A “thrilling narrative of bravery, bravado, and loss” ( Kirkus Reviews ) that tells the “gripping story of a handful of marines who formed the last body of Americans to leave Saigon on April 30, 1975” ( Booklist ). In a gripping, moment-by-moment narrative based on a wealth of recently declassified documents and in-depth interviews, Bob Drury and Tom Clavin tell the remarkable drama that unfolded over the final, heroic hours of the Vietnam War. This closing chapter of the war would become the largest-scale evacuation ever carried out, as improvised by a small unit of Marines, a vast fleet of helicopter pilots flying nonstop missions beyond regulation, and a Marine general who vowed to arrest any officer who ordered his choppers grounded while his men were still on the ground. Drury and Clavin focus on the story of the eleven young Marines who were the last men to leave, rescued from the U.S. Embassy roof just moments before capture, having voted to make an Alamo-like last stand. As politicians in Washington struggled to put the best face on a political disaster and the American ambassador refused to acknowledge that the end had come, these courageous men held their ground and helped save thousands of lives. Set against the chaos of 1970s Saigon, Drury and Clavin deliver a taut and stirring account of a turning point in American and Vietnamese history that unfolds with the heart-stopping urgency of the best thrillers—a riveting true story finally told, in full, by those who lived it. ""Last Men Out" tells the real story behind one of the most-referenced but least-understood episodes in recent American history. It's a gripping tale of heroism and heartbreak - and a reminder of the price paid by those who do our nation's bidding."--Nathaniel Fick, author of the NYT bestseller One Bullet Away "This totally riveting and moving story tells how a small band of Marines risked everything to accomplish the harrowing evacuation of American personnel in the last days of the Vietnam War. You feel the fear of facing overwhelming odds, the frustration of a self-serving bureaucracy turning an orderly evacuation plan into a shambles, and the terror and despair of our shamefully abandoned allies. This book tells with authority and power how the light at the end of the dark tunnel of the Vietnam War proved to be the courage, nobility, and discipline of the United States Marine Corps."--Karl Marlantes, author of Matterhorn: A Novel of the Vietnam War "An exciting, focused account... A thrilling narrative ofbravery, bravado and loss." Bob Drury has written two books with Tom Clavin— Halsey’s Typhoon and The Last Stand of Fox Company . He is currently a contributing editor and foreign correspondent for Men’s Health magazine and lives in Manasquan, New Jersey. Tom Clavin is the author or coauthor of sixteen books. For fifteen years he wrote for The New York Times and has contributed to such magazines as Golf , Men's Journal , Parade , Reader’s Digest , and Smithsonian . He is currently the investigative features correspondent for Manhattan Magazine . He lives in Sag Harbor, New York. Last Men Out One Saigon, 0300, 29 April 1975 T he monsoon rains had arrived early. They blew in from the southeast, and Marine Staff Sergeant Mike Sullivan stood on the roof of the U.S. Embassy watching the towering storm clouds scudding up from the South China Sea. He marked the difference between the distant bursts of heat lightning—sudden, silent detonations of white iridescence illuminating the jungle to the horizon—and the tiny pinpricks of orange artillery shells detonating near Bien Hoa, just twenty miles away. Tonight, however, the light show held little interest for Sullivan until he heard the North Vietnamese rockets whiffling overhead—heard them before he saw them, recognized their distinctive whine from long experience in the bush. One-Two-Two-millimeters, he knew. A 122’s peculiar sound always reminded Sullivan of the muscular hiss of a narrow-gauge diesel locomotive. Shhkerthunk-shhkethunk-shhkethunk . The veteran staff sergeant knew his artillery, and he knew his railroads. From instinct Sullivan pictured their makeshift launchers, ingenious ladder-shaped devices fashioned from thick bamboo stalks that could be toted up a steep mountain trail or across a muddy rice paddy. But, no, he realized suddenly. Not tonight. There were too many rockets. Which meant they had to be fired from the flatbed of a Russian-made six-by-six truck. Which meant a road. Which meant they were close. He craned his neck, scanned the sable sky, and pointed. Got one . He traced an index finger in a slow arc, southeast to northwest, following the red tail fire as it sailed in a graceful parabola toward Tan Son Nhut Airport. “Hundred-pounder,” he said to the scrum of young Marines knee deep in shredded paper and barely visible through the smoke drifting out of the stifling rooftop blockhouse that housed the brace of cast-iron fur