“I’ve counted 18 in that group over there about eleven o’clock. How many do you make it, Bow?” The pilot spoke in his most commanding voice.
“Yes sir, 18 is what I have also,” the bow operator replied.
We were flying off the coast of South Vietnam, in the South China Sea; it was March 1966. We were counting junks (Chinese-style fishing boats). The “we” were Crew Eight - four officers and seven enlisted men – in Navy Patrol Squadron One. Also included in the “we” was our aircraft, a P-2 Neptune, originally designed during World War II. Now showing its age and weighed down with advance radar and electronic equipment, the P-2 was flying in another war.
From the cockpit the pilot and copilot took turns counting and flying the plane. The bow or nose of the P-2 was made of clear Plexiglas, and the operator seated there had the best view for spotting and counting junks.
As Tactical Coordinator, or TACCO for short, I was sitting in front of the radarscope deep within the fuselage of the plane. The navigator, sitting directly to my left, was plotting our track and marking the junks on the chart. I saw him draw a circle and write “18” and the time inside it. He looked at me and I nodded my approval. This was our first “Junk Count” flight. Even though we knew what information to collect, we were not exactly sure how to record the data on our charts.
From my radarscope I saw other possible targets. “Pilot, we have some more at heading 025, less than 5 miles.”
“Thanks, TACCO,” and we turned heading towards some more junks to count.
Our squadron was flying out of Tan Son Nhut; also know as Saigon International Airport in more peaceful times. Our primary mission in the war was not counting junks, but flying patrols off the coast of South Vietnam to prevent sea borne infiltration by the communist forces. Our crews were experienced in flying these patrol flights, and that mission was very successful. However the bad guys just resorted to smuggling weapons and ammunition overland using the legendary Ho Chi Minh Trail.
We were briefed about the new junk counting mission during a special all-officer meeting just two days before our first flight. I knew it was a special meeting since a top Navy air intelligence officer in Vietnam, a captain, headed it. Since I was a lowly ensign at the time, I did not usually get to see the top brass.
The captain told us that getting an accurate junk count was deemed important. In fact an accurate count was considered so important that two planes would be sent on each junk count mission. One crew would start by flying a route fifteen miles off the coast, while the second crew would be flying fifty miles off the coast. When each crew would reach the outbound boundary, they would switch routes flying back; still counting junks along the way.
The TACCOs of each crew were the ones with the overall responsibility for plotting and logging the junks. At the end of each mission, the TACCOs were to meet with the air intelligence staff for a debriefing. Junk count numbers and locations from each crew would be compared, and any major discrepancies would be discussed. Since fishing boats apparently follow the fish some differences were expected. In addition, the air intelligence staff would maintain a master log recording three counts: one for the fifteen-mile offshore track, one for the fifty-mile track, and the last for the total count. The counts logged would be the averages from the two flights.
Since we still had to fly the same number of patrol flights, the additional junk count flights did cut into time that otherwise would have been free for the flight crews. However, initially most of us were excited about getting the extra mission assignment. Especially one deemed so important.
The total count of our first junk count flight was over 2,200 junks and most of the junks were found around the 15-mile track. I was surprised when I compared our count with the other crew’s numbers. The discrepancy for the total was less than 20 junks.
When the air intelligences staff debriefed us, they seemed pleased with the similar counts. Also the manner in which we were recording the junks on our charts met with their approval.
When our second junk count flight was scheduled a few days later, I must admit that I was not as excited as before about this new “important” mission. Why are we counting junks? There also appeared to be a lack of enthusiasm by the enlisted crewmembers as well.
During our second flight more doubts about the junk count mission surfaced. Over the intercom, intermingled with the now routine exchange of junk counts, headings and distances to targets were some pointed ribbing by the enlisted crew.
“Is this trip necessary, pilot?” asked one of them.
“You don’t think that the Navy would be having us do something this silly if it wasn’t important, do you?” replied the pilot with a slight laugh in his voice.
“Why are we doing this?” asked another crewman.
“For God and country,” replied another.
“Pilot, do you know?” The question persisted.
“I could tell you, but then I would have to shoot you?” retorted the pilot now fully in a jovial mood. We all laughed at the old joke.
“McNamara just wants to count everything! Bodies, bombs, junks. They’re all the same damn thing to him,” interjected another crewman with some heat.
“TACCO, I have to take a piss. Do you need to count that too?”
“I only need to count ‘Number Twos.’ ‘Number Ones’ don’t count,” I replied with an official air.
“Pilot, I’ve counted 13 in that group over there at one o’clock,” said the bow operator, bringing us back on mission. But then added, “Mom would be so proud of me!”
The pilot confirmed the count and the navigator plotted the junks on the chart. I gave the pilot a heading to our next group of fishing junks.
On our way to the new junks to count I said in a flat, bureaucratic voice, “‘Dear Mrs. Guisto, we regret to inform you that your son was killed in action. He died bravely. His last words were one thousand, eight hundred, and fifty-two. Flag and medals to follow.’”
“You don’t have anything to worry about TACCO. Remember the President promised that he wouldn’t send American boys to fight a war that Asian boys should be fighting,” the copilot chimed in for the first time. Not to send “American boys” to Vietnam was a promise made by President Johnson and often repeated by American boys now fighting in Vietnam.
“You call counting fishing boats fighting, sir?” counted another enlisted man laughing.
“Maybe those fishermen don’t want to be counted. You never know what they may do,” answered the copilot.
Since we did not fly north of the DMZ, that is we did not fly off the coast of North Vietnam, our flights were relatively safe. However the P-2 did not have any protective armor, leaving us vulnerable to all types of enemy fire.
The major threat from hostile fire occurred during takeoffs from Tan Son Nhut. We were shot at with small arms fire several times but luckily never hit. The hostile fire surprised me since Saigon and the surrounding area was supposed to be safe. Maybe “things” were not going so well in the war as we’ve been told?
In addition, when we were over water we would normally fly below 2,000 feet. This kept us in danger of ground fire from the shore when we flew close to the coastline. And in addition some crews did report being shot at from junks.
But apparently the guys who shot at us were bad shots. Most of the shots went well ahead of the plane. My personal theory was that the bad guys overestimated our speed. They did not realize that Americans were still flying in slow World War II vintage aircraft.
When the other TACCO and I went to get debriefed after our second junk count flight, there was only a junior air intelligence officer to review our counts and charts. He did not ask any questions, accepting what we were reporting with nods rather than conversation.
I decided that I needed to ask so I did, “Why are we counting junks?”
“Damn if I know,” the junior intelligence officer blurted out. He smiled shaking his head, “We were never told. But someone stateside must really want to know.”
I was glad that he did not try to lie and hide under the usual intelligence cover that classified information is only given out on “a need to know” basis. He could have told us that we were not cleared to know why we were counting junks. But a “damn if I know” attitude made it hard to be gung ho about the mission.
After flying two normal patrols we were scheduled again to fly a junk count flight. This would be our first night flight counting junks. We were briefed that junks normally lit one lantern in the stern of the boat. Which meant for junk counting at night all we had to do was count lights.
During the flight the crew continued the usual joking about grown men counting junks. The fact that we were now counting them two o’clock in the morning seemed to make it even funnier. We even speculated that the devious fishermen might be hanging two lanterns on their boats just to bloat our junk count.
Apparently the Vietnamese did not like fishing at night. We counted less than seventy-five total junks. This time when the other TACCO and I went to get debriefed no intelligence officer was there. To calculate the averages we usually rounded to a whole number. This time we decided not to. On the fifty-mile offshore leg, my crew counted only 7 junks, while the other crew counted 6. We logged “6 ½ junks” in the book.
It was five o’clock in the morning and we thought that it was funny at the time. We briefly discussed the possibility of getting into trouble, or maybe being called into the captain’s office. But we concluded that was unlikely. However, we decided that even if we got hauled in front of the air intelligence captain, it might be worth it. Especially if we got him to admit: “Damn if I know why we’re counting junks in the South China Sea!”
But we were never called in and no one ever questioned us about the half junk. No one apparently cared. A few weeks later the junk count flights stopped, and we returned to flying just our normal patrol flights. And we never officially found out why we counted junks. But the consensus in the squadrons was that someone stateside had a bug up his butt.
Today, almost 50 years later, I am sure somewhere deep within the bowels of the Pentagon there is a file that shows that on a certain night in 1966, “6 ½ junks” were fishing in the South China Sea. McNamara would be proud.