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Mme. Nhu heard the news when she awakened at 7:50 a.m. in Suite 843 of Beverly Hills' Beverly Wilshire Hotel. The day before, disguised in a blonde wig and slacks, she had slipped out to Doctors' Hospital for removal of a cyst. Before attending an All Saints' Day Mass at the Church of the Good Shepherd, she told reporters bitterly: "I believe all the devils of hell are against us, but we will triumph eventually." If the news of the coup was true, "it would be a shame for many Americans." The Diem regime, she claimed, had been nearing victory against the Red guerrillas, and now some people were trying to "rob the fruits of victory from the victors with the help of their little friends, whom we all consider as traitors to their fatherland." Would Mme. Nhu seek asylum in the U.S.? "Never!" she cried, trembling with anger. "I cannot stay in a country whose government stabbed me in the back."
Lucky Snake. Meanwhile, the U.S. ordered units of the U.S. Seventh Fleet into the waters off Viet Nam as a "precautionary measure" should it be necessary to protect the lives of Americans. Washington presumably also had in mind a warning to the Communist Viet Cong should it choose political uncertainty in Saigon as an opportunity to launch a major offensive.
There was little threat to U.S. lives; no American was even injured in the Saigon fighting. In fact, for all the flying lead, it was reported that only 100 Vietnamese lost their lives in the 17 hours of battle. As the afternoon wore on, one rebel bomber missed his target with a rocket that exploded on the building where a group of U.S. marines live; a hole blasted in the building merely freed one marine's pet boa constrictor.
A few blocks away from the fighting, life seemed strangely normal. G.I.s in civilians strolled the streets in search of bars and restaurants still open. Traffic flowed through the streets, though drivers cautiously detoured a few blocks to avoid the trouble spots. There were some grimly humorous sights: outside the Hotel Caravelle, a Diem policeman seated in a tiny European car struggling desperately to get out of his uniform before the rebels spotted him; a pedestrian dashing madly around a corner, bullets kicking up sparks at his heels; a man scooting into a sidewalk pissoir an instant before it was riddled with machine-gun fire (five minutes later he dashed out unhurt). As tanks whipped off bursts of ammunition, children would duck right under the smoking muzzles to pick up the brass cartridge cases.
Musical Interludes. With the coming of dark, a grey drizzle began to fall over the city, and the coup leaders moved in toward the most important target of all—the big Gia Long palace, sheltering Diem, his brother Nhu, and aides. Periodically, Diem's own voice blared out from loudspeakers in the palace grounds, exhorting loyal troops to keep up the fight. "We shall not give in," he cried, his messages interspersed with patches of martial music. Then an eerie silence fell over the huge estate with its seven-foot high fences topped by barbed wire. The rebels were moving their heavy guns into place for the big assault.