Morton Field. Tuesday Morning.
Forest Service pilot, Rick Schaffer, sat in the cockpit of his PBY at the end of the tarmac, waiting for clearance to takeoff. His aircraft was known as the Catalina Flying Boat, because of its wing tip pontoons and contoured reinforced underbelly. Because of these features, Rick’s aircraft was as adept at takeoffs and landings on water as it was on any airport runway.
It was just barely dawn, just light enough to see into the shadows. Despite the low light, the white aircraft, with its red stripe down either side, seemed to glow compared to its surroundings.
Rick had rushed through his preflight checks. Everything would be perfect, as it always was. Not a moment after the engine temperature gauges had came off low, Rick pushed the throttle forward easing his plane close to the runway.
“Come on, come on. Hurry up would ya,” he mumbled urgently under his breath. He was anxious to get in the air. The dream had come back again and he hadn’t slept well. It was a cool morning, forty-three degrees and mostly cloudy, yet he felt uncomfortably warm and confined. His breathing became deeper and more rapid as small beads of perspiration appeared on his forehead. Reaching over to the air circulation fan, he adjusted it to high and pointed it straight towards him.
“Forest Service One, you’re clear for take off,” squawked the radio.
Finally! Rick picked up the mike. “Roger that tower.”
Throttling up, he pulled onto the runway and straightened out the plane. Looking down the runway, he checked the sky to ensure that nothing was there. Small beads of sweat collected on his brow then ran down his face as he made one final check of the instruments.
Got to get into the air, he thought. With his eyes fixed at the end of the runway, he pushed the throttles forward. The engines roared to life, the plane beginning to roll down the runway. As the plane picked up speed, Rick kept checking his velocity as he gently adjusted the yoke to keep it straight. The plane traveled further down the runway, gaining more and more speed.
Rick gently pulled back on the yoke, lifting the plane off the ground. With full throttle, Rick pulled the yoke closer, bringing the planes nose to its maximum angle of attack. The engines strained as the plane clawed its way into the sky. Rick knew he was pushing it, but he just had to get in the air. With every foot of altitude, Rick felt like the weight of the world was being lifted from his shoulders. With a deep breath of relief, Rick eased the yoke forward and leveled it off.
Ah, there… finally, I’m free! he thought. Rick banked the plane sharply until his compass read due west, then straightened it out again. He decided to set the alarm before he forgot. On the seat next to him was a small wind up clock, which he set for one hour. To complete his monthly flight requirement, he had four hours of air-time to burn up. That made for one hour out over the ocean, another back, and two hours of practice runs.
Flying out over the ocean was soothing. There were no other planes to contend with, no mountains, and the winds were predictable. He liked that. It was just the kind of place where he could fly, not bothered by distractions, and completely relax in his thoughts.
He remembered the first time he flew over the ocean to escape the dream. He had lost track of the time and flew too far out, almost running out of fuel getting back. Since then he carried the alarm clock.
It wasn’t even a dream anymore. He’d been able to come to grips with everything that’s happened to him. Everything, that is, except for those eyes and that laughter. They were so evil and terrifying…
Time heals all wounds, his father told him as a boy when his mother died. He was right, of course, except from time to time those eyes and that laughter would still visit him in his sleep. He could still remember what a foolish young kid he was, anxious to leave the logging town where he grew up.
Desperate to put that small town in his rear view mirror, he enlisted in the Army Air Corps on his eighteenth birthday to become a pilot. The only thing he ever wanted to do was fly. His father wanted him to stay and work in the saw mill so they could be together. After all, they only had each other. There was no other family to speak of.
Rick tried to console his father and convince him that he wouldn’t be gone long. Sure he’d have to go to Vietnam, but he wouldn’t be doing any fighting. He’d just be flying cargo from base to base. He told his father his tour of duty would be over in no time, then they’d see each other on weekends.
Forcing a smile to his face, Rick’s father waved as he watched his only son board a plane to pilot training school. After graduating, it was directly off to war in some small country on the other side of the world he’d never heard of. Pilot training was easy for him, so it seemed to go by quickly. Ground school, however, was difficult. He didn’t realize there would be so much math. By no means did he graduate near the top of his class, but no one could out fly him.
He wrote to his father when he got his final orders. Like most young men, he felt invincible and was anxious to go. He tried to reassure his father that it wouldn’t take long and that he wouldn’t be in danger. After all, how long could a few rice growers last against the most powerful nation on earth. That’s what everyone was saying. It was 1962, and most Americans didn’t know what was going on or could care less—but that would soon change.
He was assigned a McDonnell Douglas C-130 Hercules cargo plane, with four powerful gas turbine turbo prop engines. It was beautiful, and a dream to fly. As the fighting escalated his duties shifted from flying in food and supplies, to flying out the wounded. He didn’t see any fighting, just the results. His duties started to include flying empty body bags in and full ones out.
This weighed heavy on him. Like most people, he wasn’t sure what it was all about. All he knew was that America was paying a high price for this war. But then, it really wasn’t a war, was it? The politicians called it a police action. He wondered if any of them could explain the difference.
It was near the end of his tour when the call came in. Their northern most base was in danger of being overrun, and he had to help in the evacuation of troops and equipment. The spirits in the cockpit were unusually high, however. He and his long time friend and copilot, Bob Walters, had similar release dates, and they made plans to see each other state side when it was all over.
But the situation quickly changed. When they reached the base, they landed in heavy gunfire on a mortar damaged runway. The scene was chaotic. Buildings and equipment were burning. The frantic colonel quickly changed his orders. Pilot Rick would no longer be taking equipment, he was to stuff as many Army personnel as he could into his plane and get out fast.
That was all right by him, he didn’t want to stay where he wasn’t wanted. Within minutes they were loaded up and moving down the runway. As they lifted off, he looked down and saw what seemed to be hundreds of North Vietnamese Army troops just outside the base perimeter. He couldn’t help but stare at an enemy he’d never seen before. His plane was hit by a borage of small arms fire as it passed over top. Then, as he looked at his altimeter, a streak of bright tracer fire lit up the cockpit.
“Where did that come from!” Bob yelled. Another streak and the starboard engine burst into flames. The cockpit filled with smoke, sparks flying from the instrument panel as he struggled to keep the plane under control. Terror filled his body. Rick yanked the yoke back with all his might, trying level it off. It was working, but they weren’t high enough. They continued downward. Rick blacked out on impact.
When he awoke he was upside-down, held in the seat by his straps. In a pain filled daze, he tried to look around the cabin. He could hear gunfire and the sound of movement around the plane. As Rick moved his head, a sharp pain surged through him and he lost conciseness again.
The next thing he knew, he was laying in a throbbing blur on the dirt floor of a small bamboo and grass reed hut. It was hot, humid, and flies flew around him, crawling on his face. He tried to move, his aching head causing him to gr
oan. Rick moved a hand over his face and was surprised to find he had a beard. He must have been unconscious for several days.
Reaching his hand up he felt the side of his head. There just inside his hairline was a swollen, four inch long gash. Dry, bloody clods of dirt caked his face from the wound, down the side of his head, past his ear, and to his chin. He hated bugs and tried to shoo the flies away, but there were too many. After awhile he gave up. He was just too tired and sore to care.
It was dark except for slivers of sunlight that bled through the openings in the reed walls. Staring at the light made him nauseous, so he shielded his eyes. He wondered where he was, and where the others might be. Finally curiosity got the best of him. He crawled to the door and tried to open it, but it wouldn’t budge. Moving over to one of the slivers of light, Rick tried widening it out with his fingers. As he did so there was a noise at the door, and it flew open flooding the room with light.
He crumpled to the floor, holding up his hands to shield his eyes. A voice came from the door. It spoke quickly yet calmly but the words were unknown to him. Rick slowly moved his hands away from his face, blinking his eyes and straining to see what was in front of him, but all he could see was a bright light with a silhouette of a man in the middle of it.
The man spoke again in a language he did not understand, but this time louder. Rick tried to talk. All he could muster was a cough. The shadow walked over and grabbed Rick by the hair. Rick could see a face now. It was a young North Vietnamese Army soldier. The NVA soldier spoke again, this time slower and even more emphatic as if trying to make Rick understand.
The soldier, now frustrated, pulled Rick up to a standing position by his hair and pushed him towards the door. Rick moved towards the light slowly. Reaching the entrance, Rick stopped and held his hands up to protect his eyes from the light. He strained to see what was out there. The soldier behind him pushed him in the small of this back. Rick stumbled out of the opening. As Rick blinked his eyes the things around him started to come into focus. Where am I? He wondered again.
As his vision began to clear, he saw several huts similar to the one he had been in. They bordered a crescent shaped court yard about thirty yards in diameter with rice paddies directly in front. A thick jungle encircled the prison camp. There were no fences or barbed wire, and the only person he was aware of was the one behind him. He could see the soldier clearly now. He was about Rick’s age, wearing a dirty and torn military uniform, and carrying a rifle.
Trying to clear his throat, Rick muttered, “Do you speak English?” The soldier looked at Rick with a confused look on his face. “What is this place?” Rick asked. “I want to speak to your commanding officer.”
Just then the guard yelled toward one of the huts. Rick turned to see three other soldiers coming out of it. One of them was an officer, older than the others, with graying hair. The other two were like the one next to him- young teenage boys carrying rifles. All of them wore similarly dirty, heavy, sweat stained, and tattered uniforms.
Rick noticed that the younger ones had emotionless, almost lifeless, expressions. The officer, on the other hand, was much different. He looked like a man possessed. As he came closer and stopped in front of him, Rick could see that the officer’s face was heavily scared and the look in his eye was so hateful it made Rick’s hair stand on end. The officer muttered something to the others and Rick was instantly surrounded.
“Are you the commanding officer?” Rick asked. They ignored him. The officer took one last drag off his cigarette, then pushed the smoldering butt towards Rick’s face. Rick stepped away, but was stopped by the others who held him in place. Rick struggled as the cigarette came closer.
“No!” Rick yelled, fighting to get away. The officer stepped forward and kicked Rick in the groin with all his might. Rick collapsed to his knees. He couldn’t breath. Someone pulled his head back and he looked up at the officer. With an evil smile, the officer extinguished the hot coals on Rick’s forehead. Rick screamed in agony as he was held in place.
In angered pain, Rick broke free and tried to strike the officer. His effort was futile. The soldiers immediately started beating him with the butts of their rifles. Rick fell to the ground and curled up as they continued to strike him. Rick could hear the officer’s hideous laughter in the background as the pain rocked through him. Slowly the blackness started to return. Pain was replaced by numbness as the impact of the soldiers rifles became dull thuds. As his consciousness slipped away, the officer’s laughter echoed through the deepest recesses of his mind.
Rick was drawn back to consciousness by a tug on his arms and shoulders. They’d tied his hands and were pulling him up a bamboo pole to a standing position. If there was a place on his body that felt no pain, he didn’t know where it was.
Opening his eyes, Rick saw a line of young Vietnamese boys in their early to mid-teens. The three soldiers and officer were there as well. Rick watched the officer. He was speaking to the line of boys and pointed to Rick with a long stick. It reminded him of a biology teacher instructing students as they all stared at a dissected specimen. The officer stepped closer to Rick as he continued to lecture.
“Does anyone speak English?” Rick asked. They all ignored his question as the officer continued to speak. The officer appeared to be describing Rick as he walked around pointing at him. The officer’s opinion was apparently not a good one, Rick noted.
As the officer spoke, his facial expressions echoed a view of hatred and disgust. When the officer was finished, he ordered a recruit to step forward. Rick looked at him and the boy stared back without emotion. He then slapped Rick across the face and moved away. The officer laughed heartily, which brought smiles to the recruits’ faces and they laughed as well.
A moment later, the officer exchanged the stick for a four foot long split bamboo cane. He stepped towards Rick and swung.
Rick tried to protect himself, but his bonds prevented him from doing so. The cane whistled through the air and, upon impact, tore cloth and sliced into flesh. The searing pain was tremendous and Rick let out a blood curdling scream.
The officer seemed to feed off Rick’s pain, and he continued beating him enthusiastically. With every scream, the officer’s laughter became more villainous. Rick managed to look up into his tormentors face, and saw the most evil expression he’d ever seen. He peered into the officer’s eyes and found himself staring into the bowels of hell.
Rick collapsed, hanging from his bonds in a daze. When the beating was over, Rick was dragged to a pit with a bamboo cage door over top. He was thrown in, and the cage door crashed down above him and was locked.
Rick was tortured like this almost every day. In a sobbing broken mess, he begged the officer to stop, but was granted no relief. He lost so much weight, all of his bones were visible. His wounds became infected, and a terrible fever left him in convulsions. He no longer had the energy to brush away the millions of bugs that fell into his hole.
In the scorching jungle heat, Rick started to hallucinate. Day after day under the unforgiving sun, Rick’ reality became the fire of hell. The Vietnamese officer starred as Satan himself, tormenting Rick with his evil stare and hideous laughter. He was trapped, and escape was impossible.
The encampment was a training facility for new soldiers. After a period of time, trained soldiers would leave and raw recruits came in. This meant the usual introductory beatings.
Other people, farmers and villagers from around the area, would come as well. Like an animal in a zoo, the officer put Rick on display. Usually these visitors would spit on him and call him names. The officer appeared to be somewhat of a celebrity now that he had his own personal, American whipping boy.
It didn’t take long before Rick could no longer distinguish between reality and hallucination. All he knew for certain was that the haunting eyes and laughter never left him. He no longer had the strength or will to live. His
constant prayer was to die, but each time he was beaten within an inch of death, they allowed him to heal just enough to continue to exist.
He asked himself why he hadn’t died in the crash and why didn’t they kill him. For whatever cruel reason, he was alive, but hadn’t the will to be so. He finally decided to end the nightmare by starving himself. Without some form of nutrition in conditions like this, it would all be over in a few days. The cease of his will to live was replaced with an unyielding determination to die.
No long after this resolution, they drug him from his pit and fastened him to the pole. Rick was indomitable. He would not let the officer receive any more pleasure from his suffering. He didn’t cower, flinch, or tremble as the bamboo cane whistled through the air.
There were no agonizing screams to answer each swing. There was not a single sound or tear from the officer’s victim. Only defiant silence.
This infuriated the officer, who demanded the results he’d come to expect. As the blows came faster and harder, Rick’s pain turned to numbness. This time he heard no horrible laughter and saw no hateful eyes as the numbness faded to darkness. Rick’s last thought before he lost consciousness was that he had won—he had silenced the demon. But fate fancied the opposite.
A few hours later he awoke in his hole. Everyone was asleep, but his torment continued. He lay in the bottom of his pit weeping as the laughter in his mind continued.
What happened next, he remembered vividly. Explosions rocked the ground and flares burned through the night above the encampment. There was chaotic yelling and running around. Rifles where firing in all directions. Dirt and rocks fell down on him as grenades exploded near his cage. He could see flames dance in the sky from where he lay in his hole. The smell of smoke filled the night. Huts burned.
Even in all this confusion, Rick couldn’t find the strength to pull himself off the dirt. He just continued to stare into the night past the bamboo bars. Pounding footsteps announced the racing approach of someone toward his place of keep. A face of a recruit appeared. He lifted his rifle to shoot Rick, but wasn’t quick enough. The soldier fell flat on the top of the cage and didn’t move. Someone had shot him first.
The recruit’s almond shaped eyes remained open as blood poured from his chest into the hole, covering Rick. Rick just stared back in shock at the face that was as emotionless dead as it was alive. When the gun fire stopped, the dark shadow of an American soldier walked over to the hole.
“Holy cow!” the American said with a surprised look on his face. Then turning he yelled, “Lieutenant! You’d better come see this!”
“What is it Johnson?” said a man with officers’ bars as he walked up to the hole and peered in. “Oh my gawd!” the Lieutenant exclaimed in surprise, crouching on one knee in order to get a better look. “He’s one of ours! Peterson! O’Malley! Get this door open and get that man out of there!”
“Yes sir,” came the reply. Moments later, the door was busted open. Too weak to stand on his own, two soldiers grabbed Rick under his arms and lifted him out.
“Take him down to the rice paddy and wash him up,” ordered the Lieutenant. The two soldiers continued to help Rick walk to the water. He looked around. There were dead Vietnamese everywhere, illuminated in the night by burning huts.
“Wallace!” shouted the Lieutenant. “Get on the radio, I want an immediate e-vac! The rest of you finish your sweep, then set up a perimeter. Now move!”
Before getting into the chopper, Rick paused. He looked at his hell for the last time. The air was heavy with the smell of death, and the smoke from the fires had turned the watching moon blood red.
That was about all Rick could remember. For all he knew it could be a dream. But as the helicopter gained altitude, all the pains he had suffered seemed to fall away. Ache was replaced by peace, and for the first time since he could remember, he fell asleep.
He awoke in an Army hospital with tubes in his arms. Surrounded by doctors and officers, he was debriefed while being poked and prodded for countless medical tests. For Rick, the war was over, but the terror remained. For many nights in a row he would wake up screaming, visited by his demons, and would have to be sedated in order to rest. He continually felt enclosed and trapped, no matter the size of the room.
His doctors decided to send him to San Diego where there was a military hospital better equipped to help him. The next day he boarded a plane for Hawaii, then to the mainland. As before, he felt relief being in the air. He thought it strange that in a large room he would feel uncomfortable, but in any size plane he would be at ease.
By the time he arrived in San Diego, he felt refreshed. He was gaining weight back now, and his wounds were almost healed. Rick tried to contact his father, but received no reply. When he checked into the hospital, he was met by an officer who explained with regrets that Rick’s father had passed away.
When Rick’s plane crashed, the Army had assumed he died and reported it to his father as such. His father collapsed upon hearing the news and had lasted only a couple of days in the hospital before passing on. This hit Rick hard. He was now totally alone in the world and couldn’t help but feel responsible for what happened to his father.
Rick was able to find a job at an air field as a mechanic and visited the hospital on an out patient basis. He didn’t have much money, so his boss let him sleep in the hanger. Every penny he earned was saved. At the end of the week, Rick found he could afford a couple of hours of flight time in a rented plane. His boss took a liking to him because he worked hard and did a good job. He was even kind enough to ignore complaints from people who’d heard rumors of a psycho who would run out onto the runway in the middle of the night screaming, not knowing where he was.
The hospital was a different story. They had more doctors there than he could keep straight. Every week it was the same thing- some doctor wanted blood or urine samples and some wanted to check his eyes or have him turn his head and cough. Others asked him to look at ink blotches and tell them what he saw. Still others had him lie on couches and tell them about his childhood, asking if he had repressed feelings toward his father. Rick didn’t understand what was going on, but these men were trying to help and, because of that, he’d do his part, even if it did seem ridiculous.
Then one day Rick picked up the phone and found he was talking to the head of the Psychiatric department who wanted to see him as soon as possible. The physician told him that the team of doctors had diagnosed his problem and could treat it. When he arrived at the hospital, he was taken into a room and was greeted by smiling faces. They asked him to sit down. Rick grew impatient as the doctor went on and on explaining about the delicate nature of the mind, and about how they came up with their conclusion. Finally, they gave him their answer.
After six months of studying his case, the doctors determined that Rick had a severe case of delusional claustrophobia. With an assortment of various prescription drugs, they could control his anxiety and help him return to a normal life. The moment Rick heard this, his heart fell to the floor.
That’s it? he thought. That’s all they could come up with? Rick couldn’t listen any longer. The doctor continued to talk about his treatment. Rick stood up, and walked out. He felt so depressed, he didn’t even notice the shocked and surprised looks on the doctor’s faces as he left the room.
What a waste of time. There was no way he could take drugs and be allowed to fly. Besides, an hour in the air did more for him than a month on a doctor’s couch.
That evening Rick’s boss took him to a small hanger at the end of the field away from anything else. Inside was a small twin prop cargo plane. The boss explained that in Mexico was a shipment of airplane parts that needed to be picked up, and he would let Rick do the job if he promised not to tell anyone.
Rick was too excited to care. All he wanted was to get into the sky, so he agreed. Before Rick could think twice, he was in the air with a map to a
small remote runway on the other side of the boarder. He flew all night, and as the sun broke the horizon the next morning, he touched down on a dirt runway in the middle of nowhere.
Rolling to a stop, Rick was met by two trucks. One carried fuel, and the other delivered crates marked “airplane parts”. A group of men quickly loaded and fueled the plane while Rick stepped out to stretch and answer the call of nature. When the plane was fully loaded, Rick walked around it checking the engines and flaps.
A cloud of dust suddenly enclosed him and the plane, taking him by surprise. Squinting his eyes, he could hear the sounds of vehicles moving swiftly around him. Men were running and yelling in Spanish. Rick was tackled and held to the ground.
Through the clearing dust he could see Mexican Army personnel all around him. Most were holding other men down while the others surrounded the area holding rifles. Two soldiers emerged from the plane carrying one of the crates. They dropped it on the ground and busted it open with the butts of their rifles. As the crate fell apart, plastic bags of hashish fell onto the ground next to him.
Damn, Rick thought, as the realization of what was happening swept over him. Rick was handcuffed and loaded into an Army truck with the others, and driven to a small prison out in the middle of nowhere. He was taken to a concrete bunker with a metal door across the front.
As he got closer, Rick’s mind flashed back to the Vietnamese camp and he panicked and fought back. The guards beat him then threw him into the cage. Gasping in pain, Rick heard the slow eerie squeak of the door as it swung closed then slammed shut. It was dark except for small fingers of light which reached in through the air holes in the door and walls. Rick shook the door violently as he screamed to be let out, but it was no use. The soldiers walked away.
Rick lay on the floor weeping in his hot stuffy coffin. As the mid-day sun beat down on the bunker, the temperature rose steadily. Rick’s mind started to wander. The heat made him dizzy. Terror filled his body as memories of his jungle nightmare overcame him. The eyes and laughter of the Vietnamese officer filled his head.
His demons had returned.
Whether he was conscious or not, he was never free of them. Day after day he remained huddled in the corner of his cell trembling, mad with fear. He wanted to die, so he stopped taking any nourishment and quickly grew weak.
Then one day, Rick was shook back to consciousness as the sound of American voices filled his ears. Still in a daze, he was helped to his feet and carried out of the bunker. He was too exhausted to raise his head and see what was happening. All he could do was listen as American voices reprimanded the prison guards.
Rick was helped into a truck, and given food and water as they traveled down a dusty road to a town whose name he couldn’t pronounce. He was met there by members of the American Consulate. While American doctors checked him out another man explained to Rick that they’d been trying to locate him for weeks. It seems that, because of the severe nature of his punishment and the fact that he was not given a trial, the American Consulate was able to have Rick released with time served.
Rick was flown back to the VA hospital in San Diego. Upon release he attempted to get a job, but like the song on the radio said, “The winds of change were blowing”, and people looked at him differently. Labeled a psychotic Vietnam vet with a record, he drifted up the coast looking for work. Rick found that he couldn’t keep a job. It wouldn’t take long for word to spread about his nightmares, and he’d soon be thumbing his way to the next town. After months of this nomadic lifestyle, the Forest Service finally needed pilots. Forest fires in the northwest were consuming valuable timber, and the Forest Service wasn’t very picky about who they hired.
Fighting fires by plane was something he picked up quickly, and his skill as a pilot was immediately noticed. Admired by the grateful community he served, Rick was adopted by an understanding town which had sent many a son off to war.
“But I wasn’t the only one who’d been there, isn’t that right girl?” Rick rhetorically asked, patting the armrest of his pilot’s seat. He could still remember the shape this plane was in when he first saw her. Saved by the Forest Service from the scrap heap after being shot up rescuing downed pilots in the waters off the Vietnam coast, Rick put his whole heart and soul into getting her back into the air. Because the plane was designed to takeoff and land on water, it was ideally suited for conversion to aerial fire fighting.
“I guess I’m not the only one who has demons to exorcise,” he remarked as the alarm clock rang him back to reality. It was time to get to work. Rick reached over, turned it off, and checked his position with the GPS on the control panel. Like so many other times before, he had drifted off course and had gone too far out. Rick banked the plane to starboard, dropping in altitude as he headed back towards the coast.
* * * *
Chapter 7
Pack Train