BAT-21 (27 page)

"Gwen Hambleton speaking."

"This is Sergeant Smith from the Casualty
Division of the Air Force Military Personnel Center. I'm sorry to be
calling you at this late hour. But I'm sure you'll understand. It's
about your husband, Colonel Hambleton. We've just received a message
from the Three Eighty-eighth Tactical Fighter Wing. Your husband has
been rescued and returned to military control"

Gwen felt the blood gushing to her head. The phone
slipped from her grasp. "Oh, dear God!"

"Mrs. Hambleton? Are you all right?"

She picked up the phone. "Yes... yes,
Sergeant, I'm all right. I'm quite all right."

"Look, Mrs. Hambleton, good news can
sometimes be just as much of a shock as bad. If you like I'll have
someone dispatched from the base hospital at Davis—"

"Thank you, no, Sergeant. I'm quite all right
now. It took a moment for it to sink in. But I've never been quite so
all right in my entire life. Are there any other details?"

"The initial report is pretty fragmentary,
but I can tell you this. Your husband has been returned to Da Nang
Air Base in South Vietnam. He was not seriously injured. But he's
suffering from exhaustion and dehydration."

"Then he's going to be OK."

"I'd say so, ma'am. If you wish, you can
address mail to him at the Ninety-eighth Medical Evacuation Hospital,
APO San Francisco, 96337. But you don't need to write that down
now unless you want to. A confirming telegram will be dispatched to
you within the hour."

"I'm too excited right now, Sergeant. The
telegram will be fine."

"Very good. You have our number here at the
casualty center. Please let us know if there is any way we may be of
assistance. Day or night."

"That's very kind."

"Our pleasure. And congratulations on the
safe return of your husband."

"Thank you, Sergeant. Thank you very,
very
much."

She cradled the phone, then let the dam break. She
gave full vent to her twelve-day lifetime of worries, fears,
anxieties, and a gnawing helplessness—letting them dissolve
unchecked into hand- fuls of Kleenex.

When she had cried herself out, she went and
washed her face, combed her hair, and put on the new dressing gown
she had bought for her trip to Bangkok. Then she made a circuit
through the house, turning on every light in the place. A puzzled
Pierre joined her, his drowsiness quickly transformed into joy as he
became infected with her high spirits. She turned on the stereo, then
dropped down onto the sofa.

Pierre jumped beside her, his tail wagging in
overdrive.

"Poppa's coming home, Pierre," she said,
hugging the dog. "Poppa's coming home."

On the flight line of the Korat Royal Thai Air
Force Base, Captain Clark was saying good-bye to his roommate,
Campbell, before boarding the plane for Vietnam. From there he was to
catch his flight to the States.

"Thanks for everything, Jake. It's been a fun
war."

"Hasn't it?" Campbell shook the pilot's
hand. "But you're making a big mistake not sticking around for
your farewell party. This is the eighth I've thrown for you. Sure you
wouldn't like to make at least one?"

"Some other time."

"You should see the new Red Cross gal that
just checked in. Absolutely gorgeous! She's got—"

"I know. I saw her. Legs like a Green Bay
Packer."

"Oh, you saw her. Well, over here you can't
be too picky."

"That's why I'm leaving."

"Okay, coward," Campbell looked into the
face of his friend. "Rumor has it you're going to get some kind
of a medal."

"A medal? Oh, joy. What the hell for?"

"Walker likes the way you land shot-up
airplanes. The guy's crazy."

"I don't know about that. You notice I had
the foresight to land in friendly territory."

"Yeah, but in a river?"

"Listen. Any landing you can walk away from
is..."

"I know." There was an awkward silence,
then, "Well. Here comes your plane. Hate long good-byes. Just
promise me one thing, will you, roomie?"

"Name it."

"Promise you won't write. I hate to answer
letters."

"It's a promise."

"So long, stud." The little finance
officer turned on his heel. "It's sure as hell been..."

"It sure as hell has, Jake. Hang loose."

Clark picked up his flight bag and headed for the
old C-47 that was to take him to Saigon. He threw his bag on board,
and was just about to follow it when he felt a tap on his shoulder.
He turned. It was Frank Ott.

"Glad I caught you, Clark. Wanted to say
good-bye."

"I'm glad you did, Colonel."

"Sorry I missed you before. I was on the horn
trying to get through to Hambleton."

"No kidding. Any luck?"

Ott nodded. "I finally got through. He's at
the hospital in Da Nang, and all in one piece."

"How's he doing?"

"Complaining about some big cow of a nurse
that keeps trying to give him an enema. Claims that's the last thing
in the world he needs."

Clark grinned. "There's no understanding
medics. They're worse than fighter pilots."

"So you're bugging out. Leaving us with our
little war."

"Afraid so. I just stuck around for the golf
game."

"It was some game."

"Helluva game. Hope your war comes out the
same way."

"This war!" Ott snorted. "Reminds
me of a little gem Piccard dug up: This damn war is a conflict which
does not determine who is right—but who is left. Sure as hell nails
this one."

"Good point. Next war we'll let the
politicians fight it."

"Amen." Ott held out his hand. "Well,
it looks like the jocks are about ready to crank up this bucket of
bolts. Good-bye, Clark. And good luck."

"Good-bye, Colonel. Same to you. Thanks for
coming."

As Clark turned to start up the steps, Ott stopped
him again. "Oh, one thing. When I talked to Hambleton, just
before he hung up he asked if I knew your name."

"Did you tell him?"

"I did. It would be rather amusing if you two
met up some day."

"That it would. Who knows?"

"So long, Clark."

"Good-bye, Colonel."

As the crew chief bolted the door, Clark swung a
bucket seat down from the side of the aircraft and strapped himself
in. The airplane gave a lurch and started to taxi as he hunched
forward to look out of the window.

His mind a million light-years away, he watched
the blue taxi lights float by in the still Thai night.

Hambleton glared at the big nurse bending over
him. "No way, nurse. No way."

"Now, Colonel, let's not be obstinate. You're
not the first, and you'll not be the last patient to use a bedpan."

"I hate to pull rank, Major, but..."

"There is no rank in this ward, Colonel. Now
let's not get waspish."

"Let's get waspish. I didn't escape from the
gomers to come here and..."

"Colonel Hambleton?"

Hambleton turned to look at the source of the
welcome interruption. A young medical corpsman was standing in the
doorway. He was holding a phone with an extension line that
disappeared into the hall. "Yes?" said Hambleton.

"Sir, this is a bit unusual, but you have a
long-distance phone call. Can you take it?"

Hambleton looked defiantly at the nurse. "Of
course."

"It's the Pentagon," said the corpsman.
He held the phone as if it were about to bite him.

"I'll take it."

"The doctor thought it was a gag at first,"
said the corpsman, bringing the phone over to Hambleton's bed. "But
it's not." He handed the receiver to Hambleton. "It's an
Admiral Moorer."

Hambleton took the receiver. Christ! The Chairman
of the Joint Chiefs of Staff!

He started to speak, but nothing came. He
swallowed and tried again. "This is Colonel Hambleton."

The voice on the other end was low. "Admiral
Moorer, Colonel. How are you?"

"Fine, sir. Thank you."

"Welcome back. Understand you've been getting
in a little golf."

"Been keeping my hand in. Yes, sir."

"Are they taking good care of you there at
the hospital?"

Hambleton shot a meaningful look at the nurse. "No
problems, sir."

"If you need anything, just let me know. I
just wanted to call personally and welcome you back. On behalf of
General Ryan and the other services, we're mighty glad you're with us
again. Congratulations, it was one hell of a job."

"Thank you, sir. But the credit doesn't go to
me. There were a lot of people who were in on it."

"I know. It was a fine team effort. It's good
to know that we can all pull together once in a while and get
something constructive out of the effort."

"Thank you, sir, for calling. I appreciate it
very much. Believe me."

"My pleasure. Oh, just one more thing. I
think you might enjoy knowing that the officers here in the Pentagon
have really turned into a bunch of sporting types."

"Oh?"

"They're all working on their golf game."

Hambleton chuckled.

"Best wishes, Hambleton, for a speedy
recovery. We're looking forward to seeing you in Washington.
Good-bye."

"Good-bye, sir."

When the corpsman disappeared with the phone,
Hambleton lay back on his pillow and studied the ceiling. The phone
call had sort of made it all official. He was alive. He had made it,
and he was going to see Gwen and Pierre and his old friends. He was
going to play golf and drink Manhattans and he was going to have to
buy drinks for a hell of a lot of people. In the last two weeks he
had learned a lot about other people.

But above all, he had learned about himself. More
than he had ever dreamed of knowing. Maybe more than he wanted to
know; maybe more than any man should ever know about himself. He had
looked long and hard into that full-length mirror of adverse
circumstance. It had reflected his strengths—and his weaknesses—
revelations made to few men. He had not liked some of the things he
had seen. But, all things considered, he could live with those
reflections.

He sighed. It had been an experience. It had been
one hell of an experience.

His musings were suddenly interrupted by the sound
of a voice coming from the hall. There was something oddly familiar
about it, and then as it got closer he propped himself up on his
elbows, thunderstruck.

"Birddog calling Bat Twenty-one," came
the words from the hallway. "Do you read Birddog?"

"For God's sake!" stammered Hambleton.
"Bat Twenty-one here. Come in, Birddog."

And then Captain Clark was framed in the doorway,
dressed in his suntans and carrying an incongruous vase of flowers.
He stood for a moment, awkwardly, staring at the man in the bed.

Hambleton returned an astonished, wide-eyed stare,
then blurted, "Well, I'm a son of...you're black!"

Clark approached the foot of the bed. He looked
down at his hands, smiled, and said, "Well, whaddaya know. So I
am."

Hambleton shook his head, trying to marshal his
thoughts. "I've spent hours picturing you in my mind. And it
never once dawned on me that you might be black."

"You got something against night fighters?"
asked Clark, grinning.

Hambleton laughed. "From now on I'm painting
all my guardian angels black. "Lord, let me shake your hand."
Hambleton took the proffered hand in his own and squeezed it with all
the strength he could muster. "I heard you landed in the river."

"When your airplane's on fire, can you think
of a better way to put it out?"

Hambleton shook his head, grinning. "You are
something else, Birddog."

"Might say the same about you, Bat."

They locked eyes, saying nothing, silence speaking
volumes. Presently the nurse materialized from the background. "I
hate to break up this tender scene," she said, "but
Captain, you'll have to

Go.“

Clark turned to the nurse. "All right,
Major." He went to the nightstand, put down the vase of flowers.
As he did, he leaned down to whisper into Hambleton's ear. "If
you let the nurse change the water in this vase, a quart of
Manhattans goes down the drain."

Hambleton looked at the smiling pilot. Then he
said softly, "You're one hell of a guardian angel, Birddog."

"See ya around, Bat Twenty-one."

"Roger, Birddog. See ya around."

Clark popped a half-assed salute and went out the
door.

Hambleton stared at the empty doorway, listening
to the staccato of Clark's retreating boots, his face a study of
emotion. He stayed transfixed until the footsteps faded to a
lingering echo.

A sound caused him to turn his head. The nurse was
advancing on him, carrying something wrapped in a towel. As she
handed him the bedpan, and as he reached out for it, he detected the
flash of victory shining in her face. But then it faded as smiling,
he placed the bedpan on the nightstand. He struggled to a sitting
position and swung his feet to the floor.

Before she even had a chance to protest, he took
her hand, clinching the victory.

"Come, my dear," he said, picking up his
vase of flowers. "You may escort me to the bathroom."

Readers may have noted that the subtitle of this
book reads "Based on the true story of Lieutenant Colonel Iceal
E. Hambleton, USAF." Why "based on"? Is it Hambleton's
story or isn't it? The answer is yes, in spirit and in most essential
details it is the story of Hambleton's experience, just as it
happened; but it is also true that some changes have been made. The
purpose of this Afterword is to set the record straight—to explain
what the changes are, why I made them, and, along the way, to give
credit to some brave men whose names do not appear in the text.

When I first sat down to write the story of the
twelve-day ordeal of my friend Gene Hambleton, I had every intention
of adhering scrupulously to the facts. If I had any reservation at
all about this it was only that the facts themselves sounded so much
like fiction that the reader might not believe them. But as the
writing progressed I began to encounter more pressing difficulties.
The first and most serious of these was that certain parts of the
story which seemed important to me were still
classified—particularly certain aspects of Air Force escape
and evasion techniques. Further, I was requested to protect the
identity of certain individuals. Since I felt I could neither
gloss over nor ignore these elements in the narrative, I would
necessarily have to replace them with some fictions approximate to
the truth. Thus, almost from the beginning, my original intention of
sticking strictly to the facts had to go by the boards.