Rolling Thunder

by Mark Berent

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  1330 Hours Local, 19 January 1966

  Los Angeles International Airport

  California

  "Were you scheduled for Bien Hoa, or did you trip trade?" Nancy's seat mate asked. Mrs. Bradley L. (Nancy) Lewis looked pert and shiny as she sat with her crew in the Braniff International crew bus which was headed from the LAX Terminal to the Boeing 707 on the south ramp. It was cool that afternoon and slightly hazy.

  Nancy turned from the window to look at the tall, blond stewardess named Sally Churna, "I traded for it."

  "Well, I think it's going to be a nice trip what with a layover at Clark. Too bad we can't bid for trips on MAC like we do on domestic flights." Sally Churna smiled. "Do you have a lot of seniority?" she asked.

  "Not much, four years," Nancy answered, and turned back to look out the window. She knew Sally would think her standoff­ish. Most of the girls did ever since Brad was declared MIA. Yet, they all understood her moodiness, and were protective. She did wish she were close enough to Sally Churna, or anyone else for that matter, to whom she could talk about how she felt. Someone to agree or disagree with her decisions. She felt so alone and only half functioning as if a part of her thought processes had given up. But she coped, sometimes only minute to minute, sometimes day to day, but she coped.

  She wanted Bien Hoa trips because of the Special Forces A and B Team camps near there. Some­how, she felt, she would be closer to Brad or people who knew Brad. Besides, away from Saigon meant being away from Bubba Bates. Nancy had shared a warm Coke with him at the small and dirty Tan Son Nhut terminal bar one afternoon while waiting for her airplane to be turned around. She had felt sorry for him, he misunder­stood and thought he had something going with Nancy. She had been avoiding him ever since. She smiled as she thought of that young Air Force lieutenant so eager to save her. She wondered if he would write, what was his name, Parker?, and if he did, whether she would answer.

  "The cleaning folk did a great job with this one," Sally said after they boarded and walked down the aisles to start passenger boarding preparation. Each girl was assigned specific duties to check equipment, food service, emergency apparatus, and each tiny bathroom they called the blue room. The ultimate destination of the big jet was Bien Hoa Air Base, South Vietnam, where it would disgorge 165 American soldiers most of whom would be in combat within days. To relieve congestion into Tan Son Nhut, Bien Hoa in the south and Da Nang and Cam Ranh air bases farther north had been outfitted to handle the surge of soldiers flown to and from combat in plush ways never dreamed of by WWII or Korean veterans. The G.I.s had started to call the returning civilian planes the "Freedom Bird" that would carry them to the "real world." That there were real round-eyed girls on the Freedom Bird made the trip a fantasy almost impossible to bear.

  "Good cleaning job, huh. Not like last time," a chunky little brunette named Tiffy Berg chirped, "they missed number two aft blue room. It was overfull, and, well, eeecchh, simply stinky and all. The Captain and the ground agent barely got them back in time to clean it out before the soldiers boarded. Said we're turning these airplanes around too fast or something."

  Tiffy sighed and started checking the overheads for fire extinguishers. "I sure like flying G.I.s," she added, "they're so much better than civilians because they never ask for anything. They're so quiet." She stopped, her eyes brimmed. "But they're even more quiet coming back from Vietnam. Like they've seen the end of the world, and they're just kids," said Tiffy, herself barely older than the G.I.s to whom she ministered.

  An hour later the big jet, Braniff International MAC Flight B3T6, was airborne following the sun on the first leg of its 13,000-mile flight to Bien Hoa Air Base, RVN. Its first leg was to Hawaii, the second to Guam, the third to Clark Air Base in the Philippines, then to Vietnam. Given refueling, layovers, and crew changes, Nancy Lewis would be on the Bien Hoa Air Base in three days. There the plane would offload its 165 G.I.s at Detachment 5 of the 8th Aerial Port Squadron, and be cleaned. Then it would on-load a batch of G.I.s returning home, and fly back to Clark.

  Inside, Nancy Lewis was all smiles, and eager to give efficient service to the youngsters in their painfully new khaki uniforms.

  1230 Hours Local, 22 January 1966

  Loc Ninh, War Zone C, III Corps

  Republic of Vietnam

  Over the intercom came a string of commands: "Hold it off, hold it off, a little more, get your rudder in there, that's it, pull your power off, now ease it down, and stay on the rudder. That's not bad. Now add power, take it around and try it again." In the backseat of the O-1E, Toby Parker did as he was told. He pushed the throttle up and pulled the airplane into the air from the dirt strip next to the Special Forces camp at Loc Ninh.

  "Fine. Now bring it around and make a full stop. We got to make our pickup," Travers said. Parker flew the plane around the landing pattern and made a full stop landing without too much help from Travers. Though he still had trouble with torque on takeoff and rudder control on landing, Parker was more than pleased with himself. He had done well on the big mission last week when a Ramrod was shot down, and had proven of value again this morning helping Travers put in an airstrike as they headed for Loc Ninh.

  They taxied to the end of the dirt strip; turned on to a hacked out clearing; added power to spin the bird around, and shut down midst blowing red dust stirred up by the propeller. The prop ticked to a stop, and kicked back once. The engine and exhaust system popped and crackled as it cooled. Waiting for them were two SF troops, wearing their standard and habitual uniform consisting of tiger suits with green berets tilted slightly forward and to the right on skulls nearly shaven clean. Though neither wore rank insignia, each was a master sergeant. The shorter of the two, George Spears, held a briefcase. The taller and wider one was Jim Monaghan. They were both from the III Corps Mike Force team, based at Bien Hoa, which was operational around the Loc Ninh area probing VC and NVA units to establish their order of battle.

  "Where's the Dai Uy? Where's Captain Myers?" Travers said as he and Parker climbed out of the plane and stretched.

  "Gone back to the Bien Hoa Team House, Sir," Spears said. "He said you put on a helluva show last week. He sent your shot down F-100 pilot back with a piece of that gun as a souvenir." He swapped briefcases with Parker.

  "There's some good photos in here," Parker said, tapping the case. “Colonel Norman is convinced the VC are massing for a major push. Maybe against you, maybe An Loc, maybe Bien Hoa."

  "This will corroborate," Spears said, "we got agent reports and interrogations that nail down the increased capabilities of men and material but no one knows their intentions. Definitely there's a VC division in the area. We think it's the 9th, but we haven't found it. That's what Captain Myers and the China Boys were out looking for when they found that Dash-K. By the way, Phil, he's got your BDA for you. Twelve VC KBA (Killed By Air) and one Dash-K destroyed. He said their ass was grass, and the VC had the lawn mower until you guys took it out." He patted the painted mouth on the cowling of the O-1E. "I know he plans on seeing you and the Ramrods at the Team House. Tonight, probably." The SF sergeant turned toward Parker.

  "Lieutenant, you still trying to fly, huh? Those landings looked lousy to me. You get to log one touchdown for each bounce, huh?"

  "Up it, Sergeant of the Green Beanie Army Spears, you beetle cruncher. You're just jealous," Parker was amazed how easy the repartee came to him and how at home he felt. Standing in the shade of the O-1E's wing, stinking and sweaty, dirty with red dust, stomach and bowels ready to erupt at any moment from bad food, he never felt better. He thought of the vacuous, flat people with whom he had graduated from college. Lawyers now, accountants, stock brokers, real estate agents; he had visited and seen them at a reunion. He looked at the men around him. God, I'm lucky, he thought, to be meeting and working with people like this. For a moment he had the odd feeling he was playing a role in a World War Two movie yet at the same time viewing this tableau from off to one side. A breeze tous
led his hair, rousing him from his reverie. He heard Spears tell Travers about a major from 5th Group coming in to study the buildup around Loc Ninh and Route 13. Travers asked who the Major was.

  "Wolf Lochert," Monaghan said, "He's right up there with Bull Simon, Charging Charley Beckwith, and Bear Gannon. He humps 60 pounds of rocks in the boonies just for a morning stroll. He won't admit it, but he's the guy who blew up the town hall in My Tho when he proved the council was all VC. He greased every one of them. Then he rifled the safe, and gave all the money to the Catholic orphanage."

  "If he won't admit it, then how do you know all that, Sergeant Monaghan?" Travers asked.

  "Hell, I was there. I'm demo, remember?" All SF men were specialists in three of five fields: demolition, communi­cation, medical, intelligence, and logistics. Monaghan knew how to blow things up as cleanly as a sword stroke. Travers nodded.

  "Time to go. Let’s aviate," he said to Parker.

 

  Two hours later, at 1830, Parker had divested the briefcase at Colonel Norman's office, changed his clothes in his BOQ room, and was at the Tan Son Nhut main gate scrounging a ride to downtown Saigon. He had a date to see Tui at the Restaurant My Canh at 8 o'clock.

  2015 Hours Local, 22 January 1966

  Restaurant My Canh, Saigon

  Republic of Vietnam

  "This place has a good reputation," Toby Parker explained to Tui as they sat at a linen covered table for two on the river side of the Restaurant My Canh. A tall dripless candle graced the table; the pungent odor of burning mosquito repellant like incense gone sour filled the air. Most of the clientele was western. Some wore fatigues even though they were not combatants. A fatigue-clad non-combatant was known derisively as a Saigon commando or a REMF, and they ranged in rank from corporal to general.

  "My friend, Phil Travers, said this restaurant enjoyed the reputation, among Americans anyhow, as being a good place to go. Travers told me this means it's clean, the food doesn't make you sick, they'll burn a steak anyway you want it, the whiskey isn't watered, there are no bar girls here, they speak English, the price isn't..." Parker trailed off, concerned about the odd expression on Tui's face.

  "Look," he said, "we only met here 20 minutes ago, yet you've been acting like you want to leave." He reached across to touch her hand. She pulled it away and glanced at the watch on her slender wrist.

  "Tui, what is it? Last week you seemed happy to know me, and to meet me here. Now, you look scared enough to run away. Is it Bates? Did he give you a hard time? Listen, I've met some guys that could have a short but intense talk with him." He thought of Spears and Monaghan.

  Tui shook her head slowly. Her ebony hair swung easily from side to side, one wing falling low over her left eye. "Tow-bye, To-bee, it is not Mr. Bates. I...I do not live with him any more."

  Toby started to speak. Tui reached over and placed her fingertips on his mouth. He reached up to take her hand, kissing her fingers. She did not draw away.

  "Please, do not ask questions. Let us eat. Order some wine. Let us enjoy this time. Look," she said brightly, turning to face the Saigon River, "the fish are jumping for, for...what do you call them? In French it is the moustique."

  "Mosquitoes," Toby said, "we call them mosquitoes."

  "Yes, mow-sqwee-tohs," she parroted and laughed. Toby had never heard such an exquisite trill. A waiter poured the wine Toby had ordered.

  "Tui, you are so beautiful," he said, still holding her hand.

  "And you, mon lieutenant, are most handsome," she said. "Drink some wine, quickly. We will forget where we are." She smiled, even teeth flashing in the candlelight. They both drank deep draughts of the heavy Burgundy. She covered her watch with her hand.

  "I know," she said, "pretend this is the Seine, the river that loops through Paris, and we are in a petite cafe' on the Left Bank. Do you know Paris?"

  "No," he said.

  "Oh, it is lovely," she said, her voice softening. "We will go there. On the Seine there are the Bateau Mouche, the boats for us to go on the river, and to drink the wine and to see the lights at night."

  She chattered on through the meal and wine. They danced several times on the tiny dance floor to the surprisingly good foxtrots played by a four-piece Filipino band. Nestling close, Tui's cheek tucked perfectly into the hollow of his neck. Toby felt the warm smooth flesh of her back as he smelled the elusive fragrance of an unknown perfume in her hair. He was so overwhelmed by the wave of attraction he felt for this lovely woman that his knees nearly buckled.

  When the dessert, Flan, was served, she fell silent.

  "You've hardly eaten a bite," Toby said, pouring for them both from a second bottle of Burgundy. Tui looked at him then quickly looked away as her eyes began to fill.

  "You will leave the Restaurant My Canh no later than thirty minutes after nine,” Buey Dan had said. "We will be ready. Hail the blue taxi directly across the street, the one where the small boy is shining the left fender for the driver in a white shirt."

  "Maybe I can not get him out by exactly nine thirty", Tui had said.

  "You must, or you will both die," Buey Dan had responded. "Four kilos of plastique will be floated under the Restaurant My Canh set to detonate at 35 minutes after the hour of nine."

  She looked at her watch. It was ten past nine. The band had taken their first break of the evening. As a filler, the leader switched on a tape player with French songs and walked outside. Low and growly, with great clarity, the reverberating voice of Edith Piaf came perfectly over the sound system with the opening bars of Non, Je ne Regretter Rien, No, I Regret Nothing.

  Tui reacted, knowing she was almost out of control. Nothing had prepared her for this feeling. She felt swollen and moist and her head felt light. She had never, never, she repeated in wonder to herself, felt this way toward any boy, much less a mui lo. She had no idea she ever could. She had always been so busy, there hadn't been time. The liberation demanded everything; her time, her emotions, her life's blood if need be.

  "One more dance, Towbee, one more dance," she begged.

  Toby Parker rose to his feet, held her chair, and escorted her to the floor. He was utterly lost in her closeness, and completely captivated by her femininity. My God, he thought, what is this? I'm falling in love. "No," he corrected himself out loud, "I am in love."

  "What? What did you say," Tui murmured, her face buried in his neck as they danced.

  "I said `I love you,'" Toby said, tipping his head and kissing her cheek.

  "Mon amour, mon amour, embrasse-moi. Je t'aime, je t'aime," she whispered, grasping him tightly, tears falling onto his shoulder.

  Piaf sang the haunting words in a voice of such timbre that Toby felt vibrations deep in his gut, her rolling 'r's echoing in his brain; "No, I regret nothing, nothing..." Tui strained against him. We could be together, she thought, forever. Just hold each other like this for a few more minutes until forever begins.

  Toby felt Tui strain against him and clasped her closer. No one else existed, only the two of them swaying, no longer dancing, to Piaf's magic spell. We are a world of two, Toby thought with exquisite wonder. Never in his life had he become so enraptured by a woman, and so quickly. No other girl had ever intoxicated all his senses at once. His chest ached and he began to shake with the intensity of his passion. He never dreamed he could be so affected. His eyes misted. Driven by a frenzy he couldn't identify, he knew he had to do something, and right away.

  "Tui, I want to take you from here. I can find a place for you that Bates will never find. A place just for us," Toby found himself speaking louder to break through Piaf's words as she rolled into her ending crescendo.

  "Just the two of us," the rapt and anxious Toby Parker said, "Now. Let’s go," he tugged at her, "just us." He felt his heart swelling increasing the del­icious pain in his chest. "Tui, Tui, I love you so much."

  Tui reached up to hold Parker's face between her hands. He could see tears streaming down her face. "My lieutenant, I will love
you forever." She stared into his eyes. "Forever," she repeated; then kissed him with parted lips for a long moment.

  Suddenly, she released him. Surprised and off balance, Toby stepped back. She looked at her watch. The plastique was due to detonate in seven minutes. "Nooo," she moaned, "I cannot do that."

  "Do what," Toby asked, "go with me?"

  Tui looked at him. Her eyes narrowed with determination. "Yes," she said, "yes, I'll go with you. Anything you want. Now, this minute." She grabbed his hand and tugged him toward the door. "Now, quickly, quickly."

  "Hey, wait," Toby said pulling her towards their table, "you need your purse and I need to pay the bill." He couldn't see any waiters around.

  Tui pulled her hand free, swept past Toby to pick up her purse, and fling a handful of piastres on the table. "There, now we go." She again grasped his hand and half ran toward the door.

  Outside, they saw two white taxis and a pedicab directly in front of the restaurant and one blue taxi across the street. A small boy was shining its left fender. The white-shirted driver stepped out to open the rear door. Tui moaned and pulled Toby into the taxi nearest the restaurant door spewing a stream of rapid fire Vietnamese at the driver who started his engine and sped off, grinding his gears badly. As they pulled away, Buey Dan rushed from the shadows, a hypodermic needle kit in his hand, jumped into the blue taxi which made a U-turn, tires screeching, to follow Tui and Toby.

  Tui leaned forward touching the taxi driver's shoulder to point and emphasize her instructions. He made a few turns, scattered late night revelers on Tu Do, swerved around three G.I.'s crossing the street arms around each other singing, and pulled up to the well-lighted red-and-white cement barriers at the entrance to Post 12 of the 716th MP Battalion whose job it was to cruise Saigon keeping G.I.'s from getting in trouble, and to apprehend and book those who did.

  Up to this point, the bewildered Toby Parker hadn't said a word. Two MPs from their guard post, M-16s at port arms, approached the taxi.

  "Toby," Tui said, "you must get out here." She reached across him and opened the door.

  "What in hell is going on?" Toby said, "look if it's Bates--"

  "No, no," she interrupted, "it's not that pig." She looked out the rear window to see Buey Dan's taxi glide to a halt among the shadows across and back down the street. "Please, I love you, now get out, get out." She pushed him out and climbed out after him as the MPs split and took up positions, angled to each side rifles ready, and looked at them with suspicion.

  "Please," Tui said to them, "this is Lieutenant Parker. He is in danger. He is an important man, a courier. You must get him to Tan Son Nhut. The Viet Cong are following him."

  One MP advanced under the cover of the other. "May I see your ID, Sir?" As Toby pulled out his wallet, Tui leaned up to kiss him, pulled off a jade earring which she thrust into his hand, then whirled and ran toward the blue taxi in the shadows.

  Toby started to follow her, but an MP blocked him. "Sir, you'd better stay right here," he said. They saw Tui slow to a walk then slowly climb into the blue taxi. As it drove away, an enormous explosion and flash ripped the night in the direction of the river. Within seconds the PRC-25 FM radio crackled to life from the guard shack.

  "Sir, get inside," the first MP pointed toward the building with his rifle butt. "We'll get you to Tan Son Nhut." As Toby complied, he heard the second MP yell from the shack that Unit Four said the My Canh was blown up.

  An hour later, Lieutenant Parker sat in the back of an MP 4x4 truck headed for Tan Son Nhut with two MPs going off duty. They were talking about the My Canh.

  "They got the claymore cafe' again."

  "Yeah, I know."

  "Eight dead so far, eleven wounded."

  "Yeah, I know."

  "All Americans. They said all the Viets split a half hour before, even the cooks."

  "Yeah, I know."

  "Except one, a broad. They said she hung around till the last minute, then di-di mau-ed with some G.I. They're looking for her."

  "Oh, yeah?"

  "Helluva way to fight a Goddamn war."

  "Yeah. Who says this is a war. Ain't that right, Lootenant?"

  1230 Hours Local, 24 January 1966

  Executive Dining Room

  The Pentagon, Washington, DC

  John Ralph and Jerry Paulson met for lunch in the executive dining room on the 4th floor, A ring, 10th corridor of the Pentagon. It was two floors above and a world away from the hubbub of the plastic and chrome cafeterias on the 2nd floor, 2nd corridor up from the Concourse. In the executive dining room, the linen and china, hostess and waiters, and paneled walls created a subdued atmosphere gratefully appreciated by the officers and civilians constantly hammered by the hectic work pattern in the corridors outside.

  John Ralph ordered the diet special consisting of lean hamburger and cottage cheese with peach slice. Paulson selected the club sandwich. Both men ordered black coffee which was served immediately. Both men wore their service dress blues, each left chest covered with ribbons and badges.

  "How's your clearance going?" Ralph asked.

  "I've purged my files, turned over all classified stuff I signed for, and have turned in all my passes except the one for our office. Since our function doesn't exist anymore, I pitched about 20 pounds of directives, memos, regs, notes, things like that. How about you?"

  "The same. Clearing the Pentagon isn't as bad as clearing the neighborhood. Audrey and the kids are going to live in Mason City with her parents, and she has to check out of more offices than we do. Church groups, PTA, local consumer action stuff, not to mention getting the house ready to show, while getting all our gear ready for packing. Are you going to give up your apartment?"

  "No," Jerry Paulson said, "we aren't. Babs wants to stay right here in Washington. She's thinking of a few courses at Georgetown University or maybe a job on the Hill as a secretary. Without kids we're pretty flexible."

  Ralph made a face as he speared the last piece of lettuce on his plate.

  "I'm sure tired of eating rabbit food."

  "Hey, right. Why do you do it, then?"

  "The Thud is a big bird, but I still want to lose another ten pounds before I strap in." He eyed Paulson's slim figure. "How can you eat those big sandwiches and still stay so trim?"

  "I smoke more than you do," the Navy man replied. "But don't worry, once you get to Tahkli, you'll sweat it all off."

  "I can't afford to wait that long. Those guys at Tahkli are fighting a tough war and the last person they want to see taking over their wing is a pudgy Pentagon pencil pusher."

  "I like the way you said `their' wing."

  "Well, it is. I'm merely an administrator who goes out and leads a mission once in a while," he said with great understatement. "My job is to keep their fighter wing the best in the USAF while keeping the crap off their backs. I don't want them all tangled up with scratching perfectly good military plans for some civilian idea about sending messages with this on-again, off-again Rolling Thunder."

  "Messages?" the Navy man echoed.

  "Yeah, messages. The SecDef told us that stopping the strikes up North would send a message to Uncle Ho that we really were good guys who want nothing but peace, and here is a token of our all American Christian good faith."

  "What crap. They're Buddhists, what do they know about Christians?"

  "About the same as the SecDef knows about Buddhists. Besides, they're communists, not Buddhists." He paused, and looked at Paulson.

  "Messages," he snorted. "If you want to send messages use Western Union. Better yet, chalk it on the nose of a Mark 84 two thousand pound bomb."

  "Hey, right," Paulson said. "Speaking of Mark 84s, the Armaments guys at Tan Son Nhut are really crying for all kinds of ammo. They say the stuff is on a dozen or so boats in the Saigon Harbor, but they can't unload more than a ship or two every couple days because the dock facilities are so bad."

  "I know," Ralph said, "and the SecDef says regardless of what the troo
ps report, there is no bomb shortage in Vietnam."

  "Hey, right," Paulson said, "the ammo is within the territorial waters of Vietnam, therefore it's in Vietnam. Damn, I wish I were smart enough to work figures like that."

  "If you were, you could design an Edsel," Ralph said. He sat back and looked at Paulson with a bleak expression. "Not only do we have unloading problems, about one third of what we do manage to put on the docks get swiped for the black market or for the VC." He shook his head. "Do you ever get the feeling we're maybe throwing this one away?"

  Paulson looked thoughtful. "I don't know. I haven't been over. But I felt better back in '52 when I flew Panthers off the Wasp. Here, all we see are the number and type of targets we should be hitting and aren't. Juggle those figures with the pilot and plane losses and you get an unbalanced equation. That's up North." He paused. "Down South, we've got other problems. You know we're starting to lose more slow FACs than fighters, yet the fighters fly ten times as many sorties. But I hear there's a classified study group called Commando Sabre looking into a solution on that."

  "Yeah? Well, I hope so. When you send O-1Es putt-putting around where the Dash-Ks are popping up, you're going to lose 'em. Hell, at their low speeds and low altitudes, an AK can bring 'em down. They've got worse problems once they go out of South Vietnam. You just can't send those little buggers up to get sawed in half over the high threat areas in North Vietnam and Laos."

  "Shhh, Laos. That's a four-letter word. We're not supposed to be there," Paulson remarked.

  "Tell that to the guys who've been shot down over that four-letter country. Maybe they can bow and say "sorry 'bout that" and come home." Ralph said. "Dammit," he said slamming his fist on the table, "does anybody know or care how many Air Force people we've lost in this screwed up war? Some­body owes these guys something, and I..." Ralph broke off. He shook his head in apology toward Paulson. "I'm sorry, Jerry. Your guys are taking losses just as heavy. Your job as CAG will be as demanding as mine."

  "More so," Paulson replied. "Besides being top adminis­trator and battle planner, I've got to fly every type of air­craft on board, and out-fly every young jock on the boat who thinks he can beat the old man. You Air Force guys only have to check out in one bird."

  Ralph didn't pursue the old Navy-Air Force argument. There was little common ground, and he valued Jerry Paulson more as a friend than a parochial naval aviator.

  "I just want to make sure I give those Thud drivers the best of what I've got," John Ralph said.