57 Years Later: A Coast Guardsman's Long Search for a Great Shipmate

BY Kenneth J. Morris

When the Vietnam War ended on April 30, 1975, and the South Vietnamese government and its military collapsed, Dinh Duy A’s nightmare was just beginning.

I was home with my wife, Carol, and our two young daughters that day in southeastern Wisconsin when I heard news reports on TV describing the chaos unfolding halfway around the world in Vietnam.

Hugh Van Es/Getty

The footage was shocking: a panicked population trying to flee with their families, leaving homes and possessions behind; helicopters lifting evacuees from rooftops in Saigon; overloaded boats pushing off from Danang and other coastal cities; fearful crowds surging through the streets.

Offshore, helicopters and small fixed-wing aircraft landed on U.S. ships, unloaded their human cargo, and were shoved over the side by American sailors to make room for more incoming aircraft.

Ray Alger/U.S. Coast Guard

As I took in the chaos, I thought about Dinh Duy A, my friend and colleague who had served with me as a South Vietnamese liaison officer and interpreter aboard the U.S. Coast Guard cutter Point Orient, and his family, hoping that they were able to escape their homeland.

In the mid-1960s, I was a young, single Coast Guard officer assigned as a deck watch officer on a large cutter in Cape May, New Jersey. Cape May was lively in the warm months when we were at sea, but almost comatose in winter, when we were usually in port. I liked going to sea and visiting foreign ports, but those dead winter months got to me so badly that I volunteered to go to Vietnam. The Coast Guard granted the request, and on October 3, 1966, I reported for duty aboard the Point Orient in Danang Harbor as her new executive officer.

The skipper, Nick Allen, and I hit it off immediately. And I was impressed at once by the affable 12-man crew, a well-trained bunch from all over the United States.

The 82-foot cutter was armed with five .50-caliber machine guns, an 81 mm mortar, and many small arms. Her mission, along with the other Operation Market Time vessels, was to intercept arms, ammunition, explosives, and hostile personnel being smuggled by sea from North Vietnam to the South.

The cutter had two gunner’s mates, both second-class petty officers. One was Ray Alger from Middleburgh, New York. The other was Dinh Duy A (pronounced Din Zwee Ah) of the South Vietnamese Navy, a native of Phan Rang.

Ken Morris/VVA

Ah, as we called him, was also our lead boarding officer and interpreter as we stopped and searched an endless stream of junks and sampans in the coastal waters near the DMZ. He was the only crew member who spoke Vietnamese, which made him indispensable.

Ray Alger and Ah kept up a constant exchange of jokes and mock insults that helped keep spirits high for all of us. They had a way of making the best of difficult conditions at sea.

During the monsoon season, from roughly October through April, the seas were often rough enough that the Navy’s 50-foot Swift Boats had to head to port. The 82-foot Coast Guard cutters, more seaworthy, stayed on patrol. Seaworthy, though, did not mean comfortable.

The 82-footers were lively hulls even in moderate seas and having to grip railings and stanchions constantly while fighting to keep your balance for days on end wore everyone down. Hot meals became difficult to prepare. Eventually our diet centered on saltines and peanut butter.

One of my strongest memories from that time is how Ah kept his own spirits high, as well as everyone else’s. He had an excellent command of English and a lively, outgoing personality. He was a remarkable shipmate.

Carol Morris/VVA

The South Vietnamese Navy base in Danang was homeport to seven U.S. Coast Guard cutters and about a dozen Navy Swift Boats. Ah and his family lived in a very modest dwelling on the base. His wife, Huong, gave birth to their third child in February 1967, a boy, after two daughters born in 1963 and 1964. They were a beautiful family.

On Thanksgiving Day 1966, the crew of the Point Orient welcomed Ah’s young family aboard for a traditional turkey dinner. Later, in a spirit of gratitude, Ah and Huong invited me to their home for dinner.

Huong prepared a delicious meal, and I, the clueless clod I was at age 24, proceeded to consume what was probably a month’s worth of their grocery supply, thinking I was complimenting the chef by repeatedly asking for more.

I left Vietnam on October 6, 1967, and Ah and I soon fell out of touch. Meanwhile, my Coast Guard career continued. I became an icebreaker sailor and spent much of the rest of my career in polar operations, eventually commanding the polar icebreaker Northwind from 1986-89.

I retired from the Coast Guard in 1990 and over the years made repeated attempts to track down Ah through American and Vietnamese veterans organizations, with no luck.

In 2018, a Google search for “Dinh Duy A” turned up a “Michael Duy Dinh” with a street address in Chicago, but no phone number or other contact information. I wrote a letter, but it came back stamped, “MOVED - LEFT NO FORWARDING ADDRESS.” I later learned that the Michael Duy Dinh who had moved was Ah’s son, who had relocated to Texas.

At that point, I gave up. I still believed that, because of his language skills and engaging personality, Ah had managed to get his family out before the collapse. But I remained mystified by their disappearance.

Then, on April 4, 2024, I was idly scrolling through my smartphone when, on a whim, I entered “Michael Duy Dinh” into Google again. This time I got a result for someone by that name in Texas, in a suburb of Dallas. A phone number appeared too. I took a chance and called. I got voicemail and left a message asking whether this family had once been connected to a Coast Guard cutter in Vietnam in the 1960s. I didn’t expect a reply.

About two hours later, my cellphone rang. It was Ah. We spoke for the first time in nearly 57 years. That’s when I learned that in 1975 they had not gotten out of Vietnam.

After I left in 1967, Ah had gone on to Vietnamese Navy officer training. At the time of Saigon’s collapse, he was a lieutenant (junior grade) stationed ashore at Nhà Bè, adjacent to Saigon, serving as chief of staff to the base commander.

When the communists took over, he was ordered to proceed with his wife and children to his home of record and report to the new authorities in Phan Rang. His father, a physician who owned a large home, took the entire family in while Ah went off to face retribution for having served on the wrong side during the war.

By 1975, Ah and Huong had seven children, four boys and three girls, so this was no small sacrifice on the part of his parents. But the price Ah paid was far worse.

He was sent to a prison camp at Tuy Hòa, known as Camp A30, where he performed hard labor on meager rations for six years. He was allowed family visits only once every two months, and for no more than an hour.

He was fortunate that Huong and his parents had the means to visit faithfully and bring food, which proved critical to his survival. About a dozen of his fellow prisoners died of malnutrition because they had no one bringing them extra rations.

Ah’s younger brother had served as an enlisted soldier in the South Vietnamese Army. The communists left him alone. It was apparently Ah’s status as a commissioned officer that landed him in the prison camp.

History/Universal Images Group via Getty Images

At the end of his sentence, Ah returned to Phan Rang, but remained on probation and under house arrest, and was barred from gainful employment for 10 years.

In 1991, he and his family were given the opportunity, through a U.S. resettlement program, to leave Vietnam and come to the United States. They did not hesitate. The prospect of a better future for their large family in America was simply too bright to ignore.

They eventually settled in Chicago, where Ah adopted the name Mike and found work with an electric company while the younger children entered local schools. The older children found jobs and educational opportunities of their own.

Their oldest daughter, Ha, had married before 1991 and could not accompany her family because she was no longer considered their dependent. She later made it to the USA, joining her family in Chicago in 2014.

In June 2024, Carol and I flew to Chicago so I could reunite with Ah and learn more about the years that had passed since we last saw each other in wartime Danang. After we had lunch at a Vietnamese restaurant, he invited Carol and me to join his family for dinner the following evening at the home of his youngest daughter and her husband on Chicago’s North Side.

It turned out to be a delightful evening with a warm, loving, and happy family. They even honored Carol’s birthday with a cake and small gifts. It was wonderful to see them all thriving, especially knowing the terrible hardships they had endured.

Dinh Duy A and Huong are two of the most courageous people I have ever known. He and I suspected that divine influence had played a role in our reunion after so many decades. We intended to stay in close touch for the remainder of our earthly years.

After reconnecting with Ah, I found Ray Alger in Dunedin, Florida, and when I called with the news, he was floored. Ray and his wife were unable to travel to Chicago in June 2024, but they did make the trip later that summer and had the same beautiful experience with the Dinh family.

I had frequent phone conversations with Ah through the remaining months of 2024, and he seemed to be doing quite well. Then, in February 2025, his health suddenly declined.

Early on the morning of March 1, 2025, Ah drew his last breath. He was 83 and was at home surrounded by his devoted family.

Because of pressing personal obligations, I was unable to attend his funeral, but I asked my grandson who lives in Chicago to attend and represent our family. He did, and the Dinhs greeted him warmly.

When I had visited eight months earlier, I had given Ah a cap marked “Vietnam Veteran” and “Coast Guard.” Apparently, he treasured it and wore it almost daily. My grandson told me that the cap was placed in Ah’s casket. I was deeply moved when I found out. Fair winds and following seas to a truly great shipmate.

Retired U.S. Coast Guard Captain Ken Morris is a member of Wilmington, North Carolina, Chapter 885.

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