That's the Way, Uh-huh Uh-huh, I Like It: Second-Hand Memories of the USS Midway’s Rescue of 3,000 Vietnamese Political Refugees

As children we take in all kinds of information, but because of our limited experience, we have no file system to store it in, no names or historical context to file it under.  Yet, the sounds, the smells, the images--they still are stored, just not in an orderly way.  Writers access some of those floating images through free-writing--allowing childhood memories to bubble up black and oily to mingle with the clearer waters of the adult mind until joined together something namable takes shape.  I don’t know what the rest of the population does.   Maybe the unnamable parts of childhood--that gray area you’re not sure was reality or a dream-- are simply forgotten.  Or maybe chance slowly sends a ray of sunlight through the key hole and ignites one hidden jewel at a time, happenstance after happenstance, until a story develops whether you write it down or not.

I had such an experience recently.  Three of my boys--Tyler, Rio and Everest--and I were on a scout trip in California and we spent one night aboard the decommissioned aircraft carrier USS Midway in San Diego.

Rio sits at the controls--not sure what to do.

Tyler writes important numbers--not sure what they all mean.

Everest takes the wheel--not sure where to go.

Right before leaving the next morning, the crew (many of who served on the Midway) shared stories during a presentation they called “Midway Magic.”

As they started into the final story, memories which I’d stored long ago were pried loose by the sharp blade of context.

However, before I tell the story--how they all came together--I want to share some images.

We’re watching a fuzzy black and white TV.  In my mind, we’re in my brother and sister’s bedroom in the apartment in Salt Lake City and the lights are out (the only way we could see the fading TV) I’m lying down on the trunk where I often slept.  But this can’t be right, for the story shared aboard the USS Midway happened in 1975, and we no longer lived in Salt Lake.

So, it had to be our next black and white TV--a new one, fuzzy not because of the set, but because our rural community, Fillmore, had incredibly poor television reception.

But the images are clear--a large ship deck.  Soldiers shove helicopters overboard.  They crash into the sea.  In my mind’s eye, skies are dark, water turbulent, soldiers frantic.  Terrifyingly chaotic music.  But I have no idea if this is accurate.  I only know--or think I know--that I saw soldiers push helicopter after helicopter off the flight deck.  Even though I would have been nine at the time, I guess I didn’t have enough political context to file the images well.  So, they seeped into the groundwater, black and sticky. 

Flight deck of USS Midway

In the next image I stare out the front door of the classroom that was in the double-wide that served as the 4^th grade at the old Fillmore Elementary.  It’s hot, the ceiling fan whirls, I look at Lan and she looks at me.  I’ve loved her since midway through the third grade when the mushroom farm built a trailer park and brought fifteen or twenty trailers and filled them with families from Vietnam, Laos and Cambodia.  I love her long black hair, her soft black eyes, her tomboy attitude, the way she always wears a bright colored silk disco shirt over a white tank-top and leaves it unbuttoned.  I love when she’s running on the playground and the wind catches her shirt and blows it slightly off her shoulder.  I love how she sings, “that's the way, uh-huh uh-huh, I like it, uh-huh, uh-huh” every chance she gets, even though it’s usually to my best friend, Richard.  I love her even though she gave me a black eye after I got in a fight with her little sister when I was in third grade.  I love her even though she spent the next day telling the entire school about it, holding her fist up in a tight knot and laughing, “I, number one; you number 10.”

Back in fourth grade, in that hot room, the fan twirling, I do something I think will amuse her (I don’t remember what) and her face breaks into a big smile that gives me the willies.  As an adult I’ve seen that smile on a couple of women and now know it is a smile of love--eyes that look deep down into your soul while the lips pull into a sly, mischievous, omniscient I’ve-got-something-on-you look.  But back then I had no context for it.  It was foreign, loaded.  I felt like I’d vomit.

Now, to the story--finally:   On April 29, 1975 the USS Midway, as part of the Seventh Fleet forces, carried out Operation Frequent Wind as South Vietnam fell.  The Midway flew “in excess of 40 sorties, shuttling 3,073 personnel and Vietnamese refugees out of Saigon in two days” (USS Midway History, http://www.midwaysailor.com/midway/history.html).

I remember hearing the awful whoop-whoop of the blades, seeing the frantic crowds at the embassy gates, watching tears stream down faces as loved ones let go of other loved ones.  Was it the same sorties headed for the Midway or different ones?  Am I mingling in images from The Killing Fields?   Did Lan’s family escape then or a year or so later?  It doesn’t matter.  She was there.  The same circumstance--a political refugee.  And I didn’t even know it.  We played kissing tag while she had images of gunfire, bombs and blood in her head.  How many loved ones did she leave behind?  How did this new, strange language feel on the end her tongue?  (“You number 10,” which I hated to hear or “You number one,” which sent my heart fluttering). And what did I say that hot day that could have opened her heart fully to me for the first time?  How was it different from my many other attempts to gain her attention? 

Flight Deck, Helicopter and San Diego

Now, to the next part of the story:  As the Midway was already at capacity with its crew and aircraft, the hanger deck had to be cleared of aircraft to establish a refugee camp coined “Hotel Midway.”  As a result, the only place to put the aircraft was on the flight deck, which was already overcrowded because of the excess helicopters from Saigon.   But the crew was determined.

Then, just when things were right for the first time, a small South Vietnamese Cessna Bird Dog, appeared in the sky.  At first the crew thought it might be attacking.  But instead of dropping bombs, it dropped three notes.  One landed on deck.  It was Major Bung Lee of the south Vietnamese Air Force.  The note asked permission to land.  Two major problems:  First,  the deck was full.  Next, aircraft carriers are too short for normal landings.  Carrier planes are specially equipped with a large hook that grabs great cables to slow them down--no hook, no cable, no landing. 

Cut to memory: helicopters are shoved into the ocean.  I now have the context.  Under the direction of their commander, crew push helicopter after helicopter into the ocean to save the life of one man.  I’m not proud of much of what our military does, but even I want to salute here. 

Boy Scout Tomas Hunt fills in nicely as the Captain.

Then Major Lee did the impossible--he landed safely.  Perhaps God was involved as General Lee also had his wife and five children crammed into the cockpit with him, his youngest child 14 months old and, his eldest six years (Refugees 'come home' to the Midway after 35 years, http://www.ocregister.com/news/midway-246797-lee-chambers.htm).

As I stood in the hanger, listening to the story, in my mind’s eye it filled up with refugees and I almost thought I saw Lan, one of the 100 refugees who enriched my childhood and hometown from 1976 to the mid 80s.  Wherever she is, I hope she has a husband man enough to handle her intense, love-packed smile.  I also hope the bombs, the blood, terror and tears have lost their weight and flutter in the breeze like her silk disco shirts.

Oh, that's the way, uh-huh uh-huh,
I like it, uh-huh, uh-huh

© Steve Brown, 2012

P.S.:  Good video of Operation Frequent Wind featuring music by ELO.  Click below.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mcQoQDkhbYw&feature=share