1975 Senior Trip & Operation Babylift Memories

By Mike Olsen, '75

This April marks the fortieth anniversary of Operation Babylift. These are my brief memories of the Senior trip to Long Beach in April, 1975, and our return to a Clark Air Base that, in our absence, had been turned upside down by the fall of Saigon, a huge influx of Vietnamese refugees, and Operation Babylift.  My memories won’t be your memories, obviously, but we probably experienced at least a few events and incidents in common. Hope you enjoy…

It started with so many cases of beer. You know that old song, A Hundred Bottles of Beer On the Wall? Of course you do, ad nauseam. Well, imagine a bus instead of a wall and you have a pretty good idea of our transport. The aisle was filled with hundreds and hundreds of bottles of San Miguel, rattling in their cases, although the stash was already substantially reduced by the time we got to the resort in Long Beach, smack right on the beach. Only three of us were non-drinkers, and we were there to scuba dive.

Did I call it a resort? Bruce Young and I scoped out the accommodations—circular haciendas, close to each other but separated one cluster of rooms for the boys, and one for the girls. Bruce hauled in the air tanks, and we rolled out our sleeping bags, staking out a corner of one room. Just then, several guys stumbled in and threw up all over the floor. Bruce and I checked out.

We figured that the curfew (The country was under martial law—thanks Ferdinand) didn’t extend to the beaches and slept on the sand that first night, aligning our sleeping bags within the long shadows of palm trees. Sometime after midnight, I awoke to find a dozen more people had abandoned their rooms to join us on the sand, about twenty-five feet away.  When I next awoke, sometime after dawn, Bruce and I were once again the only ones on the beach.

“Where are they?” Bruce rumbled, rubbing his eyes, and gazing around. “Where’d everyone go?”

Where did they go? Apparently, some police had swept the beach of all those flagrant curfew-breakers during the night, but somehow managed to overlook Bruce and me. I Guess those palm shadows were deeper than I’d thought.

I don’t know where the police took all my classmates, but they were probably more trouble than they were worth, because everyone reappeared shortly after breakfast. Bruce and another diver procured a bancero with boat, and went out for a dive. I floated above, watching my reflection in the rising bubbles. Bruce took a shot at a monster grouper, but it turned sideways, the spear bouncing uselessly off its side. Sheesh.

I don’t remember much of that day, except traveling a couple of miles to refill the air tanks at a USAF weather station just north of us. After dinner, I went in search of sleeping quarters since I had no desire to be rousted off the beach by the police. I ended up pleading with the bartender to let me sleep on the bar-room floor. He slept behind the counter, so he figured, why not? He knew I wouldn’t be able to raid the booze, and I moved in that night, one of the only non-drinkers, now passed out on the bar-room floor.

Next night, I had loads of company—lots of people were exhausted; they hadn’t slept in two days. The bar had one of those ubiquitous 1970’s electric pianos and a couple of guys had brought guitars, so the bar rocked until bedtime, whenever that was.

The next morning, a deep-blue USAF helicopter passed directly overhead, low and speeding towards the Air Force weather station. Not long after, a large, official-blue Air Force sedan pulled into the beach compound, rolling to a stop about thirty feet from me. A back door swung open, a uniformed officer stepping out.

It was chaplain Narron. Believe me, when a chaplain arrives by helicopter, you know he isn’t bringing good news. Chaplain Narron saw me and waved me over.

“Mike, do you know a boy named Barry Willis?”

My heart sank. Barry was on the beach, not fifty feet from me, talking to a pretty blond girl. I knew what was coming and felt as if I was somehow betraying Barry by pointing him out. “That’s him, just there, talking to that blond girl.” Chaplain Narron hurried past me, followed by two other men in uniform.

I watched him approach Barry, speak a few lines to him, and then Barry threw his hands up, over his face. He sunk, his knees hitting the sand. The girl covered her mouth in shock. Chaplain Narron and the other two helped Barry up and supported him over to the backseat of the sedan. The car made a wide circle in the grass and sand, and quickly disappeared, heading back to the helicopter.

Somehow, during the brief minutes that Chaplain Narron had been there, we learned that Saigon had fallen, and the U.S. was doing everything it could to get military and civilian personnel out of Vietnam. A C-5 Galaxy had crashed upon take-off at Saigon’s Tan Son Nhut Airport, killing over a hundred adults and babies. Barry’s dad was one of those killed. I heard that he volunteered for the flight.

We started talking, spreading the word that we needed to get back to Clark. “We’re needed at home! They need help with the babies and the tent cities!” But it turned out that not everyone thought we should go, so we held it up for a vote. I couldn’t believe it, but we were voted down! The group wanted to stay for the one day remaining in the trip. I did a lot of beach walking that day, back and forth, north and south, and slept again in the bar. There was no party that night, at least not in the bar. The ride back to Clark was subdued and beer-less.

My memories of the babies will be briefer: I remember waiting in line at the base gym for what seemed like hours, all for the chance to watch a baby for a three hour shift. The gym had been transformed into what surely must have been the world’s largest nursery, carpeted wall to wall with hundreds of mattresses. I was assigned to watch two small children, a brother and sister. They mostly ate and slept and ignored me. I couldn’t blame them.  I got to watch plenty of babies in the days to come. My mother and I worked the last night/flight out of Clark Air Base. As I mentioned, the first night I had to wait in line just to do a three hour shift. That last night, I watched fourteen kids for five hours. Like they say, celebrity-hood is fleeting.

After converting the base gym into a nursery, the base turned to the Wagner High School gym/auditorium for refugee housing. More mattresses arrived, and Gym classes carried on outside while we practiced the best we could for that spring’s musical, Once Upon a Mattress. (I know—the irony)

I was Sir Studley in the play—natch—and I was supposed to escort a different wench onstage every time I appeared, but Jolene wanted more stage time and appealed to Mr. Keith Tucker, our director. Tuck declared her Wench #1, which made me seem a lot less studley, but whatever—the show must go on. Tuck didn’t want to deal with the set-up crew or the mountain of mattresses, so he gave me a ring of keys and told me to try to keep the crews off the stage area and the damage to a minimum.

That first day, as the gym filled with mattresses, the set-up crew came to me and asked how to get onto the stage area (the fire curtain was down and locked) The stage was already filled with sets and props, and I knew that if the set got destroyed to make room for the never-ending stream of mattresses, the play would most probably be canceled. I had the key, but I did what I had to—I lied, which for some reason really bothered me. I told them that the stage area was negligible and they gave up trying to force the fire curtain. The Spring musical was saved, and the refugees moved out before opening night.

Looking around at all the orphans at the base gym, I wondered what would become of them. After all, the U.S. had been at war with North Vietnam for so long that I couldn't imagine who would want to adopt the children. I sized up my qualifications: eighteen, living with my parents, a senior in high school, unmarried, no income—pretty scant credentials. I mentioned to someone that I would like to adopt one of the kids, but understood the impossibility of the situation. He grinned and informed me that all the children had already been placed.

“What?” I couldn’t believe it. “All of them?”

“Yep, every single one of them.”

I remember being profoundly proud of America at that moment. “Good for you, America,” I thought. “Good for you.” Out of the ashes of war, a new beginning. I’d always been thankful to be an American, but now I’d experienced a little of what it was that makes America what she is—it’s her heart—her great heart, a heart that turns and embraces all.

Did operation Babylift change me? Yes, it did. It carved a hole in my heart for children. I’ve been able to travel five times to an Asian country to work in an orphanage, making adaptive furniture for special needs children. The best part of each evening was put aside to hold and rock the babies in the nursery. My heart still wells with joy when I recall all those babies! I took my son, Ben, then ten years old, with me on one trip, so that he could see where his future sister was coming from. The next year our family was blessed with a beautiful nine month old girl. God is good, and my memories are good. I’m thankful once again.  

Photos: #1) Mike Olsen, #2) Mike White & Mike Olsen during a Varsity Club meeting #3) Youth group trip to Baguio in 1975 - Mike is in the back row, 4th from the left  #4) John Meinhold, Dake Vahovich & Mike Olsen working on a ministry project  #5) Sue Harris '77 during Operation Babylift  #6)  Mike Dontonville & Judy Seals during Operation Babylift  #7) Mike Olsen (bottom left) and the other powderpuff cheerleaders 1975.