By the time I got to the Bachelor Officers’ Quarters the lines were already formed. There was a bank of six phone booths in the lobby; every booth had a line of Navy officers, each quietly waiting his turn. I quickly got on the shortest line; there were four officers in front of me. Joining the silence around me, I only nodded my recognition to some of the guys I knew.
At the time, mid-December 1967, I was in Patrol Squadron One stationed at Whidbey Island, Washington. During the morning squadron muster our captain informed us about the missing plane. Since the aircraft, a P-2 Navy patrol plane would by now be out of fuel, the plane was presumed down. It was returning to Whidbey from Alaska. The plane was from our sister squadron, Patrol Squadron Forty-Two. It had fourteen men on board, and search efforts were underway.
The lines were moving quickly. The phone conversations were short, just long enough to reassure a loved one. All of us were in our uniforms; we all wore gold wings signifying that we were either pilots or navigators. Talks that interweaved the lines were minimal and only spoken in hushed tones. I listened in on a conversation among some of the Patrol Squadron Forty-Two officers. They confirmed my belief that it was crew nine that had gone down.
Ten days before, I had a night flight with crew nine. At age 27 I was now a senior flight officer, with more then 2,000 flight hours in Navy aircraft, and had been designated as an inspector to check and grade operational flights. Flight inspectors conducted these checks continuously throughout the year to maintain a high level of readiness and safety.
As my line moved forward I thought about that night flight and crew nine. As inspector I was given a clipboard with five pages of questions and checks that I had to grade the crew on. Most of the questions were directed to the pilot, who was designated Patrol Plan Commander, and to the senior navigator, who was designated Tactical Coordinator. The Tactical Coordinator, or TACCO for short, was responsible for the tactical mission of the flight. This would include navigation and methods employed to search for submarines, surface ships, or other contacts.
I was a TACCO myself and knew the crew’s TACCO fairly well. I first met Jack in a TACCO training class. We spent about a year stationed together at Whidbey. Since we were both single, we lived in the BOQ. Throughout that time Jack and I often dined together at the officers’ mess.
I remember the pilot briefing the crew by the plane on the flight ramp before takeoff on the night that I flew with crew nine. It would be a typical night patrol over the Pacific navigating by the stars and using radar to detect contacts. After a brief summary of the flight’s mission, the pilot introduced me to the crew.
My briefing was also short. At the end, trying to be reassuring, I held up my clipboard and said, “I looked over the questions and there shouldn’t be any problems answering them.”
After I was finished, the pilot addressed his crew, “Remember, we’re being graded on this flight. It will count towards the squadron’s readiness points, so behave yourselves.” It was dusk and darkness was descending on the flight line, but I could see the smiles on flight the crewmen’ faces.
Out of the darkness the voice of one of the young sailors asked, “What the f*** are you talking about, sir?”
There was light laughter. Shaking his head the pilot ended the briefing by saying, “Let’s get on board before we flunk the flight check before we even start engines.”
Climbing into the aircraft’s flight deck, one of the enlisted men offered me his seat for takeoff. The P-2 patrol plane had only enough seats for the normal crew of eleven men. I shook my head no and thanked him. He repeated the offer, “Can’t I bribe you, sir?” I just smiled and strapped myself into one of the designated takeoff positions on the floor.
The flight was routine and lasted a little more then nine hours. There were only a few radar contacts that needed to be checked out. The crew performed professionally: flying to the contacts, identifying the ships, and determining each ship’s course and speed. The contacts were all merchant ships, nothing unusual.
During the long lulls in the flight, the crew answered the questions I directed to them over the intercom. There was also plenty of time for the normal crew chitchat to pass the hours. The jokes and gentle ribbings reminded me of my own crew; however, I often felt like the outsider eavesdropping on neighbors.
The pilot talked about the crew preparing for the upcoming trip to Alaska. They would be there for a few days. Their mission was to fly an ice patrol around the coastline of Alaska. Ice patrols were conducted throughout the winter and spring. The crew would be picking up a geologist in Alaska to observe and record the ice formations.
The pilot asked me if I’d ever flown an ice patrol. I told him that I never had and probably wouldn’t since I would be leaving my squadron in a few months. He asked if I would be staying in the Navy. I replied, “Yes sir, I’ve extended for two years. I’ll be stationed at Sangley Point.” Sangley Point was in the Philippines.
“We should be seeing you sometime next year. I think in the summer. Sangley is our next overseas deployment,” the pilot replied.
Quickly over the intercom the voice of one of the young sailors spoke up, “Yeah, our TACCO can’t wait to get back to the Philippines. He has a Filipina sweetie waiting for him.”
Another sailor added, “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it TACCO?”
“Can’t blame him! She’s a beauty,” came another voice as if on cue.
I was sitting next to my friend Jack, the TACCO of the crew. In the darkness, I could see his face lit by the glare of the radarscope and the red lights of the instrument panel in front of him. Jack just shook his head and smiled.
“Our TACCO is a little embarrassed! It must be LOVE!” a young voice continued the good-natured ribbing.
I knew how my friend must have felt. It was embarrassing enough that your enlisted crew knew about your love life, but now an officer from another squadron also knew.
The pilot changed the subject by asking me if I wanted any King Crab legs. Crews that went to Alaska often took orders for fresh crab legs. Crew nine would be picking some up and was taking orders. “No thank you, sir. I’m single and wouldn’t know how to cook them,” I replied.
The pilot broadened his offer, “Well if any of the guys in your squadron are interested in ordering some, just have them contact our Navigator. He’s our King Crab Control Officer.”
The enlisted crew now focused their attention and jokes on their young navigator with the dubious distinction of taking orders for fresh Alaskan seafood.
My thoughts about that flight were suddenly broken. It was now my turn to use the phone.
I quickly dialed home; home was Freeport, Long Island. I was glad and relieved to hear my sister’s voice answering the phone. She was married, with two little girls, and must have been visiting home. I said, “Hello, Camille.”
Sensing that my phone call during a weekday was unusual she replied, “What’s up Tom.”
Trying to sound casual I answered without any perfunctory small talk, “A patrol plane went down last night. Somewhere in Alaska. I just wanted to make sure that Mom knows that I’m alright.”
My sister knew the reason for my call. A few years before when I was stationed at Corpus Christi, Texas, an Air Force airplane crashed in Texas killing all on board. Mom thought for sure that I was on board, even though I was in the Navy. Camille back then tried to reassure her, but my mom still worried. It wasn’t until I made a routine weekend phone call that Mom was relieved.
Over the phone Camille said, “We didn’t hear anything about the crash. Mom’s out shopping with Aunt Liz. I’ll wait here until she gets home and tell her that you called. Any news about the crew?”
“We don’t know yet, but it doesn’t look good. Look, I got to go now. There’re still some guys waiting to use to the phone.”
“Okay, goodbye. See you Christmas?”
“Yes, goodbye,” I closed and hung up the phone. As soon as I left the phone booth, another officer entered and started dialing. I had completely forgotten that it was Christmas time and that I would be going home on leave the following week. I also forgot to ask Camille about my young nieces. But I knew that she would understand why my call was so brief. Besides, I would be seeing the family soon.
On the ride back to my squadron office I thought about the crewmen’s families: the wives and children of the married men living here at Whidbey and the parents back in their hometowns. Squadron Forty-Two officers would have notified them by now. The wives here would have been visited and told in person overnight. Most likely the families would have been asleep and wakened to be given the grim news. The parents back home would receive the news by phone in the early morning. Happy holidays.
Throughout the day we received more information about the ill-fated flight. Besides the eleven crewmen on board there were three passengers: two sailors and one soldier. They were hopping a ride to get home for Christmas. One of the crew nine’s enlisted men was sick and didn’t go to Alaska. A man from another crew took his place. Just some of life’s little ironies that place fourteen men onboard the doomed aircraft.
We also exchanged opinions about why the patrol plane went down. It was just a routine flight back home, not even an operational flight, and it was considered relatively safe. Since the crew didn’t send any “May Day” warning, we all thought that the plane must have hit a mountain. But the reasons on how or why the patrol plane got off course were just guessed at. Opinions also varied on why the aircraft’s radar did not pick up the mountain. Was the radar broken? These were just some of the mysteries that might never be answered.
Several days later a service was held at the base chapel. Most officers and men on base who weren’t flying attended. The service was short and closed with the singing of the Navy Hymn. After the service, the small talk mostly involved our personal plans for the upcoming holidays. We all knew that if any crewmen survived the initial crash, they would be dead by now. But search efforts were still continuing.
By the time I got back from Christmas leave, the search for the missing plane and crew had been called off. Word also reached us that Jack’s girlfriend in the Philippines committed suicide after she found out about the crash. The enlisted crewmen may have been right; maybe it was true love.
Fifteen years later I was reading the Washington Post. Out of the Navy, I was now one of the many faceless Washington bureaucrats going to work on the Metro. Skimming over the inside pages, in the Nation in Brief section, there it was; a small AP article titled Patrol Plane Found in Alaska. The article briefly stated that the wreckage of a Navy P-2 patrol plane was located on Mount Fair Weather…125 miles northwest of Juneau…the P-2 was home based at Whidbey Island…went down in December 1967…steps were underway to recover the fourteen bodies reported on board.
The final irony of crew nine: crashing into a mountain with the benign name of Fair Weather.
Throughout the years I have often thought about my flight with crew nine: about the gracious pilot introducing me to his crew in the darkness of the flight line; about Jack and his love for a Filipino girl; about the enlisted crewmen and their inclination for teasing their officers; and about the young King Crab Control Officer who never got to deliver his crab legs.