July 4th 1970

 

 

 

 

 

Philly airport. American Airlines. Marine. Two years in. The Big Swoop. To Viet Nam.

 

Underway.

 

Frank Lavelle, recent Ph.D. in electrical engineering, no doubt checked his watch when the wheels came off the ground. He would meet me at L.A. airport. A country-wide wait away.

 

I was a grin in a uniform. I don't exactly know why, but that Marine uniform gave me strength, gave me purpose. Given where I was heading, perhaps I'd find out if it gave me valor.

 

On the flight, all kinds of people offered to buy me cocktails. I let them.

 

Friendly. That's what I was. The whole flight. Friendly.

 

 

Frank kind of expected he'd pick me up in a drunken bucket, given where I was going. And, given where I was going, he brought a bigger bucket.

 

I had never really been to free Los Angeles. By free, I mean that I didn't have to be back on base the next morning. The gamble, this time, was we had the whole night to explore wild LA. All we had to do was have me at Edwards AFB, on a plane, heading to the far Pacific. The next day.

 

We had ourselves a fine time, and barely made it. The base was deep in the California desert.

 

Next stop was Anchorage, aboard a workhorse World Airways 'Stretch 8' chartered jet. The most enduring thing I remember of that flight was being comforted by the Flight Attendant as we began our landing descent.

 

Standing behind me, she saw me react to mountain peaks poking above the clouds just below us.

 

I jumped in my seat when we started sinking, blind, into those swirling clouds. Bounded by Christmas-tree-icicle-tipped granite mountains on either side of the cabin. I felt nauseous.

 

She stepped forward, and with a smile, asked me if everything was okay. Kneeling briefly by my side, she gave me a wink and said the pilot does this every day. She said we'd be on the ground in a minute.

 

Her kindness meant everything.

 

We laughed and applauded when the pilot put us firmly, assuredly, on terra-firma.

Three jacket, middle of March cold. The wind chill blew away any sense that it was still July. With threatening clouds swarming overhead, we darted off the plane and into the low-slung, glass windowed airport. As a group, we headed for the bar.

 

Less than a beer later, a senior officer from our flight was drawn away. When he returned, with a smile, he said he had bad news. Our flight was being delayed. We were going to have to wait for some indeterminate time for an engine issue to be fixed.

 

Bartender. Another three hours of cocktails, please.

 

Nobody seemed to care when we finally got word to get back on board.

 

Like most everyone, I imagine, I fell fast asleep.

 

Drunk drooling dreams, and ten tired hours later, we touched down at our destination.

 

Kadena AFB.

 

Okinawa.