July 27, 1945: Wiley is in the Army and far from his Galveston home, training in Chicago but sorely missing his girlfriend Esther Mae, his sweetheart from high school. He goes to the Chicago Servicemen's Center to make a record to surprise her, titling the finished disk with a simple handwritten "I LOVE YOU." After the war and service with the occupation forces in Japan, Wiley marries Esther Mae.
It so happens that Esther Mae had two older sisters. One of them was my mother; Wiley and Esther Mae are my uncle and aunt. In the late 1950s, a group of us cousins found this record in their closet and played it. And played it, and played it, and played it, to our endless entertainment. Even after hearing it so many times over the last 50 years, I still smile every time I listen to it.
A lot of things have changed in the 66 years since this record was made, but Wiley and Esther are still sweethearts, still making the best of it.
Announcer: This record is coming to you from the Chicago Servicemen's Center.
Hello Esther Mae,
I told you that I was going to try to get you a record and so I finally found one. I'm at the Chicago Servicemen's Center, in Chicago, and on the way home.
I, uh, you ought to appreciate this thing 'cause I ran up seven flights of steps for this! And this place was closing, too.
I didn't tell you about me coming home because I wanted to surprise you. But, uh, even though everybody teased me, they said I was going to be sorry, because you'd be out with Otto or somebody. But I told 'em that you wouldn't.
When I get home I'm going to have ten days and ten nights, so, uh, we, make the best of it, huh?
[long pause]
I just about ran out of things to say. I just wanted to make you a record before I went home. I hope that you haven't found out about this already, because I told my mother but I didn't want you to know about it.
That's enough.
________________________________________________
Many thanks to Radio Dismuke for excellently digitizing the original record.
Monday, June 27, 2011
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Flying to Nui Ba Den
I began this blog in 2009 to replace the email travel reports I had started in 2007. Long before any of that, though, I had tentatively begun a very different kind of Glimpses, a collection of short fragments that I had written now and then over the years. Lacking the perseverance and focus necessary to be a Writer, I occasionally give in to the urge to put words to paper long enough to finish a page or two. I was never sure what to call them: verbal snapshots, essayettes, micro-short stories? I settled on calling them Glimpses and left it at that.
This Glimpse, for example, was originally written about fifteen years ago. It is set in June 1969, when I was a U.S. Army warrant officer flying UH-1 (Huey) helicopters in Vietnam. It is about a resupply mission to the top of Nui Ba Den, the Black Virgin Mountain.
It was near the beginning of the rainy season, when the cumulus clouds began dotting the sky around lunch time. The cloud bases were 2,000, maybe 2,500 feet, and it was almost a child’s game of hide-and-seek, setting up a steady climb in the UH-1H, weaving in and out, over and under, the inviting cottony whiteness almost palpable, until breaking through into clean air above the newly-formed clouds.
It was a routine run to Nui Ba Den, the Black Virgin mountain, 3,000 feet of jungle-covered rock dominating the countryside northwest of Saigon and east of Tay Ninh. We would land on the Huey pad, a small ridge that jutted out from and below the eastern side of the peak, drop off and pick up some passengers and their equipment, then fly down to Dau Tieng in time for lunch.
Landing at Nui Ba Den could be tricky. Conditions at the top often and abruptly changed between clear skies and cloud cover, with powerful gusts of wind, updrafts colliding with downdrafts. Timing was everything. Descend smoothly, nothing abrupt, carefully watch the overcast and mist accumulate on the upwind side of the pad; the clouds would grow fitfully until rising up and over the pad, obscuring it completely before a gust of wind blew them away and all was clear again. There was a critical, unseen point at which one had to say either yes, I am landing no matter what, or no, I am breaking this approach off to try again.
We began the descent. The clouds rose, the clouds dissipated, and I knew I was alone. The co-pilot and the crew chief and the gunner and the passengers were mere observers now; there was nothing they could do but watch and hope I outmaneuvered the mountain. Close in, just as I decided yes, we were landing, a cloud rolled in and covered the pad. The last few feet of descent were blind, and I banged it down a bit harder than I would have liked. But we were on the ground, undamaged. It would be a few minutes before we unloaded everything and got our new cargo, so it was pitch down, throttle back, shut down.
The crew chief opened my door and pushed back the armor plate, and I got out to walk around. The air was cool and clean and dry, giving no hint of the steamy heat far below. The troops who lived on the mountain went about their business, accustomed to their rarified existence above it all, seemingly oblivious to the incredible horizons in all directions. Miles and miles, as far as one could see and further still, no noise save the whistling of the wind.
Soon it was time to go. Climb back into the seat, strap in, plate and door closed, the co-pilot cranks up the turbine. Ready for take-off. The crew says we’re clear; I take the controls and pull us up to a hover. No clouds now, and a strong, steady wind right in our faces. Our airspeed is almost 30 knots, we are flying without moving, and I push the cyclic slightly forward.
In the blink of an eye we leave the protection of the mountain and are 3,000 feet above the paddies below, going 100 knots, an earthbound, clumsy machine becoming the powerful master of movement in all dimensions. One split second marked the boundary between earth and sky, between stillness and motion, between matter and energy. The ground fought our leaving and reluctantly let us go, and then we were high and free and caressed by sky.
This Glimpse, for example, was originally written about fifteen years ago. It is set in June 1969, when I was a U.S. Army warrant officer flying UH-1 (Huey) helicopters in Vietnam. It is about a resupply mission to the top of Nui Ba Den, the Black Virgin Mountain.
It was near the beginning of the rainy season, when the cumulus clouds began dotting the sky around lunch time. The cloud bases were 2,000, maybe 2,500 feet, and it was almost a child’s game of hide-and-seek, setting up a steady climb in the UH-1H, weaving in and out, over and under, the inviting cottony whiteness almost palpable, until breaking through into clean air above the newly-formed clouds.
It was a routine run to Nui Ba Den, the Black Virgin mountain, 3,000 feet of jungle-covered rock dominating the countryside northwest of Saigon and east of Tay Ninh. We would land on the Huey pad, a small ridge that jutted out from and below the eastern side of the peak, drop off and pick up some passengers and their equipment, then fly down to Dau Tieng in time for lunch.
Landing at Nui Ba Den could be tricky. Conditions at the top often and abruptly changed between clear skies and cloud cover, with powerful gusts of wind, updrafts colliding with downdrafts. Timing was everything. Descend smoothly, nothing abrupt, carefully watch the overcast and mist accumulate on the upwind side of the pad; the clouds would grow fitfully until rising up and over the pad, obscuring it completely before a gust of wind blew them away and all was clear again. There was a critical, unseen point at which one had to say either yes, I am landing no matter what, or no, I am breaking this approach off to try again.
We began the descent. The clouds rose, the clouds dissipated, and I knew I was alone. The co-pilot and the crew chief and the gunner and the passengers were mere observers now; there was nothing they could do but watch and hope I outmaneuvered the mountain. Close in, just as I decided yes, we were landing, a cloud rolled in and covered the pad. The last few feet of descent were blind, and I banged it down a bit harder than I would have liked. But we were on the ground, undamaged. It would be a few minutes before we unloaded everything and got our new cargo, so it was pitch down, throttle back, shut down.
The crew chief opened my door and pushed back the armor plate, and I got out to walk around. The air was cool and clean and dry, giving no hint of the steamy heat far below. The troops who lived on the mountain went about their business, accustomed to their rarified existence above it all, seemingly oblivious to the incredible horizons in all directions. Miles and miles, as far as one could see and further still, no noise save the whistling of the wind.
Soon it was time to go. Climb back into the seat, strap in, plate and door closed, the co-pilot cranks up the turbine. Ready for take-off. The crew says we’re clear; I take the controls and pull us up to a hover. No clouds now, and a strong, steady wind right in our faces. Our airspeed is almost 30 knots, we are flying without moving, and I push the cyclic slightly forward.
In the blink of an eye we leave the protection of the mountain and are 3,000 feet above the paddies below, going 100 knots, an earthbound, clumsy machine becoming the powerful master of movement in all dimensions. One split second marked the boundary between earth and sky, between stillness and motion, between matter and energy. The ground fought our leaving and reluctantly let us go, and then we were high and free and caressed by sky.
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