Chapter 1: The 50mm Lens Amidst Saigon
April in Saigon always began with a brilliant, blinding sunlight. The sun poured through the lush green canopies of the tamarind trees along Tu Do Street, danced on the flowing silk of the áo dài, and glinted off the polished paint of vintage Renault taxis. From a distance, the city still wore the haughty guise of the "Pearl of the Far East," oblivious to the grim combat reports relentlessly pouring in from the North.
​But to Hubert Van Es, that beauty was nothing more than a thick layer of makeup on the verge of melting away.
​The thirty-three-year-old Dutch photojournalist sat at a small table on the terrace of Givral Café, across from Chi Lang Park. His face was square-jawed, weathered by the wind and dust of the battlefields, and his grayish-blue eyes were perpetually narrowed, as if constantly framing the perfect composition amidst the rushing tide of life.
​On the table, next to a mostly melted iced coffee, lay his Nikon F2—his inseparable treasure. Hubert was mounting a 50mm lens onto the camera body.
​In a circle of war correspondents crawling with guys who favored wide-angle lenses for epic panoramas, or telephoto lenses to shoot safely from a distance, Hubert was a devout worshiper of the 50mm focal length. He called it the "standard focal length"—the one that most accurately simulated the perspective and proportions of the human eye.
​"If you want to capture a truth," Hubert often told the rookie reporters, "use a 50mm. It doesn't let you step back far enough to become apathetic, nor does it let you distort space to create artificial drama. It forces you to stand at just the right distance to touch your subject's pain."
​Click.
​Hubert gently pressed the shutter. Through the 50mm viewfinder, he had just captured a young soldier sitting in an open-top Jeep stopped at a red light. The soldier rested his chin on the muzzle of his M16, his hollow gaze fixed on a group of schoolgirls laughing and chatting in the courtyard of Gia Long High School. A bizarrely peaceful scene, yet heavy with the premonition of an impending fracture.
​"Hello, Mr. Van Es. Hunting for the truth again, are we?"
​A deep, warm voice rang out. Hubert lowered his camera. Richard Miller, the CIA operative hiding under the guise of a diplomat, stood there. Miller always appeared flawless: an expensive, wrinkle-free cream suit, slicked-back hair, and a perpetual, benevolent smile on his lips.
​"Hello, Richard," Hubert replied dryly, showing little interest. He knew exactly who Miller was and what he represented in this city. "I'm just photographing what's about to disappear."
​Miller pulled out the chair opposite Hubert and sat down without waiting for an invitation. He waved for a glass of orange juice, then leaned forward, lowering his voice:
​"You're too pessimistic, Hubert. Saigon still stands. The steel defense lines at Xuan Loc are being reinforced. We won't abandon our allies."
​Hubert smirked, a cold and profoundly skeptical smile. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a Pall Mall cigarette, and lit it.
​"Richard, save the political speeches for someone else. I just got back from Hue and Da Nang last week. I saw thousands of people trampling each other, fighting for a spot on the evacuation ships. I saw soldiers stripping off their uniforms to flee... You guys are already packing your bags, aren't you?"
​The smile on Miller's lips faltered for a fraction of a second before he regained his composure.
​"Those are just standard precautionary measures, Hubert," Miller shrugged, taking a sip of his orange juice. "But anyway, if your UPI office needs any special assistance regarding evacuation in the coming days... just give me a word. We always prioritize the international press."
​Miller stood up, patted Hubert lightly on the shoulder, and walked briskly toward a black Ford idling by the curb.
​Hubert watched the car glide away down Tu Do Street. Miller's offer didn't reassure him; on the contrary, it felt like a death knell wrapped in soft velvet. Sudden generosity from the CIA always came with a steep price, or served as an omen that the ship was about to sink.
​He flicked his cigarette ash and raised the Nikon F2 once more. Through the 50mm lens, the Saigon sun now seemed stripped of its brilliance. Instead, a hazy fog of uncertainty was beginning to shroud the tamarind trees, signaling that the city's final days of false peace were rapidly slipping away.