 
Cambodia–Trail of Tears

A Book Length Excerpt From

Beneath The Shroud

By

### James Joseph Jacks

### Published By

### Positive Imaging, LLC

### bill@positive-imaging.com

### Smashwords Edition License Notes

### This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

### Copyright 2019 James Joseph Jacks.

## Contents

Beneath The Shroud

Cambodia-Trail of Tears

# Beneath The Shroud

James Joseph Jacks is a retired pilot. From 1968 through 1975 he flew in The Democratic Republic of the Cong and Cambodia. The highly specialized type of flying he did in both countries is referred to as paramilitary. While in the Congo he flew in the Congolese Air Force. While in Cambodia he flew in companies that used aircraft painted in airline colors, but their primary missions were an attempt by the US government to defeat the Khmer Rouge blockade of Phnom Penh.

While in the Congo, in addition to his regular missions, he assumed the role of primary pilot of President Joseph Désiré Mobutu's state aircraft (a gift from President John F. Kenedy). This experience became an asset as he later was in a special division of Saudi Arabian Airlines created to fly the King's family and top-ranking Saudi diplomats and VIP foreign dignitaries. Still later the VIP flying again proved useful as he flew top-of-the-line corporate jets for an extremely wealthy family. As in Saudia, these flight missions were on a worldwide scope.

The paramilitary flying showed James (Jimmy) the ugly side of war and the horrible effects it leaves on the population. All this while the leaders in this cold-war political chess games being played out on the global stage by the superpower leaders, Russia, China, and the United States lived a life of comfort and luxury. The poor Cambodian population was the valueless little brown pawn. In Jimmy's words, he was a naive country bumpkin significantly unprepared for the unbelievable carnage the Cambodians suffered at the hands the superpowers.

Upon retirement in 2007, Jimmy and his Cambodian wife of 45 years returned to Cambodia for the first time since the Khmer Rouge marched into Phnom Penh on April 17, 1975. He now lives full time in Cambodia only returning to the U.S. for vacations.

Beneath The Shroud by James Joseph Jacks is now available in paperback and hardcover at:

http://beneaththeshroud.billspositivebooks.com

# Cambodia–Trail of Tears

Bangkok

From the airport, I went straight to the Nana Hotel where I was instructed to stay. When I presented my passport at the front desk, the beautiful young lady handling my check-in process took my passport and went into an adjoining office. She returned with a man who introduced himself as the manager. He said he would have a special car and driver waiting for me the first thing in the morning that would "take me to my destination." He assured me Mr. Ford had already given the driver thorough instructions and I need not worry about anything. He told me he would have a wakeup call for 7:00 am in case I was not already up. The bellman took my bags and showed me to my room.

It was still early afternoon and far too soon for me to try to sleep even though my body was now twelve hours "ahead" of Hamilton Texas time.

The Nana Coffee Shop–A Wide Menu

I took a shower and went down to the hotel coffee shop for a bite to eat. To my amazement it was filled with Americans. After my Wigmo time these guys were easy to spot. They were mostly U.S. Air Force types on assignments requiring civilian clothes (civies) or they were stationed at small clandestine bases deep in the rural areas of northern and eastern Thailand bordering on Laos and extremely close to China. But regardless of where they were stationed, they wore civilian clothes. The military personnel generally fit a mostly squeaky-clean mold with distinguishing military haircuts. There was another group of older, less squeaky guys with haircuts ranging from shaved to shoulder-length. They were the Continental Air Service and Air America group, and mostly based in Laos.

The immediate impression upon entering the coffee shop was the disproportionate number of suggestively clad, mostly young, heavily painted and unaccompanied women. I'd come down to get something to eat and quickly found the coffee shop was offering more than meals. Roger Ford had neglected to mention this.

I ordered a burger and a Coke and tried to eat, but most of my time was spent saying "no thank you." The food wasn't half bad...something the Congo had a hard time saying. The Thais had quickly learned to master middle-class American food preferences and were well tapped into the vast sums of money this sizable force of clandestine visitors had to spend. I finished my meal and headed back upstairs. In spite of my excitement, I managed somehow to get to sleep.

A Rainy Drive–A Shadowy Visa

The next morning, I enjoyed a first-class American style breakfast and was waiting for the driver in the lobby as instructed. At the stroke of 9:00 am the bellman came and advised my car and driver were waiting outside. As I walked out, I saw a late model Toyota with dark tented windows in front. The driver got out and introduced himself. His name was Kim. I would use Kim many times over the next several years. Kim spoke good English albeit with a heavy accent. Almost immediately after we pulled away from the Nana, it began to rain. As we drove through the city, I could see standing water everywhere. Kim explained that this was normal during the rainy season and that we were now in the final weeks of it. I did not directly ask Kim where we were going. I only asked if we were going to get my visa to which he replied yes.

After about thirty minutes' drive in Bangkok's impossible traffic exacerbated by the falling rain, we arrived at a nondescript building. There was a typical drainage ditch running parallel to the street which I had to cross via a makeshift and wobbly wooden bridge. Actually "bridge" was flattery. At any rate, Kim and I made it across. Kim knocked on the door. An Asian man dressed in Chinese style pajamas answered. Kim spoke to him in Chinese and the man took my passport. He instructed us to wait. One thing I was sure of...this was not the visa section of the Cambodian Embassy. We sat on an unpainted wooden bench under the shelter of the porch. In a few minutes the man returned with my passport. He showed me the visa and advised there was a $20 fee. I checked and there was a very official looking visa. I'd already been told the "company" was paying for the visa, so I was sure this was just another of the countless forms of corruption one has to deal with in this line of work. I handed the man a twenty dollar note. Then Kim drove me on to the ticket office of Air Vietnam where I presented the confirmation number I'd previously received. A few minutes later I was handed my ticket. My departure for the forty-five-minute flight from Bangkok to Phnom Penh left at 10:30 am the following morning.

Kim graciously told me he had been engaged by my employer for the entire day and said he would be happy to show me some of the famous tourist attractions in the city. I accepted his offer and spent the remainder of the day in some kind of wide-eyed trance. This was the most exotic city I'd ever seen. Paris was exciting in a sophisticated European way, but Bangkok was the perfect mix of exotic and mysterious.

First, I toured the royal palace; then the floating market. After that we went to Old Town. Kim cautioned me about eating from the little shops along the street selling all kinds of food but to no avail. I loved Thai food at first sight and sniff. Wigmo's training courses had taught to learn to live off the land as soon as we arrived. Start building the local bacteria colonies in your stomach while you are still close to the best medical care that will be available to you. Then when you find yourself where eating choices are less than desirable you won't have trouble finding things you can tolerate. In the Congo this was a bit of a chore...here it was a gastronomic pleasure. I faithfully and enthusiastically followed Wigmo's advice. Yum! Kim dropped me off at the hotel around 7:30pm. I happily gave Kim a generous tip, told him I'd see him at 6:45 in the morning, and headed to the hotel bar for a drink before going up to my room.

While I was exploring Bangkok, President Nixon was re-elected and more U.S. troops departed Vietnam as part of our troop withdrawal. I did not vote. On the radio, Nights In White Satin by The Moody Blues, I Can See Clearly Now by Johnny Nash, and Ben by Michael Jackson were playing, for our troops on American Forces Radio Saigon.

The Nana Hotel Bar–Another Planet

Nothing I'd previously experienced prepared me for the bar in the Nana Hotel...nothing. Heavily painted and revealingly clad young as well as not quite so young women were standing and sitting everywhere. Many of them were sitting at the bar but managed to populate a large percent of the tables as well. Since I didn't relish the inevitable besiegement that having my drink at the congested bar would trigger, I elected to take a small table for two over against the wall. The bar was dark...like really dark, except for the proliferation of ultraviolet (UV-A or "black") light sources. The UV-A light distorted the colors in the room, especially the copious quantities of lipstick these fallen angels wore. They looked surreal. It reminded me of some kind of alien planet. Most of them walked with a ridiculously exaggerated swish. About the time my butt hit the chair I was wishing I'd simply ordered a beer with the meal I had just finished at the little mom and pop sidewalk Thai restaurant.

Soon a waitress was asking for my order. I'd already learned that Singha Beer was Thailand's version of Budweiser. Many of the American expats living there would argue Singha was far better. My beer was not immediately forthcoming. Before my beer arrived I had politely returned the smiles of several angels flying too close to the ground and with equal politeness repeated my "no thank you." By the time I'd had my first few sips I'd become quite impressed with the telepathy or angel-intercom used to signal who was a player and who wasn't. It didn't take long before I was collectively identified as a no-player and was able to finish my drink in peace. When I'd finished my drink and was making my way toward the door, a couple of die-hard angels gave me one last shot. I went up to my room alone and tried to get a good night's sleep. But sleep didn't come easy that night...I was too excited.

My alarm sounded and the backup wakeup call came at 5:30am. I did not want to miss my flight due to Bangkok's notorious gridlock traffic. The bellman was at my door almost immediately after my call. Each floor had a bellman-security person. My call to the front desk was immediately relayed back up to my floor via walkie-talkie. He placed my bags in the holding area and by a couple of minutes after 6:00am, I was sitting in the Nana Coffee Shop. To my surprise, several Americans were already having morning coffee and breakfast. Some were still accompanied by their fiancée of the previous evening. This was definitely a long way from anything I'd ever known...this was not Texas.

Kim was waiting and as soon as the bellman saw me, he moved my bags to Kim's car. I quickly paid my bill and walked briskly to the waiting car. Fully one hour later, I was making my way to Air Vietnam's check-in.

Descending Into Cambodia

A Land of Wonder–A Land of Tears

I strained to get my first glimpse of Cambodia from the Boeing 727's window as we descended through the clouds. I could see forest covered foothills in the distance, but it was mostly flat flooded rice fields dotted with palm trees. As we taxied off the runway and toward the terminal, I was struck by how small the terminal was and how old all the airplanes were. I could see several Convairs on the ramp. This was the airplane I'd been told I'd be flying. They were far more modern than any of the piston airplanes I'd flown in the Congo. They were still in use by airlines in the United States. There we also plenty of C-46 and C-47 (DC-3) aircraft. I looked across the ramp as I was making my way from the plane to Phnom Penh's outdoor terminal. On the other side of the airport, the ramp was filled with C-130, C-47, AC-47, T-28, plus OV1 and OV10 (military observer or spotter aircraft) planes. The civilian ramp had military personnel with new M-16s everywhere. While the physical features of the Cambodians appeared similar to the Thais, it was obvious this was not Thailand. Cambodia was a country at war.

I was one of only a handful of Americans on the plane. I was met midway across the ramp by an American asking me if I was Jimmy Jacks. When I replied yes, he introduced himself as Josh Oates, (pseudonym) asked for my passport and escorted me across the ramp and directly to the head of the immigration checkpoint line. I could hear numerous French voices grumbling in line behind me. I didn't bother to turn around. I was immediately stamped into the country and taken to the baggage collection area. When I had my two bags, they were given to a Cambodian in an airline uniform who was told to take them to the Tri-9 office. My escort "shook hands" with the customs agent and my customs formalities were instantly finished.

Josh was Tri-9's director of maintenance. He told me Roger Ford, Tri-9's chief pilot and director of flight operations would be landing shortly and wanted me to accompany him on his next flight which was scheduled to be a quick turn after landing. We walked over to a little restaurant in the arrival and departure area and ordered a cold drink. I had some kind of Cambodian cola knockoff. No sooner had they brought our drink than Roger's flight landed. Josh's men were meeting the plane. I spotted Roger walking toward the terminal. He stood easily head and shoulders above all the Cambodians. He joined us, virtually inhaled an orange soft drink. He immediately got up and told me to come along; he would give me an indoctrination flight.

My First Tri-9 Flight

When we arrived at the plane I looked around and didn't see his copilot. When I asked where he was, Roger said..."you're it." He had given the copilot the rest of the afternoon off. Roger said they were shorthanded, and everybody had been flying a little too much. I casually mentioned I'd never seen the cockpit of a Convair 440 before, to which he replied..."don't worry...you'll be seeing plenty of them." I also was not accustomed to flying in an airline operation. While we were in the middle of a war and the U.S. government was underwriting our operations with fuel and contracts to the Cambodian airline companies, the deceptive airline mantle was our ability to be in the country without being in violation of congress's edicts.

Roger and the three cabin attendants were all in uniform. I was wearing one of my pencil-legged safari suites made by the Indian tailor back in Kinshasa. To say I looked a bit out of place would have been an understatement. I noticed the cabin crew curiously watching me. I hopped in the right seat, adjusted the seatbelt and got the mic and called for a clearance. Like in my initial Congo flights, I had trouble understanding the controller's English. I jotted down the clearance, and immediately we started running the checklist. I had never heard of half the things on the checklist and likewise had little idea where they were located. By the time we were ready for the before takeoff checklist I was stressed, and the back of my shirt was wet in spite of the fact that the Convair had air-conditioning and pressurization. Thankfully, the before takeoff checklist was short and soon we were roaring down the runway.

My first in-aircraft opinion of Roger was heading south rapidly. This was cowboy...this was not Wigmo...this was not professional. I had had no training on the aircraft and this sure as hell was not how to learn. This was a far more modern cockpit than our Wigmo planes and I didn't even know where the emergency checklists were, much less how to execute them. I was definitely not professionally impressed. Roger, however had this type of personality that made just about everybody like him...including me.

Within what seemed no time at all, we were approaching Battambang. The first thing I noticed about the decent to landing was it was not initiated till we were within about five miles of the airport. When the decent was begun, we started going down like a brick falling from the sky. It was steep. When I asked Roger about the steep descent, he smiled and said it was better than pulling a SAM 7 out of our butt. I knew enough about SAM 7 missiles to know most encounters were fatal. I asked him if the bad guys were really that close to the airport. Again that Roger Ford smile accompanying an almost inaudible..."oh yes."

The rapid decent scared some of our passengers but for others, it appeared to be the high point of the flight.

Our return passengers were all waiting as we taxied in. We had fueled in Phnom Penh for the return leg so within about ten minutes we were ready to start engines. I did much better with the check list this time as I'd used the brief flight to Battambang to hunt around and locate as many of the switches and other controls as possible.

When we reached the end of the runway Roger told me to make the takeoff. As I smoothly moved the throttles forward to the takeoff position, I was impressed with the power these huge R-2800 engines with alcohol injection were putting out. WOW! If my father could see me now.

As we approached Phnom Penh's Pochentong airport Roger asked me if I was ready to try a landing. My answer, of course, was "of course." He assured me that the Convair didn't have any serious landing idiosyncrasies and that I'd be just fine. He advised the steep decent we executed in Battambang would not be necessary here in Phnom Penh...at least not yet. That was a relief. I made a normal approach and a smooth landing. I'd never flown an aircraft with thrust reversers before but that worked just fine as well. As we taxied in, I noted my back was a little wet again. Even though it had been fun, it was obviously stressful as well. I was ready to head home, wherever home was going to be.

Josh and his crew met the flight to see if we had any maintenance issues. The plane was clean (clear of "squawks" or maintenance discrepancies) so we all headed to the Tri-9 office. The mechanics secured the aircraft, I grabbed my bags and we got in the crew cars. I rode with Roger. Josh and the mechanics rode in a jeep. I learned I'd be staying with Roger that night; that he had a large company provided villa and plenty of empty bedrooms. He said he had an apartment all set up for me that was fully furnished and already had a maid. He told me we would fly again first thing the following morning but for only a half day. From there he would take me to the Tri-9 administration office, process me in, get me an ID card, then take me to get some uniforms made and show me my new apartment. Roger, for all his apparent lack of cockpit discipline, managed to make things move quickly. I was very satisfied with how my first day had gone. I woke up in the Nana hotel, drove through Bangkok traffic, flew to Phnom Penh, and had taken my first Convair 440 flight and my first flight with Tri-9.

The houseboy, husband of the cook, carried my bags to the room where I'd be sleeping. I sat down in the large living room and had a beer while Roger drank another orange soda...I learned Roger did not drink. As a matter of fact, he was a Seven Day Adventist. I would later learn he was a rather liberated Adventist.

The Vietnamese cook had prepared a great meal. Roger and I ate alone at the large table. He had to get up a couple of times to take phone calls related to flight operations; some came from the embassy. While we ate, I noticed two teenage girls and a younger girl peeking around the corner at us and giggling. Roger explained that they were the daughters of his cook. He smiled and said, "they like you." I replied, "I wasn't going to like anybody but my bed tonight." He smiled and our conversation moved on to how flight operations worked. When the meal was finished, we both went upstairs. He showed me my room, the bathroom associated with my room, told me what time breakfast was and we said goodnight.

New Faces–New Names–New Places

The following morning at breakfast Roger once again demonstrated his incredible capacity to pack away food. Amazing! Breakfast went quickly and we were soon off to the airport. It was not yet 7:00 am and the airport was buzzing with passengers and crew. Roger pointed to an area where some passengers had slept the night before in order to be near the head of the check-in line. He explained that a ticket didn't mean a lot here as the ticket agents regularly took bribes to place people on the passenger manifest. I immediately made the connection with the Congolese loadmasters. I noticed many passengers in military uniform in the line.

Roger and I went to the Tri-9 office (nothing more than a single small room), got our manifest, a copy of the weather, a copy of the flight plan, and a security briefing provided by the Khmer Air Force on the condition around Pochentong and our destination Kompong Som (Sihanoukville). Mortar rounds had hit Kompong Som the night before but did no damage. Nobody seemed to take much notice of mortar attack. We were carrying large amounts of cargo in addition to the passengers' bags. The cargo was mostly food going to merchants in Kompong Som. Roger explained the Khmer Rouge were managing to keep a stranglehold on many major cities forcing critical supplies to be airlifted in.

As I was doing my walk-around preflight inspection with Roger, I noticed more money changing hands at the foot of the air-stair door. Roger mentioned that the air force sergeant and 1st lieutenant taking the money probably had not been paid in a couple of months because their colonel and general had pocketed it. Memories of the Congo again flashed through my mind. The mechanics briefed us on minor repairs they had made, handed us a flight release, and we climbed into the cockpit.

Departure was normal and soon we were heading southwest, loosely paralleling National Highway 4 which was hopelessly cut by the Khmer Rouge forces. Anything moving on the road was a target and as a result, not much moved. On today's flight, there were few rice paddies like there had been yesterday on the flight to Battambang. We were flying over beautiful forest covered mountains. Rivers and waterfalls were visible in the mountain forest below. The forest and mountains were part of the Cardamom mountain range. Their beauty was breathtaking. Roger pointed out deserted rubber plantations. The Khmer Rouge made sure nothing was operating that could benefit the enemy (us).

The flight was short; only about 35 minutes. Soon I could see the Gulf of Thailand out the left window. We would be landing at a Cambodian Air Force Base named Ream. Ream was still eleven miles from the town of Kompong Som or Sihanoukville as it was called before the coup in 1970 which deposed the head of state Norodom Sihanouk. The road was only passable during daylight hours. At night the Khmer Rouge would move out from the cover of the mountain forest and take control of the road. Travel even during the day was risky and required a heavily armed military convoy escort. So for our passengers and cargo, reaching Ream was only part of their journey. The road trip to and from the airport was the dangerous part.

Roger's Oops

We contacted the military air traffic controller and were advised the runway in use was 21. Both Roger and I had visual contact on the airport. Roger advised this was going to be another steep approach. The extended centerline of runway 21 ran directly into the mountains. The approach would have been a bit steep under normal conditions. But according to Roger, the mountain range just north east of the runway was KR territory and frequently used by them to shell the airport. So we would need to keep it high. The KR were most commonly armed with Chinese manufactured AK-47s which had a maximum "effective" range of about 400 meters or about 1300 feet but were capable of doing serious damage well over that distance. If they chose to use a SAM 7 that day, you were pretty well screwed. The Russians were making sure there was an abundant supply of SAM 7 missiles available to the Khmer Rouge. This factor normally resulted in the pilots requesting to land the other direction, on runway 03 which would allow for a normal or even slightly lower profile landing (carrier landing). But for whatever reason...probably because it was a straight-in approach requiring less time, Roger accepted runway 21 without questioning it and I didn't yet know the difference. Our briefing did mention that no reports of SAM 7 launches in the vicinity of that airport had been received recently. We all knew that meant nothing if the KR decided to make you their first.

The use of a steep approach like we had done the day before in Battambang normally would have been OK except for one thing...the runway here was only 4200 feet long. This was short for any transport aircraft...really short. But when making a steep approach like we would be doing, the lack of landing distance removed almost all the cushion. There was close to zero margin for error. We set up on an almost straight in approach and when we finally were clear of the last mountain on final, Roger set up a decent rate that was pushing 2000 feet per minute. A normal sink for this final stage of the approach in this airplane would have been around 500 feet per minute. At some point very close to the end of the runway, we were going to have to trade all that sink for a normal decent rate or prang the runway at a destructive sink rate. Roger had kept his speed pretty close to normal which would have been good if we were on a normal approach, but we were not...we were on a tactical approach. At some point Roger was going to need to trade some airspeed for some lift to reduce the sink. Even though I was not familiar with the performance characteristics of the Convair 440 I could tell he did not have the airspeed to trade. In order to break the excessive decent rate...with the airspeed he had, we were going to need an increase in power. I asked if he wanted some more power which I could have given him. He said no. He managed to break the sink rate but in doing so our airspeed fell significantly below our target speed. As if that were not enough, he was now setup to land a couple of yards short of the runway. Again I asked if he wanted power...again he said no.

The runway was built up above the terrain to keep it from flooding during the heavy monsoon rains. We struck the earthen mound about three feet before the asphalt runway. The touchdown made a loud noise as we slammed the ground just short of the runway threshold. We then continued onto the runway. I could hear some of the passengers in the back screaming.

Roger appeared a little shaken and quite embarrassed. When we parked on the ramp, we both went out to inspect the damage. We both went to the wheel wells of the main landing gears. The left main wheel had a slight but distinguishable ripple in the metal. If we had been in the States, the aircraft would have been grounded until a ferry permit could have been issued allowing it to fly without passengers to an advanced maintenance facility where all types of metallurgy testing could be conducted. As we looked at the damage, our passengers were boarding. Roger and I climbed back in the cockpit and flew back to Phnom Penh.

When we arrived back in Phnom Penh and taxied onto the ramp, I noticed the crew chief, a Filipino in his late fifties pointing at our airplane attempting to show the other Filipino mechanics something. When we parked, they were all swarming around the aft section of the fuselage. I made myself busy completing the flight's paperwork. I was going to let Roger deal with this. Roger left the plane first. When I finished all the paperwork and finally came down the air-stair, the crew chief asked me what in the world happened and pointed to a ripple in the sheet metal on the side of the fuselage. "I don't know...better ask Roger I replied" and headed toward the terminal. Mercifully the flying day was over and we were heading to Tri-9's main office to start my in-processing. On the way to the office Roger commented that it might be best if we don't mention the little landing incident. I nodded in agreement.

The Tri-9 Office

We soon arrived at a building used by Tri-9 as its administrative center. Roger took me immediately to meet the owner of the organization, an American named John Zoeller (pseudonym). As we chatted, I learned John had been in the aviation business for many years and that he often based out of Singapore. While we were chatting his wife, a Korean named Joy (pseudonym) walked into the office. She came across as formal and business like. I later learned that she more or less ran everything while John nursed a serious drinking problem. After a short visit, Roger took me over to where all the paperwork was handled. I went into a small office where another Filipino sat. His name was Abe and he was in charge of all administration. He handed me a stack of forms. One was for my ID, another for my contract and salary with bank instructions, another for next of kin, and finally an expense reimbursement form for hotel and meals in Bangkok. Of course he made the usual photo copies of my passport, pilot's licenses, radio license, medical certificate, etc. There was also a form for a two-week salary advance to be withheld from my first month's pay. This would be offset by a local living allowance in lieu of my not electing to live in a company provided hotel room.

Abe had an irritating quirk of insisting every "i" was dotted and every "t" crossed. But then, how could such non-skilled people ever justify their existence without such useless and inconsequential little regiments. I played his game. I needed an ID card and an expense reimbursement not to mention a paycheck.

While I was busy humoring Abe another Korean walked in. His name was Johnny Yum (pseudonym). Roger introduced Johnny as Joy's brother. Johnny handled all the higher-level contacts in town. Johnny struck me as exceptionally hyper. He had a serious burn scar on his face which I later learned was allegedly from napalm in the Korean war. Apparently he had been a child and was a civilian casualty. I would later learn that both Johnny and his sister Joy carried American passports; almost certainly thanks to John.

After what seemed like an eternity, I completed all the paperwork to Abe's satisfaction (not really...I just wore him down). Next stop was the tailor.

As Roger and I drove through Phnom Penh I frequently noticed crude obviously political caricatures on billboards. I asked who the villain in the caricatures was. "That is the former head of state, the former king, now Prince Norodom Sihanouk who was deposed by the present government a couple of years ago" was Roger's answer. "The royal family is...what you might say...on the outs right now", Roger added.

The tailor's shop was a modest place, but he had several men sewing on suits, safari suits, shirts and pants. Roger was well known there so we were looked after immediately. After the customary cup of hot tea, I was measured for trousers and shirts.

My "Ike-cut" Uniform Shirts

The shirt of choice was white cotton, short sleeve, with shoulder straps to accommodate our epaulettes. They had fold-over pockets to keep our whiz wheels (CR-4 flight computers) from falling out. The pocket flap had a special opening for our pen. But these were different than others I'd seen. They were referred to as "Eisenhower" cuts. The body of the shirt was short, really short and only came to just below my belt line. The sleeves were short. The waist area was patterned after the famous WWII Ike jacket. When I asked why they decided to go with this design I was told it wasn't mandatory, but most guys liked the ventilation provided by not having a shirttail tucked in. Then, in typical Roger fashion, he added, "plus, some guys like the ability to reach under it quickly." Although I failed to understand the remark at the time, I would soon understand well. In less than fifteen minutes, I was measured, told to come back the next afternoon for a fitting, and we were on to our next stop...my new apartment.

My "Fully Furnished" Apartment

On the way over to where I was going to spend the next few months, Roger got around to telling me the story behind the apartment. Seems Tri-9's previous maintenance director had developed some psychological issues. I'd learned from the Congo that such developments weren't all that uncommon in this line of work. But in this case, the presenting symptoms became significant enough that repatriation and therapy were deemed necessary. The rent for his apartment was two weeks past due. I also learned that not only was his maid living there but also his girlfriend or now ex-girlfriend. With my evil twin's penchant for privacy and solitude red flags went up all around. I explained to Roger that I didn't like overcomplicated living environments and if it became necessary, I'd pick my own girlfriend. Roger, in turn pointed out that if I just sent the maid to the apartment owner with the two weeks rent plus the next month's rent, I wouldn't have to come up with the normal security deposit. The owner of the apartment would think the original tenant was still there. I wasn't really enamored with the idea but being it was almost 4:00 pm I decided that whatever I decided to do...it would be later when I was more familiar with the situation. In the meantime I told him this arrangement would be fine.

Yat–The Maid

We rang the bell and soon...God Forgive Me...what was probably the ugliest woman I'd ever seen in my entire life opened the door. Not only had she been shortchanged in the area of physical attractiveness, but on top of that, she had one of the worst cases of acne I'd ever seen. Roger, obviously reading my shock, assured me she would keep the two-bedroom apartment spotlessly clean and that she was a halfway decent cook. Again I agreed reasoning I could correct everything at a later date. I moved my bags to the master bedroom and returned to the living room to finish my visit with Roger.

Sokha–The Ex-Girlfriend

While Roger was showing me around the apartment, the ex-girlfriend arrived. Roger knew her well and introduced us. Her name was Sokha (pseudonym). She was attractive and spoke relatively good English. Yat spoke none.

Roger told me Sokha could finish showing me the place. He told me we would be flying together again tomorrow morning early but that this time the crew car would be here for me and should be ready at 6:30am. Roger said he still had to go by to have a short visit with the air attaché before finally going home. I thanked him for all his help, and he left.

Sokha and I had to have a serious talk quickly. I had noticed there was no food in the refrigerator and no meal had been prepared. I had only seen some already cooked white rice on the counter and a tiny quantity of some kind of something that I was sure I was not yet ready to learn to eat. It was definitely some kind of peasant Khmer food. Since I needed to have dinner and I also needed to have a serious talk with Sokha about our future relationship (or lack thereof) I asked her if there was someplace close where we could go eat. She replied yes...less than five minutes from here. Good food and good price she said. I told her I'd buy her dinner if she showed me the restaurant. She was pleased and we left.

It turned out the place was less than five minutes away. It was less than 100 meters from the apartment entrance.

The temperature was pleasant and the walk interesting. It was my first time to be out walking in Cambodia. Sokha was very good at explaining things. The restaurant was basically Chinese. We managed to get a quiet table. The waiters and the owner all knew Sokha. Apparently, she and her former boyfriend had eaten here frequently.

As we ate, she told me she was very sad when he left Cambodia and that she was still hoping he would come back to get her. How tragic, I thought, but kept that to myself. This did however make what I needed to tell her easier. I told her that she would have to move...that I felt it would be too crowded with three of us living there. I explained I realized it might be difficult for her to try to find a place to stay right away and that she could stay in the apartment until the first of next month but that she would have to move into the bedroom with Yat. I could see the relief on her face. She had not been expecting to see anyone move into the apartment and coming home and finding me was a bit of a shock although she must surely have known that something like this was eventually inevitable. We had an enjoyable meal with her asking me many questions about my life in the United States.

Immediately upon our return to the apartment she moved her clothes into the maid's bedroom. We then sat for a minute while she volunteered to help me manage the maid and the ordering of groceries until I got settled in. This was a tremendous help as the maid spoke zero English. She told me about how much it would cost to buy food for the next three or four days. I gave her the amount she said she needed and we said goodnight.

The Cambodian Crew Car

At 6:30 am I was standing out on the sidewalk in front of my apartment when I spotted the most ridiculous looking car I'd ever seen in my life coming down the street. It's hard to describe something the reader can't identify with. With the exception of possibly something a circus clown might use as a prop, I can't think of anything that would come close to relating. Not only was the front half of this car a different color from the back...the two halves were from different make and model cars. I would later see more of these hybrid vehicles, but the Tri-9 crew car was my first. Obviously the two originals had met with some type of terminal damage either front-ended or rear-ended. Some resourceful Cambodian body shop had somehow figured out how to weld the salvageable remaining pieces into a whole while still keeping the engine, powertrain, and other significant subsystems in some state of functionality. As it approached, I realized This Was Our Crew Car! I saw two pilots in the front and two already in the back. I'd seen a couple of them at the airport. When they saw my disbelief, they all began laughing...recalling their first encounters. "It's not as bad as it looks" they retorted. "You'll get used to it."

In the front seat I could see a long homemade stick shift protruding up out of the floorboard. The transmission was quite loud and warm...probably because we were sitting right on top of it. The seats were comfortable enough though they too were from different vehicles. Most of the in-dash instruments did not work and looked like they were also orphans from yet another collision.

More Airport Enterprises

When we arrived at the airport, I went with the other crew members to the Tri-9 office. We gathered our paperwork and started going over the manifest. Since Roger was not yet there, I took the paperwork and went on to the plane. The crew chief, another middle-aged Filipino met me at the plane and went over the aircraft log with me. I then started the walk-around. Roger joined me as I was finishing up. He went over the log book entries, paying special attention to the previous crew's write-ups. As we were still doing this, our passengers began boarding. I checked the baggage compartments to examine the cargo load...full to the max. I was sure we were significantly heavier than the manifest showed. Roger had told me about that on the first day. It was the same in Wigmo. The loadmasters had to feed their families. Here various station agents and ramp supervisors had "business partners" in the outstations. They would slip their un-manifested cargo onboard and their "partner" would remove it on the other end. A merchant was standing by to receive the un-manifested goods and quickly pay a handsome sum just to have something to sell to the commodity starved market in the outlaying cities. Many people were profiting from the war. Even with all the pain, the misery, and the suffering being inflicted, there would always be an element that could find a way to profit from the tragedy. It was the same in The Congo. The story was as old as recorded history; supply and demand; greed trumping compassion. I sighed and climbed the air-stair and went into the cockpit. As Roger sat down in the left seat, he looked over at me and asked "well...how was your night?" I smiled and said, "I slept very well thank you." Roger brandished an all-knowing smile.

Sihanoukville – Land of Opportunity

My second flight to Ream Air Force Base and the nearby city of Sihanoukville or Kompong Som as it was now called after the coup that toppled Prince Sihanouk, was every bit as breathtaking as it had been the previous day. The mountains and streams reminded me of Colorado.

When we contacted the tower this time, the runway in use was 03, the approach that was made out over the Gulf of Thailand rather than over the Khmer Rouge infested Cardamom Mountain range. This was good as it allowed me to experience the other approach to the airport. In the future, many approaches to this airport would be in heavy monsoon rainstorms. It was essential to be proficient and thunderstorms were no place to acquire airport proficiency.

Roger apologized for not giving me the landing, but the airport's runway was much too short for my Convair 440 landing experience level. I wholeheartedly agreed. Besides, after yesterday, it looked to me like Roger could use a little more practice.

As we taxied in, I noticed a black Mercedes waiting on the ramp. When we parked it drove up and stopped just by the cargo door of the aircraft. An enlisted Khmer Air Force man got out of the Mercedes opened the trunk and walked over to the aircraft's cargo compartment door. A Khmer Air Force colonel remained in the back seat keeping the cargo compartment in full view. As I was watching, I heard Roger telling me not to pay too much attention to what was going on. When the Khmer Akas Airline ground personnel opened the cargo door, the driver stepped forwarded, removed a small suitcase, placed it in the trunk of the Mercedes, got back in and drove away. "What in the hell was all that about", I asked. "What do you think paid for that Mercedes and the gold Rolex the Colonel was wearing plus the villa and the Hong Kong bank account you can't see," Roger said with a smile. "I suppose the less I know the better off I am," I said. Roger's only response was another smile.

This time a badly wounded Khmer army enlisted man and his wife and small child were among our passengers back to Phnom Penh. I was told he had been injured in a rocket attack the night before. The wife looked frightened...her husband's face had lost all color...probably from excessive blood loss. They just stretched him out on the floor. He had an IV running. The war was beginning to take on real dimensions for me. The flight back to Phnom Penh was normal. I made the takeoff out of Ream and the landing in Pochentong.

A New Captain And A New Friend

When we taxied onto the ramp in Pochentong, Roger told me he would be getting off and I'd be flying with another captain. He had administrative duties to attend to back at the Tri-9 office. He reminded me of my tailor appointment and told me the crew driver would take me there after dropping off the other pilot.

Out of courtesy and protocol I walked over and introduced myself to the captain. He was an American from Florida. This was his first overseas job. His same was Bob Faith. He was tall and well built. I estimated his age to be around fifty. He gave me an obvious head to toe scan as if to see what in the hell had just been dumped on him. His way of speech was slightly Yankee and leaned toward sarcasm and surliness. He had a long cigarette hanging from his mouth. My first impression of him was the epitome of unsociability.

I noticed he spent much more time on the walkaround than Roger did. When we entered to cockpit, I got a big lecture on what I was to touch and what I was not to touch. Then he called for the checklist. He had a specific way to do everything...his way...and he made it clear that that's how things would be done. I thought to myself that this was going to be a very long flight.

This flight was to Battambang. After takeoff when the cabin attendant came in the cockpit to see what we wanted to drink, it was the male chief cabin attendant. With Roger, it had always been the females. I learned from Bob that he had standing orders only the male chief cabin attendant would enter the cockpit. He declared the females "an unnecessary distraction." That was too bad as I had found them kind of interesting.

In cruise, rather than putting the airplane on autopilot, Bob wanted me to hand fly the plane. He said that was the only way to learn how to fly it. In his words..."an idiot can sit there and let George do it"; George being slang for the autopilot. I supposed he was right...but that really didn't matter..."the captain is always right."

As we approached Battambang and the top of the descent, he took over the flight controls. Right away I noticed how smoothly he maneuvered the aircraft. He briefed me on the approach...something Roger never did, and then called for the checklist. A beautiful approach and landing.

The CIA Out Of Gas

As we were parking, I noticed a military jeep with what appeared to be an American behind the wheel pulling up under the right engine. "What in the hell is that" I asked. "One of the CIA guys stationed here" Bob replied. "He's having trouble getting gas for his jeep...the stuff available here on the street causes all kinds of problems. He comes up regularly and takes two jerrycans full...nice guy...you'll like him."

Since this was far from being my first face to face with an employee of the CIA it was a non-event. But Bob was right...I did find him likable. What I found more interesting than the CIA agent was how quickly the fuel came out of that fuel drain. I'd never seen anything like that on any other plane I'd flown. Both jerrycans were filled in no time at all.

Since the passengers were experiencing a slight delay in the terminal, I used the time to wonder around in the back of the airplane and examine the galley area. The three cabin attendants were in the galley setting up their service for the flight back to Phnom Penh. I introduced myself. The two female attendants were quite attractive. As a matter of fact...close to beautiful.

Jerks Are Jerks

Still no passengers so I wondered down on the ramp. As I approached Bob, he was ranting about some "VIP government asshole holding up the flight because he had not arrived at the airport yet and the military police who ultimately control the airport were not going to let us depart until 'his excellency' arrived." As I watched Bob, I couldn't help but think that he wouldn't have lasted a week in the Congo. I was well conditioned for this kind of thing.

Finally "his excellency" arrived. His car came straight onto the ramp. His body guards jumped out and opened the door for him. Like the Congolese, this full-of-himself little jerk carried a swagger stick. I made the mental note that jerks are jerks no matter where in the world you find them, and many appeared to have an affinity or fetish for swagger sticks.

Bob gave me the takeoff and I hand flew the plane all the way back to Phnom Penh. He told me to make the approach and landing as well. I made a smooth landing and gently applied the thrust reversers. Bob just grunted and told me I wouldn't make a pimple on a good pilot's butt. I thanked him for letting me fly.

We did a quick turn and flew to Kompong Som. Bob gave me the takeoff. We had two U.S. Military officers onboard...both wearing civilian clothes. They were part of Military Equipment Delivery Team, Cambodia (MEDTEC). Bob allowed them to ride in the cockpit with us. I quickly made friends with them both and learned they regularly went to Kompong Som inspecting the delivery of U.S. provided military hardware and supplies as well as trying to spot or uncover information on Russian and Chinese provided military hardware and supplies going through the port destined for the North Vietnamese Regular Army Forces (NVA) and the Viet Cong guerrillas (VC). The Cambodian government vehemently denied the enemy was being supplied through the Sihanoukville port, but intelligence had long ago made this a well-documented fact. Key members of the government we were supporting were selling arms to their own enemies and in the process becoming filthy rich.

The passenger boarding went well and we managed a quick turnaround. This time we had two seriously wounded Khmer Army soldiers onboard. We radioed ahead to the military requesting ambulances. Bob again gave me the takeoff.

After landing Bob and I debriefed the crew chief, then made our way across the ramp to the Tri-9 office to hand in our paperwork. As we left the plane, I noticed there was no waiting ambulance and both critically wounded soldiers, trying to hold their attached and running IVs were laying on the tarmac under the airplane. At least they were out of the direct sunlight. I wondered if they would have to bribe somebody to give them a ride into Phnom Penh to the hospital.

After handing in all our paperwork at the Tri-9 office, Bob and walked to the sidewalk in front of the airport. The Tri-9 driver had been waiting in the shade of a tree with a handful of other drivers. He scurried to our special Tri-9 hybrid conveyance contraption and soon we were heading into town. As we made our way along the road into town, I did notice the car appeared to have a little crab to the left. Not too serious, but I was sure it ate up tires at a pretty good rate.

On our way into town I noticed even more of the political satire caricature billboards demonizing deposed head of state Prince Norodom Sihanouk. I remarked that somebody must have really been scared that his supporters would rise up. Bob appeared to know next to nothing about the local politics. He just sat there puffing away on his cigarette.

The driver dropped Bob off at large three-bedroom apartment he shared with two other Tri-9 pilots. Bob invited me to stay and visit for a while but I needed to get to the tailor, so I told him I'd come in another day.

When I reached the tailor my shirts and uniform pants fit perfectly. I was able to take them without coming back for any minor corrections. I'd had a full day and was ready to go back to my apartment.

My First Letter Home

It was close to dark when I arrived back at my apartment. Yat had dinner ready. I'd already told Sokha she would be welcome to eat the evening meal with me until she moved out. I figured I could use the time to ask her things about life in Cambodia. Many of the mechanics and pilots appeared to have little interest in the people or the customs. Sokha could prove useful. When I got to the apartment Sokha had apparently just arrived from her job. I had intended to ask her where she worked but I'd forgotten. It was some kind of office job. I took a quick shower and we sat down to eat.

After our meal and interesting conversation, I told her I needed to write letters. She left for her bedroom. I didn't see her again till the next morning.

I'd purchased some cheap writing paper and envelopes from one of the little shops close to the apartment. Tri-9 would mail our letters for us. All I had to do was give it to the driver in the morning.

I sat at the dining room table, illuminated only by the kerosene lamp. Most of the time there was no electricity due to the fuel shortage caused by the Khmer Rouge stranglehold on all the land traffic. As I started the letter, I realized I had so much I could write about...the people, the sights. I knew a husband should miss his wife...and I did miss Karen. I missed my children...but still nothing wanted to come out. It was like the pen wouldn't move. Finally I managed to get a couple of pages done. My heart wasn't in it. I felt so empty. I was drawing comfort from my old friend, the kerosene lamp. I was getting to the point the dim yellow light bouncing off the walls of my Congo and now Cambodia dining rooms was my comfort zone. What was wrong with me? While Yat and Sokha were in the house with me, I couldn't see them; only the dimly lit room. Could it be a significant part of me didn't want to see anything else? As I sat in the flickering lamp light, my senses starting to feel the mellowing influences of the beer I'd been drinking, my mind flashed back to Bat's front veranda in Kisangani. As we sat staring out into the darkness together during one of our many long veranda chats, I had been telling him about my confusing feelings for Karen verses my desires to be alone. He had sighed and as he continued staring out into the darkness, he said..."if life were that simple...we'd all live in the past." I understood well...very well.

The next morning Yat had breakfast waiting for me. Sokha had waited for me to finish my shower before coming out of the bedroom. She smiled and said good morning. I got my flight bag and headed downstairs to wait for the crew car.

Merchants Of Death

The CIA's Colossal Miscalculation

My first flight of the day was to Sihanoukville or Kompong Som. As I walked toward the plane, I noticed the usual pre-departure flurry of commerce, bribes by passengers to get onboard, bribes to get excessive baggage onboard; the secretive packages placed on board by the station agents. It was all there. It was always there.

As we cruised toward Sihanoukville's Ream Air Force Base, I realized the petty, entrepreneurial, even excusable enterprises I'd just seen flourishing at Pochentong airport, were in the grand scope of things nothing compared to what was happening on a daily (and nightly) basis just a few miles ahead of us. The mega-million-dollar, merchant of death, treasonous transactions taking place on a regular basis on the docks of the seaport in Kompong Som made the transactions I'd just witnessed back on the ramp pale in comparison.

According to Cambodian nationals, working for the CIA and embedded in the Cambodian armed forces and in Cambodian "trading companies" operating on and around the port, the U.S. intelligence sources had been drastically underestimating the arms traffic flowing to the Vietcong via Sihanoukville's port. According to Cambodian CIA operatives, not only was the port used to offload munitions bound from China for the Vietcong; the port was used to store them until they were needed. They then would move from Cambodia to the South Vietnam border via a Cambodian owned trucking company.

A major result of this colossal intelligence failure was the devastating consequences to U.S. troops in South Vietnam. The official position and therefore the central focus of munitions interdiction was the so-called Hồ Chí Minh trail. Lives were lost and forces expended in these interdiction efforts while the arms traffic coming through Sihanoukville's port, equally if not more important, went, for the most part, unhindered. This arms traffic was facilitated by the highest levels in Cambodia's government and armed forces making various individuals mega fortunes in "port fees" paid to them by the Chinese. I would later meet more than one of these benefactors of the "port fees." It was hard to look at the miserable bastards without showing open contempt.

More Maimed Soldiers

As we taxied up to the terminal at Ream, I saw a military ambulance waiting on the tarmac. I wondered what new mockery of humanity was inside. As soon as the passengers were off the plane a captain in the Cambodian Air Force made his way up to the cockpit. He was carrying a document signed by somebody ordering us to take two seriously wounded soldiers to Phnom Penh. Since we would have somehow made room for them anyway, I wondered if the document was merely an ego exercise by the signer.

I walked over to the ambulance and looked inside. It was not air-conditioned. The back door was wide open in a futile attempt to make the temperature inside more tolerable. One soldier had only a bloody stump for his right leg. The other and an abdominal wound of some type. A blood-soaked winding of once white gauze was probably holding his intestines in. Both had lost all color. I wondered how either could be alive when we landed back in Phnom Penh.

When the passengers were all boarded, they brought the two stretchers and placed them in the isle. We closed the door and cranked up. As I felt the pressurization and air-conditioner kick in I wondered if it would make any difference to either of them. I was glad to get back in the air and point the plane toward Phnom Penh. About midway through the flight the cabin attendant came to the cockpit and advised that the passengers believed one of the solders had died. I got up and went back to check. He was dead. Like the ones I'd seen in the Congo...lifeless. I returned to the cockpit and advised the captain. We flew on in silence toward Pochentong Airport. They offloaded the dead body and placed it in the waiting military ambulance beside the poor bastard with only one leg. They drove away in a self-important rush. I wondered if the rush would make any difference. I was starting to wonder if anything made any difference.

Our next leg was to Battambang. I didn't have much to say on the flight. I thought about the soldier who died. I thought about the solider with one leg. I wondered if he had a family. I wondered if he would live long enough to see a doctor's face. I wondered what humanity had learned in all these centuries of war and bloodshed. I wondered what I was doing here. "I have seen all the things that are done under the sun and have found everything to be futile, a pursuit of the wind."

I was ready to get back to my apartment that evening. I was ready for a beer and quiet time watching the kerosene lamp light flicker on the walls of my living room.

When I arrived home it was almost dark. Sokha was already home. She had changed into pants and a blouse and her hair was down. She actually looked pretty. I knew she was testing the water. I smiled and told her I'd had a rough day. She was welcome to sit with me, but I was not in the mood to talk. I drank two beers and sat in the darkness watching the shadows play. I wished I had some music, but I hadn't had time to arrange a player of any type yet. Sokha patiently respected my need for quiet. After a while we got up and ate dinner which was waiting on the table. After dinner she went to her room...I to mine.

A New Face–A New Friend

The next morning I saw Roger in flight operations. He told me an old friend of his was coming in to join us; that they had flown together in the army. Roger said he was sure I was going to like him; said his name was Cecil Wroten (pseudonym) and that he was a retired army colonel. As I walked across the ramp the thought came to me that I hope he was not like other retired colonels I'd flow with.

I was flying with Bob Faith again that day. Once we were in cruise Bob departed from his stiff demeanor and started telling me about his local love life, or perhaps it should be better referred to as his domestic love life. Seems some ephemeral amorous feelings had arisen for his maid. He shook his head and told me that soon after their relationship blossomed her requests began. She began by explaining that it was very improper for someone in her situation not to have someone under her doing most of the work...that her job was to supervise and manage the house. So he said he hired another maid...a maid for his maid so to speak. He said that was soon followed by a request for tuition money so she could attend secretarial school. Bob was shaking his head in disbelief at his own stupidity and proceeded to warn me not to make the same mistake. He said next would probably be a request for a motorbike (moto) so she wouldn't have to ride a cyclo (a bicycle powered rickshaw) to school. I was struggling not to laugh. My image of this icy, stern, navy carrier pilot was rapidly dissolving. What a hoot.

The rest of the day went about normal, or normal for this war-torn place. We arrived back in Phnom Penh after our second trip to Battambang more or less on time. We arrived in mid-afternoon. I was fortunate that Bob was ready to get home, so we were in the crew car less than ten minutes after we shut down our engine, but not before Roger came up and introduced us both to Cy Wroten. Cy was about my height with salt and pepper hair and a pencil-point nose. He had large blue eyes and what appeared to be a newly started yet already nicotine stained beard. Cy was from West Virginia. He had resigned a position with Collins Radio to come be part of this special operation. I instantly liked him. We talked for only a couple of minutes as Cy and Roger appeared busy...apparently with Cy's indoctrination.

I was planning to use the rest of the afternoon to go to the large market in the center of Phnom Penh. I'd heard a lot about it. All the foreigners called it Central Market, but the locals called it Psah Thmey or Psah Thom Thmey meaning new market or grand or big new market. Roger told me about it on my first day in country and I'd been anxious to see it. Today I wanted to wonder around before everything closed. Since leaving Hamilton I'd developed a love for wondering around the sidewalks of strange new cities and Phnom Penh appeared to be far more exotic than anything I'd ever seen...even more than Paris. I'd been too busy to do any exploring up till now. I was more than ready to start.

In addition to today's little outing, my schedule showed I would have the upcoming Saturday off and I'd already planned to ask Sokha if she would show me some of the sights. Our sightseeing would be limited to the city proper as nobody ventured far outside the city unless they were in an armed convoy and even then, it was a risk. Travel after sunset was only for tactical missions. I looked toward Saturday with anticipation. I was ready to start a life outside the cockpit.

Affordable Dentistry

I quickly changed clothes, grabbed my Nikon along with the four rolls of 35mm film in film cans which I had taped to my camera strap and headed out the door. This was my first real outing since arriving.

My apartment was on Monivong Street, named for King Sisowath Monivong, the King of Cambodia from 1927 until his death in 1941. Monivong was lined with small interesting shops and eating places, mostly owned by the merchant class Chinese ethnic minority. All the shops were open front, so it was easy to stop and look or walk in. Everyone was extremely welcoming. Politeness was a basic pillar of Cambodian society.

As I neared the vicinity of Psar Thmey I turned right on a side street that fed into the huge market area. The scene changed immediately. After walking only a few feet I noticed an unusual cart-vendor sitting on the side walk on a stool beside his cart. Inside his clear glass sided pushcart was an array of dentures and crowns plus some primitive dental instruments, files and pliers. Sitting on the sidewalk beside his stool was the patient, mouth wide open grimacing in pain. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. I was somewhat embarrassed, but the rarity of this photographic moment outweighed my embarrassment. I snapped several frames, nodded politely and moved on.

Dante's Inferno

As I inched my way along the side street leading to Psar Thmey I was confronted by a steady barrage of panhandlers, vagrants, beggars, merchants of kachha (marijuana), and people missing limbs. Those missing hands, arms, and legs were not just men of military age; no one was excluded...old men, women, children...they were all there.

The amputees were the victims of land mines; their stumps vivid reminders of who really was bearing the burden of the Russian, Chinese, and American chess game being played out in Cambodia, Laos, and Vietnam. Equally unfortunate...many of the pawns in the game were America's sons and daughters. I never saw a general missing an arm or a leg; nor a colonel or major. These gruesome injuries were mostly the domain of the privates, the sergeants, and the village non-combatants on their way to their rice fields. The country was covered with incalculable numbers of landmines seeded by all the warring parties. It seemed every inch of the country was mined; the Americans provided the M14 mine or "toe popper," the Chinese and Russians provided the deadlier POMZ-2M. Everybody rushed to Cambodia to contribute their version of these true "weapons of mass destruction" as they are sarcastically referred to. The estimated number of landmines covering Cambodia would eventually climb to 10,000,000 or expressed differently, 143 per square mile.

Most of these street hustlers soliciting my attention and hopefully my favor were truly in need. I was confronted with an endless parade of humanity's most unfortunate; like a cast of characters from Dante's Inferno. My head was spinning like some centrifuge trying to separate reality from fantasy. In most cases I had no neat classification . . . no explanation; at least no humanly acceptable explanation. These people were the victims of madness; the madness of the war.

I was becoming overwhelmed. My mind was experiencing message unit overload. I needed to sit down and unplug for a moment. I needed to sort through everything I'd just seen. I turned into a sidewalk café, took a seat on a plastic chair at a plastic table and ordered a Coke. When it arrived, I was sure it was a Cambodian bottled knockoff, but I didn't care; I'd learned to believe they were normal while I was In the Congo. I watched as the waiter pored it over ice that I was sure was loaded with microbes as yet unknown to the medical establishment. But again, as I'd learned to do in the Congo...I ignored normal impulses and swallowed.

Within a few seconds I realized the mental timeout I'd hoped to find was merely make-believe. In front of my table were child beggars, teenage mothers clutching their babies, more amputees, all with outstretched hands hoping for contributions. Again like in Dante's Inferno, calling and reaching out to me from their hell. I snapped a few hurried shots with my Nikon but because they kept pushing in so close to me hoping to get some pocket change, I was unable to get any decent shots.

Within a nanosecond of my first contribution of alms hitting the first outstretched palm, more came swarming from all directions. The owner of the café came out and tried to shoo them away but to no avail. They were driven by desperation and could give a damn less what he said. Finally a policeman came over and threatened to kick them. Apparently his threat presented itself as credible; they cursed and scowled and withdrew to across the street. With my next sip of Coke came a shabbily dressed and street-dirty girl appearing to be in her early teens...having hardly begun to develop breasts, offered to go someplace with me for a short time. In exasperation, I gave up on my coke, paid the waiter, and headed for the entrance to the Psar Thmey. I could see military police guarding the entrance so I figured they might be able to keep the street people away. I was followed every step of the way by the crowd of them, some hobbling, desperately trying to keep up, still holding out hope of a small token of sympathy. The horrid sensation of turning my back on these desperate creatures was sobered by the reality that all my paycheck would not change anything. These people were truthfully beyond hope. Fortunately, they fell away as I neared the marketplace entrance.

The Merchants of Psar Thmey

The inside of the market was huge. A large well-ventilated dome fed by four long halls for even more vendor stalls. The structure was designed by the famous French architect Louis Chauchon and built in 1937 and at the time was billed as "Asia's largest market." Immediately upon entering the main area (the dome) I found gold, diamonds, precious stones of all types, money changers, wrist watch merchants, and merchants selling reading and sun glasses. There were real stones and fake stones, Rolex watches and fake Rolex watches. Police armed with AK-47s were patrolling everywhere. No robber in his right mind would contemplate robbing this place. I later learned that most of the authentic high-end watches, ruby, sapphire, and diamond merchants were across the street in the gold market but for sure there was no shortage of them here.

As I moved away from the center area the camera and electronic merchants had their stalls. Toward the end extremities of the four feeders were the clothing merchants and the fruit, fish and meat vendors, and the fresh vegetable vendors. Most of them had closed down shop for the day as they did not want to end up with perishable fresh merchandise on hand overnight. I wondered about just trying to take in the sights and smells. I took what I expected to be wonderful photos of the meat and vegetable market. The gold and jewelry merchants were not too enthusiastic about being photographed.

I wondered about the market until they started to pull the bars and shutters over their shops and the jewelry merchants began locking their merchandise in their safes.

Dancing Lights–Uneasy Nights

As I left the market the sun had already fallen below the buildings. I'd had enough of the sidewalks of Phnom Penh...at least for this day. I made my way briskly toward my apartment, my beer, and the lights of the lamp dancing on my living room wall. My small Montgomery Ward radio was tuned to AFVN" (American Forces Vietnam Network) Saigon. Home of the famous "Gooooood Morning Vietnam." As I watched the shadows dance, I saw the outstretched arms of all those poor creatures I'd encountered that afternoon; arms outstretched, pleading for help. I knew how Virgil and Dante felt in Gustave Doré's painting, The Styx. I would later relate U.S. B-52 Bombings of Cambodia to the Inferno as well. The music Saigon was playing wasn't particularly helping matters; The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face, Alone Again (Naturally), Vincent / Castles In The Air. I wondered if I would try again to write Karen. I didn't.

Sleep failed to come easily...the images I'd seen refused to leave my head. It would be easy to blame the Cambodians for not taking care of their own...or perhaps better put, the mess others made. But the truth was, they were overwhelmed, their government and social structure were coming apart at the seams. I wondered what kind of a god could permit such injustice. The answer...our God...Yahweh. I didn't like my conclusion.

As I lay struggling with sleep, I heard a loud explosion. It was not the sound I associated with the nightly inbound rockets. I didn't know what it was but since it did not sound particularly close, I ignored it.

Sleep finally came, but not the deep sleep I needed. The noises through the open window from the alley below, the images in my head, everything was clashing...nothing was rhyming.

The next morning I learned the Khmer Rouge had sent "frogmen" into Phnom Penh's port where what few barges that

made it up the Mekong were unloaded. They had blown up The Bright Star, a fully loaded vessel with much needed supplies. The Khmer Rouge were able to control long stretches of the Mekong River bank thus making passage up the river to Phnom Penh with the critically needed supplies almost impossible. Now they were slipping into Phnom Penh's port.

Kissinger & Nixon, Paris Peace Talks & Christmas

The days melted into weeks. We were all flying hard...at least 100 hours per month. Cecil Wroten had arrived in country with a new DC-4 type rating but in reality, had almost no time in the aircraft. Because I had command time in the DC-4 I was assigned to fly with Cy for a while until he got comfortable in the airplane. As we flew together, we became friends. I enjoyed flying with Cy.

Another pilot I liked instantly was a newly arrived Cuban pilot named Hugo Vega (pseudonym). Hugo was a very experienced Convair pilot. He was from Miami and he knew almost all of the Cuban pilots I'd flown with in the Congo. Hugo was so funny. He always made me laugh. Hugo and Bob Faith shared a house together. Hugo was a bit of a Casanova. He liked to flirt with the cabin attendants though as far as I could tell nothing ever came from it. I learned a lot from Hugo, as I did from Bob, but Hugo was much more fun to fly with. Hugo kept trying to "hook me up" with the cabin attendants but I just couldn't get interested.

As Christmas approached the Paris Peace Talks faltered. For us, peace seemed such an extraneous term. Everyday somebody came home with a new 7.62 bullet hole in their fuselage; sometimes striking somebody inside...occasionally critically. Almost every flight transported some wounded. The city took rocket fire every night. There was a curfew past 8:00 pm in an order to try to catch the Khmer Rouge sappers who regularly slipped into the city and detonated their satchel packs filled with explosives. Most nights my sleep was interrupted by the sound of Soviet/Chinese 122mm rockets or its little brother, the Chinese 107mm. Both dispensed incendiary and anti-personnel shrapnel. Though notoriously inaccurate, when fired at a city, death and devastation were virtually assured. It was designed to create terror amongst urban populations. By all accounts, it was a success. Rarely did they land close to my apartment but most mornings, while enroute to the airport, we would see new signs of the previous night's strikes. Crowds of gawking people on their way to work were a sure sign of a rocket strike. For the dead, often the bodies still lay where they fell. Picking up the night's dead didn't appear to be a high government priority. The airport was a favored target.

Each and every day more refugees poured into Phnom Penh from the countryside. They slept in makeshift camps or if they were lucky with family or friends. Life in the camps was terrible. Every day I would see more signs of the exploding population. Relief agencies were pouring into Phnom Penh along with the refugees; providing or attempting to provide medical care and relief supplies. Every time I left my apartment, I saw some new human tragedy. I realized that here I was much closer to the horror of war than I'd been in the Congo. In the Congo I had to fly five hours to see it. Here, if I walked five minutes, I saw it, I smelled it, I touched it.

Sokha had found an apartment and moved out. It was just me and Yat. I didn't really like her, but I needed her and didn't want to go through the hassle of finding a new maid and the waiting-to-see-if-she-works-out period. I would attend an occasional party held by Roger at the company villa or one held by the U.S. Air Attaché from whom came much of our security briefings. At Roger's parties there were always plenty of anxious young ladies from nice families hoping to snag a path to American citizenship. I attended few and paid little attention to the waiting damsels or more properly damsels in distress.

Deck The Halls

Phnom Penh, in spite of being under constant rocket attack and staggering under the burden of tens of thousands of refugees pouring in from the countryside, food, fuel, and electricity shortages, overwhelmed hospitals, and souring inflation, started decorating for Christmas. Most of the population was Buddhist but Cambodians loved holidays and festivities, plus, Christmas was good for business. So every day on my way home from the airport, I watched as Christmas trees, wreaths of holly, and Santa Clause decorations appeared.

Linebacker Two–The Christmas Bombings

A Present From President Nixon And Henry Kissinger

The Paris negotiations were going nowhere. Newly elected President Nixon was under pressure to bring the troops home with honor. So, by order of the president, in hope of jarring the North Vietnamese out of their stalwart position, a new bombing campaign started against the North Vietnamese; Operation Linebacker Two. It lasted for 12 days, including a three-day bombing period making use of up to 120 B-52s. Strategic surgical strikes were carried out on fighter airfields, transport targets and supply depots in and around Hanoi and Haiphong. U.S. aircraft dropped more than 20,000 tons of bombs in this operation. Twenty-six U.S. plane were lost, and 93 airmen were killed, captured or missing; The North Vietnam admitted to between 1,300 and 1,600 dead. We had unofficial notifications of some large upcoming bombing campaign against the North but mostly our news came from BBC (British Broadcasting Corp.) and VOA (Voice Of America).

A Case Of Mistaken Identity

One day as I sat back in the cabin of the Convair 440, relaxing before the passengers boarded, Roger came walking out to the plane with one of the most popular air hostesses. She was very pretty as well as being popular. Obviously she wasn't going to be on our flight, so I wondered what he was up to. As Roger and the hostess walked into the cabin, Roger was all smiles. The hostess was giggling shyly and covering her mouth in typical Asian fashion. I still thought little about it till Roger said..."look what I brought you." She spoke English so I knew I had to really be careful. I stood and greeted her. We had flown together before. Roger excused himself and returned to the flight operations office; she remained. I tried to keep our conversation devoid of pregnant pauses, but it was difficult. I was saved by the approaching hoard of boarding passengers. I politely excused myself, gave the traditional sathoouk (hands pressed together as in prayer and raised just above the chin level with head slightly bowed) and rushed off into the cockpit. Boy was I going to have a word with Roger when we got back!

On my return as I walked into flight ops, Roger was beaming ear to ear and asked..."well?" "Well what" I replied. "I brought you the one you said was kinda nice," Roger replied. I suddenly recalled a conversation we'd had recently on a flight; a conversation where Roger was asking me why I hadn't been going out with any of the girls. My reply was I didn't really see anything all that interesting and besides I was still married. "Yes," he replied, "but you told me yourself you hadn't written home in a month." He continued with saying that it was impossible for me not to have seen anything interesting. Then I recalled the casual statement I'd made about one that I thought was unique but always looked so sad. Roger had thought I was referring to the one he brought out to the aircraft in a disastrous attempt to play cupid...I was not.

That night Sokha stopped by the house for a visit. I related the incident to her. She asked me to describe the one I was really mentioning to Roger. When I did, she smiled and told me to forget it. Sokha said she was a royal family member whose uncle owned the airline. She said they were high school classmates. Further, that she never dated anybody and a "white skin" like me would be out of the question...her family would never allow it. I smiled and replied that at least I had good taste. We went out to dinner together that night...just a couple of blocks down the street. As we walked along the sidewalk, the sounds of B-52s carpet bombing seemed to be coming from just across the river. I wondered how many innocent people were dying. "As when one plows and breaks up the soil, turning up rocks, so our bones have been scattered at the mouth of Sheol" Each day more refugees poured into the city. Most were not running from the Khmer Rouge; they were running from American B-52 bombers.

Merry Texas Cambodian Christmas You All

We were flying every day...even Christmas. While the Americans paused the bombing of Hanoi on Christmas day, nothing paused in Cambodia. Cambodian T-28s dropped their napalm; by most accounts on more non-Khmer Rouge than on the enemy. The airports were full of the wounded and the fleeing. I flew; I made money; I got my adrenalin high; I went where none from Hamilton Texas had gone before. I bought my little roll of tickets; I paid to go inside; I paid to dance. But the cost of the tickets was high...so very high. I would be paying for each dance for many years to come.

I was scarcely aware it was Christmas. Had it not been for the guilt pangs when I got out of bed on Christmas morning, guilt for not being home on Christmas for Jason and Jenny, it would have been just another day of max weight takeoffs and dodging ground fire.

That night, alone in my apartment, with the exception of Yat, who didn't really exist for me, my guilt returned. While it was Christmas night for me, it was Christmas morning for them. Karen and my father would be sitting in the living room around the tree watching Jason and my sweet Jenny open and play with their gifts. There were moments when I considered hating myself. These turpitudes were far too grave to blame on my evil twin. I retreated back into the dim light, accompanied by my old friend, the lamp's dancing shadows, and lulled by the buzz from the San Miguel beer in my hand...delivered courtesy of U.S. Air Force C-130s from U-Tapao Air Force Base in Thailand.

I went to bed early. I prayed sleep would come quickly. I longed for the simpler times, for the nights when my father would come listen to my bedtime prayers..."Now I lay me down to sleep; I pray the Lord my soul to keep; watch and guard me through the night; and wake me with the morning light."

Jakarta Junket

As I walked into operations Cy motioned for me to step outside with him. Cy at times tended to be a bit dramatic and this was one of those times. He said we had secured some aircraft with a lot of official assistance and we needed to go to Jakarta, inspect them, and ferry them back to Phnom Penh. He said this was a bit of a hush-hush mission as there was a lot of opposition to the war around Asia and Europe, to say nothing of back home, and there might be some who would like to block these aircraft from leaving Indonesia to join the war effort in Cambodia. He asked if I'd like to be part of the mission. The answer was "of course...when do we leave?" "Tomorrow" Cy said with a smile and another caution not to talk about the mission. Cy had already changed my schedule in anticipation of my affirmative response. My schedule for today was only half a day followed by days off for an unspecified time. Cy had already mentioned I was to go to the administration office upon my return to draw my per diem and other travel expenses. He also said I would not lose money; that I would be paid just like I was here flying. I needed to clear my head and Jakarta sounded like a pretty good place to try.

Drawing my per diem and other travel funds didn't take long. They had my airline ticket ready as well. Packing my clothes that night didn't take long...I didn't bring a lot with we when I came to Cambodia.

The next morning Cy had the driver swing by to get me. On the way to the airport Cy asked me if I'd heard all the B-52s rattling the ground last night. "Yep," I replied, "shook my bed as well. Sounded like they were just across the river." "I wonder how many poor bastards died last night that never even laid eyes on a Khmer Rouge?" My thoughts went back to the ignorant peaceniks we were talking about the previous morning. There are no bomb racks, no rocket pods, and no 50 caliber machine guns under the wings of the planes we are going to get. My part of "the war effort" is saving lives, feeding the refugees, transporting the wounded . . . not killing people. Of course the Congo was slightly different. One could of course claim that we were in fact "prolonging the war effort" and thereby should be stopped. But for me, the way to stop the war was to stop both sides from killing each other...not leaving one side to be massacred by the other. There were no good answers. I decided to think about Jakarta. I'd never been there and this should be fun.

Jakarta...Land of Lights (Night Lights That Is)

Our flight didn't take long. We were soon checked into our rooms at the Intercontinental Hotel before dark. This was a real break from my apartment in Phnom Penh or the Nana Hotel in Bangkok. My father would have told me I was in "high cotton." I wondered where the budget for our rooms was coming from...I wondered where the money for these planes was coming from. Tri-9 didn't seem to have this kind of funds. But such thoughts were a waste of my brain power...I had an appointment with Cy in a few minutes downstairs in the hotel bar and later a promise to go out looking for a unique and fun place to eat. I could hear my father telling me "Boy don't look a gift horse in the mouth."

The bar was elegant and the drinks expensive. Needless to say both Cy and I sipped slowly. The bar was filled with stylishly dressed ladies whom I suspected of being ladies of the evening. But they were light years ahead of Bangkok's Nana Hotel crowd. After one drink Cy and I decided it was time to go foraging for food.

Outside the hotel but a respectful distance from the drive where the taxi and limos pulled up was a line of becaks, the Indonesian version of a cyclo. You ride in the front of the little rickshaw type device and the driver sits behind and peddles. When the drivers saw we were looking their way, they began calling out and waving in an attempt to be selected from the group. Of course, like in Phnom Penh, a spirited negotiating process precedes the final selection. Since they only seat one person comfortably we elected to take two and were soon in the sidewalk and mom and pop restaurant district of Jakarta. Apparently fares were had to find for the drivers. They volunteered to wait for us for no charge if we would use them to get back to the hotel.

My Indonesia Near-Death Experience

After a good meal, as Cy and I were preparing to head back to our hotel, Cy had what seemed at the time to be a fun idea...let's race back to the hotel. Sounded harmless enough...the loser pays both fares. I don't usually wager on anything but with my pockets loaded with newly drawn travel advance money I jumped on the offer.

My driver was the faster of the two and for the first part of the race, I was somewhat comfortably in the lead. But suddenly Cy's becak pulled up beside me. Cy was grinning from ear to ear and as his becak took the lead, He shouted back to me that he had promised his driver five dollars extra if he won. I could see our hotel about two blocks away, but it was on the opposite of the boulevard. We would have to go past the hotel to a point where we could make a U-turn and go back. So, not to be outdone, I waved five dollars over my head so my driver sitting behind me could see it. I felt an immediate surge of power and heard a cackling laugh from just behind my head. I started to think I might not be paying for both fares after all...I had a real chance of winning this race. But then, the fun, at least for me, suddenly changed to stark terror. Just in front of me, Cy's driver made an insane swerve through a little pedestrian crossing and started up the boulevard in the wrong direction...in the face of an opposite direction stream of headlights. Within a few seconds my driver had followed. "Oh Lord...I've survived the Congo...the daily dance of dodging AK-47 7.62mm rounds, the hand fired 50 cal incinerator rounds, the threat of SAM 7 missiles...only to die on the streets of Jakarta, going against speeding, horn-blowing cars, in an insane becak race! Lord Jesus, where is my brain?"

Cy's driver arrived first. I paid both drivers and tipped mine the five dollars I'd promised him if he had won...even though he lost. I wanted to fall down and kiss the ground just to be safe again...but I didn't; it looked pretty dirty.

We Check The New Aircraft–The Media Checks Us

The next morning we met Roger and went to inspect the aircraft. We made use of a small private office. Once inside, Roger said we may have a little problem. A news reporter had called him and had been snooping around the airport and the airplanes. Thankfully there were guards around ours. But the guards alone were enough to tell the reporter he might be on to something. We spent the morning going over the maintenance history of the two planes that were ready. The records looked pretty good as they were both previously owned by Garuda, the national airline. But as all three of us knew...paper often doesn't tell the entire story. It was going to be up to us to walk, crawl, and peer with flashlights into ever part of that plane. While we were still in the office an American in a suit...the typical embassy type entered the little office we were using. Roger nodded that it was OK to talk in front of us. He said the press was trying to put together a story...a story saying these aircraft were destined for the war effort in Cambodia. If the story made it to the streets, he could almost guarantee the government would be forced to block the export of the aircraft. He mentioned someone else was working to facilitate the expeditious processing of the deregistration paperwork (before the aircraft could become U.S. registered, they must first be deregistered in Indonesia). My guess was, but never confirmed, that this was a CIA employee with a briefcase full of money he did not have to give strict accounting for. He must have been successful as by mid-afternoon we were handed the new U.S. registration temporary certificate. We were told we should have the aircraft out of the country early the next morning and Roger needed to get another crew here to take the remaining one out by tomorrow night.

We worked feverishly to inspect the aircraft, no longer to insure the aircraft was accurately represented, but merely inspecting to be sure it appeared safe for us to fly over water. I didn't like taking an airplane I knew nothing about and heading out over the Gulf of Thailand. Thankfully most of the trip would be overland. We returned to the same area for dinner where we had eaten the night before and at dawn's first light, we departed Jakarta.

A New Year

The day after we arrived back with the new aircraft Roger held a New Year's party at his company villa. Partly out of boredom and partly because it would look too bad to add his New Year's party to the sizable list of other gatherings I'd failed to attend, I went. Because Sokha had been the girlfriend of our previous maintenance director, she was invited. There were a couple of U.S. military officers from the material delivery team and a couple from the Air Attaché office there that night. I noticed one of them was paying overt attention to Sokha. I suppose she had started to give up on her boyfriend ever coming back to get her as she was tastefully acknowledging his attention. The air hostess whom I'd mentioned to Roger was there as well.

Later that night Roger asked me if I realized the girls at the party did not know I was married. "Your joking" was my reply. "Not at all," Roger said. "Why on earth would they think that," I asked. "You're not wearing a ring," he said. "Of course I am," I said, and held up my right hand with my wedding ring worn inside my flight school ring. To that Roger replied that he'd never noticed it either. "Maybe that explains all the smiles I've been getting from them I thought.

During the evening the housekeeper came and spoke with Roger. He left and returned a couple of minutes later and whispered to Cy and me that a telex just came in confirming the crew had departed Jakarta with our other aircraft and without being foiled by the press. I'd learned, some time ago that the press doesn't give up on a story they think will get them a good byline. It would only be a matter of time.

Phnom Penh's Pochentong Airport Takes Another Hit

The enemy were inching their way toward Phnom Penh. Rocket and mortar attacks were becoming almost an everyday occurrence. On 7 January, a Sunday, the Phnom Penh airport took three separate mortar attacks. The max range of most mortars used by the enemy was less than 2000 meters. That was about the length of the airport's runway. That meant the bastards were watching us move around. I had to be crazy for getting out of bed and going to work. I made a note of it in my journal.

Ho Was Getting Low On Ammo

As the new year began, rumors of a movement in the Paris Peace Accord started making the rounds. The peace talks resumed in Paris on 8 January 1973. After the Christmas Bombing which blew Hanoi almost off the map, the North Vietnamese discovered new negotiating flexibility...amazing what 20,000 tons of bombs can do to enhance a spirit of peace and cooperation. An agreement was reached shortly.

In Washington, on 15 January, President Nixon announced a halt to all U.S. bombing of North Vietnam. But in the skies over Cambodia, not much changed. If there was one good thing that came from the pounding we gave Hanoi, it was that our flights were taking less ground fire. That was because those 20,000 tons of bombs had significantly damaged the NVA reserves of ammunition. As a result, they were only taking what they considered the sure shots. But each night from about six miles overhead Cambodia's rice fields, villages, schools and orphanages, the unrelenting waves of B-52s continued delivering their payload of death and destruction. Unfortunately though, by journalists and Khmer military accounts, the bombs seldom fell on the Khmer Rouge. By most journalistic accounts, from those correspondents who actually ventured outside the relative safety of Phnom Penh to see firsthand the carnage the B52's had left, the targeting or "boxing" appeared indiscriminate.

Intelligence sources and journalists, as well as Khmer Army officers were saying the people in the countryside were being driven into the arms of the Khmer Rouge by fear and hatred caused by the American bombings. Most of the people dying were not Khmer Rouge. There was no winning the hearts and minds of these poor souls.

How Low Can You Go?

Meanwhile, during the daylight hours, the F-111 fighters were screaming across the country flying just off the deck, dropping their payloads of cluster bombs, concussion bombs and napalm. The human suffering was unimaginable. By night or by day, many were destined to pay.

One morning returning to Phnom Penh from Battambang, we got a call from "Disco," an air force AWACS EC-121 (Lockheed Constellation) advising to be on the lookout for an F-111 below us. These Connies, as they were affectionately called, were basically orbiting radar control stations. They were also engaged in (SIGINT) or radio signal intelligence gathering. This morning they called us on the guard frequency to advise we were about to fly through a strike zone, but that all the action would be several thousand feet below us. "Traffic will be coming from left to right low" was the controller's traffic advisory. It was only a matter of seconds later that we saw the traffic...it was indeed low...like inches off the deck. I assumed the pilot was using terrain-following radar or ground hugging technology. I knew that I was glad I was up in my cockpit rather than down there in his. He was certainly below all ground-based radar. His speed was incredibly fast. Thankfully our friends up in Disco could see him. He went screaming underneath us then just off our right wing released his payload. We saw the flash and a few seconds later our entire airplane was lifted up by the shock waves from the bombs he released. It was like flying into a thunder cloud. I watched the orange flames explode outward and upward. I wondered how many poor non-combatant villagers had just been taken away by this chariot of fire. "As they continued walking and talking, a chariot of fire with horses of fire suddenly appeared and separated the two of them."

I pushed the thought of what it must be like on the ground rapidly out of my head. It was rumored many bomb victims never had a scratch on them...that they were killed by the concussion. On very rare occasions when I would join some of the journalists who hung out at the Café de la Poste just across from the post office in Phnom Penh, I would hear them talking about a relatively new weapon called a thermobaric bomb. These weapons were initially being used against known areas of VC tunnel networks; later their use became more widespread. These bombs burned the oxygen from the surrounding air and created tremendous pressures in tunnels or other shelters. Those far enough away from the center of the blast would sometimes appear to be unmarked. In reality, the sudden vacuum created after the explosion passed would collapse their lungs. The reporters' stories echoed a briefing we had received from the air force. This was probably as terrifying to the Cambodian people as the death raining from the unseen and unheard B-52s. My head was starting to get far too many negative message units. I was starting to need a break.

Running On Empty

Sokha and I, along with some of her friends, would on occasion go out in the early evening for dinner. Dinner by necessity had to begin early and end early due to the curfew. She regularly encouraged me to get to know some of her friends a little better, but nothing ever clicked. I knew I felt so empty inside but none of them appeared to offer any serious remedy. At night as I would go to sleep, I felt as though a deep empty well was in my chest. I started hugging a pillow when I slept. As a child I was never allowed to use a pillow..."it would make my spine crooked;" now I had trouble sleeping without one...not under my head but tucked against my chest. I knew this couldn't be a good sign, but I was powerless to do anything. I could go home and remove all these terrible images from my sight though not from my head. I could feel this war starting to get personal. I was starting to, as the old men back in Hamilton County would say...have a dog in the fight; I was getting emotionally involved. This was new to me. I never experienced such feelings in the Congo. I was deeply troubled by what I saw in the Congo's eastern provinces but never to the point where I felt like I wanted to run out and get involved. To make things even worse...I had stopped writing Karen. I had no desire to share what I was going through. I was starting to grow accustomed to that idea. I didn't like it, but it was what it was. On top of everything else...I'd started smoking again; Dunhills.

A Flight With Mystery Lady

One morning as I was preparing for a flight to Kompong Som, I discovered the cabin attendant I'd asked Sokha about, the royal family member whose uncle owned the airline we were supporting, was scheduled to operate the flight with me. I wasn't even sure of her name as the airline schedules just used nicknames. She was listed as "Nine." I would later learn that was short for Danine.

After takeoff she was the one to serve the cockpit. I tried to engage her in some trivial conversation but got no place fast. That night I asked Sokha if she could help arrange some meeting after work with her. She shook her head, told me I was wasting my time, but agreed to try. The next day I had my answer...NO. Sokha explained that it would be impossible for someone in her position to be seen in public with me. Immediately seeing the possibilities...I advised it did not necessarily have to be in public. Again the following day, the response was No.

New Year Again–Chinese That Is

Year Of The Ox–3 February 1973

I had started to notice a proliferation of everything red all over Phnom Penh. Red paper lanterns, red and gold decorations, red shirts, if it could be made red, it was. I learned Chinese New Year was approaching. This was a big thing where all the Chinese shops closed, they exchanged fruit baskets and had huge parties. It lasted several days. The Chinese all thoroughly cleaned their houses in a ceremony which was supposed to sweep away any bad luck and make room for good luck. Symbols representing good health, good luck, long life, and happiness were plastered all over their doors and windows. Every Chinese doorway had food in front of it, usually on trays sitting on the ground. They left it for evil spirits to eat hoping the spirit would go away rather than go into their house. They exchanged gifts of money in small narrow red envelopes conveniently the size of currency notes. I found all this interesting and a welcome diversion to the war.

Captain Jacks Again

The heavy flying continued; the shelling of the city continued; the influx of refugees continued; the tragedy and suffering multiplied; the empty well in my chest grew deeper.

While I was already an experienced captain in the DC-3 and DC-4 the real need for pilots was in the Convair 440 aircraft we were acquiring. One afternoon, after my last flight, I had a note in my box saying Roger wanted to see me in his office downtown. When I got there, I found Cy and Roger waiting for me.

They wanted me to travel to the U.S. and take my Convair 440 type rating training. This would allow me to fly the Convair 240-340-and 440 as pilot in command (captain). They told me the class would begin in just over a month and asked if I wanted to accept. This would mean a lot more money, so I readily agreed.

As the days of heavy flying turned into weeks, I would occasionally be on the same flight with Nine. She was beginning to at least acknowledge my presence.

One day when I arrived back to my apartment, Sokha was waiting for me in the living room. She informed me that I owed her big time; that Nine was willing to come for a short visit to my apartment if we were not alone. I owe you was my reply.

A Change In Direction

The day of Nine's visit came. My schedule was for only two flights therefore I was home by 3:00pm. Yat had already been instructed to have a nice meal ready. I was a little anxious.

When she arrived, we sat for a few minutes. I asked her about her family. I was terribly ignorant of Cambodia's history. She was somewhat surprised that I knew so little. I did assume that she was closely related to the guy whose picture I'd seen in political caricatures, King Norodom Sihanouk; she was. I asked her about her father. Her eyes became moist, and she looked down toward the floor. "He's gone to the forest," was her reply. I had already learned what that term meant. It meant he had left Phnom Penh under cover of darkness to join up with King Sihanouk and his resistance fighters in Cambodia's jungle. They were fighting the Lon Nol regime, the very people I was there supporting. Like his cousin King Sihanouk, Prince Phurissara was now an enemy of the people. By default, this put them fighting as allies with the Khmer Rouge. All the lucrative contracts that funded our operations were for the purpose of keeping Lon Nol and his government in power. I asked if her mother was still alive, she said that she was but that she was seriously ill and not expected to live much longer. I'd heard many of the royal family married their relatives, so I asked if her mother was a Norodom. "No," she replied..."she is a Sisowath." "There was a King Sisowath," I commented; "is he your mother's relative?" "Yes," she replied...he was her grandfather. "So your father's grandfather was King Norodom and your mother's grandfather was King Sisowath?" I asked. That's right she answered...still looking at the floor. I then uttered the most preposterous thing: "then your great-grandfathers on both sides of your family were kings." She didn't bother to answer.

I realized this was not exactly how you begin a happy first evening together, so I pointed toward the table and we sat down to a dinner by kerosene lamp and music from Armed Forces Radio Saigon.

After dinner she began to keep an eye on her watch. Shortly before 8:00 pm she said she needed to go watch from the balcony for her ride. Soon a small car with several people inside pulled up and stopped in front of our apartment building. She explained it was her cousin and some friends coming to take her home; that her family did not know about her visit. I took her hand and asked if I could see her again. "Yes," she replied as she hurried out the door. I walked her down the stairway but not out onto the street. It was seriously forbidden for her to be seen in public with me. That night sleep did not come easily. I knew I wanted to see her again.

A Grease Gun For My Flight Bag

The battle raged on in the provinces; the smaller provincial airports became more of a security threat. The Khmer Rouge were literally watching every move we made via spies planted in civilian clothes. We suspected some were even employed as baggage handlers. Some of the guys were starting to complain about personal safety after hours in Phnom Penh, Battambang, and Kompong Som as well. Others were taking matters into their own hands and procuring their own personal protection from the very active local open market. If we provided it to the Khmer military, it could be purchased on the streets. To that end, one day an embassy jeep drove up to Roger's villa while I happen to be there. It was carrying a huge cache of weapons. There were spThompson submachine guns, M-79 grenade launchers, 12-gauge Winchester Model 1897 pumps (the old ones with a hammer), several cases of M61 grenades, Smith & Wesson snub nose (2in barrel) .38 Specials, AK47s, a couple of M2-A carbines, and a couple of M3-A submachine guns (grease guns). Since I was first on the scene and I knew they wouldn't last long, I picked a grease gun, a M2 carbine, and one of the 12-gauge pumps. I already had an AK-47 courtesy of Roger. I also grabbed six or seven of the grenades.

I liked the Smith & Wesson .38 Special because it could easily be carried and concealed but its firepower paled upon coming face to face with an AK-47. We frequently joked that "you never bring a knife to a gun fight." This fairly approximated the usefulness of the .38 special in a serious confrontation. Since I already had carried a Colt Cobra 38 special I passed. The Colt I had acquired via another well connected source.

I liked the grease gun because one of the Army's delivery team members had one. It could be disassembled down small enough to fit easily in my flight bag or brief case and reassembled in about ten seconds. I used to practice remaining extremely proficient in taking it from my flight bag and putting it back into fire-ready condition. Its metal hand grip also served as an oil reservoir to keep the slide action lubricated and for protection from overheating. It even had a tiny dipstick to check its oil level.

The delivery team guy who brought the cache warned us about buying AK-47 7.62 rounds off the local market. He cautioned us only to draw our ammunition from the embassy as the CIA had let a huge contract to manufacture "spiked" (explode on firing) 7.62 ammunition and had insured it fell into the hands of the Khmer Rouge and the VC. The VC and KR could easily and would sometimes sell some of this spiked ammo to arms dealers for cash without ever knowing they had just "dodged the bullet." If we got one of those it would be "taps" he said. I gathered up my haul and headed for my apartment before anybody else got there and accused me of hording...which would have been true.

A couple of days later, Cy and I went to a little shop that made leather shoes. Cy had made a sketch of a holster design and asked if I would like to have one made as well. The second I saw his design I loved it. My Colt Cobra would hang inverted under my left arm. Under my right arm would hang a pouch containing two sections; each section holding 12 rounds. The rounds hung inverted as well. When the cover for one of the two ammunition pockets, which was positioned at the bottom, was opened, shells would fall by force of gravity, one at a time into your open hand. The inverted .38 under my left arm and the ammo pouch under my right arm were connected by straps that crossed on my back. Nothing was visible from the front which would have been fine if we were wearing jackets, but we were not; it was too hot. I now completely understood the open at the bottom Eisenhower blouses we used for uniform shirts. If required, your right hand could easily slip up under the blouse and retrieve the snub-nose 38 hanging inverted under your left arm. As it cleared your blouse it was ready to fire. But here again we found ourselves back to bringing a knife to a gun fight scenario. It was without question better than being unarmed, but just barely.

Quiet In The Center Of The Storm

Nine started to come regularly. I found her easy to be around. We could never go out into public, but she brought peace. I would tell her about the things I'd seen each day. She would quietly listen.

At times she would tell me about how she missed her father and how the government's orchestrated hate campaigns toward the royal family hurt her so deeply. It was as if her life turned upside down on 18 March 1970, when General Lon Nol and the National Assembly deposed King Norodom Sihanouk. To make things even worse, one of her uncles on her mother's side, Prince Sisowath Sirik Matak, helped orchestrate the coup. It was shortly after the coup that her father, HRH Prince Norodom Phurassara, left to join his cousin King Norodom Sihanouk in the fight against the Lon Nol and Sisowath Sirik Matak regime. She told me about the endless radio and television propaganda directed against the royal family. This was necessary because the king was deeply loved by the Cambodian people and the fragile and paranoid new Lon Nol–Sirik Matak regime feared the people would rise up against it. She told me how middle-class people who were easily influenced by the government's propaganda often made rude remarks to her face. But at the airport, the peasant baggage loaders worshipped her. She was a Cinderella Princess to them. And she truly loved them. I was amazed when I watched her move about the airport stopping so frequently to talk to the lowest laborers. She was always strong...she never allowed the government to make her ashamed of who she was. She was Her Highness Princess Norodom Danine and she would never allow the government to take that away from her.

Al Rockoff–War Photographer–The Best Of The Best

Meanwhile the storm outside my apartment walls raged on. More wounded...more refugees more widows and orphans. Part of me didn't want to look; the other part told me had to look and try to understand.

By this time I'd become an advanced amateur photographer. But I took few pictures during my time in Cambodia. Cambodia was my silent period. Somehow, I felt it was obscene to photograph all this misery. Yet, on the other hand, I understood the need for some, who were called into the photojournalism field, to document this tragedy in all its shocking, sickening, horror and gore.

Perhaps the person most successful at fulfilling this call to document the war was a man I saw on occasion when I'd go out at night...Al Rockoff. Al was a U.S. Army combat photographer who came to Cambodia as a civilian photojournalist. He, at great risk of losing his own life, took some of the most iconic images of the conflict in Cambodia. He was seriously wounded on more than one occasion in his single-focused drive to show the war as it was. Al's lens looked into the very soul of the Cambodian people and their suffering; he received numerous acclaims. Al often came off as a little bit strange and many people found him hard to like. I guess just because of that and his stunning images of something that had become a deep part of me...I liked Al Rockoff. Al was portrayed, in the famous movie "The Killing Fields." As most who know Al would say the portrayal was unfair...bordering on slanderous. Later, as Phnom fell to the Khmer Rouge, Al would stay behind refusing to be evacuated to document the horrible carnage

A Photo Opportunity Versus Respect And Compassion

Earned Me A Trip To The Embassy

One day on a flight from Kampong Chhnang back to Phnom Penh the military had a seriously wounded solider and his young wife waiting to be transported back. As usual, we boarded the passengers first then, just before we were ready to close the door we brought in the wounded solider and laid him out on his blood-soaked stretcher in the isle. His wife sat on the floor in the isle. He looked really bad. His face had lost all color...almost like that of a person already dead. I checked his pulse; it was weak and thready; his skin was clammy; he was barely conscious. From my Navy Corpsman and surgical technician training I knew he was experiencing hypovolemic shock...he didn't have enough blood to go around. I could tell he wasn't going to be around very long...possibly not long enough to reach Phnom Penh. I muttered an expletive, patted his terrified wife's hand and stood up to leave. A European passenger complained about his having paid for a passenger seat not a seat with a bloody soldier at his feet. As I stood to go into the cockpit I pointed my finger in his face and gave him a look that silenced him instantly, then turned and went into the cockpit. The click of the door closing was a reprieve from the tragedy unfolding in the cabin. The whole world was madcompletely obscenity mad.

While we were still in the climb, I heard the dreaded sound of the cockpit door being opened. The male purser advised the solider was dead. I didn't bother to go back and check for sure. There was no need. I called ahead on the military frequency and advised we had a wounded solider onboard. I knew he was already dead, but I also knew they would probably not put much emphasis on getting there on time if they knew this.

As the plane was still taxiing in, I got up and went to the back. I was going to make sure no impatient, irreverent SOB stepped over the solider. I told the purser (male cabin attendant) to stand behind the body and block the aisle. He made an announcement that all were to remain seated until the body and the soldier's wife had deplaned. I could see some were not happy about being inconvenienced but they could also tell by my menacing glare that testing the purser's order was not a good idea.

The ambulance was waiting on the ramp. The medics came toward the plane. As we shut down the engines and opened the door, they came into the cabin to get him. They immediately discovered he was dead. When the body and the wife were off the plane, I returned to the cockpit to complete my paperwork.

I took much longer than normal to complete the flight log. It was my last flight of the day, I was drained, and what was the hurry anyway. As I opened the cockpit door, I saw a significant pool of blood on the carpet in the aisle where the stretcher had been. I hoped they could remove it all. I sure as obscenity didn't want to see it every time I came onboard this plane.

As I got to the foot of the air-stair, I saw the dead soldier's body underneath the wing beside the landing gear; his widow squatting in typical peasant manner crying; constantly wiping his face as if to comfort him in some way. Just in front of them was a guy with a camera, crouching down to be at her eye level, clicking rapidly and fanning his film advance lever. He must have been some photojournalist who had talked his way onto the ramp to get up close to what he obviously regarded as a photo opportunity. But this was no Al Rockoff. His clothes were new and well pressed. He looked like he'd just walked out of Abercrombie & Fitch. I exploded. It was not my intention to scream. My intention was to order him in no uncertain terms to get the obscenity out of her face and to hand me his obscenity camera. He ignored me continuing to click away. I grabbed the camera which was attached to a strap around his neck and jerked with all my might. He fell backwards and one of the clips that held the camera to the strap broke. The camera went flying to the ground. He started to push himself up, but I kicked his arms out from under him. By this time the two military police who guarded the gate to the ramp came running over. I had already started for the snub-nose .38 under my blouse but the two M16s the MP had made that bad move unnecessary. I picked up the camera and because it was a Nikon, I expertly flipped the back open in one quick snap of my wrists. I jerked his 35mm film out and ripped it off its spool. I made sure every last fame was soaked in light. Then I threw it at him. He kept shouting over and over that I'd broken his camera. I told him he was obscenity lucky I hadn't broken his obscenity skull. I took his camera and gave it to the military police and in mixed Khmer-English suggested the MP's impound his camera as there were supposed to be no photos taken on the ramp. I could tell by the hint of a smile on the first-lieutenant face that we had had a meeting of the minds. Before sunset that camera would be for sale in a no-questions-asked downtown camera shop.

The soldier's widow was sobbing more now. The commotion had frightened her. As the MPs escorted the Abercrombie & Fitch would-be war correspondent off the airport, I knelt down and patted her hand again. I took out a huge wad of Khmer currency and handed it to her. It was probably worth about thirty dollars...probably about two month's pay for her husband, assuming he had been paid which was probably a bad assumption. She raised her hands in the traditional gesture of reverence and thanks while still bowing her head toward the face of her dead husband. I touched her still gesturing hands gently enclosing them in my hands, rose and walked away. As I drove away in the crew car, I saw the jackass would-be war correspondent haggling with a taxi for a ride back into town. He did not have his camera.

That night I asked Nine to hold me particularly close...longing for shelter from all that I'd seen.

The next day, at the airport, as I was checking into dispatch, I found I had been rescheduled for a later flight. They had a call from the U.S. Air Attaché that I needed to report to the embassy. I thought...oh crap...I bet I know what this is about. That little wuss was probably some obscenity senator's son...or worse...the ambassador's son or nephew. Oh well...I'd do it all over again so with zero remorse, I climbed into the waiting company car and headed to the embassy.

My first question after walking into the heavily secure air attaché's office was..."well, who was the little bastard?" They gave me his name which I have long since forgotten and informed me he was not the ambassador's son or nephew and apparently not related to any member of congress. "Well, that's good news...now what's the bad news," I asked. The assistant air attaché said the bad news was that the ambassador was pissed...that he was trying to run a war and did not need to be distracted by things like this. I saw this as a good way out, so I said I agreed wholeheartedly and promised not to start anything if I ever ran into him again. They replied that that was highly unlikely as the MPs wrote a report about how he had broken security and how he had failed to respect Khmer sensitivities; the latter being far more serious and likely to get him a ticket out of here. The assistant air attaché asked if I had just issued a sincere apology along with a promise my name would not come across the ambassador's desk again. "Why of course," I replied and headed back to the airport.

The Return Of Bat Masterson

Back in operations Cy asked me if I still kept up with any of the experienced DC-4 captains I'd flown with in the Congo. "Why yes," I replied, "I just got a letter from one of the most experienced yesterday. He's in Malta and looking for work." Cy asked if I had a contact number for him. I pulled his letter from my flight bag and copied the address for him. I headed to the plane. When I returned two and a half hours later, Cy met me with a smile and said that Bat would be here within two weeks. "Do you know any more?" he asked. I went to my flight bag again; this time for my friend Paul Rakisits. I told Cy he was going to owe me an employment agency fee.

Flight Training And Divorce

My type rating ground school and flight training was to be in Arlington Texas. A retired FAA inspector would be giving us the training. He had been specially arranged I was told. I would have some time to see Karen, Jason, and Jenny. I was looking forward to seeing the children. I was dreading having to tell Karen I wanted a divorce. While I still loved her, we had, over time, drifted apart. I was sure she already knew this, but that didn't make it any easier. My flight back to Texas was probably the longest flight of my life. I tried to sleep but sleep would not come. Images of our good times of closeness kept passing through my mind. So did all the empty times. I knew things had gradually changed and would never return. I felt guilty while still knowing I had to save my life. There were no winners here.

I had arranged to arrive a few days before my class began. I'd shared with Cy what I had planned to do. He understood. From Dallas Love Field I went straight to Hamilton. Karen knew something was wrong. I told her the next day. I told her I only wanted my clothes and if she didn't mind my African artifact collection; she agreed, but of course with pain. I left the African artifacts in her care. Basically I left with my memories. I returned to Dallas to get ready for training. I saw an attorney in Ft. Worth two days before my class started. The entire process took less than an hour. It was like cutting off my arm with a dull knife. There was no feeling of freedom; only a dull, deep depression. I'd left Karen with two children and a chain of broken dreams. A grossly futile attempt to live out a reality only found in children's nursery rhymes...a world view with a zero base in reality.

The words of David, King of Israel, kept coming to me. "Be gracious to me, God, according to Your faithful love; according to Your abundant compassion, blot out my rebellion. Wash away my guilt and cleanse me from my sin. For I am conscious of my rebellion, and my sin is always before me."

Training went well. I got my Convair type rating allowing me to fly as pilot in command on the Convair. While preparing to return I did some shopping for things I would need to make my life a little more amicable back in Cambodia...some music cassettes, a better radio with more short-wave bands, another Swiss Army Knife, really basic stuff. Looking back now upon what I thought was worthwhile to buy, it's easy to see how rudimentary some aspects of my life had become. In some ways it was fundamental; in others it was a tangle of confusion. While trying to live each moment in order to experience the all-out adrenalin rush, leaving no emotion unsampled, I was, in the process, pushing perilously close to the redline; the point beyond which no sane person should venture. Whether or not I actually crossed that I suppose I'll never know, but now, more than forty years later, I can testify that if not crossed...I came damn close; close enough to suffer damage.

Starting Over

As soon as I got back, I was put in captain's line training. It was only a formality but since we were technically working under the FAA's regulations, or at least whenever it was practical, it was necessary to fly with a senior captain and have him certify I was airport and route qualified...a foregone conclusion. Within a couple of days I was duly signed off and my paycheck moved up again.

Nine was happy to see me again. I was happy to see her as well. Her visits continued. Her mother wasn't doing well at all. Nine was spending more and more time at the hospital with her. Her brothers and her sister all knew the end was not far away. They believed she knew this as well. So far, I'd met none of her family.

Some Steroids For The Khmer Air Force

While I was settling back into life in Cambodia and the slightly increased responsibilities of being pilot-in-command again, the Khmer Air Force began receiving significant amounts of aircraft and support equipment courtesy of the winding-down U.S. involvement in South Vietnam. I wondered if the U.S. really gave a damn about the Cambodians or if providing them with all this military hardware (which they did not have the trained manpower to operate) was simply cheaper than shipping it back home. I wondered if they ever gave any thought to what would happen to all that equipment if the Khmer Rouge overran the country; a possibility I was beginning to assign more weight to with each passing day.

I knew Washington cared about Cambodia...they did not want the country to fall into Communist hands. But care about the Cambodian people...I was sure Washington did not; only those of us who were here, who knew and loved the country cared; to that extent, we were pawns just as were the Khmer people; expendable little pawns on the vast chessboard of global politics. Obscenity!

A Visitor To The Presidential Palace

To complicate the Khmer Air Force's situation, a son-in-law of deposed King Norodom Sihanouk, serving in the KAF as a T-28 pilot, took off from Pochentong airport, flew to the Presidential Palace about three minutes away, circled a couple of times, then began bombing the place. Reports said 43 were killed and 35 more were injured. Fortunately for President Lon Nol, he was not in the building at the time. The entire air force was immediately grounded for a few days until an investigation revealed he acted alone. It was soon back to business as normal. In many ways, the ground war was completely dependent on the KAF.

The KAF had many brave, dedicated, and well-trained men, but not nearly enough. The ground war was progressing poorly for Lon Nol's army (FANK or Forces Armées Nationales Khmères). The country was overrun with North Vietnam Army troops as well as Khmer Rouge; the poorly trained FANK troops were no match for these battle-harden troops. In most cases, the only way they could keep from being massacred was by calling in air support. T-28s were joining U.S. Air Force fighters in providing this critical air support. But all knew that after the congressionally mandated bombing halt on 15 August 1973, only a few short months away, there would be no more U.S. air support; the KAF would be on its own.

In addition to the demands on the KAF fighter pilots, the helicopter pilots were facing round-the-clock missions moving in replacements for the increasing number of FANK casualties. Had the KAF forces been five times what they were, it still would not have been enough. None of this was the fault of the brave men of the KAF...it was the result of years if not decades of governmental neglect.

The U.S. began a massive training effort in Thailand in an attempt to train more pilots and technicians, but no matter how many instructors and how much money they threw on the project, pilot and mechanic trainees could not be created out of thin air. Dark clouds were looming on Cambodia's horizon; the undeniable facts did not bode well. These things weighed heavily on my heart. Many were unquestionably destined to die.

This Time There Would Be No Radio Call From Tintin

Not long after this, Roger called me to the office. He said the embassy had asked if we had any T-28 qualified people who would be willing to very unofficially fly some of these planes on "ferry flights only" to a U.S. maintenance facility in Bangkok. Roger said the implication was that the scope of the missions would be far wider ranging than "ferry flights." He clearly indicated if something went wrong, we would be on our own as this was a very gray area which could be construed as U.S. citizens flying in the air force of another country...exactly what I was doing in the Congo with Wigmo. The only problem was the Congo was officially a "cold war." Cambodia was a very "hot war" with tremendous press and hostile congressional scrutiny. It took me about a micro-second to say no. I was already hearing from reporters how some of the T-28 bombings were accidentally killing innocent not-combatants, not their intended Khmer Rouge targets. This invariably happens in large scale bombing campaigns. I did not want to become a part of this. I was already seeing more of the war than I wanted...I didn't need to be looking at it through a bombsight. I still heard Tintin's radio call in my dreams, "pull up...pull up for obscenity sake."

A New Kid On The Block

By mid-March the Khmer Rouge had most roads leading in and out of Phnom Penh blocked. Civilian aircraft piloted by civilian pilots were commencing the biggest airlift since Berlin. Robert and Cy had landed a contract on their own...outside of Tri-9. The company would be called South East Asia Air Transport or SEAAT. They asked if I wanted to come fly with them. It didn't take long to answer yes.

Some pilots were not asked to join SEAAT. Some turned down the offer and remained with Tri-9. Both Tri-9 and SEAAT began extensive pilot searches back in the States. We had some success in finding furloughed Air America and Continental Air Services (another proprietary airline) pilots from Laos. They were combat experienced and knew the area. This group of pilots were our highest recruiting priority. We also found a few pilots back in the U.S. that had never flown in this type of environment before. They were a mixed bag. Some hit the ground like they were born to do this...others returned home (either voluntarily or involuntarily). Work became a constant stream of new faces. Most who decided to stay did in fact stay...most to the very tragic end. The place had a way of surreptitiously enslaving you; once it had you it seldom relinquished its death grip.

Another Congo Comrade

Right about this time my old friend and mentor Paul Rakisits arrived. He had been flying in Tanzania for a mining company after leaving the Congo, but the job played out. He'd sent word to Bat asking if there were openings here. Bat got Paul a spot with SEAAT. Paul arrived in country while I was back in Texas. It was good to see him again. This time his wife Marie Jeanne did not come.

New Kids In The Neighborhood

Due to the severity of the food shortages and the increasing effectiveness of the Khmer Rouge blockade, the demand for airlift capacity far overshadowed our ability to provide that lift capacity. More Thailand based U.S. Air Force C-130 cargo flights were initiated; Bird Air, another proprietary or special customer airline started flying. Bird Air received U.S. Air Force C-130 aircraft under what was reported as very favorable conditions. Others said the airplanes always belonged to the Air Force. I had little time to worry about the validity of such things.

Almost overnight, small operations with ancient airplanes began arriving in country. These planes and crews (mostly Taiwan Chinese) were operated under several newly formed Cambodian airlines. The Phnom Penh Airlift had begun.

Nine's Brother HH Prince Sisowath Duong Khara

I'm not sure how long it had been known, but one day it came to my attention that I was no longer a secret to Nine's family. Being "no longer a secret" was a far reach from having approval status, however. A few weeks later her oldest brother Duong Khara (17 years her senior and the de facto head of family) and I had lunch. It was a pleasant but serious conversation. He was of course very keen to learn my thoughts about his little sister. I liked him instantly; I liked him a lot. Nine loved "Bong Hut" (big brother Hut in English) as he was called inside the family; outside the family he was "Macha Hut" (prince Hut in English). Being seventeen years older than his little sister Nine, he was both big brother and often surrogate father in periods when her father was away.

I learned Nine's mother had been married twice. Her first husband was a Sisowath; he died early in life leaving her a young widow with two sons, Duong Khara (Hut) and Ritharavong (Hen). She then married Prince Norodom Phurissara (Tong). Tong was Nine's father.

Big Airplanes...Little Runways

The stranglehold the KR had on the country's roads, railways, and airports was increasingly taking its toll on the population. Food and fuel shortages began to cause riots in various parts of the country. Even in areas where good rice crops had escaped the pillaging of the Khmer Rouge, it could not reach Phnom Penh and the other cities because all the roads were cut. Virtually every major city was cut off . . . no food, no fuel, no medicine; everything was sealed off. Human suffering was high. You never really think about how useful a road is until you no longer have it.

The need to transport these critical commodities effectively could only be met with larger airplanes. This was the embassy's highest priority...keeping the population lined up behind Lon Nol's increasingly unpopular regime. Key to doing this was keeping them fed and supplied. The embassy was sparing no expense in keeping their newly found Cambodian friends fed and enlisting in Lon Nol's army.

In order to resupply the numerous key cities, large airplanes like the DC-4 and Convair would have to land on short (unsafe) and in some cases non-paved runways. My Congo skill placed me close to leader of the pack status in this new small airport arena. In the Congo I'd learned to fly large transport aircraft as one would fly a small airplane. While I constantly tried to hone my airline skills, I prided myself in my previously lesser used cowboy skills. Cowboy flying began taking on a dominant role in our day to day operations. The excitement level and the danger level advanced hand in hand.

A New Kind Of Runway

The Khmer Rouge had long controlled National Highway 5 running northwest out of Phnom Penh toward the rice growing areas of Battambang. Highway 5 also ran through the strategic town of Kompong Chhnang. Kompong Chhnang was located on the shores of the fish rich Tonle Sap Lake. The Khmer Rouge had not yet managed to interdict the supply of fish coming from the lake, but they held complete control of Highway five running south out of Kompong Chhnang toward Phnom Penh. Phnom Penh's food supplies were at critically low levels while Kompong Chhnang had enough fresh and dried fish to feed the city. The problem was transporting it to Phnom Penh. Route 5 was not an option.

The runway at Kompong Chhnang was a short unpaved strip which turned into mud in the rainy season. The engineers who designed the Convair made it as an airliner for modern airports. Never in their wildest dreams did they visualize it operating in an environment such as Kompong Chhnang, therefore it was poorly suited for the job. Its mighty engines augmented by water-alcohol injection gave it significant lift capability, but its runway suitability sucked.

Because of the strategic importance of the city to Phnom Penh's food crisis, the U.S. had installed what is referred to as a steel mat runway on top of the dirt strip. The proper term of this steel mat was Pierced Steel Plank or PSP Mat. It had its origins back at the beginning of WWII. Basically they were steel planks ten feet long by 15 inches wide which could be rapidly clipped together to form a runway surface. I'd read about and seen pictures of them while in flight school but had no training on how to land on one. Cy and Bat had experience in landing on them, so I decided I'd go along with one of them first before I tried it on my own. I had no concern about them when it was dry, but the rainy season was coming on. When it was wet it was slick as glass. When it was dry the tires contacting the steel produced a screaming sound.

After my PSP mat checkout I was scheduled to operate on my own. My checkout with Bat was uneventful...of course it was dry that day. On my first flight, the military controller on the ground advised over the radio that it had just rained and while no longer raining, the runway was wet. How nice...just what I needed; a new copilot and a wet steel mat runway. There was a slight crosswind on final. I yawed the crab out in the flair in order to be longitudinally aligned with the runway. I had my approach speed as low as I dared configured with high drag/lift and high power; basically landing with lots of power on and just above a stall speed. I scared the crap out of the copilot who'd never seen that type of approach before. After touchdown the remainder of the landing was uneventful. All that remained was to load the cargo and get airborne before dark when the Khmer Rouge came out.

My Kompong Chhnang Near Death Experience

Loading of the cargo and passengers was organized and didn't take unusually long. The problem was it was almost dark, and the mother of all black rain clouds was moving straight toward the departure end of the runway. Our flight back to Phnom Penh would only take about 25 minutes and the military controllers would hold the airport open for me.

Finally we were loaded. I allowed the purser, whom I knew I could trust, to close the entrance door. The copilot and I were already seated in the cockpit with the right engine running. As the air-stair door started closing I began cranking the left engine. It lit immediately and stabilized at the preset 1000 rpm. We immediately took the runway lined up. The black cloud was now literally right on the departure end of the runway. If I didn't take off, we would be stuck here overnight. I'd already been warned that any aircraft left overnight at most of the outstations would be another statistic by sunrise. We advanced the power, turned on the anti-detonation system which allowed the alcohol injection system to kick in and took the power up to takeoff power. As we released the brakes the aircraft lurched forward. Somewhere around 70 knots I felt the aircraft start to weathervane into the crosswind putting our longitudinal alignment at a slight variance to our path over the ground. I was able to fight it back with aggressive aileron and rudder. Finally we broke ground. I called gear up and brought back the throttles to max climb power. Almost immediately we flew into a torrent of rain. The sound of the rain pounding on the fuselage was deafening. I felt the airplane lose lift. The torrents of water hitting the wing were destroying the lift on top of the wing. As heavy as we were, I needed every last ounce of power these engines could generate, I looked at my ADI quantity, only about 25% remaining. The cylinder head temperatures were rapidly starting to fall from the almost solid sheets of water spilling over them. Running at these power settings, I needed the heads to remain hot, not start cooling off rapidly. I ordered the cowl flaps closed in an attempt to keep the temperature from falling any lower. We were barely climbing...perhaps 300 feet per minute. We should be climbing almost 1000 feet per minute. I knew I needed the extra power the ADI was giving me, but I could see it was almost gone. We continued to move away from the airport but still only barely climbing; we were about to be sitting ducks for Khmer Rouge with 50 cals or even AK-47s. I could not afford to bank left back over the Tonle Sap as the horizontal lift component used to make the turn would be taken from the vertical lift component I needed to get above the ground. For a few seconds, that seemed like an eternity, we were in very bad circumstances...dire straits.

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. With one last bounce of turbulence, we broke out of the black cloud and into the clear. I immediately reduced power back to the normal climb setting, turned off the ADI, and started opening the cowl flaps. Thank you, Jesus...literally.

Wars And Dreams Of Wars

My nights were never peaceful. Once Nine left to go back home, the assault would begin; either the shaking of my apartment's floor from the nearby B-52 bombings just across the river or from terrifying dreams of being captured by the Khmer Rouge or the VC. The dreams came several times each week. The B-52's came every night. The bombing halt was coming in August. By order of President Nixon, bombing had already ceased in Vietnam. The air assets previously in Vietnam were now redirected toward Cambodia. It was like they wanted to be sure they wouldn't have any bombs left by the August 15th bombing halt. Comings in groups of three, each B-52 would drop 108 five hundred-pound bombs; thousands of innocent Cambodian civilians were being killed. It was hard to find anybody who cared. Ironically, all this firepower...the strike fighters, the FACs, and the AC-130 gunships employed in the Vietnam War were suddenly available for the Khmer forces. All this death raining down from the sky on hapless Khmer peasant farmers and villagers was sanitized and reclassified as "air assists." If only these "assists" were hitting the Khmer Rouge...but so frequently...they were assisting the Khmer Rouge. "If only"

My dreams always seemed to center on my being chased or my taking shelter inside some type of parameter defense while the enemy advanced toward my position. They would be coming over the walls and my gun would jam. I was never out of ammo, but rather for some reason, I couldn't unjam or feed in another magazine. The terror would mount as they continued to advance closer and closer. I never succeed in these dreams. I would awake just as they were coming over the walls only feet from me. I would sit straight up in bed, covered in perspiration my heart pounding. I would be literally terrified. When I would realize it was just a dream, I'd lie back in bed and try to go back to sleep. Sometimes the dream would return and sometimes it wouldn't. I learned that if I tried to stay awake for a while, I had a better chance of the dream not returning. Spending my nights in the arms of a nightmare had become my new normalcy. I longed for the times back in Hamilton, in my bedroom in our house at the top of the hill, when I would be awakened in the peace of the early morning still, by my father's large, gentle hands lovingly massaging my back.

All kinds of amateur shrinks have told me these dreams had all kinds of meanings from sexual impotence to repressed rage and hostility toward something I was powerless to change. I knew I could rule the first theory out, so I allowed them to humor themselves by acquiescence.

With beer and my magic herb I would routinely mellow out. But this allowed me to reflect and reflection often produced remorse and guilt over all the things in my life I wished I could go back and do differently. The Bible says "reflections of the heart belong to man" but at that point in my life...reflection sucked.

My Old Acquaintance Anopheles Returns

About half way through my first flight of the morning I started to feel like I was coming down with the flu. I had headache and fever; I started shivering. I'd seen these symptoms since soon after arriving in the Congo...this wasn't the flu...it was malaria. I carried the parasitic microorganism received from the bite of an Anopheles mosquito in my blood. Some of the guys took a chloroquine-based prophylactic in hopes of warding off the disease but I had elected not to use it. A known side effect...dizziness or blurred vision caused my eyes to experience spasms so serious that at times I had trouble seeing the runway. I made the decision that I would probably live longer continuing to experience the reoccurrences than I would struggling to see the runway on short final. I dragged through the rest of that day's flights; we had no extra pilots to step in for me.

Nine was supposed to come for a visit that night. When I got to the apartment she was already there waiting. She could see I was sick. I took a shower and tried to sit, talk, and have dinner. It was impossible. I got in bed. She instructed Yat to keep plenty of water and watch me. But as the evening went on, I got worse...my temp was over 40 degrees Celsius which was 104 degrees Fahrenheit. I would drift off to sleep but never for long. When Bong Hut came to get her, she went down and told him she wanted to stay with me that night. He decided to come up and check on me. I was having one of my Khmer Rouge nightmares when he walked into my bedroom...the first time he had ever been to my apartment. I was told later that I sat up in bed screaming and pointing at him saying he was a Khmer Rouge. When I awoke the following morning I found Nine lying on the side of my bed wide awake watching me. I was very weak, but the crisis had passed. Nine went back home early that morning. I missed a day's work. I was starting to realize how important Nine was to me.

Happy Birthday

My thirtieth birthday passed uncelebrated...there was nothing to celebrate; I flew all day. My life was becoming irrevocably interwoven into the fabric of these suffering people and the outcome of the war. The enemy was within rocket and mortar range of the outskirts of Phnom Penh; several embassies had evacuated non-essential personnel; the U.S. Embassy evacuated its dependents.

During the month of April alone, the Khmer Rouge's stranglehold on the Mekong River Supply Route for Phnom Penh was able to destroy one POL (Petroleum, Oil, Lubricants) ship, one munitions barge, two cargo ships, and damage eight other ships. The danger was so great that one crew refused to sail and had to be replaced.

So, after flying all day, I went back to my apartment, had dinner, and sat alone drinking San Miguel Beer...courtesy of a U.S. C-130 crew from Thailand. As the shadows from my kerosene lamp danced on the walls and ceiling, I cleaned my AK-47, and listened to The Tracks Of My Tears on AFVN Radio–Saigon. I went to bed early hoping the nightmares would not return. On the night of his 30th birthday, Jimmy Joe Jacks was a long way from Hamilton Texas.

Our Communication Network

Soon after arrival we were given AN-PRC 25 VHF FM combat-net radio transceiver. AN stood for Army-Navy. The PRC meant Portable, Radio, Communication. But since that was such a mouthful, they were just called "Prick 25s." We didn't use these very often but when rocket attacks were coming in more heavily than usual, we all monitored the embassy frequency. They were extremely short range like about 8 kilometers or five miles. They were best used just for listening to the more powerful command stations. We could, however, from my apartment and later my villa, reach the embassy although that was discouraged. Because they were so heavy, even though they were designed to be a backpack type radio, mine rarely left the house.

Later we were issued "black bricks," hand held Motorola VHF walkie-talkies. In addition to the embassy frequencies we also had access to Air America's net operated from a small rented upper story room on Monivong Street. When we received our "black bricks", most everyone abandoned their "Prick 25s."

HH Princess Sisowath Darameth 1913-1973

Nine's Mother Goes

It was late afternoon. I was back from my flights and had just finished my shower. Yat answered the knock at the door. It was Nine. She was with some older women I'd never seen. They were wearing black sampots and white blouses. I instantly assumed Nine's mother was dying or was already dead. Nine spoke softly saying her mother had died that afternoon and that I needed to get dressed quickly in a pair of my black slacks and a white shirt. They sat on the couch and waited for me to change. Nine made it clear that I was not to dawdle.

When I came out of the bedroom, they all stood and moved toward the door. They were discretely watching me closely. This was the first time anyone from her family other than Bong Hut had seen me. Nine's demeanor toward me was noticeably different. She was about to show me to her world. There was no "boyfriend" about this moment. Any allusion of a secret relationship was, from this moment forward, a thing of the past. Though she was experiencing the loss of her mother, and while she clearly looked to me for some measure of comfort, she was strong and resolute. Her every move for the next several days was rigidly scripted by her family's protocol...this included how she responded to me. Things became very formal. Visions of "Guess Who's Coming To Dinner" were ricocheting around inside my head.

We drove to the home of her next oldest brother Bong Hen. Although Nine's mother had lived with her oldest son, Bong Hut, his new villa was not completed yet. The doctors had informed the family she would not live much longer. It was decided she would not die in the hospital but at home. Bong Hen had a large villa with a large first-floor salon. She left the hospital in the morning. She died about 3:00pm that same afternoon.

When we arrived at Bong Hen's villa, we entered a large room; her mother's body was on a waist-high platform draped in golden silk and surrounded by white flowers and flowers carved from sandalwood. Funeral music was playing. It is impossible to adequately describe the effect of the wailing flutes except to say the hair on the back of my neck was standing up. Almost everyone in the room was far too polite to stare but many were stealing discrete glances.

Her oldest brother, Bong Hut, took me and introduced me to family members mostly in order of their rank and age. While they mostly spoke in Khmer, they used the French term, Nine's fiancé, when referring to me. Nine left me with her brother and I did not speak to her again until it was time for me to go back to my apartment. Most of the men were sitting in chairs out on the veranda. In Cambodian culture, the men tended to leave all the religious stuff to the ladies. The women mostly remained in the main room beside the body.

While we were talking on the veranda, Bong Hut used some of this time to explain to me how the funeral ritual would be observed. Immediately following her death, her body was washed by older female family members. Her face and arms were then ceremonially washed by her children. Then the female elders in the family dressed her in the finest quality silk sampot (traditional Cambodian skirt) and blouse.

As with our funeral customs when I was growing up back in Hamilton, the body was never left alone. Her children and grandchildren and an achar or priest would remain with the body, even sleeping beside the body.

Several times each day until the cremation ceremony Buddhist monks would come and recite chants meant to comfort her spirit. They believed her spirit was hovering near her body and would hear the chanting and be led across into the next life by the sound of the chanting. Bong Hut said her cremation service would be in five days.

Caskets And Coins

On the second day of the ceremony the body was placed in beautiful but unadorned rosewood casket. Before the lid was closed, the achar, accompanied by Bong Hut and Bong Hen placed a gold coin in their mother's mouth. After the cremation, when the family members and close family servants go to gather the ashes, the gold coin would be found...symbolizing that she could not take it with her into the next life. Not altogether unlike the Christian belief "Naked came I out of my mother's womb, and naked shall I return thither: the Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord."

From Darkness Into Light

I went to the ceremony each day after work. By the third day I was no longer a curiosity...well perhaps an exaggeration...I suppose "less of a curiosity" would be more accurate.

As the days of the funeral ceremony progressed, more of Nine's colleagues from work came to pay respects. They saw me there and the word spread around the airport like a wildfire; all now knew what only some had suspected.

Car Of The Dead

The day of the funeral came. I had the entire day off the flight schedule. I was up early. By 6:30 am we were all assembled at Bong Hen's villa. This was a huge funeral. Several hundred people were there already.

In Cambodia, the body is taken to the pagoda or in the case of a very large funeral, which this was, to a suitable place near the pagoda where the huge funeral pyre would be. The casket was moved from the house to a waiting lon duc sop (car of the dead) which somewhat resembled a large parade float profusely garlanded with white jasmine blossoms.

As the body emerged from the house the achar signaled the musicians to begin. The eerie, unnerving, wail of the flutes once again caused the hair on my neck to stand straight up. This sensation was so strong I wondered if it was visible to those around me. The casket was placed on the lon duc sop and draped in a large sheet of white silk. The silk had subdued traces of gold on it.

Nine, like all her brothers and sister, was dressed from head to toe in white. Both male and female direct family members wore the traditional sampot chang kben, a type of very long skirt with the trailing portion twisted into a large strand and tucked between their legs and secured in the center of their back. Normally these would be made of colorful hand-woven Khmer silk but for this occasion, they were all white. Both male and female royal family members wore the colorful sampot chang kben on extremely formal religious and state occasions. Ordinary Khmer wore them in their wedding ceremony. Nine, because of certain duties she had to perform at the ceremony also had her head covered with a long white krama (a traditional Khmer scarf usually brightly colored). Her brothers all shaved their heads the night before. I, like all other non-family members, wore black pants and white shirt.

The immediate family walked directly behind the lon duc sop. The others walked in mass behind the family members.

The Pyre

"Death is a mirror in which the entire meaning of life is reflected."

The funeral procession moved through the streets and toward the Botum Wathei Pagoda. The pagoda was directly south of the Royal Palace and was associated with the palace. The stupas of many royal family members and high-ranking politicians were there. The stupas (A stupa (Sanskrit: "heap") is a mound-like or hemispherical structure containing relics (such as śarīra–typically the remains of Buddhist monks or nuns,) that is used as a place of meditation.[2]. of both Nine's grandparents (her mother's father and her father's father) were there. The stupas of great grandparents on both her mother's side and her father's side, King Norodom and King Sisowath were only a few meters away inside the palace. Her mother was truly coming home.

All the time the procession moved through the streets the music never ceased. The wailing of the flutes no longer sounded eerie to me. It was almost soothing. The procession was escorted both by military police due to Bong Hen's position in the military and civilian police. Several high-ranking politicians attended. Nine's father had held several ministerial level posts including that of foreign minister. Interestingly even Prince Sisowath Sirik Matak, who engineered the coupe that deposed King Sihanouk, went to the house to pay respects during the funeral and his wife, Princess Norodom Kethneari attended the actual cremation.

When we arrived in the park just opposite the pagoda, I was astounded at the size of the huge pile of wood about to be burned. This was going to be one huge fire.

I was being escorted or watched after by the husband of one of Nine's mother's sisters. He was not going to be directly involved in the cremation ceremony itself, so he was assigned to be with me and to explain things. He spoke good English. I felt very out of place there. I had spoken no more than a couple of sentences to Nine that morning. As the cremation began, she was probably fifty yards away.

The ceremonial fire was placed on the pyre by an uncle of King Sihanouk, a brother of Queen Kossomak, HRH Samdeck Sisowath Monireth. Within a few short minutes, the flames were leaping into the sky.

As the fire started to burn, I was told by one of Nine's aunts that I should not watch the fire and to turn toward the east because my birthday was too close to the date of her mother's death and the date of the cremation. There was another person there who also did not look for the same reason.

I left as the fire was burning down but still glowing hot. Several hours later but before dark, when the achar had ascertained that only small fragments of bones and teeth remained, the family returned, prayed and poured water on the ashes to cool them down and picked up bone fragments and ashes to put in the silver urn where they would remain. The gold coin would also be retrieved at this time. A custom was for sons, if they chose, to keep one of the teeth and have it incased in gold and worn around the neck. Bong Hut did this. I'm not sure about the others. I did not participate in this last part which was only for immediate family.

As the embers from Princess Sisowath Darameth's funeral pyre cooled, the flames from the Watergate scandal had reached 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue; Nixon aides H.R. Haldeman and John Ehrlichman resigned.

The next time I saw Nine, she was wearing all black. She would do this for six months.

### Acquaintances From The Underworld

The longer I stayed in Cambodia, the more I became aware of an element in the aviation field that rivaled anything from the underworld of Greek mythology. Perhaps the best non-Asian example was an American named Steven Brooks (pseudonym). He was a nice looking super likable, used car salesman type. Steven epitomized the proverbial fast-talking eternal optimist. He would take any shortcut available to him, regardless of the risk to human life in order to make a profit. He ran engines far beyond their scheduled overhaul, falsified maintenance and overhaul records, log books, even pilot's licenses. According to press reports, he and another pilot who had flown with him in Cambodia died in a plane crash a few years after Cambodia fell. The plane was full of marijuana having a street value of more than two million dollars.

But Steven was not alone. Numerous Chinese were bringing in old run-out DC-3 aircraft and operating them in the numerous new startup airlines. I can't count the times I heard them do an engine run-up at the end of the runway before takeoff...their engines sputtering so loudly nobody in their right mind would takeoff. They would turn onto the runway, advance the power, and go sputtering and smoking down the runway. Most of the time they made it; sometimes they didn't.

The most infamous of these junk airplane owner/operators was a Chinese named Johnny Lee (pseudonym) and perhaps the most amazing of these Chinese junkers was a Boeing 307. The B-307 was an adaptation from Boeing's B-17 bomber. It had four engines (the same engines used by the DC-3), was pressurized, and required a flight engineer. Pan Am and TWA were the first airlines to put them into service. Most of us had never heard of a Boeing 307. It was poorly maintained like most of the Chinese operated airplanes and on 27 June 1974, shortly after takeoff from Battambang, three of its four engines failed. It crashed in a rice field killing 19 of its 33 passengers.

Government corruption was so bad that no amount of malpractice, no amount of lives lost, could ground these anything-for-profit operators. The same operator crashed a DC-3 (C-47) 19 May 1973 in Svay Rieng claiming the lives of eleven.

On 2 October 1972 the same operator had crashed a DC-3 in Kampot, this time killing only 9 passengers. In July of 1972, in Kompong Som he crashed another DC, fortunately this time killing no one.

No matter how many people this unscrupulous aircraft operator killed, no matter how much grief and suffering he caused, he just paid off more officials and continued spreading his death and destruction.

The demons in hell are waiting for Johnny Lee along with all the miserable bastards he bribed so he could continue flying and killing people. Johnny Lee was the reincarnation of Charon, the underworld evil spirit who ferried the dead across the streams of Acheron into Hades. Charon's fee was a gold coin placed in the mouth of the dead before leaving on their journey into the underworld. This heartless SOB took his fee from the living as well as from the dead. There was no place on earth like Cambodia during the Phnom Penh airlift.

### My Pochentong Near Death Experience

It was my last flight of the day. We were returning to home base from Battambang. I never descended early. There was no need. My plane was pressurized I could remain high and descend rapidly just before reaching the airport without hurting the passenger's ears. In my decent, no more than six miles from the airport we heard a loud bang, the aircraft yawed, and the left engine immediately began running rough. I checked my instruments and could see we were losing power on the left engine. I looked out the window and the left engine cowling was covered with oil. We were heavy, plenty heavy but well within the aircraft's normal capability. My first concern was to try to save the engine from doing extensive damage to itself. I immediately began the engine shutdown procedure. I looked again out the window at the left engine. This time, in addition to lots of oil, more oil than I'd ever seen coming from any engine, I thought I could see a slight deformity in the cowling.

I knew that if I didn't shut the engine down right then, it could cause serious damage. The aircraft had an auto-feather system, but we always kept it turned off except during takeoff. There was no time for the engine shutdown checklist. I pulled the power back on the left engine, ordered the co-pilot to retard the prop, I shut off the left mixture control, and initiated engine feather. The prop started moving toward the feather position but then stopped. The engine was no longer running but it was still turning. This condition is called windmilling.

Something had stopped the prop from going all the way into the feather position thereby allowing the airflow to turn the prop much as the wind turns a windmill pumping water. As the prop continued to cause the engine to turn, more oil was being pumped out. Now, in addition to the cowling and now a large area of the wing being covered with oil, I could see a large bump starting to appear at the one o'clock position on the cowling. The cowling was being pounded by something. Seconds later the bump on the cowling ruptured; we could see one of the cylinders had come off and was being moved up and down by the piston. Because the prop would not feather, the engine was now being turned by the prop rather than the prop by the engine.

I asked the co-pilot to check the left engine feather pump circuit breakers. When he replied they were popped a short-lived surge of optimism swept over us. With luck, we could reset the blown circuit breakers and resume the feathering process. He reset them and I hit the feather button again. Almost immediately they blew a second time.

"Hold the bastards in by hand" I instructed. "I'll fry the feather pump before I let it fry us." When the copilot was in position and physically holding the circuit breakers in by hand I pushed and held the feather button in. I saw the amp meters move toward full scale. I could see the prop was not moving. Then I saw the amp meters drop back to normal. I had fried the feather pump to the point it burned some wires or something. Whatever had happened, the normal amp reading was telling me the circuit to the feather pump was now open and the feather pump was no longer an option. What that really meant was the prop blade position was going to remain where it was, which meant it would continue turning the engine which would in turn continue shucking itself. Our circumstances were going to hell in a hand basket...rapidly.

I had already moved the remaining engine up to max cruise power and had to open the cowl flaps to help cool it. In spite of this we were continuing to lose altitude. We were about five miles out and I was already starting to have serious reservations about making the runway. While we were five miles from the airport, I was not lined up on final approach. I was almost 90 degrees from the final approach course. In order to put myself on even a short final, my track miles needed to be at least six. We were continuing to lose altitude and I knew even with max continuous power on the good engine we would not be able to hold altitude. It was a fact that from our present position to touchdown, the best I could hope for was a descent rate that might make the runway.

I changed out heading 15 degrees to the left which would place us intercepting the final approach course on less than a two-mile final. The maneuver onto final would require a much steeper bank that what was normally considered safe on short final, never mind being on single engine. The bank would also rob some of my lift, taking it from my vertical lift component and using it for horizontal lift. There were no options...only a few critical decisions as to when to initiate the required actions. I called for max continuous power. The co-pilot moved the throttle up to the max continuous setting. We opened the cowl flaps more trying to keep our remaining engine temperature from exceeding limits. I told the co-pilot to advise the control tower we were declaring an emergency and were requesting landing priority. He did and we received our clearance to land immediately; all other traffic was diverted or sent into holding patterns. The tower asked if we wanted the fire trucks beside the runway. I advised that that was affirmative. Have them positioned in place.

We continued to lose altitude at a rate that made our reaching the runway very questionable. I looked desperately for a place to put the plane down in an emergency landing; there was nothing but houses and villages below us. The cylinder head temperatures on the right engine continued to rise. We opened the cowl flaps all the way.

I ordered the co-pilot to turn on the alcohol injection. We were not scheduled to make another takeoff so our ADI (anti-detonation injection) fluid was low. The engine surged as the ADI injection began. The co-pilot inched the power toward takeoff power. We did not want to apply full takeoff power until absolutely necessary. The added power helped slow our descent rate, but we could not arrest it. We selected the flaps to their first setting which would produce some much-needed lift.

I knew that at some point we would have to drop the landing gear. I did not know the extent to which it would increase our drag and our descent rate, but I knew it would be horrendously detrimental. I knew that we must delay extending the gear until the very last possible second if we were to have any chance of reaching the end of the runway. What I did not know was how long it would take the gear to go down in our present hydraulic configuration. It would certainly be slower than normal. If I miscalculated, only by a fraction, we would all parish in a ball of flames. I paused for a couple of seconds and prayed "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me."

Approaching interception of our final approach course, I banked the aircraft hard to the right and commanded takeoff power on the right engine. I was pushing on the rudder peddle with all my might. As anticipated, our descent rate increased due to the steep bank. As soon as we rolled out on final, I called for gear down. I backed this up with a call for emergency gear extension (pneumatically plowing open the uplocks). I heard the gear doors open and the gear begin to extend. An eternity passed before the red gear in transit lights went out and the green gear down and locked lights came on.

Our airspeed was dangerously low. I was using every extra knot to provide lift...not forward speed. Heightening the tension was the ever-present awareness that I was not only dangerously close to a stall but also equally dangerously close to being unable to control the aircraft (VMCA), a speed below which one cannot maintain directional control in the air with max power applied. I'd never been more focused in my life. By the grace of and with the help of God, we touched down literally inches after the start of the runway. Later, when I viewed our touchdown tire marks on the runway from our SEAAT jeep, they were less than two feet from where the runway surface began...about one second from landing short.

After landing, sitting in a sweat soaked shirt with my legs still shaking, the crew chief came onboard and told me he had seen the left engine stop turning only a few hundred feet before the end of the runway. The engine had finally seized. The seizing of the engine allowed the prop to stop turning, which reduced the drag and without question allowed us to reach the end of the runway. Till today, I believe the hand of the LORD seized the engine to save our lives...the lives of five crew and 52 passengers.

By the time I stopped shaking, signed all the flight's paperwork and got down from the plane a large crowd of airport MPs, mechanics, and airline employees were gathered around the oil drenched cowling the mechanics had just removed from our left engine. They were pointing to a large bullet hole in the side of my cowling. My guess was it was a 50-caliber antiaircraft round. The investigation later confirmed it was in fact a 50-caliber round. Some of our briefings had reported AA sites in other parts of the country but I hadn't heard of one this close to Phnom Penh before. I was sure the air attaché would have plenty of questions about just where I took this little jewel.

The mechanics had already determined that the 50-caliber round had penetrated the engine cowling and the cylinder wall. Once inside the cylinder the piston was instantly shattered. From there the piston began the destruction of the cylinder, breaking it loose from the engine case and finally pushing the cylinder partially through the cowling.

The cylinders on large radial engines such as the Pratt & Whitney R-2800 were external rather than being inside a block. Probably within a few seconds from the bullet strike the cylinder was separated from engine case. The mechanics advised the engine was scrap metal. Only some externally mounted accessories like generators and starters, magnetos, coils, etc., could be saved. They weren't sure why the prop wouldn't feather but said it was probably due to massive metal chip contamination throughout the entire oil system. As was their normal custom, they had already written on the cowling with a magic marker "From Cy With Love." I walked away from the aircraft very thankful to be alive. I took a picture. It was left behind when I was evacuated.

### From The Pagoda Arose More Than Chants

I learned early on that a sure way to get on your crew chief's s-list was to continually be coming in with bullet holes in "his" airplane. Being probably the most cautious of the SEAT pilots augmented by the fact that the planes I flew were pressurized allowing me to stay high longer and get hit less, I managed to stay pretty close to the bottom of their list. However, as just recounted, I was not immune to taking a round now and then.

One day on departure from Battambang heading back to Phnom Penh, we heard three tap...tap...tap sounds come from the back of the plane. Our pressurization hiccupped then returned to normal. Almost immediately the senior cabin attendant entered the cockpit advising we had bullet holes in the fuselage back in the galley. He said nobody in the back was hit. I sent the copilot back to take a look instructing him to look for damage to hydraulic lines or flight controls. He returned a couple of minutes later saying they appeared to have missed the critical stuff. We checked all our quantity and pressure indicators, which appeared normal and continued on to Phnom Penh. He said they did not appear to be AA (antiaircraft) but rather 7.62mm (AK-47). With luck the crew chief could just tape over them with speed tape after certifying nothing critical had been struck. We carefully marked the location on the map where we believe we took the rounds. The position was suspiciously close to a large pagoda sitting on a small hill about three miles from the airport. The embassy had briefed us that the pagodas had been put off limits to airstrikes and that probably meant they would become sanctuaries. I couldn't help but muse that normally sanctuaries were where birds and other wildlife went to get away from hunters. In this case, it appears the hunters went there to hunt the birds (us). We called Disco, the AWAC and advised them we had taken small arms fire and gave them the coordinates. I called flight ops and gave the good news to the crew chief. He was guaranteed be waiting with a scowl and a roll of 210 mile per hour speed tape. I looked at the co-pilot, smiled, and said, "just another day in paradise." The rest of the flight was uneventful.

### The Orphanage

One day, while talking to some American missionaries working in Cambodia I per chance learned about a young Korean Christian man who was struggling to shelter and feed a bunch of orphaned Khmer kids. The government was overwhelmed and unable to make even a small dent in caring for the hundreds upon hundreds of children being orphaned as a result of the war. These missionaries were from the same group I'd met in the Congo; the Christian and Missionary Alliance or CAMA. Here they were called CAMA Cambodia.

I asked one of the missionary couples I had recently met, Merle and Louisa Graven, if they could take me to see the orphanage. They readily agreed. I went straight to their house after my final flight of the day and they drove me to a neighborhood of water filled muddy streets and wooden houses. There, down a narrow footpath, we came to a wooden and tin structure. I could hear the chatter and the laugher of innumerable small children inside. A slim and very pleasant young Asian man met us at the doorway. He said his name was Jimmy (pseudonym). He spoke pretty good English. He showed us around the place. There was no furniture, only mosquito nets and mats for the children to sleep on. I saw a large blackboard where he apparently was attempting to provide some schooling as well. There was a young Cambodian lady with him. She too was a Christian I was told.

I asked how I could help. Jimmy quickly replied that feeding them was the most pressing need. With the food shortages, especially rice which would be their basic diet, this was a daily escalating problem. He was receiving no organized support. Just occasional donation from anyone he could persuade. I decided I could help. I had an idea, but the plan would take a day or two to put into action. In the meantime, I took all the money I had on me, probably about $20, and gave it to him. He was very thankful. I told him I would see him again soon.

### My Fishy Idea Flopped

The following day I had a flight to one of my favorite airports...Kompong Chhnang. As usual, the wholesale fish merchants were overseeing the loading of their baskets of fish and haggling with us to carry more than our contract called for. I almost always said no, but today I had come with an idea. I planned to help Jimmy feed his orphans. So I told him I would carry five extra baskets of fish in exchange for one basket. He immediately started trying to convince me to take money rather than his fish as he figured I did not know the value of the fish (which I didn't) and he could get a better deal by giving me money. I held firm on my demand and soon was the proud owner of a basket of live, flopping, 12-13-inch-long catfish which I had placed in the cockpit. I made him give me some extra ice to help them make the thirty-minute flight back to Phnom Penh. I was pretty sure the co-pilot would rather have seen me take the money rather than a basket of dripping, flopping, fish. When he made captain, the call would be his, but today we would be flying with the orphan's fish.

After the flight I had the driver drop me and my fish at the orphanage. Jimmy was surprised to see me so soon and even more surprised to see the fish. He did appear a little reluctant about the fish, but I insisted the children would really enjoy something nice for a change...not just rice gruel. I stayed a few minutes playing with the little children then headed back to my apartment.

The next morning, I found a note from Merle Graven, saying Jimmy had come to him saying many of the children had come down with diarrhea because of the fish. Apparently, they were too rich for their system after only eating rice and some occasional green vegetables in their soup. So much for my fish idea.

### Rice And Green Vegetables

### My New Contraband

But I was far from defeated. I knew I could persuade a couple of the more soft-hearted pilots to put the bite on the wholesalers for fresh vegetables and rice. I smiled as I reviewed my plan; I should have been a mobster.

By the end of the day Bat was enthusiastically on board and he promised he would not see me again before he had enlisted Paul Rakisits as well. The plan was coming together. I wasn't exactly sure how the missionaries and the other Christians associated with the orphanage would view my plan in light of their Christian sensitivities; I decided it would be best they not find out. The operation was classified "SECRET." Besides, God used all kinds of unsavory people in the Bible to accomplish his goals. Matthew was a tax collector. Rahab, a prostitute, was not only the great-great-grandmother of King David but also an ancestor of Jesus. The first person saved through belief in Jesus was a thief dying with Jesus on the cross. I elected to believe that God would turn his All-Seeing-Eyes in another direction. The plan worked; the missionaries and Jimmy never found the source of their gifts of food for the children; the children went to bed each night with stomachs satisfied.

### Espionnage Affaire

Hank (pseudonym) was one of the assistant air attachés. I liked Hank immediately; I'd liked anybody who wore cowboy boots in Cambodia. Sometimes, on the ground in Phnom Penh while our aircraft was being loaded, I'd go over and sit in the U.S. Air force's bunker; partly because I enjoyed their company and partly because it had lots of sandbags piled up all around it. It could withstand just about anything the Khmer Rouge had short of a direct hit.

One day as I sat in the bunker chatting with one of the enlisted men whose job it was to supervise the quick unloading of the U.S. C-130 supply flights, Hank came in. He was obviously mad about something. My casual "hey man...what's up" unleashed the whole story. In a narrative heavily laced with expletives I learned that Hank and been "seeing" a certain, very attractive Swiss or German (most people weren't sure) travel agent named Valérie (pseudonym). She and the man she lived with...whom I had thought was her husband up until this point, ran a travel agency in Phnom Penh. It seems some embassy official had learned of what I later discovered was their not-so-discrete liaison and made an issue out of it, telling Hank she was an East German agent and he was compromising our operations. I could tell by his total loss of cool that Hank already had a dog in the fight as the old timers back in Hamilton used to say. He was told that if he didn't break it off immediately, he would be out of Cambodia on the next flight taking with him a serious blotch on his military record that would guarantee him no further promotions, if not a discharge. I kinda felt sorry for him, and yet I had to wonder how he could have thought that relationship would not come back to bite him...as it just had. A couple of months later Hank was gone. I never asked if he broke off the little affair. Never bothered to ask if she was the reason he left. It is said that "love is blind." I believe it's fair to say that both love and lust are blind.

### The Kompong Chhnang Toll Road

One day we landed in Kompong Chhnang just about lunch time. The loading of our aircraft was going to take about 45 minutes. The lieutenant in charge of the airport at the time suggested we try a restaurant he recommended about three miles away in the center of town. Upon hearing that, one of our regular fish shippers who had received some merchandise from Phnom Penh on our flight offered to let us ride into town with the cargo we just brought in for him. It sounded like a pretty good idea. After dark it would have been suicidal but for the moment, FANK (the Cambodian Army) had the road open.

The truck we were riding in was stopped by the military police at the gate leading off the airport. They were talking to the driver. They began to argue...money changed hands, and we moved forward. The shipper explained to me if his driver had not paid, they would have made him unload all the cargo from the truck so they could "inspect" it.

I swear we hadn't gone another couple of minutes, and we came to another road block. These guys were from a different military unit. Again the driver shucked out money. All in all, this happened four times before reaching the restaurant where we hopped out. As I was thanking the shipper for the ride, I asked if this happened all the time. "All the time," was his reply. "It's just part of the cost of doing business." We enjoyed a nice traditional meal of soup and rice and headed back to the airport via a motodop (motorbike taxi). The check points never acknowledged our presence; we drove right through them. In spite of these blatant exercises in corruption, I found it hard to think too badly of them. Most probably were paid only sporadically while their colonels and generals drove about in luxury cars, eating in the best restaurants, accompanied by their harems. Sometimes a guy's gotta do what a guy's gotta do.

### My Nightly Visitors

Scarcely a day passed that I didn't see some horror of war that would return later in a bad dream. While I wasn't concerned about my sanity...I started to dread going to sleep at night. Several times each week I would awake an hour or so after falling asleep, my heart pounding from fright. When talking to other pilots, some would recount the same experience. Years later I learned this was a common symptom of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder or PTSD. Unfortunately for us, it would be seven more years, in 1980, before it was officially recognized as a disorder. Many of us knew we had lots of bad dreams, almost all of us jumped at sudden or loud noises, some of us would see something which would trigger some playback in our head. Most of us were up tight all the time and losing one's cool was a frequent occurrence...but hell...we all just thought that was normal.

For the waves of death engulfed me; the torrents of destruction terrified me. The ropes of Sheol entangled me; the snares of death confronted me.

### A Family Outing

My relationship with Nine was starting to move out of the closet. One night she told me that her family had planned a dinner at a well-known Chinese restaurant and all the family would be there. She explained this was a signal to the general public that the family had accepted our relationship. Needless to say, I was just a bit apprehensive. Except for her eldest brother, Bong Hut, I'd only seen her family at the funeral.

On the night of the dinner, Nine came early. She wanted to spend a few minutes briefing me on little family nuances I should be aware of. Seems while they all more or less got along, there were, nevertheless, some areas of sensitivity into which I should not stumble. I was going to have a hard-enough time learning all their names, much less subtleties in interrelationships.

Bong Hut and his wife came to pick us up. He drove a large late model Mercedes. We chatted about politics and how the war was going all the way to the restaurant.

At the main entrance, we were escorted to a private dining room. On the way, the owner of the restaurant met us and greeted Bong Hut. Apparently, he was more of a VIP than I'd initially assumed. The owner kept bowing and satouking (classic greeting and sign of respect where the hands are pressed together as if praying and brought up touching the mouth). As we entered the private dining room most of the family was already seated around a huge circular table. In the center of the table was a smaller circular, rotating table resembling a lazy-Susan.

Soon after we were seated, they began serving hot tea from tea pots. There were at least three servers for our table; sometimes as many as five. We drank the tea from small porcelain tea cups which had no handles. The tea still had pieces of the tea leaves floating in it. I figured this was not a mistake but rather by design. I could smell the scent of jasmine. I'd had jasmine tea in Cambodia before but never in such an elegant environment.

Next, they brought in the starter dishes. There were so many different varieties; each on its own plate. There were plates of roasted peanuts, boiled peanuts, plates of cold meats like pork and duck and stuff I didn't have a clue what it was. There were plates of cold vegetables, some pickled; most I'd never seen before...all carved into artistic shapes.

Before leaving the apartment Nine had told me it would be necessary to pace myself by eating only little bits of each thing as there would be many courses. She had warned there might possibly be up to nine. At the time I thought that would be easy enough to handle but when I saw all those wonderful and exotic appetizers, I realized pacing myself was indeed going to be a problem. I could have made a meal out of each one. Inside my head Nine and my evil twin were engaged in a shouting match...Nine's soft voice whispering "pace yourself" and my evil's twin's persuasive response..."just one more bite." Somehow, I managed to contain my wolf-it-all-up impulse and nibble like a cottontail on a carrot top. But even when I paused for a break, I kept eying my favorite ones. Midway through the snacks several bottles of Chinese beer were placed on the table. By this time I was more than ready for a glass.

As all the nibbling foods were removed from the table in anticipation of the full array of main dishes, I noticed there were still a few of my favorites left uneaten...my eyes followed them all the way out the door. I could hear my father's voice telling me to eat all the food on my plate, reminding me of all the hungry children in the world who were starving. I could just see one of those waiters stuffing them in his mouth as he was heading down the hall to toward the kitchen...and they sure as hell weren't starving.

The main courses began to arrive. There was one plate with a Peking Duck, one with an entire fish, including the head (it looked like some kind of carp and probably weighted five pounds), a plate of roast pork, and a dish of chicken. Small rice bowls were at each place setting along with a porcelain Chinese soup spoon, a silver western style soup spoon, and of course our chopsticks. I had already learned the entire spoon and chopstick drill...all the dos and don'ts concerning my spoon and chopsticks.

The servers put rice in each of our small rice bowls. There were large bowls of soup, plus bowls of shrimp and squid carved in various shapes and mixed with vegetables and simmered in some kind of sauce. There was a plate with a bunch of round deep-fried balls with some kind of spike sticking out. I was told the spike was the claw of a crab and that it had shrimp paste molded around it then was deep fried. There was another dish of sea food with a rich cream sauce placed on top of a plate of dried noodles. Everything looked like a complete meal in itself. I now fully understood Nine's pace yourself instructions.

Along with all this food, a bottle containing some kind of clear alcohol drink was placed on the table. I was told it was rice wine and seeing my curiosity, one of the servers poured a small quantity into a small specially-designed porcelain cup. It was slightly warm and tasted like liquid fire. I politely smiled. Everyone was watching to see my reaction. I felt the warming effect of the drink making its way to my stomach. I quickly moved on to rice and tea hoping to extinguish the fire; all the time I continued to smile. I figured I could go the rest of my life without missing that stuff. While I'd never had moonshine, I reckoned I'd just come pretty damn close.

Chinese "Soul Food" Experience

### (my evil twin made me say it)

The main courses were wonderful. Probably some of the most enjoyable food I'd ever had...with one exception. As my eyes explored the incredible array of delicacies spread before me, they came to rest on a dish of braised chicken parts...parts as not in wings and necks...parts as in heads and feet; a plate piled high with braised chicken heads and feet. They came complete with beaks and claws. I later learned The Chinese and Cambodians considered this some of the best meat on the chicken...the meat close to the bone.

Well, this country boy from Hamilton Texas had an unequivocally dissimilar interpretation of that pile of parts. I'd seen the feet of countless chickens as they scratched and pecked their way around in a chicken coup filled with chicken poo. I'd seen the amalgamation of poo and feathers clinging to their feet. As for the chicken heads...most of the feathers were gone but an occasional quill was left standing like the occasional surviving mesquite after a grass fire moves across a Central Texas cow pasture.

Nine's older sister (her only sister) Princess Norodom Ronida was seated directly opposite me. She was as totally focused on me as she could be without being rude. Soon I noticed most of those seated at the table were as well. The single collective thought of all at the entire table was...would he or wouldn't he. I'd eaten monkey in the Congo, and various others questionable things since I left Hamilton...I could eat one of those chicken feet. I smiled, picked one out of the plate with my serving spoon, placed it on my plate, grabbed it with my chopsticks and bit off the big toe in the center. I chewed it up, bone, claw and all, all the while grinning like a monkey eating cockleburs as my father used to say. As I chomped down on the bones, I was sure everybody at the table could hear the cracking and crunching. I pushed the images of Hamilton County chicken coups out of my mind. I kept telling myself to just imagine this was Vivian Drake's Sunday dinner fried chicken. The sweet and hot sauce was very good. This helped me get through the ordeal. The following day Nine told me you didn't eat the bone, you only stripped the meat from the bone. I had to laugh, and still do some forty years later, when I realize how ridiculous I must have looked to her family.

By the time the evening was over, I was so full I was physically uncomfortable. But the experience was worth it. I'd met her brothers, her sister and her family, and more importantly...this obligatory public appearance with her family was now behind me. We were officially out of the closet.

As we left our private dining room, the owner met us bowing all the way to the door. Every eye in the restaurant was on our group. Bong Hut stopped and acknowledged a couple of the diners. Phnom Penh, even though the nation's capital, was still, at the upper levels, a small village where everybody knew everybody...as well as their business.

When I got in bed that night, I had a new understanding of "kings and vagabonds." These were interesting times. I pulled my pillow into my chest, said my prayers, and hoped my night visitors would not once again return to terrify me.

### Some Gave All

The morning began like all the others...crew car ride to the airport, morning briefing on the latest hotspots (usually worthless), and the usual micro-economy underneath the aircraft as passengers, smugglers, and cargo all vied and bribed for the precious space aboard the flight.

Our flight to Kompong Som was good; the aircraft was running well, the crew chief who was onboard running scans with the engine analyzer attempting to determine how long he could continue to run our spark plugs said all looked well. We didn't take any rounds during the climb-out or decent...just another day in Paradise.

We loaded our passengers, the usual array of businessmen, families, and military (both the well and the wounded), plus large quantities of fish fresh from the fishing boats that had been out on the Gulf of Thailand all night. This cargo of fish was vital to the airlift of food into the blockaded capital of Phnom Penh.

Ream Airbase was right on the water's edge. The temperature was still cool, and we had a gentle breeze coming off the water which allowed us to put on a few extra containers of fish. The mountains to our north and the bay to the south looked like something straight out of a tourist brochure. But this Tuesday morning 5 June 1973 picturesque setting would soon morph into the flames of hell.

We had adjusted our track so we would join a right base for Runway 23 at Phnom Penh's Pochentong Airport. As we entered right base, we heard a U.S. Air Force OV-10 (Bronco), call sign Nail 42, call for takeoff. I looked down and saw the battleship gray OV-10 at the holding point on the main taxiway leading from the military ramp. The tower cleared him onto the runway and to takeoff. The air traffic controllers were terribly inept during this period. The pilot saw us and asked if we were going to be OK, meaning would we have enough separation being I was already by this time on final with our gear down and legally had the right of way. Of course I jokingly replied...I get paid by the hour. He laughed and started his takeoff roll. I pulled back our power a little bit and continued our approach. This was wartime and we operated on close separation regularly. As I watched him go down the runway, suddenly, just as I was expecting him to lift off, he began what appeared to be a max effort abort. Stories from other Nail pilots vary as to exactly what his intentions were later judged to have been, but I could see him suddenly decelerating and sparks started coming from the aircraft's belly tank (centerline mounted 230-gallon fuel drop tank) which appeared to be grinding on the runway. The sparks almost immediately turned to flames as the fuel leaking from the now ruptured tank ignited.

We immediately called a missed approach which I'm sure nobody heard at that point. But rather than breaking off, I continued at low level down the right side of the runway keeping the now fully-engulfed OV-10 in my cockpit left window. I could see the pilot in the cockpit. He appeared to be getting ready to leave the aircraft.

He was soon behind us and out of my line of sight. I gave the flight controls to the co-pilot and told him to bring up the landing gear, put the flaps to approach setting, maintain this low altitude and approach speed and to circle back onto final again. While he was doing this, I grabbed my 35mm Nikon from my flight bag and started taking pictures; this time out the right window over the co-pilot's shoulder. I'd taken about three or four frames and ran out of film. I quickly dug in my flight bag and pulled out another roll. Over several years of practice I'd gotten pretty fast at reloading film. By the time we were back on final approach the OV-10 was completely engulfed in flames. I tried to see if the pilot was still in the cockpit; it appeared he was not. I looked but I couldn't see him standing on the runway anywhere...which wouldn't have been a good idea as his rockets were already spewing and skipping along the runway. We finished our low pass; I shot up the entire new roll of film and circled back around for a landing.

Other aircraft were starting to arrive. Most were low on fuel. We made a short landing, stopping short of the burning aircraft, turned around on the runway and taxied onto the ramp. I asked the tower if the pilot made it out safely. He replied that he did not.

While they were refueling us for the next flight, I walked over to the U.S. Air Force loadmaster's heavily sandbagged operations center and gave him my two rolls of film with instructions to pass it to the Air Attaché. He immediately rang the embassy on the field radio. They told him Lt. Col. Mark Berent (radio call sign Papa Wolf) was already on his way and should arrive any minute. The sergeant said he would give the film to him. As I walked slowly back to the airplane, I wondered if I would be next. First Lieutenant Dick Gray, pilot of Nail 42 was listed as Killed In Action...military terminology which sterilizes or dehumanizes the real tragedy. "All gave some"; that day 1st Lt. Dick Gray, "gave all." Rest In Peace Dick Gray.

### When The Americans Stop Bombing...What Then?

The 15 August 1973 congressionally mandated bombing halt in Cambodia would mean relief to the apolitical Cambodian peasant farmers who were suffering from the U.S. Air Force bombings. Unfortunately, it would provide equal relief to the Khmer Rouge whose full goals were yet unknown both to the people of Cambodia and to the rest of the world. It was clear, even to the least astute political pundit, that the Lon Nol government would be unlikely to withstand the almost certain all-out military assault on Phnom Penh which would follow the bombing halt.

The Khmer Rouge was basically a shadowy group to the outside world, but the Cambodia people already well understood their brutality and cruelty. By design, knowledge of their terror tactics had long ago reached Phnom Penh and the other major capitals that were not already in Khmer Rouge hands. These hordes of demons clad in black enjoyed killing.

"A day of darkness and gloom, a day of clouds and dense overcast, like the dawn spreading over the mountains; a great and strong people appears, such as never existed in ages past and never will again in all the generations to come."

All believed the American backed government of Lon Nol would fall; it would only be a matter of time. That timeframe was the subject of constant speculation among both the Cambodians and the expatriate community. This fearful speculation and the constant proliferation of rumors fueled previously unimagined devaluation to Cambodia's local currency, the Riel and to the entire spectrum of what was left of the economy.

The prices of basic commodities such as chicken, pork, fish, and rice were rapidly climbing beyond the reach of the poorer segments of the population. The Americans were flying in tons upon tons of rice as aid to help stabilize the price, but the corruption of government officials insured most of the direct benefit did not reach those who needed it the most.

Chronic fuel shortages, caused by the Khmer Rouge's ability to seriously restrict the flow of barge traffic up and down the Mekong, was resulting in power outages lasting most of the day. Many businesses were basically unable to function. The ability to preserve meats, medicines, and other commodities requiring refrigeration was critically hindered. Rumor became more of an influence on the free market that fact itself.

### The Economics Of Hard Times

The blockade of Phnom Penh and other major cities restricted the flow of goods. The more transportable a valuable commodity was, the more in demand it became.

For example, in normal times, a Mercedes car, a beautiful villa, and a diamond were valuable commodities. However in times of extreme uncertainty where the free flow of goods was restricted, such as during the blockade, only the goods that were easily transportable had value. As time progressed, this became more pronounced. Those with the ability and means to leave the country were doing so. They were trying to sell their beautiful homes but there were no buyers. Nobody believed in the future. You could not put a home in your suitcase. While the Mercedes was in fact normally transportable, with the Khmer Rouge controlling all the major routes into and out of the country, the luxury automobile was no longer transportable. It would have to remain in Phnom Penh when the Khmer Rouge took over...thus you could buy them for pennies on the dollar with few takers.

On the other hand, a diamond, unlike a luxury home and automobile, was extremely portable, as was gold. It would not only fit in your suitcase, it would fit in your handbag or be stitched into the lining of your pants. The price of diamonds went through the roof...as did the price of gold. The Cambodian Riel was worthless outside the borders of Cambodia. Everyone wanted to get rid of their riels and get into dollars. This demand on the dollar drove up its value while the great number of riels on the market made them worthless. This scenario worsened day after day. Again, those at the lowest strata of the Cambodian society suffered the most.

While this was horrible for the local population, the pilots, who were paid in dollars benefitted immensely. Rent for my apartment when I moved in was $100 in riels. Six months later its dollar equivalent was forty.

As all this was happening, we started to hear the journalists telling how the newly arrived refugees streaming into Phnom Penh from all over the countryside were reporting the confiscation of their private property and all property was being placed into a communal system controlled by the Khmer Rouge central committee. If any still held out hope that these murderous monsters in black pajamas could be better than the corrupt government of Lon Nol, this seemed to drive a stake into the heart of that fallacy.

### Temple Rubbings Versus Temple Robbings

The Khmer Rouge controlled the area of the country bordering Thailand where most of the world-renowned temples were located. However there were other well-known archeological sites located all over the country which were left unguarded due to enemy action. Now when going to the shops which sold the traditional tourist replicas of 1000 year old statues and "temple rubbings" made from impressions taken from the walls of these famous temples, it was possible to acquire authentic heads and hands broken off these priceless artifacts. While I could not be sure of their authenticity, a journalist I knew told me some European antique dealers were making lots of money in this illegal trade. Just another way this insane war was hurting the country.

### The Bombing Halt–Possible Evacuation

Time marched unrelentingly toward what at times seemed like the edge of some cliff overlooking the gates of hell. I was starting to have flashbacks during waking hours...often during flights, of what fate would befall those left behind when all the Americans, Europeans, and other foreigners left Phnom Penh. These were horrid images, often composites of the malnutrition, maiming, death and sorrow that seemed an inescapable daily occurrence . . . like standing before the open gates of hell, unable to turn away. I saw a sign above the gate..."Ye who enter, abandon all hope." I cursed myself for thinking too much. A trait inherited without doubt from my mother.

The embassy was already drafting and reviewing evacuation plans. We received regular updates. It was officially called Contingency Plan 5060C, but locally referred to as "Operation Eagle Pull." It was based on three basic options ranging from civilized to gutsy. Civilized was leaving from Pochentong airport via chartered aircraft (Bird Air and others). That plan of course could only work if the airport was still in our hands or not under attack. Gutsy was sending in the Marines to secure LZs (landing zones) inside the city then bringing in CH-53 helicopters (Jolly Green Giants) and landing in open field LZs near the embassy and in other strategic locations. We were briefed on the signals which would announce the beginning of the operation and proceed to our assigned LZ. Things were starting to take on a previously unseen tone of urgency. At the forefront of all this was Nine...what if we got the call to go. While I had decided that I loved her, we weren't married. She was still wearing black. How could I get her out? Visas at this time were not easy to come by and half of Phnom Penh was waiting in line to get one. I knew I had some pull at the embassy; this would be the ultimate measurement of it. I decided I needed to go have a talk with my friend Jack McCarthy the U.S. Consul.

### "Then She's Yours–Take Her"

As usual, Jack's desk was piled high with papers, but he smiled and welcomed me into his small office. He knew Nine and I had a relationship. Hell, by this time it appeared all of Phnom Penh knew. Phnom Penh was just a small village with what was estimated to be over a half million refugee population.

I had expected to have to make a long and difficult case. But to my amazement, Jack asked if I were going to marry her. When I answered yes, he replied "then she's yours...take her. Bring me her passport; I'll put the visa in it as soon as I get it." While his statement sounded a bit chauvinistic, we both clearly understood it meant as far as the U.S. Embassy was concerned, she was my responsibility...just as though she had been my wife.

I left his office with the weight of the world lifted from my shoulders. That night I told Nine to have the driver bring her passport when he returned to take her home. The following day Nine had a U.S. Visa in her passport. Jack had put an entry on the visa noting "Mrs. James Jacks." That entry would later prove to be priceless.

Phnom Penh back then was the Wild West and the embassy has some real red-blooded cowboys. I'm glad Jack McCarthy was one of them. The next time I saw Bong Hut, I could tell he was genuinely impressed and proud. His little sister had a visa to the United States in less than 24 hours; in reality, in about thirty minutes. I also could tell he was relieved. If anybody was harboring any reservations about my intentions, they were now baseless.

### Spiraling

As the economy was spiraling downward and black-market prices were spiraling upward, I too found myself spiraling up and down. By June of 1973 the Khmer Rouge controlled areas as close as ten miles from the center of Phnom Penh, putting a normal climb and descent well within range of their SAM-7 missiles and in some cases within AK-47 range. As a result, after takeoff we would spiral overhead the airport until reaching 5000 feet before leaving the airport traffic pattern. We did the same when landing. We would plan our flight to arrive overhead the airport at 5000 feet then spiral down. This made the airport traffic pattern a very interesting place, especially in times of poor visibility. The air traffic controllers had no radar, so it was pretty much up to each pilot to maintain visual separation. Semi-coordinated chaos was about the kindest thing one could say about the situation. The bright side of this was I was getting paid by the hour and this precaution added about five minutes on each end of the leg so a flight from Phnom Penh to Battambang would now earn me and extra 20 minutes flight time.

### The Pol Pot Weight Loss Program

As the flying continued at a relentless pace and the enemy continued tightening their stranglehold, the day to day stress started to take its toll. To the conscious mind, it was hardly perceivable, yet from the moment you rolled out of bed and put your feet on the floor, it was all around. Each day you drove to the airport wondering what hideous atrocity you would see or hear about from the previous night's rocket attacks. Each day as you walked on the tarmac of the airport you wondered if today one of the numerous rockets that landed on the airport almost daily would have your name on it. Each time you advance the throttles, released the brakes, and started the takeoff roll, you wondered if during the previous night some KR had infiltrated the airport's security perimeter and lay in hiding with a shoulder fired Surface To Air Missile (SAM) that would lock on to your glowing exhaust and send you off into eternity in a yellowish-orange ball of flames.

The constant exposure to this low-level almost hidden stress gradually began to resemble normalcy, but our subconscious mind was recognizing this as untrue. Our physical bodies began to follow the lead of our unconscious mind. We all lost weight. Slowly over a gradual period of time, we all became almost gaunt. This was not just with the pilots, I saw it in the journalists as well. Strangely, I did not notice it in the Cambodians although I'm sure it had to be present, at least in some of them. I called it my Pol Pot Weight Loss Program.

In addition to the weight loss, we all were hypersensitive to sudden movement or loud noise. The insides of our arms and hands were covered with small clear blisters which then ruptured leaving our hands and arms as rough as sandpaper. We later learned it had a name...stress rash or hives

Personally I was smoking like a chimney. I even began modifying my Dunhill cigarette tobacco with a special blend of my own; a mixture of fifty percent Dunhill tobacco and fifty percent local magical weed or herb quite similar to that used by the Mbuti of the Congo. Nine voiced strong disapproval of my experimentations in this black art of blending but I ignored her displeasure.

### How To Insure The Eagle Pulled Nine

The stability of the country was deteriorating by the day. The embassy continued to refine Eagle Pull. We started talking about evacuation calls that might come in the middle of the night and songs played over and over on Radio Saigon which would be our signal to go to our pre-determined LZ or if not accessible to the closest LZ. All during these discussions, I kept wondering...if it happens in the middle of the night, how do I get to Nine? If it happens while I'm flying, who will get her? Moving in with me without the traditional social ceremonies was not an option. Nine was still wearing black and within the Buddhist mandated mourning period.

I'd become personal friends with the Air Attaché Colonel David Howard Opfer. Dave had assured me he would send someone for her or personally put her on the evacuation flight if it came down while I was flying. He knew Nine well as she and I had been to his home on several occasions.

The plan we settled on was somewhat of a hybrid. We would not move in together but...every night rather than going home, she would stay with me. She would leave early in the morning and go home to her family. The plan involved my moving out of the apartment on busy Monivong Boulevard and finding a house reasonably accessible to one or more of the LZs.

There was little objection from her family as by this time, especially after the "outing"...there was no turning back. Within a few days Nine, while I was busy flying, had found a two-story villa with high walls in a safe neighborhood and centrally located to the LZs. She took me to see it. I'd already had an embassy OK that it was a suitable area. She showed Bong Hut and her sister. They all agreed. A couple of days later I signed the contract.

The villa was located just off Monivong and close to the police headquarters for our area. It was a small two-story structure. Downstairs there was a large living room and dining room on the bottom floor. The top floor had two large bedrooms and two baths. The second bedroom and bath were never used. There was an attached carport. In typical Cambodian fashion, adjoining the back side of the house was a large kitchen with adjoining maid's quarters. A covered walkway led between the house and the kitchen/maid's quarters. It had a yard and flower beds. The part I liked the most was the upstairs bedroom had a large area for a salon as well as a large veranda. There were chairs and benches on the veranda where we would later spend much time before dinner.

The distance from villa to LZ Hotel was 2.3 kilometers or just under 1.5 miles. I worked it out that in moderate traffic which was most of the time since fuel was in such critical supply, we could be at LZ Hotel in less than five minutes. That would work.

### Decorating Our Home

While Nine was busy adding her special touches to the rented villa, I was busy adding mine. In our bedroom wardrobe I put several little U.S. issue cardboard cylinders containing M61 fragmentation grenades. I stacked them neatly on the bottom shelf of the wardrobe just next to her shoes. What was I thinking? She found them the next day and about the most understated thing I can say is she lost her composure. At that stage in my life, it was necessary for me to struggle with understanding her lack of understanding. After all, I hadn't put them on the nightstand. They were U.S. Army issue certifiably safe. I did note that I needed to work on my sensitivity.

On the other side of the wardrobe I had propped my AK-47. Under my side of the bed, yet still easily in reach I stashed my M2 carbine. I truly loved that little gun. It was cuddly like a carbine should be yet packed a decent punch somewhat similar to a 30-30. I never felt like I could hit much of anything with the AK-47. When I held the M2, my accuracy was close to what I had at age 16 back in Hamilton with my 22 rifle. Plus, with its 30-shot magazine, I could compensate for some of the accuracy that had slowly slipped away over the subsequent 14 years.

Downstairs in the dining room I modified the dining table. On the underside of the tabletop I attached a little shelf where I could rest my Colt 1911 45 ACP. If intruded upon while still sitting at the dining table, since my mother had never allowed me to eat with my elbows on the table, my hands would be in my lap and my right hand could ever so undetectably caress the most perfect handgun design known to man, silently slip its safety off with my right thumb, and begin pumping 230gr full metal jacket rounds into the intruder's crotch.

The only meal we ate at home was our evening meal. I generally ate wearing my Colt Cobra 38 Special in its shoulder holster accompanied by its 24 round ammo pouch.

I realized that to someone coming into our home from outside the area of conflict, my living conditions, as well as the homes, apartments, and hotel rooms of everybody I flew with, would look like some doomsday survivalist nut's place of last stand. But that would only be to the untrained eye. Each weapon was specific to its purpose. The grenades were specific to clearing the stairwell if our house was being stormed. A fragmentation grenade tossed down the stairwell would stun and maim anybody within 15 yards. Another tossed into the living room from the first or second step from the top would clear the living room. Then by immediately running down the stairway with the AK-47 on full auto, taking full advantage of the shock produced by the two grenades, I could more or less insure everything that didn't belong in the house was eliminated or in serious hurt. Of course if faced by overwhelming numbers, all I would do was make a sizable dent in their numbers before I died.

The M2 Carbine was for defending the house if the intruders were not yet inside the walls and gate. If I could see them, I could hit them. Unfortunately it had a substantial muzzle flash which would provide them with a beacon in hitting me as well.

A Winchester Model 97 12-gauge shotgun was downstairs under the stairwell along with a mattress. In case of rocket attacks the stairwell would serve as our bunker. Nine and I would spend many a night huddled under the heavy terrazzo stairs, listening to the airstrike and artillery radio traffic on the PRC 25, with our two maids huddled at our feet like scared puppies. As soon as the rockets started falling or the inbound artillery started coming in, those two little chipmunks would be out of their maids' quarters and into the house as fast as greased lightning, standing at the foot of the stairs waiting for Nine and I to come down, pillows and PRC 25 in hand. They would light the kerosene lamp and keep it turned down low. I soon learned to sleep with the PRC 25's receiver tucked under my head cracking in my left ear. While I was getting some very low level of rest, I could also track what was going on.

My M3A (grease gun) submachine gun, for the most part remained unassembled and in my flight bag. It was not as well suited as the survival aids.

Our transition from my apartment to living together in our villa went unnoticed to most people. She arrived discretely shortly before I would come in from my flight or orphanage run. She would leave discretely the following morning and go back to her family. We leased a Mercedes and driver which allowed her to come and go more freely. The gates to the house were closed. When the car honked, one of the maids would open the gate, the car would drive in, the gates would close then she would get out.

### The Move–My Personal Transition Scoreboard:

### Physical Transition 10—Psychological Transition

### Near Zero

I was, like all with whom I worked, a literal bundle of raw nerves. We were all showing signs of the 24/7 stress we lived under. The curious thing was, at the time, almost nobody realized the extent or how serious this was. In my case, "Almost nobody" except Nine, the maids, the driver, and others who had to live in close proximity with me.

I was smoking two packs of cigarettes a day...some laced with the magic herb I'd discovered in the Congo. As soon as I got home and had a shower, I drank at least two beers. I jumped at any loud or sudden noise. A car backfiring, a door slammed by the wind, something falling and breaking, any sudden movement; all these produced sudden defensive actions. Late one afternoon, while sitting out on our veranda, a shadow caused by the sun and a leaf from a nearby tree moved across the floor just in front of me. My reaction was that of a frightened animal. While I barely remember it now...forty years later it is still vivid to Nine.

The slightest little thing that did not go perfectly produced anger. There was almost zero tolerance of anything. Nine suffered the most. Each time any of the household staff didn't perform perfectly, she was the first line...she had to bear the brunt of my displeasure. I was truly a terrible person, living without compassion for the ones closest to me.

Yet interestingly, while I could show deep compassion for the orphans, I saw but hardly knew, I failed miserably in seeing the hell I was imposing on Nine and others around me. For years I have prayed for and ask for forgiveness for the countless thoughtless acts during that period of my life. Back then there was no such acronym as PTSD, no counseling for it, nothing to read to help you cope. I suppose help was in the Bible as the missionaries I knew didn't seem to be experiencing what we pilots were, but back then I didn't read my Bible very much. Perhaps the words of a Judean itinerant preacher speaking to the masses on a mountain side offered some clues to my unenviable state: "Blessed (happy) are the meek, for they will inherit the earth. Blessed (happy) are the pure in heart, for they will see God. Blessed (happy) are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God." I was not meek; I was anything but pure in heart; I could hardly be called a peacemaker and back then I was seldom happy.

Our Senprane Ceremony

While I still had the apartment our cohabitation retained some degree of deniability; the apartment was mine. With the advent of the villa, our margin of deniability diminished to near zero; the villa was ours. For cultural and social reasons, some expression of formal family approval of our relationship was sorely needed.

By Buddhist traditions Nine, and by extension I, were in a one-hundred-day period of deep mourning. No celebration of any type could take place. This period of mourning would be less restrictive after the one-hundred-day phase passed but would continue for a full year.

To salvage Nine's reputation...what portion might remain after committing to marry not only an American, but also a CIA proprietary company pilot, some official family recognition of our relationship needed to take place soon. The 12 August congressionally mandated bombing halt was almost upon us. Rumors abounded that within days of the bombing halt, the Lon Nol government would fall, and the Khmer Rouge would take over the country. Operation Eagle Pull was already in the planning stage. This statement of family recognition needed to get on a fast track very soon.

Bong Hut, with the mostly unneeded help of several of Nine's aunts, started arranging a ceremony referred to as Senprane. In my eyes as well as in Bong Hut's, you just pick a day convenient to the majority of the family and start setting things up. Matters soon proved far more complex. The aunts were insisting Buddhist monk fortunetellers had to determine the date by using astrology. Bong Hut was about as thrilled with this as I was. I later learned he had gently suggested to the monks that any date they picked would be acceptable to us..."as long as it was before the 12 August bombing halt." And sure enough, the astrological forces all came into perfect alignment on August 2, 1973...ten days before the bombing halt. Nine's mother and aunt as well as Bong Hut had always taken very good care of the monks from this particular pagoda which was just next to the Royal Palace. It was the pagoda used by most of the Royal Family; the pagoda where Nine's mother's cremation had taken place. Bong Hut had assured me their astrological readings would be congruent with our needs. I loved Bong Hut!

Nine invited none of her friends. I invited none of the pilots I worked with. It was basically a religious ceremony whose purpose was to inform Nine's dead ancestors of our intention to marry as well as a statement to the living that these plans had the family's approval. Since her mother was dead and her father in political exile, only her mother's sisters and other close family attended. It was a very small group. The only other non-Cambodian attending the ceremony was my friend, the Air Attaché Colonel David Howard Opfer. Bong Hut had sent word via clandestine sources to Nine's father that the ceremony was taking place. We never received confirmation that he got the message, but we chose to believe that he did.

Nine's family provided the food. I had Olympia and San Miguel Beer flown in on an Air Force C-130 from Thailand. Because of the recent death of her mother, the occasion was not really festive. Thoughts of her mother were heavy on Nine's mind. Plus one of her aunts and a distant relative were getting on her nerves pretty bad. The entire event lasted only half a day. I was back in the cockpit the following day. While not a real wedding, it would turn out to be the only "wedding" we would ever have.

### Out Of Gas

One evening, not long after sunset, Nine and I were just getting ready to go down for dinner. I got a call on the radio saying one of the Air Attaché cars would soon be at my house. Could I please go down to open the gate? I wondered why one of Dave Opfer's embassy beasts would be stopping by my place. I figured somebody must need a ride someplace the next morning and they had forgotten to make arrangements for tickets. They did this frequently as they knew they could always ride in the cockpit's jump-seat with us. Nine had barely alerted the maids when I heard the iron gate creaking open. I hurried down to greet whoever was coming. As I walked out on the front porch, I spotted an Air Force major whom I knew well and who shall remain nameless. He was accompanied by about five or six neighborhood young men pushing the colossal bullet-proof glass and armor-plated Ford beast through my gate. Our Mercedes was already in the garage. We barely had room to close the front gate. The major was profusely apologizing. Seems he had headed out for a quick bite at a local restaurant without first bothering to check the fuel gauge. He said there was absolutely no extra automobile gas at the embassy...only diesel. He said he'd already arranged to get gas by 6:00 am tomorrow morning; would it please be OK if they left the car in my driveway overnight. He said Dave had recommended my place when he learned where the car was stranded. I told him of course that would be fine...that I wasn't really trying to keep a low profile in my neighborhood anyway (sarcasm from my evil twin). I invited him in for a beer.

Within a matter of minutes, embassy drivers were out front to pick up the major and take him back. I explained I had to leave for the airport a little after six the following morning and did not need to be out on the street recruiting half the neighborhood to move this mega-ton monster out of my drive. He assured me it would be gone. I told him this favor was going to cost him...like more American beer from Thailand via one of the C-130. He said I could consider it done. Nine appeared to find all this amusing after having to endure my lectures about the need for us to keep a low profile in the neighborhood for security reasons. She was kind enough not to mention it. The following morning the car was gone on time as promised and a couple of days later I had four cases of Olympia beer. Not really all that good but compared to what we had locally, it was stellar. Apparently, Olympia had a large Base Exchange contract with the military so that was the beer of the day for a while.

### How We Lost The War

On one of the afternoons when I finished flying early, I stopped by one of the houses where several of the MEDTC (Military Equipment Delivery Team) officers lived. As I walked into the living room the conversation was lively to say the least. It seems one of the army majors had just contracted gonorrhea. He was the object of a very lively and light-hearted group condemnation. He was not being adjudicated by a panel of his peers for the minor social faux pas of acquiring a sexually transmitted disease; no, he was being enthusiastically condemned for acquiring it twice...twice from the same girl. When an explanation was demanded, his feeble but sincere reply was..."she was just so good I couldn't help it;" Amazing.

### The Neak Luong Tragedy

Before daylight on the morning of 6 August 1973, the small town of Neak Luong, on the Mekong River about 38 miles southeast of Phnom Penh was changed forever. An American B-52 flying almost six miles overhead unloaded its payload of bombs on the towns sleeping population. The town was friendly...not enemy. The bombs killed almost 400 people. The strike severely damaged an orphanage and a hospital. No known enemy was killed. The carnage was beyond comprehension. Abaddo...place of destruction, dwelling place of the dead. New York Times correspondent Sydney Schanberg described the carnage like this: "A woman's scalp sways on a clump of tall grass. A bloody pillow here, a shred of a sarong caught on a barbed wire there. A large bloodstain on the brown earth. A pair of infant's rubber sandals among some unexploded military shells." This tragic mistake came only six days before the bombing halt. The woman whose scalp swayed on the clump of grass never knew what hit her; she never had time to run for cover. She was probably sleeping in her bed with husband and children around her. "Time is filled with swift transition, naught of earth unmoved can stand, build your hopes on things eternal, hold to God's unchanging hand." I struggled futilely to find God in any of this carnage. I don't believe He was there.

My good friend Col. Dave Opfer, who loved the Cambodian people as few others I've known, was tragically misquoted by the press as he struggled to find some way to explain this unpardonable tragedy. Over and over my mind kept replaying the same loop...if they were not sure of their target why were they dropping bombs; why was the release button pushed. I learned three weeks later, the crew of the B-52 had made a procedural mistake. My mind kept wondering if this error could ever have happened over someplace other than Southeast Asia? I doubted it. "They are smashed to pieces from dawn to dusk; they perish forever while no one notices."

In an ensuing investigation into the incident, three crew members received official letters of reprimand and a navigator received a $700 fine. I conjectured that worked out to about $2 for each person who was killed, maimed, and disfigured.

The mission was supposed to be an "offset target" where the target was seven miles offset to the direct course. It came out in the hearings that the navigator neglected to activate the offset switch; therefore, the aircraft flew directly to the radio beacon which was in the center of the town. I have personally used navigation equipment capable of offset navigation. While the procedure is much more complicated than normal navigation, I have never made a navigational error using the technique. We made our calculations and had other crew members double check our work. Then we followed written procedures and another pilot verified the procedures were correctly followed. Why did no one see the offset navigation mode had not been activated? Where were their standard procedures?

Neak Luong was not an isolated incident. Scholars have well documented this widespread pattern of tragedy. While I felt anger toward the pilots, I could also imagine the misgivings they must have experienced. How could they not have wondered about the certainty of their mission planners concerning the hostile nature of their targets? Finally, some pilots begin to question and refuse their orders to fly the missions. I'm not certain how I would have responded. My deepest insights lead me to believe I would have probably, as almost all did, follow my orders and accepted the mission. I'm glad I was not a B-52 pilot assigned to those first clandestine and later headline making bombing missions over Cambodia. War does not determine who is right–only who is left.

The Neak Luong Tragedy was the talk on the streets from Phnom Penh to Paris as well as on the campuses of the United States. I was starting to question my values. I found it hard to look my Cambodian friends in the eye as they came, not to condemn...but searching for some thread of reason in this tragedy..."why?"...they kept asking why. I had no answers.

### The War Back At Home

As the Air Force and President Nixon continued trying to defend the U.S. involvement in South East Asia, especially in light of the Leak Luong Tragedy, another battle was heating up for the Nixon administration...Watergate. On 15 August, Nixon took to the airways to fire some artillery rounds of his own at the growing ranks of his accusers. I picked up pieces of it on my shortwave radio. "But as the weeks have gone by, it has become clear that both the hearings themselves and some of the commentaries on them have become increasingly absorbed in an effort to implicate the President personally in the illegal activities that took place.

Because the abuses occurred during my Administration, and in the campaign for my reelection, I accept full responsibility for them. I regret that these events took place, and I do not question the right of a Senate committee to investigate charges made against the President to the extent that this is relevant to legislative duties.

However, it is my constitutional responsibility to defend the integrity of this great office against false charges. I also believe that it is important to address the overriding question of what we as a nation can learn from this experience and what we should now do. I intend to discuss both of these subjects tonight." And that he did. He was guilty as sin; I knew it; the nation knew it; the world knew it.

### Some Bad Press

I stepped out of the backseat of our Mercedes and headed into the terminal for my first flight of the day. The driver pulled away and headed back to the house to get Nine and take her so she could go with her family to have breakfast and do the daily grocery shopping. It was our daily routine. It was what all better off women in Phnom Penh did. It was something Nine had grown up doing. Nothing should have been different; yet something was. I noticed the airport workers were following me with their eyes. Because I was an American, they always did this. But today, something was different. As I stepped into operations, the lead dispatcher handed me a note. I was to call the embassy. I recognized the number as one belonging to the air attaché.

When I called, one of the air force majors answered. He began talking in a hushed voice. He asked if I'd seen this morning's edition of Phnom Penh's leading French language newspaper. When I replied that I had not, he commenced briefing me on an article that was in today's edition. The article was about Nine and her father. The article identified Nine by name and said she was married to an American CIA pilot. "Expletive" I responded. "Don't these obscenity idiots have anything better to expletive write about!"

My first thought was for Nine. She and her sister and sister-in-law plus an aunt or two would soon be out eating breakfast then going into the most public market in Phnom Penh. I asked the major for the embassy assessment of any immediate personal danger to her. He replied that while it was impossible to say with certainty, this was guaranteed to be a government sanctioned article; part of their continuing campaign of attacks against Sihanouk, and by extension, the royal family. The government feared the Cambodian masses, whose majority still loved the king and worshiped him as almost a god-king. The war was not going well for the Lon Nol government and they needed something to take the people's minds off the war Lon Nol and his supporters had dragged the country into.

The car was already headed back to town. I'd meant to get a two-way radio for the driver but that was just one of several things I never seemed to get around to taking care of. I could always call the embassy back and have somebody go quickly to the house and tell her to stay home. But then that would just cause more stress for her. I was sure that she would soon find out from her family about the article. Her brother Bong Hut and her second brother Bong Hen, a high-ranking officer in the Navy with even higher-ranking friends, would already be accessing the situation and she would be told by them what was or was not deemed safe. I pushed my fear for her safety out of my mind and took the flight dispatch information, studied it for a moment and walked to the plane. The co-pilot was already doing the pre-flight inspection. I was only scheduled for two flights that day so I would be home early. I could talk to Bong Hut and get a realistic assessment of the situation. I could think of nothing else during those two flights.

That night, Bong Hut told me the same thing the major had; that this reporter was notorious for kissing up to the Lon Nol régime and that things had been much worse immediately following the coup that ousted Sihanouk and again when her father had defected to join Sihanouk. While these words were somewhat consoling, I nevertheless remained anxious about her for several weeks.

### The Red Mist

"yes, every mortal man is only a vapor"

I no longer remember why I was not flying that day, but for some reason, I was off the schedule. It was getting close to noon. I'd been over at the SEAAT office taking care of something. While I was there, we heard several loud explosions; the unmistakable sound a rocket makes when it slams into its target. It was very loud; like a Chinese/Russian 122mm rocket. Cy, Roger, and I had become astonishingly callused to the sounds these devices of destruction made. Such sounds were inevitably followed by images of the rocket's indiscriminate destruction. The more this scene repeated, the more vivid my visualizations became.

As we were driving home, I had already dismissed the rocket attack from my mind. However, about a half a mile from our office I noticed a large crowd of people, some running toward and some running away from one of the entrances to a refugee encampment. Heavy black smoke was rapidly rising into the sky. As I approached, I could see that almost half the camp was already ablaze. There was a strong breeze that day and the breeze was fanning the fire into an unbelievable intensity. I told the driver to pull over. I grabbed my camera and rushed down the embankment and into the camp. My goal at that time was to capture this surreal experience on film.

The camp was a mass of cardboard and scrap-wood shanties. These peasants were streaming into Phnom Penh daily, fleeing from the war and the verified indiscriminate bombings by the B-52s. They arrived penniless. They tried to construct shelter with anything they could find. But "finding" was already a problem. The endless streams of refugees descending upon Phnom Penh daily like invading swarms of locust had long ago stripped away anything usable...with or without permission. They were literally living on the ground, many under the open sky.

By the time I reached the area where the burning shelters were, the light was reduced to what one would encounter just before dusk. The sky had turned black. There was no visible blue sky...only black and gray. The sun appeared as a dim red ball I could easily look at directly. Screams of agony and screams of fear pierced the loud sounds of people calling out for loved ones or calling out for help; the scene was surreal.

As I moved forward, I came to one of the rocket impact spots. There was a large crater in the ground. A couple of shanties had once stood where the crater was; blood and body parts were everywhere. Clothing was scattered everywhere. Bodies were everywhere; children, men, women, arms, legs, pieces of chest cavities. The carnage was so great; the images so shocking, that evidently my mind started throwing up some type of filter. I could feel my emotions shutting down. My mind was still recording the sights, sounds and smells; it was recording them in full high definition. But they seemed distant...like I was seated in an audience watching the scene play out far away up on a stage. My mind was demonstrating some remarkable form of self-preservation.

More and more of the shanties were catching fire; the blaze was spreading rapidly. It was evident the entire encampment would soon be in flames. My skin was beginning to tingle from the radiant energy coming from the fire. The wind shifted directions frequently. When it shifted the wrong direction, I started to inhale smoke. Everyone now was running out, not back into the camp. People who were able to walk were carrying babies and belongings and fleeing away from the flames and carnage. Police and military were beginning to arrive, but they could do little. Many remained outside the area. I took a few more photos but soon realized I needed to be offering help not documenting this living hell.

I let my Nikon hang around my neck. I took a child from a woman's arms so she could carry her other infant and a bundle filled with what was probably her sole remaining possessions. We started up a steep path that led out of the indention where the camp had sprung up. As we made our way up the steep trail, I noticed people ahead of me on the trail were slowing. As I came nearer, I saw why. What minutes before was a human being, a woman, was now literally splattered all over a partly standing wall.

I'd already learned that when a strong blast such as from one of these rockets or a bomb explodes in close proximity to someone, a significant part of the body just vaporizes into a red mist; with notable exception...teeth and hair. They seem always to remain. The wall looked like it had been spray painted with her blood. On the wall's still damp coat of blood were plastered huge chunks of her hair. Her chest cavity was empty; its contents somewhere in the red mist on the wall and dripping from the surrounding plants. Her left arm was still attached. At the end of her arm was her gray, bloodless charred hand. Holding that hand and screaming in fear and confusion was a naked baby girl. She was probably around eighteen months old. How she was not killed by the blast that killed what probably was her mother remains an enigma forty years later.

People continued to slow down and look at the scene straight from Dante's Inferno's Seventh Circle (Violence). I knew I could not continue to stand there...my mind felt like it was coming apart at the seams; I could feel the mother of the child in my arms pushing on my back in an effort to get me to move forward. I responded and continued on toward the top.

The words of Job while expressing his frustration toward God were streaming through my mind. "When disaster brings sudden death, He (God) mocks the despair of the innocent. The earth is handed over to the wicked; He blindfolds its judges. If it isn't, He, then who is it?" Yes, where in the hell was God? I was pretty sure He wasn't behind me in that smoking inferno of death and agony. Nor was he on the launching end of those 122mm Russian rockets. If God was really omnipresent how could he just stand idly by? It was equally hard not to wonder where He was when the B-52 bombing mission planners were "boxing" their targets.

By this time relief agency people (Red Cross, World Vision, Catholic Relief Service, etc.) were arriving. I pulled a World Vision aid worker I knew aside and handed the child I was carrying to her and asked her to help the child's mother. I then turned and headed back against the flow of fleeing refugees...back down into the huge pit.

It was now getting difficult to breathe. By this time there were easily several hundred refugees standing on the top looking down into what had previously been their camp...now they were looking into the mouth of hell. When I got to where the young girl had been crying and clinging to the lifeless arm of her mother, only the body parts remained. Someone had mercifully removed the child. Relieved, I realized my mind had reached its message unit overload point and was starting to enter an additional level of shutdown. I had to get out; for many reasons, I had to get out. The wind and the thermal currents from the fire had started to throw sparks onto the shelters not adjacent to the advancing fire. New fires were starting all around me. It was time to go. As I climbed the steep incline, I could tell I was starting to breathe in too much smoke. Sparks and embers were landing on me. I held my shirt over my nose. Once again, my mind turned to the book of Job; "But mankind is born for trouble, as surely as sparks fly upward."

As I was making my way back to the car, I ran into one of the photojournalists I'd gotten to know. He did good work and unlike many, risked his skin to get the real story. He asked me what it was like down there; said that he had arrived too late to get any good shots from inside.

By this time my mind was in such a shutdown state that it was like I was looking at the journalist, knowing what he was saying, but not able to hear his voice; only his lips moving and the awareness of what he was saying...a very strange experience. He told me that even though he had no good shots down inside, there were countless stories here from the survivors he could use. He was a good journalist. Most would have just gone for the byline shots that had a chance of making the front page of some paper back stateside...one containing a photo credit that was sure to boost their portfolio. This guy was different. I rewound the roll of film I had in my camera and gave it to him along with the first roll I'd shot. I told him he owed me a beer...no need for any photo credit.

I turned, walked back to my car and headed home. I didn't ever want to see those images again. I did; I saw one of my shots a couple of days later in the Herald Tribune. His accompanying story was one I would have been proud to have written. I was glad I'd given him the pictures.

It was much later that evening before I tried to share even a tiny fraction of what I'd seen that morning with Nine. Gradually, over a period of many years, I've slowly surrendered some of those horrible frames so indelibly burned into my mind. This is the first time some have been retold.

As I lay in bed that night, I wondered if the architects of this crazy war back in Washington and Hanoi knew that teeth and hair were so difficult do destroy. Probably Hanoi did. I wished someone would force the Washington war architects to come sees this; to have this lady's vaporized blood and tissue cover them from head to toe. Fortunately, some grotesque evidence always remains behind, hopefully to testify against them...against them all.

That night was another "please hold me very tight" night. Her gentle arms "Wiping out the traces of the people and the places that I've been"...she held me till the fear inside finally subsided.

As I lay beside her in the bed, waiting for sleep to come, I wondered how I could have come so far from Hamilton's endless summer days; Hamilton, my Mayberry, where warm golden sunlight bathed everything. How did I get here...to this land of tragedy and tears...to this land of the red mist?

### Beelzebub

On my way home from the airport the following day, I had the driver take me back to the burned-out refugee camp, just to see the final chapter. I left my Nikon in the car. As I descended into the pit, large areas were still smoldering. Body parts still remained. Flies had come to feast on the flesh and now dried blood. Flies always seemed to find opportunity in death. Truly Beelzebub..."Lord of The Flies" and "the prince of demons" was in that pit. I could feel him.

My heart was empty. That spirit that lived in me and from time to time inspired or perhaps drove me to take pictures and seek new experiences so passionately in the Congo was now gone. I was too close to these people. I could more easily go to the funeral of a friend and take pictures than continue documenting this misery.

As I walked back to the car, I wondered how we, as human beings, could commit such atrocious carnage against fellow human beings. How could the Khmer Rouge release those 122mm indiscriminate devices of death and destruction on what they certainly knew was a non-combatant population. What had these innocent peasants ever done to them? The people the Khmer Rouge were shelling were the very people they were claiming to be liberating. My conclusion...it was done over divergent socioeconomic viewpoints. I then concluded the Americans were no different; our B-52 payloads dwarfed the random 122mm rockets. Like the Khmer Rouge, our bomb damage assessments (BDAs) had long been reporting not only were many of those killed, wounded, or made homeless by our attacks friendly...they were non-combatants as well. My conclusion for what motivated the Americans was the same...divergent socioeconomic views; a pitiful lot...the entire human race.

I sank back into the rear seat of the Mercedes, told the driver to take me home, took out one of my specially blended Dunhill cigarettes, lit up, and inhaled deeply. A passage from the book of Job came to mind as the effects of my deep inhale began to reach my brain; the part where God questions Job with "Have the gates of death been revealed to you? Have you seen the gates of deep darkness?" Without any expletive question...I'd seen them. Years later looking back on all these experiences, I wonder how any trace of tenderness inside me ever managed to survive. God is indeed merciful. I'm living proof.

### More Pig Pilot Tales

On the rare occasions when I would be together with the DC-3 (C-47) pilots in a non-work environment, I would find myself laughing to the point of tears at their stories from the airports I could never fly into. Because I flew the Convair which was too large to get into most of the provincial unpaved landing strips, I missed an entire dimension of the war. They, like me, flew food and wounded into Phnom Penh. But the airports I flew into were more sterile, less provincial. Their everyday routine was like a cross between a nightmare and a comedy. The villagers in the province were devoid of even the basic understanding of life in the larger cities and their antics could fill volumes. These rare get-togethers were always a time of joy in the midst of the tragedy. Years later, when we would sometimes meet, it was always the stories of the DC-3 "pig pilots" which brought the most smiles.

### One More Pig Tale

One day, one of the Chinese shippers with a lucrative contract to supply pork for Phnom Penh's refugee swollen, half-starved, population offered me a cute little pig if I would take a little extra weight onboard. My orphanage was well stocked at the moment, so I decided I'd take him up on his offer. It was kinda a cute little critter anyway. I had figured I would give it to somebody back in Phnom Penh but by the time I was ready to head for the house, I'd started to like the little guy. So, over the driver's objection, I dumped him in the trunk of the Mercedes and off we went. All the way home I would could hear him thrashing around back there and squealing his head off. I was more than a little concerned about what his other end might be doing but obviously not enough to have engendered a little common sense. I was relieved to only find a little Pig pee in the back upon arrival back at the house. As I let him out, he raced around the yard and started smelling the maids. Nine and both maids how joined the driver in being unhappy with me. But I thought having a pet pig would be a hoot, so I was more or less oblivious to their displeasure.

Within a day or do he would run to the gate when he heard the Mercedes diesel engine clattering outside. He couldn't wait for me to get out of the car. Unfortunately, along with the pig, were both maids telling me about all the mischief the little guy had gotten into since I left.

Finally, after about a month of enjoying his frolicking I was met upon my return by a quite unhappy Nine and the two maids. Nine told me they had said either the pig went or they did. It seems during the day, the little guy had gotten into their flowerbed and eaten or trampled the entire thing. I probably could have talked them out of that, but it seems the little bastard went into their bedroom with his muddy feet fresh from their flower bed and gotten up on one of their beds. They always kept their quarters spotless. It was apparent that I was going to have to admit defeat and let the little guy meet his fate amongst the city's starving population. The following day, he was "given" to somebody. But for a while, if only a short while, I had a pet pig.

### A New Group Of Copilots Brings A Round Of Applause

In the midst of the horrors of war historically its participants manage to find or create levity. One of those moments which lives on decades after the war was when a new group of copilots arrived from California. They came on a DC-4 which SEAAT brought from the States. They were part of the ferry crew.

For some reason which I no longer remember, probably either maintenance or delays getting the importation clearance from the Cambodian government, the aircraft remained in the Philippines for several days. During this interlude, these naughty newcomers to Southeast Asia immersed themselves in the debaucheries of Philippine nightlife. It seems they placed particular emphasis on the damsels of the dusk. Several days later, upon their arrival in Phnom Penh, it appeared more than one had been less cautious than prudence would dictate.

Our tainted new crewmembers joined most of the other single SEAAT pilots living in the Sokhalay Hotel. The presence of the pilots had naturally attracted a significant group of Phnom Penh's ladies of the evening or ladies in waiting so to speak. Each evening there was a grand convocation in the Sokhalay bar just about the time happy hour was celebrated. Our rash newcomers, exercising their usual abandonment of caution commenced immediately to spread their infectious joy throughout the entire hotel harem where monogamy was an unknown concept. A few days later SEAAT flight operations had a pandemic of social disease on their hands so to speak. It would be months before these junior birdmen were forgiven by those higher on the seniority list for this social transgression. Though long ago forgiven it appears it shall never be forgotten.

### We Get A "Security Director"

One day while accompanying our crew chief on the inspection he always performed while the plane was being loaded, he asked me if I'd noticed the new guy who had been hanging around the airport restaurant for the last couple of days. Of course, I said no as Nine always sent my food to the airport with the driver. The food in the airport restaurant, and I use the term "restaurant" very loosely, was close to inedible. The pilots joked that eating the beef in there was like eating one Hồ Chí Minh's sandal, which were known to be made from old truck tires. The chicken they served reminded me of those toy rubber chickens children play with.

Our crew chief went on to say everybody was speculating he must be some kind of FAA (Federal Aviation Agency) inspector spying out how we were conducting our operation or perhaps part of military CID (Criminal Investigation Division or Command). Everybody ruled out CIA as we knew most of them and they sure as heck did not have the time to be sitting around the airport restaurant. I personally ruled out the FAA as we had it from very reliable sources that they had been told to stay away from our operation. CID of course was a possibility, but they normally would just plant somebody inside the operation for a couple of months, gather their facts, and then move the guy out. I just shrugged and told him I didn't have a clue.

When we landed back in Phnom Penh after our Battambang flight even more scuttlebutt was floating around. I decided I'd go over to the little airport restaurant, have a Mirinda before I went home, and see if I could spot this mysterious guy responsible for all the gossip.

I took a table near the rear of the place with my back to the wall and near the rear entrance. This was the preferred place to sit for most of us as we could watch both entrances; a practice acquired soon after arriving in Cambodia. Immediately I spotted the guy I was sure was the source of all the scuttlebutt. He was short, well built, wore a tight black t-shirt with an obviously unnecessary short sleeve shirt layered on top and black military type pants. His hair was close cut in a typical military style. Instantly I could see he was "printing" (the bulge made by a concealed weapon) from underneath the outer shirt. The print was so obvious that I couldn't help but wonder if it wasn't done for effect. My Eisenhower pilot blouse was perfect for concealing the snub-nose 38 special which always hung just underneath my left armpit. This guy needed a lesson on how to carry an under-arm concealed firearm. While most people knew we carried, most of us did not print. This guy was just too obvious. He kept constantly scanning the room. In my judgment this scanning was about as intentional as his printing. On top of that, he kept "adjusting." No real professional continually adjusts the position of his supposedly concealed weapon. He was indeed an interesting character. One thing I could be certain of...this was no undercover CID operation. He was so obvious he would flunk out of the first week of CID initial training.

I purposefully allowed him to catch me watching him. Before long two other pilots plus a crew chief came and joined me at the table. It was obvious we were all watching mystery guy. This did seem to bug him as he soon paid for his drink, got up, and left.

As he was walking out the door, I noticed he was printing from the back as well. He had what I was sure was a pair of num-chuks (a traditional Okinawan martial arts weapon consisting of two sticks connected at one end by a short chain or rope) stuck in his right hip pocket and covered by his black t-shirt. But, to my amazement, I was pretty sure I could see the print a 45 would make if it were placed in the small of his back, again underneath his t-shirt and his outer shirt. This one I wasn't totally sure about. The small of the back was a highly favored position for many who carried the Colt 45 auto concealed. But what was this guy expecting to encounter that would justify his carrying all this stuff around? Cambodia wasn't Hollywood. Any serious problem would come from grenades, and AK-47s. All the crap he was carrying brought to mind the old Special Forces or SOG (Special Operations Group) joke that "you never bring a knife to a gun fight." Since I had the best embassy contacts in the company, aside from Roger and Cy, everybody was looking at me for a comment. All I could do was shrug. I told them I didn't have a clue who he might be but that he was sure one strange dude.

We adjourned our little conference and got ready to go home for the day. Nine had our car and driver waiting for me in the parking lot. He pulled up to the curb to get me as soon as he saw me coming out. As I was getting in the car, I spotted our mystery man sitting at the wheel of a Mercedes parked in the parking lot. He was in a position which gave a good view of the terminal entrance. I was pretty sure the car belonged to SEAAT. I wondered what all this could mean. Usually Roger was very sharing with our internal happenings. But maybe I was mistaken; maybe it was not one of our company cars. It would not be long before I found out. The next morning a notice was on the flight operations bulletin board advising of a 7:00 pm meeting the following night at the company villa. Attendance was mandatory.

The living room of the villa was crowded with all the pilots and mechanics. As soon as I walked in, I spotted our mystery man. He was standing in the back of the room. Basically, with the exception of everyone's casual glances, he was being ignored. No one went up to introduce themselves. Like me, they probably figured we were all owed an explanation. Cy was seated at the table next to Roger. Cy did not look particularly happy.

Roger began the meeting with a few short statements about the status of what we all hoped would soon be more embassy contracts, statements about new spare parts and spare engines; the usual routine stuff.

But it wasn't long before he got to the real purpose of the meeting. Roger told us he would like to introduce our new "security director." The room immediately was filled with murmuring. Murmurings usually have a tone...either happy or unhappy. I failed to detect any happy intonations. Everybody had already identified the man as the strange guy we'd seen at the airport over the past few days. Now the mystery was removed...or at least part of it was.

Roger called him to the front and presented him to us. His name was Donald Aaron Samson III (pseudonym). He supposedly had been a Special Forces type in Vietnam, then went to Laos as a civilian. Roger had hired him from Laos where Air America and Continental Air Service (CAS) were being forced to wind down their operations due to slashed funding from Washington. So now all the dogs of war or Canes Bellatores appeared headed for Phnom Penh, the new O.K. Corral.

Roger went on to tell us what an expert Mr. Samson was in the area of personal and corporate security. I kept waiting for someone to question this decision, but nothing came, just cold faces. So, at the next pause, I asked Roger with a big smile, if he cared to share with us what new factors we might all need to be watching for concerning our personal security...obviously it must be something serious to justify the expense of a position solely devoted to security. I could see Roger was not particularly overjoyed with my question but he could see everyone else was so he tried as best he could to make a case for the new position.

Roger, in my mind, took a big risk and asked Donald to share with us the many security issues we faced daily both as individuals and as a company. Donald spent a few very lame minutes failing to make any points or friends. Finally, I asked Donald if he could provide any local empirical evidence supporting our supposed security risks. His doubly lame reply was he'd only been here a couple of days but in South East Asia, the risk was always present. The murmurings were beginning to increase. Since his hiring was not a negotiable item, I decided to let the issue drop by saying I looked forward to working with him in the future. Some of the other pilots were far less kind.

SEAAT's Hiring Spree

The Cambodian war effort was picking up dramatically. The U.S. needed to keep Cambodia from falling until it could get all its troops out of Vietnam and reinforce the South Vietnamese Army, so they had a chance of holding off the North Vietnam Regular Army. We all knew Washington didn't really give a damn what happened to Cambodia outside of its Vietnam objectives.

The embassy was talking about much larger contracts which SEAAT hoped to secure, but in order to do that we had to have the lift capability. In light of this, Roger went on a hiring spree. He hired a manager of administration, and a finance manager named Romeo Roberts (pseudonym) from California who had zero experience in aviation. At least the administration guy came from Air America's Laos operation.

The bright side of the hiring spree is he got several highly experienced CAS and Air America pilots from Laos. Some of the pilots he hired from the States with little or no paramilitary experience worked out well. Many did not. This was a time of expansion but a time when SEAAT lacked the capital to divert from its daily operations budget for the new equipment and crews needed for the possible embassy contracts. About this time our paydays began getting less punctual.

The Misadventures Of Sampson–Our Security

Superhero

Love Bug In A Tree

One of the pilots Roger acquired from Laos, Elliot Walton (pseudonym) brought his wife and teenage daughter Juliette (pseudonym) with him. Elliot's daughter was fairly attractive. Almost immediately our new California finance guru kindled a romantic relationship with Juliette. Samson from the beginning did not like Romeo. I suspected he thought our Romeo was in a prime place to misdirect funds, but our Superhero lacked the accounting acumen to know how to catch him.

Since Romeo and the pilot's family were temporarily staying in the SEAAT villa, it wasn't long before the fair young damsel found her way down the second story hall and into the bedroom and waiting arms of Romeo. Our Security Superhero tried to make it his business to know about all such imprudence and straightaway set out to document it. The more sensitive information he had on someone, the more control he could exert.

One day, while Romeo was downstairs in his office, Security Superhero placed a miniature microphone bugging device under the nightstand beside the bed. Unfortunately for our Superhero, the device was not of a professional grade (probably purchased in Singapore) and lacked the range to facilitate surveillance with anywhere near prudent distance from the target. This range shortcoming forced Superhero to climb a tree just outside Romeo's bedroom window to await the action.

While we will never know for sure all the elements of this misadventure, the crucial ones are these. In the midst of Romeo and Juliette's mutual expressions of clandestine amour, it began to rain. Whether or not the branch upon which Superhero was perched would have continued to withstand his weight or whether it was the added weight of his now wet clothes which caused it to snap we shall never know, but the branch indeed did snap. According to someone still downstairs, it snapped quite loudly. After the snapping of the initial branch, there followed a couple of additional snaps as our Superhero broke every branch between him and the ground. Then came the thud as he hit the ground. According to eye witnesses, all the lights in the villa came on and everyone started trying to find out what was going on. Superhero was found half dazed in the mud underneath the tree still clutching the miniature transmitter's receiver. Poor Juliette failed to make it back to her room in time to avoid detection. And poor Romeo was caught with his proverbial pants down so to speak. Much loud shouting was attributed to Juliette's father Elliot.

The Kill Instinct

One afternoon following my final flight of the day I stopped by the SEAAT villa for some now forgotten reason. In the front yard, underneath the same tree from which he had fallen during his calamitous "love bug" episode I found Donald working out doing bench presses. He gave me his usual calculated scowl and continued pumping his iron. As I was nearing his bench, his expression suddenly changed, he let his barbell down quickly to their support and grabbed a pellet pistol lying beside his head, pointed up into the tree branches, took a quick aim and fired. A second later a small now lifeless bird hit the ground beside us with a thump. "What the expletive did you do that for" I asked. "To keep my kill instinct up Jacks" was his reply. I just shook my head and continued on into the living room. Donald Aaron Samson was one strange dude.

Donald's "Got You" Game

One afternoon, on my way home from the airport, I was sitting in the back of the Mercedes reading some company notices and other business documents, I became aware of a car on the right side of our car. I always sat in the back seat on the right side so I could more easily talk to the driver. This car to our right was uncommonly close. As I looked up, I found myself staring directly into the barrel of a Colt 45 automatic. From my perspective I felt like I was staring down the barrel of a 155mm howitzer. Just behind the barrel was the grinning face of Donald. I lowered my window and was greeted by "got you Jacks...see how easy it is." He was actually smiling...the first time I'd ever seen Donald smile. He then pulled away abruptly and sped away. I immediately understood his remark. He was referencing my comment in the meeting asking if there was any firsthand evidence that we as individuals were in danger.

I suppose a normal person would have been somewhere between annoyed and furious at having had a gun pointed at his head. I just shook my head with mild amusement. I thought I might be starting to appreciate this guy. In his own way I could see he did have a sense of humor, albeit somewhat twisted.

An Awakening

Nine and I began attending church. It was a non-denominational church which offered services in English each Sunday evening. I'm not sure if it was the recent passing of my grandmother Grace Rogers Aldredge Tyner, my awareness that Nine had no understanding of Christianity, or, the Christian and Missionary Alliance missionaries I knew...I'm not certain, but I began to feel the need to get my life closer to God. Getting closer to God wasn't all that hard as I could have hardly been any farther from Him.

Serious questions had slowly grown up in the weed filled maze of my religious beliefs since leaving the First Baptist Church in Hamilton. Being exposed to no religious teachings for the past 13 years combined with undisciplined studies in mysticism and philosophy, had pretty much left my understanding of God and salvation a works-based disaster. I was painfully aware I was a sinner and equally painfully aware that my efforts to save myself were falling seriously short. I bombarded my friend, Christian and Missionary Alliance (CAMA) missionary Rev. Merle Graven with many hard questions stemming from deep welled cynicism. Grace was a concept that had somehow pretty much eluded me. Nine, on the other hand, approached the subject of salvation with the simplicity of a child; I should have taken notes.

Nine Accepts Christ

One afternoon we were visiting other missionary friends, Dr. Dean Kroh and his wife Esther. They had been a doctor and nurse, husband and wife missionary team for CAMA in the Congo while I was there. While I was talking to Dean, Esther and Nine were sitting in the other corner of the living room talking quietly. Then Dean and I noticed they got up and left and went into a bedroom. Looking back now I suspect Dean had been keenly aware of their conversation from the beginning. When they returned from their time alone, Esther announced that Nine had accepted the Lord. Nine was a Christian. Thirty years later Nine and I would visit with Dean and Esther and Rev. Merle Graven and his wife Louisa.

Missionaries–Mercenaries–And Machine Guns

One afternoon Nine and I were visiting Dean and Esther in their home in Toul Kork, a suburb of Phnom Penh. Dean and Ester's children were home for a short visit from the school in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia that all the missionary children attended. Once, on a previous visit, I'd left my briefcase (the one in which I carried the M3-A grease gun) lying on their living room couch. Dean picked it up to move it to the floor to make more sitting room on the couch. He immediately noticed how heavy it was and asked, "what do you have in there...lead," meaning it for a joke. I smiled and replied, "why yes, as a matter of fact...thirty pieces of lead," meaning it as a joking reference to the Biblical thirty pieces of silver. Of course, being a missionary Dean got the thirty pieces of silver part but being a missionary, he failed to get the allusion to the thirty round magazine containing 45 caliber ACP rounds. I had to open the briefcase to explain my very poorly thoughtout humor.

Apparently, Dean had told his children that he and their mother had a friend who carried a machine gun in his briefcase. Their curiosity overcame them, and they asked their father if he would ask me to show it to them. I obliged but all the while wishing the Lord would hasten to bind my sarcastic tongue.

SEAAT Gets A Troubadour

One day as I was coming out of flight operations, I saw a passenger heading into baggage claim. He was long (6΄4″ tall) lanky, clad in western shirt and jeans, wearing boots, and carrying a guitar case. What in the hell is that I asked? God only knows was the reply.

Later that day I heard about the new copilot we had...a guy who liked to dress in jeans and boots and played the guitar. He soon claimed a place of prominence in the Sokhalay night scene and served well as a copilot quickly learning the art of wartime flying. He later became Captain David Nowlen of Southwest Airlines with some degree of notoriety in his adopted home town of Nashville. Dave went on to write Broken Wing the song made famous by LeAnn Rimes. After retiring from Southwest, Dave returned to South East Asia, has visited Cambodia many times, has built two schools in the provinces, and now lives in Thailand.

### From Tacos To Turtle Eggs

### You're A Long Way From Texas Jimmy Jacks

One day while on a flight to Battambang we encountered a delay due to a disabled aircraft with a blown tire on the airport's only runway. It became evident we were going to be stranded for a while. The crew decided to spend the delay time in the airport's restaurant. The purser ordered turtle eggs from the menu. He insisted I try some, so he ordered a few extra. I was anything but overjoyed about the prospect of eating a turtle's egg. But, while in the Congo I'd eaten things in order not to offend the host; I figured this was going to be another of those times.

When the dish arrived, I was surprised and disheartened at the quantity. I didn't count them but there was a hell of a lot of them on that dish. One was more than I was looking for. Since we were on duty, ordering a beer to help wash them down was not an option; I figured my best strategy was to pray, don't breathe lest I smell them, gulp quickly and chase with Coke. I looked up as I brought them from the plate toward my mouth; fully half the people in the restaurant had their eyes on those eggs and my mouth. I can't remember now what it tasted like...probably because it went down so quickly. Everyone at the table laughed. I think half the restaurant laughed. I took a big sip of coke and tried to inconspicuously swish it around in my mouth. Years later I learned many species of Cambodia's turtles had become endangered, mostly due to the centuries old practice of eating their eggs.

They finally managed to get the runway cleared and a few minutes later we were cranking up our engines for the flight back to Phnom Penh. I was in a little bit of a hurry and in the process of foolishly trying to make up for some of the time we had lost, I only spiraled twice before taking up our course to Pochentong. That put me too low over the pagoda we'd been warned not to fly low over. Just overhead the pagoda I heard the unmistakable sound of an AK47 round striking the fuselage. When the copilot got back to the cockpit reporting nobody was hit and that the round hadn't struck anything critical, I joked that it was God thumping me for being impatient and taking a shortcut. I can also now wonder if it was His thumping me for eating the egg of a now endangered species. When we landed back in Phnom Penh the crew chief thumped me as well for getting a hole in his beloved aircraft.

### My Moon-Eating Dragon

Nightmares were an unwavering occurrence; as surely as the sun rose in the eastern sky, my night terrors were summoned dutifully with the evening. Normally these terrible dreams were the kind that left me sitting up in bed with my heart pounding and drenched in perspiration. The worst kinds were the ones that returned after you managed to get back to sleep.

One night however I had a dream employing a different script. I saw a huge full silver moon racing in slow motion across the night sky being chased by "Puff The Magic Dragon," the U.S. Air Force's close air support C-47 (actually an AC-47) retrofitted with three General Electric mini-guns. The aircraft, also called "ole Spooky" could fire between 50 to 100 rounds of 7.62mm rounds per second. The guns fired so fast that by the time the sound reached the ground, our ears only heard a long uninterrupted BURRRRRRRP. We often watched from our second-floor bedroom balcony as its tracer rounds (every 5th round) raced through the night sky toward their target. But this night, "Puff" was chasing the moon; Puff's tracer rounds viciously trying to shatter the moon's silver form. I kept wishing the moon would go faster and escape.

When I awoke, I was not in the normal terrified state I usually found myself in upon awaking. I was excited but not frightened; I wanted the moon to win...to get away; I wanted the moon to escape from Puff The Magic Dragon's dreadful fire-breathing attack. The moon and Puff, like my usual disturbing recurring dreams, had to have its geneses in the sights that pummeled our minds almost daily.

If I was in the air force, I would have no choice...I would have to stay here and finish my assignment. But I was not. My contractual obligation was long ago finished. I could walk away at any time. It was like I'd bought a ticket to some house of horrors and I was determined to make it all the way through to the end; like I was determined to get my money's worth, to see every last gory scene.

### Why So Hard Jimmy?

On this particular afternoon, I'd managed to get home early. Nine was still out with her nieces. She had been to Bong Hut's house to visit his two daughters, Nip and Voy, who were almost like younger sisters to her. I had gone out on our bedroom balcony to drink a beer and smoke one of my special-blend Dunhills and pick my 5-string banjo I'd brought back from Hamilton. As I sat relaxing, I saw Bong Hut's Mercedes pulling up. His driver had brought Nine back. Nip and Voy plus Bong Hut's youngest daughter Dede, just out of diapers, had decided to take the opportunity to go for a little drive. They waved from the car as it pulled away.

Soon Nine was upstairs and joining me on the balcony. I continued singing and playing but noticed concern on her face, I stopped, and she gently posed the question..."Jimmy, why so hard?" I hadn't realized it, but I'd been flailing the banjo with unusual force. "Why so hard" indeed. I just shrugged but her question lingered. I began to realize there were few things I did with a gentle touch anymore.

### Letters And Pictures

Karen was good about writing and sending news and pictures. Even though we were divorced she would send news about my father, and updates on Jason and Jenny plus pictures. When I saw their pictures, I frequently had moist eyes. I was always happy to get her letters. Jenny's growth was the most noticeable. With every picture came something new. I could always feel her care for me, and later on for Nine. Karen had a loving heart. Our relation continued until she died many years later. When people would refer to Karen as my "ex-wife" I would politely reply "no...she is my first wife."

### The Saturday Night Massacre

While I battled my night terrors and the daily horrors of the war, halfway around the world, an increasingly embattled Richard Nixon was becoming more desperate. On 20 October 1973 in what immediately became known as The Saturday Night Massacre, Nixon fired Archibald Cox and abolishes the office of the special prosecutor. Attorney General Richardson and Deputy Attorney General William D. Ruckelshaus resigned. Pressure for impeachment continued to mount in Congress. Amazingly I paid scant attention.

### Departed Spirits–Mediums And Machetes

On one of my rare days off, Nine's eldest brother Bong Hut stopped by the house. He remembered my asking him about the Cambodian's view concerning mediums and spirits. He told me about a ceremony that would be that afternoon at the home of someone he knew and asked if I would like to go and watch. He said it would be OK for me to take pictures. My answer was an enthusiastic "yes."

We arrived at the home and Bong Hut introduced me. We chatted for a few minutes then Bong Hut left me there as he had an important meeting he could not get out of. People were already arriving; probably around twenty in all. Soon two people arrived; a man and a woman. I believed the man, because of his dress, was an achar, somewhat of a cross between a lay monk and a master of ceremonies. The lady looked pretty unkempt. She was obviously kru boromey or literally "teacher of spiritual beings or more accurately translated but less accurate in connotation, teacher of the ten attributes which enable the attainment of nirvana. In the common Cambodian rather abbreviated view...she called, identified, and talked with the spirits...asking them questions in behalf of the living. She was a medium.

The people began taking seats on mats on the ground out in the yard under the shade of some very large trees. Unfortunately, with Bong Hut gone, there was no one to explain what was happening. I could feel the tension in the group growing. I could feel myself growing tense as well.

Soon the achar began speaking to the group. Then he began beating on a traditional drum. Almost immediately the expression on the face of the woman who accompanied him began to change. Her eyes became fixed in space not looking directly at anyone but rather almost through people and her facial muscles appeared to grow tense. She was going into a trance. I'd seen it in the Congo...the drums followed by the trance state; I was seeing the same thing here . . . halfway around the world from the Congo.

From as far back as I could remember, I'd had a strong curiosity about the spirit world. I knew it existed. There was just too much evidence. Even the Bible clearly states its existence. I always wondered why so many people refused to recognize it. The Bible does clearly state that we should not engage these spirits, but rather steer well clear. But for today I was quite willing to set aside all the Biblical warnings I'd heard and anxiously awaited a peek into the dark world of these departed spirit entities.

The Cambodians believe there are basically two type of spirits...the knouch (pronounced kmout) and the and l or "hungry ghosts." The Khmer believe these and or "hungry ghosts" live a terrible tormented existence. According to Khmer belief, they are tormented by hunger and thirst and are allowed out of hell (Sheol) once each year to be fed by their families during a special time called Pchum Ben. Pchum Ben is one of the most sacred periods in the Cambodian year.

After some chanting and drum beats it appeared the woman entered a trance. She held a machete which she began to swing just above our heads as she jumped about. To me it seemed the machete was only inches above my head. The noise it made as she sliced the air was scaring the hell out of me. She began shrieking. I was told she was communicating with spirits. This First Baptist Church boy from Hamilton Texas was now very sure he was someplace he did not need to be. By the Grace of God the ceremony ended without anyone being decapitated although a couple appeared to become temporarily "possessed" by one or more or the "spirits." I vowed I would never do this again.

### 38 Specials Threats And Bedpans

The fact that it happened so gradually combined with my normal acute focus on work resulted in my failing to recognize I'd suffered a serious loss of strength. Finally, one day as I was boarding the aircraft, I had to stop and rest before reaching the top of the air stair. I wondered if I had the strength to make it all the way up the stairs. Somehow I managed to make it to the cockpit but by then I was totally exhausted. I collapsed in the captain's seat and needed to wait another couple of minutes before I could begin my cockpit flow and call for the checklist. I knew right then that this was my last flight till I could find out what was wrong and get my strength back.

By the time we landed back in Phnom Penh I was much worse. I needed help getting from the plane to the car. When I got home, I had no appetite. I went to bed but had wall to wall bad dreams. It was a relief to hear the first roosters starting to crow a little after 3:00am.

The next morning Nine took me to the clinic her family used. It was owned by a French doctor; many considered him the most qualified in the city. Nine stayed with me during the doctor's visit. The doctor, in typical French medical form poked around on me then wanted to give me an IV treatment of vitamins. He said when that was finished, I should go home and stay in bed. He wanted me to return the following day for the results of my blood work.

The IV treatment was going to take over an hour so Nine decided she would leave me and go to the market for that day's food. The driver took her to the market while I stayed behind getting the treatment.

When the IV was finished, I went to the office to pay the bill. Nine had not yet returned. While I was standing at the window waiting to get my receipt, I passed out. The next thing I remembered was people standing around me trying to put me up on a gurney. They took me to a room and put me in a bed. I was feeling a little stronger by this time, so I helped them remove my pants and my shirt. This of course exposed the little problem of my shoulder holster, 38 special, and ammo pouch. They reached to take it like they had my pants and shirt. I wasn't sure where they had put them...in the night stand perhaps. But I knew my 38 wasn't going anywhere. I slung it over the bed post at the head of my bed in a manner that allowed it to hang just to the right of my head. I hung it inverted as I wore it so it would be easy to reach, then I lay back in the bed.

It wasn't long before a big beefy Vietnamese nurse with a neck bigger than most of those sow pigs we flew barged into the room with what was close to being the largest syringe I'd ever seen. There was what I estimated to be a 12-gauge needle on the syringe. She was heading straight for me with the bedside demeanor of a charging rhino. I swear that 12-gauge needle from my position in the bed as it rushed toward me looked bigger than the barrel of a 12-gauge shotgun. I shouted "stop at the top of my lungs but she continued her advance telling me to roll over...the doctor had ordered this. I shouted at her again, but she continued her advance with seemingly even more determination. In desperation I grabbed the bedpan from the bedside stand and threatened her with it. She gave me a defiant look and started pulling on the sheet. I slung it at her with all my might. That got her attention. Fortunately for the old wench my aim had been affected by my condition, so it missed her, but not by much. She was now onboard; we had had a meeting of the minds. She retreated rapidly as I reached for my Colt Cobra 38 Special. Of course I would not have shot her but she sure as hell did not know that. I could see a group of whispering nurses peeking into the room from the hallway.

Nine said the nurses rushed to meet her as she came through the clinic's main door beseeching her to please help them with me. I'm sure they were wondering how she could live with such a beast. Nine came to my bed and told me she was thoroughly embarrassed. She asked me if I'd really thrown something at one of the nurses. "Yes" I replied and pointed proudly to the bedpan on the floor on the other side of the room. I could see she was not impressed. By now some of the nurses were starting to inch they way back into the room...in absolute wonder at how she was controlling me. Nine explained that the doctor was worried about me and I really needed to take this shot. I demanded to know what it was and to look closely at the syringe and needle (Cambodia did not yet have disposable syringes and needles and there were horror stories everywhere of their "serialization" techniques. The head nurse came and explained everything to Nine. I've long since forgotten what she said the injection was. I obediently and without further protest submitted with the stipulation it would not be from the same old wench that I'd thrown the bedpan at. They promised she would never come in my room again...probably because she refused. Anyway, I took the shot and fell asleep. When I awoke, I was told my lab results confirmed the doctor's suspicions; I had typhoid.

Back in school in the Navy I'd studied about typhoid, but I couldn't ever recall seeing a case. Largely, in the United States, the disease had been eradicated. I had the low white blood cell count, and the doctor's continued poking at my stomach had confirmed tenderness. Nine insured our maid always washed all fresh vegetables in disinfectant but I was not so scrupulous about what I ate when I went out with the crew on flights. Looking back, I should have diagnosed myself, but I had just been so focused on other things that I failed to see what was happening to me.

The doctor was very concerned about my stomach wall being perforated so he put me on an almost soup and very soft food diet and he started giving me valium injections to calm some of the agitation that came along with the disease. I'd been running a low-grade fever which I'd also incredibly allowed to go undetected. Amazing.

After about two weeks of complete bed rest, I was allowed to return home. During this time in the hospital my life significantly changed. I was not flying; I was not running full speed ahead from the moment my feet left the bed and hit the terrazzo floor; I saw no terrible scenes of war and carnage. The valium kept me in a rested and relaxed state. I gained weight. For the first time in my life I weighed what others did.

### Addicted!

When I left the hospital, the doctor wanted me to rest an additional week to 10 days before resuming normal flight duty. He gave me a prescription for valium tablets. In Cambodia, no prescriptions as we know them in the United States were required. The doctor simply wrote on a piece of paper the name of the medication, the dosage, and how many times a day. If you could spell it, you could buy it. No doctor's order necessary.

When I'd completed my days of home rest and my valium regiment and returned to flight status, I found I missed the tranquil cocoon I'd been peacefully residing in for the past month. I found myself having trouble sleeping; even the slightest thing irritated me, I was tense and clinched my fists and my teeth. By the second day back on the flight schedule I knew I was an accident waiting to happen. On the way back home that evening I had the driver stop by the pharmacy. I bought thirty tablets. I took one as soon as I got home. Every time I felt them wearing off, I took another one. I did not like being without it's mellowing effect.

One afternoon, as I walked into the pharmacy to buy another bottle of these pills I'd become so attached to, the young pharmacist who owned the shop looked sincerely into my face and asked "why would such a young, intelligent, man as you, with such a wonderful life, want to take these terrible pills. You can easily become addicted to them." He stopped short of telling me I already was addicted. His words jolted me like a bolt of lightning. I instantly knew he was right. I supposed I'd already begin to suspect that I might be. I stopped in the middle of the transaction, slowly replied "baht" or yes, "Akun" or thank you, and "Khnum yol," I understand. I turned and walked out of the pharmacy without the precious valium I'd gone in to get.

The next few days were difficult. The withdrawal symptoms were terrible and got worse before finally starting to subside. I simply employed the iron will I'd inherited from my father and endured. Slowly the withdrawal symptoms left me completely and I returned to normal while all the while continuing with my flights

That dreadful medication has never touched my lips since. Years later I learned millions had become addicted to it. I was lucky to have survived its destructive clutch. I will forever be grateful to the young pharmacist who cared enough to challenge me rather than staying quiet and taking my money.

### Another Cambodian Christmas

We had some meager Christmas decorations, but there were no presents under the tree, no Jason or Jenny to watch open them, no Christmas cards, it was almost surreal. I knew it was Christmas, the stores in Phnom Penh all had Christmas decorations. Christmas cards had been replaced with News Week and Time reports of the war in Vietnam with occasional references to the equally real war going on in Cambodia. The magazines usually managed to have some hint of a Christmas theme but past the front page, it was depressing as hell. Back home, the entire nation was obsessed with ending the war. The White House was providing comic relief to the hell that was the Vietnam War and its illegitimate child, the war going on here in Cambodia.

I drank more, smoked more specially blended Dunhills, played my banjo more, and listened to Armed Forces Radio Saigon more. I'd sit close and listen as the sound came through the crappy little speaker on my radio primarily designed for short wave news reception. Every song they played seemed to lead me in the wrong direction...someplace I didn't want to go. I looked eagerly toward January and a new year.

### A Hole In Three

### Four Anti-Aircraft Rounds In Number Three Engine That Is

It was 20 January of 1974. I was scheduled for only a half day that day so the mechanics could have the time to do some routine preventative maintenance on the engines. As I walked by the chief pilot's office, I saw my good friend Paul Rakisits sitting at his desk. I stuck my head in the door just to say hello. He asked if I was done for the day and I said yes. He asked if I wanted to fly to Battambang with him on the Carvair. The Carvair was a converted C-54 that looked for all the world like a mini-747 with propellers. It was developed for flying large oversized cargo. The nose of the aircraft opened outward allowing automobiles and other oversized cargo to be loaded. I'd only flown one a couple of times so I thought this would be a hoot...a good time to fly and visit with my old friend and mentor.

Strolling out to the airplane with Paul was just like old times back in the Congo. It was a nice afternoon, the weather was good, no rockets were falling on the airport; this would be a good time to visit.

Our flight to Battambang was routine. We relived the same old stories we'd shared a hundred times, and we spent time catching up on how our families were doing. The flight went perfectly until we were on the decent back into Phnom Penh. Around four thousand feet were here hit by ground fire. The number three engine started sputtering and shaking. We quickly agreed we had to shut it down. Paul looked over at me and grinned and said..."you know the drill. I'll fly, you shut her down." I grinned back and said..."just like old times."

Paul stopped our decent as we didn't want to get any closer to whoever was shooting at us. This was supposed to be friendly held territory beneath us. After all it was only about five miles from the airport. The oil pressure on number three had fallen to almost zero. Hopefully we could get it feathered. When I looked out the right window there was oil all over the cowling and starting to move back onto the wing. The mechanics were going to be pissed about having to not only change an engine but also having to clean the oil off the right side of the aircraft as well. I ran through the engine failure and secure checklist with a little grin on my face as I visualized their group of scowling faces looking up at us from underneath the engine. I suspected this, though clearly not our fault, was going to require some beer to get us back in their good graces once again. They would claim we started our decent too soon because we were in a hurry to finish the flight and get home. Aircraft mechanics were seldom gifted with a sense of humor that was intelligible to pilots.

Paul made a steep approach and a perfect landing. The Carvair taxiing in with its right side all covered in oil was guaranteed to draw a crowd. As we shutdown they scurried over and were examining the cowling. I knew they would be looking at the bullet hole, but this was a little more interest than normal. When we climbed down and took a look for ourselves, we found that we had not taken one round, but four. A Khmer Air Force lieutenant was walking briskly toward us with his clipboard. He was obviously going to want to know our best guess as to where the ground fire came from. T-28 would almost certainly soon be dispatched to the estimated location. Without question, the Khmer Rouge who fired the shots were hiding in the midst of a friendly village. The villagers were terrified of these black pajama clad little teenage bastards. They would just as soon kill you as look at you. That means the villagers were twice the losers...once by having these killers in their village and second when the T-28s came and strafed and bombed their village. No wonder they were abandoning their homes and rice fields and crowding into Phnom Penh. There all they had to worry about was the Khmer Rouge rockets...not the T-28s and B-52s. What a expletive-ed up war!

They soon had the cowling removed. It appeared the engine case had been cracked as well. That engine was toast...history. Paul pulled a black ink felt tip marker from his flight bag and inscribed on the cowling near the bullet holes "Rakisits/Jacks . . . January 20, 1974 . . . Phnom Penh." As we walked back to the terminal together, he looked over at me with his famous Paul Rakisits grin and said..."all in a day's work." "Yes," I replied..."just another day in paradise." I was glad I'd joined him that day; it had been a good flight.

### Haey Neak Ta

About two weeks after the second of the three new year celebrations celebrated in Cambodia (the Jan 1st new year, the Chinese New Year, around February and then the Cambodian New Year, around April) I watched what was probably the most bizarre celebration I'd ever seen. It was called Haey Neak Ta. A neak ta is a spirit which hangs around after death. Some are believed benevolent, some mischievous, and some downright evil, but all are believed to be very powerful and from time to time get actively involved in the affairs of the livings. This particular ceremony is deeply rooted in Chinese religious practice, but the Cambodians were happy to accept it as well.

During Haey Neak Ta, shamans enter a trance state and invite these spirits to possess them. After the spirit enters the shaman, he (or sometimes she) is able to be subjected to several kinds of self-mutilation which would normally produce unimaginable pain without apparently feeling anything. I saw these shamans being paraded through the streets on platforms carried by devotees of this practice. Large crowds gathered to watch the procession. Some of the shamans had long metal skewers (like those used in grilling shish kebabs back in our backyards in Hamilton) driven through both cheeks with no apparent bleeding or pain. Others were cutting their tongues with razor sharp knives. This would cause bleeding and the blood was smeared on small pieces of paper and handed out to eager spectators in the crowd. This was supposed to bring good fortune in the new Chinese year. Some would spray the blood onto people and on business fronts to bring good luck, drive away evil spirits, and bring prosperity to the business. There was a guy on a bed of nails being paraded around as well. Both shamans and devotees were dressed in bright red clothing trimmed often in gold. The same colors seen around Chinese New Year. This was truly an amazing display.

Frankly I was more than a little uncomfortable with the whole scene. I'd seen things somewhat similar while I was in the Congo, but nothing as dramatic as this. I was sure the air was filled with evil and I was very happy to get the heck out of there...but only after I had taken a few pictures which were subsequently lost when I had to evacuate. I had a lot to think about that night.

Airports–Attachés And Agents

My friend Col. Opfer's assignment was coming to an end. He would return to the U.S. and soon retire. Nine and I, along with several from the embassy were going to the airport to say goodbye at a little ceremony in the departure lounge. Nine had bought a beautiful ruby pendent as a gift for his wife.

There were probably twenty people in the departure lounge for the occasion. There were several other Cambodians and foreigners also there waiting for their flight's departure. Some were taking pictures. While Nine and I were saying our personal farewell, I saw a Cambodian take a picture. All my bells instantly went off. I stared hard at the man who gave me an apologetic "Sohm toh" or sorry. In order not to embarrass Dave or create an incident I turned away from him and resumed my conversation with Dave. But deep inside, my instincts were telling me something was very wrong. I seemed to be the only one of that opinion as they kept taking pictures supposedly of each other but always with some of our group in the background. I had to forced myself to let it go. Although over the years I'd speak with Dave a few times, that was the last time I saw him. Several months later I stumbled on the photos in my file at the 12th Bureau (Cambodia's version of the CIA). Nine and I were clearly persons of interest.

### A Happy Song Amidst This Melancholy Opera

One welcome bright note in the midst of the tragedy playing out every day was the song birds. I discovered Cambodia had birds capable of producing the most beautiful sounds. I would sometimes go out on the veranda just to sit and listen to them. I never thought I could think such a thought, but their music far exceeded the beauty of our mocking bird. God provided blessings even in the midst of all this heartbreak. I was sure the birds singing these heartwarming songs were familiar with the line in Psalm 98:4 "Make a joyful noise unto the Lord."

### The Haze

For many months each year Cambodia was plagued with an incessant haze. Back in Hamilton County you could easily see the hills many miles away. In the oil fields of Loco Hills New Mexico you could almost see forever. Cambodia, like the war, was a constant haze. I often mused that there must be a haze back home on Capitol Hill was well. What a mess I managed to get myself in the midst of.

### Political Fog

Meanwhile, as pigs and tales of pig pilots and beautiful songbirds provided a bit of relief from the weight of the war, the legitimacy of the Lon Nol government which we were struggling to keep in power was in question just about everywhere in the world except Phnom Penh and Washington D.C. Prince (former king) Norodom Sihanouk's government in exile, known as the Royal Government of National Union of Cambodia (RGNUC), headquartered in Peking, controlled, according to informed estimates, 60 percent of the territory of Cambodia and 40 percent of the country's population, excluding most major provincial capitals. This "control" was in reality reinforced by the brutal Khmer Rouge.

In the spring of 1974, Prince Sihanouk and the party's "deputy" prime minister Khieu Samphan who only recently had emerged from the shadows of Cambodia's Khmer Rouge jungle strongholds, embarked on an eleven nation tour (orchestrated by China). The tour included Hanoi, Peking, Africa, and Europe. During this tour, the hard-line communists in Cambodia and their sponsors in China and Hanoi, could be clearly seen distancing themselves from Prince Sihanouk and promoting the much more hardline communists. On this trip, Khieu Samphan was introduced as "head of the delegation and member of the Political Bureau of the NUFC or National United Front of Cambodia (yet another unheard-of political party). Not only was Prince Sihanouk being abandoned by the hardline Chinese and Vietnamese, but his party was being sidelined by the newly Peking blessed NUFC.

I didn't really spend a lot of time trying to see through this political fog, but when I did, I found the lines becoming blurred...the lines of why we (including me) were here. Sometimes it just didn't pay to think too much.

Nixon's Noose Tightens

While the drama of who Cambodia's legitimate ruler was or should be played out in Southeast Asia, the noose was tightening around President Richard Nixon's neck. The democrats in congress smelled blood and presidential dishonesty (hardly anything new) and would not get off the trail. As a result, on April 30, 1974, the White House was forced to release more than 1,200 pages of edited transcripts of the Nixon tapes to the House Judiciary Committee. But the committee insists that the tapes themselves must be turned over. Most of us were watching this more than we were trying to decipher the murky maze of Cambodia's new political acronyms and who was really behind them. It required less thought.

### The Vietnamese Army Comes To Cambodia

For a few days at the end of April and beginning of May 1974, while Richard Nixon clung desperately to his disintegrating presidency, the South Vietnamese Army mounted an operation on North Vietnamese and Viet Cong forces operating inside Cambodia. This operation (the Battle of Svay Rieng) penetrated at least 16km inside Cambodia's border. The Viet Cong and North Vietnamese had long been known to have supply bases and troops inside Cambodia around the area of Svay Rieng. Obviously, the Khmer Rouge weren't Cambodia's only worry. This caught the attention of everyone. The Cambodian's animosity toward the Vietnamese was never far from sight and uninvited Vietnamese troops on their soil stirred their passion.

The barstool generals of the Sokhalay Hotel had several scenarios on the implications of the Battle of Svay Rieng as well. Would they go back into South Vietnam? Would they continue to push deeper into Cambodia? Would the North Vietnamese send more regular troops to join the Viet Cong already here in Cambodia? What would the Khmer Rouge do?

It seemed nothing anywhere around me ended on a positive note. Nine was the only positive thing I could reach out and touch. Still, life wasn't all that bad...if you didn't pause to think too much. I dealt with it by drinking a lot, inhaling deeply, and holding Nine tightly. However, something good was about to come into the picture; something I could reach out and touch.

### Jason Comes To Cambodia

We had another airplane coming. It would be ferried all the way from the States. It would be coming via the Atlantic and Europe then the Middle East. Cy Wroten was planning to bring his family onboard. I had a perfect way to get Jason to Cambodia...only one little issue...Karen. I was sure she would never allow him to fly across the Atlantic in a WWII airplane associated with a CIA proprietary company and land in the middle of a war zone.

But, SHE DID! I couldn't believe my eyes when I read the letter. I'd promised to fly Karen along with Jason to Florida where he would meet up with Cy and Cy's family. I will remain eternally grateful to Karen for allowing Jason to join me in Cambodia.

My son, still only nine years old, onboard a C-54 lumbering across the Atlantic Ocean, sleeping in a sleeping bag, eating box lunches, hopping from Gander to Shannon, then Italy, the middle east, India, and finally Thailand; going to a country and a war that was now in the headlines and six o'clock evening news daily. Looking back now, it is a truly mindboggling thought. Back then, it appeared perfectly normal. What was I thinking?

The plane had been delayed in Bangkok for several days waiting for diplomatic clearance to come into the country. They hung out at the Nana Hotel, a R&R (rest and recreation) hotel used by the Americans working in the war effort in Thailand, Laos, Vietnam, and Cambodia. They enjoyed the swimming pool while Cy struggled with the embassy to get all the clearances we needed. While we were totally supported by the U.S. Government, there were aspects of our operation that were shaded in gray and required sensitive handling. But then the whole war was shaded in gray.

Finally, the big day came. Our flight schedule was critical as well as our pilot roster. I asked Nine to meet the flight and told her I'd be home about an hour later. She was apprehensive about meeting Jason for the first time but, at the same time she was determined he was going to be a significant part of her life. She went to the airport and met the flight.

Cy mentioned to Nine that Jason had at times not been the most genial traveling companion. Cy noted that he was probably under a lot of stress entering this new environment. That was without question a significant understatement.

When I arrived home, he was already exploring the place. I was so glad to see him. Nine was trying hard to be accepted. Jason had determined this acceptance would be on his own terms; but that too was fine.

### Jason And French Bread

Sometimes when I had the car, Nine and Jason would ride around in a cyclo. He had acquired a taste for the French style bread in the Congo. Nine would buy some for our evening meal only to find that Jason had eaten half of it in the cyclo on the way home. It was super fresh, just out of the oven and Jason literally found it irresistible.

### Jason And Our Home Defense System

Jason was fascinated by the somewhat interesting spectrum of weaponry deployed throughout the house. He discovered the M-2 Carbine beneath the bed and promptly took it downstairs to explain to the driver how he should use it to defend the house. He remembered his gun safety lessons and his countless hours of target practice with his BB gun. Nine told him he should take it back upstairs as his father would not be very pleased to learn he had taken it out of its place under the bed. He gave her a scowl but took it back upstairs. He did get a little scolding when I came home, but deep down inside, although I could not allow him to be doing something as dangerous as playing with that gun, especially without any training on the M-2, I totally understood his fascination. I was proud he understood the concept of safeguarding the house and its occupants in my absence. I'd worked hard over the years to instill this sense of obligation.

### Swimming At The Country Club

Nine would take Jason almost daily to the Cercle Sportif. Completed in 1929, it stood as a monument to the lifestyle of the French and Cambodian elite during Cambodia's French Colonial period. There were tennis courts and a swimming pool. At the poolside tables and restaurant were found the families of Cambodia's nouveau riche, created almost overnight by the grand-scale corruption ushered in by the American war involvement immediately following the CIA orchestrated coup that ousted Prince (former king) Norodom Sihanouk. Nine would sit for hours watching as Jason played with his new friends, mostly French or the children of diplomats. At that time Jason still retained some of his fluency in French. Nine didn't really enjoy the place but was happy to take Jason. He would always want to stop by the French bakery and pick up more fresh bread most of which he would eat before they got back home.

While Jason played with international friends in the Cercle Sportif, back in Washington the presidency of Richard Nixon was coming unraveled. On 24 July, the Supreme Court ruled unanimously that Nixon must turn over the tape recordings of 64 White House conversations, rejecting the president's claims of executive privilege. Three days later on 27 July the House Judiciary Committee passed the first of three articles of impeachment, charging obstruction of justice. Though Jason probably had no clue about any of this, even the usually politically deaf pig pilots were starting to take notice. Nine and I talked about it; everyone in Phnom Penh was talking about it. It became a hotter topic than the war.

### Gerald Who?

We all heard the news that President Nixon would resign. Some said they would stay up and listen to VOA or BBC for the confirmation. They already had heard his speech announcing he would resign. I decided that the outcome was pretty much determined. The time of resignation announced. I decided I would go to bed at my normal hour and learn about it tomorrow from the short-wave radio.

When I awoke the following morning, we had a new president. Nobody knew anything about him. He was not elected. He became vice president when Spiro Agnew resigned. Later that day when I talked with some of my friends in the Air Attachés office they were laughing. There was a critical shortage of pictures of the new president which were supposed to be displayed all over the place. People were running around trying to make copies of copies. It was a hoot.

### Disneyland And Deadlines

Karen had made it very clear that under no circumstances was Jason to be late for school opening in September. Clearly, being late was not an option. I made arrangements for tickets for the three of us and started working on a visa for Nine.

Our tickets were routed Phnom Penh, Singapore, Hawaii, Los Angeles. We did not plan any sightseeing till we got to Los Angeles. This would allow us to get Jason home just in time for his birthday and school. I was scheduled to fly till the very last day. Not only did Nine have to pack, she had to go pick up the tickets.

After finishing my final flight of the day, I had a note in my box saying Cy wanted me to stop by his place before going home. When I met him, he asked if I would be interested in checking on the new airplane we had in Ft. Lauderdale. It had already been there for some time going through a U.S. registration process. Everybody felt like it should be going much faster. However since we had not left anybody there overseeing the work, it was a little like giving the fox the keys to the hen house. Cy said SEAAT would pay all our expenses and keep me on basic monthly flying guarantee while I was with the plane. I required no persuasion. This would be a good chance for Nine to see another part of the U.S. Nine was excited about that, yet anxious about meeting my father and friends for the first time.

### Nine's Arrest Warrant

As we were getting ready for our departure, one of Nine's family friends came to her and cautioned her about leaving. He said the Minister of Interior had issued an order saying she should be arrested if she tried to leave the country. Through Bong Hut's connections we soon obtained a copy of the order...written in French, saying just that. If she tried to leave the country...seize her. There was no question, it was because of her father who had already joined Sihanouk's party in the jungle to take part in the resistance movement. I thought it rather unfair to extend this sanction to Prince Phurissara's twenty-four-year-old daughter. Like whose side did they think she was on? The newspaper article was slandering her because she was married to an "American CIA pilot." Now they are accusing her of being a communist sympathizer! Childish logic...but then that's how the entire war was run. Why should I be surprised?

### Another Trip To The Embassy

Armed with a copy of the arrest warrant, I headed to the embassy. First to see my friend Jack McCarthy again. Nine was starting to get famous at the embassy...or perhaps infamous. Jack took one look at the paper and just shook his head. "This is over my pay grade" he remarked and picked up the phone. He called the ambassador's office. They told him the ambassador had a few minutes between appointments and could see us. Jack took me up to his office. He was newly arrived and had only been there three or four months. His name was John Dean. He was polite but not overly friendly. He didn't need anyone to translate it for him. It was obvious this was a distraction he did not need. He picked up the phone, called H.E. SU Sonn, Le Directeur General de la Police Nationale. He was put right through. In a less than pleasant tone of voice he told SU Sonn that he was to rescind that order immediately, and she was to be allowed to leave the country. He thanked him and hung up. Ambassador Dean then turned to me and said he had better never see her face in this country again. I replied...Mr. Ambassador, I can assure you, you will not. Nine and I kept my word to Ambassador Dean. She returned thirty-three years later in 2007.

As we walked back to Jack's office I said, "well it appears I owe you again." He just smiled.

### Few Goodbyes

Though not yet having a plan on how we would get around the issue of bringing Nine back into Cambodia, we planned to try to bring her back. Like everyone else, we did not comprehend the brutality that would come upon Cambodia when the inevitable fall of Lon Nol's regime came. We believed she would return relatively soon. With this in mind, Nine did not want to unnecessarily upset her family with a big tearful goodbye scene. Without any doubt, Bong Hut was happy to see her getting out of there. Although he, like almost everyone else, was convinced the U.S. backed Lon Nol regime would fall and be replaced by some form of socialism-communism based government, none correctly comprehended how brutal the Khmer Rouge would be. This miscalculation eventually cost him and his siblings their lives. Nine would be the sole exception.

Nine said the minimum number of goodbyes and we headed for the airport. We were both very concerned what would happen when we went through immigration control at the airport. Jack McCarty had asked me if I wanted him to come along but I'd said no, that we should be OK. There was a U.S. Air Force master-sergeant with a radio link to the Air Attaché's office on alert if things started to go south but praise God, we didn't need it.

Few takeoffs have brought such relief. I kept discretely looking out the window hoping not to see a jeep pulling up to block the plane before we could get airborne. When I heard the gear come up and the gear doors finally close, I breathed a huge sigh of relief.

Welcome To America & Happy 10th Birthday

We were in California. We stayed at a hotel near Disney Land and rented a convertible. I wanted to get Jason a birthday gift and he had expressed some interest in a guitar. We went to a pawnshop just off Hollywood Boulevard that had a sizable inventory of guitars. Each guitar probably a testimony to once aspiring musicians with hope of becoming a star in tensile town. Jason settled on a Fender Mustang.

We drove up and down Hollywood Boulevard in the convertible, Nine & Jason eating strawberries and checking out all the characters parading up and down the sidewalks. To say this sidewalk cast of characters was unusual would be kind. I wondered what the people in Hamilton would think of some of them went walking about the square on a Saturday afternoon. You could sell tickets to watch that I mused.

Our visit to Disneyland was fun. Nine and I enjoyed it as much as Jason. I did have an embarrassing moment however late in the evening. Unknown to me, they had a fireworks show each evening. I was not facing the direction of the display when it began. A very loud explosion accompanied the rockets pyrotechnics. I dropped to the ground instinctively. People all around us must have thought I'd lost my mind. It seemed I'd brought Cambodia along on our vacation. I would carry it around for many years.

### Nine's First Hamilton Experience

We made it back to Hamilton in time for school. Nine met my father, some of my friends who were still around Hamilton, many of my father's friends and she met Karen.

I could tell all of this was a little overwhelming for Nine. While she was raised in an aristocratic home, this was nevertheless culture shock. Hamilton still had real cowboys...well ranchers and ranch hands. She may have thought they only existed in the movies.

The view from the other side of the window must have been equally strange. People found themselves face to face with a real Cambodian. Some had never seen an Asian except in the movies. Almost all of them only had a general idea where Cambodia was, and of course some were clueless. I found it particularly trying while at the same time amusing when we would be somewhere together and someone I knew would walk up and introduce themselves to her. But when they had a question for her...they would turn and ask me. I had to swallow my impulse to semi-sarcastically tell them "why don't you ask her...she can talk...she speaks English, French, and her own language Khmer." But I didn't because I knew and understood them...in my innermost being, I was them.

### A Letter From Cy

While we were in Hamilton a letter from Cy arrived. The situation was getting even more desperate back in Cambodia. The blockage of land routes was tightening. The rainy season would soon be over, and the fighting would intensify as troops could move about more easily. Things would almost certainly get even worse. The embassy was letting more contracts. According to Cy, another proprietary airline, Bird Air, had just landed a very lucrative contract flying C-130s into Phnom Penh trying to keep the swelling population fed. Cy wanted me to get out to Ft. Lauderdale and push to get our C-54 out of maintenance and back to Cambodia. Nine and I would leave Hamilton a few days later heading to Florida.

### A Deal On Wheels

I knew I did not want to fly to Florida. While Cy and asked me to hurry, I wanted Nine to have the experience of seeing the eastern half of the United States from the road rather than from thirty-five thousand feet. I would use the same ploy I'd used when I left for the Congo the first time. I would drive somebody's car so they could fly. The trick would be finding one that needed to go to Ft. Lauderdale.

Fortune shown upon us and we found one wanting to go to Pompano Beach only 25 miles north of Ft. Lauderdale airport. Nine and I we excited. The contract allowed us five days to deliver the car which was more than enough time. We packed our meager wardrobes picked up our car, another convertible, and headed toward Florida.

### The Scenic Route

Gas was cheap, we were young and in love, and for the first time in recent memory, the depressing, brutal fog of war was not all-encompassing. I was a new person. I was happy; the sun was golden; the grass was green; the breeze was gentle. I was not going to waste a second of this. We turned south toward Houston and from there all the way through Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama and deep into Florida explored the old South via Highway 90 enjoying each and every stoplight.

Somewhere not too far from the Louisiana Texas state line, Nine saw sugar cane for sale at a roadside stand. She made me stop and get her some. She showed me how to strip it with my teeth. She chewed on its sweet fiber for hours. We enjoyed the old southern mansions and huge, stately, moss draped oaks, the bejeweled magnolias, the lagoons and bayous. This was healing my soul. God knows I needed it.

### Ft. Lauderdale

We dropped the convertible off at the owner's house, picked up a cheap, by the week rate subcompact rental car and started looking for an affordable motel close to the airport. We found just the perfect spot on U.S. 1 in Dania Beach just a couple of miles south of the airport. The snow birds had not arrived yet from Canada, so the summer rates were still going. The room was small, clean, with a little kitchenette. There was a pool and shuffleboard of all things just outside our door. I was an entirely different person away from the war. Nine was still adapting to our western culture but she enjoyed seeing me in a more relaxed mode.

### The Airplane

We purposefully had not told the maintenance facility that we would have someone arriving to check on the plane. I carried a letter on SEAAT letterhead signed by Roger saying I was authorized to act for the company.

Nine and I took a drive around the airport as soon as we got unpacked. I found the maintenance facility and spotted our DC-4 (C-54) sitting outside on the ramp. I knew enough about airports and maintenance facilities to know it had not been touched in a while. I got out and went up to the fence to get a closer look. Basically it was just gathering dust.

The following morning I went to the maintenance facility and introduced myself to the owner whose name I'd gotten from Cy and to whom the letter was addressed. He was a pushy rude New Yorker. There was an almost instant animosity. I hated situations like that as it almost guarantees there will be no meaningful cooperation. However, he already knew he had a problem. He had taken a sizable prepayment for the work he was supposed to be doing and then as soon as Cy had left, he pushed our aircraft to the back and started taking in new business to get fresh money.

By halfway through the afternoon, I'd already learned by walking around the hanger floor and talking to his mechanics that there were serious money and morale issues. I'd ascertained the work package was roughly only sixty percent complete. The owner was saying he needed us to pay him even more money before he could start seriously working on the plane again. I sent a telegram back to Cy late that afternoon. I was still working my way through all the signed off maintenance tasks and it was obvious he had been padding the man-hours. My initial assessment was we could easily find ourselves in a difficult situation if in fact we were not already there. He was demanding more money before serious resumption of the work. Would that be throwing good money after bad? I was glad this was not my call. I waited for my instructions. While waiting, Nine and I explored Ft. Lauderdale and Hollywood. It was a bit touristy but still quite nice. We were both enjoying our time there.

### Money And The FAA Arrive

One morning when I got to the airport two men wearing J.C. Penney short sleeve polyester shirts with ties to match were out at the airplane. A mechanic was bringing a ladder up to the number two engine for them. This could only be the FAA I thought. As I approached their matching name badges confirmed my suspicion.

After I'd stood there watching for a while and after one had climbed up on the ladder and with the help of a flashlight had read the serial number from the engine's data plate to his associate on the ground. They were checking to see if the engine on the airplane matched what the engine log showed. Apparently, they matched. Then they turned to me and asked if I was with this airplane. "Well, that depends on what you find" I said with a smile. The other guy replied "I don't suspect we'll be finding much...it seems you guys have some friends in pretty high places. We got a call saying go easy." "Well, that's very interesting" I replied.

The conversation then shifted to what it was like flying over there. I replied that that was interesting as well. They asked if we ever got shot at like in Vietnam, to which I replied, "every once in a while." They then asked where we got our major maintenance done. I gave them the name of our primary facility in Bangkok and our backup facility in Taiwan. They jotted both places down in their notes. They left soon afterwards. As they were walking away, I decided I liked them better than I did the owner of the maintenance facility.

A couple of days later they stopped back by the hanger. Apparently, they had a pretty light schedule. The one who had asked the maintenance facility question commented that he had looked the places up in their directory. He mentioned that nobody had ever heard of them, but they had the highest levels of FAA certification and that there was just about nothing they were not licensed to work on. I answered that I believed they were owned by this friend in high places. This time they laughed.

### Locked Gates And Security Guards

The work dragged on at a snail's pace. I was constantly hearing they were having trouble finding parts for the plane. I asked where everybody else was getting them which was not well received. The complaints from the mechanics on the hanger floor were becoming more intense. They indicated their pay was late. I was pretty sure we weren't getting our parts because they weren't being ordered because they had no money to pay for them. I sent another Western Union to Cy telling him I was very concerned.

A couple of days later when I drove up to the hanger, the gates were closed and chained. Security guards were guarding the gate. I walked up to them and said I needed in, that we had an aircraft inside. They said there was a court order...nobody was allowed in and nothing...repeat absolutely nothing...not even a sheet of paper was coming out. A bank had foreclosed and was going to dispose of the assets. I went to the bank and was directed to one of their officers. He confirmed that they had foreclosed and that I may or may not be able to get our airplane back but that would not be until court proceedings and advised me that probably would not be anytime soon. He was very nice but very specific and sure of their legal rights...at least as he understood them. I left him the phone number of our motel.

This time I called Cy. He said he hadn't trusted the owner of that company since the first day he met him but had few other options. Cy said he would contact "the customer" and let them take care of it. "The customer" was slang for the agency.

A couple of days later the banker called me back and told me I could remove the aircraft. Cy had given me the name of a man on the airport who would let me park the aircraft there. I contacted the man and he had a tug go over to the maintenance facility and tow the airplane over to his ramp.

I called Cy and told him the aircraft was safe on the ramp and asked what I should do now. He said go back home to Texas and return here as soon as you can. I asked if I could stay Christmas at home then return. Of course, he agreed. Nine and I checked out of our little place and headed back home to Texas.

### A Texas Christmas

Nine and I spent Christmas with my father, Jason, and Jenny then Camille and her husband Travis. Seeing them in the Christmas environment was both joyful and sad. Yet it beat the hell out of another Christmas in Cambodia.

Right after Christmas I left for Cambodia. Nine stayed back in Hamilton with my father. This would be an ineffaceable period in both our memories.

### The Dry-Season Offensive

### The Beginning Of The End

Like every year, the rains had stopped in October. They would not return till sometime in April. The winds picked up and quickly dried the ground facilitating troop and equipment movements. Rockets rather than rain now fell on Phnom Penh.

The Khmer Rouge had been planning and preparing for their dry-season offensive for months. Phnom Penh had long been in their stranglehold. They planned for this massive dry-season offensive operation to be the final blow that would bring the Lon Nol government to its knees. By the time I arrived back in Phnom Penh, it was evident the Khmer Rouge offensive was in full swing.

For practical purposes, the Khmer Rouge controlled the banks of the Mekong which at this time was significantly less wide due to no rain. This rendered the civilian convoys, even with military escorts, much easier targets, almost sitting ducks. The convoys would form up in Vietnam at the mouth of the Mekong to make their run up the river to Phnom Penh. Many convoys never made it. Some operators refused to risk their boats and crews, some had to turn back, and some were sunk due to enemy fire and mines.

For practical purposes the Khmer rouge controlled all the highways in Cambodia. Virtually nothing could reach Phnom Penh by road. What rice crops remained in the country were rapidly falling into the hands of the Khmer Rouge.

Food and fuel were in critical supply. The local airlines were operating from dawn to dusk into every airport still open. Many were comparing the situation to the Berlin Airlift. The U.S. was pouring aid money into the airlift but even with the infusion of money, not enough food was moving into Phnom Penh. The only thing that seemed to be reaching the city in significant quantities was refugees; the population fleeing the fighting. It was like they were running from the edge of the target directly to the bull's-eye.

### Phnom Penh–City Of Sorrow

I was not prepared for what I saw when I stepped off the plane at Phnom Penh's Pochentong airport. It looked like half the aircraft on the ramp were not flyable; many of the non-flyable ones appeared to be damaged by rockets.

Tension at the airport was high. Nobody strolled across the ramp anymore; everybody scurried. Many of the pilots were now wearing flak jackets and some wore helmets. I expected things to be worse, but nothing like this.

As I walked into flight operations it was lit only by a small Colman type light. No power; generators had been redirected to more critical areas. I chatted with one of the pilots for a few minutes. He related how things had deteriorated in the four months I'd been gone.

I bummed a ride to the SEAAT office from with one of the mechanics. Roger's father had come to Cambodia to help out. I'd never met him, but we'd heard all about each other. He immediately handed me a stack of $100 notes which Roger had instructed him to give me as a payment on some of my expenses while I was in the states. Roger was out of country trying to get more airplanes, but lessors willing to allow their aircraft to fly into Cambodia were apparently few and far between. He said that the only insurance we could get was through Lloyds of London and our coverage was for one week at a time renewable at their option on a weekly basis...a significant indicator of the risk level they believed existed for airplanes and those in them. Roger's dad advised that flying had been a little slow for the moment and they had more pilots than they had airplanes to fly. He assured me my seniority would guarantee me flight hours as long as we could keep the planes flying. They were just getting shot up and hit by rockets faster than they could be repaired or replaced. I told him I'd need a couple of days to get my personal affairs organized and I'd be ready. He called the SEAAT car to take me home. While waiting for the car I asked about Cy. Was he still here? Roger's dad said Cy was away in Bangkok doing the same thing as Roger...looking for airplanes. He said SEAAT had unofficially setup an office in BKK, operating more or less out of the Nana Hotel. This put him close to the embassy guys that were calling the shots for our operation here in Phnom Penh.

### Our Villa

The driver remembered where I lived. As we moved through downtown Phnom Penh, there were noticeably fewer cars. As a matter of fact, mostly motos and bicycles. All along the sides of the road people were selling gasoline and diesel fuel in one-liter bottles. There were long lines at what few gas stations remained open. Many had closed due to the inability to get fuel and the corruption money required to get the delivery. I found it amazing that micro-economies were managing to flourish in the midst of these shortages and skyrocketing prices. At one roadside stand I saw several one-liter bottles filled with the distinctive 140 octane aviation fuel our Convairs required. It could only have come from the airport. Theft of the precious fuel had been a problem long before I left for the states. I imagined the problem must be tenfold now.

As the driver turned off Monivong Street and onto the street where our villa was, I could feel waves of depression washing over me. This was our home...now it was an empty villa. We had gone leaving two maids with operating funds for about six weeks. That was four months ago. I wondered if anyone would still be there. The driver honked as we approached the gate. In a few seconds, while I was still trying to get the gate to open, I heard the sound of flip-flops scurrying down the driveway. Wow, somebody was still here.

In a few seconds I saw the big eyes and semi-toothless mouth of Ien, one of our maids. She was so excited to see me. She had tears...I hoped they were tears of joy.

I started dragging my bags from the trunk of the Mercedes. She insisted on carrying the heaviest one herself. As we made our way into the living room, I saw it was spotless. Perfectly swept and dusted; everything in place just as when we had left. Upstairs in our salon-bedroom, everything was just as we'd left it. There too spotlessly clean.

I asked her where the younger maid Yaran was. She informed me that Yaran's husband had been sent to another district with the army and as with so many poor military families, she had followed him. I asked her if she had run out of money. She replied that she had but that she had gone to Bong Hut's house and they had given her money to buy food and keep the electric bill paid...which should have been almost nothing since we never had electricity anymore anyway.

I had no idea how much Nine and paid her every month I handed her one of the $100 bills and asked her to go buy food for a couple of days and keep the rest as her salary. She didn't want to take the money but when I insisted, she pressed her hands together in the traditional sampeah gesture of respect then hurried off to get something for me to eat. At his time of the day, I figured it would come from some street-side restaurant where the poorer locals ate. I didn't mind.

I went back upstairs and began to unpack. Ien soon returned with two large bottles of San Miguel in a plastic bucket filled with ice and a glass. She was so proud of herself. She then hurried back down to the outdoor kitchen to start setting up my meal. She knew I would tell her when I was ready to come down and eat.

I took the two San Miguel beers and went out on the upstairs veranda. That too was spotless. I walked over to the edge of the veranda to survey the neighborhood. As I was standing there, a Volkswagen Beetle was driving past. In it I recognized my friend Allen Green (pseudonym) with World Vision. He saw me at the same time. He stopped, backed up and turned into the drive. I went down to meet him.

Allen was late to an engagement but stayed long enough to tell me that he and his wife had divorced, and he was back in country alone still working on the World Vision hospital construction project. I told him that I'd left Nine back in the states with my father and I'd only been back in the house about thirty minutes. Allen immediately asked me what I was going to do living in this big house all alone. I told him I hadn't really given that any thought, but that it was something I would need to address in the very near future. He told me he was living alone in a large three story house himself and asked me if I'd like to come stay with him. He said if I'd like to share half the food costs, he would be very happy to have the company. The house was provided as part of his World Vision contract anyway. I told him I was interested and maybe we could talk more about it tomorrow. He said that would be perfect and he'd be by to pick me up the following afternoon.

We said goodbye and I went back up on the veranda to finish my beer and watch it get dark. I brought my banjo out of the bedroom. It felt strange in my hands. Enormous sadness came over me as I visualized Nine sitting beside me listening to me play. I stared at the place where she used to sit and wondered why I'd come back. I wished I had one of my special blend Dunhills, but I didn't.

I called down from the bedroom's back window to the kitchen below telling Ien I was ready to eat. Five minutes later I sat down at the dining table. I ran my hand underneath the table to insure the 45 was still there; it was. While I ate the rather decent impromptu meal Ien had put together I stared at the empty chair directly across from me where Nine always sat. This place sucked and I knew I needed to get out of it at the earliest possible moment.

After my meal I returned back upstairs. Ien had the kerosene lamp lit and sitting in its usual place. I tuned the FM radio to Armed Forces Radio Saigon and finished my remaining San Miguel, watching the sometimes-flickering light of the lamp dance on the walls and ceiling.

Later, after the news and more music, I got into the bed beside the empty spot where Nine always slept. As I drifted off to sleep, I questioned why I'd come back. It was now clear to me and almost everyone else here that we would soon lose this war. Why did I feel I needed to be a part of finishing a war we were clearly destined to lose? Could I possibly influence the outcome, even in a small way...No. Could I help any of the Cambodian people suffering so terribly...No, at least not in the grand scope of things...perhaps momentarily, but I could contribute nothing of lasting value. So, why was I here? I pulled the sheet around me (not because I was cold but as some protection from the mosquitoes) and prayed for sleep without the terrifying dreams. Sleep was light as it always had been; inbound rockets and outbound artillery plus the sound of exploding 500-pound bombs being dropped from Cambodian Air Force T-28s punctuated the night. The next-door rooster's 4:30am crowing heralded the end of that night's battle with sleep.

### The World Vision House

The next morning, I went to pay the back rent owed on the villa. I paid only up through the end of the month. I wasn't yet sure about moving in with Allen, but I was sure I could not continue to live in the villa without Nine. I also knew I would not be happy in the frolicking atmosphere of the Sokhalay Hotel where all the bachelor status pilots stayed. I was pretty sure I could go stay with Nine's family, but I didn't want to do that either. My presence there would be a security liability.

In the middle of the afternoon Allen arrived. I was glad to see him. As we drove to his place, he continuously pointed out new rocket strikes and new shantytowns populated with newly-arrived refugees from the provinces. No work, no food, surviving on the handouts of relief organizations, these tragic victims had lost their past and could see no future. Life for them was frozen in the terrible endless moment.

As we approached the gate of the World Vision villa, Allen honked the horn and soon the iron gate swung open. Cambodia's automatic gate-openers needed no batteries...who said this was a backward country. A middle-aged man had opened it. Allen explained he was the husband of the cook and maid. He served as a gardener and also helped with the housecleaning. Allen said they were Christians. World Vision was a Christian relief organization and their policy was to hire Christians where they could.

The house was nice with a large living room and dining room. Upstairs were several bedrooms. Allen occupied one...the others were empty. Unlike my villa where the kitchen was outside with the maid's quarters, the kitchen here was inside. The cook/maid was a plump middle aged very pleasant lady. She was busy cooking on a kerosene stove. I was immediately uncomfortable with that as my childhood memories hosted several incidents where kerosene cook stoves had exploded seriously injuring or killing people and burning down houses. Life here was a calculated risk; just here the acceptable level of risk was off the scale by normal standards. I figured the odds here higher that I'd be unlucky enough to be were a rocket landed rather than beside that stove when it blew up.

Allen showed me the rest of the house. My mind was made up. It was relatively close to the SEAAT office and on the way to the airport. Plus, Nine's memories weren't tied to everything in the place. I told Allen I would be so happy to take his offer. He asked me if I wanted to go get my stuff and come back that night, but I said no, I need to work things out with Ien first but the day after that would be fine. Allen drove be back to the Villa.

### Saying Goodbye To Our Cambodia Home

Ien met me at the gate and we walked together to the house. I really felt bad for her as I knew she seriously needed this job. We walked into the living room and I asked her to sit down with me. But by Cambodian tradition, she refused and remained standing in front of me. I explained to her that I would be moving in with Mr. Allen and I would be closing the villa. I told her that I could not take her with me as Mr. Allen already had a maid. She had tears in her eyes. I felt terrible as well. I gave her an additional fifty dollars which was probably almost two months pay and gave her a little hug. I asked if she had cold beer and my special Dunhills for me and she smiled, wiped her eyes, nodded yes and scurried away.

As I walked upstairs, I felt like I was betraying those close to me. It was like I was trying to write a song about my life, and nothing was rhyming...nothing. I couldn't see any useful purpose in any anything I was doing. Had I come to love the Cambodian people...yes. Was I doing good here...yes. But in the end, would any of it make any difference? From my present vantage point I couldn't see that it would.

I took solace knowing that in a few minutes I'd be on the upstairs veranda, beer and banjo in hand. My special blend Dunhills helping turn this jumble of thoughts into lyrics with powerful, structured meter; at least till the rooster crowed and morning's light returned exposing the tear-stained blank page.

### My New House–My New Roommate

I was up early, I was completely packed before 9:00am. There was little to pack. The kitchen stuff that belonged to us I gave to Ien. Nine's personal clothing I packed in some of our unused suitcases. All my "home defense hardware" I packed into a couple of duffle bags and dribbled it downstairs. Allen sent a World Vision pickup to the house and I loaded it all up. I took all my military radio equipment but had to leave an antenna up on the roof as I simply wasn't in the mood to climb up on the roof to retrieve it. I could easily get another with all the coax from the Air Force guys. I had failed to mention to Allen the extent of my "hardware." Due to the fact that Allen worked for a Christian relief agency, he was seen in the eyes of many as a missionary, albeit a bit of a cowboy one. He had already proven he had a propensity toward adventure from some of his Vietnam stories so I figured he wouldn't really have a problem with my stuff as long as I kept them in relatively low profile.

Just being in the new surroundings had an immediate uplifting experience. I didn't see Nine around everything in this house as I had back in our villa. I did not see her in the bed beside me. The empty hole in my chest was larger and ached more than anytime previously. But Allen provided some relief. He was genuinely funny and we got along well.

### My First Flight Gets Cancelled

A couple of days later I was on the schedule to make my first flight since returning back in country. When I arrived at the airport the operations manager met me saying they had been trying to call me on the radio to stop me from coming. That our plane took shrapnel from a rocket attack the previous night and was not flyable. Well, the radio they had been trying to get to answer was still in a box in the corner of my new bedroom. When I asked how badly, they replied it was quite serious. They said it would take several days to finish if they could get all the parts.

When I walked out on the ramp...without flak-jacket, I saw we were not the only casualties. It got some stuff on the military ramp and another C-47 on our side. It was hard to tell the fresh casualties from all the other collection of damaged aircraft increasingly collecting on the ramp. The enemy was within three miles of the airport and according to many sources could send squads onto the airport at night anytime they wanted.

I decided to go back to the SEAAT office and have a talk with Roger's dad. As I walked into the office his face did not have its usual beaming smile. While I'd known the one that took the rocket hit last night was our last Convair, I did not know how bleak the outlook was for the new ones which were supposed to be coming any day. We could get the embassy contracts...we simply could not get the airplanes. The only ones coming into country were pure junk and were uninsured. SEAAT was not going to play that game.

The situation was obvious, but I asked the question anyway. "So, how does this affect me?" Roger's dad replied, they could buy my ticket back home if I wanted to go back now, or I could wait on standby with only housing and food allowance with no pay to see if more aircraft came. I told him I'd tell him in a day or so, thanked him sincerely, and headed back to the World Vision house. But before I left, I used the phone and called the embassy and arranged another antenna and coax for my radio. This was no time to be without communication.

### An Employment Offer From World Vision

I was busy unpacking my military issue PRC radio and the amplified CB radio which I used to communicate with some groups when Allen came in for lunch. The hospital project was just about three minutes away on motorbike, so he generally just rode the moto to the jobsite and left the VW in the drive. When I told him about the Convair taking a rocket the night before and my immediate flying prospects on hold, he smiled and said that that was quite a coincidence as he had just been talking to his country manager about me and his boss had asked if I would be interested in helping with the hospital project. He said he had money in the budget and could hire me immediately as Allen's assistant and the number two man on the project. I remember my immediate thought being...God has a plan. At the very moment my aviation employment appeared to be ending, a job opening in my military specialty fell into my lap. I was truly amazed at this turn of events. I asked when I could start; Allen replied...how about tomorrow morning. We shook hands and headed for the kitchen table for lunch.

After lunch Allen took me up on the roof. This house, like many Cambodian villas, had a large flat roof with about a one-meter high wall all the way around; perfect for sitting on. As we were walking about, I noticed there was another bedroom. It was probably intended as some type of maid's quarters. I opened the door and looked in. It had large windows on both sides providing a good airflow. Most of the time there was no air-conditioning anyway because fuel for the diesel generator was rightfully being diverted to World Vision's Enfant Rehydration Center in Toul Kork. I asked Allen if I could sleep up there rather than in the bedroom. He said pick your poison; there'll be plenty of mosquitoes in either one. I said I'd like to try out the rooftop suite first. We had a good laugh.

The rooftop provided a view of the World Vision Hospital construction site. The surrounding area was not built-up at that time so you could look out onto rice paddies. I immediately liked the rooftop and decided that would be my replacement for the balcony at our villa. But just thinking about that made me miss Nine.

### A Visit To Bong Hut's

After I'd finished unpacking and setting up my PRC-25 radio, my CB base station with amplifier and putting my "black brick" on charge, I took a shower, hopped on the moto and headed to Nine's oldest brother's house. Allan had said to consider the moto mine and if I needed the car just ask. Setting up the radios had been much easier than I'd originally envisioned as being on the rooftop, all I had to do was climb up on top of my bedroom and strap the antennas in place with wire. I let the coax hang down the wall and threaded them through the window screen. My rooftop palace was complete.

I was happy to see Nine's family and of course they were excited to learn all about how she was doing and see the small handful of pictures I'd brought back. Bong Hut and I soon moved away from the mass of chattering women and launched into hushed conversation about how the war was going and the pathetic state of the government.

### Night of Carnage

A couple of days later, around 10:30 at night, Allen and I were up on the roof after dinner watching the AC-130 gunships as they targeted Khmer Rouge positions probably no more than four or five miles from our house. Suddenly my radio started going off. It was one of the guys from the Air Attaché's office. They knew I'd moved in with Allen (since I'd just put the bite on them for a new antenna and coax cable). They said that the airport had been hit a few minutes ago with a barrage of 122s (Chinese and/or Russian made rockets used by the Khmer Rouge) and there had been a lot of casualties. Some of the Cambodian Air Force medics had loaded a couple that were still alive but critically wounded into a jeep and rushed them to the World Vision Pediatric Rehydration Center, located in Toul Kork, which was the closest medical facility to the airport. They obviously didn't understand the facility was for treating infants. They saw the European nurses and figured this would do. Dropped them in the driveway and rushed back to the airport. I've forgotten how, but they knew I was a navy trained medic. They wanted us to go out and try to get them on into Phnom Penh and to Calmette Hospital...at the time the largest medical facility in the country. Allen and I headed for the World Vision pickup. We paused to grab our emergency bags (for personal use) then headed for the Rehydration Center.

When we arrived two World Vision nurses had just arrived as well. We quickly loaded the blood soaked two soldiers into the back of the pickup. Allen drove and I rode in the back with the two nurses. One had a sucking chest wound where shrapnel had ripped a huge hole. His color was ashen, and I wondered how the wound was still sucking...he looked like he was dead already. He lay in a huge pool or blood. One of the nurses was trying to cover the hole with a compress.

The other soldier had his leg barely attached by tissue just above his knee. Blood was spurting from everywhere. The second terrified nurse was frantically and mindlessly digging around in the emergency supplies trying to get an IV bottle and an IV set. My evil twin barked at her that if she didn't control the obscenity bleeding there would be no need for the obscenity IV she was trying to start. Stop the obscenity bleeding!!! I realized a few seconds later that she was a pediatric nurse assigned to the pediatric rehydration center, not a trauma nurse or a trained surgical technician like I was. I then realized if I didn't try immediately to stabilize her, I'd be trying to save this poor guy alone. I reached over and patted her hand as the pickup lunged forward into the dark Toul Kork street. I ask her to get some hemostats out of the bag, the largest ones she could find, and some gauze called sponges. I instructed her to sponge the site where the blood was spurting then quickly remove the sponge and I would clamp. After about the third or fourth bleeder we were functioning as a team. I could see her relaxing. But we were going to lose the guy if we didn't get the bleeding stopped. He looked at me and said in Khmer "aoh hayoy choeung khyom"...my leg is gone. I reassured him in my best Khmer he was not going to die, although I didn't believe it. Three or four minutes later we had the bleeding slowed enough that she could start the IV. How she miraculously managed to find a vein in the back of that pickup bouncing over gravel roads slipping and sliding in the blood-soaked pickup bed is beyond me. But God was with her and she did.

Somehow, we arrived at the hospital with both solders still alive. I was not prepared for the sight that awaited us as we pulled up to Calmett's emergency room. The hall leading to the surgical suites was full of gurneys. They must have run out of gurneys because dead and dying solders were lying all over the floor in pools of blood. The doctors, I was later told, hadn't slept in two days. It was obvious that more would-be patients were dying waiting to see a doctor than were being saved. There were no units of blood...no nothing. My head was reeling...my mind was going into message unit overload again. My first thought was to stay and try to help...but there was no more space to work and no more instruments or supplies...no more sterilized instruments, no more units of blood, no more treatment rooms, no more nurses, no more doctors. No obscenity nothing. I left the building walking like a zombie and went and sat down on the front seat of the pickup. My blood-soaked clothing leaving marks like the strokes of some Absinthe crazed artist's blood red paint strokes all over the World Vision pickup seats. I see it today as clearly as I saw it then. The nurse squeezed in beside me. She was gentle, offering what comfort she could. I could tell by the look in her eyes this could go beyond comfort. Allen and I dropped them off at their house. I wasn't in the mood to be comforted. Allen and I drove home in silence. The soldier's blood was starting to make my pants and shirt stick to my skin. I needed a very long shower. Somehow, I knew that all the water in the world wasn't going to wash the feeling of his drying blood off my skin. Shakespeare's words from Macbeth flashed through my mind with typical Jacks sarcasm..."out damned spot." When I left the shower, I wrapped my blood-soaked clothes in a newspaper I found in the kitchen and buried them as deeply as I could in the kitchen trash can. How did I obscenity get to this obscenity state. Images of the night were fast-forwarding through my mind. An Inferno of my own creation; a hell even Dante could not have imagined...all without coercion from others...save that demon within...never experiencing satisfaction...always demanding more. I could have been back in Hamilton with Nine. I wondered at what point, after he had finished with me, Satan or his demon would discard me to my own destruction. In the shower that night...my very long shower...I prayed.

### Final Flight Of The Phnom Penh Pig Pilots

This, now famous band of merry men, while not disbanding, reluctantly receded into their own footnote in history. Usually in now declassified documents gathering dust in university libraries devoted to the Vietnam War effort.

It was the end of March 1975. Although the spirit of the courageous band of brothers who self-effacingly referred to themselves as Phnom Penh Pig Pilots was still unbroken, for them the war was lost. There were no more planes to fly; no more airports in which to operate. All had been destroyed by the Khmer Rouge. The American Embassy started putting pressure on all "non-essential" Americans to leave the country to lessen the burden of the evacuation which by now was a foregone conclusion. This once vital bunch of aviation misfits and heroes had now been reduced to "non-essential." The plans for Operation Eagle Pull had been drawn up and rehearsed countless times. Everyone knew their part. The time had come for those, no longer essential in maintaining the official U.S. presence in Cambodia to leave the country. That last ignominious moment was imminent, looming over every aspect of our lives.

All had come to love Cambodia. Many had come to love Cambodian women. In most cases, reality would dictate they leave both behind.

One by one they said their goodbyes and made their way back to where they planned to await the next war. Many went to Bangkok, many stayed in South East Asia. A few went back to the U.S. The famous dogs of war, or canis bellatorus faded into the mist until summoned again. All leaving significant pieces of themselves behind, mostly lost forever.

In the final moments as Operation Eagle Pull began, there would be a handful, who by personal miscalculations, would miss Eagle Pull and be left behind.

All the Pig Pilots and other ground support people who missed the evacuation eventually made it to safety. One, reportedly walked through the jungle all the way to Thailand. He later told reporters the trek took a month. Two others took refuge in the Le Royal Hotel and were among those few foreigners released by the Khmer Rouge. They found safety in Thailand. One of those two was our great protector Donald Aaron Samson III (pseudonym) who had purposefully stayed behind to bobby-trap our offices and reek other forms of havoc. He later told me he had also bobby-trapped the toilets. Ironically...most of the KR had never seen an indoor toilet. These two who took refuge in the Le Royal Hotel would later see their experience portrayed in the 1984 movie, The Killing Fields.

### Dancing With The Devil...Fiddling While Rome Burned

The Khmer Rouge had Phnom Penh surrounded. The highways into and out of Phnom Penh were blocked; the Mekong was totally blockaded; all that came in and went out of Phnom Penh came by military airlift. Phnom Penh was the only airport in the country not controlled by the Khmer Rouge, and by night many would say they controlled Phnom Penh's airport as well. The Pig Pilots were gone. U.S. Air Force C-130 transports were the sole source. The Khmer Rouge were only minutes outside Phnom Penh's center. Day and night rockets rained down on the city. Civilians were the targets. Their strategy...to terrorize the civilian population in order to use them as yet another weapon to bring down the government. My mind was scarcely able to comprehend all the carnage. I could feel my mind temporarily taking timeouts when the sights became too much. The timeouts were starting to become more frequent. I knew the time for me to go was approaching.

And yet in the midst of all this...the night clubs and bars were filled with revelers. Admittedly only a tiny fraction of the population of the city but nonetheless enough to pack them every night. It was impossible for those in such places not to know the evil that waited just outside the city; everyone knew. It was impossible for them not to see the death and destruction I saw every day. Some of the nocturnal revelers had even taken the Christmas song "Santa Clause Is Coming To Town and inserted the name of one of the bloodiest of the Khmer Rouge leaders as if to mock the reality of what was about to transpire. Each night they returned to inhale the smoke and cheap perfume the cities night clubs and bars offered; as if the alcohol and the arms of a bar girl would make reality go away. And who's to say, perhaps for some it did; at least until the dawn's first light.

To be perfectly honest, there was little difference between them and me, only modality. They sought refuge in the night clubs and bars, I, in solitude, the yellow dancing light of my old friend the kerosene lamp, beer, and magic herb. In rare moments, I would manage few a few lifeless strums on my faithful banjo. But there were no joyous licks like when Nine and I sat out on our balcony. Now just a few joyless cords, usually minor cords, which were very rare in five-string bluegrass type music. It was safe to say at this point I was semi-functional or probably more accurately expressed, basically dysfunctional. In order to protect what remained of my normal identity, I was progressively turning down the volume on what remained of my external senses. I knew I was messed up, but it would be many months, and in some cases years before I realized how far from normal I had gone.

### My Departure Nears

On the morning of 6 April, I got a call on my black brick (Motorola walkie-talkie) saying to monitor the frequency closely. I knew what that meant. Our time was near. That came directly from the Air Attaché office. Later in the morning the World Vision country manager came by and said we would go out the following morning on a special embassy flight. We would be going to Bangkok. Pack light but bring out all critical papers, etc.; we would not be coming back.

### Agonizing Goodbyes

I went to Bong Hut's house, Villa Darameth, at noon as I knew he would be coming home for his regular lunch and nap. My body and mind were numb. It was like I could see everybody's lips moving but there was no sound...like somebody had turned the volume all the way down.

I told him I had to go. We both knew this was the moment he and I had privately talked about for weeks. He asked me to take care of Nine. Tears were streaming down my face. I tried to regain my composure and go back out in the living room where everyone else was politely waiting. I explained that I would be going out in the morning but that this was just a precautionary move and we would all be back as soon as the situation got better. Everyone pretended they believed what I was saying. That was one of the most traumatic moments of my life. It will always remain so. I still remember it as if it were yesterday.

From Bong Hut's house I went to Srey Touch's house. This was Nine's only sister. When I walked in, she knew this was the day. I was wearing my flak jacket and carrying my black brick. She had only seen my flak jacket someplace on the floor or the back seat of our Mercedes, but this was the first time she'd seen me wearing it. Nine had left all the things she had from her mother with Srey Touch. I had come to take what I could. Her husband had asked if I could take her and the children with me on the flight but by this time there were no extra seats...none. I looked at all the silver vases and bowls, and countless other things. I took the jewelry, and a couple of silver bowls and vases that could fit in a pillow case. I had no idea Nine had all that stuff.

Srey Touch was recovering from a serious attack of malaria and had just come out of the hospital. She was still weak but was standing quietly sometimes politely looking at me when we spoke but mostly looking down toward the floor. My heart was breaking. Her three beautiful little children were standing beside her. I clasped my hands together in the traditional som pas and lowered my head slightly...she did the same. We both had tears in our eyes. She looked down in order not to show too much emotion. I gently kissed the top of her head, turned and walked out. Again tears streaming down my face. I got in the World Vision pickup and headed back to our house. My world was crashing down on me.

When I got to the house, I dragged Nine's things up the stairs and plopped them on the bed. I now had to try to go through all the things we had (most still in boxes on the floor) and figure out what we had to try to salvage. Like when your house is on fire and you have only seconds to grab the important things. But this time, I spent hours. It was like time stood still. Turning papers page by page, each document pulling my memories back to someplace in time.

Finally, I realized I was having a hard time seeing what I was doing. It was dark. I hadn't realized the time was passing. I walked down stairs in the dark. My meal was set out on the table by the maid before she had left; all covered with the little device they used to keep flies off food. I wasn't hungry. I just left it there. She could eat it in the morning herself. I went to the ice chest and got two cold beers and made my way back up to the roof. I stopped by the bedroom to get my black brick. I took the PRC25 with me. It should really be full of chatter this night. It was then that I realized I hadn't heard my radio in hours. It was now chattering and crackling like it always did. It must have been doing that while I was up in the room going through our personal belongings. I'd just been in such a state of shutdown I hadn't heard it.

Up on the roof, it was the usual night show of magnesium flares turning darkness to daylight, 50 cal tracers, and the burp of Puff The Magic Dragon and the AC130 gunships. But tonight was different. I dared to hope that in a few days this would be over, and the poor people of Cambodia would finally get relief from all their suffering. This was a view commonly held on the streets and even within the embassy. Even Bong Hut believed the suffering would end. They knew there would be reprisals for those higher up in the government who had contributed to the Lon Nol government's resistance. It was impossible for anyone to foresee the horror that was to come. We all could not have been more mistaken. But for that night...my last night in Cambodia until 2007 some thirty-two years later, I believed their horrible ordeal might almost be over. How terribly wrong we all were. After I tired of the show, I tried sleep. No sleep came that night.

7 April 1975–Special Embassy Flight Out

I have no recollection of how I got to the airport. I remember walking through the open-air terminal and past all those who still worked there, mostly military. I had overwhelming feelings of shame, guilt, and embarrassment; I was leaving them behind...behind to face the almost certain bloodbath resulting from the conflict we started. We were abandoning them. Many wished me a safe journey. Others stared silently as I walked toward the specially chartered Continental Air Service C-46.

A couple from the Air Attaché's office were there. Other embassy staff were there as well. They were being sent out now to lessen the burden when Eagle Pull came. Plenty of U.S. Air Force enlisted men providing ground handling and support. The two World Vision nurses from the bloody night in the back of the pickup were there as well, along with other WV third-country nationals (mostly Australian and Filipino). I didn't speak to anyone. My jaws were clenched tight.

As I stood in the small crowd waiting to board the flight, the rocket warning siren went off. I knew the sound well. People started shouting for everyone to get on the ground. I was already on the ground before the first shout. My reflexes were well conditioned. A few seconds later I heard the familiar explosion. I could tell the sound had come from the Cambodian Air Force side of the airport. After the traditional wait, I got up and walked to the nose of the aircraft. I could see smoke coming from an area on the Cambodian Air Force Ramp. It didn't look like they'd hit anything critical. Actually, almost everything critical over there had already been hit. As I stood looking at the smoke rising, I noticed a huge black oil stain on the leg of my best safari suit. Ruined! Expletive!! It was like the sorry bastards had given me one last thump as I was leaving. I opened my flak jacket and pulled out one of my Dunhill special blends and lit up. A few deep inhales later I heard the loadmaster calling for boarding. I crushed out most of the cigarette and started for the plane. As I walked, I pulled out the box of Dunhills in the front pocket of my safari suit jacket, threw it to the ground, and smashed it with my shoe. I never smoked again...tobacco or otherwise; no quit smoking books, no substitutes, no rock candy, no hypnosis courses, no nothing. I just turned and walked away.

The airplane was hot and filled with worried wives and more non-essential embassy staff. I was relieved to hear first the number two followed a few seconds later by the number one Curtis Wright R-2800 engines come sputtering to life, accompanied by their customary cloud of blue smoke. I knew, God Willing, we would soon be airborne and the close to unbearable heat inside the aircraft's cabin would soon be gone. I was praying not for a safe flight but that nobody would throw up.

My last glimpse of Cambodia was through tears and unimaginable heaviness in my heart. Tears were streaming down my cheeks. I didn't give damn who saw them. Looking back now it was partly the reality that so many so close to me would soon be facing incalculable hardship. I could never have imagined how horrific it would, in actuality, turn out to be. I knew, even then, that I was living in a monumental moment, something much bigger than me. I felt as though some cruel fist was thrust into my chest and my heart was being ripped out. At the time I was only thinking of my world and the world of Nine and her family, whom I'd come to love. Today, it is clear that this marked the first chapter in the unparallel human tragedy of Pol Pot's Khmer Rouge's Killing Fields. Millions would die at the hands of these brutal bastards.

### Bangkok – The Final Curtain Begins To Close

As we left the aircraft, I was on autopilot, almost zombie like. I remember seeing a huge cardboard box in the middle of the walkway leading to customs and immigration. Two U.S. Embassy guys were standing by it asking all of us if we had anything we would like to put in the box before we went through customs. I looked in and saw some black bricks (walkie talkies) and various other semi-government stuff, mostly from the "non-critical" embassy staff. My brand new, state-of-the-art government issue black brick was about to become the prize of the pile. I gestured to it with the two embassy guys. One immediately walked over and snatched it up. A kinda "dubs on that one" move. We both smiled. Then with a much more serious look, I reached into my carry-on duffle bag and pulled out my 38 special and shoulder holster with my traditional 14 rounds in the twin ammo pouches. The 38 was usually nestled under my left armpit. I had it neatly wrapped in an old krama. The embassy guy and I bent over into the box together and I handed him the bundle. The way he handled it I knew he wasn't a diplomat. He carefully wrapped it back up and put it in a pouch his companion was carrying. Sure as hell didn't need that on me if Thai customs happened to be in a curious mood. But, in reality, the Thai were a very willing host to the entire operation in Laos and Cambodia. But why take the chance.

My mental haze was beginning to clear as I walked out into the main airport entrance. A couple of World Vision Thailand were herding us into vans for the trip to the hotel. I remember nothing of the drive from the airport. I vaguely remember the check-in. It was a beautiful Intercontinental. We were briefed before going to our rooms that our hotel and meals were covered by World Vision and that there would be a debrief and devotional at 3:00 pm in special room reserved by World Vision. Dr. Steven Moody, pseudonym. I remember thinking I needed a drink...not a expletive devotional. Anyway, I got to the room, piled my baggage on the floor in the corner, set the alarm for 2:00pm and lay down on the bed. I immediately fell into a deep sleep. The next thing I remember was the alarm calling me from beyond the dead. I got up, took a shower and headed to the debrief/devotional.

### Christian Abandonment

Carry each other's burdens, and in this way, you will fulfill the law of Christ.

"Beware of false prophets who come to you in sheep's clothing but inwardly are ravaging wolves. You'll recognize them by their fruit. Are grapes gathered from thorn bushes or figs from thistles? In the same way, every good tree produces good fruit, but a bad tree produces bad fruit. A good tree can't produce bad fruit; neither can a bad tree produce good fruit.

The room was full of chairs. I found a seat and waited for the meeting to begin. Dr. Steven Moore leader of the entire World Vision organization was waiting up front.

Dr. Moore began with prayer. Then he explained that they were all grateful for our brave service and that we could stay in the hotel for a couple of more days resting before returning to our homes (some in US, some Australia, some to the Philippians). I was just half listening but when they started handing out tickets, I saw mine was to Dallas Texas and I said a silent "Thank You Jesus."

Dr. Moore then suggested we end with a time of silent prayer. Apparently, this was some drill Christian NGO's were accustomed to. Everyone slid out of their chairs turned, got on their knees with their head and shoulders resting on the seat of the chair and began praying (at least that's what I assumed they were doing). I had no trouble with this as my soul was deeply destressed. Probably more than ever in my life. More than at the loss of my mother back in 1965. My soul was in such pain and was crying out to what I supposed was God. Almost immediately I broke out in uncontrollable sobs...like nothing I'd ever experienced before. I knew others in the room could almost certainly hear me, but I didn't give a damn. My soul was in such horrible pain. I'd walked off and left my second family alone to face the dangers of the Khmer Rouge. I'd abandoned my Khmer friends. They had been so naïve and trusting. We certainly repaid them well. At that time, I had no idea of the unimaginable horrors that awaited them, but I knew it was going to be really, really bad. In retrospect, I could never have imagined how bad.

I have no idea how long I had been praying. The seat of the chair was wet with my tears. I raised my head to see if others were still praying. The freaking room was empty. Even Dr. Moore was gone. Later, I confronted him about what I viewed as their unthinkable abandonment. He brushed it off by saying they thought I just needed some time alone to pray through whatever it was that bothered me. Where in the Bible did it say that?!

### Babies In Baskets–One Last Mission Before Going Legit

While still grieving for those I'd left behind, My energy level was coming back. Cy was supposed to be here in Bangkok. I left the hotel after breakfast (on World Vision) and headed out for the Nana Hotel which was only a short distance away. There I'd hoped to find Cy and get an update on the situation. I was now officially unemployed. Not having a job for any extended period was not an option.

When I got to the Nana, it was like a reunion. I knew all the girls behind the desk and the bellmen and drivers waiting for a tourist client. This had served as our R&R (military slang for rest and recreation) base since 1972. I asked the girls at the desk if Mr. Cy was here. They immediately gave me his room number. But as I was walking to the elevator, the bellman told me he was in the restaurant having breakfast. I found him, just as the bellman had said. He was sitting with another man I didn't know. I was reluctant to interrupt but when Cy saw me, he immediately motioned for me to come over. He was genuinely glad to see me. In a few minutes I would find out why.

Cy had been contacted by the US Military Mission in Bangkok (JUSMAGTHAI) who coordinated all the US Military missions in Cambodia. They had an urgent appeal from the Embassy in Phnom Penh. World Vision had a rehydration center in Phnom Penh full of babies who were extremely weak and would never survive after World Vision pulled out, the electricity from the generator stopped, and the IV solutions they needed to stay alive were all gone. For the most part, the babies had been abandoned by their frightened, bewildered, peasant mothers. Most of the men were in the military or already killed in the fighting. I'd seen these infants countless times when I went, usually with Allen, in the middle of the night to get the diesel generator running again. Always not due to mechanical failures, but due to the staff forgetting to check the fuel supply and letting it run dry.

The man sitting with Cy had purchased a Convair 240 somewhere and was trying to find a place to put it to work in Cambodia. However, after he acquired it, the conditions became impossible in Cambodia. No airports remaining to operate into and from and nobody willing to insure the aircraft. I had an instant distrust of the guy. It turns out Cy did too. The man had a pilot's license which showed he was qualified to operate it as pilot in command. Cy suspected, since it was a temporary license, that it was forged. He wanted Cy to be his co-pilot. Cy was already an experienced pilot in command, but he did not want to get in the right seat with a guy who might not be able to fly the airplane in any type of emergency. Cy was demanding that they take me along. The guy needed money and did not want this opportunity to get away as it would pay several thousand dollars, so he readily agreed for me to join the flight.

They were discussing the best way to handle the turnaround on the ground in Phnom Penh as the airport now was under almost constant shelling. Together we designed a plan. I was amazed as I could instantly see in my head how the operation could work. The aircraft was in a cargo configuration. This made the situation easy to manage. We took four eye-screws and attached strong wire cable through the eye. We made two. They were screwed into the aft section of the cargo compartment. We then attached a quick disconnect (quick draw) device to the other end of the two wire cables. We then screwed the final two eye-screws into the floor at the forward end of the cargo compartment. With this setup, we could quickly undo the line from the forward eye-screws thus opening the setup to allow baskets to be threaded on the wire. Now all we needed to do was buy the equipment (easily found in most Thai hardware stores) and go do the installation out at the airport. The only remaining element was a basket for each infant. This would have to come from Phnom Penh as there would be no time to secure them in the baskets while we were on the ground at the airport.

We called JUSTMAG and asked if they could have a phone patch with World Vision PNH at 1:00 pm. They called us back and advised it was set up. At 1:30 pm we were waiting in the communications room (radio room) at JUSTMAG. We were back in my old familiar environment, Collins KWM2 HF transceivers powered by 1000w linear amplifiers. Amazingly, Cy was equally at home. After retirement as a full bird colonel from the US Army, Cy had gone to work for Collins. His market was the US military. The aircraft owner was far out of his league, a duck out of water.

We told World Vision they needed to go to the Central Market in Phnom Penh and buy big wicker baskets, one for each baby. They were told to insure the babies had plenty of blankets to keep warm and to insure the babies were securely strapped in the baskets. They were to have everything ready. As we approached PNH and ready to commence our steep decent to avoid Khmer Rouge ground fire, we would call on a discrete VHF frequency. Normally we would have used UHF, but this aircraft did not have any military radios. The US Military would then send message (not via radio) to the control tower. We would be a radio silence operation.

That evening I joined Cy at the Nana for a few beers and to celebrate what we hoped would be a perfect mission the following day.

Lord, teach us to pray,  
just as John also taught his disciples.

When Cy and I got to the airport the following morning, we went straight to the hanger where the plane was kept. They already had it sitting out on the ramp. The owner was there doing an external inspection (walk around). Neither Cy nor I trusted his professionalism and proficiency on the Convair. All looked OK so we moved into the aircraft and started our interior inspection than moving to the cockpit check.

Soon a van moved up to the aircraft. I saw Dr. Moore was among the group. We soon learned the group was his own media team along with a couple of nurses. His expression was priceless when he saw me. He had no idea what I had done before I joined his team as a local hire for the hospital project. Anyway, he immediately gravitated toward me to be his liaison with the pilots. It was doubly sweet when he asked if I knew how to fly this airplane and I got to respond with "Of Course."

I was relieved to see how easily the engines started and how smoothly they ran. Our takeoff was normal. My agreement with Cy, I rode in the cockpit in the jump-seat, just in case something happened. My role quickly changed as we were about to start descent. I worked the radio and talked with the US Air Force personnel on the ground. The crew was maintaining radio silence. As I remember, it was about 11:00am. Soon the Air Force came back that the tower was ready, we would be number two to land and we could expect to be the only one in the traffic pattern when it was time to land. Our parking was arranged, and a US Air Force Sargeant would marshal us in. We would shut down #2 engine and our "cargo handlers" would come from the terminal in almost a run around the front of the aircraft staying clear of #1 engine which was still running. The Air Force ground handlers would take the babies from the nurses and hand them up to our nurses through the right-side utility door. The airport had not had any inbound in over an hour. All looked pretty good...if you didn't stop to think about everything that could go wrong. Our biggest fear was being hit by inbound rockets while we were on the ground or taking some AA or ground to air fire on the climb out. Cy started the stop watch as we shut down #2.

The World Vision nurses (all Cambodian) came running out to the aircraft with their precious cargo all strapped into their baskets. They arrived at the nose of the aircraft just as the prop stopped spinning. Our World Vision crew in the airplane were ready. The babies came into the plane through the utility door and were immediately handed to a nurse who ran with the basket to the back of the aircraft and threaded it on the cable. It was beautiful to watch. The plan was coming together just as I had envisioned. In what seemed like only an instant the last basket was threaded on the cables and the two latches were clicked onto the forward eyes. We were done. I signaled the cockpit as the door was closing and I heard the familiar "clear #2" call. Number two engine was running in seconds and we immediately started to taxi. I rushed to the cockpit and silently ran the checklist that the flight crew normally ran. I announced "before takeoff checklist complete" as we were approaching the takeoff end of the runway. The crew slowed down from the taxi speed just enough to keep from skidding and throwing everybody in the back on the deck as they rounded the turn and took the runway. The throttles were up to takeoff power immediately. The takeoff run was unusually short as we were very light and had not taken a lot of fuel so we would be light for the takeoff. With throttles full, and alcohol injection on, the Convair climbed like a homesick angel. I'd never been in a Convair that light during takeoff. We were usually seriously overloaded with troops and injured and critical supplies. Our climb angle must have looked spectacular for those watching back on the tarmac. I hoped they were praying for us.

Immediately after the flight crew reduced the climb angle enough for me to be able to walk, which was after we were out of range of SAM-7 heat seeking missiles, I got up and went back to check on our precious cargo. I was hoping our system worked and they were all just as they were when we snapped the two cables into place. I was relieved to see they were all in place and nurses keeping a close eye on them. Some had their eyes open. Most appeared to be sleeping. I was relieved.

I was not ready for what I saw from Dr. Moore. He was on his knees praying to the camera. He was determined to milk the last ounce of Public Relations out of these babies. I warned the nurses not being used as stage props that this was not a regular passenger aircraft...it had been modified for cargo and as such could easily become quite cold. They were to watch and if the babies started to get seriously cold, they were to come tell me and we could try to adjust the temperature with what was left of the climate control system after the cargo conversion. The flight was going to be short...less than an hour. By the grace of God, the temperature remained tolerable. Soon it was time for descent.

I wondered what Dr. Moore had planned upon our arrival. In my mind, considering the sensitive nature of our "cargo" I would have planned something extremely low key...almost clandestine.

As we opened the door, there was a small group of people out on the ramp waiting along with several vans. Most looked like embassy type. Dr. Moore's onboard PR crew darted down the air stair and positioned to be ready for Dr. Moore, the nurses and the babies. I stayed in the cockpit away from the eyes of the press.

After they all left, in vans for God knows where, I came down, helped with the post flight inspection then rode to the Nana Hotel with Cy. Time for a tall drink. The following day there were articles in the press. Most asking why these babies were about to be shipped off to the United States where they would grow up with nobody looking like them. Nobody to identify with. Everywhere I turned I saw the United States making horrible messes in South East Asia. As I sipped my super cold Singha beer there in the Nana bar with Cy, I mused that "with friends like America, one would never need enemies." A few days later I flew back to Hamilton to join my father and Nine. It would be more than thirty years before Nine and I would return to Cambodia.

If you enjoyed Cambodia-Trail of Tears you'll love all of Beneath The Shroud by James (Jimmy) Joseph Jacks. From a rural Texas upbringing, through flight training, and flying dangerous missions orchestrated by the CIA, it's a personal adventure you'll love reading.

### Get your paperback or hardcover copy now at:

### http://beneaththeshroud.billspositivebooks.com

