Between shows, when we were flying all over, we’d speak at night to the battleships from the plane. I remember flying over the ocean, dead asleep. Someone would wake me, and I’d go to the cockpit. And Bob would say, “I’m talking to a ship that hasn’t been home for months, they’re out in the middle of this dark ocean and the speakers are on. Connie, why don’t you go talk to them?”
I’d hardly even be awake, and I’d suddenly be talking to 2,700 young men in the dead of night, over a black ocean. I’d just say, “Hi, glad to talk to you. Is it OK if I sing?” And you’d hear, “Yeah!” So I would sing some little a cappella song, make up words, you know, about the way America should be feeling for them, what I thought their folks would say to them–when in fact many, many times during the Vietnam War, people were not saying those things and it pissed me off.
Whenever I stopped to think about the fact that I was talking to thousands of young men of all sizes, shapes, colors, and you’re trying to represent their mothers, their sisters, their homes, their country, it was just overwhelming. Especial- ly when you can’t see their faces, you’re just talking on the loudspeaker–the emotions reached all the way up to the plane. I’m sure mine reached to them, because I could hardly speak sometimes, I was just so overwhelmed by the enormity of what I was experiencing. I still run into someone every week that saw me in some jungle or heard my voice late one night, and they thank me. They’re still thanking me, when in fact we should be thanking them.
