed by looting was a recurring pattern for the South Vietnamese military, which repeated its Hue performance in Soc Trang, Da Lat and Vinh Long, among other provincial towns. The garrison at Tuy Hoa, the capital of Phu Yen province, vanished before a shot was fired. Reinforcements eventually arrived, but only after the Communists left of their own accord. The troops, nonetheless, staged an elaborate victory procession followed by a comprehensive sacking of the town. “The army didn’t defeat the Communists, it defeated us,” a local civilian lamented.

American responses were likewise roundly condemned. Hoping to dislodge Communist resistance, American air and artillery strikes leveled the city of Nha Trang, while over 3,000 houses were destroyed in Saigon’s District 8 alone. Nearby Gia Dinh province, meanwhile, saw an estimated 20,000 residents left homeless during the first few weeks of the campaign.

The nationwide barrage fueled a spiraling anti-American backlash. By the early 1970s, United States personnel were subject to routine street confrontations, and increasingly confined to remote bases. All the while, conspiracy-minded Vietnamese devoured rumors of C.I.A. collusion in the Communist attacks, an apparent pretext for accelerating American withdrawal. Responding to the outcry, the Lower House of the National Assembly issued a formal complaint, and government mouthpieces like the newspaper Cong Chung (The Public) charged the United States with destroying Hue.

In the cities, the initial shock inspired renewed determination, but the offensive was a severe psychological blow in much of the countryside. Having witnessed the military’s cowardice, exploitation of civilian misery and inability to resist the initial attacks, rural constituents lost faith in the state’s ability or desire to protect them.