I don’t think many understand this year is the 50th year since Saigon fell and everything that went with that.
Here is something I wrote back then:
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April 1, 1975
To everyone who wants to know how I feel, now that Vietnam is going down the tubes:
The news reports don’t even mention Phu Cat, where I first set foot in the Republic of Vietnam. It wasn’t much, and neither was the country. Hot sun and green mountains. Just a place where some of us spent a small part of our lives. Where some spent the rest of their lives.
You need a passport now to land at Da Nang or Hue/Phu Bai. I won a few beers from Bruce on my landings there, and nearly bought the farm one day when a mountain got in the way of my base turn. We called that “tactical VFR.” It meant, “**** on the weather, complete the mission!” I personally hauled the last U.S. Marines out of Da Nang almost three years ago. And I wouldn’t take them back to that place for anything in the world. The food was lousy.
At Pleiku one day a brand new loadmaster may have saved our lives. I remember people running faster than I ever thought they could move. I remember pieces of a building flying through the air. I remember telling the copilot to forget the checklist because we were ready to takeoff
now and I remember the crew laughing as we banked left and looked down at Hueys going out to look for the bad guys. It was our first experience with incoming, and we survived. It was one of the times we realized there was a war going on, and that we were a part of it. I hauled a lot of trash into Pleiku. I don’t remember taking anything out. Just bodies.
Qhi Nhon fell yesterday, and that’s a shame. They had the best hamburgers in all of Vietnam. I asked George Washington Carver Foxworth to give us an airborne radar approach into Qhi Nhon one day, but we could have flown all the way to Laos before he gave us a turn. George wasn’t the greatest navigator, but he always got us home. Qhi Nhon was a short strip with tricky crosswinds, and my copilot Frog always had a hard time there. One day with a tired airplane that didn’t want to get off the ground, he almost took the fence along. I took a load of draft dodgers and deserters out of Qhi Nhon. A Zip officer told me they were three-time losers. Handcuffed and barefoot, many on crutches, they would be executed when they got to Nha Trang.
I always drank root beer at Nha Trang. There was good maintenance there, and you were never in a hurry to leave. A Korean boy asked me to check his grammar in an English composition for his teacher back home. We’d always land and takeoff toward the east, flying over beautiful beaches and a majestic Buddhist temple on a hill.
We called it “Cam Ranh by the Sea” in those days, and the sea claimed more than a few American lives with a wicked undertow. We used to fly up the valley from Phan Rang, ignoring the safety of going “feet wet” over water, just to gander at a sunken submarine… a landmark, left over from a different war. We always bought ice cream at Cam Ranh Bay, in a passenger terminal where our flight suits made us feel like we were wearing four stripes on a United Airlines uniform at O’Hare Field. I bought my “Southeast Asia War Games” memorial cigarette lighter there, before they closed it down. Late in 1972, I landed at Cam Ranh Bay to help a crippled C-130. It was an uncontrolled airfield then, with runways as smooth and long as Minneapolis. Deserted. I wonder what it is like now.
I guess I only landed six times at Kontum, but my heart beat faster there than any time in my life. It was the only place I’ve been where I thought I was going to die. We called it “Kansas City,” as if it were worth saving, and we airdropped supplies in the daytime and risked our necks landing at night. We knew it wasn’t worth the price, but we did it anyway, to prove it could be done, to give them every break, to say that, “If you lose this place, it’s not because of us.” They gave it up without a fight last week. I left a friend in Kontum. Forever. Nothing we do now can make that any different.