I was the only passenger in the cavernous tandem-rotor Chinook. This Boeing-built workhorse could fly 196 miles per hour at high altitudes and in ninety-five-degree heat, and could carry a 4,500-ton payload, either inside or via external hoists and hooks. It transported artillery and a jeep to Rick’s unit like they were Matchbox toys; and one was later rumored to have airlifted 147 refugees out of Saigon on the day of its fall, in April 1975.
The Chinook landed in an open field.
The pilot said, “This is as close as we can take you.”
It was a farm field. No base, no nothing, except for an occasional pile of sandbags. I was on edge, but I understood. One of the duties of pilots was to protect these choppers, which cost the government millions of dollars. Besides, he had work to do, and he hovered for a minute and pointed down the road before he went off to do it. Then he shot straight up in the air about a hundred feet and took off.
I hoped I could board another chopper or plane at the airfield. My captain had told me to be back in three days, and I had already been gone four. While I wished I had been able to spend even more time with Tommy, Kevin, and Rick, I hadn’t even found the other guys yet. I hurried in the direction the pilot had pointed: east. Soon enough, I heard a motor in the distance headed my way. It was a jeep with two marines in it. I stuck out my thumb, and they slowed and looked me over but didn’t stop—I was really dirty from being out in the field for a couple of days.
They kept going, and I yelled after them, “Hey! Are you guys headed to Quang Tri Airfield? I need a lift!”
They screeched to a halt. “You speak English!?” one of them asked in astonishment.
I said, “Of course I speak English! I’m from New York!”
The driver said, “Sorry, man, we thought you might be a French colon who forgot to get the hell outta Vietnam. Hop in.” So-called colons were French expats in Vietnam left over from the colonial era.
I did, and in a couple of minutes we arrived at the airfield.
I could see a plane on the airstrip, fenced off with barbed wire, and two marines at the gate. One of them held up his arm to stop the jeep. He took one look at me and said, “Can I see your ID, sir?”
The two guys in the jeep sensed a hassle coming. One said, “Look, we gotta deliver these mailbags to that plane.”
The marine—he was a corporal—said to me, “Can you step out of the vehicle please, sir?”
I did, and he waved the jeep in, and off they went. I showed him my merchant seaman ID and mentioned that I had been a marine for four years. I could remember my serial number and my rifle number. I still do, and as do most leathernecks. No matter: it was of no help with this kid.
“You are currently a civilian, sir?”
“Guilty as charged.”
“I’m sorry, sir. We have orders not to allow any civilians through the gate.”
“I think your commanding officer probably meant Vietnamese civilians. Do I look Vietnamese to you?”
“He didn’t specify, sir.”
“I don’t think he was expecting me.”
“No, sir.”
I wrangled with the corporal for about ten minutes, convinced that the plane was about to take off and that I would be left there another night. I snapped into my newfound voice of authority:
“Call the OD,” I barked, meaning the officer of the day. “I need to speak to him. I must get on that plane. I’m going over to that operations tent, and I’m going to be taking the next flight out of here.”
With that, I started to walk toward the tent.
“Halt!” the corporal shouted. Truthfully, I wasn’t sure he wouldn’t shoot me. After all, he was a marine. His orders were to stop any civilians trying to enter the airfield, and he was taking those orders literally. He ordered the other marine, a private, to follow me with his M16 pointed at me all the way to the tent, as if I were his prisoner. We got there, with me unventilated—at least for the time being. I went up to the marine sergeant inside, and he informed me it was the last flight out that day.
“Where’s it going?” I asked.
“Phu Cat,” he answered.
I didn’t have to ask if that was south—if we were any farther north, I’d be in Hanoi sitting on Ho Chi Minh’s lap.
“Can I grab a seat?” I asked.
He checked my ID, looked me in the eyes, and said, “Sure. Why not?”
He didn’t give me a hard time like the corporal had, but I have to say, as a former marine, I was proud of how strictly the kid had followed his orders.
I boarded the plane as it was about to take off.
The sun had set by the time we landed at Phu Cat. It was a major air base built by the United States, with protection from the ROK army’s Tiger Division. The VC had constantly harassed the process, setting booby traps by night and shooting at the soldiers and workers with sniper fire by day. Guys died building it, and now, like a lot of military infrastructure we built in Vietnam, it’s in civilian use. It is one of the country’s most beautiful, modern airports, but at that time, it was home to the 37th Tactical Fighter Wing.
Phu Cat was located seventeen miles northwest of Qui Nhon, where my ship the Drake Victory was anchored, and where I had to hustle to, full mission accomplished or not. It was dark out, but I started down the road.
“Where the hell are you going?!” yelled an officer who was overseeing the GIs as they unloaded the plane.
“Qui Nhon,” I said.
“Qui Nhon?! You can’t make it there tonight! Sign in at the barracks, and they’ll give you a bunk.”
So, I got a bunk, but there was no way I could sleep. I had already missed my captain’s ultimatum that I be back Monday for my shift—it was Tuesday night. Not only was I in trouble with him, but also I now feared that the ship would depart without me.
I decided to head to Qui Nhon anyway. At the gate, I hitched a ride with another Hanjin truck driver. However, after only about a mile, we came to a fork in the road, and he was not choosing the one less traveled, as I was. I hopped out and started walking, hoping for another truck to rumble up.
I followed the dirt road about a mile into the woods. It was pitch dark except for glimpses of the quarter moon above. There wasn’t a jeep or a truck coming from either direction. Something hooted, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. In another half mile, in the middle of the road, a little kid about five years old was bouncing a ball in the dark, throwing it down and catching it over and over. He was all alone, and I said a friendly “Xin chao”—“Hello.” The kid didn’t say anything. He just stood there and stared at me, when I heard a bloodcurdling scream and a torrent of words in Vietnamese.
His mother came running like hell toward us. She looked at me for a split second as she scooped up her kid, turned, and ran toward a little house. I will never forget the look of terror on her face—and the fact that I had caused it.
The officer hadn’t cautioned me about the distance to Qui Nhon; he was worried about whom I might encounter along the way. I realized I might be in trouble here. I’d already been wondering whether this was VC territory, and now I was sure. I’d be dumb as a shoe to keep heading toward Qui Nhon on this road in the thick of night, but at this point, I wasn’t sure about heading back to Phu Cat, either. Then, by the grace of God, out of nowhere, a personnel carrier trundled up. It was empty, except for another old Hanjin driver. These guys sure had stones driving where they did.
The man didn’t speak English; I tried my Japanese on him, and he understood some of that. Finally, I asked, “Phu Cat?” and he said, “Daijobu.” Okay. And I answered, “Arigatō.” Thank you.
That guy drove me all the way to the gate, overshooting his own destination—one of the many random acts of kindness I would be shown by Koreans and other strangers in Vietnam who helped me on my way.
The guard at the gate asked me, “Where the hell are you coming from?”
“Don’t you remember me?” replied. “I left here earlier. I was trying to find a way to Qui Nhon tonight.”
“Are you nuts?! Charlie’s got that road at night!” he snapped, using the nickname for the VC, short for Victor Charles.
I headed to the barracks and slept fitfully, and at the first hint of sunrise, I hit the road again. A convoy was headed straight to Qui Nhon, and one of the drivers let me ride along in the cab. We went right down the road I’d been on the night before, and I thought, I was nuts, yeah. By light of day, I could see all kinds of spots where I could have been grabbed: little wooden bridges, sandbag bunkers—and I would have been gone. I’ve often thought of that road. If I had been taken and lived, I could have spent the next five years as a prisoner of war. Or worse. When I saw the POWs coming off the planes after the close of hostilities in 1973, I was grateful for how lucky I had been that night.
Qui Nhon was bustling. I didn’t have time to return to Tommy’s barracks, but I kept my eye out for him on the streets. I didn’t spot him, though. The convoy was headed through town all the way to the port, which was lucky for me. What was not lucky for me was this: my ship was gone.