The Start/Finish Line
Just after sunup on the day of the race, Jamal Washington and I were loading our camera gear into the back of the Rat Pack pickup. The morning haze that blanketed Ubon had not burned off, and I found myself fretting over details of the race that were now out of my control and in the hands of the likes of Woody Shahbazian, Sagittarius Smith and Indian Joe. At least Jack Wu was staying mobile and keeping an eye on them. I turned my attention back to the camera equipment, testing the batteries and light meters, and was comforted to see that Washington was doing the same.
Chuck Sliviak, the cameraman from Danang, and Frank Lutz, his Lilliputian soundman, had just walked over from the base transit quarters and were working nearby, sorting out which of their equipment to take down to the flight line in the big, boxy delivery van and which Lutz was going to keep with him while he recorded sound for Billy Hill. It had been almost a year since I had last seen Lutz back in California. I knew Sliviak by reputation from my editing days. Any time I got his footage to cut, it was good, really good, and now I could see why. Along with Sliviak’s personal Arri BL and his lighter Arri St, they had found a Tyler mount, the latest thing in aerial photography, gathering dust in a back room at Tan Son Nhut and brought it along for Rick Liscomb to use to smooth out the shots from the helicopter. None of the guys at Tan Son Nhut had figured out how to use it in the year it sat there, but Sliviak, a reformed car thief, had assured Liscomb it would be a piece of cake swapping out one of the door guns on the Jolly Green for the camera mount. Built like a fireplug and chain-smoking Chesterfields, Sliviak was the toughest little non-Irishman ever to come off the streets of South Boston. He was originally going to wear a helmet camera for his parachute jump, but he handed it to me instead, explaining that he had brought along a chest-mounted camera brace he had made in the welding shop at Danang. “I had to remind him that I haven’t been to jump school,” said Lutz, “or he would have had them build one of those contraptions for me too.”
Lieutenant Liscomb picked up Sliviak’s chest brace, looked it over, and broke into a wide grin. “Damn, Sliviak, if you aren’t still the bitchingest director of photography in the entire U.S. Air Force!”
It was just about time to head for the start/finish line. Washington and I threw the last couple of camera cases into the pickup and slammed the tailgate shut. Sliviak fired up the equipment van and headed down to the flight line with Liscomb riding shotgun. Hill had wandered off to the ready room a little earlier to have a cup of coffee with Link and Harwell, leaving his jeep parked in front of the orderly room. Lutz was heading over to the jeep to load up his sound gear when I called out, “Hey, Frank! You didn’t forget Hill’s San Miguel, did you?”
“Link’s already taken it off my hands. It’s in that meat locker where you store all your film, in a couple of Eastman Kodak cartons labeled ‘EXPOSED FILM—DO NOT X-RAY!’”
“Speaking of beer,” I said, “let me buy you one over at the NCO Club after the race—or is it your turn?”
“If I’m gonna be with your boss all day it doesn’t matter whose turn it is—you’re buying!”
I heard the sound of bike tires crackling through the gravel behind me, and damn if it wasn’t Tom Wheeler pulling in. “Why if it isn’t the High Priest of Paranoia himself!” I cried. “I thought you were staying home today.”
“How could I stay home knowing that our old drinking buddy, Frank Lutz, had come in all the way from Tan Son Nhut?”
“You must have heard he’s promised to buy the first round after the race,” I said.
“Like hell,” Lutz said. “I only signed on for this mission because Liscomb promised us a free week of R&R at Pattaya Beach.”
“That’ll be a little hard to pull off given that he’s still under house arrest,” said Wheeler.
“The conniving bastard!” chuckled Lutz out of the corner of his mouth. He and Wheeler laughed and gave each other a vigorous handshake. “Well, at least we’ll always have Tijuana, Tom—nobody can take that away from us.”
Wheeler turned to me. “I still think you and your Big Buddha Syndicate and the whole damn base, for that matter, have gone out of your minds,” he said. “Lek and Pueng used to agree with me—until they found out there’s betting involved. Now they’re in line to play the daily double over at Indian Joe’s window at the start/finish line. Truth is, they’re the ones who dragged me out of bed this morning and sent me down here, jabbering about how I couldn’t let you go out shooting all by your lonesome, and that did get me thinking how you could probably use a driver—”
I was about to give him the keys when I got an idea. “You can drive later. Right now we’ve got something even better—you’re going to wear Sliviak’s helmet camera and ride your bike at the start of the race. Should be a bitchin’ POV shot. And it’ll give us some protection footage in case anything goes wrong with Spitzer’s camera. We’ll leave the camera mounts on my bike in case we want to use them later.”
Downtown, the city park across the street from the Ubon Hotel had been turned into a staging area that was just around the corner from the start/finish line on Route 66. Over at the starting area, near the stage, long lines of GIs and local Thais were placing bets at the windows Indian Joe had set up. Sagittarius had livened things up by getting the Chirping Sparrows in miniskirts to help out Indian Joe’s Sikh nephews taking wagers. Out in the street, huge signs hung above the competitors dividing them into three groups. The five- and ten-speed racing bikes lined up first, followed by the wildly modified bicycles of the customized unlimited division, with the slower one- and three-speed contingent taking up the rear. The mass of spectators was so thick that it took me a moment to realize that the two grinning fools who were waving and yelling at us as we drove by were Lek and Pueng. The scene was so ablaze with color from sponsors’ advertisements and banners from every unit on base that Woody Shahbazian’s shiny red Fiat convertible was hardly noticeable pulling up to the front of the stage with Jack Wu, Sagittarius Smith and Indian Joe perched on the trunk, waving to the crowd. Wu hopped off first, making his way to the podium where red, white and blue Thai and American flags and bunting fluttered around him. Wu, a solidly built professional soldier, was dwarfed by Smith and Indian Joe when they joined him. He did a quick mike check and gave an excited “Welcome to the First Annual Big Buddha Bicycle Race!” After waiting for the applause to die down, he began announcing starting instructions followed by information on rest stops, repair stations and first aid facilities set up along the way.
Indian Joe translated into Thai, Hindi, and Mandarin and then went into overdrive, nudging Wu aside with a friendly smile. “It has been a great honor for Indian Joe Enterprises to be an original sponsor of the Big Buddha Bicycle Race! Indian Joe Jewelers, Indian Joe Custom Tailors, Indian Joe Stereo, Indian Joe’s New Delhi Restaurant, Indian Joe’s Flying Carpet Massage and Indian Joe’s exclusive Bengal Kitten Gentlemen’s Club all look forward to your continued business. But enough about me, Indian Joe. We also need to thank the other Ubon business people who had the foresight to make this such a day we will never forget: Sheik Tailors, Niko’s Massage and the Maharaj Palace of Massage, Woodstock Music, the Corsair Club, the New Playboy, the Soul Sister, and the Ubon Hotel with its breathtaking ninth-floor Top of the World Restaurant.”
Sagittarius Smith stepped in to continue in English. “In the weeks to come, you can keep right on supporting our sponsors by dining and drinking at Ubon’s other fine hotel restaurants and bars. What better way to cap off a perfect day than by meeting your friends for dinner and drinks at the Siam, the Pathumtana, or the Sri Issan hotels? And for any of you GIs who have spent time in Japan and have had a yen for sukiyaki lately, don’t forget the newly remodeled Hotel Tokyo. For the latest in Shaw Brothers action flicks and Thai tear-jerkers your tii-rahks will adore, don’t forget Ubon’s air-conditioned movie palaces, the Chalerm Seen Theatre and the Ubon Cinema.”
Smith took a breath, waiting for Indian Joe to do the translations, and then continued, “Today’s winners can deposit their cash prizes with another of our sponsors: Thai Farmers Bank, the Bank of Ayutthaya, Bank of America or Chase Manhattan. They also accept paychecks! And don’t forget our newest sponsors: Raja Jewelers, Imperial Tailors, Ubon Bowl, Thai Airways, Toklong Tours, the Ubon National Museum, the Catholic Church of Ubon, the Ubon branch of the Post-Telegraph Department and the Phra Maha Pho Hospital—which does not want to be seeing any of you today! And if you find yourself getting hungry or thirsty later on, don’t forget Tippy’s Pizza, the Golden Palm, the Carlton and Sabol Thong restaurants, and of course, our good friends at the Jaguar, the Sampan, the Club Miami and the all-new Lolita!”
Indian Joe did some more translating before Sagittarius stepped in to make one last pitch: “You might be having trouble remembering the names of today’s many generous sponsors, but don’t worry—we’ve got all those names printed out for you in our handsome four-color souvenir programs! Don’t forget to take one home! Or better yet, they’re on the back of our souvenir T-shirts, on sale next to the stage, so you’ll have a permanent reminder of the best places to do business in Ubon.”
“And speaking of doing business in Ubon,” added Indian Joe, “wear your race number or bring your program to any of our sponsors this weekend and get your Big Buddha Bicycle Race specials!”
Wheeler was trying out his helmet camera, riding slowly through the teeming mass of men and bicycles. Lek and Pueng didn’t need a bullhorn or a microphone to be heard screaming, “Tom Whee-lah, you a bitchin’ dude!”
Washington and I alternately shot from inside and outside the truck and up on the reinforced roof, taking turns driving when we had to. We spotted Hill’s jeep, moving a little erratically as it approached us through the thick crowd. Hill sat up front gesticulating wildly, directing up a storm, while Link chauffeured and Harwell operated the Rat Pack’s newest, quietest Arri BL. Frank Lutz was hanging on by his toes, one arm wrapped around the roll-bar, trying to operate the Nagra recorder slung over his shoulder with one hand while holding a shotgun mike with the other. They were all wearing red silk shorts and white singlets that exposed far too much of their pale arms and knobby knees. “In case we get in somebody’s shot,” Hill explained.
“You owe me a second beer!” shouted Lutz as we headed off in opposite directions.
Further toward the front of the ten-speed area we saw my old friend, Lieutenant Glotfelty, my unlucky F-4 pilot who acquitted himself a few months later knocking out the bridges at Ban Tat Hai and Tumlan. From behind, five Thai groups, hard and lean, pushed to the starting line. Three of the groups—one from the teachers’ college, one from the polytechnic high school and one from the National Police—waived and smiled broadly to the applauding crowd. The fourth and fifth, from the two token A-37 squadrons at the base, did not. The A-37 pilots were especially hard and especially pissed at having to fly modified sissy trainers into combat at an F-4 base that was home to the Wolf Pack and the U.S. Air Force’s most swaggering ace, Colonel Robin Olds. This was their chance for revenge.
We headed over to a spot near the one- and three-speed section where we saw that the Spectre contingent had rendezvoused. Harley Baker had just pulled up in a crew van whose seats had been removed so it could be filled with spare bicycle wheels, assorted spare parts and a couple of extra bicycles. “Whoa!” I exclaimed. “What’s all that shit?”
“Spectre’s gonna win this sucker,” he sneered.
I recognized Major Horney at the center of the group, but looking around I sensed that a few people were missing. “Where’s Pigpen?” I asked.
“Putting some finishing touches on his custom-special,” said Baker.
“And where’s Captain Rush?”
There was a long silence. Finally Horney answered, “He’s been sent TDY up to Nakhon Phanom to fly goddamn C-119 gunships until he gets his head straightened out.”
“I thought you and Colonel Strbik didn’t mind him doing a little pot.”
“Yeah, but Della Rippa did—especially when he saw Strbik quoted in Newsweek saying that the men in his unit who smoked dope only did so in moderation. He and Rush went out on the same flight.”
“I thought we gave those obsolete twin-engine flying turds to the South Vietnamese,” said Washington.
“They gave them back,” Horney replied.
“And where’s everybody’s favorite pilot, Captain Rooker?” I asked. “I thought he signed up.”
“Didn’t you hear?” answered Baker. “He was pulled out of the cockpit by the Air Police and led away in handcuffs the day before yesterday. Can you believe that shit? The best damned pilot in the unit! The superpilot who could take out a truck with a single bullet and land one of these four-engine turkeys on a single engine! And he was nearly put under house arrest, except that was his problem—the tii-rahk he brought back from Bangkok to live with him turned out to be a katoy—a potential Miss Universe if only the field were open to boys.”
“You’re shitting me!”
“Nope. He’s up at NKP with Strbik and Rush. He was too good a pilot to completely kick out of the Air Force, but everyone around here is creeeeeeped out.”
“It’s creeping me out,” said Washington, breaking out in a cold sweat.
“And you know what he kept repeating while they marched his ass across the tarmac?” Baker asked. “‘It was an accident! It was an accident!’”
“Some accident,” Washington mumbled.
Tom Wheeler pedaled up, smiling happily, and while we loaded up his bike and stowed the helmet cam, we were passed by some very cool customized bikes on their way to the middle group of starters. Spitzer made the Rat Pack proud, riding a chopped Schwinn that wouldn’t have looked out of place with Dennis Hopper and Peter Fonda in Easy Rider and gamely wearing the second of our helmet cameras. Pigpen Sachs, wearing a Spectre T-shirt that said “You can run, but you’ll only die tired,” rode an even more elaborate Schwinn, covered with a streamlined fiberglass body. It was amazing—even Mole showed up on a kid’s bicycle rigged with a huge sail, apparently unafraid to expose his squinty eyes and sallow skin to the harsh glare of the tropical sun. “This is big!” I shouted to Wheeler and Washington.
“This is big!” echoed Tom, climbing behind the wheel and starting up the truck.
“This is WAY BIG!” Washington shouted from the rooftop camera platform. And then, only half-believing, I thought I recognized Dave Murray circling around on something out of a Charlie Chaplin movie—one of those old-time penny-farthing two-wheelers with a ridiculously large five-foot front wheel.
“Missed my flight,” he called over to us when Wheeler pulled up alongside him. “Should I line up with the one-speeds or the custom-specials?”
“You just come out of a time capsule or what?” asked Washington. “That thing’s only got but one speed.”
“In that case, I’m gonna kick butt—this thing’ll do forty on a straightaway.”
“Who sold you that bill of goods?” I asked.
“Indian Joe—who else?” he answered and headed off for the rear group of bicycles.
Back at the staging area, Wheeler stopped the truck. “Catch that,” he shouted, pointing out Colonel Grimsley, the base commander himself, who was sitting in a four-wheeler wearing a gold silk basketball uniform, several sizes too small for him, and a green translucent visor. Washington climbed down from the roof and set up the Arri BL on the high sticks in front of the colonel. I connected the sync cable and announced, “Sound rolling.”
I heard the BL beep and Washington call out, “Speed.”
“Colonel Grimsley,” I asked, “what will you do if President Nixon drops in for a surprise visit?”
“General Gong called me from Seventh Air Force. Nixon’s advance men hated the Ubon Hotel. It’s five-stars or nothing for those assholes. That damned Kissinger wouldn’t know a good bicycle race if it bit him in the butt.”
“Cut,” called Washington.
Colonel “Grouchy Bear” Della Rippa, the Spectre commander, pulled up in a four-wheeler identical to Grimsley’s, not looking grouchy at all. “Rolling camera!” called Washington. I pointed the mike at Della Rippa.
“What do you think, boys? We had the welding shop fasten a pair of bikes together for each of us. We’ve got a little side-bet going between Headquarters Squadron and the 16th SOS.” With a grin and a big thumbs-up, Grimsley and Della Rippa rode off. We kept the sound and camera rolling as they disappeared into the crowd of cyclists heading for their starting positions.
It was amazing. With the morning haze burned away, it was turning out to be the most glorious day I had spent in Thailand. The sky was turquoise-blue. Billowing clouds cushioned the sun’s rays. Tom loved the helmet camera so much that he insisted we let him use it and the two cameras mounted on my bike to film the start. We pulled my bike off the truck, reloaded the helmet cam and set the shutters on all three cameras. Tom tested the three start switches and off he rode.
Washington drove and I cleared away the crowd so that he could maneuver the truck into the best possible position to film the start of the race. I climbed up on the reinforced roof to make sure we got it right, and, when I looked around me, felt like Custer at Little Big Horn, only in the most positive sense of being surrounded by happy Indians and of this tribe being my tribe that I had gathered together personally—not for further death and destruction, but for the glory of all the shades of humanity that surrounded me, from the local Thais to the entire motley crew of Anglo-Americans, Irish-Americans, Afro-Americans, Scandinavian-Americans and Greek, Italian, Polish, Hungarian, Armenian, Korean, Cuban, Mexican, Samoan, Baptist, Jewish, Catholic, Hindu and every other variety of American who had crawled out of bed early that day to go on a Saturday morning bicycle race. More than anything, we had caught the Thai spirit and gathered in the glory of sanuknicity—fun!—and we were going to make a pile of money doing it!
Washington and I set up two cameras and slowly panned across the vast aggregation of cyclists, spectators and hucksters. Jamal was as amazed as I was at what our little syndicate had assembled. “You ought to be very proud of yourself, my man! This is your baby!”
And I was proud. Below us were competitors from every unit on base, with their banners waving. We zoomed in our lenses to full telephoto and began picking them out—the headquarters squadrons of the 8th Combat Support Group and the 8th Tactical Fighter Wing; the 25th, 433rd, 435th and 497th Tactical Fighter squadrons; the 16th Special Operations Squadron (“Spectre”); the 13th Bomb Group (the “Grim Reapers”); and their support units, the 8th Field Maintenance, 8th Avionics Maintenance, 8th Supply, 8th Tactical Dispensary, 8th Security Police, 8th Civil Engineering, 8th Special Services, 8th Transportation, and the 408th Munitions squadrons. A bunch of tenant units were there too, detachments of weather, tactical control, communications, aerial port, air rescue, air postal and special investigation squadrons, Blind Bat operations, and our own little Rat Pack of a photo squadron.
It was finally sinking in—all twenty-six American units from the base were represented, along with the five Thai teams. Jack Wu joined us up on the plywood camera platform and brought us up to date. “We’ve reached eleven hundred entrants!” he beamed. “Your friend Quam kept the print shop humming all night!” Pulling us into a huddle, he continued discreetly, “It’s looking like the syndicate’s share will be three thousand apiece!”
“No shit!” laughed Washington.
“I better go get to my camera position,” Wu said before he climbed down and disappeared into the crowd.
“Leary, what are you going to do with all that money?” asked Washington.
“It seems too good to be true—I’m gonna be able to pay off my lawyer bills and still put enough money away to pick up a master’s degree. What about you?”
“This could buy a lot of bullets for my Black Panther chapter back in Newark,” said Jamal with a wink that failed to clue me in whether or not he was kidding, a wink that got me wondering what “Jamal” meant in Arabic. “Too bad about Tom dropping out of the syndicate,” he said. “Maybe we should cut him in for a half share—like the bat boy on a World Series team.”
“Don’t worry about Tom. He was doing dope deals in elementary school that had a bigger payout than this. When he finally got busted, he talked the judge into letting him join the Air Force, and now he’s sending grass home in sniffing-dog-proof envelopes. It’s only a little at a time, but he’s building a couple of nest eggs with an old girlfriend and an old business partner.”
“Smart guy,” Washington replied, “not putting all his nest eggs in one basket.”