Flying Through Midnight: A Pilot's Dramatic Story of His Secret Missions Over Laos During the Vietnam War - Hardcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

John T. Halliday retired from American Airlines as a Boeing 767 captain. He served in the military for twenty-six years and retired as a lieutenant colonel. A decorated war hero, he logged more than eight hundred hours of combat time in Southeast Asia and the Gulf War. Halliday lives in Northern California. This is his first book. Please visit his website www.flyingthroughmidnight.com.

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Chapter 1: June 8, 1970

Wiley waved to me from across the ramp as I stepped off the C-130 shuttle plane from Bangkok. I lifted my hand in response, then raised it to my brow, shading my eyes against the Thai sun, merciless still at midafternoon. The hop from Bangkok was the final leg in my journey to Nakhon Phanom Air Base, where I was to begin my assignment with the 606th Special Operations Squadron, flying C-123 cargo missions around Thailand. Wiley's presence heartened me. I'd heard that most guys who arrived in Vietnam were unceremoniously dumped on the ramp in Saigon or Da Nang and left to find their own way to their unit.

Welcome to the war, buddy, such a callous reception announced.

Maybe my war would be different.

Wiley leaned against a blue Air Force pickup truck parked before a large billboard that shouted:

VIOLATORS PUNISHABLE UNDER UCMJ

All I could think was, why would anybody care if I snapped a few pictures of cargo transports to send back home to Sharon?

Other than that puzzling note, my arrival at NKP was wholly different from what I'd heard of most Vietnam receptions. I felt I was being welcomed to some country club. Wiley ambled toward me wearing a big smile. "Hi, I'm Wiley. Welcome to the Candlesticks and NKP. I'm your sponsor. Let me help you with those bags," he boomed cheerfully. Relaxed smile. Happy eyes. An easygoing way about him. Definite Midwestern accent. Maybe Rockford or Madison. Huge, calloused farmer's hands. Probably grew up playing high school football and driving his grandfather's tractor during the summers.

Wiley looked much older than me, but I figured we must actually be about the same age. After all, every pilot assigned to the Candlestick squadron was probably in his early twenties like me. But Wiley seemed years older.

I wondered if something about this place had caused him to age more quickly, but I forced a smile to make a good first impression. "Hi, I'm John Halliday. Thanks for coming to meet me."

"C'mon, let's get you out of here and into someplace cool. Nobody here wears that flightsuit during the day. It's too damn hot."

He was right. My flightsuit was about to melt into my skin. The northeastern Thailand heat was a blast furnace. A real inferno. I took a breath, but the heat singed my nostrils. I shifted to mouth breathing, but the heat boiled down my windpipe.

Wiley helped me with my bags and then dropped them into the back of the six-pack. I tried to open the passenger door, but pulled back when the handle scorched my hand. "Use your sleeve," he suggested. We jumped in the air-conditioned truck and drove down the flightline. Impressive. My own driver. I thought I was going to like this place better than Vietnam.

"How hot is it?" I complained as we passed rows of parked planes.

"It's one hundred and eight, with the humidity a pleasant ninety-five percent. We run from air-conditioned spot to air-conditioned spot," Wiley explained as he did a series of double takes at me, staring far too long and then looking away when I noticed him sizing me up.

"I thought you guys called this place Naked Fanny," I said, an attempt to break the ice, which failed.

"We hate that," he scolded. "Bob Hope pinned that on us when he came for Christmas last year. The name is Nakhon Phanom, but we call it NKP."

I thought, so much for my good-first-impression idea.

There! He did it again...the long look...checking me out.

As we drove down the flightline, the scene seemed caught in a 1940s time warp. The Andrews Sisters should have been singing in the background about the "Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy from Company B." There wasn't a modern jet aircraft in sight. The ramp was littered with propeller-driven aviation relics that belonged in someone's garage sale, not out here fighting a war. I could see A-1s, A-26s, C-123s, OV-10s, and Jolly Green Giant helicopters. Hand-me-down, cast-off airplanes no one else wanted. I figured the Air Force sent them way out here under the title "special operations" to make people feel good about having to fly these old rattletraps.

I realized I'd landed in aviation's backwater.

I noticed the ramp we were driving across -- no, the sensation was more like riding a boat over small waves -- wasn't even concrete. Instead, it was corrugated-metal sheeting, in which dead star-thistle weeds poked up through six-inch-round holes. Even the ramp was a castoff nobody wanted. I thought, ought to be slicker than owlshit taxiing on it when it rains.

Wiley pointed to a building. The sign over the door proclaimed:

Wiley said proudly, "That's us." Beside the front door hung a six-foot oval wood sign, emblazoned with a winged candle burning bright above a black, mountainous background. The abbreviation "606 SOS" wreathed across the logo's top. "Our squadron patch," Wiley explained, handing me a stiff, new Candlestick patch.

I ripped my existing "Military Airlift Command" patch off its Velcro strips and replaced it with the golden-winged candlestick.

Wiley smiled, patted me on the back, and said, "Welcome to the Candlesticks. Now you're official."

Since I knew squadron names and patches attempt to capture a unit's mission, this name and patch seemed inconsistent with transporting boxes. I made a mental note to ask Wiley about it later.

As we made a right turn off the flightline, headed toward the officers' quarters, I said, "I noticed the razor-sharp security fence all around the base as we flew in and the guard towers manned with automatic weapons. I thought these Thai bases were secure."

"Well, the place is pretty safe," he chuckled. "There've been a few local skirmishes. But if you're a runner, I wouldn't recommend jogging along the perimeter fence."

"Oh, thanks," I answered weakly.

That too-long look came again. I knew what was coming. He asked, "Say, did anybody ever tell you that you look like a young version of Pat Boone, the boyish-looking crooner? You know, 'Love Letters in the Sand'...the white shoes...the clean-cut image...all that crap?"

"Yes," I groaned. "All the time. I had to live with that sappy image all the way through high school and college. I'd rather not start that here if you don't mind."

Wiley was perfect. "Sure. No problem, John."

As we drove down the block, I noticed the place seemed deserted. Where was everybody? The base should have been hopping with activity. Strange. An eerie feeling came over me. I should have asked Wiley what the big deal was, but kept my mouth shut. No sense asking more dumb questions, confirming my ignorance.

After three blocks of driving past rows of shed-type buildings typical of Thai bases, Wiley parked. I picked up my gear and we walked across a wide grass front lawn to the quarters I'd been assigned.

Grass? The dead, brown grass blades crunched under my boots like broken glass. "The rainy season doesn't start till November," Wiley explained.

I saw maids along the long front porch, cleaning rooms as if the place were a resort. This assignment is going to be okay, I reassured myself. My unease over what to expect from NKP and the fatigue from the long flight both began to fade.

I asked Wiley how much the maid service cost, because I didn't have a lot of money to spare and I would rather clean up after myself to save the fee. But he said not to worry...the Air Force paid the maids as part of the deal with the Thai government in Bangkok for letting us fly out of their country.

A man our age resembling Robert Redford was sitting on the porch drinking a beer under the mercilessly hot sun. Waves of sweat sheeted down his face. Why was he outside in this blast...