1997. My wife and I had just returned from a vacation trip to Rochester, NY, home of an old Air Force buddy of mine. As I walked up to the entrance of my home, I saw a note taped to the door, a note from another Air Force bud I hadn’t heard from in 25 years.
“Hi Rog. Was in the neighborhood and thought we’d stop in to see you. Sorry we missed you. I have some information about a Rustic reunion. Call me at…”.
The note was from Joe Garand, with whom I’d been stationed with at Ubon RTAFB, Ubon , Thailand back in 1971-72. Joe had gotten my address from Ralph Dow as all three of us had served at Ubon together.
Twenty- five years...it had all been put in the back of my mind…not intentionally, mind you. Or was it? How could I forget something that was so opposite of my character, something I had never envisioned doing when I first enlisted in the Air Force? Something that now is on my mind daily.
No. 34. That was my number. No, not my lucky number, 34 was my draft lottery number for the Selective Service in 1970. I was attending art school in Portland, Maine, a non-accredited school at the time. Having full independency at this time of my life was something I was truly enjoying…maybe a little too much. Though I seldom missed classes, it became clear to me that this was not going to work out. I had to go to a school where my courses would be accountable for something once I graduated. Simple solution…transfer! And where better than to the college my girlfriend was attending, just a twenty- minute drive away. Well, as luck would have it, (my kind of luck anyway), I was told I’d have to start from day one, that the courses I’d taken so far didn’t mean much at this school. Number 34, start all over...34, start all over. I never really cared for school, be it grammar school, high school... or art school.
The Vietnam War was still going on although it had begun to subside some as far as fatalities were concerned. The television news carried daily updates of Americans being killed, questioning whether we should be there at all. Was the “domino affect” of Communism really something we as Americans should be worried about? It wasn’t anything I lost sleep over. This whole Vietnam thing was going on a long, long way from home and I knew no one serving there. Fighting, be it in a war or otherwise, was not something I was familiar with, even boyhood fisticuffs. Never was I in a situation where I had to fight my way out. Now, a decision had to be made. Join the Army or Marines and there was a good chance they’d eventually send me to Vietnam. The Navy option did not entice me at all since being on water and remaining afloat had proven to be a sinking feeling as my swimming instructor at Boy Scout camp could attest to. And the Coast Guard? Much the same feeling. So the choice was obvious, I’ll enlist in the Air Force and see the world! How dangerous could it be serving in the Air Force? I certainly wasn’t going to be flying as Officers Candidate School was never in my plans…remember my dislike for school?
I was sworn into Uncle Sam’s Air Force on June 24, 1970 and proceeded directly to San Antonio, Texas for basic military training at Lackland AFB. This was my first time in an airplane and my first time away from home for any length of time.
After six weeks of training in the hot Texas sun, I was anxious to head back home to Maine on leave before reporting to my new assignment at Wurtsmith AFB in Oscoda, Michigan. There were only four airmen from my training flight who received DDAs, Direct Duty Assignment, no technical school training before assignment to a new duty station. I was one of those four. Again, I had not tested too highly on any of the aptitude tests given while in BMT, my highest score being in the administration career field, lowest being in mechanical. And so...I was assigned to a supply squadron as a POL specialist, Petroleum-Oils-Lubricants, in other words, a gas jock. My job involved driving a truck filled with 5000 gallons of jet fuel or AV-GAS ( for prop driven planes) and refueling whatever aircraft needed fuel on the base, from B-52 bombers, KC-135 tankers, F-106 fighters to T-33 trainers, T-39 and the C-47 gooney birds. If the B-52s or KC-135’s needed a full load, we’d bring out a hose cart to the flight line near the specific bird that needed fuel, attach the cart to a hydrant coupling on the flight line that ran back to fuel pump houses all along the flight line and then attach another hose coupling to the bomber/tanker itself and begin the long process of refueling, at all times holding on to a cabled switch box that controlled the fuel pumping hose cart, ready to shut it off should an emergency occur. It was mandatory that we have that control switch in our hands at all times, no matter how cold it was out there on the flight line…and believe me, it could get wicked cold up there in Michigan on the shores of Lake Huron. I witnessed a B-52 actually being moved around on an icy flight line by the winds coming off that great lake.
My tour at Wurtsmith wasn’t too bad as it reminded me of my home state of Maine. The area and the weather were pretty much like that back home. The only downfall was that there really wasn’t much to do there outside the base for a single guy as the base itself was somewhat remote. Girls from the Detroit USO club would come up to the base once a month and that meant that once a month the Airmens Club was the scene of a feeding frenzy…maybe a dozen girls and one hundred lonely GIs! Fortunately, my barracks was right across the street from the movie theatre and bowling alley. My mouth still waters at the thought of those juicy, loaded cheeseburgers we’d get to eat after catching a movie for fifty cents.
But all this working and not much playing became rather boring after a while and I decided it was time for a change. Some of the POL guys I worked with had returned from bases in Vietnam and Thailand and all seemed to have made it without too much difficulty, so why not me? I put in a volunteer statement for either Vietnam or Thailand. How dangerous could it be refueling aircrafts at an Air Force base in Thailand, away from where the real action was? After all, it’s not like I was going to be in that airplane flying missions amidst enemy bullets and risking my life to save someone else’s life on the ground below me. I was nothing more than a gas jock! Let’s go for it!
Sometime in early summer of 1971, while on my way to the barracks from the chow hall, our bay orderly clerk saw me and told me I had orders to go to Vietnam…oh, and they were special orders. Special orders, I thought, wonder what that’s all about? I quickly made my way to the First Sgt.’s office and inquired about the message given me moments earlier. I was told that I indeed had special orders to report to Phan Rang AB in South Vietnam…but not as a POL specialist. No, I was told these orders had something to do with the fact that I spoke French. Now I remembered taking an optional language test back at Lackland but had never given any more thought about it since…until now.
They told me in personnel that before reporting to Phan Rang, I’d have to go through altitude chamber testing at Wright-Patterson AFB in Ohio, survival school training at Fairchild AFB in Washington and jungle survival school at Clark AB in the Philippines. That look of confusion on my face must have been fairly evident because without even my asking they told me that was all they could tell me. That, and the fact that I WOULD be flying!
What had I gotten myself into? Flying? Now that sounded great, but in Vietnam? And what about speaking French? Where did that fit into the picture? Well, I figured since I HAD volunteered, I had no choice but to follow through with this, whatever THIS was. Granted, I had not volunteered to fly in Vietnam but to go over there as a POL troop, refueling airplanes. You know the old saying,” Nothing ventured, nothing gained”, so I decided to venture out, not exactly knowing where this road would lead me to career wise, other than somewhere in Vietnam.
It was on my last leg of training at Clark AB that I first got an inkling as to what I was being prepped for. Mention was made, ( by who I do not recall) , of enlisted guys being sent to Nam to fly in the backseat of a two-man reconnaissance plane called an OV-10, to be used as airborne interpreters. Wow, this was becoming more “warlike” by the minute...and I wasn’t a “warlike type” of guy!
It wasn’t until I arrived at Phan Rang AB in mid-October that I was finally told my official job description, that’s IF they decided to keep me there. Seems that with all the time I’d had to take in preparation for this assignment, by the time I arrived at Phan Rang the powers that be had decided they probably no longer needed any more enlisted interpreters. The question now was whether to send me back to the states, along with other guys who had also reported for this same assignment, or keep me in Southeast Asia and allow me to fulfill my duties as a POL specialist, seeing as that’s what I had originally put in my voluntary statement for.
Capt. Murphy, the OIC (Officer in charge) of the enlisted backseaters program stated he would interview us all, there were about 8-9 of us, and that he’d then decide who would stay on as an interpreter with this, the 19th Tactical Air Support Squadron, and who might be assigned to another unit. After a few weeks of anxious waiting and trying to become acclimated to the sultry weather that is Vietnam, word came down that I had been chosen to continue with the program. The squadron, however, playing it’s part in the Vietnamization process, was now moving from Bien Hoa AB, SVN to Ubon RTAFB in Thailand. Bien Hoa had been the homebase of the OV-10 squadron known as the Rustics, a group of men known as FACS, Forward Air Controllers. I soon learned that I would be joining them as their newest backseater, acting as an interpreter between the pilot and the ground commanders. Didn’t these ground commanders speak English, I asked? Well, some did...but most spoke only Cambodian and French. Wait a minute, I thought…Cambodian and French? Turns out I wasn’t going to be flying in Vietnam after all, but Cambodia. And the ground commanders referred to were Cambodian Army ground commanders and their radio operators (RO). Finally, I now knew what, where and how I was going to perform my new duties as an airborne interpreter. The question of why still needed an answer and that would come soon.
On November 10, 1971, I saw my first OV-10 and after being strapped into the back seat with all the necessary safety harness, parachute, helmet, gloves, revolver and with my duffel bag thrown in the cargo bay, I was off on my first OV-10 plane ride to Ubon, Thailand, approximately a two hour ride, and new home of the now 21st TASS, the Rustics. With the constant change over of aircraft and personnel due to Vietnamization, the Rustics would soon become part of the 23rd TASS with it’s home base being at Nakhom Phanom RTAFB in Northern Thailand.
I remember little of that first time in the OV-10 save the fact that flying in that small bird was quite a contrast to what I’d experienced on the planes I’d flown in until then, not a whole lot of maneuvering space to say the least! But I was forever grateful that Maj. Aiken had managed to get me to my new duty station unscathed and unfired upon, at least as far as I knew.
The OV-10 taxied off the runway and Maj. Aiken brought her basically to the front door of the Rustics Ops. Building. It was there that I met my new commander, Lt.Col Cary and my new NCOIC ( Non-commissioned officer in charge), Tsgt. Joe Garand. Joe was from Maine as well, as was another backseater, Ralph Dow. Imagine my surprise and a rather “feel good moment” knowing I was in the company of fellow Maineiacs.
We all came from different parts of the great state of Maine, Joe from the southern end, Ralph from the north and I from central Maine, but the bond was there, that special uniqueness that had landed us all in the same place far from home...our French-Canadian background. Mine came from both of my parents who were born in Canada and had moved to Maine to work in the mills in Lewiston, a city with a heavy population of French-Canadians. To their credit, my parents insisted that all of us kids retain our ability to speak French as we’d been brought up to do. When my siblings and I were in our teenage years, Mom went so far as to put up signs in the dining room to remind us to “Parlez Francais” ( Speak French) as she could see we no longer used our French much once we were attending high school. Now, some three years later I was going to get the chance to do some serious “Parlez Francais”.
After a few days of briefings on map reading, use of the code wheel, proper usage of radios in the OV-10, proper military terms used in reconnaissance work and of course, familiarity with the OV-10 itself, my name was added to the Rustic flying schedule. I had chosen the call sign of Yankee since the interpreters had a choice of choosing a letter from the phonetic alphabet for their call sign. I figured since I was from Maine, Yankee was a good moniker for me. The Rustic pilots had numbers for their call sign and so on Nov. 13th, 1971, I, now officially known as Rustic Yankee, set out on my first Cambodian adventure with Rustic 18, Lt. Clinch. We took off from Ubon on an early afternoon and set our sights for Rumlong, which had been the scene for approximately two weeks of many confrontations between Cambodian Army soldiers and the NVA. When we arrived on scene, we were told that the enemy had finally overtaken the area and that we were to destroy any weapons that now lay abandoned by the fleeing troops and civilians who had fought in vain to protect their town. I found it so ironical that my very first mission as a Rustic would have us destroying friendly weapons instead of the enemy’s but this was done in order that the NVA would not have access to an extra supply cache of weapons.
We put in four sets of air (air strikes) on that particular mission and although my French speaking abilities were not needed, I had all I could endure just trying to keep my meal down as we constantly pulled G’s going up and down with our dives, marking the target area for the fighters. Looking through a set of binoculars while making marking passes also proved worthless as I was getting nauseous just trying to keep sense of where the target was in relation to what I was seeing through the binoculars, dealing with the G forces and a pilot who was obviously delighted to have a rookie in his backseat. I didn’t use the barf bags that day however or on any other mission for that matter. We returned to Ubon almost five hours later and upon landing, I felt like I was on top of the world, with a sense of pride I’d never experienced before in my life. In a matter of one month, I’d gone from driving a fuel truck in Northern Michigan to flying my first combat mission in the backseat of a two-man recon plane in Cambodia, from oil stained fatigues to a sweaty, thoroughly drenched flight suit, from delivering JP-4 jet fuel in an F-106 fighter jet to directing A-37 fighter jets on an enemy target in South East Asia. Now THIS is what being in the Air Force was really all about and although I initially never saw myself as being part of THAT Air Force, I certainly was mighty proud to be a part of it now!
As time and the missions themselves began to fly by, I became more accustomed to each pilot and his manner of flying a mission. Some preferred flying solo and the thought of having someone in their backseat seemed to cramp their style. In such cases, it was best to keep notes and let the pilot do most of the talking to the fighters as well as to the ground commanders. Others enjoyed having an extra set of eyes and ears in the plane with them, better to see and hear more of what was going on in our AO (Area of Operation). With a UHF, VHF, HF and two FM radios aboard the OV-10, having a backseater gave the pilot the opportunity to share the work load , a critical component when we were involved in a TIC (Troops in Contact) situation where we could be talking simultaneously to the Cambodian ground commander, his radio operator, a set of fighters engaged in bombing runs on the target area, another set of fighters in a holding pattern awaiting their turn to hit the target, another Rustic FAC leaving/arriving at the target and BlueChip, 7th Air Force Headquarters. Yes, communications at times such as this were vital and all had to be absolutely sure we were all talking on the same page. An erroneous placement of a bomb could be devastating and it was our job as the FAC to make sure this never occurred.
The daily missions into Cambodia developed into a strong bond between our Cambodian allies and we Rustics. It got to the point where the distinct sound of one’s voice was all that was needed for some of the ground commanders or their RO’s to identify which Rustic pilot or GIB (Guy in back) they were talking to. We could often times hear the relief in their voices just knowing a Rustic was flying over their area, providing a sense of security, if for only an hour or so or until another Rustic FAC arrived on station.
As we arrived over a certain town such as Kampong Thom, the first voice we most often heard was that of Sam, a captain in the Cambodian Army. Sam proved to be one of the most endearing characters I would ever meet via the airwaves. Although his entire life dealt with the ravages of war in his homeland, and maybe because of this, it was not uncommon for many a Rustic to become involved in a dialogue with Sam about life after this war was over or even what it was like at the end of another day in the field of battle. Sam would ask whether we had a honey back home waiting for our return from SEA, our favorite foods (his seemed to be spaghetti), even whether we had any “ankle biters”.
Ankle biters? I’d never heard that term before. When I questioned him about that, he laughed so profusely I was caught somewhat embarrassingly. He asked if I was married and I replied that I was too young to be married yet. Sam laughed some more and told me an ankle biter was another name for a small child, specifically, a crawling toddler…an ankle biter! Strange, even though I was a naïve and very young 21 year old, I found myself flying over a war torn country talking to a Cambodian Army officer about children.
Children was not something I’d given any thought to at this point in my life but it proved to be a subject that would, years later, come back to fruition in the form of three ankle biters of my own. And 18 years after the birth of our youngest child, the children of Cambodia would come back to me in a dream, no, a nightmare, that would forever leave a question in the back of my mind regarding my personal accomplishments as a Rustic GIB. Was I ever responsible for the dropping of an inadvertent bomb resulting in the death of an innocent child/children on the ground below me? It’s a question that will probably never be answered, until maybe my day of reckoning.
It wasn’t until Christmas morning, 1971, my 32nd mission, that I actually saw people on the ground, people, in the target area.
Rustic 06, Capt. Wood and I had the first mission this day, Christmas Day, an 0500 take off. Shortly after we “crossed the fence”, the Thailand/Cambodia border, I began my ritual of trying to rise up our Cambodian allies on the FM radio. Soon, I heard the familiar voice of Sam in Kampong Thom. There was no more friendlier voice to hear over those airwaves than that of Sam, always cheerful, thankful and most of all, sincere. He loved talking about “Wine, Women and Song”, but not necessarily in that order!
On the dawn of this particular day however, Sam’s voice came across the wavelengths with a serious tone and impending doom. His troops and the villagers of KP Thom had been the recipients of heavy mortar fire throughout the previous evening, resulting in many being mortally wounded. Sam passed the map coordinates to me by way of a code we used and changed on a daily basis. He stated that at these coordinates we would find two hooches located on the Northwest corner of a bend in the river and that his scouts reported this is where the VC/NVA were launching their mortars the previous night. We flew to the area described by Sam and did a visual recon of the sight. As my pilot circled above that bend in the river, high enough so as not to attract any attention, I looked for any signs of activity through my binoculars. There was none; no people, no gun pits, nothing, save for the two hooches.
The soldiers in KP Thom were outgunned and under supplied. Sam asked that we put an immediate air strike on said location. Sam, as well as the Rustics, knew that approvals for an a/s did NOT come that quickly. Nevertheless, R-06 pleaded Sam’s request to Bluechip/7th AF ( Saigon) and in a matter of ten minutes or so ( may be Bluechip was in a giving mood, being Christmas and all), we were notified that a set of A-37s would soon be headed out to our AO. The fighters checked in about 15 minutes later, Hawk/Rap flight (CRS as to what call sign they were using) and R-06 proceeded with his briefing, describing the target, elevation, weather, enemy and friendly locations, best possible bailout areas and so on. While this was going on, I kept in touch with Sam, notifying him that we were about ready to put in an a/s for him and to make sure there were no friendlies in the target area. This flight was carrying MK-82s. Lead went in on his first pass and dropped his first bomb shy of the hooches. The results however, were, shall we say, a wake up call. Suddenly, amongst all the dust and debris, about 50 or so black pajama clad humans came running out of those two hooches, heading into and under the coverage of the nearby jungle canopy. Before any of them got very far, Two was in with his first pass and this one found it’s mark! R-06 called for the fighters to hold high while we went down to VR the area for BDA (Bomb Damage Assessment). A soon as the dust settled we slowly circled our way down to see the after effects of two MK-82s; total annihilation. That’s the only way I can describe it. Nothing but bits and pieces of black, blood and bodies. Neither 06 nor I said anything to each other for a few minutes. But then, in an uncharacteristic moment, I keyed my mike and said, “Merry F***in’ Christmas”. My pilot simply responded with a double click of his mike. Anyone who knows me would say I never could have said that...but I did. And to this day, every Christmas, I think of that mission…and those words…and that scene below me.
Up until then, the targets I had been involved with were usually that of suspected ammo dumps, VC training areas or mortar/ gun pits, always under the cover of triple canopy jungle. But this one target, these two hooches sitting quietly by the riverbank, seemingly unoccupied on a Christmas morning…this one was an eye opener. This time I saw humans, obviously fighting for their own cause, much like myself…but for different reasons. We got the best of them that day...but there would be other days, with different results. Sam was ecstatic with the results of the a/s and thanked us endlessly for our support. His people would be able to rest now, if only for a day or two before the whole process would begin again in earnest.
One may find it difficult to believe but I now barely remember most of the 169 missions I was involved in during my ten months of flying as a Rustic GIB. It seems unbelievable to me anyway that these missions don’t come back to me as if they’d only happened yesterday. Is it because they basically became “just another day on the job”? Or has my subconscious completely blocked out this chapter of my life…..for reasons I may not want to search out. Surely, there were missions that proved to be rather mundane, with hour upon hour of flying into deserted areas of Cambodia or the occasional foray into Laos, looking for enemy activity and that ever present possibility of spotting a truck convoy loaded with ammo and fuel. This rarely happened during daylight hours, which is when we flew our missions.
I do remember meandering into the Laotian skies one day while listening to music from Australia on one of our radios. My pilot motioned to me that he’d spotted something of interest below. I turned from one side of the aircraft over to the opposite side to check things out for myself. Below us was a peasant farmer, or maybe a VC soldier, or maybe an NVA informer or a Khmer Rouge combatant sitting on his dilapidated oxcart being pulled by a water buffalo. The cart was loaded with something in the back, covered by some type of tarp. My pilot asked me what I thought the guy below us must have been hauling. My personal opinion was that this was just some poor farmer minding his own business, going about his daily chores. This wasn’t what he wanted to hear. He began to lay out this elaborate theory as to what he thought was going on below us. Obviously enemy, as this was not a recognized friendly area. Obviously a cart loaded with weapons, probably AK-47s. I could sense an impending self-expenditure coming. The thought no sooner crossed my mind than the pilot stated he was going in for a dive run. On this particular day, we just happened to be carrying a rocket pod of flechettes. These were rockets filled with basically small pieces of metal fragments, small darts, if you will. I almost didn’t want to look as he fired away our first flechette rocket then quickly pulled on the stick to bring us back safely away from this menacing target. Our suspect was no longer a threat to deliver his supply of guns and ammo to awaiting enemy forces. My pilot said something to the effect that there was now one less bad guy to worry about. Obviously. Fortunately, most of the pilots I flew with were a lot more reserved about hitting such a target and carried the responsibility of bringing death and destruction below with great personal morals, based on their own beliefs and the ROEs (Rules of Engagement) that governed their actions. Missions such as the one I described above were rare……maybe that’s why I remember it.
The majority of the Rustic missions went smoothly and all my fellow GIBs and pilots who flew the trusty OV-10 were sincerely dedicated to the mission at hand. We were always anxious to get out to our AO in order to help our Cambodian allies in any way possible. The possibility of being shot at was a constant therefore there was also a good chance one could be shot down as well. We were often told by the ground commanders as an air strike was being conducted that we and the fighter jets were taking ground fire but that never seemed to bother anyone, maybe due to that all too familiar scenario, “in the heat of the battle”. As stated before, we flew day missions therefore tracers coming at us were rarely visible unless one happened to be flying the dawn or dusk mission of the day. The familiar “They shooting at you sir” warning from Sam or any radio operator was always taken seriously but never impeeded the Rustic FAC or the fighters he was controlling from defending our allies below. During my ten month tour as a Rustic, no one was ever shot down in our AO but three of our fellow Rustics were shot down and killed prior to my tour and after I returned to the U.S. The names of Garrett Eddy, Michael Vrablick and Joseph Gambino are inscribed on the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington, D.C. Though all Rustics did indeed give some, these three gave their all.
There were many special or eventful things that happened during my tour at Ubon that are now but a hazy snapshot in my mind, a vague memory of joys and fears, highlights and rock bottom tragedies. Writing this piece has helped bring some of those memories to the surface. The “highs” include meeting Sam and his commander, Col. Oum when they visited the Rustics at Ubon in May, 1972; flying with and fighting for some of the greatest people I have ever known in my life; being privileged to have been a Rustic GIB and sharing our unique role in that secret war in Cambodia; having been given the opportunity to fly combat missions when I thought pumping gas into USAF aircrafts was about the closest I’d ever get to seeing war “up close and personal”.
That little note left on my door by Joe Garand in the summer of 1997 was the igniter of memories of events long forgotten, the start of a life now filled with reminders of a chapter in my life I’d put away for 25 years. But now, 34 years after I last flew a FAC mission in Cambodia, I think about those times on a daily basis.
My wife recently told me that she felt I was evaluating my entire life’s worth based on what I did during that tour as a Rustic GIB those many years ago. I think she may be correct. Even with all the riches I’ve gained as a father of three wonderful children and grandfather to five beautiful grandkids, I feel my latest personal accomplishments can’t compare to what I got to do as a young 21 year old, enlisted two-striper in the back seat of that OV-10, flying the skies of Cambodia in 1971-72.
As a side note…In October of 2002, on the occasion of the Rustics 3rd Rustic reunion in San Antonio, TX, about six of the Rustic GIBS were presented with the award of the Distinguished Flying Cross, awards some 30 years overdue. Being the youngest and the only one not to have made the Air Force a career, I was the last to receive my DFC with 2 OLCs. As a gesture of thanks and most importantly, as my own personal way of showing respect for the Cambodian people and the soldiers who fought for their convictions, I presented one of my DFCs to Col. Oum, the Cambodian Army commander with whom the Rustics worked with on a daily basis from 1970-73 and who resided in Austin, TX until his death in 2008.