The troop train odyssey was over.

No, it wasn’t really a troop train as there were a lot of civilians who had been on board and had wished they could have flown to their destinations too, but the large number of us in military uniform lent an overwhelming flavor to the mix and the conditions we all endured, both military and civilian alike, were those I imagine a troop train may have been in earlier days.

Once off the bus I signed in at the terminal, the Aerial Port, officially stopping the clock that was charging my leave time and now reporting me available for duty, or in this case, available for further transportation. Travis was an aerial port, so signing in there was much the same as signing into a new base of assignment.

I had left my parents’ home in New Orleans at 0500 on the 18^th and here I was signing in at Travis at 2300 on the 21^st. It seemed it had been a longer trip than that and despite the “sleep” between Los Angeles and San Francisco, I was tired.

Upon signing in I was directed to a barracks and told to find a bed and report back to the terminal later on the following day for further transportation instructions. Finding the correct barracks in the dark, dragging my duffel bag with me (max allowed on the move was 100 pounds) was a challenge; I never did find the place.

Next, the good omen.

As I wandered around in the search of a bed I though it was a futile exercise and headed back to the terminal. When I reached the terminal I found one of the Aerial Port people and asked if Lt. H was assigned there, and if he was, when he would be on duty.

Lt. H was the brother of a very good friend at Carswell, Ken, a friend who had made more than one trip to New Orleans with me and had sipped my aunt’s unusually powerful coffee in Opelousas along the way. In fact, he was the one whom I’d watched as he saw a demitasse cup, saucer, and spoon for the first time in his life, and was then amazed when he downed that cup of coffee like a whiskey shot. The coffee hit him about like a whiskey shot, too, and I’ll bet he remembers that occasion to this day. We had a good laugh over that one and my aunt always asked about Ken on my subsequent trips.

To my good fortune, Lt. H did indeed work at the Aerial Port as Ken had told me, and he was just beginning his shift, in charge of all passenger movement. He had been expecting me and asked how my trip had gone, though looking at me I’m sure he had a pretty good idea that it had been a quite miserable experience.

He then asked me if I wanted to stick around for a day or two to rest up or if I wanted to move on.

That question shocked me. An officer, though he was the brother of a friend, was asking an Airman First Class when he would like to travel? That would have been a shock to my system if I had been totally rested, showered, shaved, and thinking most clearly, but in my state it was something of fantasy.

I was being offered an option of dragging my bag back to a barracks I had not yet found versus maybe camping out in the terminal somehow (there were signs all over the place forbidding such) for a short time and then getting out of there.

I told him I was ready to continue on.

He took me over to a nearby place where I could clean up and rest for a short while until he came back for me. Ah, life was good, in relative terms.

At about 0500 Lt. H came to get me and he told me to bring my bag. I grabbed the duffel and followed him through a door that opened into the back side of the passenger counter. He quickly completed some paperwork, told me to give my bag to someone there, and told me to follow him again.

We headed across the passenger staging area and out the door, headed out onto the aircraft parking apron where a Pan Am aircraft was being refueled.

As we approached the aircraft the fueling was completed and we went up the step truck and into the aircraft. Lt. H pointed out that the first right-side row of seats had a flag officer cover on one of the headrests, and told me there would be an admiral on board so I couldn’t sit there, but anywhere else was open to my choice of seats. He wisely suggested the row we were standing in front of, the entry door row, with about five feet of leg room. And that row held yet another advantage there was yet to be discovered.

I told him that first row sounded just fine, we exchanged pleasant goodbyes, and I thanked him. He left, saying the rest of the passengers would be brought out shortly and in the meantime I could do whatever I wanted to as long as I stayed on board.

As soon as the Lt. got to the bottom step of the step truck, a genuinely friendly stewardess (they weren’t called flight attendants in those days) asked if I would like something to drink, a soft drink, of course. I said that would be great and as she handed me an already prepared Coke she told me I just had to make sure I finished it before everyone else, especially the admiral, came on board. Message received. She understood the privileges of rank as well as I did, but then I was the lone Airman First Class providing the only target of service at the moment.

That was my first of several contacts with Pan Am stewardesses and I was correct in my initial impression that they considered it something of an honor to be taking care of us. They treated us as royalty in every way they could.

After a time, the admiral and the rest of the passengers boarded, we had headcounts by both the stewardesses and the Passenger Service Officer in Charge, Lt. H, and the door was closed.

The stewardesses completed their preflight duties and two of them took their seats in fold down seats across from me on the opposite side of the entry way, facing me. Things could have been worse, a lot worse, but no, this flight was going to make up for that train ride, for sure.

It was 0730 hours, August 22, 1966 when we left the ground enroute to refueling stops at Anchorage, Alaska and Yokota Air Base, Japan, destination Tan Son Nhut Air Base, Saigon, Vietnam.