by C. L. Hoang
Even with my eyes now trained at the grass, I knew her heart was breaking. As was mine. There was no outburst. No hurtful confrontation. Only bone-numbing sadness. And silence.
Something died inside of us.
I lost track of time, until Debbie began to gather up the picnic stuff. “I’m going back now,” she finally managed.
“I’ll drive you.”
I heard a stifled sob. “Please . . . don’t. I’d rather walk.”
In a daze I watched her go, my lifelong best friend, and wondered how I could ever forgive myself for causing her all this pain. Yet, to my dismay, I still couldn’t summon the right words to say to her even as my last chance was slipping away. As she rounded the corner and disappeared from sight, I felt a gate close behind her.
Like Từ-Thức of olden days, I could no longer go home.
Ten days later, I left Lone Pine without saying good-bye to Debbie and reported to Mather AFB for my next assignment.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Had I really wished to put Biên-Hoà as far behind me as possible, I couldn’t have done much better than Mather AFB outside Sacramento, California. Besides the geographical distance between them, the two bases offered striking contrasts in most every aspect, from their primary military functions to the corresponding pace of life.
As the sole aerial navigation school for the USAF, Mather was home to the 3535th Flying Training Wing, Air Training Command, and its fleet of Convair T-29 “flying classrooms.” Such an environment would normally have been immune to stress and tension, if not for the base also hosting the 320th Bombardment Wing, Strategic Air Command.
On fifteen-minute nuclear alert against a sneak attack by the Soviet Union, the 320th operated a squadron of B-52 Stratofortresses and a squadron of KC-135 Stratotankers, half of which had to be kept fueled, armed, and ready for instant takeoff at all times. Many of its crews and aircraft had seen combat action in Việt-Nam during Operation Arc Light in 1965–1966, but the wing’s current focus was on training and standing alert, with a rigorous regimen that nonetheless could not rival the breakneck pace of Biên-Hoà AFB.
Mather was not a war zone, and that alone made a huge difference to which my body needed time to adjust. Even after months on base, I still woke with a start throughout the night, covered in sweat and disoriented by the startling silence of my new surroundings. In the peaceful wee hours of the morning, the noise inside my head grew louder, driving me to distraction. So I began sleeping with a fan on in the background, a habit that has stuck with me to this day.
A nice surprise awaited me at Mather in the person of Captain Morgan, who’d arrived from Biên-Hoà a month earlier upon his return to the States. It was comforting to see a familiar face at my new post, someone who could relate to what I’d been through in country without the need for words. We simply picked up where we’d left off, with me still reporting to him. Never before had I felt more grateful for some continuity in my life.
Our workload at the base hospital, a cluster of old-fashioned wooden structures, was comfortable. Well staffed and equipped, we were seldom overwhelmed with emergencies the way we’d always seemed to be at 3rd Tac. With plenty of daylight left in the summer evening after work and few options for fun activities, I borrowed a page from my old hooch mate, Bob Olsen. I set a goal to learn all I could about Mather AFB, from the colorful history to its present-day strategic operation.
An often-told anecdote dated back to the final days of WWII. In June 1945, four B-29s on a top-secret mission from Wendover Field, Utah, touched down at Mather. For two days while their crews stayed on base to process paperwork for overseas duty, rumors swirled about the mysterious aircraft, then the world’s largest bombers. These appeared to have been specially modified and stripped of their gun turrets, perhaps, as was whispered, to accommodate some highly sensitive cargo. The base’s commanding general drove out to the birds to see for himself. He was about to climb aboard one of them when the guard on duty asked him, politely yet firmly—at gunpoint—to stop. The airman was under strict orders to shoot any unauthorized person, meaning anyone outside the 509th Composite Group in charge of the airplanes, who attempted to gain access to them. After a tense standoff, the general backed down and left—or the incident might have escalated into a major crisis with unpredictable consequences.
Months later, it came out that those bombers belonged in a fleet of fifteen special B-29s known as the Silverplates. Their crews had been stationed for over a year at Wendover Field, where they had trained in utmost secrecy to carry out the atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. When they made a stop at Mather Field on those summer days in 1945, the four birds in question were on their way to Tinian Island in the Pacific, from where the ultimate mission was to be launched. One of them, best known by its code name, The Great Artiste, went on to play a significant role in both bombings. Along with The Artiste, “the incident” lived on in Mather’s war lore.
Even these days, the place still retained an air of mystery, particularly regarding its top-clearance Strategic Air Command operation.
Like most people who had served in Việt-Nam, I’d learned to recognize the earth-shaking rumbles of B-52 carpet bombings. But the giant aircraft, which took off from Guam or Thailand, had always remained elusive to us as they cruised at very high altitude to escape detection by the enemy. Only now at Mather did I manage a rare peek at these legendary BUFFs (“big ugly fat fellows”). Even on the ground and from a distance imposed by security, these flying wonders inspired great awe. With their long, slim fuselages, massive wingspans and proud, tall tails, they glimmered in the sunset like golden beasts at rest.
Eight out of the squadron of fifteen were on nuclear alert at all times—to conduct doomsday missions if it ever came to that. They were parked on concrete stubs at 45-degree angles to the dedicated runway, in a herringbone, or Christmas-tree, configuration. Crews and pilots stayed in alert quarters built partially below the ground surrounding each apron. A number of similar SAC bases existed across the country. Their purpose was to disperse and safeguard our arsenal of heavy bombers so as to prevent the Soviet Union from wiping out the entire fleet with a surprise first strike. After all, our very existence hinged on the outcome of this ever-looming Cold War.
As intrigued as I truly was with the tradition and tight security at Mather, I couldn’t keep up my initial good intention of immersing myself in the environment, the way Bob certainly would have. After a month of giving it my best, I concluded I could never become an Air Force guy in his mold. Time and again, my mind wandered off from all things military to return to dwell on the wreckage of my private life. By no coincidence and much to my irritation, sleep had all but deserted me at night. The cumulative lack of rest began to affect my daytime functioning and job performance, as both my energy and my ability to focus sank to their lowest levels in years.
As time wore on and autumn descended on the Sierra foothills outside the base, my sleep problem only became exacerbated, and a sphere of darkness began to weigh down on me. Try as I might to dismiss it as ongoing adjustment to new conditions, deep down I couldn’t quell a sense that I was about to hit bottom, physically and mentally. The realization frightened me. But like a passenger on a sinking ship with no rescue boat in sight, I could do nothing more than watch, in mute despair, as disaster unfolded.
Shortly after my arrival on base, my mail followed me there, among it a forwarded letter from Mme Yvonne addressed to my old P.O. Box at Biên-Hoà AFB. She and her husband Bill had settled down in a suburb of Atlanta called Morningside. She spoke lovingly of the house they had purchased there, her first true home—a dream she’d never hoped to see fulfilled in her lifetime. “Come visit us soon when you get back, cher ami,” she wrote. “We will be thrilled to welcome our first guest of honor.” This wonderful excitement aside, Mme Yvonne admitted to being a bit overwhelmed by her recent uprooting. The enormous change that accompanied it was a
culture shock she was still learning to cope with. I also picked up, between the lines, a sense of resigned loneliness and a longing for the old country. Not once, however, did she mention any of our Vietnamese friends, maybe for fear it might open old wounds for me, or maybe to spare me dreadful news she knew I couldn’t handle. To my bitter disappointment, I gleaned nothing from her letter about the welfare of Lee Anne and her parents. Like millions of nameless, faceless refugees of war over the years, they’d been engulfed in the all-consuming firestorm, most likely never to be seen or heard from again—mere entries to some meaningless statistics.
The mail also included a one-page note from Paul Nilsen, The Kid. No doubt scribbled in the last minutes before lights-out while he listened to “Green, Green Grass of Home,” it brought me some latest news of Biên-Hoà. “Fewer rockets here on base,” it simply stated, “but fierce fighting in War Zone C along the border. Dr. Dean has been very busy.”
I’d heard about this so-called Phase 3 of Tết, launched over the second half of August 1968. The Việt-Cộng had struck several towns along the Cambodian border in addition to their favorite target, Sài-Gòn. As before, their objective had been to inflict more losses on US troops to score a political and psychological victory rather than a military one. With many Special Forces camps along the border, it was no surprise that Dean Hunter had his hands full again. I wondered how much longer his hard-pressed luck would continue to hold up.
But there was one bright spot in Paul’s letter. “Do I remember right you had to cancel your trip to Penang, Malaysia, because of Tết? Well, guess what? I’m going there next week on my R&R. Beautiful place, from what I’ve heard. Will send you a photo of the hundred-foot-long reclining Buddha when I get back.”
At least one of us gets his priorities straight, I thought wistfully.
Which was more than I could say for myself, an assessment my mother would have agreed with. She hadn’t said a word about my falling out with Debbie, probably hoping that in time we could still work things out. But it was impossible to miss the sadness in her eyes the few times she and my dad drove up to see me. Debbie had always been the daughter they never had, included in all our family occasions even during my absence. In fact, the special bond between them had grown stronger this past year through their shared concern for my safety in Việt-Nam. Seeing me now without Debbie by my side had proved more difficult for my mother to handle than she could disguise.
On one of my parents’ visits, a beautiful Sunday in October, I could tell something was amiss. My dad was unusually subdued, while my mom looked pale and agitated.
“What’s the matter, Mom? Are you feeling all right?” I asked with apprehension.
“Suzy Hayashi stopped by yesterday,” she said, reaching for my hand and squeezing it gently. “They had just received news of Dick from his bureau in Sài-Gòn. She asked us to let you know . . .”
My stomach did a flip. I sank back in the chair.
I felt my mom’s arm around my shoulders as my dad’s voice picked up the report. “He went to cover some big fighting and never returned. No one knows what happened to him, because there was no body found. He just went missing. But it’s been weeks already, and they now suspect the worst. We’re so sorry, son.”
Another of my friends gone. Vanished into thin air. Swept up in the never-ending cycle of war and death. Yet somehow I’d been spared from the carnage. So that I might stay behind and mourn for them all, one by one? Numbly, I stared at my parents, unable to even ask a question. All I felt inside was sheer exhaustion. And emptiness, like nausea. I wished to just crawl in bed and go to sleep for a long, long time.
For the remainder of my parents’ visit, by unspoken consent, we said nothing more of the news. Even the slightest hint of it might unhinge everybody, most of all me.
With November came the presidential election, the culmination to a tumultuous year in US politics during which antiwar sentiments rose to unprecedented level. A few days after Richard Nixon emerged victorious from a historic and contentious three-way race, a letter arrived from Dean Hunter.
Biên-Hoà AFB, 7 Nov 1968
Hello Roger,
How you doing there, kiddo? Hope you’ve had an easy letdown back to “The World.”
You probably heard by now what happened to Dick Hayashi. You must have questions, so I’ll try and fill in the gaps for you to the best of my knowledge.
You may have caught the news that we recently quashed another VC offensive, their third this year. Among their targets this round was the city of Tây-Ninh near the Cambodian border, also the seat of the Holy See of the Cao-Ðài sect. During peak monsoon season in Aug/Sept, two NVA divisions attacked the city and captured a few city blocks and a Cao-Ðài temple complex. They were later repelled by ARVN guys and our troops, but only after some fierce battles that dragged well into October.
Unknown to me at the time, both Dick and I were on site during that bloody stretch. Him to cover the hostage situation of the hundreds of monks and worshippers held prisoner at the temple, and me to provide medical support to SF/CIDG camps on the outskirts of town. I only found out about it long after the smoke had cleared. By then he had vanished without a trace, and has been listed as missing ever since. For all we know, he was captured during the fighting then taken across the border when Charlie retreated to Parrot’s Beak inside Cambodia.
You know how hostile the Việt-Cộng feel toward investigative journalists like Dick. What they fear most is to have the cold-blooded tactics they use against their own people exposed to the free world. The same reason they executed those Reuters and AAP correspondents in Chợ-Lớn back in May, during mini-Tết. Human lives mean diddlysquat to those killers. I hate to even think it, but I fear the worst for our friend. Any hope for his survival is fast eroding with each passing day, and it’s been two months since he disappeared. Searches and underground inquiries have turned up no lead so far. You know damn well I can never give up on him, yet my brain tells me we need to brace ourselves for the worst.
Sorry to be the bearer of sad news, kiddo, but I assume you’d rather hear it from me. Take good care of yourself. Be well, and be strong. You and me, we’re the only two remaining in our little group from a year ago, so let’s don’t lose touch, okay? I’ll update you immediately on any new development.
Your buddy, D.H.
Catching me at my lowest point, Dean’s letter with its sober conclusion was the final blow that sent me crashing into the wall. Worse yet, it opened the floodgate to painful memories of my other losses, all carefully suppressed up until then. After reading the letter, I skipped dinner and went straight to bed. The next sunrise found me curled up under the cover in virtually the same position, with no energy or motivation to get up and going, having not caught a wink of sleep all night.
A low-grade fever, out of nowhere, further complicated the matter and kept me from work for a second straight day. At the end of it, Captain Morgan stopped by for an impromptu visit. One look at me and he decided on the spot to check me into the base hospital, which had a few open beds at the time.
“Total exhaustion, plus severe dehydration,” he pronounced with a certitude that allowed no argument. “About time someone gets things under control here, since you obviously haven’t.”
Thus I spent the second half of November in the hospital, secluded in a room for four where I was the only occupant. I remained in bed for most of the day, dozing heavily, without dreams, under the influence of mild sedatives prescribed to combat my insomnia. Of this period of lumbering torpor, which lasted about a week, my memory was scarce and fuzzy—snatches of waking moments here and there, when I took my meals or medicine or mumbled hi to the nurse who came in to change the IV. Then slowly, as my body got caught up on much-needed rest, the fog began to lift and my waking hours grew longer.
Captain Morgan informed me he had set up a schedule for me to speak with the chief of psychiatr
y, a buddy of his. “Real down-to-earth fellow,” he assured me. “It’s nothing formal, and strictly off the record. As soon as you’re back on your feet, you guys can meet and chat a couple of times a week. Doesn’t have to be in his office. You can join him after hours for a walk and talk things out along the way. Get them off your chest. It can’t hurt.”
Reading the reluctance on my face, he put an end to the discussion. “The way I see it, it sure beats a referral to David Grant Medical Center down the highway. But they do have a number of specialty-trained psychiatrists there, if you prefer.” He stood and concluded his visit. “Your choice, of course, Lieutenant. As it now stands, I’m short of one GMO. We need to get you back to work one way or another. And soon.”
Having little say in the matter, but nevertheless recognizing how close I had come to a total breakdown, I acquiesced begrudgingly to my therapy sessions with the chief psychiatrist, if only to keep from getting transferred to DGMC at Travis AFB. At least at Mather, I wouldn’t have to witness the twenty-four-hour frenzy of debarkation and medical airlift from Southeast Asia. Meanwhile, diligent Captain Morgan had notified my parents of my stay at the hospital, probably to make sure I received enough moral support to get me through this rough patch.
My mom and dad left Jer in charge of Moon Meadows and rushed up to see me. It was the week before Thanksgiving, just days after my hospital check-in. When they arrived, my brain was still murky from all the make-up sleep, which only added to their worries. Seeing that I needed more rest, however, they kept their visit short but promised to return the next week to celebrate the holiday with me—in grand style, courtesy of Mom’s home cooking. She chatted and smiled at me the whole time, but the concern in my mother’s eyes revealed what sad state I was in.
The intervening days of complete bed rest were helpful. I felt more alert, even a bit hungry, when I greeted my parents Thursday morning the following week. They trudged through the door with armfuls of big brown bags containing what I assumed to be our Thanksgiving dinner.