After receiving a directive we had started to burn documents – and that, of course, told its own story to my colleagues. Each day I felt a tightening pressure in my chest, an ever-growing weight of anxiety that spilled over into fear. It was intensified by my sense of isolation and an apprehension that I too might be abandoned. When Embassy staff did come, it was only to arrange for the removal of the remaining files and soon they were being driven away in makeshift crates, no doubt to a quicker and more reliable destruction. One of the staff involved was the security officer who had removed Corley from the Ambassador’s lawn, but when I tried to elicit information from him he merely shrugged and told me I needed to speak to someone higher up the food chain.

Things started to fall apart completely. One afternoon as I sat at my desk I was conscious of something stirring. There was an unnatural silence for a few minutes and then a rush of whispering that grew gradually into shouting. People stood up, a chair was overturned and paper fanned out from a desk in a fall to the floor. A growing group had gathered at the end of the room and raised voices were arguing. There was some pushing and then people trying to restrain one individual, trying to calm him before he frantically broke free, and soon he was coming towards me. He was one of the languid badminton players whose face was now contorted with anger. The rest of the office trailed in his wake and more chairs got knocked over. I stood up to ready myself for whatever was coming and he lunged at my desk, banging on it with two clenched fists, but made no attempt to touch me. Words poured out of him in broken English, not all of it making sense but the meaning perfectly clear. They were all going to end up with their throats cut, guns put to their heads. They were good as dead. Why had no one come for them when whores and thieves were getting flown out? Every day more and more. The rest of the office workers grouped behind him, ready to physically restrain him if needed but wanting the same answers as he did. They had worked for us, he shouted, and now they were being betrayed. Left to die, their families left to rot. The Northern troops were closer every day to Saigon. Their rockets were already falling in parts of the city. When I looked over his shoulder I saw Corrine and others crying.

He paused momentarily, exhausted by his passion, and then other voices took his place. When would the Americans come for them? Promises had been made. Greenberg had lied. He had gone. Everyone was lying to them. Everyone was going. People who had given no service were getting seats on planes. Whole families of the worst kind. Visas and seats were being sold. Who could they trust any more? I had no ready answers and I knew that platitudes and phoney assurances were not going to cut it. With the rising hysteria I felt a sense of danger. Some of the faces staring at me looked close to breaking point.