The Fall of Saigon 1975: A South Vietnamese Military Physician Remembers

This is the abridged version of, “Held Against My Will,” the story of Dich Van Nguyen’s ordeal. See the full story by Mike Sunshine on the VA History website at https://department.va.gov/history/history-in-depth/held-against-my-will/

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There was chaos in the streets when I made my way to the hospital on the morning of April 30, 1975. In a place of order, there was now great confusion. The director and vice director of the hospital were gone, making me, the chief of medicine, the highest-ranking medical officer. On the speaker system, I urged patients to stay calm and directed nurses to remain at their stations.

We heard North Vietnamese tanks in the streets. The enemy was closing in. At 10:24 a.m., the radio reported the surrender of Saigon. The hospital adjutant asked me whether to lower the flag of South Vietnam. Solemnly, sadly, I said yes. A truck filled with North Vietnamese soldiers stopped at the hospital’s main entrance. I told the officer we were treating South and North Vietnamese soldiers. He nodded. Then, he ordered his troops to surround the building.

In the hours before this it was hard to know what to do. I decided to burn every document connecting me to the Americans, including photos from when I was selected to train at the West Haven Veterans Hospital in Connecticut from 1967 to 1969. While in the United States, I watched the nightly news about America’s widespread opposition to the war. It was troubling to see the flag-draped caskets of U.S. soldiers arriving at airports around the country. I knew then the war would not end well for South Vietnam. A colleague at the hospital wanted to help me cross into Canada. He said returning to Vietnam would not change the direction of the war. I understood what he meant but could not accept his offer. I had sworn an oath to my government and was obligated to return to my country.

At least I had arranged my wife’s escape on April 28. When I said goodbye to her, we were only married for 16 months. She was pregnant and had already suffered one miscarriage. I prayed she would not have another.

In mid-May, I was ordered to report for “reeducation.” Before leaving the hospital, the head Communist physician beckoned me and said I would return in a month. Tens of thousands of South Vietnamese who had supported the United States or the former government were now being sent to these camps─not just military officers, like me, but also government officials, teachers, religious leaders, artists, and writers. The higher the rank, the longer the imprisonment. Historians estimate that there were between 90 to 100 camps, but only the Communists know the exact number.

My first reeducation camp was one of several I was moved to. We were not allowed to talk with prisoners in other groups. I was forbidden to use my medical skills to treat fellow captives. We had no rights─only to obey.  

We worked in the fields. We no longer resembled officers. Our clothes were torn. Few of us had shoes. Meals were always the same: rice with some salt, a bit of cabbage, and manioc (a root plant that fills you up but has no nutrients). The lack of food always made me feel weak. I frequently fell asleep on the ground, even when it was cold. There were other days when I was so hungry that sleep was impossible. Still, I felt luckier than many others. I was smaller and thinner and didn’t need as much food.

The objective of reeducation was to wipe out our knowledge of democracy. After the lectures, declarations, confessions, and self-criticism, we were allowed to write letters for the first time. Allowing us to write letters raised our expectations the government would release us, but months passed without the cadre mentioning it. My best moment in the camps was receiving a six-month-old postmarked letter from my wife in America. The letter came from a relative in France, who sent it to my mother in Ho Chi Minh City, who mailed it to me. Inside was a picture of my child. I had a son! Seeing his image, I wept with joy.

The Socialist Republic of Vietnam desperately needed doctors, and in December 1978, the government decided that military physicians were technically non-combatants and released us. My identification stated I was a former major in the armed forces of the rebellious government and a Nguy. The word in English closest to it is traitor. Nguy means someone who turned against the country and worked for an illegal government. I was required to report to the police every month.

After a rejection from one teaching hospital, another accepted me. When physicians who were my former students passed in the halls, they winked cautiously. They were being careful not to be perceived as associating with me. While talking to nurses in the hallway, I was handed an envelope with my name on it. My supervisor happened to walk by and rudely grabbed it, tore it open, and read the contents. It was a poem from a patient thanking me for my care! Embarrassed, she returned the opened letter and hurried away. Her behavior was a sign the authorities were watching me. I redoubled my efforts not to talk much—not to former students or friends. Revealing my real feelings was too dangerous. I realized my chance to reunite with my family depended on keeping a low profile.

In 1979, the United States, the Socialist Republic of Vietnam, and the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees signed the Orderly Departure Program to permit immigration. One objective of the agreement was for family reunification. Hoping the government would let me leave, I asked my wife to apply for me. I reached the depths of despair when, instead of completing the application, my wife wrote she was divorcing me. I was heartbroken. But I realized there was no guarantee the Communists would free me. She was still young, and raising a child alone was difficult. I was thankful she was raising our son.   

As the years passed, each new hospital director wanted me to assume control of a major medical department. The hospital administration always assured me they would not stand in the way if the government said I could leave the country. Once, I was even named “Physician of the Year,” but I was always under their watchful eyes.

In 1989, the Orderly Departure Program included a new provision. Prisoners who had been in the camps could now come to the United States. Two years later, in December 1991, at 56, my faith in a better tomorrow came true. I arrived in America, and, for the first time, I embraced my 16-year-old son. It was too painful to share the details of my captivity with him. I only said that the government would not let me leave.

After qualifying as a medical doctor in the United States, I started a private practice serving a growing Vietnamese community in Atlanta. Over the years, I regularly traveled to Vietnam with a team of other volunteer doctors to treat the medically underserved. I am now in my early 90s, too old to return to the country of my birth, torn apart by war.

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Mike Sunshine is a retired U.S. Army Reserve colonel, Vietnam Veteran, and Army War College graduate. His career included assignments to the Office of the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the State Department, and in the Middle East (Iraq,  Afghanistan, and the Sinai).

Published with the permission of the author. Copyright © by Mike Sunshine 2023. All rights reserved. No part of this narrative may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without written permission from the author.