Vietnam turnaround

Our airline flew to Vietnam several times a week. I was scheduled to work these flights at least once a month. We called the route, the “Vietnam turnaround.” Five hours from Japan, minimal ground time in Vietnam, and five hours back.

Our plane flew through flak many times when we came in to land. At night you could see the tracer rounds, bullets treated with chemicals. They looked like fireflies or red flares coming at the plane. Being young and naïve, I never realized these were live rounds aimed at our jet. Some of the young soldiers were scared. One cried and wrapped his arms around his body as he looked out the plane’s window.

It was always an adventure, and I never knew when to expect an unsettling shock.

The Boeing 707 jet was one of the largest passenger airplanes in the 1960s. Flying into Saigon during the war years meant landing at the busiest airport in the world. Helicopters, DC-3s, DC-6s, DC-8s, 707s, fighter jets, and small, single-engine planes were all landing and taking off at the same time. It was a traffic jam. The control tower employees had their hands full and were often overloaded.

On one particular flight we were beginning our final approach into the Saigon airport. I was still in the aisle, finishing last minute checks of seatbelts and tray tables.

All of a sudden a small aircraft passed beside us, going in the opposite direction. Our wings seemed to literally overlap. We came within inches of a mid-air crash.

The moment our plane stopped at the terminal, Captain Carter rushed from the cockpit. I had never seen him so infuriated. His face was bright red.

“Get out of my way,” he shouted, shoving his way past the ground crew. He ran into the control tower, confronting the first employee he saw.

“Why did you allow a takeoff while we were landing?” he demanded. “Damn it! We were both using the same runway!”

“It’s not my job to tell you of private planes,” the young employee responded. “I only report on military flights.”

Captain Carter grabbed the man by his shirt and raised him a foot off the ground.

“Goddamn it! We almost crashed!”

He threw the employee back into his chair and roared at the surrounding men, “You radio us about every plane—no matter what!” And with that, he stormed out of the building.

He was still red-faced when he returned to our aircraft. The soldiers had already left and the cleaning crew had now boarded the jet. We followed Captain Carter to the airport cafeteria and listened to his retelling of the tower incident. He sputtered with fury as he recounted the confrontation.

While sitting at the table with the captain, the waiter cautioned us not to have ice in our sodas. “Gooks are putting glass slivers in the ice,” he said, as he wiped his hands on his white apron.

We reflected on this latest threat, the need to stay vigilant, and thought how lucky we’d be to leave Saigon.

Thirty minutes later the flight deck crew completed a walk-around, inspecting the fuselage for anything odd before entering the cockpit. This was a normal procedure at every refueling stop, whether in Vietnam or stateside. As I mentioned earlier, they often saw shrapnel or bullet holes and covered them with speed tape until they could be repaired in Japan.

While the cockpit men were performing their duties, Patty and I walked outside and encountered two garbage ladies looking in trashcans. They wore ao dai outfits: long, tight-fitting tunics in pastel colors over pajama-like pants. The paneled dress had a high collar, was buttoned down the front, and had slits to the waist on both sides.

In the distance we noticed a young woman with long black hair picking through another trashcan. She was exceptionally beautiful and caught our eye. The woman sorted through the leftovers and trash thrown out by the restaurant, to use either for herself or for bartering.

Дата добавления: 2015-08-27