by G. E. Nolly
I looked over at Sam, sitting next to me. She was smiling.
“Nice car.”
“Yeah, but it's just a car. The important thing is you're sitting next to me.”
She reached over and grabbed my hand.
“Especially,” I smiled, “since I don't have a clue how to get back to Yokota, or how to drive on the wrong side of the road.”
“Don't worry, honey, I'll take care of you.”
It was comforting to have her next to me. I hoped I would have her next to me for the rest of my life.
4
February 5, 1970
Pre-marital counseling was a whole lot more than simply sitting down with a counselor and getting a briefing. It was work, hard work.
“I'll be giving you homework assignments, and I want you to know you'll only get out of this program what you put into it,” explained Chaplain Mackay.
Our assignments required us to communicate, to make lists, to argue. We had to have intense, intimate conversations about things I had never even considered.
Did we want children? If so, how soon? If so, what religion would they be brought up in, if any? What about discipline?
What was our attitude toward money? I knew Sam had grown up in a wealthy family, and had earned a lot of money modeling. I had grown up in a household that worried a lot about money. How would we handle money decisions? One bank account or two?
We had to learn how to argue.
“But we don't fight,” we protested.
“Everybody says that. But you will, trust me.”
So we had to learn the ground rules for constructive arguing. What words to use. What words to avoid. We learned to negotiate.
We had to make a list of things our parents did, as married couples, that we didn't want to repeat.
“And don't tell me your parents were perfect,” Chaplain Mackay said, “Nobody is.”
And we made lists of successful couples we wanted to use as role models. And it would be okay to use our own parents, if we wanted.
Most of all, we learned to nurture our commitment to each other.
Sam was really resourceful at getting what she wanted. When she heard I would be flying a T-39 trip to Hong Kong and there would be empty seats on the plane, she figured out a way to go along. She found a law conference in Hong Kong for the same weekend, and convinced her boss that it would be beneficial if she could attend. Especially since there was an Air force plane going there anyway, so transportation would be free.
Flying into Kai Tak airport was a real challenge, and very rewarding. The IGS Approach to Runway 13 required homing to an ADF, then turning and intercepting what appeared to be an ILS, but it terminated with the airplane pointed at a checkerboard painted on the side of a hill.
When you broke out of the clouds and saw the checkerboard, you had to immediately initiate a hard right turn and descend immediately, just barely above the rooftops, to land on a short runway that ended at the water's edge. And the winds were always tricky.
It was a real pilot's approach. Anybody could fly a plain vanilla ILS. It took a real pilot to fly the IGS at Kai Tak.
We had a great time in Hong Kong. Sam dutifully attended the conference by day, and we went out at night. We did some shopping. We did some sightseeing. And we took the tram up to the Peak Restaurant and had a great dinner while we watched the Hong Kong harbor lights below us.
It was great to have Sam along when I was flying. I wanted her to see what I did for a living, and I wished I could have had her with me on every trip.
5
February 28, 1970
It was my turn in the barrel, to go TDY to the Scatback operation. It would be a 3-month assignment, and I'd be getting extra money in the form of combat pay, plus TDY pay. I'd also get an income tax deduction for every month I was in Vietnam. The schedulers arranged for our TDY assignments to start a day or two before the end of one month, and end a day or two after the beginning of the month 93 days later. That way we'd get combat pay and the combat tax deduction for five months.
This was going to be the first time I would be away from Sam for an extended period since we'd gotten engaged. I wasn't really sure how Sam, or I, would handle the separation.
The night before I left, Sam and I went to dinner with her parents, Tom and Miyako. It reminded me a lot of the time the four of us had waited at the snack bar for my flight to Vietnam after my R&R in Tokyo. But this time I wouldn't be leaving for six months. I'd only be gone for three months. But, again, I would be going back to Vietnam.
After dinner, Tom and Miyako went home, and Sam and I went to one of the numerous “love hotels” that are endemic to Japan. It was a beautiful, small ryokan with a romantic view. And we shared a wonderful, intimate night together. It was too short.
Just so there's no misunderstanding, it was the night that was too short!
6
March 5, 1970
I'd been in Vietnam for five days, and was getting used to being back in country. The sights, the sounds, and the smells brought back a familiar feeling.
Our flying was an eclectic mix of combat support missions, transporting reconnaissance imagery from one base to another, and VIP support, carrying high-ranking officers and Department of Defense personnel throughout Southeast Asia. We operated around the clock, with a major portion of our missions at night.
Among the T-39 pilots, I was known simply as Ham, although some called me Hamilton. The moniker Hamfist never reared its head.
Scatback headquarters was at Ton Son Nhut Air Base, in Saigon. Our Commander was Lieutenant Colonel Miller, and he seemed like a good guy. When I first arrived, I had a short meeting with him and the Operations Officer, Major Greene. After some brief introductions and small talk, Major Greene spoke.
“Lieutenant Hancock, we've been looking at your flying records, and we'd like to put you on the fast track to upgrade to Aircraft Commander. Are you comfortable with that?”
“Yes, sir. I feel pretty much at home in the Sabreliner now, and I'm very familiar with this theater of operations. Thank you for considering me.”
It was very unusual for a Lieutenant to be an Aircraft Commander, and I appreciated the vote of confidence. For the next week, I flew exclusively with Major Greene, and he did an outstanding job of teaching me the finer points of being in command of a passenger operation. At the end of the week, he signed me off as AC.
Unlike the VIP flights from Yokota, we didn't wear our blue uniforms when we flew, we wore nomex flight suits. That made sense. Even though we were often carrying high-ranking VIPs, we were in a combat environment, and function took priority over appearance.
7
May 5, 1970
We landed at Ton Son Nhut Air Base, in Saigon, early in the morning. We were scheduled to operate our next flight a little after midnight, so we went to the Billeting Office to get a room at the Visiting Officer's Quarters. They assigned me to an austere room with my Copilot, Captain Jack Emmers.
When we had first started the flight sequence, Jack seemed a bit uneasy being a Copilot to a Lieutenant, but he became more comfortable as the sequence wore on. I had no problem with it, of course, since I had been the pilot-in-command when I flew O-2 missions out of DaNang with Forward Air Navigators, some of whom were Majors. Air Force Regulation 60-1 was very specific about the pilot-in-command being in command, regardless of rank.
Jack was an attached pilot, and had requested this TDY. He hadn't yet had an assignment to Vietnam, and wanted to come over to support the war effort, as well as to get experience in a combat environment.
After we got settled, Jack suggested we head over to the Officer's Club for breakfast. We got a table near the patio, and ordered the breakfast buffet. I went over to the serving table and filled my plate from the sumptuous selection of food. No shortages here.
I returned to our table and started eating. There was a young Vietnamese kid wearing a white smock, maybe eight years old, moving from table to table, pouring coffee. I
could see that he kept looking in my direction. Finally, he hesitantly walked up to my table.
“I happy.”
“I'm glad to hear that,” I said. I wasn't really sure how to respond. “We're here to help. I hope we can bring peace to your country.”
“No, I Happy,” he replied. “Happy, Dopey, Sleepy, Grumpy, Sneezy, Bashful, Doc. I Happy.”
I looked at him carefully and did a double-take. I hadn't recognized him, in part, because the last time I had seen him he had been wearing an eye patch. Now he had a prosthetic eye. Yeah, I recognized him now. It was Happy, one of the kids I had gotten to know so well at Cam Ranh Bay!
Of all the kids I had played with at the Cam Ranh hospital, Happy was the one I felt closest to. When Grumpy had been killed in the sapper attack, Happy was the most affected of all the children. I was a bit surprised, since I had been certain that the kids would have become desensitized to the tragedy and death that was part and parcel of their everyday lives. I spent a lot of time with him trying to comfort him and help him adjust.
“Grumpy was Happy's brother,” explained Major Rader, the head nurse in the children's ward. “Grumpy was his last living relative. His parents were killed in the rocket attack that injured them, and we've been unable to locate any other family members. When he's well enough to leave the hospital, he'll be going to an orphanage in Saigon.”
I stood up and gave him a big hug, and he hugged me back so hard I thought he wouldn't let go. I pulled back and looked at him.
“You've gotten so big,” I said. “I hardly recognized you.”
I don't think he understood much of what I said, but Happy just stood there and beamed.
The Vietnamese Club Manager came over to our table to see if everything was okay.
“Everything is fine,” I answered. “We're old friends. How long has this young man been working here?”
“He here three month,” the manager answered. “He live in orphanage and he work here in daytime.”
“Which orphanage?” I asked.
“He live Hoi Duc Anh Orphanage.”
“What time does he get off work?” I asked.
“He leave at noon.”
I ate breakfast and went up to Happy, who had kept looking at me and smiling the whole time.
“I'll be back here when you are finished work today,” I said. I wasn't sure if he understood me, but it didn't matter.
I told Jack my plans, went back to the VOQ room, set an alarm, and took a power nap. At 1130 the alarm woke me, and I changed into fatigues and headed back to the O'Club.
It was time for me to pay a visit to a Vietnamese orphanage.
8
May 5, 1970
I went back to the O'Club at 1155 and waited at the door to the restaurant. After a few minutes, Happy emerged. He had changed from his waiter's smock to a short sleeve white shirt. He broke out into a broad smile when he saw me.
“I'm going to go back to the orphanage with you,” I said, “I want to see where you live.”
He smiled and grabbed hold of my hand. We walked the short distance to the main gate, and then he flagged down a motorized xichlo mai, which the GIs called a cyclo. I could see that this kid had street smarts well ahead of his age.
We were seated on a rickety seat in the front of the cyclo, a large tricycle, with the single wheel in the rear, powered by what sounded and smelled like a lawnmower engine. It took quite a while for the vehicle to reach the speed of the surrounding traffic, and the driver wasn't about to lose his momentum by stopping at red lights. We sailed through an intersection that was manned by a pith-helmeted member of the White Mice, the local police, who blew a shrill whistle as we passed. At another intersection, we barely missed an old Chevrolet sedan, but our driver was oblivious. It was clear to me our driver considered traffic lights as mere suggestions.
This was my first time off base in Vietnam, other than the short drives to the Freedom Hill BX and the marine base, Camp DaNang, on my previous tour in Vietnam. Unlike the off-base environment at DaNang, there were Americans everywhere in Saigon. The streets were crowded, and there were hawkers on every corner selling everything from flowers to fruit to souvenirs. On the few times we stopped at intersections, kids, probably no older than Happy, ran up to our cyclo, trying to reach inside my pockets. Happy yelled something at them in Vietnamese, and they scurried off.
We passed the well-guarded Presidential Palace, and about a mile afterward pulled up to a walled compound at the intersection of Cong Quynh and Vo Tanh streets. A hand-lettered sign read Hoi Duc Anh Orphanage.
I gave a few piasters to the driver and he yelled something at me. Happy yelled back, and the driver frowned and drove off.
Happy pointed to the main building, and said, “My house.”
I hadn't been sure what to expect, and I hoped my expression didn't reveal my disappointment. As we walked toward the main building, an army Sergeant carrying a large duffel bag walked out of the front door and, seeing me, saluted smartly.
“Are you here with the clothing drive from Ton Son Nhut, sir?”
“No, this is my first time here, and I wanted to see where my young friend lives. We were together at the hospital at Cam Ranh.”
“I remember when Chien arrived here from Cam Ranh. He had just gotten his glass eye, and he kept taking it out to show to everyone. The other kids really got a kick out of it.”
It was the first time I had heard Happy's real name, Chien.
“What's his family name?” I asked.
“Le. His name's Chien Le.”
“No,” interrupted Happy, “My name Happy.”
“Okay,” the Sergeant said, “We want you to be happy, Happy.”
“Have you been coming here long?” I asked.
“My unit, the First Signal Brigade Communications Site at Phu Lam, has been helping out here for over a year. We try to get our relatives in the States to donate supplies, clothing, toys, anything they can send our way. These kids need a lot of everything.”
“Can you give me some contact information?” I asked, “I'm TDY here from Yokota, and I'll try to get a donation site set up there.”
“I though you'd never ask, sir.” The Sergeant reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out a business card and handed it to me. “That APO address goes right to our headquarters. We can take it from there.”
The Sergeant saluted again, said, “Good day, sir,” and walked out of the compound.
“Okay, Happy, show me around.”
Happy grabbed my hand again and took me from building to building.
There were kids everywhere. I could see that there were many more children than there were beds. In one room, with younger children, infants really, four children were lying sideways on one bed. There were a few cribs with rusty slats, and the sheets on all of the beds looked dirty. Actually, filthy.
“Washing machine is broken.”
I turned around to see who had been reading my mind. The young nun appeared to be Eurasian, probably Vietnamese-French. She had virtually no accent.
“Sergeant Truman took a load of sheets to the base to get them laundered there. I'm Sister Theresa,” she said, holding out her hand.
“I'm Hamilton Hancock,” I responded, shaking her hand. “Chien and I are old friends from our time at the hospital at Cam Ranh.”
“I've heard so much about you” she said, looking into my eyes. She grabbed my hand again in both of hers. “Please, keep calling him Happy. It's all he talks about.”
“Have you been able to locate any of his relatives?” I asked.
She shook her head.
“We're his family now. He works at the base in the morning, then he takes care of the younger children in the afternoon. He calls them his new brothers and sisters. In fact, it's time for him to help with the infants. Do you want to lend a hand?”
“Sure. But I can only stay for a few hours. I have to fly out tonight.”
We went into the infant ward and spent the next several hour
s changing diapers, giving baths, and feeding babies. Happy handled it like an old pro. It was the first time I'd ever done anything like that. It was really rewarding. Then it was time for me to return to the base.
I knelt down to look Happy in the eye, face-to-face.
“Happy, I have to go now, but I'll try to get back here as often as I can.”
He grabbed my hand and walked me to the front gate. Then he gave me a long hug. I hugged back, then flagged down a cyclo. I looked forward to coming back soon.
9
May 6, 1970
We took off shortly after midnight. Our run was to DaNang to take a plane load of Colonels to a meeting, then we flew from DaNang to Ubon to carry imagery for photo-analysis. After a short layover at Ubon, we flew a repositioning flight to NKP, arriving at 0700. Another crew would be picking up the airplane to fly the reverse route.
We had 24 hours off. After we got a room at the VOQ, I walked over to the Jolly Green hootch. I knew Vince had already DEROSed, but thought I might recognize some of the guys I had met last year. A Captain saw me wandering around.
“Can I help you?”
“I was a friend of Jolly 22, Vince, and I was just looking around to see if there is anyone here I recognize.”
“Friend of Vince?” He squinted and looked at my name tag. “Are you the famous Hamfist?”
“Guilty as charged.”
“Wow. It's a real pleasure to meet you. I've heard a lot about you.”
“I suspect it's mostly bullshit.”
“I'm Charlie North. I got here about a month before Vince DEROSed.”
“Pleased to meet you, Charlie. Do you know what kind of assignment Vince got?”
