by C. L. Hoang
I stepped inside the hooch, fumbled to turn on the light, and almost jumped when I saw Bob sitting on the edge of his cot—head hung low, fists pressed hard against his temples, his thick body slumped forward, leaning inertly on bent knees.
Puzzled and somewhat alarmed, I strode over and laid a hand on his shoulder.
He slowly sat up, a dazed look on his face. His eyes were bloodshot.
“They just had a baby,” he uttered in a hoarse voice. “Right before he shipped out.”
“Who you talking about?”
“Joey and his wife.” Bob buried his face in his hands, fighting to suppress a doleful groan. “Joey Bronstad. My buddy’s kid brother.”
As I stood, stunned, the story came dribbling out, bit by painful bit.
Earlier that afternoon, Bob had been pulling call at the dispensary when Joey dropped in for a visit. It was shortly before his fragged sortie in the evening, and he seemed especially agitated. Gripped with inexplicable anxiety all day long, Joey was looking for a “Sky Doc”—flight surgeon—to consult with.
“How many hours have you flown this month already?” Bob asked him.
It wasn’t unusual that overexposure to combat could result in frazzled nerves. As a preventative measure, fighter pilots were limited to ninety flight hours per month. Beyond that, they were required to check in with their flight surgeon, who could then clear them for another thirty hours upon satisfactory examination. It was well known that the flyboys in Operation Combat Dragon had been pushing hard lately.
But Joey had barely reached his hours’ limit. Nothing excessive as yet.
“You’re exhausted,” Bob suggested to him nonetheless. “I understand you guys don’t like to be grounded, but I can order a simple crew rest. It’s only for eight hours.”
Joey politely declined. He had no intentions of letting his buddies down or having someone pull a double shift to fill in for him. He just needed to talk.
Though Bob could have forced the issue, he chose to let it pass. “I get that it’s a matter of pride to them,” he explained. “No pilot ever takes kindly to being grounded. So instead, I just invited him to stay and shoot the breeze, hoping it would help calm his nerves.”
They’d spent time catching up, the most they had since Joey’s arrival on base. The young pilot had shown Bob a wallet picture of his wife with their infant son.
“Beautiful baby boy.” Bob grabbed his head at the recollection, his voice breaking. “Just one month old when his proud daddy shipped out.”
To Bob’s relief, the visit had seemed to do Joey good. He had appeared calmer when it came time for him to go. “Stop by again when you get back,” Bob had told him as they shook hands. “I’ll prescribe something for a good night’s sleep. You’ll be good as new in the morning.”
Bob squeezed his eyes shut, exhaled, momentarily speechless.
“That was the last I saw of him,” he finally whispered, his eyes still closed. “He’s gone, Roge. Shot down over ‘Parrot’s Beak.’”
I sank down on the cot next to Bob.
After some time, he resumed. “It was confirmed he didn’t eject. There was no Mayday on the Guard Frequency.” While I remained dumbstruck, he droned on. “His buddies went back and combed the area. No sign. No signal whatever. They had to call it off for the night and wait until morning, for the wreckage—and his body. What’s left of it.”
I put my arm around Bob’s shoulders, which heaved with each gasp. The big guy was breaking up.
“I should have grounded him.” He let out a sob. “He came to me, Roger. He had a sense something bad was going to happen. Yet he went anyway.”
There was nothing I could say, so I just held him tight by the shoulders and let the storm blow over. Afterward, Bob was drained, his body sagging with grief. I helped him stretch out on his cot, struggling a bit with his long limbs and bulky frame.
“You need to get some rest, my friend,” I said. “Let me fetch you some Sparine.”
No sooner had he ingested the medication than he lapsed into a restless slumber.
I turned out the light, slipped into my own bed. In the dark, Bob tossed and turned, grinding his teeth and mumbling unintelligibly. Although I was fearful to go there, my thoughts drifted to this fallen soldier I hadn’t taken the time to meet, and to the young wife and infant son he had left behind. When I finally dozed off, in the small hours of the new day, my pillow was soft with moistness.
All through my fitful sleep, jumbled images flashed on my mind’s screen in a dizzying go-round, like a broken newsreel: Lee Anne’s smile; the frosty glass of sugarcane juice; Bob’s bloodshot eyes; the mother duck and her brood on the lotus pond; Joey’s jet blowing up in the night sky; Debbie’s gentle face . . .
In my fretful torpor, I even dreamed I heard the roaring thunder of Yosemite’s waterfalls in early summer, only to awaken, bewildered, to the ominous rumble from a B-52 bomber in the distance. Rolling flat on my back, I peeked groggily at the tin roof above—and remembered, with a jolt, the events of the past twenty-four hours.
Unable to return to sleep, I awaited sunrise.
Chapter Ten
As we approached Thanksgiving 1967 and the southwest monsoon season began to wind down, Charlie stepped up his hostilities against Biên-Hoà AFB. From the jungle outside the base’s periphery, the stealthy enemy routinely nagged at us with every type of launch weapons available at his disposal, from crude anti-tank recoilless rifles and rocket-propelled grenades to more damaging long-range mortars. But in recent days, the danger had increased exponentially with the advent of Soviet- or ChiCom-made 122-mm rockets. Even when launched from miles away, these powerful missiles still wreaked horrific devastation at impact. Known to be capable of punching through twenty-five layers of sandbags over four layers of steel planks, they could blow up all but the most fortified bunkers, leaving behind ghastly footprints six feet wide by three feet deep. It would look as if Death had swooped down from the sky and pulverized everything in its path. In an all-out campaign of terror, the Việt-Cộng would soon launch the same lethal weapons against innocent civilians in Sài-Gòn and other big cities in South Việt-Nam.
It was like some crazy mind game, the way the attacks on the base played out. “Like a thief in the night” they came, after lights-out, between 2230 and 2330 hours, hence the nickname “Eleven-o-clock Charlie” given to the perpetrators. At that late hour many of our young servicemen, out of boredom as much as curiosity, would tune to Radio Hà-Nội to check out the enemy’s propaganda. Sugar-coated like a poison pill, it was delivered in the soft, sexy voice of “Hà-Nội Hannah,” who began her nightly broadcast with a seductive, “How are you, GI Joe?” By and large, American soldiers laughed and poked fun at her propaganda tirades and scare tactics but enjoyed her music program, which played antiwar songs banned on Armed Forces Radio. Often enough, though, she succeeded in rattling nerves by tauntingly announcing on the air the names, units, and hometowns of Americans killed in recent combat. Such information could be obtained from open sources like the AP or UPI wire services, or even in the Stars and Stripes, but was generally suppressed on the Armed Forces Vietnam Network.
As if to back up Hà-Nội Hannah’s threats, Eleven-o-clock Charlie would mount his attack during her broadcast, triggering the air-raid siren in the process. Shrill enough to wake the dead, the sudden alarm shattered the evening stillness to warn that radar had picked up incomings and we had less than seven seconds to dash for cover at the nearest bunker. Then all hell broke loose. Klaxon horns went off inside the barracks and lifted everyone out of bed. Floodlights flashed on and off as the PA blared out emergency instructions. Pilots raced to report to the flight line in anticipation of taking to the air, while the rest of us scrambled like mad to the closest shelter.
The rockets dropped from the night sky, four or five on average per raid. They were clearly “walked in” across the
base for maximum damage. We could hear their frightening whistles as they landed closer and closer, sometimes exploding almost right on top of us. It was the sound of Death stomping the ground in search of unsuspecting victims. There wasn’t much one could do except—as Tweety, our medic, put it—“pucker up and wait.” But thanks to the sheer vastness of the base and the inaccurate aim of enemy artillery, most attacks had caused only material damages so far. On the few unfortunate occasions when our living quarters took a direct hit, the consequence had proved horrendous in fatalities and severe injuries.
Attending to the resulting mayhem seemed at times an exercise in futility and frustration. Our dispensary wasn’t equipped to handle serious combat injuries, so we quickly learned the rule of triage. All wounds above the shoulders must be routed to the 24th Evacuation Hospital, the only neuro-surgical trauma center in Việt-Nam and the busiest in the world. Everything else went to either the 93rd Evacuation Hospital or the 3rd Field Hospital at Tân-Sơn-Nhất. Both the 24th and the 93rd were located on the huge Army base at nearby Long-Bình, up the road from Biên-Hoà AFB.
Some of the hardest moments for me as a physician were spent holding the hands of the severely wounded to try to comfort and sustain them with moral support, for that was all I had to offer. Together we would await the Dustoff helicopters for their medical airlift, which sometimes arrived too late. That feeling of utter helplessness was a bleak memory I could never erase.
With this new danger now hanging over our heads came the sober realization that a safe rear zone where one could run and hide no longer existed. Prepared or not, we were all serving on one massive front line across the entire theater. This grim reality, when experienced firsthand through the nerve-shattering rocket attacks, was enough to unhinge grown men and send them home emotional wrecks. Here again, our Tweety had his unique, insightful way of sizing up the situation. Without batting an eye, he once quipped that even a trip to the outhouse to use the “honey bucket” became a memorable event when punctuated by incomings. At the time we all chortled, but little did anyone appreciate how spot-on he was. For in the end, war stamped its indelible imprint on every facet of our lives.
One evening around a fortnight before Christmas, Dean Hunter appeared unexpectedly at the dispensary as we were getting ready to call it a day.
“We need to talk about this weekend,” he said, motioning at me while shaking hands with Bob and the flight surgeon who was coming on the evening shift. Just then the phone rang and interrupted our greetings. Bob reached for it and answered what turned out to be a very brief call. When he hung up, concern was written all over his face.
“Reverse call from Senator Goldwater,” he said. “I’ve got to take this one. They’re routing it to the back office.” With that, he disappeared to the back of the building.
Senator Barry Goldwater, an avid amateur radio “ham,” was well known and loved by the troops in Việt-Nam for his staunch support of them and their families. From the ham shack at his half-acre hilltop home in Paradise Valley, Arizona, he operated one of many Military Affiliate Radio Stations stateside with the help of a small army of volunteers. Around the clock, they monitored and intercepted radio signals originated by service people in Việt-Nam, then patched them over to domestic phone lines to connect the callers with their families in the States. His station, call sign AFA7UGA, was the most prominent MARS located outside of a military base. Due to overwhelming demand for this free service, all calls were limited to five minutes and had to originate from Việt-Nam. Reverse calls from the States, as a rule, weren’t permitted, with extremely rare exceptions in case of emergencies.
In the front office we exchanged nervous looks, as we all couldn’t help but wonder the same thing. The conversation died down, and together we awaited Bob’s return in silence.
Suddenly, there was shouting coming from the back, followed by a commotion, like someone or something heavy bouncing off the floor. Everybody sprang to his feet, ready to storm in and kick down the door at further signs of alarm. Next, we heard Bob pound on the desk, his muffled voice booming through the shut door. Another long minute passed before the door flung open, and Bob came barreling out. As we watched, befuddled, he charged past us toward his desk and began rooting through it.
He finally straightened and turned to face us, the found packet in his raised hand. A big grin flashed across his sweaty face as he winked at us and spoke in the softest, sweetest voice he could muster, “Why don’t you pick one up and smoke it sometime?” Before any of us could react, Bob stretched both arms overhead in a triumphant touchdown sign and roared, “It’s a boy, fellows. Nancy and I just had a baby boy. Come on, now. Have a cigar on us.”
The whole room erupted in wild cheers and applause as we swarmed around him to pump his hand and accept a Muriel Magnum. Over the joyous ruckus, I could hear Tweety’s voice piping up. “Sir. That was the hottest Edie Adams impersonation this side of the Pacific. You surely could stand in for her in the commercial.” The men howled and stomped their feet in approval. Dean, standing back alongside me, wiped his brow with his hand. “For a minute there, I thought it might be something disastrous,” he whispered. “Lucky SOB. I’m real happy for him. For them both.”
According to Bob, Nancy had gone into labor the day before and had to grind and push her way through a twelve-hour marathon session to give birth to a healthy baby boy. “Twenty-one inches, nine pounds six ounces, with a hefty set of lungs and an appetite to match,” announced the proud new daddy. “Biggest surprise of all, he turned out a carrot top.”
“Have you all picked out a name?” someone shouted from the gathered group.
“Ricky, short for Eric—Eric Alexander Olsen,” answered Bob.
“How fitting. A hearty welcome to Eric the Red, everyone,” came the quick repartee amid a new round of happy laughter and applause.
Prior to the big event, and without Bob’s knowledge, his family had arranged with AFA7UGA for a one-time exception to place a reverse call to him following the baby’s delivery. Due to weather disturbances, however, the frequency had been down all day until this evening. When the call at last came through, it gave Bob a jolt—literally. The earlier commotion, he readily admitted, was from him jumping with excitement when told the news.
“Let’s go celebrate at the club,” I suggested to Bob and Dean once the party had cleared out except for the small evening staff and things had settled back to normal. Bob grabbed handfuls of Muriel Magnums and stuffed them in his pockets on our way out.
It was a good move on his part since the officers’ club was packed that night with pilots, many of whom happened to be his friends. While I went to get our drinks, Bob made the rounds of the tables to share his great news and hand out the stogies.
“We may be stuck in here awhile, kiddo,” Dean told me when I returned. “Let’s hope you and I won’t have to carry him out tonight.” He pointed with his chin at Bob, who was getting toasted uproariously as he stopped at every table.
“You mentioned something about this weekend?” I reminded Dean.
“Have you heard from Dick since our last trip to Sài-Gòn?”
I shook my head.
“Me neither,” Dean said. “It’s odd. He usually calls to touch base before the weekend so he can make arrangements at Mme Yvonne’s. Not a word this time. I couldn’t find him, either.” He turned to me. “You still want to stop by her place this Sunday, without Dick? Maybe the girls will have heard from him by then.”
“I’m game.”
With that settled, Dean changed the subject. “I’m going on R&R for five days, starting next Monday. Hong Kong. Anything in particular you want me to check out?”
“Nothing, thanks.” No sooner had the answer slipped out than I changed my mind. “On second thought, if you have time to kill, see if you can’t find me a stuffed toy dragon. I hear dragons are popular there.”
“Whatever floats
your boat,” Dean deadpanned. “Any favorite color?” It was so like him not to bother following up with any prying question. Not even a sarcastic rib.
I laughed. “It’s for Eric. I’d like to give it to Bob before he leaves to meet Nancy in Hawaii next month.” Dean didn’t seem to get it, so I gave him a nudge with my elbow. “Puff, the Magic Dragon? Bob’s into it, big time. A fire-red dragon would be perfect for Ricky. Daddy’s sure to get a kick out of it. Trust me. And speaking of the devil . . .”
Bob dropped into the chair next to ours, exhausted but all smiles from his victory lap. Draped over his arm was a collection of scarves in assorted colors: red, blue, yellow, purple. “Gifts to Ricky from the flyboys, right off their necks,” he explained, showing them off with pride. “These three are from Thunderbird platoons, and this purple one from our Ranch Hand Commandos. I’m starting a collection of pilot scarves for my boy. Pretty cool, eh?” Besides serving to distinguish one unit from another, these scarves were worn by pilots to prevent hot shell casings from the crew chief’s machine gun, positioned directly behind their seats, from slipping inside their shirt collars and burning their necks and backs.
Never had we seen Bob in a more exalted mood. His blue eyes were all fire and crinkled up around the corners from a broad smile that wouldn’t quit, and his voice had gone gruff from all the cheering and celebrating. Yet I had no doubt that he still could, and would, carry on well into this special night.
“I see you’ve shared a few toasts already,” I remarked, shoving another Diesel and Juice in his hand. “One more won’t kill you.”
We raised our glasses.
“Here’s to little Ricky,” I proposed. “May our boy be blessed with a wonderful life. But most important, may he grow up to be as great a guy as his old man.”
As we clinked glasses in honor of his firstborn son, Bob’s face was aglow with sweat, tears, and his ecstatic smile. That singular image of my hooch mate overwhelmed with the joy and pride of new fatherhood remained etched in my mind as among my happiest and most cherished memories from Việt-Nam.