Vietnam From 35,000 Feet: A Stewardess Story

By Joan DeRosa

Journey back to 1968 when the war in Vietnam is raging, when only pretty, young women in short skirts or "hot pants" are hired as stewardesses to wait on passengers, and when young soldiers are transported in and out of war zones on these iconic flights. It is war told through the eyes of a young stewardess, Christina Valle, who falls in lo

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mary Elizabeth Publishers
• Release date: Nov 2, 2023
• ISBN: 9798987795613

Joan DeRosa

Joan DeRosa became a stewardess in 1967 as Vietnam was in fullswing. Most of the commercial airlines at that time had large militarycontracts transporting soldiers to and from Southeast Asia, primarilyVietnam. Joan had many adventures, but with the fun and excitementalso came the tragedy and horror of war. Being based by her airline inTachikawa, Japan, near Tachikawa Air Force Base, she volunteered forthe Red Cross during her off-time. It wasn't until years later, she realizedhow deeply the experience affected her. From those experiencesthis novel was born.After Vietnam, Joan came home and graduated Magna Cum Laudefrom the University of Central Florida with a degree in education. Shebecame a teacher and taught for twenty-eight years, teaching varioussubjects but primarily English to foreign students. Ironically, many ofthe students she taught were Vietnamese refugees.

Book preview

Table of Contents

INTRODUCTION

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

Book Club Discussion Questions

About the Author

© 2023 Joan DeRosa

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, in part, in any form, without the permission of the publisher.

Mary Elizabeth Publishing

Orlando, Florida

First Edition: November 2023

Edited by: Arielle Haughee

Formatted by: Autumn Skye

Cover design: Sanja Mosic

Print ISBN: 979-8-9877956-0-6

eBook ISBN: 979-8-9877956-1-3

Printed in the U.S.A.

Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is accidental. Though most events did occur, all characters in this novel are either composite and/or fictionalized people. At times poetic license was taken to contribute to a more interesting story. The author does not propose to be an expert on Vietnam history or all events of 1968. Nor is it in any way the intent of the author to offend the sensibilities of the reader by the language, behavior, or characterizations in this book. She does intend to portray the various attitudes of that time accurately and to tell a story that needs to be told.

Praise for Vietnam From 35,000 Feet: 
A Stewardess Story

Joan DeRosa has written a remarkable account of her experiences as an airline stewardess flying soldiers in and out of Vietnam during the war. She vividly describes the nervous dread of green soldiers being sent to Vietnam and the ecstatic thrill of those soldiers who returned home on the ‘freedom bird flights.’ I was one of those soldiers. This is a story that has needed to be told for a long time.

Art Wiknik

101st Airborne Division

Author of ‘Nam Sense

"Vietnam From 35,000 Feet is a fascinating book that explores the war in Vietnam through the eyes of a young woman. It’s a coming-of-age story of courage, adventure, humor, and a loss of innocence in the backdrop of a unique period in our history. While it doesn’t focus on the brutality of war, it captures a social aspect of war that few think about unless they were involved in Vietnam during that time. I found it an intriguing read worth my time."

Karen Weston

English teacher, 35 years

"In 1968, I was one of the soldiers flown into Vietnam on a commercial carrier, as many soldiers were. As I read Vietnam From 35,000 Feet, I found it realistic and compelling. The night flight into Danang, as recounted in the book, was like a déjà vu experience for me. I highly recommend it."

Paul Bock

US Army Fourth Infantry Division

Purple Heart recipient

This book is an excellent presentation of how war can affect even those who do not actually participate in hostilities. It presents an easy-to-read description of the lives of those who devoted their time to activities involving delivery of soldiers to the war zone, delivering the combat fatalities home, taking the wounded out of the country for further needed medical care, and volunteering to spent time with the wounded to bolster their morale. It shows how hearts can be elevated by love and devastated when that love is lost. All, regardless of age, should read this to get a good understanding of our warriors and those who shared time with them or even fell in love with them. As one who served two one-year combat tours flying helicopters, was shot down, wounded, and barely missed becoming a POW, it rekindled many emotions.

Lt. Colonel Donald E. Long Sr.

US Army, ret.

Dedication

To all those who served in Vietnam.

And a special thank you to some of the people who 
helped and encouraged me:

George Pavlovich

Dr. Ronald Glasser

David Lemons

Paul Bock

Ed Rau

Art Wiknik

Inspired by true events

INTRODUCTION

Diving into a plate of biscuits and gravy one Sunday morning at Shoney’s restaurant, I began to recount to a friend my first experience with a wounded soldier. It was at a Red Cross casualty station in Japan, where I was based as an airline stewardess during the Vietnam War. As I talked about walking down a long aisle of mutilated young men, stopping to help a soldier who had lost a leg and couldn’t see, tears began to run down my face and drip into my coffee.

I hadn’t thought about this in years. I don’t know why I’m crying. Was I apologizing or just perplexed?

It was as if my body was voicing unexpressed emotions I had never allowed to surface. There was a disconnect between my feelings and my mind and body. Was this my wakeup call to heal those unresolved feelings? It was the beginning of a journey, one that became a book—this book.

In June of 1967, I went to work for an airline. Like many commercial airlines at that time, this one had large military contracts to transport troops, primarily in and out of Vietnam during the war. The trips would include flights all over Southeast Asia as a support to the military operations.

For me, the attraction of this airline was its bases all over the world. I could live in New Zealand, Alaska, American Samoa, or Japan, among other places. I had been to Europe, but had never traveled to Asia, so I picked Japan. My mother was deeply concerned about me flying into Vietnam. Being young and feeling invincible, this was not a shared concern. My plan was to fly for one year, make some good money, and see the world. After all, it was the 60s and being a stewardess was tantamount to being a movie star.

I flew for five years, 1967-1972, and had experiences that changed my life forever. The guilt I felt for helping transport so many soldiers into harm’s way and my awakening to the horrors of war will stay with me for a lifetime. Thousands of women helped fly soldiers into Vietnam during the war. I hope they find some acknowledgement in this book, perhaps even some fond memories. To the men who went, I salute you.

CHAPTER 1

First Flight

I had just picked up the last tray from the meal service. Mary, my co-worker who was assigned to the galley, was dumping the leftover food and containers into a large metal storage bin. I helped her climb into the bin to steady herself as she jumped on the garbage to pack it down.

Yuck, Christina! Whoever said this was a glamorous job?

It’s much harder work than I ever expected. We’d better hurry. We’re landing in forty minutes.

As Mary stepped out of the garbage bin, shaking off one long, slender, shapely leg at a time, I noticed red stuff over her shoes and feet. Some unused tomato juice containers had broken open when she jumped on the garbage. Though most of it had squirted all over her shoes and feet, small red droplets had splattered all the way up to her lovely blonde hair and face.

Shit, what a way to spend New Year’s.

We’ve already had our New Year’s, I answered, hoping to console her. It was early morning, January 31, 1968, the Lunar New Year for the Vietnamese.

This was our first flight. We were nine-day wonders: a six-week course crammed into nine days and an FAA test to pass. We’d been taught airplanes and emergency procedures, and here we were on our first trip, literally flying by the seat of our pants.

Our Boeing 707, full of G.I.s headed for Bien Hoa, a large U.S. military base in Vietnam about twenty miles east of Saigon, had five stewardesses on board: three in the aft and two in the forward section. Only one stewardess had any experience.

I’m going to start securing the cabin for landing. Can you handle the rest of the galley stuff? I asked.

Grumbling and looking down at her red feet, Mary gave me a begrudging, Yes.

Jennifer and I proceeded up the aisle, waking up exhausted soldiers, folding blankets, picking up pillows and storing them in the overhead rack. We had to make sure their belongings were stored securely under their seats. We were going into a war zone. Anything could happen. Anything could become a projectile.

I walked up to the front to inform the chief stew of our progress. Elizabeth was a nice, nurturing woman—the oldest crew member on the flight. I thought she was terribly old, twenty-eight.

The aft galley is secure, Elizabeth.

You ladies are doing an amazing job. Would you pick up coffee cups and trash in the cockpit? I’m afraid we’re not as far along as you are. You’re showing us up.

Sure, Elizabeth. I’d be glad to, I said proudly.

The seat belt signs lit up, indicating we were about thirty minutes out. All landing prep activities now became imperative. We were landing—cigarettes out, trays up and locked, seats in upright positions, seatbelts fastened, and everything secured in the galleys.

As I opened the door to the cockpit, I heard over the radio, Charlie is twenty miles from the base. DO NOT LAND. I repeat, DO NOT LAND. I could see rocket fire and bombs going off below in the area near the base.

What are we going to do? said the co-pilot.

We have a lot of soldiers on this plane who need to be down there. I’m not taking them back to Japan.

The captain was an ex-WWII pilot, a real no-nonsense guy. That gave me some confidence, but I didn’t like the look on all four of the men’s faces.

Didn’t anyone tell these bastards they agreed to a cease fire for their New Year? Radio ground we’re coming in. They better cover us and make a place, NOW.

I said a quick prayer, Please, God, let the captain know what he’s doing. I’m only twenty years old.

Tell the chief stew I want to see her NOW, demanded the captain.

I grabbed whatever trash I saw and hurried out of the cockpit. Elizabeth, the captain wants to see you ASAP.

Why?

You’d better ask him.

I walked down the aisle through the cigarette smoke, which hung thick in the air. I could see the nervousness on the young faces of the soldiers.

How many of these guys are going to die or lose a leg to a land mine?

I put it out of my mind. When I got to the back, Mary and Jennifer were tidying up, making sure the galley was secure for landing.

Christina, did you check out C21, the one with the blond hair who looks just like Troy Donahue? Jennifer said playfully. He could put his shoes under my bed any day.

I gave her a ceiling shot.

We heard Elizabeth say over the intercom, We’ll be landing in twenty minutes. Please extinguish all cigarettes, fasten your seatbelts, and be sure your trays and seats are in an upright position.

Jennifer and I marched down the center of the cabin, checking that seat belts were tightly fastened, which looked like we were checking out everybody’s crotch. One young man looked up at me and gave me a wry smile. Actually, I think Jennifer was checking out crotches, especially C21’s.

When we finished, Jennifer took the seat on the aisle at the over-wing exit. I went to the back of the plane to take my position in the jump seat with Mary. I was the only stew in the back who knew what was going on, and when I got up for a moment to grab a couple of spice cakes stored in the closet, Mary looked at me disdainfully.

Haven’t you had enough of those? If you keep eating those damn cakes, you know you’re going on fat check.

I looked over at Mary and thought, Who cares? I may be dead in twenty minutes. As I ate my spice cake, I wondered what I was thinking when I took this job.

I finished high school at seventeen and went directly to the University of Florida. In my junior year, I was restless. All but five years of my life spent in school. I wanted to travel, see the world.

There had been an ad in the local newspaper hiring stewardesses for international travel. The interviews were being held in Miami. The next day, I hopped on a Greyhound bus, stayed at the YWCA, and made an appointment for an interview—unbeknownst to my parents. After I’d been hired by the airline and dropped out of school, I broke the news to my father.

He was an attorney, and I knew my decision would make him unhappy, but I didn’t realize how disappointed he would be in me. Dad wasn’t anti-war. He was a hawk and believed in the domino theory. He was just against me leaving school and doing something he considered beneath my abilities, like being a stewardess.

I was beginning to feel sorry I hadn’t listened to my parents. My mother said I always bit off more than I could chew. At this moment, I felt they were both right.

We came in swiftly but carefully—a good landing, considering.

Mary, don’t open the doors until Elizabeth gives us the okay.

Why not?

I said nothing.

You know, I’m getting real tired of you not answering me, Mary snapped.

The galley phone light went on. I answered it.

Christina, do not under any circumstances open the back door. All exiting will be done through the front. DO NOT exit the plane. We’ll be taking off as soon as possible.

But Elizabeth, what about the group we’re supposed to take back?

Sorry. Not this time.

I hated to hear that. If a soldier could survive for 365 days, the war was over for him. He had done his duty. Like the WWII guys said, They got to take the big boat home. This time it was a big jet home, but unfortunately, not tonight.

I watched a seasoned soldier board through the front of the plane. He walked about a quarter of the way down the craft.

Listen up, you grunts. We’re gonna get out of here fast and move quickly to the terminal.

Okay, that’s it, Mary demanded. What the hell is going on here?

I’ll tell you later, I said under my breath.

I followed the last soldier up the aisle, hoping I could see what was going on. The troops moved swiftly and in an orderly fashion. I could hear their combat boots banging down the steps of the steel ramp. Then suddenly the ramp was pulled away, the cabin door closed, and the plane began to move again.

Ladies, prepare for take-off. It was Elizabeth’s calm, strong voice over the intercom.

That just meant for us to get back in our seats and buckle up. This time I took a cabin seat. I sat by a window. The flight line was thick with frantic activity. A van sped by dangerously close to our plane. We passed a medivac hastily unloading the wounded. Supply trucks, jeeps, and numerous other vehicles moved swiftly to take cover. Airplanes were jockeying for position for take-off, and our troops, as well as others on foot, were in full gait running for the terminal. Mary sat in the seat next to me

Are you gonna tell me what’s happening now? Her voice was full of frustration.

I think we’re being attacked.

CHAPTER 2

The Officers’ Club

I felt Elizabeth’s soft hand on my shoulder.

Christina, we’re landing in forty-five minutes. You’ve been sleeping for hours.

Most of the trips for the Tachikawa-based stews originated and landed at Yokota AFB which was about a twenty-five-minute drive to Tachikawa, Japan. We began our flight in the middle of the night, and there had been many delays. I was beginning to understand how stressful and physically demanding this job was going to be.

I couldn’t wait to get home, but first we had to check into the office to get our flight status. I wasn’t scheduled to go out for three days. That would be heaven I thought, three whole days.

We climbed on the crew bus. I felt so weary. In about ten minutes we arrived at our office on the base. Upon checking the schedule, I found they hadn’t scheduled me for an earlier flight. I was indeed grateful.

The company had rented houses for their employees based in Japan. Our house was located right off Tachikawa Air Force Base, Laundry Gate Seven.

We climbed onto the crew bus once again. Well Mary, we’re on our way home, I said cheerfully.

You call that home! Bloody Mary is our landlady, and we’re across the street from a chicken factory and a boiler plant. Haven’t they ever heard of zoning?

She was right. The Japanese factory workers would be beating on those boilers till nine at night, and the odor from processed chickens was unbelievable. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like in the summer. Nevertheless, this was our home for now, and I was so exhausted, it didn’t matter where I slept.

Just keep in mind, Mary, it’s rent free.

Big DEAL!

The weather was a bitter-damp cold. When I took this base, I thought Japan didn’t have winters. Coming from Florida, I wasn’t accustomed to cold weather. Obviously, I didn’t do my homework before choosing Japan for my base.

As I opened the front door and Mary and I went inside, the cold and dampness went up my nose and penetrated the skin on my face. Directly inside of the door, there was an indenture in the floor. Many Japanese houses were built this way so shoes could be removed before entering the main area. We stepped up into the living room and chose to keep our shoes on.

The entire house had dark hardwood floors. The living room was small by our standards, and there was a tiny navy-blue couch you could bounce a rock off situated against the far wall. My feet hung over the side if I laid on it. We had a portable TV in front of the couch and another uncomfortable chair close to the door. Behind the chair was a window with an old air conditioner placed precariously in it. To the right of the doorway, a large brown circular space heater that reached the ceiling and grotesquely dominated the room. The phone was on a stand a few feet away from it. We had three small bedrooms and a rather comfortable kitchen. The kitchen was the only sizable room in the house, and it had a large, long table, which we congregated around to drink tea and talk.

The bathroom, like the house, was built in part-Japanese and part-Western style. I personally felt they should have picked one or the other. The bathroom was a perfect example with its square tub made of large bluish-green tiles. If I stood up in it, the sides would come midway between my knees and the top of my legs. There was a shower, but the tub looked as though it had been built primarily for soaking. We had a small sink and toilet next to it.

I’ll light the space heater, Mary.

Mary was from Manhattan, so winter wasn’t quite as much of a shock to her system as it was to mine. The space heater was the only form of heating in the house. If you stood in front of it, the front of you would be frying and your back would be freezing. There