Lone Survivor Tells Of Viet Cong Attack

Press, Volume CVIII, Issue 31672, 7 May 1968, Page 14

Lone Survivor Tells Of Viet Cong Attack

(N.Z.P. A.-Reuter—Copyrights SAIGON, May 6. Francis John Palmos, aged 28, a freelance Australian journalist, was one of five reporters riding in a jeep-type vehicle on Sunday morning to cover the Viet Cong attack on Saigon.

They were gunned down by the Viet Cong, and Palmos’s four 1 colleagues were killed. Palmos survived only by act ing as if he was dead. He writes: We had been down the roadway that leads from Saigon to the Mekong Delta. There was nothing doing down there and we decided to drive back towards the city. John Cantwell, a “Time” magazine staff member from Australia, was driving: Michael Birch, of the Australian Associated Press, was in the right front seat; on the right ip the back was Ron Laramy, an Englishman who worked for Reuters; and in the centre was Bruce Pigott, an Australian and a staff member of Reuters.

1 was the last to get in, and had to take the half seat in the back, with my left leg hanging out over the side. We had recrossed the bridge and were heading back to the city when we saw two gunship helicopters immediately above us, putting in rockets about 1000 yards to the north. The rockets were exploding and sending up a column of smoke, so we decided to track it down. We plunged into a side street, heading into a very crowded and poor district. Moving the other way was a strong current of refugees carrying babies and household goods—anything they could carry on their backs and in pushcarts. We were the only people going in the other direction. I suppose we passed 2000 people going south towards the road that we had come from. All the way, people were saying "Viet Cong, V.C., V.C., V.C.” Suddenly the refugee stream started to thin out I was sitting on the mudguard on the left so I had a higher view, and I said, perhaps from intuition: “The V.C. are up ahead, stop, stop, stop.” Bruce said, “Or, go ahead anyway,” but immediately after he said it his face went pale. Apparently he had seen something I hadn’t. We drove into an open intersection with one little path about six feet wide leading off to the left It was empty. The whole intersection was empty. 1 shouted out: “Stop, stop,” because I was scared and 1 felt there were V.C. there. Someone else, perhaps Bruce or Michael Birch, also shouted ’Stop.” Cantwell, the driver, swerved to the left and while he was trying to get into reverse, trying to back the vehicle around and get out

of there, two Viet Cong opened fire. One on our left had a burp gun, the one on the right an A.K 47. There were two other V.C. there in the background, and the fifth —the commander, I learned later—was nearby. It wasn’t a real ambush, but a murderous attack. They were holding the perimeter of the V.C. area. The burp gun and the A.K. 47 pushed bullets for a full 10 seconds through the jeep. I jumped to the left, staggered about 10 yards pretending I was hit, then fell.

After the burst, I looked under my shoulder and could only see two of the other four. One, whom I thought was Laramy, had his arms and head thrown back, his mouth open, and he looked dead. The second—l believe it was John Cantwell—was lying on bis back to the left of the jeep parallel to me but about six feet away. The automatic fire stopped and the commander, wearing an unmatched camouflage uniform and no hat, came forward with his left arm outstretched, holding a .45.

It was then I noticed that the other two Viet Cong were holding automatic weapons, had ordinary khaki drill uniforms and Ho Chi Minh sandals. But the commander, who had ordered them to stop firing. had uniform and boots. Very solidly built, a very big man for a Vietnamese, he began to walk towards the jeep. Everything was quiet for a few seconds. Then I heard someone call out pleadingly, “Bao chi, bad chi” (Vietnamese for reporters). The comamnder, still pointing his gun, repeated, derisively, "Bao chi,” and then pumped two .45 slugs into the jeep. ... I was lying there, pretending I was dead. This fellow walked round the back of the jeep and the person lying on his back parallel with me was moving. I thought he had been wounded. The man took very deliberate aim from about five feet away and fired his Colt .45 automatic three times. The first bullet hit below the body, skipped over it and missed my head by a fraction of an inch. I heard it zing. One of the next two bullets entered the body lying there. I waited until he had finished his clip and was starting to put the gun back in his belt.

Then I peeked under my left elbow and saw that the burp gunner had also lowered his sights. What I didn’t know was that both of them were refilling their clips. I had my left foot under my body in a starting position for running. I had about 100 feet to run and I ran a zig-zag football dash. The AK47 and the burp gun opened up on me, but they were lousy shots—they hit poles and advertising signs in front of me. I can run 100 yards in 10 seconds, so I figured no Viet Cong was going to catch me.

I turned a comer and

heard the automatics stop. Then I heard the commander coming after me. I knew it was him because he was the only one wearing boots and I could hear them slap, slap on the road.

1 caught up with the tail end of the refugee column, ripped my shirt off and splashed mud on myself. I crouched because I was a good foot taller than most of those people. I thought at the time that I would still be caught because the Viet Cong commander appeared, firing shots over the refugees’ heads to get them to stop me. But not one of those refugees helped the Viet Cong. Not only did they not give me up, but they didn’t turn their heads. I reached some sort of a pushcart, hunched up behind it and walked on for about 200 yards. When I reached the end of the main street, I commandeered a little three-wheel pushcart and we drove about a mile. Then I saw an Australian soldier and I asked him to jump in with me and ride shotgun until we got to the American military police.