by Mark Berent
CHAPTER EIGHT
2345 Hours Local, 20 December 1965
Officers Club, Bien Hoa Air Base
Republic of Vietnam
Christmas in a combat zone is unlike any other. In a combat zone, one doesn't exactly celebrate Christmas, one endures it. The combatant wants to get through the days devoted to the holiday season as fast as possible. Mashed boxes of Christmas cookies and candy mailed to the APO number are turned over to hooch mates with nary a twinge. One must quickly get rid of the cookie that she baked or one might want to save this crumbling evidence of a normal home life, which could lead to wet-eyed distraction and death.
Strangely enough, attending a church service in a combat zone on Christmas day somehow seems normal and not painful. Probably because one doesn't `go to church' in the dress-up, drive-the-car, “now-you-kids-settle-down” sense of the word. In a war zone one merely attends a service in whatever one happens to be wearing, whether it's combat fatigues with matching rifle and steel pot, or sweaty salt-encrusted flight suits, or greasy mechanics coveralls, or outlandish Bermuda shorts.
By reverse--repulsive psychology, AFVN helps. The American Forces Vietnam Network broadcasts from Saigon and from repeater stations 24 hours a day to the troops in Vietnam. "Gooooood MORNing, Vietnam," booms the super cheerful announcer before he launches into the latest R&R information, into what the current booby traps consist of, and into other pertinent life-prolonging in-country information. Then, during all of the Christmas season, whether done subconsciously or not, the DJs play all the Christmas abominations. Thirty repetitions of "Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer," twenty of "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus," ten of "Rock Around the Christmas Tree" cause even the most sentimental combatant to emit a Pavlovian response of disgust at the whole thing.
Bob Hope had been on stage that day at Long Binh with his longtime pal with the big mustache, Jerry Colonna. Also in the troupe were Charmaine the dancer, Miss World, two NFL football players, a magician, a six-member dance troop, and an eight-piece orchestra. "We're glad to be here today at Long Binh where even the rats wear black pajamas" and "You know, Vietnam is the only place where you can get bombed without taking a drink" brought, if not the house down, then the troops up to their feet, since the shows are invariably held outdoors. Nobody seemed to mind the elaborate cue card and camera platforms erected to film the Hope show for the paying audience in the U.S.
Major Doctor Conrad D. Russell and Captain Courtland EdM. Bannister had had a long day. In keeping with Rawson's nasty job threat, Court had spent his time helping the Form 5 clerk compile sortie logs and then cutting up flight maps into zone strips. Doc Russell had finally traced an unusual surge of jock itch to excess naptha used in the soap of the Vietnamese laundresses. After a couple drinks at the Ram Inn they decided to hike the few blocks to the Bien Hoa Air Base Officers Club.
The air was silent and heavy with mosquito spray, the sky clear, as they strode the freshly rolled asphalt road past officer and EM hooches that were as quiet as befits a working air base late at night. Noise from the O’ Club became increasingly loud as the two men approached. As the laughter, hoots, snatches of song, both live and recorded, increased in volume, the two men involuntarily increased their pace. They were ready for some fun.
Bannister had begun to regret being so open about his feelings the night before with Doc Russell. Russell, conversely, seemed perfectly happy to be informed of this man's life and motivations and decided to probe deeper.
"What is your deepest, darkest secret?" he asked lightly.
"Nothing other than that I want to be the first man on the moon. And yeah, I like opera," Court said. "I like opera. One Fine Day from Butterfly makes my eyes water."
"You know what it all adds up to, don't you?," Russell said with alcoholic confidence, "you are a man far more complex and driven than anyone would suspect. Puccini, indeed."
"What a crock, Doc," Court said disdainfully.
Russell knew that to all outward appearances, Bannister had it made. He stood six foot one, thin but trim at 170 pounds, had a squarely handsome face with short-cropped brownish blond hair bleached by the Asian sun, was a world traveler, and, because of his famous actor-father, was probably rich as hell. Devoted fighter pilot, Courtland Esclaremonde de Montségur Bannister would seem to be the envy of the working class pilot. Indeed, he was envied by some. But most pilots in the squadrons he had flown with before Bien Hoa had accepted him as he was; an above average stick and a hard worker who kept his mouth shut. Yet all had one unanimous opinion: He was aloof.
In a squadron, aloof is not what one should be unless one has some great aerial reputation that has preceded one's arrival, thereby permitting such eccentricities. Reputation by birth or position or athletic achievements meant nothing after five minutes. The first item in the squadron's eyes was the amount of respect the new pilot, the FNG, the Friggin New Guy, earned during the time he retracted and extended his fighter's landing gear. Conversely, the few who were merely career oriented would consider all factors that made up their individual squadron mates as to how they might be helpful at some future date. Some had decided that Court Bannister, via his father, would make a valuable friend. Bannister, used to being approached like this by masters of the art since his childhood in Hollywood, could spot those types at the drop of a syllable and the turn of an ingratiating smile. There weren't many like that in the USAF and that was one of the reasons Bannister appreciated service life. He knew he rose or fell on his merits as a fighter pilot, not on who his father was.
Nonetheless, Bannister paid a toll for his background. While he was considered aloof, his squadron mates were equally if not more aloof. Bannister had to prove himself all over again. He had been out of fighters for the two years it took him to get his engineering degree, and except for Paul Austin, also an ASU grad, he knew no one in the squadron, and no one knew him except as the son of Silk Screen Sam Bannister. He admitted he hadn't tried very hard to make friends and that he did spend a lot of off duty time with his Special Forces buddies in the nearby Special Forces Mike Force team. As far as the tight-knit 531st was concerned, most pilots thought Court's reputation as a fighter jock was yet to be established.
As far as Rawson the Ops Officer was concerned, Russell, no amateur psychiatrist, knew he suffered from lack of confidence in both his ability as a pilot and as a leader. He was being pressed beyond his limits and it was beginning to show in his nervousness and erratic actions under pressure. Unfortunately, Russell knew, as long as Rawson was the acting commander the squadron would suffer a morale loss that would affect both duty accomplishments and prestige among the other squadron pilots. Each liked to say his Ops Officer was a tough SOB who could fly a tabletop and a fan, a guy whose wing you would fly on into hell if necessary. No one said that about Rawson.
A loud blatting quack, as if a giant duck was just punched in the stomach, sounded from above their heads as they approached the door of the wood and screen one-story Bien Hoa Officers Club. There was movement and something shuffling on the slightly pitched corrugated roof. Then they saw a flight suit-garbed figure with a flowing white beard burst from the shadows to run and flop flat on the roof, head down over the edge, holding what looked like a six-inch flute. The figure pointed the instrument into the top of a screened window and, from his upside down position, let go several flatulent eardrum-grating quacks. Immediately the club's screen door banged open and two green-bagged pilots dashed out with fire extinguishers which they aimed up in the general direction of the duck calls.
The two spray artists were Lieutenants Freeman and Fairchild. The quacking Santa Claus was Higgens the Homeless, a pilot banned from setting foot in the club for thirty days by the Wing Commander for "conduct unbecoming". (A touring Congressman's wife, who had decided Sunday morning at the O’ Club a good time to tell our dear boys about her hard-working husband, was loudly asked by Higgens to "Show us your tits.") Higgens the Homeless took the WingCo at his word. He did not set foot
in the O’ Club, only on it.
"Gotcha, gotcha," the lieutenants yelled as they ran around the side of the structure in hot pursuit of the quacking Santa. Higgens let out another blast as he galloped, slipping and sliding, around the perimeter of the roof. Only the pilots knew it, but Higgens was the one who flushed a bunch of tennis balls down a toilet. The toilet was in a small airconditioned unit inhabited by a lieutenant colonel who was in charge of Standardization and Evaluation at Wing Headquarters. Said colonel had openly upbraided Higgens for his sophomoric antics. “I’ll show him sophmorics,” Higgens had muttered to himself as he performed the deed. The colonel had to throw away the stinking shorts, pants, shoes, and socks caught in the upwelling overflow.
Bannister and Russell entered the club and tried vainly to edge to the horseshoe-shaped bar. One half point less than total pandemonium reigned midst the forty or so officers celebrating Christmas. Or was it another bombing halt? Some weren't sure. The standard USAF issue red `Merry Christmas' banner hung on nails behind the bar.
Two pilots, wearing white skivvies only, were riding bikes directly towards each other on top of the bar. Each carried a long bamboo rod as a jousting pole.
"Go! Go!" cheered a row of pilots prudently standing clear of where the obvious crash would occur. The two riders wobbled and slammed into each other without even trying to jab with the poles. That would have been dangerous. Falling to the glass covered floor was not so considered. The surrounding pilots surged in to catch them as they toppled sideways off the bar.
"Medic! Medic!" someone shrieked from the group. Before Bannister or Russell could respond to what they thought a hoax anyhow, a tall captain carrying an open can of beer climbed over the bar, grabbed a dish towel and threw himself into the melee shouting he was a medic and would they please make room. He knelt and began earnestly pouring the beer over the two jousters while mopping sweat off his own face with the towel.
"You're no medic," one of the crashed lieutenants accused the tall captain.
"I am so," the captain replied.
"How could you be," the prone lieutenant persisted, "you don't even have a stretcha...stetcha...stethoscope."
"I do so too," the captain said, jumping to his feet, "and I can even piss through it." He snatched his zipper down from naval to crotch and started to piss on the boots of the man nearest who promptly pulled out his own stethoscope and returned fire. The men on the floor rolled away from the splashing.
Bannister and Russell gave up trying to get a drink from the bar and wedged themselves into a corner near a beer tub. Booze was free and flowing, inside and out. New riders had salvaged the bikes and were circling the crowded floor banging into the unwary. Various groups were laughing, joking, talking, singing. One favorite song was an enthusiastic rendition of Deck the Halls with Heads and Holly. Someone said he learned it from a marine pilot out of Da Nang.
In one corner, several pilots from another squadron were trying to introduce their monkey mascot, Sir Pissalot, to a very interested Ramrod. Sir Pissalot rendered some heartbreaking screeches and broke loose to scamper up the walls to a high point from where he absently dribbled over the crowd below.
Clearly the evening was controlled by the young lieutenants and junior captains. A few senior captains and one or two majors watched with great interest and enjoyment but didn't really participate in what they loftily termed sophomoric activities more suited to college frat houses than an Officers Club. The more senior officers, lieutenant colonels and full colonels, were gathered at one or two private get-togethers in their more spacious quarters or half-sections of house trailers assigned to men of advanced rank. The Wing Commander rated a whole trailer with two bedrooms, one converted to an office.
Captain Jack Ward elbowed his way through to Bannister and motioned him to follow. Ward, a senior captain and the old head among the 531st, and among the entire 3rd Tac Fighter Wing for that matter, had nearly two thousand hours in the Hun. He was a narrow-hipped man with broad shoulders, dark brown hair, high cheekbones, and the perpetually tanned face and squint lines of a man who has spent much of his life outdoors. He climbed on top of the bar, spread his arms and yelled at the pilots to shut up. They obeyed.
"In as much as we want to welcome the man who 'had a situation,' the approach end engagement man, who so recently availed himself of said facilities when he could have stepped over the side...but was probably too afraid..." the crowd laughed, Higgens the Homeless blew a double quack through the window. "Silence, silence," Ward went on, "we hereby welcome Court Bannister, Crash Bannister, to our great band of warriors. I hereby pronounce you an official member of the 3rd Tactical Fighter Wing and an official member in good standing of the 531st Tactical Fighter Squadron sent here by a grateful country to kill the beady-eyed Cong." More cheers, whistles, and applause.
Crash Bannister realized something was expected of him. He climbed up on the bar next to Jack Ward. The flight suit of each man was dark with sweat. They shook hands and slapped each other on the shoulder. Below, in the crowd, Bannister saw Jones the Flying Safety Officer grinning broadly and next to him, laughing, was Doc Russell. Court waved a casual salute at them then turned his attention to the raucous crowd of pilots.
"Men," Bannister's voice was clear, crisp, and commanding and he knew it. As a kid, after much voice coaching, he had once played the role of a Winsockie cadet major. "Men," he repeated, thinking that although he might have a commanding voice, right now he didn't know what in hell to say with it. He felt his face flush. This is really dumb, he thought. Here I am in front of all these guys and I don't know what to say. He looked down and grinned.
"You guys are shit hot, you know that? I'm damn glad to be with you." He held his beer up and drank it down as a toast to his audience. And then, because he couldn't think of anything else to do and something frivolous seemed in order, remembering his PLFs at Bad Tolz, he jumped from the bar, performed a perfect parachute landing fall on the barroom floor, and rolled to his feet. The pilots crowded around to pat him on the back and cheer. Court shook hands with many of them as he edged through the crowd to join Russell and Jones at the beer tub where they handed him a fresh one.
Ward pressed his way through and joined the three men. He and Bannister grinned at each other.
"Some `situation.' You done good, bringing that bird in that way," Ward said.
Bannister nodded his thanks.
"I heard Rawson was a bit rough on you," Ward continued.
"Yeah. He took me off flight lead status," Bannister replied. He didn’t mention all the extra duties heaped upon him.
"Damn, that's too bad," Jones said, "but we're on stand-down for another stupid bombing halt. Maybe when it's over, he'll put you back on." He ducked as a foamy spray shot over the crowd from a pilot violently shaking a full beer can.
"Yeah, maybe." Court didn't think Rawson would. He had seemed too intensely interested in rescinding them. You had to be good to be a flight leader. To lead other pilots into combat required skill and experience. The position of trust meant a lot to him. To lose it to one man's capricious whim was not a pleasant experience.
"What in hell did you see up there at Loc Ninh that caused all the excitement over at Intel?" Jack Ward asked, raising his voice against the crowd noise.
"It's not so much what I saw as what I felt," Bannister replied. "There are some highly accurate gunners there that aren't afraid to shoot. I read the after-action report of the FAC, Copperhead Zero Three, and I talked to him later that day. He thinks there's something going on."
"Who is Zero Three? He flies out of here, doesn't he?" Jones asked.
"Yes he does. It's Phil Travers. He bunks in that scrounged up trailer of his in the revetment on the north side of runway 27. He took a couple hits also. He said that during six months and nearly five hundred hours of FAC-time that he hasn't seen ground fire like that since the VC tried to overrun Plei Mei last October," Bannister said.
Doc Russell spoke up. "So what's goin
g on? Is it a buildup or what? Is there a Special Forces camp up there at Loc Ninh they want to take?"
"Yeah," Ward said, "there's an SF fighting camp set up there to interdict VC and NVA activity from Cambodia. But the bad guys usually don't call much attention to themselves before an attack on a camp."
"I think it's a buildup," Bannister said, "and so does Phil Travers."
"I don't look at maps like you guys do," Russell said, "if they're building up, it has to be for an attack on something. If it's not the SF camp, what is it that's big enough to risk exposure like they have?"
"Right here, Bien Hoa, us," Bannister replied. Ward and Jones nodded assent. "Blasting this place would be a prestigious move. Uncle Ho would show the United States, and the world, for that matter, that he can hit wherever and whenever he wants. Even big important bases like Bien Hoa. And these bombing halts we put up with gives them a perfect chance to run in more troops and supplies from Cambodia."
The more he talked, the more Court Bannister surprised himself how much he was holding forth on what he surmised Ho Chi Minh could or would do. Particularly he was amazed at how much credit he seemed to give Uncle Ho for managing world opinion.
Over in trailer 21B, Colonel Frank Darlington, the Director of Operations (DO) for the 3rd Tactical Fighter Wing, hosted his three fighter squadron commanders for a little Christmas cheer. Since Lt Col Peter Warton was still in the States on emergency leave, Major Harold Rawson represented the 531st. He only sipped his drink while the others were doing a good job of putting the booze away. The two squadron commanders, Dietzen, dynamic and exuberant, and Baldwin, dark and broody, felt at home with Darlington. The Wing Commander, Colonel Jake Friedlander, had retired to his quarters earlier. Darlington, Dietzen, and Baldwin were talking flying and the capabilities of their various pilots. Rawson had not contributed much beyond a head nod now and then.
Almost all the combat fighter pilots doing close air support work, they agreed, preferred the Snakes, CBU, Nape, and 20 mike-mike. A few, less hardy souls, really didn't want to get down in the weeds where those weapons could be delivered with great accuracy. They preferred to dive bomb. Roll in from a comfortable height, say 13,000 feet or so, pickle at, oh say 6,000, then bottom out by 4,500, well above anything that might hurt or puncture the aircraft or the overly cautious pilot within. Never mind that one couldn't hit anything from those high altitudes except the ground.
But pinpoint accuracy was the name of the game in South Vietnam because the biggest percentage of F-100 missions were flown in support of U.S. or Vietnamese ground troops in contact with the enemy. Under the expert direction of a FAC, who was in constant contact by FM radio with the ground commander, the strike pilots would carefully lay their ordnance in where directed. Sometimes the desired impact point was quite close to the friendlies. The higher above the ground the pilot released his ordnance, the more chance for an error that could cause friendly casualties.
Rawson was regarded as one of the "high school" boys. Odd, too, since he had been flying fighters for most of his career. He had received his wings and commission when he graduated from aviation cadets in the late forties. He had spent most of his time in fighters and had accrued a modest 20 missions flying an F-86 from Kimpo during the Korean War.
But, as most knew, flying fighter iron didn't make one a fighter pilot. It was a state of mind, an attitude, fighter jocks agreed.
Most fighter pilots could name maybe two or three people who had influenced their lives who weren't fighter pilots at all, but who had the right attitude. The "Let’s give it a try, why not try it this way, I think I can do it" kind of attitude.
But Rawson wasn't that way and the other men knew it. Rawson considered himself a very safe pilot. He had never had an accident, had never raised his pulse to an almost unbearable rate because he was pushing an airplane--or himself--to see what he could see. The top pilots did this. They needed to know the envelope of the airplane and of themselves. They needed to know the limits to which they could push themselves and their craft and still be in control. They needed to know the precise point at which they or the airplane would depart from stable and controlled flight.
So Rawson was now the CO (commanding officer), albeit temporarily, of a fighter squadron, a position for which he had always aspired. He knew this temporary command slot could lead to his taking over the squadron permanently. As a reserve officer who coveted a regular commission that would assure him tenure beyond 20 years and probably a shot at full colonel, he knew doing a good job as CO would almost assure those goals. He certainly felt he looked the part. He kept his little peanut Smiling Jack mustache always neat and trimmed exactly so above his thin lips. He always, but always, managed to take at least thirty minutes each day to bask in the sun and make sure his tan was in place. He carried a collapsible pencil that expanded into a pointer. At briefings when he was on the platform in front of the squadron, he would pluck the metal pen-pointer from his left sleeve pocket, expand it with a flourish, then tap the board or map or wherever it was he wanted the pilots to focus their attention.
Rawson's eyes flickered as he once again put out of his mind the bomb he knew he dropped short of the target in IV Corps five days ago. He refused to think of the angry shout that the FAC had given over the radio. All he knew was that the incident had never been reported.
"Harry," the DO addressed Rawson, "you haven't said much. What do you think?"
Rawson looked nonplussed and decidedly uneasy. Darlington pressed on.
"Is all this a bunch of manly malarkey or is there really something to this fighter pilot mystique thing?"
Rawson was definitely uncomfortable. He indeed thought the attitude stuff a lot of malarkey but this obviously wasn't the time or place to expound his theory that flying fighters was no different from flying cargo or bomber aircraft.
"Well, yes," he said, "I think you've got something there. Mmm hmm, sure." He looked at his watch, started to fiddle with his mustache, thought better of it and said it was time for him to hit the sack. Colonel Darlington saw him to the door and outside.
"How did it go when General Austin called?" Darlington asked.
Rawson thought for a moment. "It went all right," he said, "actually I was quite surprised how nice he was. He told me he wondered why the Defense Department was listing Paul as Missing in Action, Presumed Dead, Body Not Recovered (MIA/PD, BNR). I told him I'd have Major Jones forward a copy of the 127-4 report and that if he wanted further details he should talk to Bannister. He said the report would be sufficient for the moment and that he saw no reason to bother Bannister who had enough to do fighting the war right now."
Darlington nodded. "By the way," he asked confidentially, "what is it you've got against Bannister?
Although Rawson had not told Darlington everything he had said to General Austin on the telephone, he decided maybe this was the time to air his theory about Bannister. "That Hollywood showboat is laughing at us, at all of us," Rawson said with a vehemence that surprised the DO. "He doesn't have to be doing this. He doesn't have to be in the Air Force and he knows it. He isn't a career man and never will be. He can quit and run home to his rich father any time he wants. He isn't like the rest of us. But I'll show him up."
"How's that?" the DO enquired.
"His Efficiency Report. The way I'll make his ER read, the Personnel people won't renew his next active duty extension request." As a Reservist, Bannister remained on active duty only so long as the Air Force desired his presence.
"I see," the DO said, nodding, then added his goodnight. He closed the screen door and reentered the warm and boozy circle of companionship of the two squadron commanders.
Major Harold Rawson strode away, slamming his heels into the crushed gravel path as if he were on a parade ground. He reviewed the last thing he had said to General Austin about his son's death. He had surprised himself at how easily the concept had come to his mind.
"Maybe if Paul had had another wingman he'd be
alive today."
"What do you mean?" the general had demanded.
"Sir," he made up as he went along, "maybe Bannister didn't call out the ground fire like he should have." There had followed a long silence broken only by overlapping patches of conversations from other lines.
"That's interesting," General Austin said and broke the connection.
