Written by Todd DePastino

Saigon swelled with refugees as “Black April” 1975 ground toward its grim conclusion.

With artillery booms and black smoke columns on the horizon signaling a tightening noose, the wealthy and well-connected made their plans. They booked passage on the last commercial flights or found spots for their families on boats leaving the harbor. For those associated with the Americans – translators, clerks, contractors, and their families – the big question was whether the U.S. Embassy would get them out.

But Ambassador Graham Martin didn’t believe the war was over or that Saigon would fall.

Ambassador Martin, the top U.S. diplomat in Vietnam, was a courtly and stubborn man who had lost an adopted nephew to the war in 1965, Marine 1st Lt Glenn Dill Mann. A liberal Democrat with an undying devotion to defeating Communism in Vietnam, Martin was an oddball as Nixon’s ambassador. In fact, it was a set-up. Nixon suspected that whoever held the position would end up departing in ignominy, so he preferred that it be a Democrat.

Ambassador Martin believed that ARVN would repel the NVA advance. The CIA deemed the Ambassador to be dangerously delusional.

Martin made no plans for Saigon’s evacuation and disbelieved National Security Agency reports of NVA troop strength. He assured President Nguyen Van Thieu that the U.S. would send troops to save Theiu’s regime.

Martin delayed evacuation so long that all road and water routes were closed. Any escape would have to be by air.

On April 27, Saigon was encircled, and sporadic rocket attacks had begun falling in the city. The dreaded moment had come – but still no evacuation order.

Many Americans in the embassy began packing their own bags in secret as the NVA drew near.

In the pre-dawn hours of April 29, Saigon’s sky lit up with flashes and the deep crump of explosions. North Vietnamese artillery had begun raining down on Tan Son Nhut Air Base, the city’s main escape route. Shells pounded the runways and parking ramps, wrecking planes and igniting fuel depots. Amid the barrage, two Marine guards at a defensive perimeter were killed – Corporal Charles McMahon and Lance Corporal Darwin Judge, the last Americans to die in combat in Vietnam.

With the airport under fire, fixed-wing evacuation flights had to cease immediately. Ambassador Martin, as if shaken from sleep, gave the order to execute Operation Frequent Wind – the massive helicopter evacuation of Saigon.

At 10:50 a.m., Armed Forces Vietnam Radio began playing Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas” on a loop, the secret signal to Americans that the evacuation was on. U.S. personnel grabbed their “bug-out bags” and headed to pre-arranged assembly points, while thousands of anxious South Vietnamese allies noticed the unusual music and realized what was happening.

Soon, the distinctive thump-thump of helicopter rotors filled the air above Saigon. U.S. military aircraft appeared overhead, tracing paths from ships in the South China Sea. The main pickup zones were the Defense Attaché Office (DAO) compound near the airport and the U.S. Embassy downtown.

CH-53 Sea Stallion helicopters—big workhorses—began landing in the DAO parking lot, kicking up dust and debris as anxious evacuees rushed aboard. Each lift ferried dozens to the waiting U.S. Navy task force off the coast.

Meanwhile, in central Saigon, the U.S. Embassy was fast becoming a focal point of desperation. By afternoon, thousands of Vietnamese civilians had gathered outside the compound’s tall iron gates, begging the Marines on guard to be let in.

Inside the embassy courtyard, Martin insisted that as many South Vietnamese staffers and their loved ones be evacuated as possible, alongside the Americans. Helicopters began landing on the rooftop helipad and within the walled compound itself, taking out group after group in an orderly but urgent procession​.

U.S. Marines secured the perimeter with calm discipline, even as frightening crowds pressed at the walls and sporadic explosions went off around the city. Pilots from the U.S. Seventh Fleet flew mission after mission with blades practically touching each other in the congested airspace. Some had been flying for 18 hours straight, refueling on ships and turning around to go back for more evacuees without rest.

Navy ships off Vung Tau opened their decks and hangars to incoming helicopters crammed with people. Flight crews would sometimes land with evacuees literally hanging off the skids.

Aboard carriers USS Midway (CV-41) and USS Hancock (CVA-19), sailors swiftly ushered passengers off each chopper. To keep the pace, once helicopters had offloaded, many were simply pushed into the sea to clear precious space on deck for the next arrivals.

Dozens of South Vietnamese Air Force pilots made last-minute escapes, flying their own Huey helicopters out to sea, hovering near US ships and offloading family members in daring mid-air maneuvers before ditching their aircraft in the waves.

One astonishing incident saw South Vietnamese Air Force Major Buang-Ly steal a Cessna O-1 Bird Dog and take off under fire with his wife and five children. Buang dropped a note on the deck of the Midway pleading for permission to land. The Midway’s commander, Captain Lawrence Chambers (who was also the first Black carrier captain) ordered the carrier’s deck cleared – helicopters were moved aside or tossed overboard – and this tiny plane bobbled down onto the deck. Cheers erupted as the family emerged. It was a bright moment in a day otherwise filled with sorrow.

Back in Saigon, the sun set on April 29, and darkness shrouded the final hours of the rescue. Flares and tracers streaked overhead as North Vietnamese troops edged closer to the city center. Still, the helicopters kept coming. Embassy staff worked by flashlight to destroy sensitive documents, even as colleagues led the last groups of Vietnamese up to the roof.

Marines, who had been ordered to arrest Graham Martin if he refused to evacuate, escorted the Ambassador to a CH-46 Sea Knight waiting on the Embassy roof at about 5 a.m. on April 30.

Graham’s helicopter transmitted the code, “Tiger is out,” which other CH-46 crews took to mean Frequent Wind had ended. But there were Marines left behind on the roof, including eleven Security Guards “We’re going to die like Marines,” the commander told his men. They fully expected to be left behind.

Another CH-46 arrived to remove the Marine Guards at 7:53 a.m. on April 30. It was the last flight out, and a final end to U.S. operations in Vietnam.