Allen Cates Books and Articles

The calls for help continued but the right words were not said, and it was obvious the caller had captured the radio.

Darkness had set in and the North Vietnamese Army was overrunning Saigon.

The situation was hopeless. An era spanning 30 years was ending.

It was April 29th, 1975. The war in Laos ended a year earlier. Air America employees from Vientiane and Udorn scattered like leaves in a wind. Several transferred to Saigon where the work had always been routine compared to Laos, which was paramilitary in nature.

It was still dangerous, but the military usually handled medical evacuations and rescues. That situation changed near the end, and it soon become evident that business as usual would not continue.

At the height of the Vietnam War, the streets were filled with American military vehicles and soldiers. But now, almost all the American troops had long since departed. It seemed obvious to almost everyone that Saigon would fall. The American Embassy, however, continued to act as though time remained.

Buon Me Thuot had been overrun in March. Da Nang came soon after and then Nha Trang.

For some reason, it appeared the American Ambassador believed that Saigon would be spared to remain a neutral enclave.

At the height of the Vietnam War, Saigon’s streets were crowded with American military vehicles and soldiers.

By then, however, most U.S. troops had long since left. Everyone seemed to understand that Saigon would fall—everyone except, it appeared, the American Embassy.

Buon Me Thuot had been overrun in March, followed by Da Nang and then Nha Trang.

For reasons that remain unclear, the American ambassador seemed to believe Saigon would be spared and left as a neutral enclave.

A few days earlier, “denial meetings” had been held to share radio frequencies, identify ships off the coast, and establish a contingency plan.

U.S. Marine Corps General Carey told Air America representatives that Marines were supposed to be stationed at the Air America complex at least six hours before any evacuation to protect the fuel depot, but he said his hands were tied.

The ambassador refused to approve the move until well into the afternoon. The Marines never arrived, and the nearest fuel was aboard ships 80 to 100 miles offshore.

Fuel would become a major problem on the last day. All earlier plans were abandoned. On April 28, ground fire from unknown sources had shot down several aircraft over Saigon.

On April 29, Air America’s fixed-wing group carried out as many refugees as it could and departed. Shuttling in and out of Saigon was no longer possible for fixed-wing aircraft, so Air America’s helicopter crews remained to assist with the evacuation.

Thirty-two helicopter pickup points had been designated on rooftops around the city; six were assigned to Air America.

Ralph Begian, who worked in Air America’s Flight Information Department, and Nikki Fillippi, an Air America helicopter pilot, had spent the days before the evacuation working relentlessly to prepare pickup points throughout Saigon.

It was the exodus no one believed would happen. Yet every attempt to paint a large “H” on those rooftops or station fuel nearby was blocked by the American ambassador, his staff, and the Vietnamese police.

They explained that visible preparations might send the wrong signal to the Vietnamese public and cause panic.

Air America employees did what they could to improvise and consolidated at one building to maintain communications. The evacuation began in a rush.

Ready or not, the largest refugee airlift of the war had begun. One Air America pickup point was the Pittman Building in downtown Saigon, where photographer

Hugh Van Es captured refugees climbing a ladder to a helicopter above.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Courtesy Corbus Bettman Photographer: Hubert Van Es Used under license

 

​The image draws the eye to the man reaching out to help. No one knows for certain who the helicopter crew was. They did not know they were being photographed, and they would not have cared. For years, they had carried food, ammunition, water, fresh troops, and wounded men throughout Southeast Asia.

The photograph froze a moment in time—a glimpse of the values America was meant to represent. Years later, the man reaching out in the photograph wrote, “We kept telling them we would come back. And then we didn’t.” His name was O.B. Harnage, a CIA case officer who later retired.

That, I think, is what troubled many of us who worked there. We kept telling people we would return, and then we left and could not go back. We never had closure. Tragedy followed closely.

Several hundred Filipino employees of Air America were among the last to be evacuated from the city, and those with Vietnamese families were especially vulnerable.

As the Koreans had done in Nha Trang, the Philippine government stationed an LST off the coast of Saigon, but Vietnamese police would not allow the Filipinos to board. More than a thousand were stranded on the beach.

Marius Burke, an Air America helicopter pilot, persuaded Filipino Minister of Affairs Mr. Sabolones to bypass the dock and airlift them to the ship.

More than 600 people were evacuated this way, and the remaining 400 were taken out by barge during the night.

Air America also tried to place its Vietnamese employees on the same ship and asked the U.S. Embassy for help. There was plenty of room, and Mr. Sabolones agreed, but the Embassy refused, fearing ARVN soldiers would board.

Without cooperation, many of Air America’s Vietnamese employees were left behind. Tragedies were as common as boards on a picket fence, but spontaneous heroism appeared as well.

On one occasion, Ralph Begian hung out of a helicopter without a safety strap so a Vietnamese man could be pulled inside to safety. Unknown and unheralded, Ralph acted heroically simply because it was the right thing to do.

Nikki and Ed Reid, another veteran Lao helicopter pilot, maintained a communications post throughout the day. They had to move it twice because of enemy activity before finally evacuating to the USS Hancock that evening. Miscommunications compounded the danger.

The ships were supposed to know about Air America, but gaps in communication, along with the ships’ own problems, created emergencies. Many South Vietnamese helicopters flew out to sea hoping to land and escape the North Vietnamese. Groups of aircraft arrived without warning or radio contact, trying to land all at once and ignoring standard flight patterns and landing procedures.

“Dangerous” hardly described it. To protect his ship and crew, the commander of the USS Blue Ridge ordered helicopter pilots to ditch at sea, with a small boat standing by to retrieve them when they surfaced.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Not realizing Air America was part of the evacuation effort, he demanded the same of its crews.

The ditching procedure called for the doors to be removed so the pilot would have a better chance to escape.

Chauncey Collard, then 55, had flown nearly everything the Navy operated since 1936 and had been an Air America helicopter pilot for several years. He was about to face something new. As soon as he landed, the ship’s crew removed his doors and ordered him to take off and ditch.

Ditching at sea is an emergency maneuver and dangerous. It did not seem like a good idea to Chauncey, so after refueling at a more lenient ship, he headed back to Saigon for another load. Years later, he told me he remembered it being breezy flying the rest of the day without doors.

For several people who later remembered how he saved them, that decision was a godsend—but it nearly cost him his life.

Coping with hysteria, Chauncey returned to Saigon on one trip and noticed a group of Americans frantically waving from a rooftop.

The landing zone was tight, with trees crowded around the only available space. Flying alone, without a flight mechanic to provide another set of eyes, he carefully threaded the helicopter through the trees and picked them up. T

The Americans told him North Vietnamese troops were nearby and urged him to hurry. Chauncey had moved the copilot seat as far forward as possible to keep panicked passengers from entering the cockpit.

One American, who weighed about 300 pounds, insisted on sitting up front despite Chauncey’s objections. He wedged himself into the seat, leaving Chauncey no room to move the flight controls. When it became clear the man would not move to the back, Chauncey motioned for him to pull the lever that would slide the seat rearward.

Instead, the passenger grabbed the helicopter’s power control lever.

He pulled straight up, and Chauncey suddenly found himself shooting through the trees he had so carefully avoided while landing. Chauncey shouted for him to let go and practically stood on the control stick to push it down. They were about to crash, and there was little he could do to stop it. At last, the passenger realized what he had done and released the controls.

Chauncey regained control and flew them to safety.

Air America Profile: Dave and Ruth Kendall and their children, Bobby and Vicky, were well known in Air America. Originally from Hornbeak, Tennessee, Dave began with Air America in Saigon, spent several years in Laos, and was now back in Saigon. When he was not flying, he alternated between two brightly colored shirts and bib overalls. Flying out of uniform was strictly forbidden, but Dave considered the last day an exception, and the overalls were more comfortable. When he landed refugees on the USS Blue Ridge, the ship’s crew took one look at him and ordered him to ditch the aircraft.

The recommended procedure was to land in the water and roll the helicopter onto its side while the blades were still turning. Dave chose a different approach: he trimmed the aircraft nose-down about 20 feet above the water and jumped out.

The moment he jumped, the aircraft’s center of gravity shifted, and the blades nearly struck him.

He was pulled from the water and sent below, where he changed shirts but kept his overalls. Air America helicopter pilot Larry Stadulis was told to stand down at the ship and went below. A short time later, he was told he was needed to return and fly an unattended helicopter.

By then, the Blue Ridge had begun to distinguish between rogue helicopters fleeing Saigon and Air America aircraft carrying refugees.

Stretching the limit, Dave saw Larry preparing to go back and climbed in with him. They shuttled back and forth for the rest of the day.

By nightfall, they were mentally and physically exhausted. In light rain over the South China Sea, they searched for the carrier Midway but could see no lights outside the cockpit. The U.S. Navy had imposed a blackout, and all lights had been extinguished. Worse, the 20-minute low-fuel warning light had been on for 15 minutes, and no one knew exactly how accurate it was. They were in serious trouble. Ditching at sea is difficult enough by day; at night, even if they survived the impact, they would likely drown soon afterward. They called the Midway for help. The ship’s radar could see them, but they could not see the ship.

The low-fuel warning light seemed to grow brighter. Throughout the day, it had been clear that Air America’s role in the evacuation was poorly understood. Cooperation from those who should have known better had been almost nonexistent. In the end, however, the Navy came through.

Larry told the Midway they could not see the carrier and needed a light. The Midway had to decide quickly who was friend and who was foe. With only minutes of fuel remaining, the carrier relented and turned on every light. Larry said it looked like a Christmas tree—and it was a gift.

They landed amidship on fumes.

More than 30 Air America flight crews stayed and flew on the last day. One writer said the photograph of the helicopter on the Pittman Building symbolized America’s failed policy. Echoing that view, some have argued that those who risked their lives to save others acted only out of work ethic, without regard for the people they were rescuing. Others believe we all have a social responsibility, and that integrity and kindness are among the values that make America great.

I take the latter view.

More than three million people were casualties of the wars in Vietnam and Laos, and it is difficult to justify the carnage that occurred there. But neither Air America nor the soldiers who served there started the war, nor did we perpetuate it.

Right, wrong, or indifferent, we did our jobs and often went above and beyond our assigned duties.

After returning to the United States, Dave Kendall went to work for a helicopter company in Louisiana. On his days off, he commuted to Tennessee, where Ruth and the children lived. During one trip home, he was killed in an automobile accident. Years later, Ruth visited her sister in Chicago, where they ate at a Vietnamese restaurant and spoke with the owner. The woman was proud of her business and of her successful children, who had been educated in America. Ruth said, “My husband used to work in Vietnam. He was a pilot for Air America.

” The owner replied, “I was rescued from a rooftop in downtown Saigon on the last day. I will never forget the pilot. He did not wear a uniform like the others. He had on a colored shirt and overalls.

” Tears filled Ruth’s eyes. “That was David,” she said.

The emotion overwhelmed them, and they all broke down in tears.

​

Allen Cates
Revised 2026
© Allen Cates. All Rights Reserved.

 

Author's Note
Many of the people quoted or described in this article shared their experiences with me personally over many years. Most have since passed away. I have preserved their recollections as faithfully as possible because future historians will not have the opportunity to interview them. Unless otherwise noted, these accounts are based upon firsthand interviews conducted by the author. The story involving Ruth Kendall was documented by a local newspaper after a restaurant patron notified a reporter of the emotional reunion.