Vietnam: An Epic History of a Divisive War 1945-1975. Max Hastings
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sat motionless surrounded by a large crowd while another bonze poured petrol over him. Duc himself struck a match and flicked it at the pyre, then allowed flames to consume and shrivel him. Throughout the process another bonze proclaimed through a megaphone: ‘A Buddhist priest burns himself to death! A Buddhist priest becomes a martyr!’ At this and other such ghastly human sacrifices it was noticed that signs, placards and denunciations were in English: the intended audience was not Vietnamese.
The only Western journalist who had troubled to turn up, Malcolm Browne of AP, wrote later: ‘I could have prevented that immolation by rushing at him and kicking the gasoline away … As a human being I wanted to. As a reporter I couldn’t … I would have propelled myself directly into Vietnamese politics. My role as a reporter would have been destroyed along with my credibility.’ Yet Browne assuredly altered the face of South Vietnamese politics by photographing the scene, just as the Buddhists had intended when they alerted him. His devastating images were ‘pigeoned’ to Manila, then wired around the world. Madame Nhu fuelled outrage with her televised depiction of the event as a ‘barbecue’. She shrugged: ‘Let them burn, and we shall clap our hands.’ Browne said that he never forgot the overpowering scent of joss sticks mingling with that of burning flesh. The perpetrators, well satisfied with the attention secured by their grisly gesture, displayed Duc’s heart in a glass case.
Americans responded with stunned incomprehension. Lt. Gordon Sullivan, an adviser with a Ranger group who chanced to be in Saigon, said, ‘The whole thing changed. This was something new. We didn’t know people did stuff like that.’ The Washington Post editorialised on 20 June 1963: ‘Of course the communists will exploit Buddhist grievances. And why not? It is Mr Diem’s regime itself that is gratuitously serving communist purposes by policies that are morally repugnant and politically suicidal.’ US ambassador ‘Fritz’ Nolting still maintained that this was the least bad Saigon government the US would get, and the CIA’s Colby agreed. In Washington, however, national security adviser McGeorge Bundy and the State Department’s Roger Hilsman took a bleaker view. So did Henry Cabot Lodge, who arrived in Saigon at mid-August to replace Nolting, whose ‘appeasement’ of Diem was deemed discredited.
The new envoy was sixty-one, a Republican grandee from Massachusetts with long experience of diplomacy and the Senate, who had run as vice-presidential candidate on Nixon’s ticket in 1960. Arthur Schlesinger wrote: ‘The president has a habit of designating “liberals” to do “conservative” things, and vice versa.’ Lodge’s appointment was a classic example of this: he was a big figure, bound to seek to play a big role, more proconsular than ambassadorial. If he subsequently misplayed or overplayed his hand, blame rightfully lay with those who appointed him.
On 21 August, after Diem imposed martial law in response to the continuing storm of protests, Nhu’s forces assaulted Saigon’s principal Buddhist sanctuary, the Xa Loi temple. They arrested four hundred monks and nuns, including Vietnam’s eighty-nine-year-old patriarch. Henry Luce’s Time suppressed condemnatory dispatches from its own correspondents; Bill Colby shared his friend Nhu’s contempt for the Buddhists, as did Harkins. Yet despite the imposition of rigorous press censorship and a stream of mendacious government statements, most Americans, including ambassador Lodge, recognised that the president’s brother was rampaging out of control.
The nationwide security situation continued to deteriorate. The NLF, impatient to see the back of the regime, intensified its campaign of terror, while Southern army morale grew shakier by the day. Because David Halberstam’s grim reports were so widely read, MACV and Washington worked ever harder to rubbish them. Secretary of state Dean Rusk personally contradicted an August 1963 dispatch that described the communists gaining ground in the Mekong delta. Harkins itemised details that he asserted were untrue. In September the general cabled Maxwell Taylor at the White House: ‘From most of the reports and articles I read, one would say Vietnam and our programs here are falling apart at the seams. Well, I just thoroughly disagree.’
Yet the record shows the young turks, Halberstam and Sheehan prominent among them, were far more correct in their assessments, both military and political, than was MACV. There were more and more such episodes as one in September, when in broad daylight the Vietcong overran a government post in the delta almost without loss, because the provincial VC had infiltrated two of its men into the garrison. They killed six defenders, seized six prisoners and thirty-five rifles, blew up bunkers and watchtowers before withdrawing. That autumn, according to Frank Scotton, ‘it was apparent that many cultured city-dwellers’ – attentistes, as those folk were known who waited upon events rather than precipitating them – ‘anticipated a change of government’. Diem’s time was almost up. It remained only to be seen whether the communists, the Buddhists or his own generals pulled the plug. And what Washington decided to do about it all.
3 KILLING TIME
The countdown to the murder of President Ngo Dinh Diem started on 23 August 1963, when a top-secret cable to the State Department from Lodge demanded to know whether Washington would support a coup. A positive reply was drafted and sent to Saigon over a weekend when Kennedy, Rusk and McNamara were out of town: its authors were Averell Harriman, Roger Hilsman and Michael Forrestal. If Diem refused to make reforms and sack his brother Nhu, they wrote in the name of the US government, ‘We are prepared to accept the obvious implication that we can no longer support Diem. You may tell appropriate military commanders we will give them direct support in any interim period of breakdown … Ambassador … should urgently examine all possible alternative leadership and make detailed plans as to how we might bring about Diem’s replacement if this should become necessary.’
On Monday morning, when Kennedy returned to the White House he was disturbed by the insouciance with which this momentous directive – for such the cable was – had been dispatched, by middle-ranking officials. He consulted with McNamara and Taylor, who equivocated: they would prefer that Diem stayed, albeit without Nhu. If the generals decided otherwise, however, the US should support an interim military government. Kennedy finally decided not to recall the weekend telegram: it would be left to Lodge to determine policy. The ambassador later claimed to have been ‘thunderstruck’. His entirely reasonable interpretation of the Washington cable was that he was now mandated to precipitate Diem’s fall.
On 2 September the US president, answering a question about Vietnam in a CBS interview with Walter Cronkite, said that the Saigon regime needed to gain more support: ‘with changes in policy and perhaps in personnel I think [the government] can win. If it doesn’t make those changes, I would think the chances of winning would not be very good.’ Kennedy appealed for more help – practical help – from America’s allies: ‘It doesn’t do us any good to say, “Well, why don’t we all just go home and leave the world to those who are our enemies.”’ He added that ‘the only people who can win are the people of Vietnam’. Some historians have interpreted such words as indicating Kennedy’s acknowledgement that Americans could not achieve what Vietnamese would not do for themselves; that he was pointing towards an exit. This seems fanciful: he had his own presidential re-election race to win, which might conceivably be lost in South-East Asia, just as Korea doomed Harry Truman in 1952.
Events now accelerated. The North Vietnamese were probing for any means of separating Diem from the Americans. To this end, Hanoi embarked on a dog-leg dalliance with Saigon, via Polish and French intermediaries, which soon became known to the Kennedy administration. The most ignoble aspect of Washington’s mounting interest in a coup was the impetus provided by fears that Diem or his brother Nhu might be contemplating a deal. Bernard Fall, who commanded a readership among decision-makers because he was known to have good contacts on both sides, reported that, in the event of a meaningful North–South dialogue, Ho Chi Minh would accept a delay to reunification – a ‘decent interval’, to use a phrase Fall did not employ, but which would become the focus of many future Indochina peace efforts. In truth, the exchanges had little chance of an outcome: Le Duan was interested only in achieving a communist Vietnam, while the Ngos laboured under the delusion that they held good cards – an imminent prospect of military victory and their own indispensability to the Americans. The mere fact of contacts between the two sides nonetheless set alarm bells ringing in Washington. The Saigon regime’s willingness