by Ed Cobleigh
Mr. Vice, the President of the Mess, and the assembled squadron finish by toasting the Chief of Staff of the USAF. Oh well, one out of three dignitaries worthy of a toast isn't too bad.
Now for more a somber toast. The Squadron Commander raises his glass and solemnly says;
"To our departed comrades."
By whom he means the two guys shot down this week. One was killed and one is missing.
We all manage to choke out, "To our departed comrades," and drain our glasses.
When their last drops of wine are gone, the Commander and the Operations Officer turn and hurl their glasses against the nearest wall. The glasses shatter into tiny shards, breaking the strained silence in the room. Without a command, I sit down in unison with my remaining comrades and dinner is served. It is many minutes before normal conversation returns.
The ritual we have just observed originated with the Royal Air Force, then called the Royal Flying Corps, during WWI. It has been handed down by generations of fighter pilots who have lost comrades and thrown glasses for half a century around the world. The exact origin of the ceremony has been lost in the obscuring mists of time, but not the obvious symbolism.
Two lives have been lost and two glasses shattered. Also shattered were the lives of those who loved the two men. Back in the States, two new but unaware widows answered their front doors to find three USAF officers standing nervously. Once the ladies saw the men, they knew instantly why they were there. The team of three were the duty Officer of the Day, a chaplain, and a doctor. It was their sad duty to deliver the terrible news and to help the bereaved cope as best they could.
During WWII, the shattering news arrived by telegram, with no one there to take the widow under an official but protecting wing. I can't imagine the shock of opening an impersonal telegram (probably addressed to "Occupant") while alone and learning that your husband or son won't be coming home.
Here on our air base, a well-practiced bureaucratic process has already begun. A senior sergeant has begun to pack up the two flyers' personal effects for shipment to their next of kin. Undoubtedly he will discover sealed, stamped letters addressed to wives, mothers, and fathers. Usually, there will be a note attached to each that reads, "To be mailed in the event of my death or capture." Sometimes the letters are in a shaving kit; sometimes pinned to a wall; mine are in the top drawer of my clothes chest. Upon finding the letters, the sergeant will stop what he is doing and walk immediately over to the base post office and hand the letters personally to the enlisted postmaster. They will go out on the next flight to Bangkok and from there to Hometown, USA.
I have read that during WWI, there were no provisions for shipping back from the war zone the personal possessions of casualties. After the toasts and the ritual breaking of the wine glasses, the Squadron Commander would auction off the dead pilot's belongings to the members of his squadron and send a check to the widow, another tradition we picked up from the British then. I'm glad we don't do that anymore.
Dinner is allegedly a steak. On my plate is a lump of meat, dark black, approximately the size and shape of a softball but not as tender. The mystery meat is coated with glutinous brown gravy speckled with canned mushrooms. Lumpy mashed potatoes and soggy green peas keep the steak-thing from rolling around on my plate. Dessert is apple pie and ice cream. But the kitchen has run out of vanilla ice cream and is substituting whatever is in the freezer. I get a scoop of chocolate ripple on top of my Dutch apple pie, not too bad. The guy on my right gets lime sherbet on his.
The Officers' Club kitchen is run by a USAF sergeant (always nicknamed "Cookie"), but the staff, including the cooks, is Thai. The Thai cooks and waitresses are eager and try hard to learn the ways if not of Western cuisine, then of USAF chow. However, nuances are often lost in the translation, as evidenced by the wide variety of frozen desserts piled on the apple pie. I'm not even sure "nuances" is the right word when applied to food prepared according to the USAF manuals.
These kitchen outrages are committed in the midst of the culinary heaven surrounding the base. The local Thai food is terrific, a blend of Chinese, Laotian, Vietnamese, Burmese, Indonesian, Indian, and God only knows what else. The gamut of flavors available spans the known food universe. The Thais take pride in the fact that they eat everything in Thailand. Everything that grows, swims, flies, walks, slithers, or creeps in Thailand ends up in a rice bowl. This cornucopia of ingredients is stirred with a variety of spices only a few of which even have Western names. The Thais specialize in melding mutually incompatible flavors; sweet and sour, spicy and cool, salty and fresh, peanuts and meat, it's all there and it's all great. Some Thai chili peppers make Mexican jalapenos taste as mild as the vanilla ice cream I don't have on my pie. They serve hot sauces that make me feel like I am eating a plate of napalm, lit. Eating good Thai food is like having a war go off in your mouth.
All this is lost on the USAF Mess Sergeant, who strives mightily to replicate standard, bland mid-western American food. I'm afraid Thai food is mostly lost on my squadron mates, who seem to prefer green peas instead of say, lemongrass prawn soup. It is no wonder the Thai cooks can't seem to get the hang of American chow. Why should they when it all gets eaten anyway? Nobody's fools, the waitresses always eat in the kitchen where the cooks stir-fry a new Thai delicacy for them every night.
Speaking of waitresses, the one serving drinks to my table seems particularly attentive. I have seen her in the club many times, but we have only exchanged pleasantries to date. She notices that I have given up trying to cut my charred steak and asks me if I like it. I tell her that I would prefer Thai food and that comment gets a big smile on her delicate face. Now my wine glass seems to get refilled more diligently.
The free flow of Portuguese rotgut rosé is having its effect on the squadron. Conversation returns, jokes are exchanged, and the mood improves rapidly. Only the Squadron Commander seems immune to the alcohol-fueled merriment. His face carries a serious demeanor, not frowning, but not happy either. I guess he hasn't written his letters yet and with no flying scheduled, he will be at his desk later tonight.
If not tonight, then in the next few days, the Commander will sit down and hand-write a personal note to the next of kin of both pilots we lost. He will extend sincere condolences and include a few positive vignettes of his impressions of the downed airmen. Sometimes he includes a brief, unclassified description of the circumstances of their final combat action. If there is any hope that the flyers survived, he stresses that possibility. The hardest letters to write are when parachutes were sighted in the air or when there was contact from the ground on a survival radio, but no one was rescued from the jungle. What do you say in a situation like that? Were the aircrew captured by the Bad Guys and are they now en route to the Hanoi Hilton? Is it better to hold out some hope, however slender, that the loved one will someday return at the end of the war? When will that be? Or is it easier to say that no chutes were seen when it is clear that no one got out of the doomed jet? Being a Squadron Commander is a tough job and writing next-of-kin letters is the hardest part of it. Other routine correspondence can be assigned to a clerk or administration officer and signed when completed. Next-of-kin letters have to be handwritten and heartfelt. I believe it is a skill which comes with practice and lately the Boss has been getting lots of it.
Speaking of practice, the Boss says it is time for choir practice. For some reason still unknown to me, I got handed the job of publishing the squadron songbook. There are dozens of fighter pilot songs; everyone knows a few. The Operations Officer thought it would be a great idea to compile as many of these ditties as I could find. I accomplished this task, asking everyone to scribble down the words to any tunes they thought would fit in such a book. Then, I spent a few weeks editing the result and getting it printed in town with the squadron's emblem on the cover. The Thai printer asked why a green devil was on the cover of a songbook. I told him these were songs to keep away devils. He nodded in knowing agreement.
All the so
ngs that the guys knew seem to originate from WWII. Why is this? Maybe the guys in WWI couldn't sing. Actually they probably didn't get much time to raise their voices in song. The average life span of a fighter pilot on the Western front during the Battle of the Somme was about three weeks. German or British, it didn't matter, three weeks was all you got. The fighter jocks of WWII actually had a chance of living through the war. Staying in the same unit for the duration, they seemed to have time to write a lot of songs. As stereos and tape decks hadn't been invented yet, vocalization was about the only participatory music they had available.
The background of these songs has been lost over the years and no one knows what they mean. One favorite chorus goes:
Hallelujah, Hallelujah,
Throw a nickel on the grass,
Save a fighter pilot's ass,
Hallelujah, Hallelujah,
Throw a nickel on the grass,
And you'll be safe."
Throw a nickel on what grass? Why would that save anyone's ass? Who cares? We sing it anyway. Other songs are understandable, but dated:
Don't give me a P-39,
With an engine that's mounted behind,
You can loop, roll, and spin,
But you'll soon auger in,
Don't give me a P-39.
The P-39 "Aircobra" had its big, heavy, Allison piston engine mounted behind its single-seat cockpit. The spinning propeller shaft ran between the pilot's legs up to the nose. It was one of the least successful fighter aircraft of WWII. They were so bad, we gave them all to the Soviets under the lend-lease program. Why such a turkey of an aircraft is immortalized in song is beyond me, but this history might explain why the Soviet Air Force is helping the North Vietnamese in today's war. They're probably still pissed about getting those P-39s. There is probably a Russian song with lyrics similar to ours.
Some of the songs concern the opposite sex and not in the most respectful of terms either. It seems that a female needed insatiable sexual needs, spectacular attributes, and remarkable physical prowess to make it into a WWII barroom song. As the singing starts, I get a sly smile and wink from our waitress, Judi, as she catches my eye for about the tenth time. I wonder if she is listening to the words to "Mary Ann Burns, Queen of the Acrobats." Probably not, or a blush would redden her light brown skin.
Most of the squadron gathers around the room's small bar and lift both their glasses and their voices in bleary song. In this ad hoc choir, enthusiasm counts for more than the ability to carry a tune. In our green party suits, we look like some sort of berserk barbershop singing group, only without any collective musical talent.
We have to sing a cappella tonight; one of the shattered glasses was for our only guitar player. He was from rural Louisiana, Lake Charles, and called himself a "coon-ass." I was born in New Orleans, but I never heard the term coon-ass. I guess it applies to genuine Cajuns from the bayou country. He was a back seater, a pilot that flies only in the rear cockpit of the Phantom.
His jet was shot down near the southern mouth of Mu Gia Pass. Mu Gia Pass is a break in the mountains separating North Vietnam from Laos. It runs northeast to southwest and nearly all the traffic destined for the Ho Chi Minh Trail system in Laos passes through Mu Gia. Consequently, this potential choke point for supplies and men is heavily and constantly bombed. Parts of it look like the world's largest kid's sandbox. All the vegetation and surface features have been pounded into nothing but sand and mud.
After being hit by ground fire, the crippled Phantom managed to make it out of the pass and over the relative safety of the Laotian jungle before coming apart. Both guys ejected and got good parachutes. The pilot came up on the radio first, but then contact was lost. He is listed as MIA, missing in action. No one is likely to know his fate for years; either he was captured, or the Bad Guys killed him on the spot. Another mother will have to wait years to know if her son is coming home. That is one letter that will be tough to write.
The Cajun back-seater also made radio contact, but the North Vietnamese decided to play games with him and the recovery effort. If they know if a pilot is down but alive on the ground, they will use the poor bastard for bait. Instead of taking him prisoner, they will leave him alone, calling for rescue. While the search-and-rescue team; the Sandys, the Jolly Greens, and King are enroute they will surround the survivor with as many antiaircraft guns as they can move into place in hopes of shooting down more of us when we attempt the pickup. They know we will make every effort to save our own. They also know the rescue team and the supporting fighters will lay down a carpet of bombs to suppress the ground fire. If they lose 200 guys to our covering fire and manage to shoot down one or two of the rescue aircraft, that will be a victory for them. The Bad Guys are fighting the war not only in Mu Gia Pass, but also in the pages of the New York Times. The loss in Laos of a Jolly Green Giant helicopter and its five crewmen will make the Times; the deaths of 200 Vietnamese troops won't up north. There isn't an equivalent paper in Hanoi.
This time, the Sandys had a new trick to change the rules; gas. Each propeller-driven A-1 Skyraider carried gas dispensers under both wings. On each pass over the area where our friend was hiding, they laid down cloud after cloud of gas. This gas is designed to incapacitate unprotected troops. It induces nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, disorientation, and panic. The rescue forces call it "give-a-shit" gas. A few good whiffs and the most dedicated Commies are supposed to not give a shit about the war for the rest of the day.
The Geneva Convention strictly prohibits poison gas. This scrap of paper is a treaty signed by the Vietnamese, the United States, and most of the world. It sets down the rules of war. The status of give-a-shit gas is murkier, both literally and legally. Most legalists would argue that this sort of nonlethal gas is also beyond the pale of civilized warfare, whatever that means.
When it comes to rescuing one of my squadron mates, particularly one being used as human bait in some deadly Bad Guy political game, I say, "Screw the Geneva Convention! Use the gas!" The convention definitely concerns prisoners of war as well as the use of gas. However, the North Vietnamese prison camps for captured American pilots are beyond the reach of the convention. God only knows what goes on in the Hanoi Hilton. The Red Cross and the UN are denied private access to the hapless prisoners, access required by the almighty Geneva Convention. What use is a treaty that only one side obeys? When the innkeepers of the Hanoi Hilton follow the rules of war, then so will we.
Evidently, as the Bad Guys were being gassed, they realized that their trap wasn't going to be sprung the way they hoped. Before they collapsed in puddles of their own vomit and shit, they managed to kill the back seater where he was hiding.
The gas mask equipped USAF para-rescue guys descended from the Jolly Green helo, ready to winch up the downed airman, who would have been rendered unconscious from the gas intended for the Bad Guys. They found our friend shot, execution style, and left to die alone in the hot, stinking Laotian jungle. The area was too hotly defended to recover the body. Thus, we have an empty seat at the party, a shattered glass, and no guitar music.
The group singing is getting rowdier and louder, but no closer to being on key. Despite several glasses of cheap wine, I am in no mood to use the songbook I wrote. I know where this evening is headed. Most of the guys will get a snoot full of the adult beverage of their choice and retire back to their quarters. There they will get together and sing the same obscure, profane, and obscene songs again and again. Maybe this is a good way to forget all the reasons for the party. I think I'll pass this time.
I could go back to my room, turn on the stereo, and put on a good album. Something restful and serene sounds about right. Johnny Cash, Live At Folsom Prison, cranked up to full volume should do the trick.
I return to my chair from the latrine intending to pick up my song book and then hit the sack. At my place is a folded bit of paper cleverly fashioned into a tiny swan. It is a masterful example of Thai origami. The paper swan, wings and all, easily fits into the
palm of my hand. No one else has such a party favor and no one has noticed it waiting for me.
I hold the origami up to the light and try to focus my eyes on it. I see that there was writing on the paper before the swan was crafted. I hate to spoil such a work of folded art, but I have to see what is on the paper. Reluctantly, I unfold the swan and read in English, "You like some Thai food after the party?" It is signed "Judi."
Now this is quite a shock. Judi is one of the most lusted-after waitresses at the club, but she is famously chaste. She is bright with a delightful personality but has always been somewhat aloof and unobtainable. Her attractive package includes a slender, almost thin figure, a pretty face, and a radiant smile. Judi also proudly displays the longest raven-black ponytail and the shortest miniskirt in Thailand.
The behavior of the girls working at the Officers' Club runs the moral spectrum from "happily available" to "no way, don't even think about it." Judi has no known American lovers or boyfriends. She takes the bus home alone every night at midnight.
On the other hand, I have never been in the railroad business (laying Thais) myself. I have always been friendly to the girls at the club, but have seldom seriously flirted, much less made a successful move on one. Maybe Judi and I are meant for each other. I don't know what she has in mind, whether her offer extends past a Thai meal, but it sounds like a better time tonight than listening to the drunken chorus.
I find her alone in a corner of the club and accept her invitation and get the second big grin of the night. She says she thinks I am a real gentleman, which gets a return smile from me. Instead of the name of a local Thai restaurant, she gives me a hand-drawn map to her house in town. Homemade Thai food sounds good, but I wonder what comes after that. Thai food isn't famous for its sweets; maybe dessert is Judi herself. After numerous glasses of wine, the prospect sounds interesting.
At 2330, I excuse myself from the party and catch the "baht bus" outside the club. The local bus fare is one baht in Thai money, equivalent to five American cents. That is reasonable enough but the bad news is that the bus seats are designed for shorter Thai legs. I don't fit. I have to sit sideways on the upright, wooden seats as the rickety bus rattles and chugs its way into town.
