(See Cover)
The week in Saigon began and ended with death. At its start, another Buddhist, the seventh, chose the now notorious way of protest against President Ngo Dinh Diem's regime. Soaked in gasoline, he rode up to a crowded square, struck a spark, and went up in flames before anyone could stop him. At week's end, Diem himself lay dead alongside his brother, Ngo Dinh Nhu. The two men who had fought so long and so stubbornly—against Communism, against their critics, against the Buddhist demonstrators—had been consumed by a fire more slowly and carefully prepared.
For months "coup" had been the loudest whisper heard in South Viet Nam. Coup is what correspondents and lesser U.S. officials talked in the bar at the Hotel Caravelle. Coup is what Diem and his guards feared in the palace. Coup is what the generals finally plotted in their headquarters.
A Bitter Chorus. They had been slow enough to move. Weeks ago, the word in Saigon was that, before risking an uprising, the military wanted assurances of U.S. support. Officially the U.S. denied all involvements, but it was perfectly plain that the reduction of U.S. aid to Diem and Washington's public disapproval of his repressive measures against the Buddhists set the scene for the coup (see THE NATION). As the news from Saigon unfolded, it was Diem's sister-in-law, Mme. Ngo Dinh Nhu, who provided a bitter chorus from Los Angeles, where she was winding up her U.S. tour. Said she: "There can be no coup without American incitement or backing." This time, even her severest critics, including the Moscow press, agreed with her.
The uprising was led by a Vietnamese soldier well known to the American military, a man of whom one U.S. general had said: "I would certainly like to have him in the U.S. Army." He is Lieut. General Duong Van Minh, 47, known as "Big" Minh, a blunt, burly, French-trained veteran. Obviously he had been able to rally, at least for the moment, the deeply divided Vietnamese army. This week he was in charge, along with a military junta of fellow officers—in charge of the army, of the war, and to a large extent of the heavy U.S. stake in his torn country.
A Bottle of Whisky. Diem's disaster struck on All Saints' Day. For the taciturn little President, the day had begun with normal business in the sprawling, cream-colored Gia Long palace; one visitor was Admiral Harry Felt, commander of U.S. forces in the Far East, who had arrived in Saigon for a "routine visit" and planned to leave for Hong Kong later in the morning. With Felt, and Ambassador Henry Cabot Lodge, Diem chatted easily, showing no signs of concern.
At noon, Diem prepared to take his lunch, and so did the rest of Saigon. Shutters fell over store windows and the lovely tree-lined boulevards were suddenly choked with hordes of motor bikes, pedicabs, and buzzing little Renault taxis hauling people home for two hours of escape from the stupefying midday heat.