A New World
Ralph Ireland idly watched as one fly, bolder and more daring than the swarms of others, buzzed in for a landing on the wet bottle circled tabletop before him. The fly became fouled in the collective patches of foamed over beer and bottle sweat. It reminded Ralph of a helicopter he'd once seen crash into shallow water. It had thrashed wildly about until destroying itself, then lay - broken and dead. After a frantic though futile escape effort, the fly was so destroyed. By a swipe of his hand, Ralph brushed it, along with the accumulation of soured moisture, from the tabletop.
Ralph squirmed to adjust his sweaty bottom on the split seat of his battered hardwood chair. He was seated beneath the awning of a ratty little sidewalk cafe. He faced the main thoroughfare that joined metropolitan Bangkok with its vast international air terminal facility, some eight miles north.
He sipped his beer and watched abstractly the multi-mixture of heavy traffic that raced madly in intertwining formations, going both directions. The vehicles' emitted exhaust gases spread like a blanket of fog, remaining still and suspended in the hot, humid air. It was August 1966, and the steamy summer monsoon was well upon them.
Ralph was waiting for a company van to transport him to the airport to board a flight to Vientiane, Laos - some 300 air miles to the north. This was the beginning of a radical change in career direction for him. It had been a challenging, worrisome decision that had brought Ralph to this point. He was 42 years old and feared that he might be a little too far “Down the line” for such a change.
As he sat there, he considered the possibility that he might have been a little too impulsive. He was leaving his secure U.S. Government position to sign up as a pilot with this unknown foreign-based airline. One of the main things that bothered him was his inability to learn hardly anything of the obscure lines’ operational scope. He'd only been told they transported people and supplies under contract with the US Government. The man that had interviewed Ralph took care, it seemed, not to reveal the where, why, or precisely for whom details.
Ralph sat there, letting his mind wander in speculation. He gazed across the busy street to the small office building housing the airline's Bangkok business center - his new employer. He read again, the bold lettered company name spelled out across the building front - “CONTRACT' AIR, INC.”
In deep meditative reflection, Ralph was hardly aware of the constant loud clamor of heavy street traffic or the pungent odor of native cookery blended with open sewers, ever-present, in Bangkok. It was like a trademark. He allowed his mind to reflect on past months of pure misery as a U.S. Foreign Service Advisor to Thailand. What a can of worms he'd found himself involved!
A group of teenage, uniformed students bumped his table slightly as they worked a path down the crowded sidewalk. Their “Smile Fixed” expressions of apology reminded Ralph of the smiling handout for more attitude of the Thai officials he'd been dealing with.
Ralph had been one of the top U.S. Foreign Service Police Advisors in Thailand, and that Thai attitude had been a definite factor in his leaving government service. It was true, and he felt that the officials’ “Pandering” attitude did not represent the Thai people's feelings or desires. This “What are you going to give me if I do that for you” attitude was strictly the “Milking Action” of the Thai leaders. These “Leaders” had been pushed into officialdom by the flamboyant and magnanimous “Reward” system of political compromise used by the United States Department of State. That official Thai attitude, along with the “Two-faced” administrative policy of the U.S. Department of State, had constituted “The straw that broke the camel’s back” for Ralph.
The U.S. “Striped Pants Wonders” showed one face to the expectant Thai while exhibiting another to the exploited American taxpaying public. All this while they GAVE AWAY giant portions of American resources - receiving nothing in return. This existing condition had made it impossible for Ralph to do his job with any degree of self-respect or feeling of accomplishment.
It would feel good, Ralph had thought, to again be just a hard-working airplane pilot, away from all this “'Stage Play Crap!”
Contract Air's advertised pay and subsequent “Sales Pitch” had been the deciding factor in Ralph's decision to give up Government service for private industry - he thought. Ralph realized he was no longer a young man, though, for his 42 years, his muscular 190 lb. frame showed very few signs of age or dissipation. He'd been a combat pilot during World War Two and Korean conflicts.
In between wars and, for a short time following his last military service, he'd been in the crop dusting and aerial advertising business - applying insecticides by plane, skywriting, towing signs, etc. Shortly after an expensive crop-dusting accident that had left him broke, Ralph had been accepted as a transport pilot for the U.S. Department of Justice, Immigration and Naturalization Service. For them, he conducted worldwide deportation flights, border air patrol, and anti-air smuggling activities along the Mexican Border.
It had been an exciting life until things had started to clamp down, budget-wise. His department heads had begun to skimp on aircraft maintenance. For their demanded all-weather operation, this hadn't been good. Some of the pilots had left the organization for other Government agencies that were more aviation-oriented. In contrast, several had resigned, returning to private industry.
Through the influence of an old wartime buddy, Ralph had been able to transfer over to the U.S. State Department - U.S. A.I.D. branch - with a promotion, even. His subsequent assignment to Thailand as Police Air Advisor had, at the time, seemed like a dream come true. Being single, a move such as this involved only the thirty-minute packing job into two battered suitcases, checking out of his bachelor pad, and leaving a change of address notice with the Postal Service.
Through his training for the Thai assignment - conducted at the State Department's Washington “Foggy Bottom” - the canned lectures and films had led Ralph to believe it was a worthwhile, constructive cause in Thailand. Even the grand reception, given him upon his arrival at Bangkok, had revealed no indication of the exact relationship between the U.S. Bureaucrats and the 'Puppet” Thai officials.
This relationship was designed and implemented to sustain the gigantic U.S. A.I.D. hierocracy while, at the same time, with their giveaway programs, they were making millionaires and power structure giants of the selected Thai politicians and military leaders - country and ideals, be damned!
Ralph finished his warm beer just as the battered “Contract Air” van pulled up in front of the office. He picked up his bags and precariously made his way across the street, dodging the popular samlor taxies, trucks, and heavy auto traffic. Before he could board the van, Bob Randy stepped out from the front door, spoke a few words to the driver, and turned, handing a sealed dispatch pouch to Ralph. The bag was marked for delivery to Vientiane's company office. No verbal instructions were given as the manager addressed Ralph briefly: “You'll be damned lucky to even reach the airport with this stupid, Thai son-of-a-bitch drivin. He's already wrecked three vehicles for us THIS MONTH! Can't find anyone better to replace him with, though - just have to live with it, I guess.” He then presented a limp, damp hand to Ralph, along with a sick smile, and, with an air of dismissal, whined: “Well, good luck - see you in Vientiane before too long.” “Thanks,” replied Ralph, glad to release the “Wet Fish” handclasp.
As their van was held up in waiting for a break in the mad flow of traffic, another “Contract Air” van pulled up in front of the office and discharged its passengers. They were a motley-looking bunch, appearing to be Americans but were un-clipped and poorly dressed. Ralph's Thai driver motioned violently toward the discharged men with his head and, in broken “Pidgeon-like” English, declared: “No fuckin good pilots - go back States.”
Later, Ralph learned that these men were some of the many “Rejects,” unable to check out or “Hack” the required flyin. He would meet many of these bitter individuals in the years to come.
Their arrival at Bangkok’s Don Mueang air terminal greatly relieved Ralph. Never had he witnessed such an exhibition of offensive, bluff-out driving. The wild Thai had finally brought the van to a screeching, horn-blowing halt, scattering a mass of jostling, yelling humanity that was crowded at the busy main entrance to the terminal building. A company man of Thai nationality, identified by a “Contract Air” patch on his baseball cap, tried to appease the aroused crowd as he worked his way through to the van. He told Ralph to get his bags and follow him in a husky voice, hardly understandable above the group’s noise.
“Damn plane about to leave,” he stated as a matter of fact.
Ralph grabbed his bags, together with the dispatch pouch, and followed the broad beam of his “Leader.” At an inspection gate marked, “AIRCREW ONLY,” Ralph was handed his already visaed passport, medical certificate, and other clearance papers. As he passed through the gate, he noted that he was being led directly across the arrival ramp to a parked, cargo-type aircraft line.
The plane the Thai seemed to be lined up on was an ancient, battered old C-46 of World War Two “Hump Flying” fame. He knew for a fact it was the one when he was able to read the new, “CONTRACT AIR,” emblazoned on her dented side. Ralph couldn't restrain a little chuckle as the thought occurred to him that the new markings on the 'Old Bird” stood out like fresh frost on an old horse turd. By the squatted attitude of the old aircraft, it is evident that she was heavily loaded. Two puddles of black oil, one beneath each of the two engines, indicated tired, old machines, low maintenance, or both.
The C-46 is a twin-engine transport aircraft derived from the Curtiss CW-20 pressurized high-altitude airliner design. It was used as a military transport during World War Two by the United States Army Air Forces and the U.S. Navy/Marine Corps. It featured a roomy “double bubble” fuselage, with a cross-section in the form of two circle segments mated together, top and bottom. This configuration provided sizeable internal volume and the structural strength to support pressurization. It also featured a low wing with twin radial engines, twin tailfins, and fully retractable tailwheel landing gear - the single-wheel main gear retracting into the engine nacelles. The cockpit windscreen was flush with the fuselage contour, giving the aircraft a whale-like appearance. It had a broad, side-facing rear cargo door.
In what appeared to be sweated out Pilot's uniforms, two men were shuffling nervously in the shade of the left-wing. As Ralph and escort approached, the larger and older of the two complained in a thin, high-pitched voice:
“Where in hell ya been? Jesus Christ, I thought you'd never get here.”
“Held up waiting for transportation,” replied Ralph, “You the Captain?” The Thai escort turned, departing without a word.
“Yeah, I'm the Captain,” the man responded, fixing Ralph with a belligerent glare, making no offer of a handshake, “Name's Merv Batchelor.” Ralph turned expectantly toward the other man, but he had already started toward the plane's rear ladder entrance. Ralph glanced back at Batchelor.
“That's Jim Lahm, the Co-Pilot,” the captain growled over his shoulder as he also headed for the ladder and followed Lahm into the plane.
The cargo compartment was filled with packing crates and two lashed-down rebuilt aircraft engines. Ralph stowed his gear and dispatch case between two large boxes and followed the crew into the cockpit. Being inside and looking around the old plane stirred many memories for Ralph.
He'd accumulated about 6,000 hours as a Pilot in C-46s, but that had been some years back. This trip to Vientiane would offer him an excellent opportunity, he thought, to review the cockpit procedure. With that in mind, he seated himself in and adjusted the engineer's seat - situated behind and between the Pilot and Co-pilot positions.
Ralph remembered all too well the tricks this old C-46 could pull - even on an experienced pilot. She was as strong framed an aircraft as was ever built. The two R-2800 Pratt & Whitney reciprocating engines still held a respectable position. However, the ground handling characteristics of the old bird was something else! He remembered how she could seemingly roll her eyes and smile at you - everything looking just great - then jump up and kick you right in the butt! The only dereliction necessary to ensure getting that “Kick” was to just relax for a moment during the approach to landing or right after touch-down. She was also “Plain Hell” in any strong crosswind landing or take-off.
The inside of the aircraft was like an oven. Sweat rolled off them and could be seen making puddles on the flight deck. This maybe was why Ralph figured that Merv’s engine starting procedure was the fastest he'd ever witnessed - all done by the captain! The man utilized neither the checklist nor the Co-pilot.
Merv went through the procedures like a person who lived in the cockpit, and the already warm engines came smoothly to life. The copilot bungled the request for taxi and takeoff instructions from the tower. Glaring at him, the captain snatched his mike from the panel, obtaining the necessary clearance instructions himself. Turning to the nervous and cowed Co-pilot, the Captain growled:
“Want to die in this goddamn sweatbox? Got to get this fuckin thing in the air before we can cool off, ya know!”
The engine and equipment checks are made while rolling down the taxiway to the assigned runway's takeoff end. Again, the Captain accomplished the entire sequence by himself.
This self-reliance worried Ralph. His many years of experience had taught him that no man's memory was dependable enough to remember all the critical items necessary to safely transform an aircraft, as complicated as this, from a ground vehicle to a heavily loaded airborne conveyer. Just one forgotten item could be enough to retire you to that “Six Foot Sod Farm.” For this chief reason, Ralph jogged his memory. He followed the procedures, helping to ensure that no such item was forgotten or deleted. After all, his rear end was at stake as well, he reasoned.
Takeoff clearance came, and the captain, without hesitation, moved onto the runway, lining up with the center strip. He reached across the copilot's side of the pedestal, locked the tail wheel, immediately advanced the throttles, and started the takeoff roll. The copilot began to follow up on the throttles and monitor the engine instruments, as called for by the “Book.” Still, the Captain, with a quick slap across the Co-pilot's hands, ordered:
“Keep your hands the hell away from there! Just keep your eyes open for traffic!” The completely subdued copilot sat back in his seat, managing a sick grin over his shoulder at Ralph.
By the time of the second “Crow Hop” on the runway, it was evident that the “War Weary” old plane was overloaded, particularly given the high-temperature accountability factor. An aircraft didn't perform as well in hot, humid atmospheric conditions. The critical engine failure and flying speeds had been exceeded, but the plane still had to be forced off the ground. She just wasn't ready to fly yet, but the captain forced her off by horsing back on the “Yoke,” and they “Staggered” into the air.
Ralph leaned forward to observe the instruments more closely. One engine cough or, for that matter, any partial loss of power after they were airborne would result in their going back to earth like a streamlined manhole cover. All the temperature gauges were riding on or above their red line limits!
The aircraft finally started flying on her own, and, as she broke free of ground effect, the plane began a somewhat less than normal climb rate. The landing gear was raised, and other “Clean Up” operations were accomplished before the captain, still doing it all himself, reduced power from maximum through METO horsepower to climb settings.
The altimeter read 6,000 feet before the air inside began to cool off. The temperature gauges dropped back down into the “Green Range.” It wasn't until then that Ralph began to relax. He hadn't realized that every muscle had been strained to the point of pain. He didn't know what this Pilot was trying to prove. He speculated, but if this was an example of a Company operational procedure, something needed to be done, or they were in trouble. They were sure as hell using a different book than Ralph had been taught with!
As they continued to climb, the vast expanse of rice paddy and canal networks presented itself in panorama between swollen, puffy clouds. The great “Rice Bowl” of Thailand extended as far as the eye could see. The hills forming the Korat Plateau's western rim stretched in a blue haze line across the horizon to the northeast, directly on their nose. The size of this fertile rice-producing area made it easy to comprehend why the more powerful Asian powers desired to take Thailand into their fold.
Merv Batchelor leveled the plane out at 9,500 feet, indicated altitude, and made the necessary adjustments to bring it into cruise configuration. At this altitude, the air was smooth as glass and refreshing. Merv motioned for the Co-pilot to take the controls, glanced over his right shoulder at Ralph - as if to say, “Get the hell out of the way!” - released his seat lock and flopped back to a reclining position.
Ralph had thought before that he had detected the odor of stale booze about the captain, but now there was no mistaking it. With Merv leaned back, practically in his lap, the smell that seemed to exude from the sweat-dried uniform was unmistakably identifiable as the “Morning After” smell of old liquor. From the half-open mouth, his breath was fouled by the same odor.
Ralph turned his attention to Jim Lahm to see if he'd settled down at the controls. The man had been understandably nervous and jumpy in the presence of the captains’ egotistical “Do it all himself” performance. There was a light, broken squall line forming along the rim of the Korat Plateau. Ralph wondered how Jim would handle himself while making a few minor decisions on his own.
They were on a “VFR” (Visual Flight Rules) clearance and, thus regulated, were supposed to stay clear of the clouds. It was common knowledge that there was heavy military jet traffic in this area, and it wouldn't pay to go sticking your nose into the '''Soup” without proper clearance and identification. Jim seemed to be doing fine, however, and rather than attempting further conversation, Ralph settled back in his seat and tried to relax. It wasn't without apprehension that he awaited the end of the flight, for after seeing this end of the operational section of the Company, he wondered what the administrative executive end would be.
Small rain showers and low “Scud clouds” surrounded them as they neared their destination. Just after passing the radio beacon at the giant U.S. Air Base, located near Udorn Thani, Thailand, the Captain, as though awakened by an alarm clock, raised himself, adjusted his seat, and took over the controls without a word.
Merv established a gradual power descent. As they worked their way around the showers and under the lower cloud layer, the swollen Mekong River was exposed below them in all its muddy, rolling turbulence. Vientiane and its airport lay just ahead at the top of a big loop in the river.
Ralph thought that this river could be beneficial in navigational problems as they passed over. As the case might be, follow it up or down, and it would lead you to the Vientiane airport. He filed this bit away for future reference.
Radio contact was made with Company operations, and they also canceled their flight plan with Lima (Laos) control. Landing instructions were received from the tower as they reached pattern altitude. In what Ralph supposed was meant to be English, the shrill voice from the tower made him regret that he had placed the engineer's headphones over his ears. It sounded like someone dragging a file across a saw blade. As they turned onto the final approach, landing clearance was received. The before landing check was completed - by the captain. Ralph wondered why they bothered sending a copilot with the man.
The heat and humidity had again made itself felt by this time, and sweat dripped from the Pilot's hands as he gripped the wheel. Also, a “Nervous Tic” was popping his right cheek in and out. Merv had one hell of a hangover. The landing was smooth, however. While the after-landing adjustments were being made during the rollout, Ralph looked over the field's layout.
On one side of the long single runway was a large military parking ramp with associated hangers and warehouses. On the other side of the runway, three civil installations: Royal Air Lao, Air America, and Contract Air - each marked by their company names and Insignia. There was a sizeable civilian air terminal, and Contract Air was located just adjacent to that modern structure.
Their plane was parked in the direction of a waiting ground crew, and the pilot shut down the engines and secured the cockpit. All three men grabbed their gear and scrambled for the exit as quickly as possible. The temperature inside had climbed to an unbearable degree. A forklift and truck had already arrived to take charge of the cargo. Most of the load handlers, Ralph noticed, appeared to be indigenous personnel.
Ralph followed Merv and Jim through a side door marked Operations, which led to the large company hanger's apparent administrative section. The operations room and dispatch section were combined, divided only by a counter. In the middle of the room were flat-topped flight planning tables, and, fixed to the walls, were bulletin boards filled with “NOTHAMS” and other forms of flight advisories. There were safety cartoons and company policy notices plastered all around. Like in all other operations rooms Ralph had seen, little witticisms and names had been penciled in on most of the posters. Behind the dispatch counter was the typical schedule board, typewriter, and company radio. The dispatcher, a swarthy Philippino, wearing very thick glasses, looked up as they entered, raised a hand in greeting, and, with a simple “Hi,” returned to his stack of paperwork. Jim Lahm handed the flight logbook to Ralph, indicating with his finger the place for Ralph to enter his name as a passenger.
Ralph couldn't help but note the difference between his arrivals here. Upon his initial arrival in Bangkok as a high-ranking bureaucrat, a grand reception was held for him. They didn't seem to give a damn here that he had arrived or not.
Ralph stepped over to the dispatcher's counter and introduced himself after getting the man's attention. The dispatcher stood, extending his hand and, at the same time, saying:
“Everyone calls me Marcos - glad to meet you.” As an afterthought, he asked: “Did Bangkok send anything up with you?' “They usually send in their reports about this time every month.”
“Yeah, nearly forgot,” replied Ralph, placing the dispatch pouch on the counter. “Who do I see to check in with around here? Seem to have missed the reception committee.”
“Just go through that door over there,” Marcos directed, pointing to a scarred swinging door marked, “PRIVATE.” “The girl at the first desk will take care of you.”
Ralph started for the indicated door, noting that Merv and Jim were still busy completing the logbook and flight report form. As he neared the door, Ralph heard a scuffling sound from beyond and had to jump back to keep from being struck as the door burst open, and a body came sliding through, on its back! Immediately following the body, a giant of a man in a pilot's uniform strode through the door and stood glaring down at the prone figure. The man on the floor raised himself on one elbow but made no further attempt to rise. His face reflected naked fear as he stared up at the towering hulk above him.
The giant reached down, picked the man up, and, in a voice that caused the windows to vibrate, roared:
“Get your goddamned ass in that airplane, and you'd better be in Pakse before five O'clock. You candy assed sons-of-bitches come over here to draw this big money, and after you get a little ahead, want to cull out the rough missions and just take the “Milk Runs!”
The big man whirled and disappeared back through the door, nearly taking it with him. The object of his address made a mad scramble in gathering himself. Then he shot through the entrance to the outside. Ralph noticed that the “Whipped” man had also been in a pilot's uniform. He heard Merv quietly mumble:
“Ole King Kong's at it again.”
Ralph pushed through the “Private” door with sane reluctance and was immediately quizzed by the glance of an attractive young Chinese girl seated at a desk just inside. Her look did not indicate having witnessed anything out of the ordinary. “I’m a “New Hire,” announced Ralph, “just came in on the Bangkok flight - name's Ralph Ireland.”
“Oh yes,” she replied, we've been expecting you. My name's Maggie.” She reached over to one corner of her littered desk and handed Ralph a folder from a stack.
“Just have a seat over there and fill out the papers inside,” she directed, “then we'll make the rounds.”
Ralph walked over, seated himself in the indicated armchair, and opened the folder. The papers inside were of an orientation nature. One sheet contained a listing of all the various organizational departments with space beneath each for endorsement by the respective Chiefs. There were also numerous personnel forms to be read and signed.
Ralph quickly completed the personnel forms and returned the folder to Maggie. She pulled out the orientation “Tour sheet,” placing the other documents in his personnel jacket, and rose - indicating for him to come with her.
Most of the offices opening off the reception area were glass-fronted. However, three doors in the rear promised more private accommodations. These doors were marked Vice President, Station Manager, and Operations Manager - she led him to the Vice President's office first. Maggie hesitated just outside the door, hand resting on the knob, and turned to Ralph, stating:
“We'll start here and wind up with the Chief Pilot. He'll give you a complete run-down on what to expect for the next few weeks. You've already met the Chief Pilot, incidentally,” she remarked, with a slight trace of a smile on her face, “just as you started through the office door.”
She opened the V. P.'s door and held it open for Ralph to enter ahead of her. A distinguished, immaculately attired man was seated behind an ornate desk, directly facing the door. He appeared to be about fifty, but his well-groomed, silver-gray hair and the piercing azure blue eyes told you he could be ten years on either side of that mark. He stood up and extended a firm, well-manicured hand to Ralph, Saying:
“I'm Dutch Houten, glad to have you aboard. I've gone over your application file, and from all indications, you can make a place for yourself here.” Ralph released the handclasp, and Dutch repositioned himself behind his desk. Maggie, pushing in beside Ralph and placing the orientation paper for Dutch's signature, interrupted Ralph's intent to respond, so he decided to let it pass. There didn't seem to be any response expected from him, anyway.
After Dutch signed it with a flourish, Maggie retrieved the paper, returned to the door, and held it open for Ralph to exit. Ralph, with a mumbled: “Glad to have met you,” turned and passed through the door, waiting just outside for Maggie to lead him to his subsequent encounter. He hoped it would prove more enlightening than this last one.
Maggie turned and, led to the next office door marked, “STATION MANAGER,” gave it a knock. Waited a moment before opening the door - again holding it for Ralph. In his middle thirties, a short fat man turned from multiple stacks of legal-sized papers and, without a word, took the form from Maggie, signed it, and handed it back.
“My name's TONE,” he finally stated, glancing up at Ralph, “but most of the people around here call me “FATS” to my back. I'm the Company legal man and negotiate all the job contracts for “Contract Air.” You won't have any dealings with me, and I haven't the time to visit, so I'll just pass you on - good luck.”
“Thanks,” replied Ralph, and again followed Maggie out. Damn, he thought, what a cold bunch of bastards, and what a waste of time.
They followed the same procedure at the next closed office, but, once inside, the similarity ceased. A medium-sized man of about thirty-five came around from behind his desk, shook Ralph's hand, and told him to be seated - pointing to a chair positioned in front of his desk. The man returned to his seat and extended his hand to Maggie for the “Tour sheet,” dismissed her - advising Maggie that he would send Ralph to her desk as soon as he was finished with him. The instructions were in a sharp tone, and Maggie departed quickly.
“I'm Jerry Joseph,” the man told Ralph. “And I'm the authority for all Company operations and missions. You, as a pilot, will only be acting as a technician in carrying out my directed activities and, as such, will have no authority to alter any instructions coming from me, except in an extreme emergency.”
“I want to make this clear to you from the start,” he continued, “because there are SOME people here, on your side of the fence, that think they should run things - from an operational, as well as technical standpoint. I don't have the power to fire you, but I can keep you off the work schedule, which amounts to the same thing. Do I make myself clear so far?”
“I think so,” replied Ralph, “but, at this point, I don't have the background knowledge of the company to understand what you're talking about fully. I certainly don't want to become involved in company politics, at least until I understand what it's all about.” The tension was building in Ralph. He had to bite his lip to keep from telling this man to RAM IT!”
“I fully understand your position at this time,” stated Jerry, in a softer, condescending tone, “but in a short while, all the pieces will fall into place for you. NOW, I want to impress upon you the importance of remembering what I've just told you. This way, there will be no misunderstanding later.”
Jerry went over the many flight report forms required and the methods of logging flight and ground times. Much of it was “Old Hat” to Ralph, for it followed the general procedures used by most air operations.
Jerry advised that the pilot flight assignments schedule would be posted on the company compound's bulletin board and the dispatcher's board by six o’clock in the evening of the day before the execution date. That each Pilot would be responsible for checking the schedule every day.
“In going over your record,” continued Jerry, “I notice that you have quite a lot of police experience. Are you a “Spook?”
“No, I'm not,” answered Ralph startled. It was common knowledge that the name “Spook” was given to the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA). Still, Ralph was somewhat taken aback by the open question. It was usually a subject that wasn't even mentioned unless you were absolutely “SURE” of the person you talked to.
During his short tenure in Bangkok, Ralph had seen people sent home for just the indiscriminate mentioning of CIA involvement or presence. However, every U.S. Government employee stationed there was aware of the Agency's extensive infiltration into every U.S. Government operation in Southeast Asia.
Jerry signed the orientation sheet. Nothing more was said for a few moments. He then looked up, handed the paper to Ralph, and asked:
“Any questions?”
“No,” replied Ralph, after some hesitation, “I believe I'm pretty well squared away on what you've covered.” Jerry handed Ralph the sheet and directed him to return to Maggie's desk.
There was a large man with Maggie as Ralph approached her desk. He was wearing loud, rumpled sports clothes that looked as though they had been slept in for at least one night. His eyes were screened by thick, tinted prescription glasses, partly covered by tousled blond hair. His mouth was large-lipped and slack. Collectively, all these attributes suggested to Ralph that there was either a genius or a nut — possibly both?
“Ralph Ireland, I want you to meet Don Paset, our personnel and accounting department head,” stated Maggie in the way of an introduction. The two men exchanged greetings, and Maggie took the tour sheet from Ralph, placing it on her desk and pointing to the line on which Don was to sign. Don raised, after performing his duty, and, while returning his pen to his pocket, asked of Maggie:
“He been in to see “Big Daddy” yet?” and turned from the desk, tossing a “Good Luck” over his shoulder as he walked away, paddle-footed, down the corridor. Maggie picked up the tour sheet and informed Ralph:
“This will be your last official introduction, this afternoon. Then we'll get you fixed up with a room and mess hall permit card.” She turned to the office immediately behind her desk, and Ralph noticed a roll-type, bamboo blind obscured the glass portion of this office wall. Maggie leaned around the door jamb, sticking her head inside. Ralph stood behind her, feeling the strain of an anticipated unpleasant encounter. Undoubtedly, this Chief Pilot was the same giant of a man he'd seen in action earlier - according to Maggie. He couldn't help but wonder what the man's mood would be now. Ralph also speculated on his reaction to any further snub or rebuff. A low-pitched voice from inside the office invited:
“Come on in.”
Ralph followed Maggie into the office. There were three desks inside, forming a horseshoe. The giant Chief Pilot stood in front of the middle desk, facing the doorway. Ralph's hand wasn't small, but Ralph's hand was completely enclosed and hidden when he shook hands with this man. It reminded him of when, as a little boy, he had shaken hands with the big neighborhood cop.
“I'm Ed Gearbon,” the giant stated, “Chief Pilot.” He then pointed to the desk on his left. He continued:
“Pat Nevens, your immediate boss, holds down that desk as Senior Transport Pilot. Joe McClain, the senior S.T.O.L. pilot, holds down the other. Both these men are out now, but you'll be meeting them in the next few days.” He took the sheet from Maggie and, as she went out, returned to his placarded desk - motioning Ralph into the chair at its left front corner.
“Sorry, you had to witness that little episode in the operations room.” Gearbon stated - eyes averted as though looking for something on his desk- “but it was something that had to be done. If I just let ‘um go, they’d all turn up sick for the rough schedules, and we'd lose half our contracts. We work fifty-six pilots out of here, and ninety percent of ‘em bitch about being “Shit On” by the schedule. You've got to accept the schedule as it comes out, or things get so fucked up that everybody's lost. I think some of these soft “Mothers” have marshmallows for balls - the way they dodge the rough spots on the schedule. Also, anytime a flight is late or held up, that son-of-a.-bitchin Operations Manager, who, incidentally, thinks he's running MY show, makes a squawk. The less we have to do with that bastard, the better we ALL get along! Just remember, you work for me, NOT HIM!”
Gearbon opened a folder on his desk and studied it for a moment. Shortly, he raised his head and, looking at Ralph, said:
“I see here that you have a good bit of C-46 time - that helps. I'm afraid, though, you're going to find a different kinda “Ball Game” here. Regardless of background, we always start the new men out in the 46's - flyin copilot's right seat. It usually takes at least three months of riding around as a copilot for the new men to learn the operation and territory well enough to operate as Captain, without getting their asses shot off or letting down into a mountain, their first time out. It also takes about that length of time for us to look a man over and see how he stands up under fire and other emergencies.”
“There are only a few cities of any size in Laos,” continued the Chief, “and these are spread all over the Kingdom. Most of our work deals with the 400 plus “Sites” that have been developed in the rural areas, most of which are mountainous. I'm giving you a map and chart kit and a “Site Book” that lists all the worksites by grid coordinates. You will plot all these “Sites” on your maps and memorize them by visual reference from the air. You will also draw in course lines on your charts - showing time and distance to each from major service points. You STUDY these maps before your first scheduled flight.”
“I can't stress too strongly,” the Chief advised, “the importance of learning the territory and keeping abreast of the enemy situation, as it changes day to day - especially during the monsoon season. We sometimes must strictly fly time & distance to the point of a letdown in the mountains, while in the “Soup” all the way. The only navigational aids we have for these rural work areas are low-powered, non-directional radio beacons that don't work half the time. We're not equipped to use the modern “Nav-Aids” beamed in by the U.S. Air Force. You must get to the point where just a brief glimpse of the ground will give you your location. You MUST learn the terrain that well!”
“You'll be upset with most of the captains you ride with, for a while, Ralph. They've been over here for a long time and know what they're doing, although it may not seem so to you at first. In the beginning, all they'll expect of you – except for immediate compliance with any order they might give in the air - will be just to follow the routes on the map, handle the logbook and keep your eyes open. Sad experience has taught these Captains not to trust a new man for a while, so, consequently, for the first month or so that you're with them, they'll do almost everything themselves. Later, if you gain their trust, you'll be allowed to perform the regular duties. If you don't win their trust, you'll be fired and sent home - it's as simple as that. “After your “Trial Period,” we'll talk about check-outs and programs you want.”
“Your pay has already been discussed with you, and any questions you might have on that subject can be taken up with Don Paset, our payroll man. If you have any other questions or problems, take them up with Pat Nevens, your Senior Transport Pilot - or, if he can't handle them, bring ‘em on to me.”
“We'll give you at least three days to get your feet on the ground before you're placed on the schedule. Get in the habit of checking the schedule every day, though, for if you miss a scheduled flight, you're in deep shit! Remember, there are NO excuses from the schedule unless I've been notified and approved it in advance. Check with some of the older pilots here about where to get the best deals on your uniforms and other personal equipment. Do this during the next three days.”
“One more thing, before I turn you loose, Ralph - anything about our operation here is to be considered and treated as classified information. There are always a bunch of nosey “News Hounds” hanging around here, and if anything leaked out is traced back to you, you're GONE! Also, the people we work for are referred to only as “Customer” - there will be no mention made as to Agency or Organization to which they might belong. We use individual code names, when necessary, to identify customer persons. You'll hear these referred to as “Funny Names.”
“If there are no questions now, that will be all,” stated the Chief, “Maggie will take care of the rest of the crap - good luck.” Ralph, shaking his head in the negative, replied:
“No, I think that'll hold me, for now.” He stood up, retrieved the paper, and made his exit - feeling a sense of relief as he returned to Maggie's desk. She was waiting for him - with another stack of papers & cards to be signed.
After Ralph finished with these, she handed him back some identification and privilege cards, some laminated in plastic, and all affixed with the appropriate U.S. Government Embassy and company seals. She then gave him the maps and chart kits the Chief had mentioned, saying: “These are all up to date now, but you'll have to keep them posted yourself, from now on. New site books are issued every month by the Flight Information Center - called F.I.C. They're located just across the ramp and next to the “Air America” offices. You'll pick up all these procedures from the flight crews you'll be working with, so don't worry about it, for now. I'd advise you, though, to get with one of the “Older” pilots, during the next few days, and have him show you around.”
“I'm going to send you over to the “Contract Air” compound now,” continued Maggie, “but if there's anything I can help you with during the next few days, just drop by. A Thai named Sanga managed the compound - he has an office there, in the front section, and will fix you up with a room. He'll also advise you of the mess and club facilities.”
“A Company shuttle bus is operated between operations and the compound - 24 hours a day,” she advised him, “and runs every thirty minutes. You catch it right out front, here, the marked area.” With that, she stood behind her desk and, offering a dainty hand, said:
“Good luck.” Ralph took her small, stimulating hand, mumbled his thanks, and departed through the door into the operations room where he'd left his bags.
