July 20, 1969, was a memorable night for planet Earth. I was in Thailand serving my last month as a first lieutenant in the Army.
It seemed excessive then and it seems absurd now, but members of the U.S. military in Thailand were entitled to R&R, the military shorthand for rest and recuperation. Soldiers in Vietnam deservedly received R&R, but my most exhausting and dangerous activity in Thailand was water skiing. Nonetheless, one doesn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, so my fellow officer candidate school graduate Jim Liddle and I headed for Bangkok. Jim was in charge of the fuel station at the deep-water port where bombs arrived, destined for missions in Vietnam. He had extensive dealings with Thai business folks. One, Col. Rudy Na Ranong, owned a business named Sinothai, which had repaired the roof of one of Jim’s massive fuel tanks. I’m not sure if Jim knew at the time, but Col. Na Ranong was also a commander in the Queen’s Guard, a very powerful and prestigious unit of the Thai military. Both the Thai military and Thai police were feared and revered. They were rumored to enjoy both brutality and impunity. Americans were apparently off limits, as I knew of no soldier being brutalized, despite behavior that may have merited it.
Years later, while browsing the newspaper, I read of a military coup in Thailand (there’s one about every seven years) in which a Gen. Na Ranong played a major role. I often wondered if it was our 1969 host.
Col. Na Ranong, I’ve learned through subsequent research, was from a very prominent Thai family that has played a significant political and economic role for several centuries. On July 20, when we arrived for our “well-earned” R&R, Col. Na Ranong met us in a dark luxury sedan to take us out for the evening.
The experience was surreal from the first stop to the last. It was clear from every encounter that Col. Na Ranong was feared and respected. People would move out of his way, heads slightly bowed. Early in the evening, we went to an elegant jazz club on the top floor of a grand building. It was the kind of place soldiers did not frequent. A line of well-dressed men and women stood outside the velvet ropes, hoping a seat or table might open up.
Col. Na Ranong walked to the front of the line and, with only a few words spoken, the ropes opened, the officious maître d’ bowed deeply, and we were escorted to a front center table. This deference was extended throughout the evening.
The final stop was for a late night-early morning meal in a small, unpretentious restaurant in a very ordinary neighborhood. It was a sharp departure from the heady glamour of the night. It was now July 21, 1969, in Thailand.
While we were seated at a small table a hubbub rose from the kitchen — cheers and excited babble at 3 a.m. I don’t recall what moved us to go into the kitchen to see what was happening, but we did.
On a table in the dim kitchen a small black-and-white television broadcast live images of the Apollo lunar module Eagle, piloted by Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin, landing on the moon. The cooks and other staff, joined by a few middle-of-the night patrons, watched in wonder.
Several of the kitchen staff repeatedly pointed at the television screen, then rushed outside and pointed to the moon, gesticulating madly and laughing with the joy of witnessing a miracle. Jim and I rushed outside, laughing and cheering too. It was not lost on us that we were in a nondescript Thai restaurant in the middle of the night witnessing one of history’s most profound achievements.
We weren’t alone. On a website called Where Were You?, Larry J. Wine wrote: “I was a junior Navy officer on a highly classified intelligence mission near Southeast Asia. We were cruising on the high seas and a Soviet ‘fishing trawler’ was following us — as usual. They were about five or six miles astern. We had been listening to radio broadcasts about the moon landing all day. When Neil Armstrong finally set foot on the moon and broadcast those memorable words, you can bet we were all filled with pride.
“Our pride was even greater a few minutes later when we noticed that the Soviet trawler was sending us an old fashioned light signal. We were all high-tech and it took some time to find an old radioman that could read the flashing light. He was very much out of practice, but after asking them to resend the message numerous times, we were finally able to read the message. ‘Congratulations, Americans!’ ”
The whole world was indeed watching, creating an ineffably beautiful moment when all of humankind smiled together.
Steve Nelson lives in Boulder, Colo., and Sharon. He can be reached at stevehutnelson@gmail.com.