Once Upon a Mulberry Field

by C. L. Hoang

  Thus, with my first taste and smell of war that sweltering summer of 1967, began my acquaintance with Dean “the Lonely” Hunter.

  Chapter Four

  Barring any emergencies, there wasn’t much activity at the 3rd Tac Dispensary on a late afternoon. Bob would leave word with Tweety on our whereabouts, then take me down to the flight line to watch, in his words, “the best free show in town.”

  “This place is incredible,” he’d remind me every time. “It’s like a live air show, only better. You get front-row seats to all the action.”

  Growing up as an only child in the small town of Little Falls, Minnesota, Bob had discovered his ideal hero in The Lone Eagle, known to the world as the great Charles Lindbergh. Many a time after class, he had trekked the two miles from school to the historic farmhouse south of town where the famous aviator used to spend his early summers. There, he would sneak onto the porch overlooking the Mississippi and imagine himself, like young Lindy decades before him, gawking in awe at a biplane barnstorming over the treetops. Through his reminiscence of those innocent days, I learned of my hooch mate’s lifelong passion for aviation.

  Bob could easily hang out at the flight line for hours on end, pointing out every single type of aircraft that whizzed by, naming its manufacturer and exact model number, and rattling off a long list of impressive specs—much like a teenage hotrodder around speed cars. The main object of his admiration was a bevy of sleek jet fighters in perpetual motion on Runway 27.

  “That is one superb fighting machine,” Bob shouted in my ear as an F-100 Super Sabre, or “Hun,” took off in a thunder. “The world’s first supersonic jet, by several months over the Soviet MiG-19. It held the world records in speed, altitude, and distance. The Thunderbirds couldn’t have picked a more impressive demo engine.”

  Squinting at the fast-disappearing aircraft, he shook his head in amazement. “D’you know it can be fitted with ‘special stores’ as needed? The old bird is actually suited for nuclear warfare. I can’t wait to ride in the two-seater model. Hopefully soon.”

  Tugging at my sleeve, he pointed to another smart-looking ship that had just landed. “Man, are you in for a treat. Take a good look at the F-102 Delta Dagger, nicknamed the ‘Deuce.’ Note its distinctive delta wing shape, like a giant bat, as opposed to the Hun’s more traditional swept-wing design.” Turning to make certain I had the right airplane in view, he continued. “We have only six of these birds standing alert here at Biên-Hoà. They can be airborne and combat ready in five minutes, day or night. Five minutes, my friend.”

  Once in a while, our base played host to unexpected visitors, like the time a US Navy F-4 Phantom jet with stuck landing gear due to damage from enemy fire was forced to touch down on its belly. As a rule, such a wounded bird was not to return to its home carrier for fear of endangering the whole ship. Again, Bob and I were on hand to assist in the Local Base Rescue effort, successfully conducted with a Huskie helicopter and on-base fire trucks. Bob lingered afterward to chat with the pilot and came away thoroughly impressed.

  “That was a Mach-2 aircraft just landed on our runway. Twice the speed of sound with more than double the bomb load of the Hun. Dollars to doughnuts it’ll be our warhorse of the future.” Then, his eyes shining bright, “You saw the pilot’s G-suit? We’re talking space age here, kiddo.”

  As engrossed as Bob was with all the technological wizardry that defined modern military aviation, his real fascination lay with the pilots who flew these experimental wonder-machines. Serving as one of the flight surgeons under the base medical commander, he was responsible for the pilots’ safety and well-being and had the authority to revise their flying status when necessary. In this capacity, he had come to know them on a personal basis and was regularly invited to parties at their squadron headquarters. He also made it a point to partake in their “fini-flight” celebrations on the flight line.

  This ritual took place upon a pilot’s completion of his final mission in Việt-Nam. It signified his imminent return to The World—The Land of the Big PX, of air-conditioning and indoor plumbing. Climbing down from the cockpit for the last time in country, the fortunate pilot would be swarmed by cheering comrades who doused him with cold water before presenting him with a bottle of champagne. Bob would drop in to shake hands with the happy short-timer and congratulate him on heading home.

  “How come you never tried out for flight school?” I asked Bob one late evening as we were stretched out on our cots, listening to the steady rain and the nondescript music on Armed Forces Radio, about to drift asleep. “You were born to fly, man.”

  “Not good enough eyesight,” he mumbled at first. Then a moment later, I heard his voice again in the dark. “Truth is, it meant a lot to my old man that I follow in his footsteps and become a doctor. So I did.” He chuckled softly. “But after med school I rebelled and joined the Air Force, did my residency in aerospace medicine, and became a flight surgeon. Instead of a family physician like Dad. Uff-da!”

  I laughed. “You do get to fly, though, being a flight surgeon?”

  “Not as a pilot, obviously,” he said. “But I’ve flown on all kinds of aircraft, rotaries as well as props and jets. We’re required to log in minimum flying time each month. Most pilot guys are cool, and if you ask them they’ll be happy to show you how to fly their machine. Some even let you have stick time and get hands-on, as long as it’s a two-seater.”

  While admiring the jets for their sleek beauty and raw performance, Bob saved his affection for the older and slower propeller airplanes, of which there were many squadrons on base. This wasn’t so much because he got to fly on them more frequently as due to the high regard he held for the crews. To him, those pilots were among the true unsung heroes of the war.

  “Take the single-engine A-1 Skyraider, for instance,” Bob explained to me one day. “This old fighter can swoop in real low and inflict more damage with better accuracy than high-flying high-speed jets. Then there’s the O-1 Bird Dog observation plane, a little high-wing job that routinely defies ground fire to direct the big strikers to their targets. And let’s don’t forget the Ranch Hand commandos. D’you realize how low and slow they must fly those thick-bellied Providers when they’re out spraying defoliant over enemy territory? It takes skill and guts to carry out all those dangerous missions day in and day out, and survive.”

  “You really dig this stuff, don’t you?” I remarked. “Biên-Hoà seems a natural fit for you.”

  He didn’t reply immediately. When he did, his voice lacked its usual hint of laughter.

  “I’ve always loved flying since I was knee-high to a grasshopper. There’s no denying it. As for Biên-Hoà, like it or lump it, we’ve still got a job to do here. And I for one am going to focus on the things that interest me, not on all the nonsense I can’t control.”

  Looking past me, he went on. “You and me, we’re very fortunate we’re noncombatants. The lucky dogs ‘in the rear with the gear,’ as they say. But even so, nobody can hide from the war, and it sure as hell can trip you up. If you let it.”

  Bob was no doubt alluding to the scenes that played out every day on the flight line, a fact that should have made it easier to ignore them after a while, but it didn’t. In late summer 1967, new troops continued to arrive in country at a clipped pace through Biên-Hoà AFB. Most were flown in on Boeing 707s operated by commercial airlines such as Continental or Pan Am or by military contractors like World Airways or Flying Tigers. The rest were transported by the Air Force’s C-141 Starlifters, which were reconfigured upon landing for medical evacuation flights back to CONUS. It was a remarkable sight to watch those imposing jets drop out of the sky in a precipitous descent onto the runway—a tricky maneuver to dodge snipers’ fire from the jungle surrounding the base.

  Caught in the glaring sunlight, the new arrivals, in rumpled khakis or dress greens or blues, staggered down the ladder, looking jet-lagged and disoriented. Th
ey were herded to a processing center inside a shed right off the tarmac, filing past a long line of boisterous veterans headed the opposite way. The latter, their worn uniforms decorated with all kinds of colorful insignias, had trouble containing their euphoria as they waited to board the same plane. The sweet moment they’d dreamed about throughout their one-year tours was finally here, and they were aching to be whisked away on that “Freedom Bird” and returned to their loved ones at home. “Fresh meat, suckers,” they hollered with glee and pumped their fists at the newcomers, who glanced back nervously. But among that exuberant crowd flying home, a keen observer might also spot a few soldiers, unusually subdued, whose eyes bore the saddest vacant look.

  “Those poor kids,” Bob whispered to me once. “They’ve seen more combat than their rattled nerves could stand. That haunted look in their eyes? We call it the ‘thousand-yard stare.’ They’ve got a bumpy road ahead of them. Even with help.”

  A more disturbing sight that never failed to jolt me no matter how often I’d stumbled on it was the unloading of body bags. Strapped down on cargo pallets, the olive-drab rubberized bags were delivered by propeller transports straight from the front, a small yellow tag of personal data dangling from each one. In the hazy heat waves, the stench of death rose from the bags and blended with the powerful smells of jet fuel and exhaust fumes to create an indelible impression. A convoy of cracker boxes—their red lights flashing, unnecessarily it seemed—met the sinister cargo at the flight line and hauled it off to the morgue. Inside, civilian contractors set out at once to embalm the corpses to stave off further ravaging by the tropical heat. The prepared bodies would later go back to the flight line, this time in stacks of tightly sealed metal caskets to be loaded onto a C-130 Hercules or C-7 Caribou for homebound destinations. Even when hidden from sight, death remained on the prowl, never more than a few steps away from us.

  At the base, we sometimes could tell when the fighting was getting intense out in the field. Beside an increase in sorties for the fighter bombers, a palpable tension would build in the air that eventually erupted in an awesome spectacle over the skies of Biên-Hoà. It would begin with a distant thumping that grew louder and more ominous by the minute until it was almost directly overhead, drawing one’s attention skyward. There, ascending across the blue expanse, was a giant snakelike formation of over a hundred helicopters—troop-carrying slicks escorted by gunships, in staggered rows of two—as they lifted an Airborne battalion to battle. It was an extraordinary sight, and for me, one of the most unforgettable images of the Việt-Nam War. As I stared up in awe, I could almost make out the faces of the young troops being taken to the front. It startled me to realize that many of them, barely a year removed from high school, would never reach drinking age. They were the marked ones, the ones who’d be returned to the base a few hours or a few days hence, concealed in tagged body bags.

  “Old man” Bob had proved dead accurate in his assessment. The broodings engendered day after day by these baleful observations, if allowed to fester in one’s mind for any length of time, could drive one to the brink of madness. So most of us elected to channel our free time and energy into worthwhile causes like MEDCAP, or toward entertaining endeavors of our own, the way my hooch mate made himself an aficionado of military aviation. When it came to self-preservation, no pursuit could be deemed frivolous if it managed to steer one’s obsession from the senseless realities of war, even for a moment.

  One Sunday morning, I found my way to the “library” in hunt of the latest James Michener epic novels, which were perfect to fill the long evening hours before bedtime. The library was located in a stuffy trailer in the main complex, which also housed the post office, movie theater, chapel, and different clubhouses. It served as a trade-in center where airmen could exchange their used paperbacks for unread titles. It also held a limited supply of records and reel-to-reel tapes that people were allowed to make copies of if they had a tape recorder. In fact, Bob periodically took advantage of the facility to supplement his own music collection with missing songs from his favorite artists—Peter, Paul and Mary, and Bob Dylan, among others.

  When I got back to the hooch, Bob was sitting on his cot amid a mess of half-opened packages and scattered old magazines and newspapers.

  “Another care package from home?” I asked. “Just like the good old college days, eh?”

  No response. I glanced over and saw a letter in his hands and a stunned expression on his face. He gave me a blank stare, then muttered a hoarse whisper. “It’s from Nancy.”

  An awful thought raced through my mind and made my heart sink. It couldn’t be happening. Not to Bob. Not one of those “John Deere” letters.

  From earlier chats, I understood he had waited until after medical school to marry his long-time sweetheart. Following an intimate wedding in their hometown, he and Nancy had moved to Brooks AFB outside San Antonio, Texas, where he did his three years of residency in aerospace medicine. In spring 1967, Bob finished the training and received his flight surgeon wings, along with his orders for a one-year tour in Việt-Nam. He used the thirty-day leave before reporting for duty to help Nancy move back to Minnesota.

  It must have been tough on the couple. Bob spent much of his free time in Biên-Hoà writing letters or recording taped messages to his wife. Except during our busiest spells, he seldom forgot to sign up for a time slot to call her on the MARS (Military Affiliate Radio System). This ingenious communications system employed short-wave carriers to patch a phone line in Việt-Nam to one in the US and allowed our service people to talk with their families back home for five minutes per scheduled call. Despite that stringent time limit and the slight inconvenience imposed by Citizens’ Band protocol—only one party could speak at a time, ending his or her turn with a punctuating “over”—this free service was a popular morale booster, a true lifeline that kept us connected to The World. Nobody even seemed to mind the lack of privacy, with the operator staying on the line to flip the receive-transmit switch after each “over.”

  I dared not ask another question, holding Bob’s stare in awkward silence.

  His face suddenly broke into the brightest smile. He leapt to his feet, charged toward me, and clutched me in a bear hug, shouting some gibberish that took me a moment to register. “Guess what, Roger? I’m going to be a daddy. A daddy, you hear? This is out of this world! Best birthday gift I ever got!”

  Then just as abruptly, he set me down and started pacing, head in hands in disbelief. As his words tumbled out in an excited flood, I did my best to piece together the story.

  It seemed Nancy had waited for Bob’s upcoming birthday to spring the happy news on him. They’d been trying for a number of years with negative results, including one devastating early miscarriage. This time she’d decided to keep mum, at least until the pregnancy had progressed beyond the critical first trimester, so as not to raise false hopes and resurrect the painful memories that still haunted them.

  “Congratulations to both of you.” I shook his hand, relieved and grateful there was fairness in this world after all. “That’s tremendous news. How far along is she?”

  “Just over five months. A bit longer than I’ve been here.” He grinned from ear to ear. “She managed to keep it from me all this time—can you believe it? Even my parents didn’t breathe a word to me. Ah, naughty girl, my Nancy. It must’ve been killing her, though, all this secretive business.”

  “You’re all alone over here. She just wanted to make certain for your sake,” I reassured him. “She doing fine? Everything all right so far?”

  Bob reached into the pile of wrapping paper on his bed and pulled out an elegant silver picture frame, which he proudly showed to me. It was a portrait photo of an attractive young woman with shoulder-length blond hair, violet-blue eyes, and an engaging smile, in a pink floral dress that complemented the healthy blush on her cheeks. I whistled my admiration. “She’s a stunner. What on earth did you do
to deserve her, you lucky devil?”

  Bob laughed and ran his fingers tenderly across the framed glass. “It’s my girl all right. Soon to be the mother of my child.” He raised the picture closer to his face. “This was taken last month, for my birthday. There’s a glow about her already. I can tell.”

  Then he turned to me with furrowed eyebrows. “She’s due around Christmastime. If I postpone my R&R, we may be able to hook up in Hawaii by end of January.” He hesitated before completing his thought. “Aren’t you taking yours about that time, too? I’d sure hate to be gone the same week, seeing how short-handed we are.”

  All service people in Việt-Nam looked with great anticipation to the halfway point in their tour, when they were granted a week of Rest and Recreation at an out-country destination of their choice. The list of exotic locales included Thailand, Malaysia, Hong Kong, Japan, Australia, and Hawaii. Married personnel could also put in a request for their spouses to join them on their R&R. Most couples chose Hawaii because of its convenient location and its “at-home” setting.

  I dismissed his concern with a wave of hand. “Not a problem from my end. I haven’t firmed up any plans yet. You go ahead and make yours, and I’ll schedule around them.” I then reminded him with a wink, “Don’t sweat it, Poppa. You have much bigger worries now.”

  “This calls for some serious celebrating,” Bob announced, setting the photo on his footlocker. “But before we head down to the club, let’s have a quick listen to this.”

  He placed a 45-rpm single on the phonograph next to the picture frame. It was an old RCA tabletop he’d been carrying around since his high school days—for sentimental reasons, he said. His late mother had redeemed it with her books of S&H Green Stamps as a surprise gift to him. To my amazement, the ancient widget kept cranking out beautiful music, albeit a little scratchy in its old days.