The day broke on Wednesday, 30 April, 1975, just like it had every other day for a 10 year old boy living in the Kalayaan Housing Area aboard Subic Bay Naval Station, Republic of the Philippines. Warm and green; comfortable in that we had been there for almost two years, and I had establish my schedule: Go to school, explore the triple canopy jungle in my back yard, spend Saturdays attending MWR events, going snorkeling off of the back of Grande Island on Sundays after Mass, coming home to eat Chef Boyardee Homemade pizza in the living room while watching Star Trek on the Armed Forces Radio and Television Service (AFRTS) and then starting the week all over again.
As a kid, I really didn’t pay attention to world events. I knew that we were at war, but at Subic, the microcosm of life was centered around the Station, and we weren’t really effected by the war. We knew that it was happening, but there was a job to do at Subic. Every military professional, however, kept an eye on what was going on over there. The only times it really impacted dependents was when you were playing at a friend’s house, and the black Navy sedan with the Naval Officers in their dress whites pulled up. I was asked to go home, and a few days later, my friend was gone, because his father had been shot down, killed, or captured somewhere in Southeast Asia. These incidents didn’t happen on a regular basis, but they happened, and I remember them.
The military has a plan for everything, including what was considered highly unlikely, so when Saigon fell, Subic put its plan into action. The Seebees were mobilized to Grande Island, the Red Cross (which included my mom) were given instruction, and the Naval Community prepared to receive the people and materials that were making their ways via the Naval Task forces, aircraft, and civilian ships across the sea to us.
Mom volunteered to help in Operation Babylift, where Vietnamese infants had been sent by their parents away from South Vietnam. These children arrived at Subic, some wearing necklaces of Bot, gold with which to pay their way), and Mom helping to find sponsors and, later, reunite families at Grande Island.
Dad was busy arranging for the reception for the ships of the former South Vietnamese Navy, racking and stacking them wherever space could be found, and clearing them of vermin and ordnance, and later arranging for their overhaul and disposition.
Mom worked eighteen hours days, and Dad worked twenty hour days, leaving me with the dog, and our wonderful maid, Lina, who stepped up to the plate, and, in her own small way, contributed to the overall response to the evacuee situation. This lasted about a month, until the last day.
Mom remembers:
One of the first refugees to arrive was a Vietnamese doctor. He had lost contact with his wife in the confusion, but pitched in to assist the Americans by providing translation services, and cultural training (teaching the American volunteers about Vietnamese protocol and taboos.) He stayed until the the last helicopter ferried the last of the refugees from the ships of the Naval Task Force. When the helicopter landed, the last person off of it was his wife, and they were reunited. That was closure for me as far as the Fall of Saigon was concerned, but I still have strong feelings about why events turned out the way that they did…
Thirty years later, I have learned much. I learned how the country treated her returning veterans, and how the American public was manipulated by the mainstream media, who have since lost my trust completely. I learned that any blame of the “loss” of the Vietnam War was on the shoulders of the politicians, and not the Forces on the ground.
I remember those days, and I want to express to those who served my feelings:
It took decades for the American public to learn how badly it has treated our Vietnam Veterans, and caused untold damage to those Veteran’s lives by its refusal to step up and help heal those who returned. There are, however, many who never stopped believing that the Vietnam Vets are heroes in no less stature than any who served before them, and it has been my honor to be counted among their supporters.
If you are a veteran of the Southeast Asia Theater of Operations (1955-1975): Welcome Home! And thank you for standing the line on my behalf.
