by Mark Berent
AUTHOR AND CAPT. BOB PEARSON, 1969
Camp Alpha more resembled a dusty Texas feedlot than a processing center for G.I.s bound for the U.S. Hundreds of homebound soldiers, carefully separated from those just coming into Vietnam, milled around the fenced enclosure (as if anybody would want to escape). A drooping green Christmas garland with splotchy needles hung over the Camp Alpha sign like a tired fat snake with hives. Scratchy Christmas music from a far-off transistor clashed with the heat and dust.
Most of the men, about 80 percent, were dressed in clean, well-tailored and beautifully fitting uniforms with all their brass and stripes and Vietnam War campaign ribbons carefully fastened in exact place. Their faces and boots were clean and shiny, their suntans dark and even, and their haircuts a beautiful sight to behold. Their eyes were relaxed and happy.
In wretched contrast, were the remaining men. They wore ill-fitting uniforms that were too large--because the wearer had sweated off so many pounds in the jungle, and creased--from resting a year at the bottom of a duffel bag. Some khakis were stained with mold. Most of the men's suntans were abominable. Their foreheads were a sickly white while their faces were as old leather, and their skin looked soggy and ragged as if they had recently suffered severe cases of rash and pustules. There were troops with red clay ground into their skins showing they had been stationed near the DMZ. Somehow all these men looked older than the others whom they regarded with wary and slitted eyes.
There were a few officers with this ragged bunch. One of them, a fierce-looking lieutenant colonel, scowled at a broad-shouldered, stocky master sergeant whose face resembled a map of Ireland after somebody had wiped their cleated logger's boots on it. They both squatted, Vietnamese peasant style, with their backs against a wall.
The lieutenant colonel, in fact, was not scowling at the master sergeant. Wolf Lochert's wan face was actually framed in a smile, his first in weeks, as Monaghan related his tale of how he and a few of his green beanie buddies had cleaned out a whole bar full of REMFs the night before. Both men knew that REMFs were worse than Saigon Commandos, who were mostly postal and admin clerks. A REMF was a Rear Echelon Mother Fucker who fiddled with war plans but never visited the battlefield. A REMF could be officer or enlisted, civilian or military.
The REMF contingent Monaghan and crew cleaned up on were civilians hanging out at Mimi's bar on Nguyen Hue. Monaghan said he thought the civilians were some State Department guys. At any rate, they had been put out when Monaghan shot their toilet to ceramic bits. Monaghan had tried to explain to them he needed a bullet hole in his trousers and thought this was a quiet way to do it. He certainly didn't want to hose off a round outside. Besides, he thought the water would just, um, cushion the bullet. He needed the bullet hole in his trousers to match a hole in his leg that he got when---"I'll tell you the rest on the airplane, Wolf." He pointed toward the gate. "Look who just walked in."
Court Bannister spotted the two Green Berets lounging against the wall. He was appalled at how thin they looked when they stood up to greet him as he approached.
"Hey, Captain Bannister," Monaghan said in his usual breezy voice, "who'd you swipe those major's leaves from?"
"The same guy you swiped that extra stripe from, Master Sergeant Monaghan." He shook hands with him and turned to Wolf. "Congratulations, Lieutenant Colonel Lochert, you look great under those things."
"Yah," the Wolf growled, "you don't look so bad yourself, Major. Kind of thin, though." He examined Court's gold leaves on his collar and felt the material of his uniform with two fingers. "Fancy stuff," he said.
Only mildly embarrassed that his tailored 1505s were of a finely woven silver tone material, Court said, "You bet it's fancy. Our hooch maid had a cousin whose uncle made them for us. Cost twenty bucks."
"What plane you on, Major?" Monaghan asked. Court noted he called Wolf by his first name, but still referred to him by his rank. They examined each other’s papers. They were all on the same American Airlines MAC contract flight due to take off in thirty minutes. Before Court could ask Monaghan what happened to his face, a commotion by the door attracted their attention.
"Lieutenant," a harried looking MAC sergeant was saying to an Air Force officer in a rumpled uniform who stood feet apart and swaying, "if you don't throw that bottle away, I'm not going to let you get on the airplane. If you give me a hard time about it, I'll get the Military Police over here."
"At ease, Sergeant," the lieutenant said, "it's a flask, not a bottle. Here, have a drink." He held out a small, silver hip flask to the sergeant who waved it away. With a look of disgust plainly visible on his face, the sergeant started toward the pair of Military Policemen standing by the processing counter.
"Well," Wolf Lochert said as they observed the scene, "I guess we'd better go straighten up one each Toby Parker before he really steps in it. Monaghan, stop that sergeant before he gets the MPs. Tell him we'll take care of this."
Court and the Wolf eased up on either side of Toby Parker and took his elbows. Court took his flask.
"Hey," Parker yelped. He swung his head back and forth. His eyes were bloodshot and his fingernails were dirty and ragged. He didn't wear a name tag or any of the decorations Court knew he had earned. A piece of jade hung from a chain around his neck. He recognized Court and Wolf and smiled at them with breath from a week's debauchery in Saigon. "Well doggone, if it isn't old home week..." he stopped and looked suddenly vague. His eyes started to roll up.
"Grab him," Wolf said as Parker's knees began to buckle. They put their arms around his waist and, without letting him sag and draw attention, they supported him into the latrine. Court glanced at Wolf. His expression was as tender as a father with a baby. Monaghan had maneuvered the MAC sergeant around so he didn't see the sodden man being dragged away.
When it came time to get on the airliner, they had straightened Parker up enough so he was able to hand over his boarding pass without incident. They pushed him all the way to the rear and settled him in a corner seat next to the window before covering him with a blanket. Wolf sat next to him, Court and Monaghan took the two seats in front and buckled in. Parker fell asleep. When the big jet broke ground, the G.I.s cheered and stomped their feet. A few extra quiet ones only stared at the ground they were leaving behind.
Court thought about Nancy Lewis and how disappointed they were that he wasn't scheduled back to the States on a Braniff flight. They had written each other a few times since Clark, but the words hadn't been right. He kept picturing a Special Forces sergeant held in a bamboo cage.
He lit a Lucky, put his head back against the seat rest, and watched the stewardesses pass out frozen wash cloths to the grateful G.I.s. One of the girls got on the PA, wished them the merriest of Christmases, and welcomed them on behalf of American Airlines MAC Contract Flight A6T7 to the first leg of their flight to Los Angeles, California.
"We have a surprise for you," she said. The men looked up in anticipation. "Here it is, direct from the United States, ...Ta Da...Fresh Milk." Two other girls brought out the ice chests filled with milk cartons they had carefully lugged around and kept cool for the five days since they had left the States.
It wasn't airline milk. The girls, themselves, had bought both the milk and the ice chests after a few trips when they heard the thing most sought after once the returning G.I.s were on the plane was not a drink, which was illegal on board anyhow, but fresh whole milk. The Braniff girls had started the custom. As they spoke of the G.I.'s love for milk, the custom spread throughout the MAC system.
The men--boys, really--went wild at the prospect of downing a tall, cool glass of fresh milk made in the USA. Some actually had tears in their eyes as they had their first taste of real American milk in over a year. Oh, the memories it brought flooding back to them; Mom, home, fresh mown grass--everything the newsies had been saying didn't exist in the bloodthirsty soldier from Vietnam. Every stewardess, even though she said she was used to it and swore it wouldn't happen again, felt hot tears spring to her
eyes as she saw the incredible joy such a simple American product brought to these young warriors.
Wolf took two. Jim Monaghan was asleep, Court gave his to a G.I. across the aisle and wished he had a beer. He stubbed his cigarette and fell asleep. One of the girls tucked a blanket around him. She stood looking at him for a long minute.
By Guam, Parker was sober and coherent. Wolf had insisted he drink the two milks and a lot of coffee heavy with sugar. At Hickam in the latrine at the MAC terminal, Parker stripped off his shirt and took a French bath in the basin. Next to him, in a row, were Lochert, Bannister, and Monaghan, with their shirts around their waists, shaving. Monaghan was explaining the cuts and bruises on his face.
"...so when they realized I had just shot the only real American toilet south of the embassy, that's when it all started. Imagine, those REMFs don't like those French bombsight johns."
"Yeah, but I don't understand why you had to put a bullet hole in your pants," Court said.
"Simple. It had to match the one in my leg. You see, when I got shot, I had on civvies."
"What in hell does that explain?" the Wolf grumbled.
"I thought you knew. If you're gonna be WIA, you got to be in uniform. Those were my tiger suit fatigues I shot up. When the holes matched, I went to the 3rd Field Hospital near Tan Son Nhut and got patched up. See." He dropped his trousers and showed them a bandage with dried blood taped to his thigh. "Only a flesh wound," Monaghan said, "but you're not authorized even a flesh wound on Tu Do, especially when you kill somebody."
"Kill somebody? Monaghan," Wolf rumbled at him, "if you don't explain what in hell you're talking about, I'm going to cut the damm leg OFF."
"I'm trying to explain. Some Saigon cowboy groped me and I backhanded him silly. A few minutes later he came roaring by on a Honda and took a shot at me. This was on that side street behind the Sporting Bar. He hit me in the leg so I plugged him. You know how bad the paper work would be on that. So I had to rig something before showing up at the hospital to get it patched. I told 'em I took a sniper round along the Bien Hoa-Saigon Highway and fell down and scratched my face." Monaghan laughed. "Oh yeah, let me show you something." He dug into his pocket and pulled out a Purple Heart medal. "I was laying in the ward with the rest of the guys about to be med-evaced, just resting up from my hangover, when some general comes through and pins these to our pillows. `God bless you, son,' he said to everybody."
1330 Hours Local, 23 December 1966
American Airlines 707 en route to
Los Angeles International Airport, California
They slept most of the way on the final leg. Court had tried to finish Le Mal Jaune but couldn't concentrate. He had figured out the French had offered Vietnam concubinage instead of marriage, and that hypocrisy was rampant in metropolitan France. He still didn't see how it tied to the United States' position of offering Vietnam freedom from communism.
Toby and Wolf talked about the Green Hornet helicopter extraction from Laos.
"I'm telling you, Parker," the Wolf said, "you got to stop this finding me in the jungle routine. You're spoiling my reputation. It's undignified."
"Yeah, right," Parker said. "Say Wolf, that Viet you were with...the one you said saved your life in the ambush.
"Yeah, what about him?"
"He picked up a knife or something just before we got you on the helicopter."
Wolf Lochert looked at Toby with narrowed eyes. "Hah," he barked and turned to look out the window.
"Gentlemen," a stewardess said over the PA as they crossed over the California coastline, "let me welcome you back to the good old USA." Her voice was husky and warm as the sun. She was a tall girl with that special look of confidence worn only by the ones who live on the beach.
The men cheered and looked out at the incredible expanse of sprawling Los Angeles, slightly fuzzed by smog, that was their first sight of the U.S. in a year.
The beach girl came back to talk to Court.
"Hi, I'm Susan Doyle. I know who you are." She held out her hand for Court to shake, and sat on his seat's arm rest. "I wondered what happened to you. I saw those beach movies, and the westerns, and the one where you were a Winsockie cadet. They were a lot of fun to watch."
"They were a lot of fun to make," he said. He liked her directness. She wore her long sun-bleached hair in the regulation bun. He could imagine how it would look flowing down her tanned and sleek back as she lay in the sun on the beach. She had warm brown eyes that crinkled and promised fun when she smiled, which was often. She had taut impressive breasts, and as she sat close, he smelled her musky-sweaty scent and became instantly and wildly aroused. He was glad there was a blanket on his lap. He noticed stewardess wings on the left side of her jacket were gold. She saw where he was looking and eyed his wings and ribbons, and the new major's leaves on his collars.
"Impressive,” she said. Are you married?"
"Not any more. How about you?”
"No.”
She went about her duties and returned a few minutes later. “I like your eyes. Sort of a strange marbley blue, aren't they?" Susan Doyle looked directly and boldly into his eyes. "I would like to eat hamburgers, and drink beer with you at The Strand some day," she said, naming a popular Manhattan Beach hole-in-the-wall.
"I'd like that," he said.
She handed him a folded piece of paper. "Please call me."
"I will. I'd like to drink beer with you on the beach."
"And eat hamburgers."
"Yes, and eat hamburgers.” He paused. “Why are your wings gold while the others are silver?”
She grinned and said, “It’s because I am a gold star mother?”
“What?”
“A gold star mother. That’s what the other girls call us who are awarded the gold wings when we reach five years of flying for American.”
“Got it, Susan,” Court said.
"One thing," she said, "I remember your face and marvelous body very well from the movies, but for the life of me," She threw her head back and gave a throaty laugh, "I can't remember your name."
All the passengers were wide-eyed and ready when the airliner was on final for runway 25 left at Los Angeles International. The approach had been long and curved as the airliner descended east and then turned back over the city coming in over Downey and Watts to land facing the Pacific ocean and the westerly wind flow. The soldiers could see The Forum and Hollywood Park off the right wing. The plane settled lower and lower as the pilot worked the controls. Soon they could see the automobile traffic clearly as their flight path paralleled Century Boulevard. The plane continued down until they could see the license plates on the cars flowing north and south on the San Diego Freeway, and then they were on the ground. They all cheered, many through tears. They had survived, and they had come home.
Getting their luggage was such a fouled up mess that the four men decided to hit the bar on the top floor overlooking the airport and retrieve their bags later. The bar was festooned with tinsel and shining silver and gold stars.
What the hell, they decided. This was a celebration so they ordered champagne cocktails all around. So what if it were only ten in the morning. This was an occasion. The bartender served them with practiced skill, and they touched their wide glasses together and laughed and drank.
The Wolf made a face. "This is awful," he rumbled, "tastes like angel piss." He turned to the bartender. "Gimme a double Coke, straight. NOW." The bartender jumped to obey.
Court and Monaghan switched to beer. Toby Parker decided to try a California chardonay. He expertly lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.
Their laughter and banter died away as each became lost in his own thoughts about where they had been, what they had seen, and what they were coming back to. It wasn't as if they were expecting a band or anything like that, but a small welcoming committee of one or two would have been nice.
"So it's off to test pilot school for you, Bannister, and pilot training for you, Parker," Wolf Lochert
said, finally breaking the silence. Court nodded, relieved to stop the onset of what seemed to be not exactly a bad mood such as anger might cause, but rather one of dejection caused by lonesomeness, disappointment or...he didn't know what.
They talked about the two schools. Court's test pilot school was at Edwards Air Force Base beyond the mountains north of Los Angeles. Toby was to report in for pilot training at Randolph Air Force Base outside San Antonio. Both men had three weeks leave before they had to report for duty. Lochert had a few days for Christmas then had to report to Washington for the rescue planning conference. Monaghan had a flight connection from LA to Florida to spend Christmas with his brother, Harry.
They were in the middle of their third round when Wolf slapped Bannister on the back. "Listen," he said, cocking his head. They all listened.
"...pick up the white courtesy phone. Will Mister Courtland Bannister please pick up the white courtesy phone. You have a message."
Court found the nearest phone. "Hello," he said, wondering what it was all about.
"Hi, Mr. Bannister?" said a light and vaguely familiar male voice.
"Yes, this is Major Bannister."
"My God, a major yet. Congratulations. This is Terry Holt." Terry Holt was an actor from his dad's old days who never could act, but had become Sam Bannister's shrewd and valued business manager. He was bouncy and never seemed to age.
"Terry Holt," Court said, "what a coincidence. What are you doing here?"
"It's no coincidence, Major Bannister. Your Dad sent me over with the Lear to pick you up. We had to hold over San Bernardino, otherwise I'd have met your plane. I've got the studio limo at the American arrival door. Tell me where you are, and I'll come get you. Your Dad has a big welcome home and Christmas bash planned for you in Vegas; girls, orchestras, Frank, Sammy, Dean, Mary Kaye, the works.” Court explained he was about to get his luggage, and would meet him at the limo.
As Court walked back to the bar, he looked at his three companions. The grinning and irrepressible Jim Monaghan was obviously telling another of his wild war stories which were invariably humorous and gory at the same time. Grizzled Wolf Lochert listened with wary eyes searching incessantly for ambushing Viet Cong. Toby Parker, looking young and sleepy now, struggled to follow Monaghan's meandering tale.
On Court's urging, Toby had pulled shiny new ribbons from his kit and put them on in the latrine at Hickam. The Air Force Cross, next to the Purple Heart, was authoritative and new. Court felt a wave of affection for these men. If only Jack Ward and Doc Russell were here along with Ron Bender and even Ted Frederick. God, they'd have a good time. It would go on forever, he'd see to that. He stood still for another minute, then made up his mind.
"Come on guys, you're coming to Las Vegas with me. My Dad's got a plane waiting, and a big blowout ready when we get there, so let's get a move on."
The three men sat in surprised silence at such an expansive offer until they suddenly remembered that their pal was the son of a rich and famous man; a man who could send out a private jet to bring his son to a party. Somehow, it was hard to reconcile that a combat veteran actually came from a famous family. "Silk Screen Sam, the ladies’ man: If he can’t get in, no one can." Court saw all of this in their eyes, and he waited.
Wolf Lochert broke the silence. "Let’s hump," he said with a smile and a nod. "Sounds great," said Parker. Monaghan reluctantly said he had to see his brother and might come out later. But the tension had been broken as each man reminded himself that this wasn't Sam Bannister's son, this was Major Court Bannister, shit hot fighter pilot and Vietnam veteran. They splashed down their drinks with noisy vows of eternal friendship and split for the baggage room. The bartender shook his head as he mopped up after them.
The four thin and hardened combat veterans, hats and berets cocked proudly, strode line abreast down the wide hall to the luggage carousals. They made an impressive sight in their khakis, resplendent with badges and ribbons, trousers bloused on the Special Forces men. The older civilians in the terminal smiled as they passed, and thought how handsome they looked.
Nobody saw the girls in granny dresses and beads or the long-haired boys in sandals and torn pants along the wall where the passageway opened to the luggage concourse. They wore Merry Hashmess headbands. One of the boys had an American flag sewn to the seat of his pants.
They watched and waited, and suddenly dashed forward and splashed a red liquid at the four men screaming all the while PIGS, PIGS, BABY KILLERS, MURDERERS. One girl, with limp yellow flowers in her hair and dirty bare feet, dashed up to Lieutenant Colonel Wolf Lochert.
"Murderer," she screeched, and spat in his face.
Instantly there was a tableau. Nobody moved. The girl saw a flicker in the Wolf's eyes that chilled her almost beyond reason. Her companions poised themselves to flee. Both Monaghan and Bannister moved to restrain Wolf from doing what they knew he was about to do. Still the Wolf stood there without moving; a glaring man with spittle running down his cheek. A jaw muscle jerked. Then with articulate dignity, he thundered, "I AM NOT A MURDERER, YOUNG LADY, I AM A KILLER. THERE IS A DIFFERENCE."
1545 Hours Local, 23 December 1966
Lear Jet en route from Los Angeles
to Las Vegas, Nevada
Monaghan had separated from the three and caught his flight to Florida. Later, in the Lear Jet over the desert, Terry Holt was still badly shaken by what he had witnessed earlier at the airport. The scene with the hippies was bad enough at the time it was happening, but this delayed reaction he was feeling now was worse, much worse. He was so insulated in Las Vegas; everybody was. They didn't hear about protesters, or much about the war, for that matter. And that gruff Colonel Lochert; Terry Holt stared at him with fascination. In Las Vegas he had seen his share of hard men who had earned their bones, but none of them had piercing and blazing eyes like this colonel. They looked as if they could burn through a wall at ten feet.
After takeoff, the men had removed their uniforms stained with red dye and changed into what they could find in their luggage. Parker and Bannister had on tee-shirts and Bermudas. Lochert picked out the cleanest fatigues he could find. As with all pilots who are relegated to a passenger seat, Court was aware of every control movement the pilot made.
Terry had fixed them tall glasses, dark with Scotch. Wolf declined his and requested a Coke. In an effort to be of service he had handed them the first Stateside newspapers they had seen in a year. Now, selected portions of the paper were spread over the floor of the plush jet as the three men studied them from their chairs.
Page one of the Los Angeles Times had a full shot of a bent over man identified by the Democratic Republic of Vietnam as Air Force Major Ronald Bender. His flight suit was torn to his waist; his head, wrapped in drooping bandages, hung so low his chin touched his chest. His arms were twisted behind him in such a manner they had to be bound together past his elbows. A tiny girl wearing a pith helmet pointed an SKS rifle with bayonet at the barefoot pilot. She held it so awkwardly, with both hands palms down on the barrel and stock, it was obvious she had never even seen one before.
The subsequent story quoted the Hanoi Nhan Dan newspaper as saying that Major Bender was now a criminal being held in Hanoi. If he confessed his crimes against humanity, he would receive the lenient treatment given by Ho Chi Minh to all who confessed and were truly repentant of their sins.
Other stories glared out from the papers.
SIX PLANES LOST IN HANOI-HAIPHONG RAID
Saigon--(AP)--One of the heaviest attacks of the war against the Thai Nguyen steel mill complex cost the U.S. at least six warplanes, Military Headquarters announced Tuesday.
