A forever friendship forged in war
By Mickey Bambrick
“Bunnies, incoming!” was an alert Larry Partridge frequently heard as he brought his DC-8 cargo plane in to land at Cambodia’s Phnom Penh airport in 1975.
In layman’s terms, the air traffic controller meant, “Look out for enemy fire!”
There was no “bunnies” warning on March 20, 1975, the day Norwegian journalist Roar Bjerknes was onboard with him. But then it happened – a rocket exploded right in front of them as their plane touched down on the runway.
Such are the moments that forever bind people like Partridge, who lives in Shelter Bay and Bjerknes, who lives in Åalesund, Norway. They shared defining moments when history, and even their own lives, was being shaped.
Throughout his career as a pilot, Partridge never once experienced a mechanical failure on an airplane, and except for that one particular month in 1975, no close calls to speak of.
For the most part he could describe his career as one that contained “hours and hours of pure boredom.” But during those flights over Southeast Asia, the boredom was, “punctuated by several moments of sheer terror.”
In March of 1975 the Khmer Rouge was moving through Cambodia, murdering its own citizens. Millions of Cambodians were scattered, trying to find a safe place to hide. Humanitarian aid was not reaching them, since Pol Pot’s regime was killing any and all who tried to help.
Thousands of people starved to death each day as they had no place go and nothing to eat.
USAID, the United States Agency for International Development, hatched a plan to air lift in shipments of rice to the capital city, where it would then be dispersed and cooked up in make-shift kitchens around the city in order to feed the hungry.
It provided nourishment for many, giving them the energy and strength to keep moving west into Thailand, and find a way out of the madness.
Flying Tigers, the cargo company Partridge worked for, was asked whether they had any pilots willing to sign on to this very dangerous humanitarian mission. Partridge was already in Southeast Asia when the request came through and was one of the few pilots who agreed to go – it was a decision that would impact the rest of his life.
For three weeks, in March of 1975, he flew a DC-8 cargo plane loaded with fifty tons of rice, from Saigon to the Phnom Penh airport – a hot target that was getting hotter each day.
At first, the pilot’s biggest worry was avoiding shrapnel on the runway so the tires wouldn’t blow out on landing. But as the mission wore on, he found himself avoiding rockets directed right at his airplane.
Each day brought new challenges, but also, truly, miracles. Partridge kept meticulous notes as to all that happened during this “rice lift” into Cambodia. More than once, a rocket landed in just the spot his plane had been sitting only a moment before. Shrapnel routinely peppered the outside of his plane and cut into his tires. He ran 52 missions – sometimes four a day – into the Phnom Penh airport during those weeks. Few were without incident.
On one mission, a smaller plane – one that shouldn’t have been there – was landing in front of him. It was blasted by a rocket and the pilot was killed.
Had that small plane not been there to delay his landing, Partridge’s plane would have been the one blown up.
A CBS news crew had set up shop at the hotel where Partridge was staying in Saigon – Partridge often stuck his head in their office for updates. Sometimes they interviewed him for the nightly news or a radio spot, since he had first-hand information about what was happening on the ground in Phnom Penh.
After one of his last missions in Cambodia, Partridge stopped by the CBS newsroom and was introduced to a new journalist, Roar Bjerknes, from Norway – the only reporter from Scandinavia still covering the Vietnam War and humanitarian work being done for the children there.
Bjerknes had been in Hanoi and now wanted to report on what was going on in Cambodia. The CBS guys suggested he fly along with Partridge to see for himself. The CIA wouldn’t allow the American press to go, but the fearless Norwegian had no such restraint.
Early the next morning, Bjerknes flew with Partridge to Phnom Penh. Just as they touched down, a rocket exploded right in front of their plane.
Upon landing, artillery shots were popping off all around the airport as the ground crew hurriedly unloaded the rice.
Bjerknes was unaware the airport was a hot target, and he did not realize how close he came to losing his life that day. When he stepped out of the plane he saw the faces of teenage guerillas hiding in the bushes. They were aiming their Russian AK-47 rifles right at him.
Bjerknes was quickly pulled inside and the plane took off and sped back to Saigon.
When his “rice lift” days ended, Partridge and his crew eventually made it back home safely. But ground crew members, who had unloaded pallet after pallet of rice, were blown to bits by rocket attacks, or beheaded by Pol Pot’s men for assisting in the humanitarian effort.
Roar’s story of his adventure appeared on the front page of Sunnmørsposten, his hometown newspaper in Norway.
He sent a copy to Partridge, who was unable to decipher the Norwegian text, but kept the newspaper tucked away in his files with all his other “war” memorabilia. The pilot and the journalist kept in contact for a few years, but then eventually with too many address changes, they lost touch altogether.
Partridge, now 74, often reads La Conner Weekly News, his own hometown newspaper. He says that when he reads the “Nuggets from Norway” column, which I write, he thinks fondly of his journalist friend, Roar Bjerknes.
A few weeks ago Partridge contacted me to say he once knew someone from Åalesund, the town I write about.
As is my usual custom when one of my readers wants to talk about Norway, we met for coffee in LaConner. That’s when Partridge told me the story of how he met Roar.
After answering my many questions, I learned that yes, Partridge had received much recognition for his bravery, including a phone call from Ronald Reagan.
I could see in Partridge’s eyes, as he talked about Bjerknes and Cambodia, the bond they had was still there. I knew it grieved him to have lost contact with such a valued friend. They shared a very emotional part of their lives no one else could understand. I know from personal experience, our inner core is somehow validated by the sharing of mutual tragedies.
When he handed me his aged copy of Sunnmørsposten, I offered to translate the story his friend had written about their adventure.
Then I went home and did a little sleuthing. I wrote a few e-mails to my friends in Åalesund and got on a few websites, and in short order, I found Roar Bjerknes. I decided to call him myself first, before telling Partridge, just to be sure I had the right guy.
When Bjerknes answered the phone, I asked if he used to be a reporter. He had. I told him I recently had coffee with Larry Partridge.
He let out a huge sigh of excitement and wonder. “Larry! How can it be?” he asked me, “that just this morning, as I was eating my breakfast, I was thinking about Larry and wondering where he was and how he was doing? And now you call me? It can’t be true!”
I told him it must be the hand of God, as it seemed to me that has been the overriding theme in both of their lives. I had read Partridge’s book, Flying Tigers over Cambodia: An American Pilot’s Memoir of the 1975 Phnom Penh Airlift, (McFarland & Company, 2000) and had listened to his stories.
Bjerknes, too, is writing a book about his experiences.
Within hours, the American pilot and Norwegian journalist reconnected. Never have I been part of such a happy reunion, and it all came about because of a small town newspaper.
As for Partridge, he’s talking about plans to fly to Norway to meet up with his old friend.
My hope is that his flight will be hours and hours of pure boredom, punctuated by several moments of sheer joy once he lands.
