Hamfist Over the Trail (4 page)

The classroom part was pretty much what I had expected, and it was actually very interesting. We got a lot of really good information about E&E.

Then it was time to apply it. We were told to go to the BX, buy a package of Kotex pads, and tape them to our elbows and knees. We were ordered to show up at the E&E course at midnight.

The E&E course was simulated enemy territory that we'd have to negotiate in the dark. A special group of instructors would simulate being enemy soldiers trying to hunt us down. At the beginning of the exercise we were each given cardboard tags that we had to carry in our pockets. If we got caught by the enemy, they would punch a hole in the card and let us continue on our way. If we got three holes punched in our cards, we were immediately taken to the POW camp. The hole punch was exactly the same size as an AK-47 round.

A siren sounded, a timer was started, and we were on our way. The finish line was about a mile away, and the course was booby-trapped with trip-wire activated flares. The Kotex pads were to protect our elbows and knees, since we had to crawl the entire course. I managed to avoid setting off any trip-wires, but I got caught once by the enemy trackers. Finally, exhausted, I made it to the finish line.

It had taken me 47 minutes. I was later informed that the school record was 14 minutes, and it had been accomplished by a squad of Marine Force-Recon troops the previous week. That seemed like a pretty good time to crawl a mile in the dark. Then it was pointed out that, in the process, the Marines had disarmed every trip-wire on the course!

After we finished the course, we were immediately imprisoned as POWs. The first thing they did to me was put me in a box. A really small box. To get into the box, I had to squat down with my knees under my chin, and then they pushed me in, hard, and shut the door.

I tried to count seconds to see if I could figure out how long they left me in the box, but I was having trouble breathing and getting a little light-headed, and lost count. I think it was about an hour, but it could have been a lot more. Or a lot less.

Just when I thought I couldn't take the pain in my knees any more, they let me out and put me in a much larger windowless box, probably about the size of porta-potty. Speaking of potty, there was a coffee can in the corner.

After several hours in the box, we were all let out into a “Hogan's Heroes” type POW camp. We were all freezing our asses off, but the physical abuse ended. Time seemed to stand still as we waited for the POW exercise to end. The whole exercise lasted three days.

Finally, it was over. We were sent back to the VOQ and told to report the next day for the trek. But, right before we left, the lead instructor called out the names of all the O-2 pilots in the class, and assembled us in a group.

The lead instructor said, “You have all been identified as candidates for a special class. I can't tell you anything about it now, other than to tell you that attending the class will get you out of the trek. Any volunteers?”

Does a bear shit in the woods? Everybody's hand went up. I didn't care what kind of class it was, as long as it got me out of the trek!

The next day we showed up for the class, and it was a very intensive, super-secret course on things we should do when (not if) we became POWs. Apparently, we O-2 drivers were more likely than anyone else in our survival class to become POWs.

We managed to get out of the trek, but found out we probably wouldn't make it home from Vietnam. Talk about mixed emotions!

13

December 25, 1968

I left Fairchild Air Force Base, drove through the night, and arrived at Travis Air Force Base at about six in the morning. I went right to the Passenger Terminal and checked my bag for the flight to Saigon. I held onto a small bag with civvies – civilian clothes – since my flight wasn't scheduled to leave until about eight o'clock that night, and I didn't want to wear my uniform off base.

In fact, I wasn't allowed to wear it off base to most locations in the Bay area. It was okay to wear the uniform in the local Vacaville area near the base, but everywhere else in the nearby area military personnel were pretty much
persona non grata
.

Especially San Francisco. I had checked with the base Traffic Management Office to see where I could find a reliable garage to store my Datsun for a year while I was in Vietnam. TMO had recommended Morris's Motor Storage, in downtown San Francisco, near the Greyhound bus terminal. I had arranged for a noon drop-off, then I could catch the two o'clock bus back to Travis. That would leave me time for a leisurely dinner at the Officers Club and an easy stroll back to the Passenger Terminal.

I changed into civvies and sneakers and took a long, pleasant drive down Interstate 880 South to San Jose, then up Highway 101 North to San Francisco. Even though I was freezing my buns off, I left the top down. I had no idea how long it would be before I would drive a fun little convertible on a big, clean highway again. I wanted to take it all in one last time.

I decided to see what the big deal was with Haight Ashbury. I had heard about the hippies, and the “make love, not war” movement, and wanted to see what it was all about. I stopped at a gas station on Route 101 and asked for directions to Haight Ashbury and to Morris's Garage.

The gas station attendant glanced at the Laughlin Air Force Base sticker on my front bumper, looked me up and down, and said, “You sure you want to go there? I don't think you'll fit in.”

“Yeah,” I replied, I just want to see what's going on there.”

He gave me directions, and said, “I don't recommend you hang around there too long.”

I thanked him and was on my way. I followed his directions and had no problem finding my way.

I parked along the street next to Golden Gate Park, put the top up on my Datsun, and locked the car. Then I walked to Haight Ashbury.

The gas station attendant had been right – I sure didn't fit in there. Long-haired hippies everywhere, pretty much everyone had a tattoo or some kind of piercing, and everyone was wearing garish, flowery clothing. On virtually every corner there was an anti-war poster that read, “Girls Say Yes To Boys Who Say No”.

I wandered around for a little while, endured stares pretty much everywhere I went, and finally headed back to my car. I don’t think I would have felt much different if I had seen an invasion of Martians. Somehow, though, I felt really good about living in a country that allowed that kind of free expression and diversity. I knew you sure couldn't do that in the Soviet Union.

When I got back to my car, I discovered that someone had decided to make an addition to my car. Right on top of the Laughlin Air Force Base sticker, someone had stuck a decal bearing the Peace logo that read “Make Love Not War”.

I tried to peel it off, but it was stuck on pretty firmly. “Footprint of the American chicken” I muttered to no one in particular, and headed for Morris's Garage.

I arrived at Morris's Motor Storage right at noon, and they were expecting me. As soon as I arrived, I knew I was at the right place. They loved cars, and it showed. The floor of the garage was painted grey and shiny, just like an Air Force hangar. They had a complete, organized protocol for storing cars for extended periods. They were going to disconnect the battery, drain the fluids, and put the car up on blocks. When I was ready to pick it up, all I would need to do would be give them at least two hours' advance notice, and they would have the car ready to go, including temporary license tags, since my current registration was due to expire while I was away.

On a grim note, they wanted the name and address of a relative who would be responsible for claiming the car if anything were to happen to me. “It's just a formality. You know, just in case.”

I understood completely. I gave them Emily's contact information.

“You think you can get that Peace decal off for me?” I asked, pointing to the front bumper.

“Sure, no problem. We have a special goo remover,” Mr. Morris replied. “Guess you parked where you shouldn't have.”

“I guess I did. The base TMO said you're pretty close to the Greyhound bus terminal. Can you point me in the right direction?

Mr. Morris answered, “Well, sir, you can go down this long block to the corner, turn right and go two more blocks and turn right again. It'll take about 15 minutes.” Then he gestured to an alley behind me and commented, “Or you can take a shortcut through this alley and it'll take you right alongside the terminal. Five minutes tops.”

I went for the alley.

I hadn't walked very far when I started to have serious second thoughts about walking so far in a dark, unfamiliar alley. There were small alcoves all along the sides, where who-knows-what could be going on.

It was in one of those alcoves that I saw the holdup.

14

December 25, 1968

By the time I came up abeam the alcove, my eyes had already adjusted to the dim light. And because I was wearing sneakers, I wasn't making any noise at all while I was walking. Not even car keys jingling in my pocket.

There was some low-life scumbag pointing a gun at a middle-age man in a business suit who was carrying an expensive-looking attaché case. And the funny thing is, the low-life thug had his back to the alley as he faced the businessman,.

Four years of Unarmed Combat training kicked in without me even thinking about it. Instinctively, I gave a hard kick to his left leg, directly behind his knee, as I reached around and pushed his gun hand toward the sky. I expected a loud BANG any second, but all I hear was CLICK as the guy collapsed like a house of cards.

I grabbed his gun with one hand and his wrist with the other. I gave two sharp twists in opposite directions, and felt his finger and his wrist both snap. He screamed in pain, dropping the weapon like a hot potato. I let go of him and reached down to pick up the gun, and next thing I knew, he was running away like a scalded cat.

The man in the business suit was about my size, five-nine, and looked pretty fit. I suspect if I hadn't come along, he probably could have handled the situation himself. He looked to be in his late forties.

He came up to me and gave me a hug like a long-lost relative.

“Man, you really saved my life! Where did you learn moves like that?”

“The Air Force. Actually, the Air Force Academy.” I flipped open the cylinder of the cheap revolver and saw there were no cartridges. “But I don't think I saved your life. That scum-bag didn't even have a loaded weapon.”

“If you knew what's in this case, you might think differently. Look, my name's Tom Marcos,” he held out his hand, “And I'd really like to do something to make this up to you. And besides, I really like Air Force guys. How about I buy you lunch?”

“I'm Hamilton Hancock. You can call me Ham,” I replied, shaking his hand. “I'd love to take you up on your offer, but I need to catch the two o'clock bus back to Travis. I’m catching a flight to Vietnam tonight.”

“Vietnam. Jeez. How about this,” Tom countered, “I'll take you to lunch, and then I'll take you to Travis. My car and driver are just around the corner. First, let's get rid of this,” he said, motioning to the revolver. “Do you want it?”

I shook my head, “No thanks.”

“Okay, I don't want to just leave it here on the street.” Tom picked up the revolver, walked over to a storm drain and dropped the gun through the grate. It hit the bottom with a metallic clang. “Now we don't have to worry about it getting into the wrong hands again. So, how about lunch?”

What the heck, this could be fun. And I could use a little fun. I'd already had a little action.

When Tom said he had a car and driver, he was being a master of understatement. It was a limo, uniformed driver and all.

After we got in and closed the doors, it was apparent that no one outside the limo could see inside through the tinted windows.

Tom opened the attaché case with an air of reverence. “This is why I said you saved my life. My life savings, and the savings of everyone in my company, are right here. I was coming out of the back door of the best diamond cutter in all of San Francisco, probably in the entire country. I always use the back door, because I don't want anyone to see me leaving. I don't think that thug knew what was in this case, or his gun would've been loaded. I guess I was just a target of opportunity.”

Tom turned the attaché case for me to see inside. It was filled with small, white, paper sleeves, about two inches square. There must have been a hundred or more. He gently squeezed the sides of one of the sleeves, and several, perhaps up to a dozen, diamonds poured out into his hand. Each one was bigger than the diamond I was planning to someday give to Emily. Easily two carats each, maybe three.

“Are you a diamond broker?” I asked.

“Sort of. I'm in the import-export business, and the Japanese are on a buying spree like you wouldn't believe. And diamonds are their thing right now.” He reached into a pocket on the inside of his jacket, pulled out a small silver case and retrieved a card. “Here's my
meishi
.”

“Your what?” I asked.

“My
meishi
. My business card. My address is on it. I really want you to write to me with your address when you get to Vietnam”