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RECOLLECTIONS: Friendly Skies: 1970

By Dennis Kroll

The flight officer of United Flight #719 broke the sleepy silence.

"Flight seven-one-niner, military transport, is approaching the coast of the Republic of South Vietnam. We are..."

His voice was lost as the eyes and minds of the men aboard searched the horizon.

"We will be starting our descent and landing approach in approximately 2-5 minutes, the stewardesses will be..."

The stewardesses had been with us since Ft Lewis bringing us coffee, food and magazines—had, up to now, been very calm. Now something had changed; their voices were tighter, nervous.

"The time in Vietnam is 0500 hours, weather conditions are..."

Back in the world it was winter; back on the block, snow had covered the ground. We had looked silly standing in formation shivering in our jungle fatigues and boots back at Ft Lewis.

"International laws state that we must disinfect the plane before entering another country. The stewardesses will be spraying..."

The stewardesses ward down the aisles with aerosol cans of perfumed Lysol.

"I'll now turn the mike over to the chief stewardess who will explain landing and emergency landing procedures..."

We had landed twice before, once in Hawaii and then in Okinawa. Although we were flying on a commercial aircraft, it was considered a military transport, the only real different being that no alcohol was served and we were given plenty of free soda. Troops on their second or third tours knew enough to sneak a bottle or tow on board and keep it low and to themselves; if the stewardesses knew, they didn't care.

As we approached the airport in Hawaii, we all knew they would never let us off the plane.

"Naw, the fuckin' assholes ain't even goin' to let us off—the only Hawaii we'll see is from these fuckin' windows."

Someone answered the question on everyone's minds. We resigned ourselves to more sitting, more waiting.

Then the intercom crackled:

"This is the Captain. We will be landing in two-zero minutes, please remain in your seats until the plane has come to a complete stop, please keep your seat belts fastened until the light in your cabin goes out. Refueling will take approximately 45 minutes; FAA rules state that only the crew may remain on board while the aircraft is being refueled..."

Our eyes opened wide.

"All passengers will disembark, the stewardesses will..."

Faces grinned, hands slapped and dapped, the roar in the cabin was deafening. A lifer on board thought he should take control of the chaos and took the mike from the stewardesses.

"Men, give me your attention," he said, pulling himself up to his full leadership height.

"Shit, here it comes," someone said: "they're not going to let us near the bar."

"Probably make us pull guard duty at Pearl Harbor," another voice grumbled.

"Now listen up! Keep it down," the lifer continued. "We are members of the United States military..."

"No sheeyt..."

"At ease! When we enter the terminal, I will expect that you will act as such or..."

"Man, what are you going to do? Send us to 'Nam?"

"I said 'At Ease' back there..." His voice was drowned out as the plane came to a stop with a loud metallic click of seat belts. "One last word about drinking..."

"You had your last word; we only have 45 minutes," someone in the rear of the cabin snarled, and as one, the 200+ jammed the aisle heading towards the door, and backing the lifer into the 1st class where he stood and glared at us with popping eyes and little throbbing veins in his forehead.

The terminal was packed; you could see uniforms everywhere. Many were there saying their goodbyes to wives, lovers, each other after their R&R. The lounge was doing very good business. As we walked in all eyes were on us. We must have looked pretty fearsome in our shiny new jungle fatigues and baseball hats as we fought for space at the bar and ordered doubles, triples, and bottles to go.

"Hey, cherry, when you get to 'Nam tell Top that Crazy Larry isn't coming back. I'm staying here for the duration," someone yelled from one table. Another hollered, "You fucking cherries best get your shit in order 'cause Mr Charles is going to do a damn damn on your young asses."

From still another table came, "What the fuck do you fucking REMF's* know about it—you couldn't blow your nose with a claymore."

"Fuck you grunt," they retorted, "You and all your grunt buddies with all your war tales. The only tales you are the ones you stick between your legs when hit the shit..."

First there was silence; then the tables erupted. As the bartenders moved in cautiously to break it up, arms covered in new jungle fatigues swept the bar, grabbing bottles and drinks and headed for the gate.

There was a remarkable difference between the flight from Hawaii to Okinawa and the flight that left Ft Lewis. Sitting on the runway in Ft Lewis we had been quiet with hundreds of thoughts filling each man's head. Someone had excitedly told us to put the headphones on channel six. From the headphones came the strained strains of the "One Hundred Voice Choir" (to be renamed that "Bring ME Down Band" later), singing "I'm leaving on a jet plane, don't know when..." which was another thought to dwell on. The mood was somber; nobody wanted to talk.

After Hawaii the ice was broken. Some of us were drunk and drinking more from the pillage of the bar. The story was told and retold for the benefit of those who went to other lounges or more isolated spots to catch a buzz. Soon after we took off, we were shown a movie, "Shoes of the Fisherman." By the end of the movie most of the men were sleeping. The only sign of the party was an empty bottles kicked into the aisle. After the movies we were served a snack with the usual kidding likening it to C-rats.

Then the film from the officers' cabin was exchanged for ours, and we were soon sleeping to the sounds of "Finnigan's Rainbow."

We got off the plane in Okinawa with the same enthusiasm as we did in Hawaii. The lifer who had tried to be so strac before only looked at us in disgust through the doorway. The only thing that was open in Okinawa was the bathroom and it didn't look like there was anything else to be open.

In an hour we were back in the air, fed another meal and shown another movie. For those who fell asleep it was the sound of the intercom that woke them up.

"...and on behalf of the crew I'd like to wish each of you the best of luck and hope we will have the honor or serving you on your return...Please remain seated with your seat belts fastened until the plane comes to a complete stop. In the case of incoming rocket or mortar attacks there will be trenches..."

The lifter looked through the doorway and smiled.

*REMF: A rear-echelon mother-fucker," a soldier whose duty was not combat and who was usually in what passed for the rear areas in Vietnam.

Dennis Kroll
Madison VVAW