Flying patrol ten miles south of Da Nang off the coast of South Vietnam, we were looking for any suspicious ships. It was summer 1967, our second deployment in Vietnam, and the eight-hour flights had become routine and monotonous.
Sitting in front of the radarscope I was searching for possible targets while listening to the crew chitchat over the intercom. Through our headsets we also monitored several radio frequencies. One of the frequencies was tuned to the armed forces radio where a baseball game was being broadcast. But since the New York Mets were not playing, I only listened to my crew’s conversation.
The crew - four officers and seven enlisted men – had been flying together for almost two years. Being sailors, our talks usually drifted towards girls.
“There’s nothing like an American girl,” said one of the married men. “In fact I’ll do anything just to hear an American girl’s voice.”
“Round-eyed girls are okay, I guess. But there’s nothing classier than a Japanese girl,” one of the single guys responded.
“Are you crazy? Those Filipino girls really like to have fun. There’s nothing prettier than a Filipino girl with some Spanish blood in her,” said another.
“Don’t forget those Vietnamese-French girls,” I offered remembering some of the Saigon girls I had seen the year before. “They’re the prettiest girls I’ve ever seen,” I added with some authority.
“Well, there’s nothing prettier than a redheaded girl from Kansas,” said our copilot, who had married a pretty redheaded girl from Kansas.
“Pilot, I have a target at a heading of 080, 15 miles,” I said, injecting work into the chitchat.
“Okay, let’s go take a look,” the pilot replied while turning the aircraft towards the target.
Over the radio there was a double play that retired the side. From the fans’ groans I could tell that it was the home team that was retired.
While we were flying to the target the prettiest girl debate resumed. Based on our “R & R” trips to Bangkok and Hong Kong, Thai and Chinese girls were added to the competition and properly evaluated. But the opinions on which girls were the prettiest still varied widely.
“Oh come on. If you’re drunk enough they’re all good looking!” proclaimed an enlisted man, considered the crew’s expert on all girls.
There was some laughter over the intercom. Then we heard, “Mayday! Mayday! Mayday! I’ve been hit.” This came over the emergency frequency the crew always monitored. The voice was calm and clear. He then gave his call sign and stated that he was returning to “home plate.” From his call sign we knew that he was an Air Force fighter pilot. His plane was hit over North Vietnam and he was returning to his base somewhere in the South.
In my aircraft the crew became silent but the baseball game being played somewhere stateside continued. The home team retired the visiting team in order. “One – Two – Three!” cried the announcer.
“Can I have your position, sir?” asked the air controller over the emergency frequency.
The pilot gave his position then added, “I’m at angels 50. Losing 1000 feet a minute.”
The pilot was at 50,000 feet with a descending rate of 1000 feet per minute. Since we were in an aircraft currently at “angels 2,” losing 1000 feet a minute seemed terrifying to me.
“Do you need any assistance?” asked the air controller.
“No, I should be able to make it to home plate. I have my wingman returning with me,” continued the calm voice.
“Roger, sir. Call me if you need further assistance. Out,” the air controller signed off.
“Thank you. Out,” the pilot signed off.
“If that was me, I would want Batman and Superman to come to my assistance,” I said.
“Yeah, John Wayne and the cavalry would be good too,” added another crewman.
“All I’d need is Wonder Woman,” said the expert on girls.
When we got to our target, it turned out to be a merchant ship heading towards Haiphong harbor in North Vietnam. Following standard operating procedures we recorded the name of the ship, took some photos, and continued our patrol.
Soon the crew was back debating who were the “prettiest” girls in the world. There never was a consensus, however, and our conversation soon faded.
“I hope he gets back okay,” I offered during the lull. I didn’t have to explain who “he” was.
“Yeah, but even if he does, the poor bastard just gets to do it again tomorrow,” countered the copilot married to the pretty redheaded girl.
We didn’t hear any more communications from the Air Force pilot making his way back to home plate. Over the radio the baseball game played on. The home team hit a homerun with two men on base. The crowd cheered.