Last Plane in the Sky on 9-11

 

Michelle flew the last civilian plane on 9-11

For the 25th anniversary of the 9-11 attacks, I present this chapter from my book Broadcasters: Untold Chaos

Where were you during the 9-11 terrorist attacks?  Anyone old enough to remember will have an immediate answer.  As News Director for WOI Radio, I was in the Des Moines bureau helping a colleague prepare for a live broadcast.  I was also packed and ready to fly to Nashville the next day to receive a national journalism award.  For a woman from Manhattan, Kansas, it was a fine morning for flying.  Michele Stauffer, the owner of Kansas Aircraft Corporation, was ferrying a small plane from Wyoming, to Kansas, where her company is headquartered at New Century Air Center near Olathe.  She was an innocent bystander who almost became the last casualty of that day’s terrorist attacks, in a dramatic, chance meeting with another female aviator over Nebraska.   

We all have memorized President Bush’s expression of disbelief when he was kept informed of the ongoing terrorist attack as he read to grade school kids in Sarasota, Florida.  It was an agonizing moment in television history.  At about that time, Michele was settling in for a long flight from Afton, in western Wyoming, to a stopover in Omaha.  She bought and sold aircraft, and had acquired a Cessna Turbo-210 that she was flying back to her company.  I just happened to stumble across her extraordinary story through blind luck.  I was doing research for a radio project on the first anniversary of 9-11, when I heard about the incident involving Michele.  She invited me down to her office to record her memories first hand. 

As Americans watched the fast developing terrorism story on TV, Michele cruised in ideal conditions, “severe clear” as she calls it.  She was flying with Travis Fordham, a young pilot who just started to work for her.  As they were leaving, Travis thought he’d heard another aircraft being called in for a landing.  Michele reached up and turned off the radio.  Due to the perfect conditions and light traffic, they were flying by VFR, Visual Fight Rules.  Travis was at the controls and Michele wanted peace and quiet so she could do some paperwork.  Meanwhile, the rest of America was reeling from the worst attack on our homeland since Pearl Harbor. 

Iowa F16s Scramble

In Sioux City, National Air Guard pilots in Iowa’s 185^th Fighter Wing were watching the coverage on TV like most of us.  “We were sitting around for probably 15 minutes after it happened, glued to the TV, just really in shock,” according to Major Brian Miller.  The squadron already had a colorful past, nicknamed the “Bats” for conducting night missions in Vietnam.  Long before 2001, actor Jimmy Stewart learned how to fly bombers at the Sioux City airbase.  History has a way of finding this remote facility.  On 9-11, commanders of the unit were at a conference in Washington, so officers, like Maj. Miller, were suddenly in charge. Then there was an urgent call over a secure phone system.  “It was the North American Air Defense,” said Miller, “A General called and wanted to know how long it would take us to get planes in the air.”  Air Force One was leaving Florida, and no one knew how long the attacks would persist.  Security officials were looking for a safe haven, including Sioux City, to bring President Bush and his entourage.  That’s when pilot Scott Plambeck realized America was at war. “So let’s break the seals on the munitions and let’s go,” said Plambeck, “and within 15 minutes I think, we had our first missile on board the airplane.”  Miller called a quick pilots briefing and one of the young officers was Bobbi Doorenbos, a local girl, who was among the very first women in the country to fly F16s.  “You know,” Miller told the pilots, “in light of what’s happening, there is some chance we’re going to be asked to shoot an airliner down today. That’s going to be a very tough decision you’re going to have to make.”  An advance White House security team landed in Sioux City to assess facilities there for an urgent visit by the Commander in Chief, and Maj. Miller felt certain that President Bush would be showing up at the 185^th. “Sioux City has hosted the president before,” he told me, “being first with the Iowa caucuses we’re used to having a lot of presidentials and their types come through here, but not under those circumstances.” 

Air Force One left Florida and initially was returning to Washington.  “I felt the plane bank,” President Bush recalled in a 10^th anniversary program on National Geographic TV.  With the Pentagon ablaze, Bush said, “The Secret Service felt it was irresponsible heading into a city that had just been attacked.”  Instead, the Commander in Chief was diverted to Barksdale Air Force Base in Shreveport, Louisiana.  The President stayed long enough to record a brief statement to the nation that was broadcast later: “Freedom itself was attacked this morning by a faceless coward, and freedom will be defended.”  Air Force One’s next destination would not be Iowa, but rather, the Strategic Air Command at nearby Offutt Air Base in Omaha.  Iowa F16s had already been clearing the sky over Omaha, as part of the nationwide closure of air space to civilian access.  In President Bush’s personal diary for National Geographic, he said, “The first decision I made on Air Force One was to give our Air Force orders to shoot down aircraft that did not respond to orders to land.  This is what war was like in the 21st century.”

Meanwhile, Michele Stauffer was cruising above the suspense as it was unfolding on the ground below.  “I’m kind of old school,” Michele told me. “I’d been flying for 30 years and I don’t enjoy all the chatter on the radios.” So, Michele and Travis were oblivious to the pain and fear 13,500 feet below, as the country was staggered by multiple attacks and bracing for another possible strike.  The Federal Aviation Administration ordered every non-military plane to land ASAP.  By 9 a.m. Iowa time, the entire country had become a “no fly” zone so that any remaining hijacked planes could be identified and dealt with.  Soon, only birds were in the sky and civilian air travel was thrown back to the days of the Wright Brothers, except for Michele and her rookie pilot.  Nearing the halfway point of their flight to Omaha, bathing in sunshine and solitude, the squawking avionics remained turned off.  Michele and Travis may have been the final two Americans still in flight who thought that Sept. 11^th was an immaculate, glorious, day.         

Iowa Air Guard Intercept

Across the country, military jets were flying over major metropolitan areas and the Sioux City pilots were now providing close air patrol over Omaha and the adjacent Offutt Air Force Base.  It was a mission that would extend the Iowa fighter wing’s proud history.  The 185^th had been called into action repeatedly, most recently to enforce the “no fly” zones in Iraq.  Twelve years before 9-11, the squadron suddenly became a rescue unit, when United Flight # 232 crashed on farmland a quarter-mile from the flight line.  Airmen helped pull passengers from the wreckage in a cornfield, and guided others to safety after they’d walked away from the crash and had become lost in the tall corn.  Although 111 people died, there were 184 survivors.

President Bush was mistaken when he told National Geographic producers, “It dawned on me that we were the only other (civilian) aircraft left.”  There was also that curious, private plane navigating over the Midwest.  A quick check of the suspicious Cessna would have raised a warning flag.  Most concerning, the aircraft was ignoring calls.   Furthermore, it was only recently purchased, and was still registered in a Middle Eastern sounding name.  It also was equipped with Flint tip-tanks, add-on reservoirs for the long flight from Wyoming to Omaha that provided an extra 30 gallons of fuel.  Add it all up; no response, Mideast connection, sensitive location, and extra fuel and it was a real-time threat, resembling the commandeered airliners that crashed into the World Trade Center, Pentagon, and Pennsylvania.  Now over Cambridge, Nebraska and approaching the busy Omaha air corridor near President Bush’s destination, the diminutive Michele Stauffer began to re-establish contact.  More than 3 hours after all aircraft were ordered to land, Michele finally tried to make contact with Epply Airport in Omaha but got strange recordings that it was, “closed indefinitely.” This was about the time Air Force One was leaving Barksdale for Offutt.  Michele was confused, “I’d never heard anything like this and thought there must be a military exercise.”  She contacted “Center,” the regional hub for air traffic control.  Michele told me, “Here I am, still in the air after 4 hours, but in the same air space as Air Force One?  When I called Center, they seemed panicked in their voice, and they said, ‘We’ve opened Fremont (Nebraska) for you, you need to descend rapidly and land immediately.’  Major Kurt Kindschuh was startled by the radio traffic, “a lot of people were saying ‘hey, we got this airplane out to the west, it’s pointed right at Omaha, we need you guys to do something.” 

Bobbi Doorenbos was already airborne, along with pilot Mike Jones.  They were ordered to intercept the unresponsive aircraft, but because they were among the first F16s up, they were only armed with dummy rounds.  Bobbi said she and Mike located the Cessna and held a “wheel” pattern above it for a good 10 minutes.  “I didn’t see it as a threat.  Maybe they hadn’t got the word or the radio was out,” Bobbi thought at first.  Although her instincts were correct, the craft was still considered aggressive and in violation of the no-fly restrictions.  It needed to be dealt with. 

Michele took the controls and couldn’t imagine that they’d schedule an air show on Tuesday.  The Cessna 6-seater she was piloting was a “high wing aircraft,” meaning the wing was above her and she had no overhead vision and couldn’t see the fighter jets.  But she sensed something was very wrong.  “I’m coming down as fast as I can, without pretty much ripping your ears off, and then she (air traffic controller) comes back and she says, ‘We need you on the ground immediately, we have two special F16s descending on you.’  With the fighter jets circling overhead, Michele landed safely.  “My knees crumpled when I was finally told of the terrorist attacks.”  That was her moment of trepidation, when she thought of her family, like other Americans had done more than 4 hours earlier.  “If the thought I had of turning and going to Kansas City, if I’d have done that, I think they’d have shot me down in an instant.  Had I been one of those pilots of an F16, I’d have probably done the same thing if I thought an airplane was going to resist.” 

For the 10^th anniversary of that day, I re-connected with many of the pilots who were airborne on 9-11.  Bobbi Doorenbos had been promoted to the staff of the Vice President, serving as Special Advisor for Defense and Intelligence.  Looking back at 2001, she told me the incident with the Cessna was the only time she’s ever intercepted an aircraft in a real life situation.  Since she was unarmed, Bobbi said that ramming Michele with her F16 would have been the only recourse to take out the plane.  “We aren’t trained for that,” she admitted, “but that was the only option available.”  One of her most vivid memories was being told, “You are clear to do what is necessary.” 

The “Top Guns” of Sioux City still had another mission that day.  Major Kindschuh told me, “I never thought, driving through the cornfields of the Midwest that morning, that I’d actually be talking to the pilot of Air Force One.” About an hour after Michele landed, Kindschuh watched as the Commander in Chief arrived at Offutt.  Once President Bush was on the ground and waiting out the attack, the Iowa fighters continued to fly air cover, in vast, sweeping patterns that extended over Iowa and Nebraska.  About ten F16s flew that day, two at a time, providing continuous protection, armed with 20 mm cannon and Sidewinder air-to-air missiles.  The sorties lasted several hours each, sometimes requiring mid-air refueling.  After her encounter with the Cessna, Bobbi Doorenbos landed, was finally armed with missiles and live ammo, and flew a second sortie.  For the 10^th anniversary of 9-11, Bobbie told me, “I couldn’t believe I was flying over Iowa with live weapons and the possible need to use them.  It was such a sad moment.  Very sad.”   

As the “Fighting Falcons” circled over Offutt’s underground bunker, President Bush called a videoconference of his National Security Council.  It was during this Omaha stop when the first indication of al Qaeda involvement surfaced.  Despite objections from “just about everyone,” the President said he wanted 9-11 to end with a speech to show the government was functioning and he wanted to deliver it from the Oval Office.  “I damn sure wasn’t going to give it from a bunker in Nebraska.”  He thought the image of a cowering president would give the enemy a psychological victory.     

As Air Force One departed Offutt and flew across Iowa, two Sioux City F16s escorted the President part way home to the nation’s capital.  One of them was Lt. Tyson Herbold, a rookie who just graduated from flight training school.  “Tactically speaking, we wanted to be higher and behind him so we could sweep out in front, in case another aircraft was out in front of him.”  The other F16 escort was Kurt Kindschuh. “We would have been able to provide any offensive support that would have been needed but no, we did not flight right off his wingtip like you see in some of the pictures.”  A year after the 9-11 incident, Operations Commander, Lt. Col. Gary Cranmer, told me, that in the interview process for new pilots, they ask the candidates if they could shoot down an airliner, “Can you go kill somebody?  And a lot of them don’t think about the process, but that’s the job we’re trained to do…that’s the job NORAD tasked us to do that day.”

For the 2011 anniversary, I wanted to follow up with Michele.  She was still running Kansas Aircraft and Travis, her co-pilot on 9-11, was flying for an airline.  Michele was experiencing occasional flashbacks about that day, and how close she was to being taken out.  If she had decided to over fly Omaha and continue on to Kansas City, either Bobbi would have rammed her or an armed F16 could have been on the scene in minutes to shoot her down.  “When I look at pictures from the 9-11 Memorial,” she told me, “or when I see certain things or when I’m flying, it will make me think of that day.  I was very blessed.”  Raised as a Catholic, Michele said, “I believe in a master plan and that things happen for a reason.  I try not to out fly my guardian angles.” 

As we talked about the fragility of life, Michele shared a devastating story about a former customer.  She had become friends with the late Christopher Reeve, the best actor to play Superman on the big screen, and his wife Dana.  He purchased an airplane from Kansas Aircraft to peruse his interest in flying and Michele delivered it to White Plains Airport in New York, where she met the couple.  “One day,” Michele recalled, “Christopher said, ‘Dana worries about me flying and told me to sell the plane.’  Chris said he was going to put the money into horses.”  It was in 1995 when Reeve was thrown by his horse and became a quadriplegic.  He died in 2004, at the age of 52.     

Sept. 11^th ended with mostly vacant skies.  Because of the nationwide air traffic shut down, Michelle Stauffer drove home from Nebraska in a rental car and my awards ceremony in Nashville was cancelled.  “Sometimes, over a glass of wine, I’ll be asked to recite my 9-11 story,” she said, but in the decade since that harrowing day, Michelle has never heard of another civilian pilot who was in the air longer than she was.  As for the 185^th Fighter Wing, the Iowa Legislature honored the unit for meritorious service.  For the first anniversary of the attacks, I requested an interview with President Bush and suggested the White House create a special citation for the Sioux City Air Guard.  There were so many other heroes on 9-11 that nothing ever materialized.  In a final twist of fate, the squadron’s F16 fighters were de-activated two years after their historic mission and the 185th has been flying refueling tankers ever since, often ‘topping off’ jet fighters in the continuing war against terrorism spanning the Middle East.

 

How the American Forces Vietnam Network Died

 

For the one year anniversary of our book Hot Mics and TV Lights, lead author Marc Yablonka and I offer this full chapter on the final days of the AFVN legacy. It is available on Amazon in paperback or digital foremats

It’s 105 Degrees and the Temperature is Rising

            A popular Christmas song would go down as the last consequential music selection broadcast on AFVN’s FM radio station: Irving Berlin’s White Christmas.

            In spite of the war, many Americans have fond memories of Christmas in Vietnam. It was possible, maybe even likely, to have a merry Christmas. This depended on your job, your unit and location—and what the enemy might be planning. Most of us made the best of the situation.

            It was a nostalgic time we looked forward to. Moms back home boxed up homemade Christmas cookies; families mailed gifts and cards; USOs and Donut Dollies helped spread the holiday spirit; thousands laughed at Bob Hope’s Christmas shows; and enlisted men’s and officers’ clubs were decked out to simulate stateside traditions.

            Military chefs pitched in with special meals. For the most fortunate revelers, the menu rivaled what they would have enjoyed at home. I remember my Saigon mess hall even served eggnog.

            Like many units, AFVN’s main entrance was ornamented; a 1968 photo shows the lobby television flanked by two Christmas trees. They were artificial, but they were perfect! The record library had a selection of holiday music—including White Christmas—and our radio and TV programming provided an appropriate amount of holiday cheer. Hopefully, we didn’t make the guys in the field too homesick.

            But Irving Berlin never could have imagined how his White Christmas would be used decades later in Vietnam: as a foreboding anthem to evacuate the country. It was 1975 and the last AFVN radio station had been retired and transferred to the civilian staff of American Radio Service.

            “My last day in Vietnam was simply crazy,” recalled CBS News reporter Ed Bradley, in the book Tears Before the Rain: An Oral History of the Fall of South Vietnam. “On the morning of April 29, Armed Forces Radio was playing its usual Muzak. Then they interrupted the program to announce that ‘it’s a hundred and five degrees in Saigon and the temperature is rising.’ This was followed by the playing of Bing Crosby’s White Christmas. You’ve got to remember this was in late April.”

            Author Larry Engelmann’s book contains numerous mentions of the final-alert broadcast on the only remaining English-language radio station, and it corrects a couple of misconceptions. First, it was not Bing Crosby’s version of White Christmas, but the voice of Tennessee Ernie Ford. Second, the predetermined code to get out, was not really necessary for many listeners—most people already knew the enemy was advancing on South Vietnam’s capital.

            A full 24 hours before the momentous radio advisory, Saigon’s main Post Exchange was being looted. According to journalist Dirck Halstead of TIME/LIFE, who wrote in TheDigitalJournalist, “Vietnamese are smashing through the windows of the giant American PX and Commissary. As burglar alarms bray, they wheel off shopping carts filled with sugar, medicine and frozen pork chops . . ..”

            The radio warning to evacuate did, however, serve to make it official, but the signs were obvious that Saigon’s days were numbered. As Ed Bradley elaborated, “In fact, all you had to do to know the evacuation had started was to look out the hotel window. You saw Americans—round eyes—walking down the streets carrying suitcases.”

            Former Marine Douglas Potratz was Sergeant of the Guard at the U.S. Embassy compound when he heard the dreaded radio announcement that the temperature was 105 degrees and rising and the playing of White Christmas. “I was over by the security building, which was an old French villa by the gate,” Potratz said. “Everybody had radios and it was being played, I’d say about 11 o’clock or noontime.” Potratz heard the bulletin just once, but was told it was repeated every 15 minutes.

            That very day, April 29^th, 1975, the last two Americans killed in the conflict were Embassy Marines Darwin Judge and Charles McMahon. Their position was shelled at Tan Son Nhut airport.

            Decades later, Potratz was an attorney for the Fall of Saigon Marines Association when I interviewed him. “We had passed the word a little before White Christmas started playing that something was going to happen that day. We had not planned to have the embassy as the evacuation point; everything was supposed to happen at the DAO compound.” [Defense Attaché Office at Tan Son Nhut]

            One of the most complete accounts on the role of radio in the final evacuation came from Chuck Neil who was a civilian announcer for American Radio Service as the war ended. He had been working for private companies in South Vietnam, had done some announcing years earlier, and applied for an on-air position after AFVN passed the torch to ARS in 1973.

            “We had a regular format—news, sports, 24-hour day, 100,000-watts, FM radio,” according to Neil. He was hired as a news announcer but also did a couple of live DJ shows. He memorialized the tumultuous final days in Larry Engelmann’s book Tears Before the Rain and on Engelmann’s blog Pushing On.

            The idea of a radio alert was conceived by the Defense Attaché Office, according to Neil. “The public affairs officer at the DAO, Ann Bottorf—the late Ann Bottorf, the lady who was on the orphan airlift C5A and when the door opened the suction took her right out—she thought of it.”

            Neil attended a meeting with the security office at the U.S. Embassy to determine the precise message. “So, I said why not play a recording of something that every American will recognize in a split second . . . so why not play, “I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas?”

            Ironically, White Christmas was first performed on the Kraft Music Hall radio program weeks after the attack on Pearl Harbor. Bing Crosby’s version has been described as the most popular Christmas song in history. Soldiers requested it be played on Armed Forces Radio during World War II.

            Neil said he was thinking of Bing Crosby’s rendition, “but of all the thousands of records and tapes we had at the radio station, I couldn’t find Bing Crosby’s recording so I got Tennessee Ernie Ford’s.” Then, after the song, Neil would announce, “The temperature in Saigon is 105 degrees and rising.” Neil said that was the signal that the evacuation was on. “We recorded that and put in on a tape cartridge.”

            By April 28, Neil said there were a lot of heavy concussions and explosions, but that most of the Vietnamese staff had already gotten out, although some locals elected to stay on and help at the radio station. “We knew that Vietnam was going to fall, but we didn’t know it was going to be that quick.”

            Near the end, Neil said the remaining Vietnamese had brought whole families into the compound anticipating a sudden departure. “They were sleeping and living right there at the radio station. We must have had two hundred people in there. They [toilets] were overflowing and inoperable . . . and the place started to stink and it was awful.”

            Late in the morning of April 29 the DAO called Neil and ordered the remaining four Americans to evacuate. Without alarming the large crowd of Vietnamese, Neil, the Americans and maybe a half dozen Vietnamese engineers, got into the station’s van. “We had assured them (the engineers) that we would get them out,” Neil said.

            Neil went back inside for his last all-important task. “We had a big Gates Automatic Programmer . . . and I took the cart (cartridge recording) ‘105 degrees and rising,’ and also the ‘I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas,’ and popped it in the slot and punched it up. And that was my last official act at the radio station.”

            Neil, who tucked his .38 Colt Cobra into his waistband, explained how the van full of ARS broadcasters made its way to the Embassy—even bribing a South Vietnamese Army checkpoint with a carton of Salem cigarettes—and got safely past thousands of frantic Vietnamese clamoring to get in.

            Inside the walls, Neil described the recreation area where the swimming pool, restaurant and bar had become a holding section for well-behaved refugees. “The manager of the place was still there, but he just opened the refrigerators and some of the people were frying up steaks on the grill, and the liquor locker was open and hundreds of bottles were consumed until finally there was nothing left.”

            From inside the chancery building itself—where Neil saw Ambassador Martin in the hallway, and “beautiful handguns lying around all over the place, just left there”—he telephoned the radio station and told the Vietnamese to use the station’s two pick-up trucks to shuttle the remaining evacuees to Newport (terminal). “I understand they had a hell of a time, but they made it.”

            The ARS broadcaster’s account explains that he was one of the last Americans out, about one o’clock in the morning of April 30. Also leaving on the same helicopter from the embassy rooftop were four Vietnamese radio engineers. “I was disgusted with the whole thing, to be honest with you. I felt like we abandoned lot of people,” Neil concluded.

            Flying to the U.S.S. Hancock in the South China Sea, Neil said, “Long Binh was ablaze. Fires all over the place. I could see the lights of Vung Tau. I was sorry to leave so hurriedly.”

            The next day, aboard the aircraft carrier overcrowded with refugees, Neil made a haunting discovery: The radio station was still on the air. “I heard my voice on the radio say, ‘It’s twelve o’clock midnight in Saigon on American radio.’ ‘Jesus,’ we thought. We had a powerhouse there . . . and the generators must have still been operating.”

"Thank you for your service"

 

When was the first time you heard, or, said "Thank you for your service?" I addressed this question for Veterans Day 2023, when I spoke to the residents of the Iowa Veterans Home in Marshalltown, Iowa.

Approximately 20 some years ago, I was in the radio studio fundraising for WOI Radio in Ames. Our membership director entered the room, and we talked while we were off the air. Suddenly, he said these five words: “Thank you for your service.” I was stunned. Coming from our most unpopular war, I had never heard that.  It took about 25 years for me to hear those words. Now, it is common. Initially, I thought it was disingenuous----like, “have a nice day.” But I’ve changed, and now realize the country has changed too. I think those words come from the heart. Two weeks ago I was at Costco, getting a loaf of their sourdough bread. I was wearing my Vietnam Vet cap. The lady in front of me was Governor Reynolds. We exchanged greetings and she said, “Thank you for your service.”

My reply is something I adopted from another veteran and I suggest you try it. When someone tells me “thank you for your service,” I smile--look them straight in the eyes-- and say, “thank you for your support.” It’s mutual respect that makes us both feel proud. And I hope it encourages them to thank vets all the time.

When did YOU first speak these works, or, hear them as a veteran? 

A Photo Speaks

Veterans around the country are being judged in creative arts competitions. I am among the contenders from the State of Iowa that have advanced to the nationwide finals. Here is my entry, in the category of creative writing-veteran's experiences.

A 53 year old photograph of a U.S. Marine on a rocky mountain island in South Vietnam haunts me more than ever. The photo is of me standing among dead roadside trees and shrubbery that had been sprayed with toxic defoliants. Collectively, these chemicals are commonly known as Agent Orange.

Early in 1970, I was a TV newscaster for the American Forces Vietnam Network at one of AFVN’s remote outposts on Hon Tre Island. The small radio and TV detachment served a large military audience at Nha Trang and Cam Ranh Bay.

The Photo

Herbicides were not controversial then; they were a weapon that killed trees and underbrush to deny the enemy hiding places. It may have prevented an ambush on Americans driving up this winding road to AFVN and other units.

Fifty years after I arrived in Saigon, my doctor at the Veterans Administration Hospital in Des Moines, Iowa sent me to a neurologist after I complained about a tremor in my left hand. I’d already been living with insomnia and had difficulty maintaining a comfortable body temperature. 

A battery of tests, and a visit with a movement disorders specialist, confirmed the diagnosis: Parkinson’s disease. I had become a postwar casualty. Immediately, my life changed, but not always in negative ways. I have become closer to the veterans community, including a fellow Marine broadcaster whom I worked with on Hon Tre Island and who is also living with Parkinson’s.

I continue to educate myself about this complex brain syndrome and my evolving symptoms. I join online seminars and stay active to slow the disease’s progression. I walk, bike, golf, meditate and have learned tai chi. Thanks to the VA’s Recreation Therapy staff, pickle ball has become my favorite work out. A three-wheeled recumbent bike provides better balance and I enjoy hitting the trails with a proud biker group, appropriately named “Vets Riding to Live.” I competed in the VA’s Golden Age Games for the first time and won a medal. 

Participating in a one year research project through the VA and University of Iowa Hospitals to study the importance of aerobic exercise for Parkinson’s patients was especially satisfying. We had to walk a minimum 50 minutes, three times a week, at a swift pace. The research is ongoing, but I’m convinced that my exercise regimen is keeping me a step ahead of this menacing rival.

Many years before my diagnosis, as the Bangkok Bureau Chief for CBS News in Thailand, 60 Minutes sent me back to Vietnam to investigate a possible TV magazine feature on the tragic legacy of Agent Orange among Vietnamese. It was a shocking journey into hospitals, village homes and the remote countryside, in search of victims and experts who we might interview.

What I discovered there still unsettles me today: helpless parents and their children with heartbreaking deformities; a hospital wing for women with problem pregnancies; jars of aborted Siamese twins and triplets; and villagers who told me they could hear trees falling at night in areas that had been sprayed. Vietnamese officials linked much of this to Agent Orange, but supporting medical evidence didn’t exist—only a frightened population that lived on the poisoned land. 

According to the Veterans Benefits Administration, every veteran who stepped foot in Vietnam is considered potentially exposed to Agent Orange. Many of these vets now fear the ghastly consequences have become generational. At a public hearing in my hometown of Des Moines, I watched as veterans shared their worries about learning disorders, spina bifida and other maladies in their off-spring and grand kids.

I’ve been told the central Iowa VA’s neurology department sees new Vietnam veterans every week as Parkinson symptoms slowly emerge and old vets are given the dreaded diagnosis. Nationwide, more than 100,000 veterans are being treated for Parkinson’s.

The Agent Orange caseload is growing at an alarming rate, with veterans sick from Parkinson’s, cancers, nerve and other serious diseases presumed to be linked to herbicide exposure. Parkinson’s-like conditions became eligible for VA disability compensation last year, and coverage was further expanded by the PACT Act.

Many Vietnam veterans are familiar with AFVN, the military broadcasting unit where I worked and where I was exposed to Agent Orange. The armed forces network was depicted in the 1987 blockbuster movie Good Morning, Vietnam. Ironically, both comedian Robin Williams and the Air Force broadcaster he portrayed, Adrian Cronauer, both died with dire neurological diseases.  

Rick Fredericksen is a writer and journalist who lives in Norwalk, Iowa. He served in South Vietnam in 1969-70 and worked for CBS News, based in Thailand, from 1985 to 1995. He is the author of  Broadcasters: Unknown Chaos and Hot Mics and TV Lights: The American Forces Vietnam Network

Hot Mics and TV Lights: The American Forces Vietnam Network  NOW AVAILABLE 

I invite Old Asia Hands to explore my new book, written with lead author Mark Yablonka. This is truly a comprehensive summary of the wartime radio/TV service for the vast audience in South Vietnam. Veterans, Vietnamese and pleasure readers will all find this a fascinating addition to your Vietnam library. It is much more than a wartime book; sometimes joyful, sometimes sad, but always entertaining. Topics include the introduction of television to Vietnam; key on-air personalities, including Bobbie the weather girl, deejay Pat Sajak; the only female soldier to be assigned to AFVN; the movie "Good Morning, Vietnam; controversy and the tragic casualties that struck the network. An inside look at the broadcast organization comes from the dozens of AFVN veterans who share their stories--in their own words. Hot Mics and TV Lights is available in both paperback and digital editions. Buy Here

Achievement Award From My Peers

"Be accurate, fair and non-partisan." (Photo by Cliff Brockman)

It was a gratifying honor for me to stand before nearly 100 Iowa broadcast journalists to accept one of Iowa's most prestigious awards, on April 29th, 2023. The Jack Shelly Award has been presented annually to outstanding Iowans for more than a half century by the Iowa Broadcast News Association.

Shelley was a beloved pioneer in Iowa broadcasting. He was the first news director for WHO TV in Des Moines, the legendary station where Ronald Reagan worked. Shelley filed radio reports from WWII and was on the battleship U.S.S. Missouri to witness the Japanese surrender. Later in his career, he taught journalism at Iowa State University. 

The photo at left shows Jack helping me carry award plaques after the 1997 IBNA awards convention, when I was news director for WOI Radio in Ames. He passed away in 2010. Numerous former colleagues have won the award before me, including my former bosses at KCCI TV, Russ Van Dyke and Paul Rhoades, who were valuable mentors early in my career.

I was genuinely moved as I observed fellow broadcasters react to a news feature that KCCI telecast when I retired in 2016. It reviewed my career from the early days as an AFVN newsman in the Vietnam War, my time with KGMB in Hawaii, 10 years with CBS News in Southeast Asia, and finally, my long run with WOI and Iowa Public Radio. After leaving broadcasting, I was a contributing writer for Vietnam magazine.

The awards ceremony was held at Prairie Meadows Events Center and the attendees were so nice and polite I can hardly describe my emotions.I love the photo below, where I was flanked by IBNA members as they encouraged me on.

In my brief comments, I touched on the disturbing aspects of the current media landscape: "It is a challenging time for our profession; newsroom layoffs, newspapers closing; public trust in the media embarrassingly low. The best way to overcome this is to be accurate, fair and non-partisan, the old-school journalism I learned."

It was a night I will forever cherish. I just wish Jack Shelly was there. Thanks a hundred times to the Iowa Broadcast News Association. Finally, I attach the video that was prepared by KCCI and shown to the audience as a set-up to announcing the 2023 Jack Shelly Award.

My retirement story on KCCI

Update on famous Siamese twins in Vietnam

Duc is honored at the Japanese Consulate in Ho Chi Minh City (Mainichi photo)

I met Nguyen Duc in Saigon when he was 13 years old and in 6^th grade. He was living in Tu Du Hospital on a floor reserved for Peace Village International, a German charity that specialized in treating kids with birth deformities. There were 36 children when I was there; many were suspected victims of the Agent Orange defoliant which was widely used during the war. Duc told me he wanted to be a doctor.

At age 13, Duc was in a wheelchair

I was heartened recently when his present-day photo was published in a story by the Japanese daily newspaper Mainichi. Duc, who is now 40, was being presented with an award by the Japanese Foreign Ministry. Not only was he very much alive, but he was out of his wheelchair and able to stand on his only leg, with the assistance of a crutch.

I was introduced to Duc, and his brother, Viet, during a 1994 research project for the CBS News documentary 60 Minutes. The conjoined twins had undergone successful separation surgery at the age of seven. When I photographed Viet, he was confined to bed and was unresponsive. Sadly, the Mainichi news story said that Viet had died at the age of 26, from “pneumonia and other complications.”

I snapped this photo of Viet 13 years before he died.

My mission for 60 Minutes was to advance a major TV magazine story on the tragedy of Agent Orange in Vietnam. Correspondent Ed Bradley was the designated reporter. I have written extensively about my investigation, which included a field trip into the Mekong Delta, visits with grieving parents in their villages and onsite visits to various institutions. The full story is told in my digital book, Broadcasters: Untold Chaos.

Of the many conjoined fetuses that were referred to Tu Du Hospital, Duc is the most fortunate. There is a “collection room” at Tu Du that holds the grotesque remains of many aborted births, submerged in formaldehyde—Siamese twins and triplets among the specimens.  

At the time, I sympathized with the many devastated families who decided to terminate full term births, but I did not have a personal stake in the story. Now I do. I was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease two years ago, and my doctors at the Veterans Administration say it is likely caused by exposure to Agent Orange. I was a young Marine in South Vietnam in 1969-70.

In search of Agent Orange victims in the Mekong Delta

Beyond meeting Duc 28 years ago, we now have another common bond in our suspected connection to the infamous wartime herbicide. Seeing his contemporary photo denotes a rare triumph in the continuing saga of Agent Orange.

According to the Parkinson’s Foundation, approximately 1-million Americans are now living with the hideous disease; about one in 10 are veterans. My doctors at the VA are seeing a dramatic increase in Parkinson’s patients as symptoms emerge decades after exposure.

American organizations like Veterans for Peace have sent representatives to Vietnam to offer support for Agent Orange awareness. The U.S. Government has provided funding to clean up major toxic sites where the chemical operations were based.

Duc has realized one of his childhood dreams. While not a doctor, he is working at Tu Du Hospital where he has spent most of his life, and where he cares for orphans and other children who are thought to be victims of Agent Orange, like him.

He remains a national role model, just as he and his brother were as children when they survived the risky procedure to separate the twins. Given celebrity media status, I was among the foreign reporters who wanted to meet Duc, and I remember him as inquisitive, bright and energetic—the ideal poster boy to represent innocent Agent Orange victims.

Aborted fetuses, badly deformed, are held in the "collection room."

During the award ceremony honoring him, Duc expressed a desire to leverage international support as Vietnam battles its Agent Orange legacy, saying, “I would like to make efforts in continuing to serve as a bridge between Japan and Vietnam.”

It’s been 60 years since the U.S. military launched Operation Ranch Hand, the widespread application of Agent Orange and other herbicides. Personnel adopted Smokey Bear as their unofficial mascot, according to James G. Lewis, writing for the American Society for Environmental History. Placards soon appeared on Ranch Hand installations, according to Lewis, but Smokey’s signature slogan had been altered, in a way that is haunting today: “Only you can prevent a forest.” 

On a daily basis, Americans and Vietnamese get a frightening diagnosis that could be connected to Agent Orange exposure; cancers, nerve and brain disorders, among others. It is uncertain just how far the damage has moved into the gene pool, possibly triggering maladies for generations.

In 2016, when Vietnam Veterans of America hosted a hearing on the impact of defoliants in Des Moines, an old vet in the audience wore a T-shirt that expresses the frustration that Vietnam War veterans will carry for the rest of their lives: “And the body count continues.”