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FILIPINO IN HANOI
Philippine
Daily Inquirer
First Posted 07:22:00 10/22/2008
First Posted 07:22:00 10/22/2008
Read
Part 1: Sukarno
joked as his regime crumbled
(Editors’
Note: Philippine Daily Inquirer columnist Amando Doronila’s distinguished
service as a foreign correspondent forms the backbone of the first volume of
his reminiscences, “Afro-Asia in Upheaval: A Memoir of Front-Line Reporting.”
In this string of excerpts from the chapters on North Vietnam, he details
scenes from a country under intense US bombardment in 1967. “Afro-Asia in
Upheaval,” an Inquirer book, will be launched Thursday, Oct. 23.)
(Second
of three parts)
ONE
AFTERNOON, WHILE strolling down the street around Hanoi’s beautiful Lake of the
Restored Sword (Petit Lak during the French colonial period), considered the
city center, I was caught in a raid signal. I observed how the people reacted
to the raids. I thought they were a little too careless and self-confident.
People cleared the streets calmly—no panic at all. They merely sat on the edge
of the foxholes looking skywards, as though waiting for the bombs to fall
before they jumped in. Alerts usually lasted 15 to 20 minutes, and after the
all-clear siren had sounded, people reappeared in the streets just as calmly as
they had disappeared.
In
my hotel, pretty Vietnamese reception clerks, barmaids, and waitresses turned
instant militia fighters at the sound of the alert. They removed their aprons,
posted themselves in battle stations, which could be in bunkers or in
camouflaged machine-gun nests on the rooftops. Every tall building—most were no
more than two stories—had some sort of machine-gun nest made of brick
battlements and turrets manned by militia. The ambition was to shoot down an
American plane with their Chinese-made rifles and light machine guns.
Every
man and woman who could carry a rifle was armed by the government, and,
according to one diplomat, that showed the confidence the politburo had in the
popular support for the war effort. “If the Hanoi government does not have the
support of the people,” the diplomat said, “it will fall tomorrow, considering
that almost everybody is armed.”
THE
RECEPTION ON THE 22ND anniversary of North Vietnam’s independence from French
rule was scarcely over when I set out at 9 p.m., 30 August, for a tour of the
Red River Delta south toward the 17th parallel. National Day itself was 2
September, but, as a security measure, the politburo of the Vietnam Workers
Party secretly celebrated it days earlier at 6 p.m. at the National Assembly. A
program was held followed by the reception at the presidential palace, while
anti-aircraft batteries vigilantly scanned the skies: this was one of the first
times the politburo, including Ho Chi Minh, sat together under one roof since
the air war started.
The
government took no chances. It issued invitations to journalists and members of
the diplomatic corps [only] two hours before the official program. Prime
Minister Pham Van Dong was to deliver a much-awaited policy speech. My guides
came quietly to my hotel room after lunch and hustled me to the National
Assembly. Such was the secrecy I didn’t have the slightest idea where they were
taking me. It was a rare chance to see the politburo leaders. There were no
interviews, despite requests from journalists. Between the meeting and the
reception, I obtained a text of [Pham’s] speech.
As
soon as the reception ended, my escorts took me back to the hotel to collect my
bag. That was the beginning of nearly two weeks of nocturnal tours in
bomb-devastated areas in the Red River Delta. “Nhan Dan,” the party newspaper,
carried a daily scoreboard of US planes shot down since February 1965: a total
of 2,232 against the Pentagon’s claim of 600, by the previous day’s published
count. I took a Russian jeep, accompanied by my guide, Lang, and two
interpreters.
We
took Route Nationale No. 1, the old French main highway to Saigon in the south,
running parallel to the narrow-gauge railway. Our jeep traveled with dimmed
lights. A few kilometers outside Hanoi, I saw a convoy of five trucks mounted
with camouflaged anti-aircraft guns moving south. Crates were piled along the
sidings of the railway tracks, with mounds of sand, gravel, and railway tiles.
The crates were stenciled with marks indicating they came from Poland. Truck
traffic was heavy moving south. Women militia directed traffic at checkpoints
and detour routes. We made a detour at 40 km from Hanoi, where women gangs
protected from rain by straw conical hats were breaking rocks and piling them
piece by piece on cratered roads that had been hit by bombs. We had a quick
meal of sandwiches as we waited for traffic to move on. Empty trucks were
moving in the opposite direction toward Hanoi.
The
railway stations along the way had been bombed. People were waiting on the
platforms. Repairs were going on in the night on damaged railway tracks. Air
raid shelters dug in the mud and ditches were filled with water.
Route
No. 1 started to narrow as we moved farther south. Trucks traveled with dark
taillights and only with one headlight, with shaded beams. Trainees in small
groups were marching at militia centers in self-defense exercises. Bicycles
carrying loads of 200 kilos each and bull carts hauling charcoal and sacks of
rice were also traveling on the highway. The traffic was an eerie procession of
shadows and twinkling dots of faint lights, like fireflies dancing in the
horizon.
AS
WE TOOK THE FLAT BOAT across the river, I was always on the lookout for
aircraft. From our base in the village to the dikes, we drove early in the
morning at 7 a.m. in two Russian jeeps. My guides told me it was risky to
travel late in the day. They cautioned me that if there was a raid I must stay
calm and do what they said.
We
took Route No. 1 again, entered village roads, crossed a wooden bridge, one of
four, and a pontoon bridge built after the main bridge was destroyed. Gangs of
women were reinforcing the road bed with rocks so it could take heavy truck
traffic. Three anti-aircraft guns were concealed under trees on the roadside.
There was a dummy of a US plane from a bamboo pole. It was used as target
practice by the militia. On a hill across Route No. 1, villagers made signs
from white painted stone. The signs were large enough to be visible from
aircraft. They read: WE ARE DETERMINED TO FIGHT U.S. AGGRESSORS (yes, it was
written in English).
At
12:30 p.m., I heard airplanes and explosions—I was having a cool bath (it was
autumn in North Vietnam) from a well. We had lunch inside an air raid shelter
carved inside the rocks of the hill. Despite the raids, the Vietnamese managed
to maintain the amenities of normal life. We had a lunch of vegetables and
boiled chicken. The food was served by young Vietnamese women on a table
covered with white tablecloth. A flower vase was at the center of the table.
Food was served with fortified Vietnamese liquor made from fruits. Always, food
was washed [down] by rounds of strong Vietnamese black tea. Lunch was followed
by siesta at 2 p.m.
After
lunch, the telephone rang. Village officials were informed that a dike 10 km
from where we came had been bombed. The bomb hit a dike but missed the sluice
gate.
THE
BOMBING ON FRIDAY came while I was interviewing the bishop of the diocese of
Khiet Ky, a village five km from the town center. An hour after the bombing, we
hurriedly inspected the bombed sites with town officials. Eight bombs had been
dropped. Two exploded amid the ruins of a building that had been bombed in
1966, some 50 meters from a tiny bridge connecting the main street and the road
leading into the town. Two of the bombs did not explode. Two other bombs fell
on the hamlet a kilometer away across the irrigation canal, killing a
40-year-old peasant, a dog, and a pig, and destroying four huts made of straw
and mud walls.
