I didn’t want to teach when I was in Peace Corps – I wanted to write.

Actually, I wanted to play Hemingway. Back in college, I read all his books and dreamed of living his romantic life – drinking in cafes and arguing politics; romancing beautiful, doomed women; chasing wars; writing the Great American Novel. Sterling was offering me the chance to play Papa.

“We’re going to do a special magazine issue on Laos,” he told me. “The military situation is deteriorating fast, so you need to get up there right away.”

The Vietnam War had spread to the neighboring kingdom of Laos which shared a border with Thailand. The Royal Lao government had lost the Plaine des Jarres and the noose was tightening around the ancient royal city of Luang Prabang, 130 miles northwest of  the administrative capital, Vientiane. Credible rumors were circulating that the Royal Lao Army was preparing to pull out of Luang Prabang, abandoning it to the communist Pathet Lao guerillas closing in on the city.  

“Well pay your expenses,” Sterling told me. “We got you a seat on a plane from Vientiane to Luang Prabang – the Pathet Lao control Route 13, so land travel is out. Find out what’s happening. And bring me back two other good stories, your choice.” He handed me my new, green-leather, Bangkok World press credentials.

I should have said no. Peace Corps Volunteers weren’t supposed to be playing war correspondent. But I figured I could feign a cold, slip away from school for a few days, fly up there, get a great story and be back by Monday morning to teach my TEFL class. I cajoled another Volunteer, Bill Boudra, to join me on the escapade as a photographer.

The U.S. Press Attaché in Vientiane gave us a lengthy briefing in his office when we arrived.  He unrolled a map of Laos and pointed with his pencil. Yes, the Plaine des Jarres was lost, but we had managed to save the civilian population from the advancing communist forces. USAID Laos had rushed in giant C-130 Caribou transports from Okinawa and in one week had removed 13,000 Laotian peasants from their homes and flown them down to Vientiane. They were currently being resettled in various refugee camps outside Vientiane.

“It was an amazing feat,” he declared. “It makes you proud to be an American.” I wondered if the refugees viewed it that way.

“I’d like to interview some of them when I return from Luang Prabang,” I said.

 "No problem. I can get you up to the Ban Na Long refugee camp when you get back.”

He continued his briefing. Gen. Vang Pao’s CIA-financed guerilla army of Meo tribesmen had retreated to Long Cheng while smaller fighting units had escaped back to their mountain villages all over Luang Prabang province. Air America was air-dropping food and supplies to the fleeing guerillas. That was the story I wanted. That was Hemingway.

“How do I get on one of those rice drops?” I asked eagerly.

“We don’t advise that,” he replied, rolling up his map. “We’ve had some close calls.”

“Close calls?”

“They use small, light planes and they fly pretty low. You hit bad weather or have mechanical problems, there’s no place to land in the jungle. And if you go down, you’re in no-man’s land.”

“We’re willing to take that risk.”

“Planes sometimes come back with bullet holes. We don’t advise it.”

I persisted. “If we still want to go…?”

“We don’t….” He gave up and returned our press cards. “Check in with the refugee chief at USAID when you get to Luang Prabang. It’s his call.”

We hurried over to Wattay airport to see if we could catch the once-a-day charter flight to Luang Prabang. On the way over, I leafed through a handout the attaché gave us describing life under the Pathet Lao up on the Plaine des Jarres.  

“Listen to this, “I told Bill, reading from the handout. “A favorite banner posted on house walls in Pathet Lao territory is ‘Shoot Down a Thousand Airplanes.’”

“That’s not funny,” he replied sourly.

We found a World War II, prop-driven DC-3 loading on the tarmac. Some of the seats had been removed to make space for cargo, and soldiers were dragging crates and ammunition up the metal stairs. When they finished, a farmer loaded a live pig in a cage. We found our seats and squeezed in. The lone stewardess – a pretty Laotian girl in a vaguely French uniform – passed down the aisle and switched on the six, small electric cabin fans. I looked back and saw several soldiers sitting on the floor of the plane, smoking cigarettes and clutching their weapons. The engines turned over with a burst of black smoke, the plane shook and rattled, and we taxied down the runway into the air.The flight was fairly short, 425 kilometers, the landscape quickly moving from flat river plain to rugged mountains. The DC-3 flew north, skirting towering thunderclouds dark with monsoon rain, and bumping around violently before slipping through the high mountains that ringed Luang Prabang and descending steeply onto a sunlit plain where the royal city nestled on the banks of a sparkling silver Mekong river.

The pedicab driver dropped us off at a little shamble of a hotel on Sisavang Street. It was one of the few places in town that foreigners could stay and prices were steep – 2600 kip, about five bucks. Guests were warned that “clients without baggage must pay one day in advance.”  We filled out a long, detailed fiche de police for the desk manager, identifying ourselves as journalists on U.S. Embassy-approved business in Luang Prabang, dumped our knapsacks in the room and headed for the Commissariat Provincial de Police to find out what was happening.

For a city supposedly under siege, it was amazingly tranquil. If the Pathet Lao wanted it, Luang Prabang was theirs for the taking. Nobody rushed about barking orders, no defenses were evident. On the road into town, teenage soldiers in oversized, rumpled U.S. Army-issue uniforms pedaled by on their bikes, carrying chickens in bamboo baskets or a meal of fried rice tied up in a palm leaf hung from the handlebars. Few of them carried weapons. They smiled and waved at us. Checkpoints were non-existent.

“I know apartments in New York City that have tighter security,” Bill quipped.

We found the Luang Prabang Police Station in a cool, shaded compound near the bridge to the airport. We presented our credentials to the guard at the gate, and asked in Thai for a briefing on the situation in Luang Prabang. He led us inside the compound where we found another soldier asleep in a chair under a banyan tree. The guard woke him up. I presented my credentials again and asked him if he could help us.

“I’m sorry,” the sleepy one apologized. “You will have to talk to the Chief of Police. “

“Where is the Chief of Police?” I inquired politely.

“He is not here.”

“When will he return?”

He shrugged. “Maybe tomorrow. Can you come back tomorrow?” The soldier returned to his nap.

The Police Commissioner appeared irritated to find us waiting outside his office the next day. He examined my press credentials carefully before answering my questions. He denied knowledge of any Royal Lao Government plans to evacuate the town. The Pathet Lao regularly mortared the bridge across the Nam Khan river that linked the town to the airfield, and the month before, Pathet Lao commandos raided the airport and destroyed three planes on the tarmac. But his town was secure, as we had seen for ourselves. Outside the town was a different story, he warned. Guerilla units operated within ten kilometers of the city. A USAID worker was caught on the road just outside Luang Prabang, hacked to death, and the pieces left on the hood of his Jeep by the Pathet Lao.

“Please stay in the town,” he advised. “If you go outside and get in trouble, we will not come help you.”

We took a pedicab over to the USAID compound to look for Paul White, the head of refugee operations and the man who could get us a seat on a rice drop. The dirt yard in front of the building was crammed with jeeps, trucks and vehicles of all kinds. It was July 3^rd and they were getting ready for a big Independence Day party the next day.  An angry-looking man hurried by, spotted us, and charged over.

“Who are you guys,” he demanded, “and what are you doing here?”

“We’re from the Bangkok World, and we’re looking for Paul White.”

“Nobody told me about any reporters coming here,” he growled. “Wait here,” he ordered, and strode off. As we stood there, four T-28s loaded with bombs under their wings roared over us, heading out for a sortie in the hills. A minute later, a Laotian Air Force helicopter whump-whumped by at tree-top level.

A jeep came flying into the compound and slammed on its brakes, scattering rocks and dust. It was Paul, wearing a University of Hawaii T-shirt and looking tired. We introduced ourselves. On our way to the briefing room, he told us he spent four years living with the Meo, teaching himself their language. He fled Sam Thong the day before the communists overran the town and the rest of the Plaine des Jarres. He was responsible for refugee ops. I liked the guy immediately. He reminded me of a Peace Corps Volunteer.

Paul unfolded a large topo map and spread it out on the table. I didn’t see any roads, just the concentric circles denoting increasingly steeper mountains. The refugee situation in the province had stabilized for the moment, he explained – maybe a thousand new refugees so far to feed and take care of. They were scattered all over the province, many holding out on mountaintops in little villages of a dozen or so thatched huts. They could only be resupplied by air. Outside of Luang Prabang itself, it was either communist-controlled or no-man’s land except for a few small areas controlled by Vang Pao’s troops. In some of those areas, the government had cleared short, unpaved “Lima” airstrips where a small plane could touch down. But most of the time, supplies were dropped from a moving plane. I told Paul about the Police Commissioner’s warning to stay in town.

“Is it really that bad,” I smiled, “or is he just having some fun with us?”

“He’s serious,” Paul replied.

He put his finger on Luang Prabang, lying in a small valley surrounded by mountains, then ran it down the map to a little dot labeled Xieng Nuen. Distance, 20 kilometers – 12 miles.

“That’s it for going south.”

Bill and I bent down for a closer look. Paul returned his finger to Luang Prabang then traced the Mekong River north to a town called Pak Ou, another little black dot on the map. Distance, again around 20-25 klicks. West? Plus or minus 10 kilometers, a little over six miles. East? His finger stopped on a line of mountains just outside Luang Prabang, where the T-28s were heading that morning. He looked at us.

 “Still want to go on that rice drop?” 

“Yeah, sign us up,” I said, with more confidence than I felt.

5: 30 AM, Independence Day, July 4^th. We woke up, Bill filled his knapsack with cameras, lenses and cartridges of film, and I checked out my Sony tape recorder. Outside the hotel, a light drizzle fell. A soldier walked by, clothes sopping wet, carrying two brown chickens upside down by their feet, eating a banana. When we reached the USAID compound, Paul informed us the flight had been scrubbed. Poor visibility. You didn’t fly around in thick rain clouds in mountains if it wasn’t absolutely necessary. That’s the way you lose guys. Paul knew we were disappointed. “It might clear up yet,” he said cheerfully. “Come back at 3 PM.” We retreated to a café to stare at the sky, cross our fingers and kill six hours. Somewhere in America I imagined Nixon was giving a speech. “My fellow Americans… today, in the jungles of Southeast Asia… for freedom…if we don’t …falling dominoes …thank you.” 

By noon, the rain had stopped. We were on again. Paul drove us out to the airport and dumped us on the tarmac at the commercial end of the airfield. He’d send the plane over. Cameras weren’t allowed near the Air America terminal.

“They don’t trust you guys.”

The feeling was mutual. I knew the CIA created and owned Air America. It hired the carrier’s “civilian” pilots, U.S. military guys whose service records conveniently vanished when they were reassigned to fly for the CIA. Air America was doing more than running humanitarian rice drops to Meo refugees for USAID; it was also hauling “hard rice” – troops, ammunition and fuel for Gen. Vang Pao, and even doing night recon missions over the Ho Chi Minh trail.

A small, white plane not much bigger than a Piper Cub taxied down the runway toward us. Paul had raved to us about the Pilatus Porter, a STOL (short take off and landing) craft built by the Swiss and used in the Alps for rescue work. It had a 550 horsepower engine and on stormy days, when its oversize wings caught a strong updraft or downdraft, you expected the wings to tear off. But it was perfectly suited for Laos where it landed on perilously short airstrips planted 4,000 feet up a mountainside.

“Get your asses in,” the pilot shouted out the window.

The engine noise in the cramped cabin was deafening. I climbed into the front seat next the pilot, a beefy man dressed in civilian khakis sporting a Salvador Dali moustache. Bill climbed into the back where four 40-kilo sacks of rice sat in a small bay on top of two drop doors in the floor. Four additional bags crowded his feet. The radio squawked a clearance and we swung onto the runway. He pushed the throttle and seconds later we were airborne. We banked over the Mekong and slowly climbed to our cruising altitude, heading west. Scattered grey clouds were spiked to the tops of the mountains like dirty washrags. Bill had his camera out, snapping away through his side window. We tracked the river for several minutes before banking again towards a line of steep, jungle-covered mountains.

The ride got bumpier. We ran through rain squalls and patches of mist and fog with mountain walls suddenly appearing and disappearing right next to my window.  Between clouds, I couldn’t spot anything below but green jungled mountains – no trucks, no roads, no power lines, no sign of civilization. We droned on for about 15 minutes before the pilot leaned over and shouted in my ear.

“Down there.” He pointed out the window.

Through a break in the rain clouds I saw a mountaintop with a narrow clearing slashed like a scar into the jungle.   A half dozen stick huts lined the edge. He banked our plane low over the village and I spied a white letter “H” laid out on the ground. That was it. The drop zone.  He passed over fast, banked hard again, and circled around. Paul had explained the drill. The pilot would be looking for people, animals, children, everything in its place. Hilltops sometimes got overrun by the Pathet Lao who would set a trap, luring the plane in and ambushing it with automatic weapons. Satisfied with his inspection, he dropped and flew flat and straight over the DZ at maybe 100 feet, low enough to keep the triple-bagged sacks from bursting when they hit the ground.

“Here we go,” he yelled.

He reached over to his left and yanked the drop-door release handle. The doors split open with a tremendous whoosh and three rice bags tumbled into space. Looking back through the doors, I could see them strike the ground no more than 15 feet from the “H.”

Bill leaned into the gaping hole, shooting furiously. I flashed the pilot a big thumbs up. He grinned. Bill put his camera down and shoved the remaining rice bags onto the trap door.

On pass number two, he hotdogged it even lower. Now I could see a dirty-faced little girl, standing just inside the doorway of one of the huts, looking up at us.

“That’s the shot!” I shouted to Bill. 

But head-down, his lens locked on the drop doors, he couldn’t hear me. Another roar of air and the last four sacks of rice fell out, twirling through the air. One second they’re floating down like feathers in the breeze then all of a sudden they’re just brown burlap sacks in the dirt. And just as sudden, it was over. No hostile fire from the Pathet Lao, no wild acrobatics in the air, no engine trouble. Mission complete. I had hoped for something more dramatic.

Bill poked me in the back and pointed out the window. The little girl had ventured outside. Holding the edge of a rice bag with one hand, she smiled up at us, waving. I pressed my nose to the cockpit window and waved back .Like the Rolling Stones sang, you can’t always get what you want, but her wave would do.

Returning to Vientiane, I taped an emotionally draining interview with a village of displaced Lao refugees from the Plain des Jarres. The Lao and Thai languages are as close as Spanish and Italian, so I didn’t need an interpreter. They had been caught in the cross-fire of war for six years as the Plain repeatedly changed hands between ourselves and the communists. When elephants fight, the grass gets trampled, as the Laotian saying goes. When we lost the Plain, we turned it into a free-fire zone. The refugees described family members, relatives and fellow villagers burned alive by napalm, shredded by antipersonnel bombs, strafed by machine guns and vaporized into clouds of blood by 500-pound bombs that dug craters the size of football fields. (By the time Nixon threw in the towel and stopped bombing Laos in 1973, we had rained down on their heads over two million tons of bombs, equal to all the bombs we dropped on both Japan and Germany during World War II.)

The Sunday the issue hit the newsstands, I was celebrating at the newspaper when Sterling passed me the phone. Kevin Delany, Director of Peace Corps Thailand, was on the line, and he wasn’t calling to congratulate me.

“Come to the Peace Corps Office right away,” the voice on the other end of the line said. “We need to have a talk.” I suspected Delany had somehow discovered who wrote the stories he read in the Bangkok World that morning with his coffee.

“Something wrong?” Sterling asked.

“Not sure,” I replied. “Gotta go.”

Throttling through traffic on my bike, I tried to think. All my stories appeared under a pen name. But several Volunteers knew who “A.A. Maytree” was, and maybe someone mentioned it to Peace Corps. If they did, I was in trouble.

Delany was waiting for me when I arrived at the Peace Corps office on Soi Somprasong. We took a walk.  He didn’t look at me when he talked. He knew who “A.A. Maytree” was, he told me. I had done an incredibly stupid thing. Imagine the communist propaganda headlines if something had happened, the plane went down, and I got picked up by the Pathet Lao instead of the good guys. How about “CIA Plane Carrying Thai Peace Corps Volunteer Downed Outside Luang Prabang.”

I felt sick to my stomach. My selfishness and stupidity could have had disastrous consequences.

“I’m separating you from the Peace Corps and sending you home,” he announced.

I know I deserved it, but I didn’t want my Peace Corps experience to end that way – ignominiously terminated for an exhibition of stunning, selfish immaturity. 

“Kevin, I’m so, so sorry,” I said, “God, I really am.” He could tell I meant it. “I didn’t think it through. I just knew it would make a hell of a story so I went for it.”

Delany had to understand the adrenaline rush. He started out as a copy boy for the New York Daily News, and worked as a correspondent for CBS News in Hong Kong before a fellow Irishman, John Fitzgerald Kennedy, got elected President and challenged Americans to “ask not what your country can do for you: Ask what you can do for your country." Kevin Francis Xavier Delany answered the call and applied for a leave of absence to work for the Peace Corps, but I knew he remained a journalist at heart and would return to the newsroom when he was done in Thailand. I could see him wavering.

“I swear to God – no more rice drops, no more CIA planes, no more crazy stuff,” I pleaded. He shook his head in disgust.

“That was so dumb…” He finally looked at me. “OK, but if I ever catch you doing something that stupid again, you’re gone.” I could tell he meant it.

“You won’t,” I promised.

Kevin Delany eventually returned to ABC-TV, and served as director of news in the ABC News Washington bureau during the 1973 Watergate hearings that led to the U.S. Senate’s move to impeach President Nixon. Kevin was serving as bureau chief in Vietnam for ABC News when Saigon fell in April 1975. He got his people out alive. Since 1990 he has been a communications consultant and remains politically active in the Democratic Party. He lives in Washington, D.C. with his wife, Joan Keenan.