Pan Am Unbuckled: A Very Plane Diary (3 page)

As I decompressed from the events of the flight, I mused how, two brief years after making my decision to work for Pan Am, I found myself in an
Edith Head
designer uniform, sweltering in the tropical sun of Vietnam. At age 22, I was getting a pillow and blanket for my fellow southern male peers in a war zone one moment— and the next, was in my designer uniform and white gloves, in the lobby of a 5-star resort hotel in another corner of the world. This was the yin yang of my life—“Unbuckled” with Pan Am.

From Russia With Me

Truth can be stranger than fiction, and it was on this particular flight into JFK from Moscow in 1970. I was purser out of the New York base. As purser I was responsible for lots of paper work like the bill of lading, currencies, the SIL and all of the immigration documentation. It was the last leg into JFK, after a layover in Copenhagen, and flight attendants were passing out the landing forms— just prior to the last snack service.

One of the crew came to me and said she was having a problem, and since I was Russian language qualified and it was this old Russian passenger, could I help? The old Russian man, Mr. Stanovich, was very excited about coming to the US. He was Jewish, and the USSR had made immigration available in a small window of time for Russian Jews to leave the country— and they were flocking to the US. In order for them to enter the US, they were required to have an American sponsor. Mr. Stanovich had listed his brother in New York as his sponsor. But, the address he had put on the form (which she was now reading) was just “New York”— no street address and no phone number. He kept saying “My brother lives in New York”. “Where in New York?” and he would just say “New York, New York”.

Pam Am was liable for hundreds of dollars in fines if the documentation was not done correctly. Goodness knows where it got fouled up…at the U.S. Embassy in Moscow…the Soviet Immigration Office…who knew? All I knew was that I had this tearful little old man, full of exuberance, saying simply his brother lives in New York.

When we landed and the passengers started to disembark, I held Mr. Stanovich back so that I could escort him myself to immigration— separate from the crew. Airline personnel have separate customs and immigration and are able to go through much more quickly than regular passengers. Now, I was going to have to go through regular clearance— and with the long lines, it could take forever.

Normally, ground service did this kind of thing. Flight service was only obliged to get passengers from Point-A to Point-B. It was one of the perks of the job. Working a flight could be stressful and intense, but when it was over, it was over. We landed and our work day was done. No taking worries home from the office—no hassles about lost baggage— none of that. We had done all the work Pan Am expected from us. After landing we were free. We were on our well- earned time off. But now, I was on the ground and still on duty.

At immigration, we were really lucky, and got a very nice officer to assist us. She said “We will work this out”. I did not know where this brother was in NY. The immigration lady at JFK was trying to help, but we were getting nowhere nailing down an address for the brother. The immigration officer finally had to say “He strikes me as being very sincere. But, he needs a sponsor address or we can’t really help him out.” At which, I blurted out “O-Kay, I’ll be his sponsor.” I don’t know why that came out of my mouth. It just felt like the right thing to do. The immigration officer quickly said “Fine, he’s yours.”

So, I took this little old man, Mr. Stanovich with me into the wide open hustle of JFK. He had with him only one small duffle bag. He waited until I got my crew bags and offered to help me carry them. I said no thanks, it was ok and that I was used to it. Mr. Stanovich was cheerfully taking in his airport surroundings. I took him over to the Carey Bus—where I commuted. For myself, I had a special discount coupon book. But, the next thing I knew, I was paying full fare for Mr. Stanovich to ride the Cary Bus into Manhattan.

During the ride, I asked him in Russian what he remembered about his brother in NY. It turns out, he hadn’t talked to the brother for a very long time. His brother had immigrated legally and several years before. It was a last-minute deal that had gotten Mr. Stanovich out of Russia, and he did it with no help or prior notice. The fact that he had gotten on the Pan Am flight and gotten to the United States was a miracle. As he looked out the bus window, it was dawning on him that he was now in a big city the size of Moscow—or much bigger. He just kept saying in Russian over and over “It’s ok…I’ll find my brother”.

At the Eastside Terminal in Manhattan, I found a phone book and started looking for any listings for a Stanovich. All of the Stanovich’s listed were either in Queens or farther away. By now, it is late—close to midnight. I was jet-lagged and exhausted. I thought I should prepare this nice, little old man for what would happen that night, so I said, “I’m taking you to my apartment, and my roommate doesn’t know you are coming. I’m sure it’ll be okay, she’s very nice but I really don’t know what is going to happen.” The whole time he kept saying in Russian “Don’t worry…I’ll find my brother.”

We took the 2nd Avenue bus all the way up to 81
^st
Street, where we got out to walk the two blocks west to my apartment. We had walked one block to the corner of 81
^st
and Second when, all of a sudden, he stopped in his tracks, threw his arms in the air and yelled “Ivan!”

His brother, Ivan, was standing on the opposite street corner, under the light. Ignoring the traffic light and the traffic, they rushed to meet in the middle of the busy street. They embraced each other and HE WAS HOME! They were weeping and hugging and sort-of yelling. The brother spoke some English. A brief exchange of information took place. Yes, he had not seen his brother in years and no, he was not expecting him.

Mr. Stanovich just thought it was supposed to happen that way. The brother did not live in Manhattan but had come into Manhattan that night for a concert and was on his way back home when they ran into each other. The U.S. brother explained that the Soviets had decided that any Jew who could afford to, and had a contact, could leave the USSR. The whole Russian Jewish community in America was abuzz that this was going to happen, but there had been little-to-no real information conveyed to the U.S. No one had any idea of what was actually happening. His brother was one of the very first to make it out— and to the US.

I heard from Mr. Stanovich a few times by phone during the following months. He wanted me to know that “Life, in America, is good…and you were such a nice young lady to take care of me and help me find my brother.”

Honolulu R & R

We were on an R&R flight that originated in Guam on its way to Honolulu. During the Vietnam War, there were cities on the Pacific Rim that the GI’s could choose for R&R (Rest and Recuperation). If they were unmarried, they usually chose Bangkok, Singapore or Sydney. If they were married, they usually chose Honolulu—because the military had an arrangement where wives and mothers could get a discount flight to Honolulu to spend the R&R with their loved ones. During the flight, most of the married men wanted to talk about their wives and children and the routine things of being married. It was very predictable.

Despite the stereotype of what many people thought in the 70’s, flight attendants were not all ‘sex-crazed’. Part of the joy of the job for us was in giving passengers the opportunity to talk to us and to be a sympathetic listener. It was part of the job and we wanted to make them feel at home.

This particular GI, Lt. Adams, was so excited to see his wife, as he had not seen her in a year and a half. He had served two back-to-back tours of duty for a total of 18-months without a break. He was so in love with his wife that it sounded like a marriage made in heaven. I shared Lt. Adams’ saga of long separation from his wife with the rest of the crew—and we were rooting for a wonderful reunion. When we arrived in Honolulu, all of the GI’s boarded buses to Fort DeRussy, which was right across the street from the flight crew’s layover hotel.

A favorite activity of arriving crew was to rush through immigration and to the layover hotel. The flight crew would quickly get our uniform items labeled and out into the hall for laundry pick up, change into our swim suits (usually a bikini) and rush to the balcony terrace/pool area. We’d get a drink at the poolside bar and hang over the balcony—watching the GI’s bus arrival at Fort DeRussy, where their families were waiting for them to disembark. As each GI disembarked from the bus, his name was called out. Family members would then rush up to the bus and embrace their loved one.

I was watching for my guy, Lt. Adams. Finally, “Lieutenant Adams” was announced but no one rushed up. Time seemed to suspend. Then, slowly and deliberately, walking up to him was a very much pregnant woman. They stood apart from each other and stared. Finally, they hugged each other and slowly walked away, shoulder-to-shoulder, but not really touching—he, with his head in his hands and she with her head shrugged low, arms straight by her side. From our distance of hundreds of yards away, we couldn’t hear the conversation. I could only imagine how painful the words must have been to say and hear. We all cried from the balcony.

Lower 41

George, my friend from high school, had the job from hell. As an attack helicopter rear gunner he was exposed to one of the highest-death-rate jobs of US Soldiers in Vietnam. I knew which unit George was in and I had some information about how to make contact, but I had never been able to connect with him when I was on a pattern to Saigon. The U.S. did not want Pan Am crews staying inside the war zone longer than was absolutely necessary, so we never had actual layovers in Saigon.

One day, we had a flight into Saigon with a ground delay— which gave me a window of time to try to make contact with my high school friend. As a rule, when we flew into Saigon, the flight crew stayed on the aircraft to take care of catering and other duties. Sometimes, at the most, we would go into the airport but there really wasn’t much to do there except maybe buy a ceramic elephant plant stand—which one time I did (it now resides in my walk-in shower). This was my chance to go into the airport to phone George.

The 707 we were on was parked relatively near the Saigon terminal. I was the junior purser, and didn’t have to check the galley that day. So, I grabbed my hat and handbag and scooted into the terminal. There was this really nice, tall, African-American Army Sergeant in the terminal that was all smiles. I told him I was looking for a way to make radio contact with someone out on patrol in the field. He said “Yes, there’s a method of doing that. The military has set up phones to contact troops in the field, and they will allow civilians to use the system, on request. There is a radio operator who will arrange it and do it for you.”

In a matter of minutes, I got through to George. I was happy to hear his voice and to know that he was alright. The connection was good and we were able to carry on a good conversation about how he was doing and about our mutual friends. We talked for some time— maybe a full fifteen minutes as no one hurried us to use the line. After we hung up, I strolled back toward the plane in my uniform. I could see the jovial sergeant over everyone’s heads. I waved to him and he smiled back.

Suddenly, his face stopped smiling. He turned, looked at me, then back at the tarmac. There was NO plane. There were NO civilians hanging around the terminal. There was no method set up for flight personnel to stay in Saigon, should one get lost. So, I stood — frozen with fear. Slowly realizing what had happened, I thought “OH NO! My crew left me! If nothing else, why didn’t they notice that I wasn’t there to do the crosscheck (when the crew reports to the cock pit that the cabin is ready for take-off)? At the very least, why didn’t my partner in the aft jump seat know that I wasn’t there?”

The big Sergeant whips a walkie-talkie from his belt and begins talking very fast and furious into it. Then, I noticed a plane at the far end of the runway. He’s talking and talking into this thing, and finally the plane stops. Its flaps go down. Whatever he said into his walkie-talkie got the plane to stop. I’m still yards away from the Sergeant, so I couldn’t hear his exact words. He’s now waving to me to hurry up. Around the corner comes a jeep. The Sergeant plunks me into the front seat of the jeep. The sergeant and the driver are now laughing—which helps my anxiety.

The jeep zips me out to the plane. The cockpit crew decided that they would lower the hatch of ‘lower 41’— which conceals a section under the aircraft and the luggage compartment. This meant that the flight engineer had to lower himself from the cockpit into the luggage compartment and open the cargo/luggage door from the inside— where the jeep was parked directly underneath. He got down on his knees, reached through the cargo door and started lifting me by my wrists while the sergeant and jeep driver heaved me up, (to my utter indignity), pushing on my fanny.

As I climbed the ladder to the cock-pit floor, and emerged to a full load of R&R GI passengers, the pilot announced over the PA “Well here she is…the reason for our delay…Miss Valentine!” I was horrified. I took a pillowcase off of a pillow, and walked the length of the plane with the pillowcase over my head. Of course, the pillow disguise was silly, really. All the passengers quickly knew which one I was, anyway. It softened my humiliation when many of the GIs on board let me know how nice they thought it was— that I was delayed for talking to a friend out on patrol.