Hell Freezes Over
Conclusion
February 1963-February 1964
Trees, Critters, and Bloody Chickens
By the time December rolled around, the scare we’d experienced after President Kennedy’s death had been pretty much been scaled down to a simple wariness—and only when we were on duty in the Radar Tracking room. Life had almost returned back to normal on our tiny radar station.
Lyndon Johnson had been sworn in as president, Lee Harvey Oswald had been fingered as the probable assassin, and subsequently shot and killed by Jack Ruby; because our alert status had been cut back to its normal level of DEFCON 4, the chow hall had again been opened and our stock of MREs returned to whatever dark hole they been dug up from.
With my Laundry Detail flourishing I decided to sell my Rec Room Detail, and with the money I made on that I ordered a nice Hi-Fi turntable from an audio mail order catalog. Within a few weeks I had received the turntable and about half a dozen LPs that I’d ordered at the same time. Now, instead of wasting my time and money at the club, I spent what off-time I had in my room listening to my growing collection of music and standup comedy, and writing letters home.
With my Aunt Janie’s assistance, Sharon had found and moved into a rental house in a fairly decent neighborhood on Houston’s west side. Her letters sounded so much happier—filling me in on what the babies were doing and daydreaming about where my next assignment would take us. With the money I was sending her she was able to pay the rent and utilities on the house, and still deal with the growing expense of raising two children alone.
Sharon said that about once a week my parents, usually accompanied by my brother Ricky, would visit her and the boys, bringing groceries and cooked food and telling them how much they were missed. That was typical of my folks, giving you hell while you’re living with them, then professing their undying love once you’ve left.
Even my mother’s letters calmed down and mostly talked about their church activities and the visits to Sharon and the boys. I was surprised to begin receiving the occasional letter from my dad, who practically never wrote to anyone.
His missives were for the most part neutral in tone, and spoke generally about his church work and his travels with the various reverends he was trying to impress at the time. Surprisingly, he regularly inquired as to my future plans: was I planning to make the service a career, and what I intended to do if I left the Air Force after my four years were done. Since I had no idea, I did my best to avoid discussing the subject when I wrote back.
Before I knew it the Christmas holidays were in sight, and I scurried around borrowing mail order catalogs from work-mates to shop for presents for Sharon and the boys. This particular activity was completely foreign to me, as I’d gone from being single to being married with two children, in a mere eighteen months. I had no idea what to get for two infant children, and without having Sharon around to drop hints on what she’d like I was almost completely lost.
Luckily, there were several older airmen with whom I worked who had wives and children at home. After a while I was inundated with suggestions so that all I had to do was cull down the ideas according to price and shipping expense.
Even though I was sending most of my Laundry Detail money home, I had managed to save quite a bit of money now that I wasn’t drinking and spending time at the club. After my Christmas gift expenses and my subscription to a vinyl record club (which sent me a couple of LPs a month), I estimated that I’d have over five hundred dollars socked away by the time I rotated out of Tatalina. Surely, I thought, that would be more than enough to get us settled wherever the Air Force decided to assign us.
After finishing my final set of shifts for the week, I was having dinner at the chow hall with Frenchy when we overheard a couple of the guys talking about going out the next morning to find and cut down a small Christmas tree. The weather had cleared and the forecast for the next few days was just clear and cold—at least for the two to three hours of daylight between ten in the morning and two in the afternoon.
We scooted our chairs up to their table.
“So hey, we overheard you guys talking about going out tomorrow to find a tree to chop down?”
They scooched their chairs around to let us edge up to the table. “Yeah,” one of our radar techs nicknamed “Sparky”, recently arrived from Iowa said, “We’re headed out at daybreak. Why? Wanna come along?”
“Sure!” I said, emphatically. “How far you planning on going?” I asked a little cautiously, remembering the two guys that had gotten drunk and left the radar site soon after I’d arrived and had never been found again.
“Well, we’re thinking an hour out and an hour back. There’s no wind and there’s a good foot or so of snow on the ground, so we should be able to track ourselves pretty well. Besides, we’ll have our compasses to help. It’ll be more of a sightseeing expedition than a tree chopping run. I’d like to get out and breathe some fresh air, and we’ll find a tree on the way back.”
The other three guys at the table all agreed by shaking their heads and mumbling affirmative statements.
“What if we get lost?” Frenchy asked, in his typically whiney Cajun drawl.
Everyone chuckled at the question, except for me and Frenchy.
“We don’t plan on getting lost Frenchy, it’s a two-hour hike, not a fucking Antarctic expedition.”
“What about bears? Aren’t there still bears out there?” Frenchy asked.
“No problem with the bears. We’re checking out carbines from the armory, so we’ll be armed. I’d love to bag a fucking bear though. That would be so cool, huh?”
Everyone else agreed and broke into animated conversation about hunting bears, while Frenchy and I quietly reconsidered our request.
“So,” Sparky continued, “you guys game?”
“Sure,” I said without hesitation. “What’dya think, Frenchy?”
“Well, I guess so…as long as we’re all sure we won’t get lost.”
“Come on, man!” Sparky chided. “If you never got lost in those damned swamps in Louisiana, you’re not gonna get lost up here.”
“Yeah,” Frenchy said, “but there were no bears down there.”
“Naw!” Sparky said, slapping Frenchy hard on the back. “Just ‘gators, right?”
***
The next day, after I realized that I would have to dress out in those pesky mukluks, fat-boy pants, and dig out my vision-impairing parka, I thought that maybe I would just opt out of the Christmas tree trip. Just as I was about to convince myself that this was a bad idea, a cheery knock on my door shocked me out of my deep thought.
“Hey, mon ami,” Frenchy said, all bubbly. “Let’s go bag us a tree…and maybe a bear too!”
“You’re shitting me, right?” I said dourly, as I let him into my room.
“Never, you’re my favorite turd!” He answered, as he let out a high pitched cackle.
“Funny.”
“Come on, man. We need to get to the armory to get our weapons, then to the motor pool to meet up with the other guys. You have breakfast?”
“Naw, I’m not hungry. I figure I’ll just wait and have something after we get back.”
“Yeah, maybe some bear steak!”
“You’re insane! I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to see a bear…or a wolf…or a badger…or any other type of critter.”
“Ha ha,” he giggled, “seeing a badger would be cool.”
After getting geared up at the armory and dressed up at the motor pool, the six of us headed out. I found that moving around wasn’t too bad in my fat-boy pants as long as there wasn’t a gale-force wind blowing me around. And, without the goofy giant mittens, I was able to handle my weapon just fine.
The day was gorgeous! Blue sky, with not a cloud in sight, and a very light wind. The temperature was steady around five to seven degrees, and the snow on the ground had just a light crust of clear ice on the surface. The ground below was frozen solid so our footing was firm and sure. All the different families of evergreen trees in the forest gave off a wonderfully fresh aroma, and without having to zip the hood on my parka over my face gave my nose the opportunity to take full advantage of the aromatic Alaskan foliage.
The plan was to hike north for about an hour just to see the sights. After about twenty or thirty minutes of semi-dense foliage, we broke into a nice clearing. Scattered lines of tracks made by small game running in and out of the tree line told us that there were indeed a lot of critters around. I was more concerned with finding those large baseball catcher mitt-sized paw prints mashed down through the snow that spelled ‘bear’, and was relieved when I saw none.
The most adventurous of our group were itching to see something move and give them the opportunity to fire their carbines, but I was satisfied at just being out of the endless dark hallways and breathing in the sharp coldness of the incredibly fresh air.
As we approached a small stand of trees, Sparky, who had taken over as point man, raised his right fist into the air, motioning for the group to stop. He pointed to a small tree about twenty or thirty yards in front and to the right of us. Sitting on one of the tree’s leafless limbs was what appeared to me to be a round puffy mound of something—about the size of a basketball. In spite of how much I squinted in the brightness of the day I could not make out what the object was.
“What is it!?” Frenchy squealed behind me.
“Shhh!!” Sparky said, annoyed at Frenchy’s outburst. “You’ll fucking spook it, you dumb Cajun.”
“Spook what?” Frenchy asked, now whispering. “What is it?”
The group moved around slowly, and gathered around Sparky—all eyes still glued to the mysterious fluffy lump on the limb.
In a soft whisper, Sparky said, “OK, that there, gents, is a prairie hen. She’s probably napping since she hasn’t moved, and we’re downwind of her so she can’t scent us. She’s all puffed up like that to keep herself warm. But for the life of me I don’t know what she’s doing up there, she should be on the ground or under a limb.”
“Is that like a chicken?” I asked innocently. Everyone in the group turned slowly and stared at me with disbelieving looks. All, except for Frenchy that is, who was nodding fiercely in agreement to my question.
“Shut up, DeLeón!” Sparky said. “Now here’s what we’re gonna do. None of us has a shotgun, so we’ll have to use our carbines to knock her off that limb. But only one of us gets to take the shot.
“How we gonna do that?” One of the other guys in our group asked.
Sparky thought for a moment, scrunched down to one knee with the rest of us following, then said, “OK, I’ll think of a number between one and ten, then each of you will give me your best guess as to what that number is. And, whoever’s closest gets to take the shot. I’ll exempt myself, of course. I don’t want to participate anyway. Way too easy.”
“Seriously?” Another guy in our group asked. “How do we know you just won’t pick your favorite buddy when he says the number?”
“Because, first of all, I don’t have a favorite buddy in this group. And second, you’ll just have to trust me, dipshit. That’s all.” Sparky was visibly annoyed.
A few seconds went by, then he said, “OK, Frenchy you start.”
We all gave our guesses, one at a time. Meanwhile, the prairie hen waited patiently, snoozing on her limb.
“Shit!” Sparky said, after we’d gone around and given him our numbers.
“What?” Frenchy asked.
“Fucking DeLeón. He won.”
I had guessed ‘two’, and the winning number was ‘one’.
“Me!?” I said, excitedly.
“Quiet, idiot!” Sparky hissed. “Right, but try not to shoot any of us, OK?”
“So,” I asked as I got up slowly, careful to keep the muzzle of my carbine pointed to the ground, “what do I do now?”
Sparky’s look of exasperation was priceless. I swear he didn’t take a breath for the full minute, or so, when he just stared at me.
“Seriously?” He finally managed to say through his gritted teeth.
“Uh, yes.”
“Shoot-the-fucking-chicken-stupid.”
“Oh…”
En masse, the group stepped a few feet back and gave me wide berth. Before we’d left the radar station, Sparky made sure that we had all locked and loaded a full clip of ammo into our carbines and that each rifle’s safety was on. He’d explained that if we saw a bear, and said bear decided to charge us, that that would not be the time for us dig out our ammo clips and try to jam them into our weapon.
“Bears move fast,” he’d said sagely, “and faster if it happens to be a momma bear with cubs in the area. She’ll be on us before we have a chance to reach into our pockets.”
I removed the leather glove off my right hand and took up a standing shooting position—bringing the weapon up to my shoulder. I looked up to find the target and was surprised to note that all of a sudden it looked a whole lot further than it had just a few minutes ago—the ball of feathers a mere dot on a barely discernible tree limb.
I raised the wooden rifle stock to my cheek and sighted in on my target. Closing my non-shooting eye, I put the fluffy looking basketball-like object on the front sight and centered the back sight. Remembering my weapons training during basic, I raised the sights just a fraction above the target to allow for the natural downward descent of the projectile. Floating ice crystals twinkled when the sun caught their tiny chiseled edges as they rode the gentle breeze that was whispering from right to left. I adjusted my aim just a hair to the right to counteract the slight force the wind would have on the trajectory of my round.
The expected miniscule horizontal figure-eight sway of the barrel began, and I remembered to exert a gentle but steady pull on the trigger—letting the explosion of the shot surprise me.
“BOOM!” It surprised me.
The recoil pushed me back slightly, but my right leg, bent slightly at the knee, helped me absorb the energy expended by the explosion of the propellant ignited inside the brass cartridge, and I kept my balance. I lowered my weapon, the sound of the blast still ringing in my ears.
A chorus of “whoa!” echoed behind me.
I blinked my eyes rapidly, expecting to see the prairie hen flapping her wings rapidly and flying off into the blue-white horizon. But, there was nothing on the limb; nothing but a small flurry of feathers floating and spinning downward to the white snow on the ground.
“Shit, Frank! You blasted the shit outta that chicken!” Someone said excitedly behind me.
“Holy crap! That fucker just disappeared!” Another voice chimed in.
Hands began slapping my back and congratulatory words rained down on me.
I lowered my weapon and slid the safety back on. “Where did it go?” I asked no one in particular—still searching the horizon for something more substantial than floating feathers.
My question caused the group to burst into jovial and raucous laughter:
“Ha! That bird’s toast, Frank—no shit, nothing but feathers—Tweety Bird blew up–FUCK!”
I was being pushed from behind as the group started crunching its way toward the now solitary tree. I slung the rifle’s canvas strap over my right shoulder and trudged along, heading toward the tree to assess my kill.
It was the bright red specks, widely scattered here and there on the virgin-white snow that first caught my eye. The closer I got to the tree the more concentrated the redness got—and the less white the snow was. Then a gray speckled feather, gently rocking on top of the snow, lay in my path—its lower shaft covered in purplish-red blood.
Someone picked it up and tried to stick it behind my ear. “Chief Frank, the chicken killer!” That person said, trying to be funny. Laughter all around.
I reached over and knocked the feather off my head—leaving three of my fingers stained and sticky with blood. I wiped my fingers on the rifle sling, wanting to, but not daring to look at them and slipped the leather glove back on.
Although there was nothing left on the limb, the thicker upper trunk from whence the limb grew was coated in red-black blood. Fine tufts of white down were stuck willy-nilly to the goo.
The group stopped about ten feet from the tree—all carefully trying to avoid stepping in the blood-red snow.
“Christ! Where the fuck did it go?” Someone asked and no one answered
Finally, Sparky said, “Hey buddy? You OK?”
I turned to my right and saw the concern on his face.
“You kinda look like shit. All pale and everything. You ain’t gonna throw up, are you?”
I found my voice. “No…I don’t think so.”
“Good.”
“Is that what’s left of the hen?” I asked, pointing at the upper trunk of the tree.
“Yep,” Sparky said, “a thirty caliber slug coming in at fifteen hundred feet per second from that distance don’t have much mercy. What you see all around you is the remains of what used to be a fine Alaskan Prairie hen.”
Waves of laughter.
I looked around and saw that everyone seemed overjoyed at my kill…all that is, except for Frenchy.
He was standing a few feet behind the main group, looking wide-eyed at the carnage. His right hand over his mouth, a tear was rolling down his cheek.
I quickly looked away as his eyes tried to meet mine and I forced myself to show a bit of braggadocio.
“Yeah, no shit!” I said, maybe a little too loud to the group. “That was awesome.” I forced my face to squeeze out a smile, but down deep inside I felt like shit. Twice now I had shot and killed an innocent animal: a small doe in Nevada, and now this—and both times I had no stomach to celebrate.
***
After trekking a bit further north, Sparky decided that the group should head back south. Consulting his compass, we turned and began the walk back to the station. When we entered the last tree stand before reaching Tatalina, it was suggested that we should begin our search for an appropriate evergreen pine to chop down for our Christmas tree. We’d brought along a nylon net which would be used to wrap the tree in to facilitate our carrying it back.
Once we found a reasonably sized evergreen, someone produced a military-issue hatchet and we all took turns in chopping it down. When not chopping, the rest of the group kept a wary eye and weapons out for bears and such. But with all the noise we were making I doubted that any critter would venture too close.
Once back at the station, we were met like successful returning hunters by Major Rusk and a small group of officers and airmen. Besides the excitement of setting the tree up in the chow hall, all the talk was about the great hunter in the group who obliterated a nice little prairie chicken. I was offered free drinks at the club, which I politely declined, and the cooks joked saying that they’d been expecting to get a nice juicy prairie hen to cook up. I looked around for Frenchy, but he was nowhere to be seen.
After the tree was put up and decorated, we all sang Christmas carols and a few guys shared stories about how their families celebrated the holidays back home. Soon, a large kettle of egg nog was brought out of the kitchen, along with platters of assorted Christmas sugar cookies that the baker had prepared.
Finally, Major Rusk pulled out a large cardboard box out from under one of the tables. It was marked: “MREs USAF”. Groans and howls of disdain rained down from every direction until he tore open the box. To my surprise it was filled with nothing but tin after tin of, “Cake-fruit”. Then it really got rowdy.
Christmas and New Travel Orders
Christmas day I worked. When I got off I spent the rest of the evening washing, ironing, mending and hemming—all the while listening to Christmas songs on my Hi-Fi turntable. Ironing gave me the opportunity to think and reason things out. I had already decided that I would never put myself in the situation that I’d been in when I first got to Alaska—with the drinking, that is.
Further, I promised myself that I’d try to be a thoughtful and loyal husband and father. The time and distance factor did a lot to help me see where I could’ve been a more understanding person overall, and a better husband specifically.
Well after midnight, and long after I’d finished my ironing and made the uniform deliveries, I lay on my bed still listening to my little stereo. I wanted so to envision what Sharon and the boys were doing right now. Probably sleeping, I thought—Sharon worn out from having to tend to the babies by herself. And I wondered if she’d liked her gift: a silver necklace with a little silver heart embedded with a very small diamond in the center. And I wondered if I’d finally receive her Christmas gift within the next few days.
A week before I’d received Mom and Dad’s gift—some socks, a pack of white handkerchiefs, and a nice wallet. But nothing from Sharon. I assumed she’d just been a bit too busy to mail the gift in enough time for it to get to me before the postmaster ceased the daily flights to Tatalina for the holidays.
It would be well after New Year’s Day before I received a letter from Sharon. It was just a short letter telling me that she hoped I’d had a nice Christmas and explaining that she’d not had time to shop and send me anything. Besides, she said, she had no idea what to get for me. Finally, she surmised, I’d be home in a couple of months anyhow, and she’d have the present there for when I got home.
***
A few days after the New Year, I heard that Major Rusk had received his orders back to the lower forty-eight. He was to be promoted to Lieutenant Colonel and assigned as an assistant executive officer to the base commander at Travis Air Force base, just outside of Oakland, California.
The news got me excited because northern California was where I also wanted to be reassigned. Although I knew that my career field did not have any detachments at Travis, there were a couple of bases in that area that did. The next time I saw him as I checked my mailbox, I congratulated him and wished him well. I mentioned that with any luck I may even see him again in a couple of months if my reassignment request came through.
He shook my hand heartily and then said, “Well, good luck on that. I had requested reassignment to anywhere in the Midwest”.
I was getting antsy about getting my notification for reassignment, as it was already the second week of January when Tommy Sánchez came bursting into my room.
“Hey, vato! Guess what? The February reassignment orders have been posted in the mail room!”
“Really?” I asked, jumping off my bed. “Did you get yours?”
“I’m sure I did…and you too! But I thought I’d stop by your room and we can both go down and see where we’re going. Come on!”
We all but ran excitedly down the hallway in the direction of the mail room. As we pounded into the little room we saw a large yellow teletype sheet hung on one of the walls. Several guys were already pressed up to the sheet trying to find their names and the associated assignment.
Since the names were in alphabetical order I started looking up close to the top of the sheet and Tommy bent over to look near the bottom.
He found his first.
“What the fuck?” I heard Tommy mumble.
I looked down and to my right and saw Tommy squinting at the sheet—his right index finger marking the spot where he’d found his name. “Did you get your assignment?” I asked.
“Yeah, but I don’t fucking get it. What the fuck?”
He really seemed perturbed, but since he’d requested a base in Florida I assumed he’d not gotten it.
I went back to looking for my name.
And there it was.
“A3C Frank DeLeon, reassigned from 717th AC&W Sq., Tatalina AFS, Alaska—to—130th AC&W Sq., Olathe NAS, Kansas. *See actual travel orders for DPTR DATE & Travel Time Permitted & Per Diem rate. Promoted to A2C, Effective 2/1/1964.”
It was my turn to exclaim, “What the fuck?”
Tommy jerked his head up and asked, “Did you find your assignment?”
“Yes, it says I’m going to someplace in Kansas named ‘Oh-lay-th’.”
“Holy shit!” Tommy exclaimed, “So am I!”
“WHAT? I thought you put in for Florida!”
“I did! And you put in for California!”
We looked at each other and suddenly realized the terrible trick the Air Force had played on us. Two Hispanic airmen—both from Texas, and both having served at the same two previous bases, were now going to spend their next assignment, at the same place. Someone in Air Force Headquarters had seen our ‘dream sheets’, each requesting diametrically opposed transfer requests, and split the difference.
Ha, ha.
Kansas.
Funny.
I looked at the sheet again and noted the ‘NAS’ after ‘Olathe’. “What the hell’s a ‘NAS’?” I asked to no one in particular.
For a few seconds no one said anything. Then from behind me an airman checking his mail casually said, “Naval Air Station.”
Huh? Now I just knew for sure that there was something horribly wrong with my assignment. I was in the Air Force, not the damn Navy! Further, who in the hell would put a navy base in Kansas? Didn’t the U.S. Navy need water to float their ships?
“How in the hell can I be going to a naval air station in Kansas?” I again asked no one. “That’s a little far from any ocean, isn’t it? No one in their right mind would put a naval base in Kansas! That’s just fucked up!”
The same airman, now ripping open a letter that he’d extracted from his box said, “It’s a naval air station, not a naval base. They have navy airplanes there, not boats. They probably have an air force radar squadron there as a detachment.”
“But, how can I be going to a naval facility?” I again asked.
Tommy had finally stood up. He put his hand on my shoulder and said, “We’re so fucked.” And he walked off shaking his head.
Not satisfied with what I’d just read I turned and looked around for the office orderly. The previous very old looking airman second class (A2C), had rotated out and had been replaced by an even older looking airman first class (A1C). I saw him sitting at his desk, ignoring everything around him and casually leafing through a sheaf of papers.
“Hey,” I said, trying to get his attention, “this reassignment has got to be wrong.” As I pointed to the sheet on the wall.
“No,” he responded, stifling a yawn, “actually, I’ve got your orders here if you want them.”
“What do they say?”
“Same as the teletype on the wall. You, and your buddy Sánchez, are going to the Land of Oz…Kansas.”
As I walked slowly back to my room I thought, well at least I’ve been promoted.
Goodbye Alaska, Hello Olathe
When 1964 rolled around I had finally reached the exalted status of ‘short-timer’. I now had the privilege of ending conversations in mid-sentence by announcing that I was too short (time wise) to engage in conversations of more than five words; berating new arrivals by suggesting that they should just consider suicide rather than face the next twelve months at Tatalina; or randomly yelling ‘FIGMO’ (Fuck-I-Got-My-Orders) at any given time just to remind everyone within earshot of my status. But, actually I did none of those things because I still remembered how humiliated and depressed I felt having to leave my family alone and on their own and having to bear those insults day after day.
Instead, I busied myself interviewing potential Laundry Detail buyers and making my recommendations to the Enterprise Group. Of course, the group had changed leadership as members rotated out, and when Donny left I was offered the opportunity of buying his seat. I thought about it for a while, but I decided that I didn’t need all the hassles that the Group had to deal with on a daily basis. Because records keeping was not an exact science in those days, detail owners sometimes had to be prodded to report their real profits—and it was a badly kept secret that they cheated. I was happy just doing the washing and ironing, and keeping most of the money to myself.
After a few days, the idea that I was going to be heading to Olathe, Kansas had finally sunk in—and I discovered that the name of the town was actually pronounced, ‘O-láy-tha’. It was a Shawnee Indian word meaning, ‘Beautiful’. I had no idea if that was true or not, but all I could think of was, how am I going to break this news to Sharon? So, one evening I decided that I should immediately write her a letter. After all, we were in this as a family, and this would be another adventure in our young life together. Little did I know that it would turn out to be more than either of us could take.
Her letter in return was surprisingly accepting; she even sounded happy to know that I would be coming home soon and seemed excited to be able to restart our lives together. I began making plans for the trip home and promised to let her know what day she could expect me in Houston.
As I planned my trip home I decided that it would not be a repeat of the trip I had taken up to Alaska. I was better informed this time around, and for sure, I would not be riding a bus for thirty-plus hours. Although I still planned to save the majority of the travel pay the Air Force would be giving me to fly commercial home—but I would do it, not by riding a bus, but by flying standby—or as it was called those days, ‘space-A’, instead.
I had been told by some of the guys at the radar station that military standbys had priority over regular standbys now that the Vietnam war was heating up. I had no idea how that would work out, but it couldn’t be any worse than the bus trip I’d take up from Houston.
I spent a lot of time checking out airline schedules and alternative routes, and finally decided on a plan of attack. The Air Force would fly me free from Tatalina, McGrath, Anchorage and finally McChord Air Force Base, just outside of Seattle. After that I was on my own.
I made arrangements to take a bus shuttle from McChord to Sea-Tac Airport. From there I would put into play my space-A plan. There was a morning Northwest Airlines flight daily from Sea-Tac Airport to Dallas Love Airport, in Texas. Then, after a four-hour layover, a connecting afternoon Braniff Airlines flight was scheduled to Houston Hobby Airport. Once there, a short taxi ride, and I would be home.
The trick was to be able to get on the flights without getting bumped off. That’s where luck would have to play in, but just in case, I made some alternative plans.
McChord had temporary quarters, in the event I got bumped in Seattle, and it would only be a forty-five-minute bus ride. Then I could try to get on the flight the next day.
If worse came to worse, there were other flights out of Seattle that would eventually get me to Houston. It would just take me a little longer.
Also, I made plans to ship my duffle bag, containing only uniforms, a few days early via military transport. I had purchased a light suitcase and carry-on via catalog, and those would be lightly packed with all my necessary travel items, and a couple of changes of clothes. I would never get caught short like I had the year before on my way up to Alaska.
My last few weeks at the radar station were spent planning, packing, and shipping stuff out. I wanted to make sure the Chevy was in good shape so I sent Sharon some extra money and asked her to take the car to a mechanic to give it a good once over. I didn’t want to have any problems on the eight-hundred mile trip from Houston to Olathe. When she wrote back she said that she’d asked my dad for a recommendation on a good mechanic and he’d immediately volunteered to give the car a good going over himself. She’d offered to pay him but he wouldn’t take any money. When I wrote her back I asked her to tell dad to make sure to check the exhaust manifold for leaks.
I sold my Laundry Detail, and when I tallied up my profits I found that I’d grossed about four-hundred dollars. With that, and the travel advance that the Air Force was planning to give me before I left Tatalina, I surmised that we’d have more than enough money to get me home and all of us up to Olathe.
Once we got up there, we’d be needing some cash to secure temporary housing until the Air Force helped find us permanent lodging.
These were certainly the days before the Internet and Google, so any research on my new assignment had to be done by asking the troops if anyone had known of, or heard about someone having spent time there. Luckily, one of the motor pool guys, who’d just arrived, had served a tour of duty at Whiteman Air Force Base, in Missouri.
Over a couple of beers, he filled me in on what he knew of Olathe. Even though the naval air station was in Kansas, it was not actually located in Olathe but in a smaller town just to the south, named Gardner. It was only about twenty-five miles west of the Kansas and Missouri border, and a twenty-minute freeway car ride would land you smack in the middle of Kansas City, Missouri. He called it the Jazz Capitol of the Midwest.
According to him, Interstate 35 cut through Olathe, north and south, and the majority of the population lived on the west side of the highway. The eastern part of Olathe was mostly farmland, for the exception of one large Federal facility that sat on the intersection of Interstate 35 and Santa Fe Drive. He wasn’t too sure, but he thought the facility was some kind of air traffic control building. He laughed when he remembered that the people who worked there had to drive on a road cut through an acre of grazing livestock to get to their facility’s parking lot.
The Olathe Naval Air Station was a training base for naval pilots, and all types of disciplines supporting this mission. Of course the Air Force had a radar detachment there, where I’d been assigned, but I was surprised to hear that it also hosted an Army Nike missile squadron, and a contingent of Marines. Fly-boys, ground-pounders, jar-heads, and squids—all working and playing together in Kansas. I was blown away.
Although the radar detachment that I was assigned to was small, the base itself was large, and had a lot of amenities. It sported commissaries, theaters, clubs for both enlisted men and officers, several gymnasiums, and even a golf course. I’d never played golf before but I thought that any military base that had a golf course had to be pretty cool.
A few days before I was to leave Tatalina, I saw Tommy in the chow hall having his dinner.
“Hey, can I join you?” I asked, putting my tray down on the table.
“Sure, vato. What’s up? Ready to depart this hellhole?” He asked cynically.
“Yeah, that’s for sure. I haven’t seen you for a while. You got everything set?”
“Yup. Did you hear we’re both gonna fly outa here on the same bush plane?”
“No, but I was wondering how that was gonna work. You flying all the way home?”
“Yeah, I already got my plane reservations out of Sea-Tac. My folks sent me the tickets already. I’ll go to Dallas first then catch another flight to San Antonio. You?”
“Well, almost the same thing you’re doing, but I’m planning to flying Space-A to Dallas, then same to Houston.”
“Well, if you’re lucky enough to get on both flights you’re gonna save a shitload of money, that’s for sure.”
“That’s the plan. You know, we may end up on the same flight to Dallas…that is, if I get on. Wouldn’t that be something?”
“Yeah, well since Space-A’s board last I won’t save you a seat.” He looked up and grinned. I couldn’t tell if he was kidding or serious.
“No sweat. If I get on I’ll be happy to sit on the floor.”
The rest of the meal we chatted about the upcoming assignment—with me doing most of the talking. Finally, he stopped me by saying that he’d also pumped the same guy I had for information.
“Yeah, he told me all that shit too. I don’t give a crap since I’ll only be there for ten months.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Well, this’ll be it for me. I getting the fuck out of this man’s Air Force. Why? Aren’t you?”
“You know; I’ve really not given it a whole lot of thought.”
“Well, next December will make our fourth year in this fucking service, vato. Or did you lose track of time?”
Call me simple, but that was the first time that I realized I only had ten months left on my four-year enlistment.
“Oh yeah, I know.” I lied. But that’s still a long way away. I’ll have to talk to my wife and see what plans we come up with. But I’m sure I’ll be getting out too.” I know I didn’t sound too convincing.
“Yeah, I’ll just fucking bet.” He grunted, “You got a wife and two fucking kids already, man. And to tell you the truth, I don’t see you going anywhere in ten months. In fact, with what you got going, which is nothing, you’ve set yourself to be a fucking lifer in the goddam Air Force. A fucking lifer! Shit man,” he said, wiping his mouth and picking up his tray, “I’d kill myself rather than be in your situation.” He turned and walked off, shaking his head. And those would be the last words Tommy and I ever spoke to one another.
The Beginning of the End of Isolation
At about 11:00 AM, on Wednesday, February 12, 1964, I took the bush plane out of Tatalina on my way to McGrath. It was a beautiful day, the sunrise breaking over the mountains a little before seven, with a promised eight hours of sunshine before the sun set around four-thirty that afternoon.
Tommy and I were driven out to the airstrip around nine-thirty in the old blue pickup truck, and although we sat side by side on the short trip, not a word passed between us. Within a few minutes of arriving, and after unloading our suitcases and carry-ons, we spotted the red single-engine on its short final approach. The five-minute flight to McGrath was completely uneventful, and after unloading my luggage I walked into the small terminal to wait for boarding on the fifty-minute flight to Anchorage. Later on that afternoon, after the three-hour flight to McChord AFB, I was on the shuttle bus headed to Seattle-Tacoma Airport.
As I entered the large terminal at the Sea-Tac airport, a strange feeling suddenly overtook me. For a few seconds I felt completely disoriented and thought I may even lose my footing. I veered off to one side and quickly found a row of seats positioned in front of a gigantic window facing the tarmac and the runways. I sat down heavily, and took my hat off.
I sat for a few minutes trying to understand what was happening to me. Thoughts were flying around in my head, confusing me so much that I decided to bend over in the seat and rest my head down close to my knees. I could feel cold sweat forming on my forehead and on the back of my neck. I closed my eyes and tried to keep the nauseous feeling that was welling up in my throat in check.
After about five minutes or so, I started to feel better. I slowly raised my head back up and opened my eyes. I looked around to see if anyone had noticed my swoon, and that’s when I understood what had happened to me.
There were people everywhere! More people in one place than I’d ever seen in one place during the past year. And they all seemed to be talking—loud! Further, there were multiple announcements being made at the same time: flight numbers, gate changes, requests for mister or missus so-and-so to pick up the white phone for a message, babies crying, and relatives noisily greeting their loved ones. The noise was overpowering—and added to that the sheer volume of people moving to and fro, had all but overwhelmed my senses. In today’s terms my condition would be called a panic attack.
For the last year I had existed in a semi-quiet environment—often spending hour upon hour by myself, drinking, sleeping, washing and ironing, reading and just sitting alone in my room. Now all of a sudden, I’d been thrown into an environment that was nothing less than chaotic and totally bewildering. The movement and energy of the people around me, and the noise they were creating assaulted me as soon as I’d entered the terminal.
Once I understood what had happened, I began to look around and slowly absorb the tumultuous atmosphere and instantly began to feel better. Once I felt that I could get up and deal with all the commotion happening around me, I began to search for the Northwest Airlines ticket counter.
I wandered a bit around the terminal, familiarizing myself with the surroundings and looking for the baggage pickup. On the way, I passed the military courtesy desk and remembered that I’d seen Tommy heading in that direction right before I imploded. I now assumed he was planning to spend the night at their little canteen before listing himself on the morning flight to Dallas. I had no intention of going in there and chancing having to spend an uncomfortable night trying to avoid him. So I decided to try my luck elsewhere.
Having retrieved my suitcase, I wandered a bit more until I spied the Northwest Airlines ticket counter. I stepped up and got the ticket agent’s attention. I inquired about their next day’s early morning flight to Dallas, and the agent said that the flight was on time, but, after checking the manifest said that all the seats were booked. The only hope of getting on that flight would depend on the number of ‘no-shows’. And with Dallas being a popular destination, the odds of any no-shows were long.
“However”, the perky ticket agent said as she shuffled through some papers, “we’ve scheduled a red-eye for tonight to position an airplane that we need in Dallas for tomorrow. And that flight is…” and she squinted her eyes as she scanned a manifest, “well, it’s got plenty of seats ‘cause no one likes red-eye flights. So if you want, you can get on that one, Space-A, with no problem. Wanna do that?”
“What time will it get me to Dallas?” I asked.
“Well, it’s scheduled at about twenty-three-hundred tonight—and with…let’s see…four plus twenty flight time, you should be in Dallas around two-thirty, or so, in the morning…their time.”
“Wow! That’s early!” I said, a little surprised.
“Yeah, but look: you’ll be in Dallas, and I know they have hourly flights out of there to Houston starting around zero-six-hundred. So you’ll be in good shape since you’ll probably be first on the Space-A list—having gotten there so early. Otherwise, if you wait here, no telling when you’ll get to Dallas.”
It made sense to me, and knowing Tommy would also be getting a seat to Dallas the next day, I asked her to go ahead and put my name on the Space-A list for the red-eye at eleven.
In my last letter to Sharon I’d told her that I’d probably be arriving in Houston on Friday or even Saturday. At the time that was my best guess, since I had no idea what the flight scheduling would be like once I got to Seattle. But now, it looked like I’d be home as early as Thursday afternoon—a whole day early!
I wanted to call her from the terminal right away once I put my name on the red-eye flight to Dallas, but thought better of it, considering I didn’t have the best luck in the world when it came to traveling. So I decided that when I got to Dallas, and was assured of a seat on to Houston, I’d take a few minutes and call her then. It would be a cheaper call anyway than calling her from Seattle.
Since I still had a few hours before the flight was called I headed for the cafeteria to load up on coffee. I found an empty table and sat down with my coffee and a gigantic cinnamon roll. As I ate I remembered my situation just a year before and how bad that had been. Now, here I was, still in a fresh uniform, and a suitcase full of clean and dry underwear and socks, should the need arise for a change. In a few hours I would be home, hugging and kissing my wife and kids.
I must’ve looked pretty foolish to anyone who may have been walking by just then and noticed me sitting alone at the table looking off into the distance, coffee cup in hand—my eyes watering and my face plastered all over with a goofy, happy, and very satisfied look.
Home, At Last
The flight to Dallas was on time and because of the light passenger load I found that I had my choice of seats. I picked a window seat on the left side of the DC-8, and settled in for the four-hour flight.
While waiting in the terminal, I had bought a copy of the Seattle Times newspaper to read onboard the plane. It seemed so odd to read print on white paper, and illustrated with pictures and artwork to describe most of the articles. For a year I had received the daily news by reading it off of long sheets of drab yellow teletype paper, printed in starkly rambling print. One had to use one’s imagination when reading how Jack Ruby had hidden a black revolver somewhere on his “stocky” body and in his loosely fitting suit, and imagined the expression of agonizing pain and surprise on Lee Harvey Oswald’s face as he’d absorbed the slug that slammed into his gut, killing him.
After a bit of reading my eyes grew heavy. Since no one was sitting in my three-seat row, I removed my shoes and stretched my legs out on the other two seats. With my head and shoulders leaning on the oval window, the soothing lull of the humming jet engines soon pulled me down into a light slumber.
A sudden change of altitude woke me up, and soon the pilot was calling for us to fasten our seat-belts for our descent into Dallas, Texas.
Entering the terminal, I made a direct run at the Braniff Airlines ticket counter. It was still very early in the morning so no one was manning the desk, but I took a seat adjacent to it to make sure I was the first one to see the agent arriving.
As luck would have it, I was able to get on their seven o’clock flight, direct to Houston. My arrival time at Hobby Airport was scheduled to be just after eight in the morning, on February 13, 1964.
It was hard to contain my joy as I boarded the flight and slid into my assigned seat. When the agent at the Braniff counter had given me my boarding pass, she told me, “Even though you’re listed as Space-A, we here at Braniff always honor our returning Vietnam veterans by assigning them a seat. Welcome home airman DeLeon, God bless you and thank you for your service to our country.” I felt a little embarrassed, but didn’t have the courage to tell her I was coming home from Alaska.
After claiming my baggage, I waved down a Yellow Cab from the taxi stand. The driver insisted on taking my bags himself and putting them in the trunk of the car. I gave him my wife’s address and settled in for the drive. I had no idea how long of a ride it would be, but the closer I got the more excited I felt. I had decided not to call Sharon after all when I’d de-planed—preferring instead to surprise her and arrive unannounced. I had picked out a small bouquet of flowers at the airport gift shop for her and a couple of little airplane toys for the boys and hoped that those offerings would allay any feelings of annoyance that she may have for my not having called as soon as I’d flown into Houston.
I stood on the porch of the small, but very nice, brick and wood frame home, and pushed the doorbell. The front door had a glass top, but a white frilled curtain prevented me from seeing inside the house.
As the doorknob turned I heard a cry of happiness and surprise. The door flew open and I laid eyes on my wife for the first time in over three-hundred and sixty days.
“Oh my God, Frank! You’re home!” She screamed as she threw herself into my arms.
I hugged her tightly and smelled the sweet flowery scent of shampoo in her hair. My tears flowed unabashedly, and I found it difficult to say anything more. All I could manage to do was rock her from side to side and bury my face in the soft skin of her neck and shoulder—the little bouquet of flowers fell to the floor.
Finally, and too soon for me, we pulled away from each other; and for the first time I saw that the girl that I’d left a year ago had grown into a woman. At that moment, and as I looked into her blue-green eyes, I could not fathom the expanse of my love for her.
She pulled me into the small living room and through her tears said, “God, let me look at you! You look so handsome, and oh Frank, I missed you so very, very much! I love you with all my heart!”
“Me too, sweetheart, me too.”
She turned around and pulling me along said, “Come, come look at Ricky and Frank Junior…your sons. I know they’re little, but you know, I think they missed you too! Oh, Frank!”
I followed her as she guided me into the little kitchen where Ricky was sitting on a high chair, and little Frank was in his bassinette.
“God, I missed them too,” I said, holding her tightly and gazing at my sons, “but look, I’m home now, and I promise you that I’ll never ever leave you alone again.”
Oh…those words!
How easily they came out of my mouth that day; and they were meant with all truthfulness—and so full of pure love and honest intentions.
But, those very words, spoken through the veil of youth and ignorance, will painfully and forever haunt me for as long as I live.
