Babylift

As my friend Carol Dey and I rode through the dusty streets of Saigon in a creaky VW bug on April 26, 1975, I was sure we looked exactly like what we were: a couple of Iowa homemakers. Three months earlier, when Carol and I had each agreed to escort three Vietnamese orphans to their American families, the trip seemed exciting but safe. My husband, Mark, and I had applied to adopt an orphan ourselves, in the future. We all wanted to somehow make a difference. How were Carol and I to know we would arrive just as Saigon was under siege?

Bombs were falling less than three miles from the city, and citizens streamed past our car, their worldly possessions tied onto pushcarts or onto their backs. But our driver, Cheri Clark, the overseas director of Friends of the Children of Vietnam (FCVN), seemed more excited than scared. From the moment we landed, she pelted us with unexpected news.

"Did you hear President Ford OK'd a giant babylift as a last resort to save these children? Instead of taking out six orphans, you'll be taking home 200!" Carol and I looked at each other in amazement.

"We were able to get a planeload of children out yesterday," Cheri continued. "At the last minute, the Vietnamese government refused to let it go, but the plane was already cleared for takeoff--so it just left! That's 150 children safe in San Francisco!"

Even our years as nurses hadn't prepared us for what we found at the FCVN Center. Every inch of every floor was covered with blankets or mats--each of which was covered with babies--hundreds of crying, cooing infants, each orphaned or abandoned.

Although jet lag threatened to overwhelm us, Carol and I were determined to help prepare the children for the next day's airlift. Ours was scheduled to be the first airlift out. Each child needed clothes and diapers, a checkup, and a legal name. The devoted volunteers--Vietnamese and American--worked around the clock.

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