Pan Am Unbuckled: A Very Plane Diary (2 page)

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ASV

Bien Hoa, Vietnam

It was 1971 and we were picking up a plane load of troops in Bien Hoa. We flew military R&Rs (Rest and Recuperation) transports in and out of Vietnam on what was called a “Wet Lease”— meaning the aircraft plus pilots and service crew were all provided by Pan Am. R&R flights were subcontracted by the Air Force and we were the major U.S. carrier, at the time, providing this service to the military. Our R&R transports typically picked up passengers from one of three places: Saigon; Danang; or a small landing strip right at the front of the war zone called Bien Hoa.

That day, our passengers were reporting for their R&R directly off of patrol. That didn’t mean much of anything to me at the time, but it did later.

On descent into Bien Hoa, our plane took its usual bit of un-friendly fire. Whenever this happened, the first officer and engineer would double-check for damage to the fuselage during their “walk around” the outside of the aircraft. If they found any damage, the plane would get grounded for repairs. It wasn’t unusual to get fired upon; we considered it harassment as usual. The military had set up broad, protective parameters to guard the planes from real anti-aircraft fire on descent at low altitudes. On this day, our plane was un-damaged, so we started pre-flighting the cabin and getting it ready for boarding.

As the senior purser, I was responsible for making sure the rest of the cabin crew were equipped and prepared, and that the safety equipment had been checked, and that the life vest and face mask demos were ready. Because it wasn’t a regular commercial flight, we didn’t have liquor miniatures or movie head sets to deal with, and the only reading material we provisioned were copies of
Stars & Stripes
. We had ferried in without passengers, so the plane didn’t need cabin ground service. Commissary back in Guam had done a good job of pre-setting the food in the galleys and it was already on board. We were all in a good mood.

We got the milk off the dry ice so it could start defrosting. When the troops boarded, they usually wanted milk immediately and we liked to have it ready for them—cold, but not still frozen. Fresh milk was something they couldn’t easily get in Vietnam and they always told us they missed milk more than beer! We were totally ready, but where were the passengers? Eventually, the captain got word they were ‘still being processed’ and it was going to be a while before boarding.

We continued waiting on the hot tarmac— in the even hotter aircraft— wondering where our passengers really were, when a cocky pilot zipped up to the boarding ramp stairs in a jeep and invited us to join him at the officer quarters. Wearing his aviator glasses and his hat askew, he looked just like Tony Curtis in a movie. It was a bit unusual to have Air Force personnel fraternize with us, and double-unusual to have enough time on the ground in Bien Hoa to actually do something. However, we had nothing better to do, so three jeep trips later all six of the flight service crew were in the air-conditioned officers’ Quonset hut at the far opposite end of the tarmac.

I didn’t know what to expect, but was bemused to find that the officers’ ‘special club’ consisted of simply a pool table and a ping-pong table. To drink there was lime green, lukewarm Kool-Aid, and no alcohol. That was fine, as we were on duty too—and, this was, after all, a ‘wait room’ for the pilots. I tried to keep the conversation going—about the weather, ping-pong tournaments, etc, but the four military pilots were mostly interested in gawking at us three ‘round-eyes’ females. We had tired of being stared at by the pilots and asked to be taken back to our plane when we got word that our passengers were arriving, and the pilot shuttled us back to our aircraft— back on the hot tarmac.

To save fuel, the captain had turned off the air conditioning while we were parked and on the ground. The aircraft was unbearably hot, so we waited on the landing at the top of the boarding ramp stairs. Even though we were now standing uncovered in the sun, it was cooler than inside the cabin. When the captain decided it was time to turn on the aircraft’s air conditioning, the rest of the crew went inside to enjoy the cooled air but I stayed on the rear boarding ramp landing to do the greeting.

Sweating in the tropical heat, at the rear exit door, I watched a man in military uniform set up a card table at the bottom of the boarding ramp. He placed a clip board on the table and a cardboard box on the ground on either side of the table— and he waited. Then, I noticed that a cargo door in the belly of the plane was also open and that, too, was unusual. I was wishing that I was in the air conditioning with the rest of the crew when I heard whistling in the distance. Slowly, beyond the defense embankment running parallel to the runway, I began to see the tops of heads bobbing up. The heads slowly turned into men—marching in formation— in full gear—with duffle bags—in camouflage—whistling in unison.

In the wavy haze of heat, a whole platoon marched over the hill and up to the plane, coming to a halt in formation. One-by-one, each man approached the card table, called out his name and number, discharged live ammunition into one cardboard box, stacked his gun in the other, threw his duffel bag into the open cargo door in the belly, and walked up the stairs into the plane.

Suddenly, we were doing a lot more for boarding than usual. The men were all so thirsty. We gave them water and milk immediately, even though we were worried about running out of milk. There was something about the group that felt different from our usual R&R transports—but we couldn’t figure out exactly what. It felt like there was something out of the ordinary going on. We got everyone squared away, thanked the Bien Hoa pilots for the Kool-Aid, and prepared for take-off. The GI’s were subdued but tense—and at the same time, not joyful that they were on R&R.

I grabbed my special serving smock out of my tote bag—the one bedecked with service pins, shooting metals and badges from various units— that guys had given to me on previous R&R flights. It was a great way to break the ice. Sometimes one of the men would add their own platoon pin or patch to the collection—-as a way of displaying competition between units and branches of service.

These guys were used to following orders, it was easy to get everyone buckled in quickly, and the flight took off. Once we were airborne and had completed the meal service, the exhausted men started falling asleep. We immediately went through the cabin asking them to close the window shades. This way, sunrise wouldn’t wake them up and they could sleep longer before we landed. I turned off the lights and the cabin was dark and completely quiet.

This was a 707 plane with single configuration, and every seat was taken. Military charters were all single configuration seating—3 economy seats on either side of the aisle forward to aft—the whole plane. Ranking officers were in the very first row where there was more leg room—at the main entry and opposite the cockpit door. The flight was bound for Guam where most of the passengers would continue on to Honolulu. Some would go to other R&R destinations such as Tokyo or Sydney.

Hours later, we started getting ready for the breakfast service. I was working the galley, heating up omelets and hash browns. Our system of serving sleeping passengers was to work from the aft forward and only wake up a row ahead of where we were serving. We would raise the window shade by reaching over to the window with a coat hanger to slide it up, or we would give the passenger a little tap on the shoulder. We always made sure everyone got breakfast eventually, even if they did not wake up on the initial round of service.

The girl working the cabin, Gina, was very petit—probably weighing in at less than 100 pounds. Her job was to tap the aisle-seated passenger on the shoulder, on the row just ahead of service, to wake them up. About a third of the way through breakfast service, there was a horrible sound. A SCREAM—a quick THUD—and then more hysterical screaming.

As the senior purser, I immediately left my omelet cooking and rushed toward the noise. There— lying on the floor in the aisle, was Gina—her arm flopping around—BROKEN! The big GI she had tried to awaken was now curled up in his seat, in the fetal position, crying uncontrollably. Two of the officers in the front worked their way to the back. The whole plane was rocketed to an awaked state and a sort-of mass hysteria seemed to have broken out among the troops. The sense of hysteria, combined with confinement in an airplane at 30,000 feet, was only making it worse for both the GI’s and injured Gina.

We gently carried Gina into the cockpit, and a military medic who was on board put Gina’s arm in a sling. Cock-pit access was as simple as opening a can of soda—the key was on the same ring toggle and you could walk right in. There was not the great sense of security or precaution of today. Every flight attendant had a key to the cock pit pinned inside the pocket of their serving apron. Besides that, the flimsy cock pit door could often just be pushed open.

Gina was only slightly more comfortable once her arm was put into a sling. But, the only pain medication in the ‘on-board first aid kit’ was morphine, and FAA regulations limited its use to actual surgery taking place during flight. So, we didn’t give her anything and the poor girl had to go the rest of the flight into Guam in terrible pain. The medic’s perspective was calloused by his battle-front experience, and the cockpit crew seemed pretty macho about the whole affair.

I didn’t believe that the FAA regulations had been written with this kind of incidence in mind. I don’t like to break the rules, but a little voice inside me said Gina needed something stronger for her pain, despite what the FAA rules said. By the time we arrived, I wished I had listened to that little voice—as it had been a very rough few hours for Gina. So what if it meant additional paperwork? I wish I had spoken up and given her the morphine.

Instead, as the purser, I instructed the rest of my cabin crew to get back to their duties— and we served the rest of the GI’s their breakfast. But, to a man, practically no one ate anything. They just stared at their food trays.

I spent time talking to the officer in command, doing my best to persuade him not to put the GI on report. After all, he was only doing exactly as he had been trained. Without a transition period between patrol duty and R&R flight, he had not had time to switch-off in his mind from being on patrol. There he was, crammed into a confined space at 30,000 feet, headed for R&R instead of a tropical jungle surrounded by the enemy— where the right quick response meant the difference between life and death.

When we got to Guam, we were all a nervous wreck. Gina was fixated on the incident being her fault. We had to assure her that she was not to blame, as she, too, was doing exactly as SHE had been trained. As a flight crew, we were not prepared to interact with troops fresh off patrol and we did not know a major rule of the battlefield— NO BODILY CONTACT! Bodily contact meant only one thing, the enemy. And these men were trained to react instantly, instinctively. They were ready to kill. We had never been briefed on a situation like that.