by C. L. Hoang
It’s getting late, I really should get some shut-eye. Once again, please stop worrying about me. Except for the lack of “civilized” comfort, I feel very safe and secure on base.
Mom, do take good care of that bum shoulder of yours. And Dad, please see to it that she does. Say hi to old Jer for me. Tell him I’ll write him soon. If you’re sending foodstuff, make sure it’s wrapped tightly in foil paper to keep the ants out.
Love, your son R.C.
Chapter Six
“Say, how about a short excursion to the Pearl of the Orient?” Bob asked me a couple of weeks after I’d met Dean Hunter. It had been a quiet afternoon at the dispensary, which gave us a rare chance to catch up with paperwork.
Raising my head from my desk, I tossed him a questioning look.
“That’s what the French used to call old Sài-Gòn,” he clarified. “Must have been some truth to it, at least before the war. I was told some famous English writers visited the city back in those days and really enjoyed their stays.”
“Oh yes. I started Graham Greene’s book on Việt-Nam before I left home,” I told Bob. “The Quiet American, I think it was. Never got around to finishing it, but it’s still in my bag. Anyhow, what’s in Sài-Gòn that needs tending to?”
It turned out Bob wanted to follow up on one of his charges, a wounded parajumper he had ordered airlifted to 3rd Field Hospital just outside the capital shortly before my arrival.
“Want to come?” he asked. “You can tour the facility, meet some people we work closely with, like the folks in the 9th Medical Lab. Then we can catch a taxi into town and kill an hour or two playing tourists. It’ll be my second trip there.”
Generally speaking, Sài-Gòn, like other big cities in the country, was off-limits to American military personnel, except on official duty. But Bob and I would have a legitimate excuse to be in town, and hopefully a rare opportunity to combine business with pleasure. Though only a short hop on Quốc-Lộ Một (National Highway One) from Biên-Hoà, the hospital was customarily reached by choppers, due to security reasons. It was located right outside the gate of Tân-Sơn-Nhất AFB, which also doubled as the civilian airport to the capital.
“3rd Field is a showpiece to the VIPs,” Bob explained further. “Clean and modern, and air-conditioned, of course. The nurses wear traditional white, but visitors like us are allowed in civvies to be more comfortable.”
We decided to make the trip that same Saturday to give ourselves more time afterward for sightseeing, such as it was, since there was no volunteer project planned for that weekend. As a newbie, I looked forward to my first chance to get off base and see a bit more of the country.
Early Saturday, we hitched a ride on an Army helicopter sent to pick up visiting dignitaries at Tân-Sơn-Nhất that morning.
On the flight over, Bob filled me in on the case at hand: twenty-year-old Airman Oliver Perez, known to his mates in the 38th Air Rescue and Recovery Squadron as Jolly Olly for his sunny temperament. His was an impressive tale of courage and dedication.
Jolly Olly had been part of a rescue team of two Huskie choppers, call sign “Pedro,” dispatched on a med-evac mission in the jungles east of Biên-Hoà. Deep in the bowels of the triple-canopy forest, an infantry company had stumbled into an ambush and was pounded by enemy troops that vastly outnumbered them.
With no clearings in sight, Army Dustoff helicopters had been unable to land to retrieve the dead and wounded. In came the Air Force Huskies, which hovered over the dense canopy while their crews lowered a pair of Stokes litters through the trees. On the ground, a wounded soldier was hastily strapped into each litter before it was winched back up into the aircraft. The choppers immediately took off for the nearest field hospital, then returned for the next retrieval. This tedious process bogged down in the absence of well-trained medics on the ground, which threatened to jeopardize the entire operation. Jolly Olly requested permission to go in.
Intense enemy fire zinged past the daring PJ as he rode the “jungle penetrator,” a long hoist with spring-loaded legs that extended into seats, into the inferno below. After touching ground, he moved quickly to coordinate and speed up the rescue by assisting casualties onto the Stokes litters or the flimsy seats on the penetrator. Thanks to his expertise, many more wounded were safely evacuated than would have been.
Jolly Olly held out until nightfall, when darkness put a halt to the operation and he was ordered to return to his aircraft on the final lift. Only then did his crewmates realize he had sustained multiple gunshot wounds, one from a tracer round that scorched a lower leg of his fatigues. Back at the base, upon assessing his serious condition and doing all he could to stabilize it, Bob had him airlifted to 3rd Field Hospital for further treatment.
“It’s incredible what the human body is capable of, once we decide to step up to the plate,” Bob remarked. “Had he not been ordered to quit when he did, Jolly Olly would’ve pushed right on until he dropped from losing too much blood. He sure did his Maroon Berets proud. It’s no bullcrap they call themselves ‘men of steel.’” As I pondered the airman’s heroic deeds, Bob finished his thought. “Bragging rights aside, what he did truly exemplified their motto, ‘That others may live.’ One serious badass, our young fellow.”
At that moment, a familiar-looking scene began to unfold on the ground below. Through a shimmering haze of heat, exhaust fumes, and billowing black smoke emerged another hotbed of nonstop activity and blurry motion, not too different from what I’d grown accustomed to at our home base. Over the din that reached up to greet us, the crew announced our descent to Tân-Sơn-Nhất, the second-busiest airport in the world behind Biên-Hoà.
From the air, Bob pointed out the front entrance to the base, and across the street from it, a sprawling complex of two-story structures that resembled oversized metal boxes. A colorful display of international flags flew on the main structure’s rooftop.
“There it is. The headquarters of the Free World Military Assistance Command in Việt-Nam, MACV for short, or ‘Pentagon East,’” Bob said. “Few people know it also houses the 7th Air Force headquarters. I’ve never been inside, but that’s who we report to.”
A short distance up the road, I made out an impressive compound of white-stucco buildings with red-tiled roofs. Covered walkways meandered among the buildings between patches of green grass that shone brightly in the sun. It was amazing to discover such an oasis of calm in the heart of chaos.
“Let me guess,” I said, motioning to the immaculate compound. “3rd Field Hospital?”
Bob nodded, then pointed with his chin at a discreet villa across the road from the hospital. “Check this out. From up here, you can practically peek inside the private residence of the Big Chief.” Anticipating my question, he went on. “Yessiree. The One and Only. Westy, aka General William C. Westmoreland.”
In a swirl of dust, the Army Huey touched down on the helipad at 3rd Field. Bob and I hopped out and ran toward the nearest walkway, waving good-bye to the crew as their helicopter immediately took to the air to make room for another to land.
To save time, Bob suggested we split up and go our separate ways during our visit. After introducing me to some hospital staff who offered to show me around, he disappeared into the convalescing ward to find Jolly Olly. We agreed to meet up in the lobby after we were done.
By noontime, I found my way back to the lobby, overwhelmed by what little I’d glimpsed of the monumental work being carried out at the hospital. The appearance of serenity I had admired in the courtyard belied the crisis and urgency that prevailed the moment one stepped through the door. Among the echoing corridors of the wards, one was assailed by the uneasy feeling of Death on the lurk.
“Look who I bumped into.” I heard Bob’s voice behind me and turned to see him walking up the hallway in the company of a tall man in casual street clothes. When the man said hello with a firm handshake, I recognized a well-scrub
bed, clean-shaven Dean Hunter. Clad in Levi’s and short sleeves, Dean looked fit and relaxed—quite the dashing young doctor, with an added edge of Old West ruggedness about him.
“Nice seeing you again, Captain,” I said. “You coming or going?”
“Just dropped off some blood work at the 9th Lab,” Dean answered with a friendly wink. “I’m cleared for the rest of the day. How you doing, kiddo? Over your shell shock yet?”
“Dean was nice enough to offer to be our tour guide in the city,” Bob said. “He’s been there on several occasions and knows his way around. Right, Captain?”
“Actually, I’m meeting a friend in downtown Sài-Gòn. He’s the tour guide, as a member of the press. But I can get us downtown, if you guys care to hang out together.”
We got a Jeep ride to the busy airport terminal next door, where Dean flagged down one of the blue-and-yellow taxicabs, a French-made Renault 4CV that looked like a Volkswagen Beetle from the last war, only tinier. As we piled into this sorry relic of an automobile, Bob said, “Jolly Olly’s doing fantastic. Right on schedule for recovery.”
During the bumpy ride downtown, I received a crash course on the recent history of Sài-Gòn, courtesy of Dean Hunter. Not too long ago, this quaint capital city in the tropics had been extolled as the “Paris of the East” for its low-key urban charm. Then along came the war. It put Sài-Gòn on the world map and transformed it overnight into an international metropolis, military complex, and giant refugee camp all rolled into one. The result was a city of stark contrasts: between Old World elegance and the commercialism of new money; the high, fast living of the privileged few and the squalor among the masses; a humble colonial past and a volatile, dangerous present.
Originally planned for a citizenry of fewer than a million, Sài-Gòn had seen its population explode in recent years to upwards of three million people in 1967. Many were refugees who had fled the fighting in the countryside for a safe haven within the city limits. In fact, just outside the airport, we crossed over a muddy canal whose banks were covered with decrepit shanties under tin roofs, a squatters’ colony like countless others around the capital.
Traveling less than five miles from Tân-Sơn-Nhất to downtown took us more than half an hour, so horrendous was midday traffic. With no air conditioner, the cab’s windows were rolled down, and I gawked in disbelief at the chaotic hodgepodge that ensnared us. Up and down the narrow street, a few US Army trucks and European-made cars were hopelessly snagged in a sea of bicycles, motorbikes, pedicabs (“cyclos”), and three-wheel jitneys (“Lambrettas”). Except for the more bulky vehicles, all managed to weave and swerve and surge forward like giant schools of fish, though not as quietly. In a cacophony of screaming voices and honking horns, everyone fought for their right-of-way with little assistance from scarce traffic lights. A blue curtain of exhaust fumes hung heavy in the afternoon heat, tickling my throat and burning my eyes.
The street was lined on both sides with private residences that confronted first-time visitors with a startling mix of old and new. Next to venerable French villas that had seen better days behind their wrought-iron gates stood five-story concrete boxes with mini-balconies and open rooftops. New constructions sprouted on every corner, and it seemed just a matter of time before they’d supplant the lovely old dwellings. As we got farther inside the city, the French colonial-style houses became more stately and widely spaced, with an occasional small park squeezed in between. The road appeared much improved with fewer potholes and lighter traffic. Policemen dressed in all-white uniforms, hence their nickname “white mice,” directed traffic from raised platforms in the centers of intersections.
As our taxicab finally picked up speed, Dean leaned forward in his seat.
“We’ve arrived in the heart of the city,” he announced, tapping the Vietnamese driver on the shoulder, signaling for him to slow down. “Coming up on your right is the Presidential Palace, which looks more like a glorified bomb shelter. See the park in front of it?” He motioned to our left. “Look through the trees. You can make out the new US Embassy complex just beyond the park. A fortress itself.”
Bob and I fidgeted uncomfortably in our crammed seats as we craned to follow Dean’s nimble finger. He paused briefly to get his bearings before speaking to the smiling driver in the native tongue. The cab hung a sharp left onto a wide, tree-lined boulevard, speeding away from the imposing iron gate of the palace in the direction of the embassy.
Dean resumed his rapid-fire tour guide’s spiel. “Gentlemen, we’re about to head down the most famous street of Sài-Gòn, perhaps of all Indochina. Rue Catinat, if you prefer its former French name. Or Tự-Do, which means ‘freedom,’ as it’s known nowadays to the locals.”
As if on cue, the ever-smiling driver took an abrupt right turn, leaving the embassy complex in his rearview mirror.
Anchored at one end, where we had just turned, by Notre Dame Cathedral and the central post office, two landmarks dating from the late nineteenth century, Tự-Do was a short avenue stretching several blocks down to the west bank of the Sài-Gòn River. Its spacious sidewalks, shielded by tall trees from the blazing sun, provided a pleasant promenade past elegant boutiques and restaurants, luxury hotels, and sidewalk cafés. The atmosphere was charming and intimate, reminiscent of old Europe since the buildings were French colonial from the turn of the century, no more than five or six stories tall. However, there were indications that the times had caught up with the street. Whole sections toward the park overlooking the river had been stripped of their shade trees and lined with seedy nightclubs and massage parlors under garish neon signs.
The taxicab pulled up to the entrance of a stylish-looking hotel at a main street corner bordering on a square. It wasn’t a formal entrance, strictly speaking, but rather a large and airy veranda, raised several steps above pavement level and fronted by grand arches that opened onto the sidewalks. The veranda appeared to wrap around the entire block. Emblazoned in bold black letters across the white awnings that shaded its periphery was the establishment’s name, “Hôtel Continental Palace.” In the center of the adjacent square stood a massive building with an ornate, half-domed façade.
Dean caught my wandering gaze. “That’s the old opera house, recently renovated to serve as home to the elected national assembly. We’re going to Continental, the oldest hotel in Việt-Nam, open since 1880. Arguably the best known, also.”
We crawled out of the cab, climbed the steps, and escaped into the cool shade on the veranda, which turned out to be a terrace bar-restaurant. Quiet electric fans hung from vaulted ceilings, circulating a fresh breeze throughout the terrace. Bob whistled. “White tablecloths. And white-shirted waiters. Fancy schmantzy place, Captain Hunter.”
Someone got up from a nearby table and approached our group. Dean recognized his buddy, greeting him with a slap on the shoulder and a handshake. When they turned back to Bob and me for introductions, my jaw dropped.
“Dick? Dick Hayashi?” I stammered, not trusting my own eyes.
“Well, well. Small world,” Dean said as Dick led us back to his table, which faced out to Lam-Sơn Square. The bar was obviously a popular hangout since all the tables looked occupied—by Westerners, mainly.
“First things first,” Dick said, putting up his hand to hold back my questions. “You guys must be dying of thirst after that taxi ride. If it’s your first time here, let me suggest Algerian red wine, or the local beer. Tiger Beer, it’s called, or Ba Mươi Ba, which means ‘thirty-three’ in Vietnamese.”
We all opted for a cold Tiger Beer, named for its curious logo that depicted the outline of a tiger’s head above the enigmatic number 33. After the waiter in starched-collar shirt brought the bottles and glasses, Dick turned to me and smiled. “Okay, then.”
He had scarcely changed. Still not quite the ladies’ man he’d often fantasized growing into, being rather short and stocky, with uncooperative black hair and squinty
eyes that smiled behind thick glasses, he seemed to have remained that gentle, down-to-earth kid of our high school years. It had been a good while since I’d last seen Dick, right before we headed off to different colleges. Funny how quickly we’d drifted apart and lost touch, faster than I would’ve imagined, considering what close pals we’d been growing up. Last I heard, he was working on becoming a published author.
“I’m an ‘obligated volunteer,’ thanks to the doctor draft. That’s why I’m here,” I told Dick, trying to soft-pedal it so I wouldn’t offend Dean or Bob. “What’s your excuse?”
“Until I publish the next Great American Novel, there are bills to pay, unfortunately.” Dick still had that same easy laugh I’d known so well. “I’ve been a correspondent for AP in Sài-Gòn for over a year now. Dean and I met while I was doing a piece on Special Forces.”
The Associated Press, like NBC News, maintained an office in the taller Eden Building across Tự-Do Street from the four-story Hôtel Continental Palace. Dick said he’d been extremely lucky to have found a small apartment in the same building on the ground floor, having inherited it from his predecessor as part of the package deal with his job offer.
“Couldn’t be a better location,” he said with a thumbs-up. “This area around old Rue Catinat is a happening place. The epicenter for everything. News, rumors, espionage, nightlife. There’s a good reason it’s been dubbed ‘Radio Catinat,’ going back to Graham Greene’s days in the early fifties. You just keep your ear to the ground. And stay tuned.”