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GOSSAMER & XFC - PLEASE DO NOT ARCHIVE THIS VERSION

Classific: S
Rating:    PG-13  a few swear words, nothing more
Keywords:  Pre-XF
Spoilers:  A mention from One Breath (US2)
Summary:   What if Skinner and Frohike had met years ago?

Goodnight Saigon
by Martha Little
mwlittle@mindspring.com


'We met as soul mates on Parris Island
We left as inmates from an asylum . . .'  **


April 28, 1975
Saigon

He awoke with a rough shaking of the shoulder and a familiar voice,
"Wake up, Frohike.  We gotta get moving."

His eyes immediately opened and adjusted to the morning sunlight.
"Umm, what?  What's going on?"  The experience of four years in the
Corps had taught him to lie still for that first moment, to assess
your surroundings before moving or sitting upright.  That way, you had
a chance to remember where you were, who you were with, and the
location of your weapon before stumbling out of bed.

Skinner started opening some bureau drawers and pulled out his wallet
and some personal papers.  "We've been ordered to clear out and head
for the Embassy.  Now.  Just grab what you need and let's go."

The unending months of living from place to place, billeting here and
there, gone for weeks at a time, had prepared Frohike for quick exits.
A duffel bag with a week's worth of clean clothes was stashed under
the bed, his kit on the dresser, ID and other personal effects in the
top drawer, and he swung by route into action.  Getting dressed was a
snap;  the boots took up most of his time.

It was not until he reached the jeep and stowed his gear in the back
that Frohike began to swear.  "Shit.  Bob and Bing.  They're not back
yet."

"Can't be helped.  They'll see that we're gone and head back home."
Skinner dumped his bag in the back.  "They'll know soon enough what's
going on."

"What?"

"VC are headed in.  All remaining US personnel have been ordered to
the Embassy for immediate evacuation."

Frohike was dumbfounded.  "We can't just leave them.  They'll be
slaughtered."

"We have no choice," Skinner answered gruffly and then began yelling
up at the open windows.  "We have to leave now.  Move it, guys."

The remaining office personnel housed at the apartment complex piled
into the available jeep and sped towards the Embassy:  Maxton and
Austin, paper pushers for the CIA, and Marines Cpl. Frohike and Staff
Sgt. Skinner - who were assigned to the Embassy staff and worked with
the South Vietnam military forces.

As they turned onto the main road, they noticed a steady stream of
traffic - pedestrians, carts, bicycles - all heading in the opposite
direction in a quick fashion.  Away from Saigon.  South.  'Oh, fuck,'
thought Frohike, 'it's true.'  And his mind wandered back to the two
friends who had been left behind and imagined the looks on their
faces when they realized that they had literally been abandoned,
deserted by the people that they had helped, to a certain death.

Bob and Bing were Montagnards, the mountain people.  A tiny culture
that had been approached and prompted to help the US in the fight
against the Viet Cong.  Bob and Bing were not their real names, of
course;  they had earned those nicknames with their good-natured
teasing of the other - it had reminded someone of the old Road movies
that Hope and Crosby had made, and the names had stuck.  Cousins in
real life, growing up as brothers, they had been recruited as scouts
and interpreters for some of the Intelligence teams still near Saigon.
They had gone 'home' for a few days - a grandfather's birthday - to be
with family.  And now they would have to return again, not to
celebrate or enjoy the company of family but to prepare for the
massacre of friendlies that was sure to follow the fall of Saigon.

The on-coming traffic slowed down their journey - it took nearly an
hour to go several miles.  They soon discovered why as they approached
the main gate of the US Embassy.  A mob scene had ensued - twenty
people deep, obscuring almost the entire view of the gate, many
clinging to the rails calling in desperation in a mixture of their own
language and English to be let in and waving paperwork showing their
variety of loyalties and good deeds done in the name of the Americans
inside.

Skinner motioned to Maxton, the driver, "Head for the west gate."

A similar outburst was taking place at this entrance, albeit on a much
smaller scale.  The group abandoned the jeep, grabbed their weapons
and gear, and were given admittance when they made their way to the
front.  Maxton and Austin headed straight for the building and their
offices.

"Who do we report to, Lt.?" Skinner asked the only officer in sight in
patrol in the yard.

"Inside," Lt. Winston gestured.

The two Marines looked around at the sparse number of guards.  "Do you
need us out here?" Frohike asked.

"No.  You'll just be in the way."  Winston looked back at the two
after making that comment.  "Sorry, but my men know what to do out
here without being told.  There's plenty of work still to be done
inside."

Skinner and Frohike entered the Embassy building to massive chaos.
They roamed down various hallways, dodging the civilian staff who were
running back and forth between offices, attempting to destroy files to
keep them out of enemy hands.  They eventually made their way to one
of the ballrooms where in the past elegant galas had been thrown and
which was now cramped with people, mainly Vietnamese.  The noise level
was what one would expect to hear in a crowd that was scared,
confused, and uncertain as to what was transpiring.

A control center had been established in one of the offices next to
the ballroom.  Upon checking in, they had been told that helicopters
could start arriving in a few hours to evacuate the personnel and
friendlies and that is when their help would be needed.  "It could
turn into a mess real quick in here if they start thinking that any
chopper that's leaving is the last one in."  They were told to
disperse, to help where they could.  And to take the opportunity to
evacuate when that time came.

"OK, Sgt," Frohike began as he looked over the chaos, "where do we
start?"

Skinner did a 360-degree turn to scan the room.  "Why don't we get it
organized in here?  We've got people tripping over themselves to get by."

For the next several hours, the two Marines helped with rearranging
the layout of people in the ballroom.  These were local employees and
government officials and their families who had already been processed
for evacuation and were awaiting the transportation.  Pathways were
cleared and furniture removed so that more families could be
accommodated and to keep the stairwells and hallways somewhat clear
for Embassy personnel traffic.  The arrangements offered little
privacy but personal comfort was not forefront in the minds of many of
the occupants that evening.  The two had managed to find a few moments
to down a few mouthfuls of food and then a quiet corner to close their
eyes for a few hours.  Sleep overtook most of the room's inhabitants,
but it was more from exhaustion and far from peaceful.

The helicopters started arriving early the next morning, and the
airlift began.  Frohike and Skinner were on the detail to help the
people moving to the rooftop.  A number of the evacuees had to be
coaxed outside, to make their way to the top via the steps and
ladders.  They were afraid of snipers, noting that all the military
personnel outside had a weapon of one kind or another either drawn or
within easy reach.  It also weighed on the minds of the two Marines,
that they would be easy targets, but trusted their fellow servicemen
covering the grounds that the dreaded situation would not arise.

Several hours later, their attention shifted to a number of shots
being fired near the west gate.  As Frohike peered over the railing in
the direction of those shots, he began to size up the situation and
swore out loud.  Upon hearing him, Skinner rushed to his side and saw
their comrades, Bob and Bing, just outside the compound wall.  They
had apparently tried to scale it, to join their friends, the Americans
- the friends who would certainly not leave them behind.  Bing was
lying on the ground, wounded in the shoulder by one of the several
warning shots fired at them;  Bob was kneeling beside him and looking
up at the rooftop at the lucky ones - and at Frohike and Skinner.

"Come on," Skinner said to the other man, pulling him away from
railing, "there's nothing that can be done now."  Frohike was like
deadweight;  each step away from the view of the Montagnards that had
been their friends for nearly the past year seemed an eternity to them
both.  "Come on, Frohike," Skinner cajoled, "we'll just barely get
everyone out now."  He did not intend to sound heartless or
unforgiving, just stating the obvious without trying to be overheard.
"There's another one headed in.  We've got to save the ones we can."

The line moved quickly for several more hours.  Both found themselves
now on the rooftop, holding back the crowds until the helicopters had
safely landed and helped to load the human cargo.

Frohike lifted the smaller children into the chopper, into the arms of
their mothers, the Vietnamese women who had married US servicemen and
personnel stationed at and near the Embassy.  He noted the confusion
in their faces and also the certain fear that if they were to be left
behind, they would be executed by the VC as traitors.  They clutched
their children and the hurried paperwork that gave them their
identities.

Skinner approached him and put a hand on his shoulder, leaning in to
be heard over the motor and rotating blades, "Go, Frohike, now.  I'll
catch up later."

"No," Frohike yelled back, "there are still more civilians to be
evacuated."

"There'll be more choppers later, and there are plenty of us left to
handle them.  Go, now.  Get out."  Skinner attempted to grab Frohike's
upper arm to physically push him into the aircraft.

Frohike shook off the attempt.  "I'm not leaving.  I'm not leaving
you, Sgt."

"Look, someone's got to help take care of these people when they land;
they'll be the first to get lost in the confusion.  Keep them safe.
That's what you're good at."  Skinner turned to look at the interior
of the craft to size up the situation.  "Besides, I'm too big;  I'll
weigh this one down.  You're the runt of the litter.  You fit.  Now,
go, and that's an order."

Frohike froze for a moment and stared up at Skinner, doing that
last-minute memorization thing that flashes across one's mind when the
probabilities are being calculated that you might never see that
person again.  Frohike had done this many times in the past eighteen
months in this current assignment - he had stored enough photographs
to rival his high school yearbook.  Today, he added three more:
Skinner, Bob, and Bing.  He quickly ran over to the railing where they
had left their gear for just such a quick exit and scrambled onto the
waiting chopper, leaning in towards the pilot to indicate that he
should leave now.  As the human cargo were lifted away, Frohike
reached over to pull close the door and pressed his forehead against
the window.  His last view of Skinner was of him staring back up at
the chopper from the rooftop of the Embassy, pistol in his right hand
by his side and his left arm raised in farewell.

It would be almost twenty years before he saw that face again.


'They heard the hum of our motors
They counted the rotors and waited for us to arrive.
And we would all go down together
We said we'd all go down together.' **


The helicopter carried them first to Thailand for refueling and then
on to one of the ships stationed off the coast.  Frohike kept his word
to Skinner, keeping the group of women and children together,
memorizing the names of the wives and children and the husbands and
hometowns in case any of them wandered off during the trip or any of
the paperwork got misplaced.  Frohike often thought of the sight that
they projected as they disembarked in Guam - with him surrounded by
half a dozen quite lovely young women with several children trailing
behind him and one riding piggyback.  The envious looks alone from the
sailors on the docks made him feel six feet tall.  He remained in Guam
with the group, fending off well-meaning Red Cross personnel, until
all the women had been reunited with their husbands.  And while he
waited, he searched for word of Skinner.  He found out later that a
majority of the Embassy staff had been diverted through Clark Air
Force Base in the Philippines but was never able to find anyone who
remembered him actually leaving the Embassy.

That Skinner even bothered to remain in the service and in Vietnam for
as long as he did was a puzzle to him.  Frohike had found out what had
happened - the ambush that left Skinner in hospitals and rehab for
months while the rest of his platoon were shipped back home for
burial.  Was it out of guilt or some misplaced loyalty that made him
request the additional tours?  The pullout of the US troops in 1973
did not discourage him;  he simply requested a transfer to the
Embassy, to stay on to advise and train the local soldiers.  It was as
if he were afraid to leave before finishing the job that led him to
enlist in the first place.

Frohike stayed to work with the refugees who poured into the camps.
Each day, he scoured the lists of new arrivals, hoping to find the
names of the Montagnards who had befriended him - or of any of that
clan for that fact.   In the five weeks that he remained at the camps,
he had yet to come across any Montagnard who had made it out of
Vietnam.

Shortly thereafter, the Corps called to reclaim his ass and sent him
home to Baltimore to be discharged.  He drifted for a few years before
going back to the electronics engineering and surveillance work that
had been his job while in the service.  In later years, using a new
communications tool known as the Internet, Frohike would be able to
track down some of the families that he had helped - mainly for his
own peace of mind and to help settle some of the demons.

And he would make contact with a number of Montagnard refugees, many
of whom had waited years to buy or smuggle their way out of the country.
He found that a good number of them had settled in the piedmont and
mountain regions of North Carolina and had visited the area, hoping to
hear some word of acquaintances left behind.  He was able to find
someone who had identified herself as an aunt of Bob and Bing, but she
did not know of their fate - only that they never returned to their
village after Saigon fell.

And he would find Skinner again.  But this time they would find
themselves at opposite ideological poles.

But not for long.


'And it was dark, so dark at night
And we held on to each other, like brother to brother,
We promised our mothers we'd write.
And we would all go down together
We said we'd all go down together.'  **

        x       x       x       x       x       x       x       x


** Lyrics and title are from 'Goodnight Saigon' by Billy Joel and are
used without permission.

Thanks to Plausible Deniability who suggested using this backstory
as a stand-alone rather than including it in an ongoing WIP.  He has
not seen this final version, so don't blame him for my mistakes.  Thanks
also to Sally and giz, who read and encourage.

And, yes, I played a little with XF canon.

For other stories that involve Frohike and Skinner and their time in
Vietnam, you must read Joyce McKibben's excellent trilogy:  When
Johnny Came Marching Home, The Tontine, and Blowing in the Wind.

end

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