In the final days of the Vietnam War, a Vietnamese refugee family tries to push their scooter onto Highway 1 outside Saigon as they flee the advancing North Vietnamese, days before the fall of Saigon in April 1975.
One more day. If Charlie McMahon and Darwin Judge could have survived one more day, their names would not be engraved in history as heartbreaking footnotes to the story of the Vietnam War. But there they are, two names on the Wall, distinguished by the date of their deaths: April 29, 1975, making them the last two American servicemen killed in Vietnam. The two young Marines—Corporal McMahon would have turned twenty-two in eleven days; Lance Corporal Judge was nineteen—had been in Vietnam for just a week when a North Vietnamese rocket struck their checkpoint outside the US Defense Attaché’s office at “Pentagon East,” the sprawling US command center at the big Tan Son Nhut Air Base just outside of Saigon, where they were pulling guard duty as thousands of Americans and Vietnamese were being evacuated from Vietnam.
Photos of US Army military advisors Master Sgt. Chester Ovnand (left) and Maj. Dale Buis (right) are displayed at a ceremony at the Vietnam Veterans Memorial Wall in Washington, D.C., on July 8, 2009, commemorating the fiftieth anniversary of their deaths. They were the first American servicemen to die in the Vietnam War.
Just weeks earlier, the North Vietnamese Army (NVA) had begun a lightning drive south toward Saigon, steamrolling the opposing South Vietnamese forces, many of whom had abandoned their posts and fled, leaving their weapons and even their uniforms behind in a desperate effort at survival. In late March, the old imperial capital of Hue fell, and Da Nang was taken on March 29—Da Nang, where exactly ten years earlier, the landing of US Marines marked the start of American ground combat operations in South Vietnam. In late March 1975, no one was coming ashore at Da Nang; rather, there was a mass exodus, as civilians and soldiers alike scrambled to board any available watercraft that could carry them to the safety of waiting ships chartered by the US Military Sealift Command. As many as twenty thousand military and civilian personnel were evacuated to the ships. One Boeing 727 flown by World Airways landed at Da Nang to try to evacuate women and children, but some panicked South Vietnamese troops fought their way onto the plane, which eventually took off with around three hundred people on board. Now, a month after capturing Da Nang, the North Vietnamese were within a few miles of Saigon, poised to take the biggest prize and claim total victory. At Tan Son Nhut, US Air Force transport planes had been taking off around the clock with capacity loads of passengers: American military and civilian personnel, South Vietnamese military personnel, and civilians who had been working for the Americans, and flying them to the safety of US bases in the Philippines or Guam. At 4:00 a.m., the North Vietnamese launched a rocket attack on Tan Son Nhut, sending more than 150 rockets into the big complex. One of the rockets struck a US Air Force C-130 cargo plane waiting to take refugees on board, destroying the plane and halting the airlift. And one of the rockets scored a direct hit on the checkpoint manned by McMahon and Judge.
Later in the day of April 29, the few remaining Americans in Vietnam, including Ambassador Graham Martin, scrambled aboard a helicopter on a Saigon rooftop and flew to the safety of the ships of the US 7th Fleet waiting offshore. The day after, April 30, 1975, North Vietnamese Army tanks smashed through the gates of the presidential palace and claimed victory over South Vietnam. The Vietnam War was over. The new Vietnamese government declared April 30 Reunification Day.
Charles McMahon and Darwin Judge were the last American servicemen to die in the Vietnam War, but the case for the first American soldier to die there is open to debate. Some argue that it was US Army Lt. Col. Peter Dewey, who was shot on September 26, 1945, by soldiers of the Viet Minh, Ho Chi Minh’s army, who apparently thought Dewey was French. Lieutenant Colonel Dewey was in the Office of Strategic Services—the OSS, precursor of today’s CIA—and he had gone to Saigon to assess the situation there after the surrender of Japan, which had occupied Vietnam during World War II. Ironically, the OSS had been working closely with the nationalist leader Ho Chi Minh, who had been supplying the Americans with intelligence on the Japanese, and Dewey supported the Viet Minh’s objective of keeping the French from reestablishing colonial rule of Vietnam after the war.
Those factors complicate Dewey’s status as the first American soldier to die in Vietnam. He was killed by the Communist Viet Minh, but by what we might now call “friendly fire,” because he was actually on Ho Chi Minh’s side, as was the administration of President Franklin Roosevelt. Roosevelt’s opposition to French colonialism in Indochina, as well as the US collaboration with Ho Chi Minh during World War II, seemed to promise a lasting friendship between the two peoples. On September 2, 1945, three weeks before Dewey’s death, other US Army officers had stood on a reviewing stand in Hanoi and listened to a band playing “The Star-Spangled Banner” as Ho proclaimed his country’s freedom in words borrowed directly from the American Declaration of Independence, and US aircraft flew overhead in salute. It was Ho’s finest moment, the culmination of a lifetime struggle for a unified, independent Vietnam—but the moment didn’t last, and Ho Chi Minh would not live to see his dream fulfilled. Yet on that heady day in 1945, it was unthinkable that fourteen years later, Americans and Vietnamese would be dying at each other’s hands.
Flash ahead to a hot July night in South Vietnam in the summer of 1959. The few Americans in the country at that time were not worrying too much about death.
At a small South Vietnamese army camp in Bien Hoa, a village about twenty miles east of Saigon, six American advisors—US Army personnel who were part of the US Military Assistance Advisory Group—were absorbed in the first reel of a movie, The Tattered Dress, starring Jeff Chandler and Jeanne Crain. They did not hear the shadowy, black-clad figures who crept out of the darkness surrounding their mess hall. They did not see them ready a French submachine gun in the rear window or push two rifle muzzles through the pantry screens. They did not realize anything was wrong at all until Master Sgt. Chester Ovnand turned on the lights to change the reel. Suddenly, automatic-weapons fire exploded through the room. The high-caliber shells slammed into the startled Americans, spinning one man around and knocking two others from their seats before Maj. Jack Hellet snapped off the lights and the gunmen fled, or all six men might have died. In the bloody confusion of the mess hall lay Capt. Howard Boston. Badly wounded, he would survive.
Retired US Army Capt. Nathaniel P. Ward IV (left) and retired Army Maj. Sam Ratcliffe stand with a wreath in honor of Major Buis and Master Sergeant Ovnand, both of whom were killed when their compound in Bien Hoa, just north of Saigon, was attacked.
But for Master Sergeant Ovnand and Maj. Dale Buis, the night would go on forever.
Ovnand, from Texas, was forty-four, and a couple of months away from retirement. Buis, thirty-eight, from California, had arrived at Bien Hoa only two days before.
In the time between the deaths of Major Buis and Major Sergeant Ovnand and the deaths of Corporal McMahon and Lance Corporal Judge, 58,721 Americans lost their lives to the Vietnam War, along with 183,528 South Vietnamese army soldiers, an estimated 925,000 North Vietnamese soldiers and guerrillas, 415,000 South Vietnamese civilians, and as many as 65,000 North Vietnamese civilians.
How, and why, did it all happen?
French Indochina as it appeared in 1910, including Cambodia and Laos. The French created a three-part federation of Tonkin in the north, Annam in the center, and Cochin in the south. To the west is Siam, now Thailand.
Around 100 BC, Chinese warriors invaded the northern provinces of what is now Vietnam, and China dominated the country for roughly a thousand years. It could be argued that the Vietnamese people’s desire for independence was born during that millennium, and it grew until, in 938 AD, the Vietnamese hero Ngo Quyen drove out the Chinese. For the next several centuries, Vietnam expanded slowly southward, finally encompassing the Mekong Delta region in the eighteenth century. But by that time, civil wars were tearing the country apart, and Vietnam was for the first time divided by north and south. China, taking advantage of the civil strife, reoccupied parts of the north.
Enter the French. A Jesuit missionary, Alexandre de Rhodes, arrived in 1620, the same year that a boatload of English pilgrims landed at Plymouth Rock in America. Through Father De Rhodes, the French established Europe’s first ties with Vietnam, and in the late eighteenth century another French cleric engineered the 1787 Treaty of Versailles, which promised French assistance to Prince Nguyen Anh to conquer Vietnam’s feuding warlords and reunify the nation. The French king, Louis XVI, had troubles of his own, however, as the French Revolution was afoot, and he was only able to offer a small number of French soldiers. But that proved to be enough to tip the balance, and Nguyen Anh managed to capture Saigon, unify Vietnam, and rule as Emperor Gia Long well into the nineteenth century, when another sort of French ruler, Napoleon III, formed his own designs on Vietnam. In 1858–1859 Napoleon’s forces captured Saigon and Da Nang, and in 1884–1885 French forces drove China out of northern Vietnam. In 1887, French Indochina was formed, including not only Vietnam but Cambodia as well. Laos was added in 1893 after the brief Franco-Siamese War. But long before the maps could be redrawn, Vietnamese resistance to French rule had begun.
Three years after the French claimed “Indochina” for their own, in the little village of Hoang Tru, a boy named Nguyen Sinh Cung was born. He would change his name several times. When he was ten, his father, a Confucian scholar and imperial magistrate, renamed his son Nguyen Tat Thanh, “Nguyen the Accomplished,” in recognition of the boy’s scholastic achievements. In Paris, around 1920, Nguyen took yet another name, Nguyen Ai Quoc, “Nguyen the Patriot.” In 1940, serving as an advisor with the Chinese Communist forces that would eventually take over the country, Nguyen took the name that stuck: Ho Chi Minh, “He Who Enlightens.”
The life of Ho Chi Minh is the thread that bound the United States to Vietnam, as allies and enemies, for many decades. He petitioned three American presidents to help him get the French out of Vietnam, worked with American intelligence services during World War II, borrowed liberally from the American Declaration of Independence in his rhetoric, and finally fought the Americans until he died, in 1969, in pursuit of his lifelong goal of a unified, independent Vietnam. He was a Communist from an early age, but in the broad view, his communism seemed “small c” and more pragmatic than rigidly ideological. He lived in the Soviet Union and in Red China, and when he finally came to power in North Vietnam, he ruled with a firm and sometimes brutal hand, but he never seemed interested in the world Communist movement. Vietnam was his world, and if the democratic West would not help him achieve it, the Communist East would. And if, in the eyes of the Cold Warriors of the West, Vietnam became a fallen domino, it was also the final domino: the bloc stops here. After the Americans left, the Soviets, who had sent three thousand soldiers to advise and train (and perhaps fight alongside) the North Vietnamese, became Vietnam’s principal ally and maintained a military presence until the Soviet Union collapsed in 1991, but Vietnam never became the USSR’s minion. Or China’s. In 1978–1979, Vietnam invaded Cambodia, ousting the Beijing-backed Khmer Rouge and ending the Pol Pot nightmare, in the process earning China’s outrage. The Vietnamese were denounced by Chinese leader Deng Xiaoping as “the hooligans of the East.”
The man who eventually would become the symbol of Vietnamese communism, the mortal enemy of the United States, and later, in death, be revered as the Father of the Nation, was a bright child. He learned, from his father, Chinese and Vietnamese writing as well as the requisite French at a lycée in Hue. His first political act is thought to have been participation in a peasant anti-tax demonstration in Hue when he was seventeen. At twenty-one, with his educational opportunities limited in Vietnam because his father had been fired from his government post for an abuse of power, he shipped out of Saigon on a French steamer, working in the galley, and arrived in Marseilles in late 1911. Rejected for study at the French Colonial Administrative School—think what might have happened, or not happened, had he become an administrator of French colonial rule in Vietnam!—Nguyen decided to work his way around the world on ships, and for the next several years visited the United States, Britain, and France. He lived in the US in 1912–1913, and again in 1917–1918, and worked at several jobs, including a stint as a baker at Boston’s venerable Parker House Hotel. Between those visits he sailed to Britain, where he odd-jobbed, mainly in restaurants, before crossing the English Channel to France, where his political education really began.
By the time Nguyen arrived in Paris, probably in 1919, there was a sizeable Vietnamese community in France. Within that community, a nationalist movement had bubbled up, and Nguyen joined it, quickly becoming one of the movement’s leaders and taking a new name: Nguyen Ai Quoc. At the Versailles peace talks at the close of World War I, Nguyen and the nationalists petitioned US president Woodrow Wilson and other Western leaders to force an end to French colonial rule in Indochina. This was the first time that the man who would become Ho Chi Minh brushed up against the US government, though he did not leave much of an impression. The nationalists’ plea was ignored, which served to fortify Nguyen’s patriotic resolve. His Paris activities may not have moved the West, but they did not go unnoticed in Vietnam, where he became a symbol and a rallying figure for the anticolonial movement.
In the years between the world wars, Nguyen Ai Quoc became a founding member of the French Communist Party and traveled to Moscow, where he spent a year studying and working for the Communist International (Comintern). In 1924, he went to Canton, China, where he gave lectures to young Vietnamese revolutionaries. He remained in China until 1927, when Chiang Kai-shek’s anti-Communist coup forced him to leave. For the next decade, he was constantly on the move—he returned to Moscow and then went to Paris, Germany, Switzerland, and Italy. In 1928, he moved to Thailand and then went to India, Shanghai, and Hong Kong, where he was arrested, possibly at the request of the French, in 1931. The British authorities in the Crown Colony resisted French demands for Nguyen’s extradition, then falsely reported his death and allowed him to slip away to Italy, where he worked for a time in a Milan restaurant (purportedly, a portrait of him still hangs on a wall there), but he was suffering from tuberculosis, and he spent several years in the Soviet Union recovering. He returned to China, where communism was in its ascendancy, working with Mao Zedong’s army, in 1938—the year Hitler’s Germany seized Austria and set its sights on the rest of Europe. In China, Nguyen Ai Quoc began calling himself Ho Chi Minh.
Hitler invaded Poland on September 1, 1939. Two days later, Britain and France declared war on Germany. Eight months later, on May 10, 1939, Germany invaded France; France surrendered on June 22, placing its new, pro-Axis Vichy government in charge of France and her territories, including Indochina.
By then, Japan and China had been at war for two years. Japan had long coveted China’s resources, including its seemingly inexhaustible supply of human labor, and had sent its armies in to try to seize them. In 1937, Japan captured Nanking, the Chinese capital, and began a six-week rampage of slaughter and rape that left as many as three hundred thousand Chinese civilians and disarmed soldiers dead.
The Nationalist Chinese government was supported by the US and France, who funneled war supplies to China through the Vietnamese port of Haiphong. In 1940, Japan invaded northern Vietnam to shut off the Allied pipeline to China, but left the Vichy government in place. The following year, with the rubber-stamp approval of the Vichy government, the Japanese placed forces in southern Vietnam and created the bases that served as springboards for Japanese assaults on the Philippines, Malaysia, and other Pacific territories. In July 1941, President Roosevelt asked the Japanese to withdraw from Indochina, and began an oil embargo of Japan that threatened to cripple its military machine. On December 7, 1941, the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor and the US entered the war.
A Japanese officer gives his weapon up to allied forces during the Japanese surrender in Indochina, August 1945. Ho Chi Minh had led guerrilla actions against the Vichy French and Japanese occupiers. When the Japanese surrendered, he proclaimed Vietnam’s independence.
Ho Chi Minh returned to Vietnam in 1941 to lead the Viet Minh in the fight for independence, which now had two adversaries, the French and the Japanese. He led many guerrilla actions against the Vichy French and the Japanese occupiers, reportedly with clandestine support from the American OSS, given in return for the intelligence on the Japanese that the Viet Minh could supply. In March 1945, the Japanese jailed the Vichy French administrators and took sole possession of Vietnam. Five months later, after Hiroshima and Nagasaki, Japan surrendered and World War II ended. In September, Ho Chi Minh seized the moment to proclaim Vietnam’s independence, declaring, “All men are created equal. The Creator has given us certain inalienable rights: the right to Life, the right to be Free, and the right to achieve Happiness. … These immortal words are taken from the Declaration of Independence of the United States of America in 1776.”
But Ho’s declaration carried no weight in the postwar world. The French reestablished their authority in Indochina. Had President Roosevelt lived, he might have been able to prevent France’s reoccupation of Indochina; he was no fan of colonialism and supported independence. But Roosevelt was dead and the world was a vastly changed place, now dominated by two great powers, the US and the USSR, and two competing ideologies that would face off for decades in the Cold War. Ho and the Viet Minh resumed their long war of independence against the French and, ultimately, the Americans.
The death of Roosevelt and the onset of the Cold War left a new American president facing problems larger than Vietnamese independence. Alarmed by the threat of Soviet expansionism, determined to maintain cordial relations with a key European partner, and having been persuaded that Ho Chi Minh was a creature of Moscow, Harry Truman did not oppose the restoration of French sovereignty in Indochina. When war broke out between France and Vietnam in 1946, the United States adopted decidedly pro-French “neutrality,” declining requests for direct military aid but providing France with sufficient economic assistance so that Paris was able to fund the war out of its own pocket. The French had little success in subduing the Viet Minh. But Indochina remained a peripheral issue for the Truman administration until 1949, when the fall of Nationalist China precipitated a crucial change in US strategy. Fearing that another Communist success would have “critical psychological, political, and economic consequences” for the Western alliance, Truman abandoned American neutrality and committed the United States to a French victory. In early 1950, a US Military Assistance Advisory Group (MAAG) arrived in Vietnam to funnel military aid to France’s expeditionary army. By 1952, the United States was paying more than a third of the cost of the war; two years later, it was 80 percent.
Truman’s Indochina policy was adopted in its entirety by President Dwight Eisenhower, who believed his predecessor had erred only in allowing France too much leeway. Using more than $1 billion of increased funding as leverage, Washington insisted the French make greater efforts to win Nationalist support and adopt a more aggressive strategy. But nothing could arrest the steady deterioration of the military situation. In March 1954, the Viet Minh surrounded twelve thousand French troops at Dien Bien Phu. When France requested American help, Eisenhower warned that the loss of Indochina would set off a chain reaction felling other nations in the region “like a row of dominoes.” But the administration was not prepared to act alone and found no support in Congress for intervention. On May 7, after a fifty-five-day siege, the French garrison at Dien Bien Phu finally surrendered.
Attention immediately shifted to Geneva, where an East-West conference had just begun to discuss the Indochina problem. Buoyed by their victory, the Viet Minh demanded an immediate withdrawal of foreign troops and a comprehensive political settlement. But China and the Soviet Union persuaded Ho Chi Minh to accept temporary partition of Vietnam at the seventeenth parallel with elections to reunify the country in two years. A million anti-Communist Vietnamese, many of them Catholic, fled to the South; some fifty thousand people, many of them Viet Minh guerrillas and their families, moved to the North. The United States prepared to take over the defense of Laos, Cambodia, and the nascent state of South Vietnam, which few observers expected to survive the year.
The new nation’s leader, Ngo Dinh Diem, was an experienced administrator and ardent nationalist. But he faced a devastated economy, a lack of trained civil servants, a million refugees, and dozens of armed sects hostile to his government. Diem was a Catholic in a predominantly Buddhist country—a factor that would contribute to his downfall. But in the early years, with US help and a stubborn persistence, Diem not only survived but triumphed. In September 1955, in a declaration that reflected both his internal strength and the backing of his American patrons (President Eisenhower was adamant that the US not recognize the Geneva accords), Diem denounced the accords and refused to participate in the reunification elections scheduled for the following year. Many historians believe that if the elections had been held, Ho Chi Minh would have received 80 percent of the vote.
Once Diem had consolidated his regime, Washington launched an experiment in nation-building that took on the atmosphere of a crusade. From 1955 to 1961, the United States provided South Vietnam with more than $2 billion in aid. Along with the flood of American money came American engineers, doctors, agriculturalists, social scientists, military advisors, and public administrators to rebuild the South Vietnamese armed forces, reshape the South Vietnamese economy, and reorganize the South Vietnamese government. By the late 1950s, more than 1,500 Americans were building roads, planting crops, training bureaucrats, and dispensing medicine all across South Vietnam under the supervision of the largest US mission anywhere in the world.
President Dwight Eisenhower (left) and Secretary of State John Foster Dulles (second from left) greet President Ngo Dinh Diem of South Vietnam at Washington National Airport, 1957.
US officials called it a “miracle,” but their rhetoric outstripped reality. Although the United States was spending $85 million a year on training and equipment, the Army of the Republic of (South) Vietnam (ARVN) suffered from serious manpower shortages and command deficiencies. Although American aid prevented economic collapse and gilded life for the urban elites in Saigon, little was spent on industrial development or to improve the living conditions of the rural peasants who constituted 90 percent of the population. And although American advisors clothed South Vietnam in the trappings of democracy, Diem presided over a ruthless, authoritarian regime that steadily alienated popular support for his government.
Diem lost ground particularly in the countryside, where his suppression of traditional village government, an ineffectual land-reform program, and a penchant for public executions by guillotine created a receptive audience for revolutionary alternatives. In 1957, Viet Minh cadres who remained in the South after partition resumed political agitation in the villages, their efforts soon escalating into a systematic campaign of terror and assassination against local government officials. In January 1959, North Vietnam formally endorsed the resumption of armed struggle in the South and soon after began constructing the network of roads and trails that would become the Ho Chi Minh Trail. Over this route, Hanoi sent weapons and advisors to assist the insurgents who, in December 1960, coalesced under the banner of the National Liberation Front. By the time John F. Kennedy took office at the beginning of 1961, the military situation had become critical.
Along with the immediate crisis, the young American president had inherited a national commitment. By insisting on the vital importance of Southeast Asia to America’s security, Presidents Truman and Eisenhower had made it virtually impossible to retreat from the region. Moreover, Soviet threats to blockade Berlin and the failure of an American-sponsored invasion of Cuba (known as the Bay of Pigs invasion) made it imperative in Kennedy’s mind that the United States demonstrate its resolve in Vietnam. At the same time, the experience of the Korean War made him deeply reluctant to deploy American troops on the Asian mainland. Nor would their presence alone guarantee victory. The survival of the Diem government ultimately depended on its willingness to address the social and economic needs of South Vietnam’s peasant majority, something it had so far refused to do. Yet without a credible threat of withdrawal, Washington had no leverage to enforce its demands for reform.
Confident of his ability to maintain control of US involvement and unwilling to accept the costs of pulling out, Kennedy opted for a middle course between retreat and direct military intervention. Warding off pressure to introduce combat troops, the president substantially increased the amount of US aid and the number of American advisors. Any consideration of a larger US military presence depended on evidence from Saigon that the government intended to put its house in order.
President Kennedy meets with Secretary of State Dean Rusk (left) and Secretary of Defense Robert McNamara (right), two of his chief foreign policy advisors.
Thich Quang Duc, a Buddhist monk, burns himself to death on a Saigon street on June 11, 1963, to protest the alleged persecution of Buddhists by the South Vietnamese government.
The influx of American men and weapons took the Communist guerrillas by surprise, but the continuing inadequacy of the South Vietnamese army enabled the insurgents to regain the initiative. Washington’s attempts to change the direction of the Saigon government also met with failure. Diem instituted token economic reforms to appease the Americans while simultaneously enacting new measures of political repression. The inevitable crisis erupted in the summer of 1963 when militant Buddhists challenged the government with massive street demonstrations and fiery self-immolations. After months of upheaval, a group of South Vietnamese army generals began preparations that culminated on November 1 with the overthrow of the Diem government. During the coup, Diem and his brother Ngo Dinh Nhu were assassinated.
Although Washington had approved Diem’s removal, his murder shocked Kennedy and brought to the surface his growing doubts about the course he had taken. When he had assumed office, there were 875 US servicemen in Vietnam. Now there were more than sixteen thousand. Since 1961, millions of dollars had been spent and 109 Americans had lost their lives. Yet the United States was further than ever from its goal of a secure and independent South Vietnam. In mid-November 1963, the president ordered a “complete and very profound review” of American policy in Vietnam. Whether or not Kennedy could have reversed the momentum of US involvement nearly two decades in the making, he never got the chance to try. One week later, John F. Kennedy was dead.
DARWIN JUDGE AND CHARLIE MCMAHON
Darwin
If you invented a character like Darwin Lee Judge, people would say that he was too good to be true. A compact, handsome kid with sky-blue eyes, he grew up amid cornfields, hog farms, and churchgoing folks in a town that was founded by the father of Hall of Fame baseball player Cap Anson.
Marshalltown, Iowa, sits smack in the middle of the Hawkeye State. A thousand or so of the town’s twenty-seven thousand residents work at the JBS plant, packing Iowa hams. Darwin’s older sister, Lori Desaulniers, said Darwin was “the baby of the family—so we babied him!” But he turned out to need no babying.
As a kid, Judge got a paper route, as his brother Loren had done, delivering the Marshalltown Times Republican. He played second base for his Little League team—he had good hands, they said—and he made all-star twice. He played guitar in his youth group at the Hope United Methodist Church. He carried groceries for customers at Clifton’s. He became an Eagle Scout. As a high school senior, he built a tall grandfather clock that stood in the home of his parents, Henry and Ida Judge, until they died; the clock is now in the Marshalltown home of Darwin’s sister Lori.
Right after high school, Judge and three other Marshalltown boys enlisted in the Marine Corps together. Jonathan Lake, one of the four, said that during boot camp, Darwin was “more attentive” than the others and never once was reamed out by the drill instructor. Judge graduated first in his class at boot camp, and as a reward he was sent to the elite Marine Embassy School and assigned to the Marine Security Guard Battalion—the Marines who guard American embassies around the world. Judge and Charlie McMahon, also a graduate of the Embassy School, had been sent to Vietnam in late April to help secure the American Embassy, but when help was needed at Saigon’s Tan Son Nhut Air Base to guard the withdrawal of the last few US diplomats from the country in the chaotic days before it fell to the North Vietnamese, Judge and McMahon went there together.
During that frantic week, Darwin Judge became a hero to a fellow Marine guard. Doug Potratz was trying desperately to get his wife and three-year-old daughter, Becky, aboard an evacuation aircraft, but he was struggling to get their names on a manifest. Lance Corporal Judge knew the system. He found two open slots on a manifest, then took the little girl from Potratz and put her on his back—“piggy-back style,” Potratz said—sprinted off, and put her and Doug’s wife on the plane that took them safely out of Vietnam. Potratz stayed until April 30, and was evacuated from the roof of the US Embassy. Becky Potratz went on to graduate with honors from the University of Southern California. She said if it hadn’t been for Darwin Judge, she might still be in Vietnam.
Charlie
Charles McMahon Jr. was a big kid with Irish good looks and natural charm, a born leader with something of a wild streak, according to his boyhood pal George Holland. They grew up in Woburn, Massachusetts, nine miles north of Boston. Woburn was once a leather manufacturing town. The Woburn High football team is nicknamed the Tanners; they won the Eastern Massachusetts Division 1 Super Bowl in 1975, a few months after McMahon died in Vietnam. If he had survived one more day, he might have been at the game with Holland and his other high school buddies.
Charlie McMahon and George Holland were ten when they met at the Boys Club of Woburn. They both loved swimming and became lifeguards at the club’s pool, and then swimming directors, and McMahon became president of the club’s community service group, the Keystone Club. McMahon had leadership ability. “He was a pied piper,” said Holland. “People just followed Charlie.” During high school, McMahon and Holland got summer jobs as lifeguards at New Hampshire’s popular Hampton Beach, and McMahon would bring Labor Day traffic to a halt by jumping off the Hampton Beach bridge “for the fans,” he would say.
McMahon joined the Marines after high school, planning to train as an MP and then come home to join the Massachusetts State Police, said Holland, who also joined the Marines and served four years in the Corps. “He loved the Marines as much as anybody I ever saw in the Marines.” After Holland enlisted, when they were both home on leave, McMahon told Holland, “Bring your dress blues,” so that when they went out for dinner they would be recognized as Marines. “He was so proud to show the world who he was,” said Holland. He loved the Boys Club, too. Holland recalled the time when McMahon was stationed in California and was going to miss the Club’s annual banquet for the first time. McMahon and another Marine got a car and drove fifty-six hours straight, right across the country, so that McMahon could attend the banquet, in full MP regalia, nightstick and all. Less than a month before he died, McMahon, like Darwin Judge, had graduated from Marine Embassy School, at the top of his class. His orders had been cut; he was going to the US Embassy in Peru after home leave. On the 17th of April, he left Woburn, thinking that he would soon be in Lima, Peru. But en route, his orders were changed. He flew to Hawaii. He was headed for Vietnam.
Coming Home
In the panic and chaos of April 29 and 30, 1975, the bodies of Charlie McMahon and Darwin Judge were left behind, and wound up in a Seventh Day Adventist hospital in Saigon. But they were not forgotten.
In the months after the Paris Peace Accords were signed in 1973, US senator Edward “Ted” Kennedy of Massachusetts had maintained communication with high-ranking officials in both the Saigon and Hanoi governments. Kennedy began efforts to repatriate the remains of McMahon—who was, after all, a constituent—and his fellow Marine, Judge. In December, the Provisional Revolutionary Government in Saigon informed Kennedy that the bodies would be returned. On Sunday, February 22, 1976, Kennedy aides Jerry Tinker and Dale Dehaan flew from Bangkok, Thailand, to Saigon. A few hours later, they flew back to Bangkok with two flag-draped metal caskets bearing the remains of Darwin L. Judge and Charles McMahon Jr. From Bangkok, they flew to Travis Air Force Base in California. From there, McMahon’s casket was placed aboard an American Airlines flight to Boston. It was escorted by his uncle, Francis McMahon, an Air Force master sergeant. Judge’s casket was flown to Des Moines, Iowa, where it was met by a contingent of Marines, who escorted it to Marshalltown for burial.
On March 6, at 11:00 a.m., traffic came to a halt in Woburn center as the bells of the First Congregational Church tolled, slowly, for Marine Cpl. Charles McMahon Jr. Across from the church, two hundred people stood in silence. Charlie McMahon’s casket was borne into the church by Marine pallbearers and placed before the altar. A young man in Marine dress blues, in a wheelchair, was carried into the church by fellow Marines and placed before the casket. Scott McMahon had joined the Marines two months after his big brother Charlie’s death. He lost both legs in an auto accident at Camp Pendleton in California.
After the service, Charles McMahon was buried in the soldiers’ lot of Woodbrook Cemetery, across from Woburn High School. A Marine detail fired three rounds into the air in salute. Three buglers played taps, the long, sad notes drifting across the cemetery as hundreds of mourners stood silently around the grave. The six Marines holding the flag over McMahon’s casket folded the flag and handed it to Marine Capt. Michael Maloney, who presented it to Edna McMahon, Charlie’s mother.
Charles McMahon was the last of 1,423 Massachusetts serviceman killed in Vietnam, the thirteenth from Woburn.
Darwin Judge was the last of 856 Iowa boys killed in Vietnam; twelve were from Marshall County.
On the night of April 29, 1975, a Marine casualty officer in dress blues rang the bell at Henry and Ida Judge’s home. Ida called her daughter Lori and told her to come over right away. The next day, Lori Judge’s boyhood friend Ken Locke was working at Clifton’s grocery store where Judge had worked, when he heard the news on the radio. “I went into the back room and sat down on some boxes and cried like I had never cried before,” Locke said.
When Darwin Judge’s body arrived home, mourners filled the gym of Marshalltown High School, where he had graduated the year before. He was buried in Rose Hill Memorial Gardens cemetery, with a Marine honor guard.
In the final day of his life, Darwin Judge became a hero to Doug Potratz for rescuing his three-year-old daughter. But he had been a lifelong hero to Ken Locke. They had been Cub Scouts together. Locke was much the taller of the two, but it was he who looked up to Judge, who was “much more mature” than his peers and “someone to model yourself after,” said Locke.
For years after Judge’s death, Locke wanted to do something to properly honor his friend, who had never been given a burial with full military honors, or even awarded a Purple Heart. “I love my country, but I’m not so sure we have done what we should do to say thank you” said Locke. He started rounding up Marines from Judge’s unit.
On April 30, 2000, the twenty-fifth anniversary of the Fall of Saigon, hundreds came to the Rose Hill Cemetery to pay their respects at a burial service with full military honors, attended by seventeen Marines who had served in Saigon along with Darwin Judge and Charlie McMahon. The former Marines had traveled to Marshalltown from all over the country—one came from as far away as Saudi Arabia. After the burial, they gathered around the Vietnam War Memorial on the grounds of the Iowa Veterans Home, where Judge finally got his Purple Heart and other military awards. Iowa governor Tom Vilsack and Mayor Floyd Harthun proclaimed it Darwin Judge Day in Marshalltown and in the state of Iowa. Doug Potratz spoke, recalling Judge’s rescue of Becky and his wife. Ken Locke told the gathering, “May we never forget that freedom has a price.”
At the gravesite, Locke overheard a Marine say, “Why did it have to be the good ones?”
Then, in a small park near the Veterans Home—Darwin L. Judge Memorial Park—two young spruce trees were planted, one representing Judge and the other representing Charlie McMahon.
The memories of Darwin Judge and Charlie McMahon are kept alive by the Fall of Saigon Marines Association, which annually awards the Lance Corporal Darwin L. Judge Scholarship “to Eagle Scouts who are Seniors at Marshalltown High School and are active in their church and have provided community service,” and by the Corporal Charles McMahon Jr. Memorial Scholarships, awarded to outstanding members of the Boys and Girls Club of Woburn, Massachusetts.
