Ashen Skies of Vietnam - A Novel

1…. AND TO ALL A GOOD NIGHT

December, 1965

“Song Be, this is Chip Two-six, over,” my copilot radioed, with growing exasperation in his voice.

“Dammit,” our navigator said. “We should be right over it.”

“Yeah, if there is such a place,” the engineer said. “I’m having doubts.”

“Let’s keep trying,” I said.

The clock on the instrument panel showed 0300: 3 a.m. in civilian time. Christmas morning. A pitch black world lay beyond the confines of our dimly-lit cockpit. There’s no blacker place on earth, I thought, than the sylvan landscape of Vietnam under a moonless night sky; even Santa might have trouble finding chimneys tonight. Christmas morn. Winter. It did not seem real, not winter, not in this sweltering land close to the equator. Visions of New Hampshire passed before me, of warm jackets and snow-covered fields and fragrant green balsam trees decorated for the holidays.

We had already flown four legs this night. My body creaked with fatigue, but I tried to conceal my weariness, knowing that my four crewmates—Booker, Zachary, Sarge, and Carlos—were equally tired, and looking to me for strength and leadership. It rested on me to make the right decisions. I couldn’t be indecisive or impatient, or let my voice crack. My name is Clay Evans, and I was the aircraft commander—“A/C”—of our big Lockheed C-130B Hercules, one of the finest, most versatile transport aircraft ever conceived.

Our job tonight was to deliver supplies to an isolated Special Forces outpost in a hamlet called Song Be, close to the Cambodian border. But inside, I questioned why we were churning around in desolate darkness on this steamy night, trying to spot the elusive airstrip. According to our maps—antiques from the French-Indochina war that we used with caution, having discovered that some airfields were miles from their depicted locations—Song Be nestled in a clearing surrounded by rolling hills. Hills that fighter pilots, who flew nightly missions to bomb the nearby Ho Chi Minh Trail, hidden in jungle-covered valleys, called “black death”—the instantaneous, fatal consequence of smashing into one.

The Hercules, or “Herk,” was ideally suited to Vietnam operations. Four 4,050 horsepower Allison turbo-prop engines—jet engines geared to propellers—provided plenty of power for taking off with heavy loads; reverse pitch on the props helped stop the aircraft on short runways. The cargo bay could absorb a variety of loads, vehicles, or as many as 92 passengers. The plane had enough range to span oceans, and yet, at reduced weight, could operate from dirt strips more suited to Piper Cubs.

I wrapped my right fingers around the throttles and eased them back, decreasing the muffled roar of the engines, and began a gradual descent to three thousand feet, as low as I dared go until we definitely spotted Song Be. My crewmen scanned the inky landscape as we skimmed through scattered stratocumulus undulatus—I’d loved my college meteorology class—formed by gentle updraft winds fanning the hilltops. A wispy layer of fog clung to the valley floor.

The Hercules required a crew of five to operate in its varied roles: a navigator, flight mechanic, loadmaster, and, like most large aircraft, two pilots. As aircraft commander, I occupied the left pilot’s seat in the spacious cockpit; my copilot, Lt. Zachary Butler, sat on the right. Each pilot faced instrument panels with similar arrays of airspeed and vertical speed indicators, altimeters, and navigational displays. The copilot’s lower panel also had switches for the hydraulic systems.

“Zack, give ’em another call,” I said. A North Carolinian, Zachary had let his blondish hair and sideburns grow unmilitarily long, and his scraggly mustache needed a trim. Skinny, tall and with a devilish grin, he might have given namesake Rhett a run for Scarlett O’Hara’s affection in an earlier time. Although married to a lovely girl, Zack’s eye often wandered, and women were attracted to him like moths to a flame.

No response from Song Be.

“What do you think, Booker,” I asked.

“I double checked, Clay. It should be down there. Somewhere.” Capt. Booker T. Washington Riley, our navigator, sat aft of the copilot on the right-hand side of the cockpit. Booker’s corner of the cockpit included the radar controls and display, and a small desk usually covered with charts. Last name notwithstanding, he was not Irish. Nor should one inquire glibly about his ancestry, considering the mahogany-brown color of his skin. He’d look you in the eye and say, “That was my great-grandfather’s slave name.” Then this six-foot-two former linebacker on the Georgia Christian football team might edge closer and growl, “Why do you ask?” He also possessed a gentler nature, excelling at bridge and chess. He and his wife Jessie had two children.

Seated aft of the center console, giving him access to it and the overhead panel, Technical Sergeant Travis Shannon, who preferred the title flight engineer, manned the flight mechanic position. His elevated seating position provided the best all-around view. With an unlit half-smoked cigar clamped between his teeth, fatigue cap askew, and flight suit stained from his meticulous preflight inspection, Sarge supervised the fueling and maintenance, and during flight monitored the engines and aircraft systems.

His graying hair and weathered face attested to twenty-six years of military service, but upon completing this tour, he planned to retire to his small ranch “deep in the heart of Texas.” He and Noreen, “the sweetest little ol’ gal y’all ever did see,” had two teenage daughters. He never let his longings for home interfere with duty.

Airman 2nd Class Carlos Opredo, our loadmaster, reigned in the cargo compartment. He directed the loading, securing, and unloading of cargo, and calculated the load distribution to ensure that the aircraft remained within weight-and-balance limitations. When scheduled to carry personnel, Carlos positioned the fold-down seats. He ensured that passengers fastened seat belts, smoked only at appropriate times, and properly snuffed out cigarettes in butt cans. When not monitoring conditions in the cargo bay, Carlos sat in the cockpit, occupying one of two bunk seats on the rear bulkhead, and providing another set of eyes.

Single and only twenty years old, Carlos basked in the Southeast Asian climate, so similar to that of his native Puerto Rico. With his short stature, olive skin, and black hair, he bore a resemblance to the local populace; in fact, he’d been dating a young Vietnamese lady.

As their A/C, I was ultimately responsible for getting these men home in one intact piece. Yet there is something about the nature of flying that held us accountable to each other—no one could make an egregious error without jeopardizing the safety of everyone else. This underlying truth, this invisible bond between men who flew airplanes, had almost rid us of the tacit division between officers and enlisted men. Still, it fell upon me to write their fitness reports and recommendations for promotion.

As for me, I’ve served in the Air Force for ten of my thirty-one years. I’m of medium height, fairly trim, and have green eyes and brown hair beginning—to my dismay—to recede. Recently, I’d been divorced, quite unceremoniously. We’d had no children, thank goodness.

Over the past few years my crew had been sent on many long deployments: three month stretches in France, Panama, and Turkey, and we’d participated in every major military exercise the Pentagon brass could conceive. Nor were we strangers to this troubled land, having temporarily deployed to South Vietnam for four months following the Tonkin Gulf Incident in August ’64, the spark that ignited the firestorm of American involvement. But so much time away from home was rough on the men who flew the Hercules—and on loved ones left behind. Those lengthy absences had destroyed my marriage.

Then, six months ago, without warning, our squadron was transferred from our comfortable base in Virginia for a one-year tour of duty in Vietnam, basing our aircraft at Tan Son Nhut, Saigon’s combined municipal/military airfield. Still, despite the increased hostilities, the flying could be pleasurable, although there were times, like trying to find Song Be in the middle of the night, when things got sticky.

The runway had no lights, but according to the briefing book—basically a collection of pilots’ observations regarding every airfield in South Vietnam—Song Be personnel utilized flare pots to illuminate the runway for night operations. Well, I mused, part of the hallowed lore of flying was the challenge of difficult situations. In the darkened cockpit, all eyes scanned the shrouded contours below for those flare pots, for some indication that Song Be existed.

“Still can’t see any lights,” Zachary said. “Not a darned thing. I think somebody forgot to tell the folks at Song Be we were coming.”

“It doesn’t make sense,” Sarge said. “Why schedule night missions into these places.”

I silently agreed. There was nothing to navigate by. Like most small outposts, Song Be lacked a radio beacon. The nearest navigational aid was sixty miles away, unusable at our altitude at that distance. Until recently,...