by C. L. Hoang
“Lee Anne. Would you go downtown with me sometime?” I proposed on the spur of the moment. “We can go for a Coke or a milkshake. Or maybe a hot cup of Vietnamese or French espresso. Anything you wish.”
“I don’t know if I can leave here.” She sounded surprised, unsure.
“Let me handle the arrangements with Mme Yvonne. Come on. It’ll be fun.”
She didn’t promise, but in the bright afternoon sunlight, her eyes smiled back at me.
Just then, over the speakers, Ol’ Blue Eyes started a new serenade, “The Way You Look Tonight.” I turned to her. “May I have this dance?”
“I don’t know how to dance. It is truth.” There was panic in her voice, in her eyes.
“Not to worry. I’ll lead. You just follow. It’s like taking a walk in the park, together.”
I stood, leaned down toward her chair, waiting.
She hesitated, looked up at me, then stood slowly.
I reached and took her hand, so small and soft in mine—for the very first time.
Chapter Nine
The fall of 1967 began with a flurry of new activities at Biên-Hoà AFB. The sweltering month of August marked the arrival of two brand-new aircraft making their experimental debut in the Southeast Asia theater. Both in time would prove formidable weapons of war, one for the Air Force and the other for the Army, but they were as diverse birds as might be found in the actual feathered kingdom.
The Cessna A-37 Dragonfly was a new subsonic jet fighter slotted to replace the venerable Douglas A-1 Skyraider in close air support and counterinsurgency missions. Lighter and more nimble than the F-100, it carried as much ordnance as the latter while trading supersonic speed for greater maneuverability and pinpoint target accuracy.
“You’ve got to watch it perform its Viking takeoff,” Bob told me, nodding his head emphatically. “A vertical zoom right off the ground. Un-believable. It’s a stunning feat, matched by no other prop or jet. I’m afraid my Skyraiders have finally seen their day.”
Under Operation Combat Dragon, the USAF had deployed to Biên-Hoà a squadron of air commandos whose task was to evaluate the effectiveness and survivability of the A-37 in combat missions, a classic example of trial by fire. This resulted in an increase in workload and overtime for the staff at the 3rd Tac Dispensary. On the upside, among the newcomers, Bob had run across a long-standing acquaintance from his hometown in Minnesota.
“Joel Bronstad. Or little Joey, I used to call him,” he said, chuckling at the memory of more innocent times. “His big brother Jimmy and I were best pals in high school. Where did the time go?” He looked over at me, then casually suggested, “One of these weekends when you’re free, maybe we can get together with Joey for a drink or something. One hell of a nice kid. And now, one of the best pilots around. So I’ve heard.”
I mumbled a noncommittal, “We’ll see.” If I were honest with myself, I wasn’t too keen on missing any weekend jaunt to Sài-Gòn unless it was unavoidable.
Bob let it drop, and nothing more came of it.
Meanwhile, the Army side of the base was abuzz with the recent delivery of a dozen Bell AH-1G Cobra assault helicopters, accompanied by a New Equipment Training Team of fifty officers, enlisted men, and civilian technicians. Nicknamed the Snake, the new super gunship boasted a slim fuselage, a wide-bladed rotor, tandem cockpits, stub wings with “store” stations, and an under-nose turret. Zipping along at twice the speed of the traditional Huey UH-1B, the Snake also proved more elusive to enemy fire, thanks to its narrow airframe. As such, it was expected to deliver superior air support to ground troops even in the absence of USAF involvement.
In the true spirit of Tri-Service Care, which mandated that all medical care from the Army, Navy, and Air Force be coordinated as one single task force, we regularly lent a hand to our buddies in the Army Medical Corps who were overworked even before the arrival of the Cobra NETT. In return, their choppers and pilots were available to us to assist in medical evacuations or routine transport. In fact, many of my memorable trips to Tân-Sơn-Nhất were aboard one of their Hueys.
As fall came into full swing, albeit without noticeable change in the weather, everyone on base logged in long hours, with six- or seven-day workweeks. With fresh troops and new military equipment arriving daily, sometimes twice a day, we all felt tension building in the air—electric, positive tension in anticipation of a breakthrough. This pervasive excitement found its way into a letter I wrote during that period to my older brother Jerry.
Biên-Hoà AFB, 10 Oct 1967, 1800 hrs
Hey big guy,
How’s life at Moon Meadows? Are you guys coming up for air, now that the travel season has wound down? You all realize, of course, I’m really envious of you since this happens to be my favorite time of year in the Eastern Sierra, when the summer heat finally subsides and the last remaining tourists have vacated the area. But you better hurry and enjoy these next few weeks of peace and leisure before the first snow on Mammoth Mountain sends them skiers stampeding back your way.
I’d give anything to be home right now, to go backpacking in the high country or squeeze in the last fishing of the season with you, Jer, doing all the simple things we love but always take for granted. If you think of it later, would you hand Mom a few postcards from the rack by the front desk to include in my next care package? They sure capture our spectacular scenery well, and I’d like to glance at them now and then before lights-out. Then maybe, just maybe, I can make it back there in my dreams. A poor substitute for the real thing, I reckon, but better than nothing. While you’re at it, can you throw in a healthy supply of Yard Guard, too? It’s there on the counter behind the postcards, if memory serves. The bugs over here are horrible, they devour you alive! Unfortunately, our screen doors and windows aren’t enough to keep them out. And last time I checked, our BX was completely out of insect spray. Not a single can left.
We’ve been swamped for the past couple months. Lots of classified activity going on that we’re not at liberty to discuss. Suffice it to say everybody’s been working overtime, and will be for the foreseeable future. I’m on a 12-hour shift today, with two more hours to go. Thank goodness things have slowed down from the madness earlier this afternoon. Gives me a chance to catch a breath, and at least get started on this letter I kept telling Mom I’d write you. Sorry for the delay, brother.
Half-hour ago before sitting down at my desk, I walked to the front of the dispensary to stretch my legs. Day or night, there’s always some exciting action above the runway that we can observe right from our doorstep. It’s the best diversion to help clear my head after a long day, and I take full advantage of it as opportunities arise. Tonight was no exception. I got to watch a scene that still leaves me in awe every time I chance upon it.
It was the beautiful sight of a Boeing CH-47 Chinook helicopter, darkly outlined against the sunset sky, sling-loading a battle-damaged gunship back to home base for repair. You’d have a better appreciation of it than me, since you’re a lot more mechanical-minded. But even I can tell this chopper is a flying wonder. Nicknamed “Shit Hooks” by the crews who care for it, it can haul any type of cargo from the hooks under its belly: Howitzers, trucks, choppers, jet fighters, etc. Anything up to 25,000 lbs, no sweat. Can you imagine the monster blast it generates with its tandem rotors during takeoff or landing with such a mega-load? These hurricane-force winds can knock a careless airman off his feet and send him rolling across the tarmac like tumbleweed. I once witnessed it with my own eyes.
What boggles the mind is that the Chinook is but one of many wonder machines in our modern arsenal. In fact, advanced weapons of every kind are rolling out our factory doors on a regular basis, right into this battlefield, where they undergo the most rigorous testing to help improve them further. With such superior technology at the disposition of our well-trained and disciplined troops, does anyone doubt we can wrap up this nasty business in a timely fashion? And no, I
’m not working in Psywar. It’s all personal opinion.
Enough of that. I just have one more favor to ask you. Can you possibly order through our book club new copies of Gone with the Wind and Doctor Zhivago? Maybe Farewell to Arms and The Grapes of Wrath, too. Don’t worry. I’m not going literary on you in my old age. No time for me to even browse the Stars and Stripes or the Air Force Times, much less repeat my American Lit class. I just thought they’d make a nice gift for a Vietnamese friend who’s very serious about studying our language and culture.
Thanks for your help, big guy. My love to Mom and Dad. Please let them and Debbie know I’m behind on my letters because of our busy schedule, but I’m doing well and thinking of them often. I’ll write them as soon as things let up. Just patience, please.
Take care, Jer. Now go enjoy your late summer before it’s gone.
Happy hiking, camping, fishing, etc., R.C.
As with the rest of my letters, no matter to whom they were addressed, this one would make the rounds to everyone in my family including Debbie, who had always been accepted as one of us. It was then set aside, with all my other mail from Việt-Nam, in my mom’s special collection. Neatly bundled in chronological order, these handwritten pages were stashed away in a round tin box, then turned over to me several years after my homecoming.
“Hang on to these, son,” my mother told me at the time. “We all go back in search of our pasts eventually. These old records come in handy when you’re ready for your own trip down memory lane.” She was right, of course.
As it happened, the more hectic our schedule at the base, the greater my anticipation of the weekend trips to Sài-Gòn. They became the highlight of my weeks, to which I looked forward with increased excitement, especially after my decision to invite Lee Anne for an afternoon downtown.
One Sunday in Mme Yvonne’s garden, as we were waiting for our hostesses to return with the beverages, I consulted with Dick on how best to approach Mme Yvonne.
“You sure you want to do this?” he asked me point blank, staring me straight in the eyes.
I inferred from his reaction that he knew of my engagement to Debbie. But Dick had never been one to sit in judgment of others, so I nodded firmly, convinced of my pure intentions.
He crossed his arms in front of him. “You understand why Mme Yvonne can’t allow the girls to come and go as they please just because some customer asks them out. It would defeat the very purpose of her club.”
The disappointment must have registered plainly on my face.
He blew out some air, leaned back in his chair as if to gather his thoughts before speaking again. “I suppose you could pay up front for the drinks you’d normally order. That would take care of business as far as the club goes. It’d make it easier to convince Mme Yvonne to make an exception. Worth a shot. She can always say no.”
The following weekend, we tested out his plan.
While Dick was having his tête-à-tête with Mme Yvonne on my behalf, Elise, who along with Vivienne and Dean had been let in on our little scheme, approached me.
“Will Dick drive you two downtown?”
“I wouldn’t dream of disrupting his afternoon with Vivienne,” I said. “He’s doing me a big favor as it is. We’ll get a taxicab.”
Elise nodded. “That’s easy. The National Music Conservatory is only a block from here, on your right. There are taxicabs waiting in front at all hours.” She turned to Lee Anne, who was smiling nervously. “You make sure the driver doesn’t cheat Roger.”
Dick strutted over at that moment, a triumphant smile on his face. “It’s all cleared,” he announced, rubbing his hands together. “The one request she has is that you kids be discreet when you leave. She doesn’t want to set a precedent for everybody else.”
Elise’s hand shot up. “I can help with that. Let me know when you are ready. I will start playing the piano.”
Elise was immensely popular with the regular crowd at Mme Yvonne’s, a valuable asset for the club. When she sat down to play, people gathered around to listen and cheer.
I smiled. “How about now? So you all can get back to business as usual.”
“À votre service, monsieur.” She leaned forward in a half-bow, took Dean’s hand and pulled him from his chair. “Get ready.” She winked at us as she and Dean linked arms and headed for the house.
Soon the keyboard roused to life, its sparkling music streaming from the lounge into sunlight. The boisterous crowd in the garden fell silent, then one couple after another got up from their tables and started indoors.
I nodded at Lee Anne. “Shall we? Now?”
We hurried past the lounge to the front gate. I recognized the buoyant piece Elise was playing, “Never on Sunday” at faster tempo than usual. The bouncy tune had people on their feet, clapping and stomping, so nobody noticed us slip by. This is like playing hooky, I thought, glancing over at Lee Anne who probably shared the same idea, her cheeks flushed pink and her eyes twinkling with mischief. I felt the familiar butterflies in my stomach—that intoxicating mix of guilt, trepidation, and exhilaration, the palpable sense of the forbidden. Like school kids sneaking away from homeroom in search of a thrill, we tiptoed through the wrought-iron gate onto the street, hand in hand.
Dick had provided some options for where to go downtown. “The main pastime, of course, is people-watching,” he had declared with the self-assurance of an old hand. “The Shelf is a great spot for that, but it’s all foreign correspondents, and you won’t find a table after two o’clock anyway. La Pagode nearby also has a nice café terrasse, but mainly for locals, so you’ll stick out like a sore thumb. Forget Givral as well. It’s the favorite haunt of spoiled brats from rich families in the city. That leaves Brodard as your best bet.”
Located at the corner of Tự-Do and Nguyễn-Thiệp Streets, one block up from the Hôtel Continental Palace, Brodard was a cozy, intimate restaurant-ice cream parlor popular with both Vietnamese and Western crowds.
“Delicious espressos and French pastries. You can also order light meals or sandwiches, with a milkshake or ice cream for dessert,” Dick had said, giving me the spiel. “Make sure you get a table on the second floor where you can look out the big windows at Rue Catinat below, in both directions. That’s one fine view you don’t want to miss.”
Armed with insider knowledge, I felt confident enough to suggest to Lee Anne we try the place. The taxi driver dropped us off in front of the restaurant, and it was our good fortune to walk in at the same time a table for two became available upstairs. We were seated next to the expansive glass wall that opened onto the street scene below. The place exuded casual elegance. Its quiet air conditioner felt like heaven, which might account for the never-ebbing crowd inside. Excellent choice, Dick, I thought, as the waiter handed us the menus.
“Have you been here before?” I asked Lee Anne. She hadn’t said much since we came in.
She simply shook her head, her face hidden behind the menu.
“Is something the matter?” I reached and gently brushed aside the carte.
She avoided my eyes. Still, I could glimpse the shadow in hers.
“What’s wrong, Lee Anne?” I asked softly. “Please tell me.”
She composed herself before returning my gaze, then struggled to explain in a faint voice, “I have heard this is a very nice place. But it is so expensive.”
“You’re my guest,” I said, smiling. “This is on me.”
“That is not what I mean.” She shook her head again, her eyes opening wide, pleading for understanding. “A meal on the menu costs more than one week’s pay for my husband. How can I sit here and enjoy while he makes sacrifices for our family? It is not right. I—I don’t belong in this place.”
I reached across the table, covered her nervous hand with mine. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. We don’t have to stay here if you’re not comfortable. Would you rather le
ave?”
She hesitated. “Are you sure that is okay? You made effort so we can spend the afternoon downtown. I don’t want to . . .”
Then an idea appeared to strike her, and she gave me a timid smile. “Can I show you my Sài-Gòn? Very simple, nothing fancy. But I promise we will not get lost.”
I smiled back, surprised. “It’s more than I dare ask. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” I stood and helped her with her chair.
From Brodard we strolled over to Lê-Lợi Street, another wide avenue downtown, away from the ritzy hotels and posh restaurants on Tự-Do. Beyond the fountained traffic circle in front of the Rex Hotel, the bustling sidewalks became crowded with peddlers’ stalls of all kinds, like a teeming flea market.
“Most important thing first,” Lee Anne said, taking her tour guide duty seriously. “I want you to try a drink we all love. Nước mía, or fresh sugarcane juice mixed with mandarin orange juice. Best thing for you in this heat.”
My heart quickened at her suggestion, but I managed a smile so as not to offend her. Repeatedly, we’d been cautioned against consuming native foods and beverages lest we succumbed to “Uncle Hồ’s Revenge,” a debilitating form of gastroenteritis.
What the hell, I thought. Live big. Enjoy the adventure. Hopefully, Kaopectate and Lomotil would combat any nuisance later.
We rounded a street corner and arrived at a large juice stand with a long line of thirsty, noisy patrons in front. A weathered awning displayed “Nước Mía Viễn-Đông” in faded red letters. Lee Anne left me waiting on the sidewalk and got in line. She emerged minutes later with two big glasses filled with a golden, frothy liquid.
“Viễn-Đông is very well known,” she said, offering me an ice-cold glass. “It has been here for years. Its name means ‘Far East.’ I am happy I can show you this tradition of real Sài-Gòn.”
She smiled shyly and raised her glass. “To my wonderful friend, Roger, who has been very kind to me. I have not said it enough times, but thank you again with all my heart.”