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Flag of Vietnam.

     As I prowled the streets of Saigon on my off time, visiting the various shops, bars and restaurants, not once did I cross paths with another American.  Giving me the firm impression I was the only Yank in town, which, because of the U.S. embargo, was apparently true.  Usually the locals mistook me for a German, a Russian or a Canadian – a fiction I readily went along with.  Even though the war had been over for twenty years, I didn’t want to be responsible for dredging up any bitter memories among the Vietnamese.

     They also had several war museums in Saigon, along with the occasional Russian T-54 tank and SAM (surface-to-air-missile) on public display alongside the streets.  

Russian T-54 Tank

Russian SAM 

 U.S. B-52 Bomber shot down by a SAM over Vietnam.

     In one war museum I came across a captured U.S. Cessna 180 spotter plane; the same aircraft I made my first solo flight in on my 19^th birthday at the Santa Monica Airport.  

     Adjacent to it was a French guillotine on display, left over from the French colonization of Vietnam.

     Talk about mixed emotions, dear reader. 

The War Museum:

Museum Guides.

The U.S. Ordinance thrown at the V.C.

The V.C. Homemade Ordinance thrown back at the U.S.

Using Bikes to transport rice and ammo.

Found this photo in the museum, revealing the true brutality of the Vietnam War.

      I also found this G.I. lighter in a pawn shop, which accurately sums up our futile 12-year war in Vietnam.

     Another interesting item I stumbled across in the pawn shops was Russian wristwatches manufactured in Moscow.  These were military-issued watches obviously pawned by Russian pilots and military advisers.  Being used, they were cheap, so I picked up a dozen of them – handing them out to flying buddies in the States as birthday presents.  They really got a kick out of them; even Capt. Yai.  I kept the best one for myself.

     The lacquer ware in Saigon was amazing.  On a glossy-black background they had perfected a technique using crushed, white eggshells to create an almost photographic effect on large, segmented panels.  These depicted traditional Vietnamese people, their villages and fishing boats.  My favorite was an old, white-haired Chinese merchant smoking his bong.  I picked up a ton of this stuff - shipping it back to Phuket – which dressed up the bare walls of my town house.

     At this stage, before the commercial invasion by the west, everything in Saigon was of the highest quality and dirt cheap.  Sadly, all this changed when the U.S. embargo was lifted; igniting the American stampede.

     As for the Vietnamese women...wow, what a visual treat!

     Usually they were clad in the áo dài, the Vietnamese national costume – a silk long-sleeved, tight-fitting tunic, with slits up both sides, worn over silk trousers.  They didn’t walk, they “floated” in this apparel in a stunningly, delicate manner.

Even Mother Mary apparently preferred the áo dài. 

     One night Capt. Yai threw a dinner party for all the pilots at a “No Hands Restaurant.”  This was my introduction to the delicate, polite and graceful Vietnamese woman.  A beautiful girl sat down next to me, clad in the traditional áo dài - revealing a slender figure - who proceeded to wash my head and hands with a damp icy-cold towel.  Later, as each course of the meal arrived, she hand-fed me as if I were an infant.

     I wasn’t allowed to do anything for myself, dear reader, not even taking a drink.  It was all done for me.  Talk about being spoiled rotten!

     There was a four-man combo providing music on various Vietnamese musical instruments and, after dinner, my beautiful dinner companion, never leaving my side, got up and sang to their accompaniment.  She had a lovely, pleasant voice and could carry a tune, with a sweet sense of humor.  What an enjoyable way to dine. 

     Dragon Lady eat your heart out, this was definitely “Terry and the Pirates” stuff, dear reader.

     As for the airport we were based at, Tan Son Nhat International, which was a joint civilian and military facility located four miles north of Saigon’s city center.  At this time period it had a single, rundown terminal building and two parallel runways (070°/250° magnetic, NE/SW); the north runway being 10,000 feet in length, and the south runway measuring in at 9,961 feet long.

     The Vietnamese Air Traffic Controllers were switched on, spoke perfect American English, and could radar vector us; they were obviously leftovers from good old USAF training.  The other items on the airfield, left behind by the USAF, aside from the runways, were massive concrete revetments to protect the fighter/bombers, and several concrete machine gun pillboxes.  One of which I used to pass daily at the airport’s front gate that was totally empty.

USAF Concrete Revetments.

USAF Concrete Machine Gun Pillbox at the front gate.

     And while we’re on the subject of guns, dear reader, of all the local cops and security guards I observed, not one was armed with any type of firearm.  The sole weapon they carried was a truncheon.  All in all Saigon appeared to be a well-ordered society with a paucity of street-crime.  I felt completely safe wandering the lanes, alleys and avenues there.

     The only anomaly I ran into at Tan Son Nhat, was when I reported for my flight early in the morning.  Before I was allowed access to my 737, I was required to meet with the “Aviation Doctor.”  After being ushered into a bare concrete room, with two beat up chairs and a table, I was required to sit and face the Doc. 

     Another surprise, dear reader; of all the eleven airlines I’ve ended up flying for, this was the first one that required I have a medical checkup before each flight.  In reality, though, I actually had nothing to complain about.  Why?  You may well ask.  Because the Doc was a gorgeous, young Vietnamese woman; most assuredly a heart-stopper!

     The Doc spoke perfect English and proceeded to take my blood pressure.  Which I struggled to keep under control as this woman was so breathtaking!  And that was it!  Blood pressure was all she ever checked; afterward clearing me to take command of my aircraft.

     Truth time, dear reader; so what was the purpose of this little “medical exercise?”  Apparently Pacific Airlines at one time had hired Russian pilots, who occasionally would roll in here drunk as a lord for their flights.  The Doc would take their blood pressure, and politely explain it was too high for them to fly; recommending they return to their hotel and get bed rest.  It was the civil, Vietnamese way of allowing everyone to “save face” – while keeping the drunk Rusky out of the cockpit.

     With regards to our routes, we alternated with the French crews in the other 737, between doing a round trip to either Hanoi or Taipei.  Pacific’s routes at this stage were simple, archaic and risky.

     For the Hanoi run we used mostly WWII NDB low frequency radio stations; a dodgy method of navigation at best especially in a thunderstorm.  As for the Taipei run we were required to follow airways out over the empty South China Sea – well beyond any radio navigation range.  Air Atlanta didn’t have any INS or GPS navigation systems in their 737; resulting in us using “dead-reckoning” running a time, speed and distance exercise with a wristwatch and compass.  ATC didn’t know where we were, and we sure as hell weren’t certain how far to the left or right we had drifted off the airway or waypoint; strictly Stone Age WWII navigation.  We had an Air Atlanta Captain on the jump seat in the cockpit, supervising myself and my Thai First Officer, in this “cowboy” method of navigation, while supposedly “protecting” Air Atlanta’s 737 and interests.

 

     Frankly, dear reader, I wasn’t impressed with their unsafe, slipshod system of navigation.  This was exactly how Terry Lee and Hotshot Charlie flew their DC-3 in the comic strip “Terry and the Pirates.”  Talk about life imitating art.

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