The Defense of Hué

HuÉ, May 23. Under a blistering sun, the serene world of imperial palaces, palm trees and multitiered pagodas is shattered by the roar of artillery and the thunderclaps of streaking jets. This is Hué, the old imperial capital, one of the most beautiful cities of Vietnam. Pink houses line broad tree-shaded avenues now full of military trucks trailing black smoke. The population—200,000 in normal times—-has shrunk to 75,000, plus the thirty thousand defenders.

Those who stayed behind—because they were too poor, too sick, too old or simply too tired to keep running—have little illusion about their fate if the city falls. None has forgotten the Tet offensive of 1968 when North Vietnamese murder squads roamed the streets. Three thousand people were killed, many of them executed in the main square next to the tomb of Vietnam’s unknown soldier. The stakes used by the firing squads still stand, as grim re-reminders.

HuÉ, May 23. Under a blistering sun, the serene world of imperial palaces, palm trees and multitiered pagodas is shattered by the roar of artillery and the thunderclaps of streaking jets. This is Hué, the old imperial capital, one of the most beautiful cities of Vietnam. Pink houses line broad tree-shaded avenues now full of military trucks trailing black smoke. The population—200,000 in normal times—-has shrunk to 75,000, plus the thirty thousand defenders.

Those who stayed behind—because they were too poor, too sick, too old or simply too tired to keep running—have little illusion about their fate if the city falls. None has forgotten the Tet offensive of 1968 when North Vietnamese murder squads roamed the streets. Three thousand people were killed, many of them executed in the main square next to the tomb of Vietnam’s unknown soldier. The stakes used by the firing squads still stand, as grim re-reminders.