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The plane is mostly empty, the “suits” have fled to the bar to vent their
indignation over drinks. Here and there sit a Japanese couple chatting quietly. A
little old lady knits. The stewardesses busy themselves with small chores. The
flight crew is no where to be seen since it usually helps to keep those in charge
separated from their charges. It’s a general order of command. I rise from my
seat, slide across two other seats to get to the isle, and begin the long walk to the
exit — these stretched DC-8s seem half a mile long! (No, I don’t know how many
kilometres that would be. You’ll have to look it up.)
Nodding at a stewardess standing by the door, I step out of the plane and
make my way down the dock toward the terminal door at the far end. I’m stiff
from sitting, but begin to loosen up as I walk. I’m apprehensive. Strangers usually
make me uncomfortable and several years more or less alone in the bush haven’t
much improved the feeling. Still, I’m an adventurer, and an explorer. Self-
reliantly, I press forward.
The airport at Anchorage is large and busy and full of people. There are
business travellers:some oriental, most occidental; some apparently married
couples, probably Japanese, possibly Korean; a few children with parents; a few
old people, a few young people; and soldiers, lots and lots of soldiers — American
soldiers on their way to Viet Nam.
The soldiers are moving around like shoals of fish:moving here, moving
there, without any apparent purpose, just moving. Of course, not all fish swim in a
school, independent of the rest, some cruise this way, others that. The soldiers are
the same age as me, or younger. Here and there, I see officers going about their
business. Officers are older. Most of the soldiers don’t notice me. Some who do
look the other way. Others look definitely hostile, and dangerous.
I can understand. I’m wearing Bausch & Lomb aviators, but I don’t look
like a pilot. I have a full beard and hair down to my shoulders. I wearing a red and
yellow plaid jacket, blue jeans, and work boots. On my head, I’m wearing a red
barret, recently exchanged for the baseball cap I had worn up north.
When I bought the barret in a second hand store in Regina, it had come with
the metal badge of the Regina Rifles, one of the Canadian regiments to go ashore
on D-Day. When I removed the badge from the “cherry barret” (I had no right to
wear it) and put it on, a friend exclaimed, “You look just like Che!”Adjusting it, I
by Morley Evans