Saigon at twilight, New Jersey noticed, was a lot like Subic Bay though much less chaotic. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that she's gone to the part of Saigon that Union sailors and airmen rarely frequented. And she'd preferred it that way, having seen and been caught in one brawl too many back in Subic Bay.

One could be forgiven for thinking that there wasn't a war going on just miles away from Saigon, given how bustling the city was, even at night with the occasional security checkpoint at random intersections. No one bothered New Jersey. All it took was her flashing her ID card and she'd be let through with minimal fuss.

Perhaps she's been at sea for too long near the DMZ, but New Jersey's finding that weaving through crowds of pedestrians, cyclists, motorbikes and scooters through the streets to be a welcome change from staring out at the coastline and open waters day in and day out.

It felt good to be away from the fighting, New Jersey thinks. Not all of the streets are bathed in the pale orange glow of streetlights, a few blocks lacking any form of electric lighting, dark storefronts and broom-closet-sized restaurants, not unlike the izakaya joints she's visited in the few times she's been in Yokosuka, lit up with the flickering of candles, which looked to New Jersey as if they were fireflies, from a distance.

The sights of Saigon at night were one thing, there was the smells too, which only got stronger as New Jersey reaches the entrance of the Ben Thanh Market. With each breath she took, there was the scents of what she could identify as durian, jackfruit, seafood, with a strong undercurrent of charcoal and that near-ubiquitous fish sauce that the locals referred to as nuoc mam.

There's food nearly everywhere when New Jersey sets foot in the market, casually strolling past pots of what looked like soup or noodles on piles of heated charcoal. Bundles of some kind of banh, rice cake and meat wrapped in banana leaves dangle from stalls, like the hanging meats in butchers' shops back home.

Everything looks good, smells good. Heck, probably tastes every bit as good as it looks.

Even under the dim glow of candles and incandescent bulbs, whatever produce was still on sale at that hour looked as fresh as it was during the day (and not a refrigerator was in sight, New Jersey had noted)

New Jersey finds herself bouncing around like a pinball, caught in a fierce compulsion to gawk, gush over and try every edible-looking thing in sight, as all that walking she's done had worked up quite an appetite – ending up with the battleship stopping at a nondescript stall, crowding in with a bunch of locals.

Ordering is easy enough, despite New Jersey not being a speaker of the language.

To anyone that's spent some time in Vietnam, there are few things better than a bowl of decently made pho, especially on chilly nights like this.

New Jersey doesn't know exactly what kind she's ordered, having just pointed at what the person behind her is eating.

What she gets is a bowl of hot, brown broth loaded with white, flat noodles and paper thin slivers of beef, garnished with bean sprouts and roughly chopped cilantro. The condiments come next: A few wedges of lime and black pepper, which judging from what her neighbours are doing, one makes into a paste with the juice of the limes, followed up by a tiny dish of chopped red chillis floating in the near-ubiquitous fish sauce.

New Jersey digs in. The pho is indeed as fantastic as she's expecting – spicy, hot, complex yet so simple. Shreds of green and white against the deep translucent brown of the broth. A contrast of flavours and textures and color. The presentation is simple yet surprisingly sophisticated.

The sounds of distant thunder, that of jets on a night strike reverberating overhead, served as a stark reminder that the winds of war were still blowing. And they were blowing strong. Yet life in Saigon seems to go on like normal, a sharp contrast to the chaos going on north of the city.

New Jersey's thoughts wander even further. Those were definitely carrier jets. She'd turned in the direction of that distant thunder and noted that the jets, identifiable by the red and green blips of their formation lights, came from over the coast.

Which carrier they had launched off of, New Jersey has no idea. Though one such carrier from Task Force 77 comes to mind immediately.

Midway. The eldest sister and lead ship of the Midway-class carriers.

To Midway's face, sailors and other shipgirls referred to her callsign; Magic. Behind her back, she had the unflattering nickname 'Never-Dock'. Like her skipper and commanding officers, Midway was always on the go, rarely staying in port for longer than one or two weeks.

It was perhaps by sheer luck that New Jersey's managed to catch Midway once at Yokosuka just last year before Midway's tour of duty began.

Midway never seemed to care much about anything that happened on the ground, but judging from all the pilots New Jersey's encountered, it seemed kind of typical for most who had spent enough time up flying up there. New Jersey had joked then that perhaps Midway's actual home was the deep blue above. To which Midway laughed at then. But in hindsight, perhaps the joke was closer to reality than either of them thought.

From what New Jersey remembers, Midway was cool, wisecracking. Always in control. Like most actual pilots but lacking the sheer brashness of a majority of said pilots. Surprisingly down to earth, for someone that was pretty much skybound. Perhaps this was what made Midway stand out against the other hotshots. And perhaps that was what drew her to Midway in the first place.

And then there was those emerald-green eyes and those near-constantly tousled locks of silver.

Come to think of it, Midway was the only shipgirl New Jersey knows that actually liked being behind the controls of an aircraft.

With Midway on her tour of duty, contact became extremely difficult, if not outright impossible. In fact, that one night in Yokosuka was the only time they'd actually spoken to each other.

Last time she'd heard of Midway, New Jersey had gotten word from some of the other shipgirls at Yankee Station that she had gone north once last year and scored first blood in the skies over the Red River Delta.

And speaking of the aforementioned carrier, a very familiar looking figure crosses New Jersey's line of sight right as she's taking the last few bites of her meal.

Said figure is dressed up in service khakis, that telltale tousled hair neatly combed and tied into a bun. Though she's looking a lot more haggard than last year (and who wouldn't, under all the rigors of war and piloting), there's no mistaking it. It's definitely that very carrier New Jersey's just been thinking of.

Those telltale green eyes, though weary-looking, are definitely those of Midway's. And a glance at the name tag confirms it.

'Midway – CV-41'

New Jersey's quick to get up after paying, dashing through the crowd just as quickly. That same compulsion from earlier now driving her to pursue that certain green-eyed carrier through the sea of people.


Midway's alone, or so she thought. Blissfully unaware that that a fellow shipgirl has her in their sights like the heatseekers on her Phantom. Usually she'd be hanging around with whichever squadron's pilots decided to come ashore but not tonight. She and a group of VF-21's F-4 crews had gone their separate ways the moment they came ashore.

She's sorely needed some time off alone, away from the flyboys.

Especially after her new orders came in by telegraph. She'd be going north tomorrow yet again and she doesn't have to read the rest of the document to know why and where.

1966 had started off on a really bad note compared to '65. Every flight up north often seemed to end with at least two or three flyers never making it back. The North's forces had adapted with the times, adjusted their tactics. The Air Force bore the brunt of the losses, with many a Thud shredded in a hail of missiles and flak, often before reaching their target.

Even the Navy wasn't spared, with a Phantom from VF-21 being shot down just two days ago, with both crew lost, Midway being unable to do anything but watch the fighter disintegrate over the jungle, before the crew had a chance to eject.

And in the hours before she'd left for Saigon, a late Spad pilot from VA-25 was given a send off with full honors, his aircraft badly shot up around the cockpit from small arms fire on the ground, the pilot hanging on to life just long enough to land his aircraft, dying shortly after the deck crew and medics got to him.

His loss was one that weighed heavily on her since that pilot happened to be her wingman when she flew with VA-25 the year before.

And there was no telling how many aircrews the other girls had lost over the past few months.

But that all had to be put behind her for now. She could bury herself in her woes on the way back to her ship tomorrow. A brief respite from the rigors of war was always welcome, and Midway intended to make the most of it, even though it was just for one night.

I need a freaking drink. Midway's pushing through the crowd, slipping past the torrent of traffic, mostly motorcycles (how does one even balance that many people or things on to an already worn-looking bike, she wonders), down several alleyways, somehow not bumping into anyone.

She's searching for somewhere quiet. Away from the rowdiness of the other flyers and sailors. She's got no patches on. No aviator worth their wings went out with their patches on in Vietnam, lest it get ripped off by fellow aviators.

It doesn't take long for Midway to find her destination. Some hole-in-the-wall type bar, with a few locals wordlessly nursing open bottles of the local beer. Perfect for drowning her woes without worrying about getting into a brawl, which was wont to happen when the other hotshots were around.

The thought of showing up to the briefing tomorrow hungover left a bad taste in her mouth (she was still military like the rest of her crew after all) but Midway soothes herself with a reminder to remember her limits. After all, she was there to unwind, not get totally legless like most other fighter jocks would.

"Fancy seeing you here, of all places~" Midway doesn't stir, even as the owner of the voice, a certain blue-haired battleship, takes a seat on the stool next to her. "Drinking alone ain't no fun, mind if I join ya?"

Midway wordlessly nods, handing over a wad of cash to the bartender, who produced a nondescript bottle of a clear liquid, setting it down in front of the pair along with two grime-stained glasses.

Midway pours a shot each for New Jersey and one for herself, noting how the contents of the bottle smelled suspiciously similar to jet fuel. Not that either of them cared. Shipgirls were damn near immune to most of the horrible things in cheap rotgut.

"So whatcha doin' here all by yourself?" New Jersey asks, taking a sip, noting the tense look in Midway's expression. "Also it's not like TF-77's resident MiG-Killer to be looking so glum. What's up?"

"Nerves need a little calming." Technically it was a half truth but either way, New Jersey's in a good mood and last thing Midway wanted to do was spoil it. "As for the other hotshots, hell if I know. Probably getting in some brawl somewhere." Midway pauses to knock back a shot, letting out a cough as the back of her throat felt like it was burning. New Jersey didn't seem to react to the drink, or maybe she did a better job hiding it.

"I'm going north again tomorrow, Jersey." Midway says, earning a raised eyebrow from the battleship.

"North huh? What's up north anyways? None of the other girls who've been up north ever seem to want to talk about it."

Already, Midway can hear them. The threat warnings, the missile alerts. The flak bursts that sounded awfully close to that of fireworks on the 4th of July, followed by the tracers. Near-endless streams of tracers. The hills seemingly twinkling with the muzzle flashes of well-concealed AA guns in between the trees.

And then Midway can see an image of an SA-2 flying right at her, giving the carrier a feeling of being shot between the eyes.

The sounds of breaking glass and shouting from across the street pulls Midway back into reality. As expected there was a brawl across the street. But Midway ignores it. She had other things to worry about at that very moment.

Looking at the broken glass in her hands, Midway grimaced lightly as New Jersey brought a clean rag over to wrap around the lacerations on her right hand and another glass filled with the same content as before. Midway downs the second shot that New Jersey's poured for her once the makeshift bandage is secured. Right on time before the images in her mind started playing again.

"What's up north, Jersey? Hell. Above and below. I'm going to Thanh Hoa, in the Red River Delta, just off of Hanoi. Up there if the anti-air or MiGs don't get you, the NVA will and it'll be a one way trip to the Hanoi Hilton."

Midway lets out a chuckle, watching the color drain from New Jersey's face at the mention of that infamous prison, where many a captured airman went and never returned.

"Let me tell you something about Thanh Hoa, Jersey. There's that one bridge that the Air Force jockeys keep trying to blow up…"

Despite Midway's initial want for just one drink, three shots grew to five. Which then escalated to the whole bottle and then another bottle.


Who paid in the end, Midway doesn't remember. But she's found comfort in a certain battleship's company. Neither does she remember how things escalated quickly from a snarky jab she'd made in jest to a certain blue haired battleship's offer for a kiss, also made in jest, to somehow ending up in bed with said battleship.

Midway doesn't look at the clock when she gets up, feeling New Jersey rolling over next to her. It's somewhere between midnight and the crack of dawn. Even with the ceiling and table fans at full blast, everything's damp.

The window's fogged up with condensation and the sheets are as damp as the white tank top that served as the last remnant of clothing she's wearing (her service khakis tossed to the far end of the room, most likely every bit as soggy as the sheets by now) and Midway's sure it isn't just from that quite heated romp with New Jersey last night. Not that her state of dress mattered, there wasn't an inch of her that New Jersey hadn't seen, as much as explored last night. And she could still feel every part of her that New Jersey's run her lips and hands over.

Midway finds her own fingers tracing a faded purple mark on the side of her neck, right above her jugular. A mark that would eventually fade but hopefully not whatever she or New Jersey's feeling for each other after last night.

The carrier's thoughts start to wander even further, from flashes of what happened earlier in the night, to the bare form of her companion next to her and then to the raid she'd be going on, her mind already picturing the chaos she'd be flying into, hours from now, the faint sounds of threat warnings and desperate pleas for help over comms warping into static.

Midway's thoughts are interrupted as she felt an arm around her right before those images started playing again in her mind's eye. Instinctively she leaned back with a soft sigh into New Jersey's warmth as the battleship's now got both arms around her.

"I let the Black Dragon herself get into my panties once and she's already head over heels for me?"

"Can't help that TF-77's resident flying ace, of all people, makes me want to go on the offensive. In more ways than one~"

"Hmph. It'll take more than smooth talking to get me to stay longer." Midway scoffs, earning a laugh from New Jersey, who's already pressed herself against the carrier's back, nuzzling against her shoulder. Somehow in New Jersey's embrace, Midway seems to feel even more alive. Just like all those times she's had the chance to take her Phantom up to the clear blue, in hot pursuit of a MiG or even just pushing the flying sled to its very limit, instead of chasing ghosts on the ground where death would stare back at her from a thousand anti-air guns.

And then it's New Jersey's turn to sigh, the room suddenly feeling just that bit colder. Reality slowly dawning on them both, the hour hand on the clock slowly ticking closer to 4 o'clock, with the light of dawn starting to break. For a moment, New Jersey wonders if this is the last time she'll see Midway.

"Did you even sleep at all, Mid?"

"I can make do with a couple hours." Midway shrugged. She's probably looking like the living dead in her current state but she's beyond caring at this point. She's no stranger to sleep deprivation after all the night flights she's done ever since the start of her tour of duty.

"It's not easy", Midway adds a moment later seemingly able to sense New Jersey's thoughts. "Switching gears and flying back into that hell never gets easier." Especially when you have to watch some of the boys go down in flames. "But I'll come back as I always do. Have a little faith in me eh?"

"You'll come back, alright hon'. Then it'll be you, me and the shores of the DMZ."

"Is this your way of asking me for a proper date?"

"It is if you want it to be~"