THE GUY ON THE SIDE OF THE MOUNTAIN

SOG operated a mountain-top radio station in Cambodia called Leghorn. The station was perched on top of an impossibly steep spire of a mountain that reminded me of the campanile at UC Berkeley. The Kingbees (VNAF 219th helicopter unit) were charged with resupplying this skyscraper outpost, and there was no shortage of crews signing up for this mission. I found out later that every member of the crew got $5.00 U.S. each time they crossed the border. One Kingbee would haul a single case of C-rations, or a single case of ammo, or a single case of whatever it was that was being transported that day. A veritable daisy-chain of Kingbees would land on the helipad one by one, off-load their lone case of stuff, and head back to get another parcel. I watched this go on several times and concluded if Phil, Doug and I got five bucks for every time we crossed the border we could have retired at the end of our tours. In the late spring of 1970 Leghorn was in the process of what could only be described as a siege. The NVA had climbed part-way up the mountain, set up some mortars and were lobbing shells into the compound at the top of the hill. At night they would try to get to the top and probe the perimeter. But this place was a rock climber’s paradise, so the terrain made the probes unsuccessful. I was sent over to try to find the mortars, which I did. But what was amazing about all of this was that as I looked into the trees and vines clinging to the mountain-side trying to find Charlie, I came across a guy dressed in a tiger suit and he started to wave an orange panel at me. I could see that this guy was one of the Montagnards defending the station. Somehow he “fell” off the side of the mountain and rolled part-way down hill. He was waving that panel for all he was worth, jumping up and down and yelling (I could see his mouth moving). This was almost as good as the morning a VC threw a rock at me during a firefight with his unit. I mean, here I am in an airplane and this guy side-arms a tennis ball sized rock at me. How’s that for disrespect! The guy on the side of the hill is something that has made me laugh every time I think about it. I got a Kingbee to pick him up and deposit him back on top of the mountain. I always meant to inquire as to whether the Kingbee crew got an additonal bonus.

Shortly after I arrived at Holloway I received a message from our company clerk that a TWA pilot overflying Pleiku had called the tower and asked to have a message passed on to me. The TWA flight would be returning around 3pm two days later and would it be possible for me to be in Pleiku tower. I arranged with Major Naumann, our pre-Deaton CO, to get an airplane, and I flew over to Pleiku AFB. When I landed a “follow me” jeep led me to the base of the tower. I parked, climbed the stairs to the control room and just like clockwork, shortly after 3pm, TWA flight…checked on. It was my Dad, who was flying a MAC charter to Hong Kong. He was on the return leg, and I spoke with him for about 15 minutes. The conversation ran the gamut of subjects, my health and my family’s health, my sister’s engagement, what I was doing (nothing) and who I was with (nobody)…didn’t we have this same conversation when I came home from school, either before going out at night or after returning? Then he asked me about R and R. He wanted to know “when” because he and Mom wanted to join me. I was scrambling to talk my way out of that while the tower chief and the other two sergeants laughed their butts off. I mean, I was thinking about one thing and one thing only while on R and R, and the idea of my parents in the next room was not on of my X-rated fantasies. In fact, I wanted my R and R to start out just like Phil’s did. I’ll let my hero, “Grand-Theft Auto” relate that story in his own words, but believe me, it’s Hall of Fame material.

When I graduated from Flight School my parents came down to Rucker to see me get my wings. My Dad was a 747 Captain at the time and I was flying a single-engine, high-wing tail dragger. Prior to the ceremony I walked my mother and father out onto the flight line and proudly opened the door of a Bird-Dog. I started explaining the instrumentation. My Dad smiled and my mother burst out laughing. I mean, here’s my old man when he’s at work sitting three stories up in the biggest, most technically advanced commercial airliner in the world, and I’m pointing out all of about three flight and navigation instruments, a couple of engine instruments, and a coffee-grinder UHF radio in an airplane that could easily fit in the nacelle of one of the 747’s engines. And then I told him not to touch anything. My mother kissed me and told me that I was an idiot.

I had contemplated writing more about my father but I need to wait. My Dad had a stroke several days ago, and I’m afraid anything I tried to talk about would get too maudlin, too weepy and sentimental. So I’ll put off telling you about my Dad for now. Maybe it will take the form of a eulogy, an extended epitaph. My life in airplanes cannot be completely understood unless I tell you about him. My father was not always my friend, but he was always my example.

So I’m going to close this memoir for now. I might revisit these pages from time to time, and perhaps add a few more thoughts, a story I’ve inadvertently forgotten failed to include. And I apologize for names I haven’t included. I haven’t forgotten too many of you. I know I’ve mentioned this before, but to paraphrase Nelson DeMille in Up Country, it’s not the journey, but the people you meet along the way. Have a very Happy Christmas, and, with a bow to Tiny Tim, “God bless us one and all”.