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     On the 12^th of October, 1972, I was flying Night Watch with another Vietnam Vet, Bill Combi, when an unexpected visitor rolled into Santa Monica at 10:26 P.M.  It was cruising north bound along the beach, at 1,500 feet, coming from LAX, and it was massive.  Lights cascaded down its side like a giant, magical waterfall and, as I climbed to its altitude and drew alongside, I found myself flying formation on the massive Goodyear Blimp.  I was thoroughly hypnotized by its moving lights advertising an upcoming Dodger’s game.

     Talk about a psychedelic trip, dear reader.  So that’s what LSD is like.

     As we reached the northern boundary of Santa Monica, I reluctantly bid adieu to my gargantuan friend while it continued up the coast to Malibu, then cut across the mountains and dropped into the San Fernando Valley.

     Aerial patrol, Dear reader, is frankly hour upon hour of tedium, punctuated by either a crime or a pursuit going down, or surprising visual treats such as the Goodyear Blimp - anything to break up the boredom.  

     Little did I know that another “visual treat” was headed my way that same night.

     It was just after 11:P.M. when Bill and I traded places and I slipped into the observer’s chair, plugged my helmet into the comm-socket, fastened my seatbelt, and settled back to enjoy the light show the city of Los Angeles was putting on just for me.  Once again we cruised at a thousand feet, with Santa Monica relatively clear that pleasant fall night, for the regular afternoon wind off the ocean had shoved the smog back into the L.A. basin – its usual hangout. 

     It lay as an auburn blanket over the L.A. Civic Center, and I could actually make out the incessant traffic coursing its way in opposite directions, north and south, on the 405 Freeway; white headlights and red tail lights reminding me of white and red corpuscles, coursing through the city, on one of its main arteries.

     We were at the eastern edge of Santa Monica, traveling southbound, when Bill banked the Sky Sentinel to the right – taking this view away from me – completing a 180° and rolling out on a northbound heading.  Now I was presented with a full view of the twinkling lights of Santa Monica, abruptly ending at the bluff that dropped to the beach eight miles distant, and the black, empty abyss of the Pacific Ocean beyond. 

     An involuntary chill always climbed my spine, dear reader, when presented with all that dark emptiness for hundreds of thousands of square miles - making me feel like a microbe on a glass slide.

     Upon reaching Santa Monica’s northern boundary, Bill executed a left 180° - taking this chilling scene away from me – and again rolled out on a southbound heading.  And that’s when I came face to face with one of the most bizarre sights I had ever seen from the air.

     How should I describe it, dear reader?  Oh, yes, I see it clearly now in my mind. 

     At Wilshire Boulevard in West L.A., where it ducks under the 405 Freeway, I observed a glittering, illuminated, serpentine “Chinese Dragon” westbound on Wilshire – heading right towards me!

     I sat there dumbfounded for a moment – attempting to sort out what my eyes were seeing – only nothing would compute.

     Use the optics, dummy!

     Oh...yeah, the optics!  Snatching up the Bushnells, I focused them on the “Chinese Dragon.”  What they revealed was still quite unbelievable: An LAPD Bell 47G helicopter led a string of fourteen LAPD black & whites in pursuit of a slow moving, 1970, red Datsun 1200 compact.  The LAPD bubble Bell, with flashing red beacon and strobe lights, couldn’t have been more than 200 to 300 feet above the Datsun – illuminating it with its Nightsun searchlight – while the 14 squad cars trailing behind were all ablaze with flashing lights from their rooftop light bars.

     The LAPD Bell 47G, which led the pursuit.

     The Datsun 1200 Coupe, being pursued.

     Diagram of what I was seeing. 

     Another example of LAPD overkill; similar to what I was seeing this night.

     When it was clear this bizarre, lighted caravan was staying westbound on Wilshire and about to enter Santa Monica’s City Limits; I alerted the SMPD Dispatcher that the LAPD was about pay us a Code Three visit en masse.  The dispatcher immediately put out a general broadcast: no SMPD unit was to participate in this LAPD pursuit. 

     This was a very wise move on the dispatcher’s part, dear reader, because one of many dangerous situations a police officer can engage in is a Code Three (lights & siren) pursuit.  It’s not only risky for the officer but for the general public – Code Three means courting a serious traffic accident.

     The SMPD Dispatcher also requested I keep him informed of the pursuit’s progress – so I started calling out streets and directions on the police radio.  Over the interphone, I told Bill to climb the Sky Sentinel to 1,500 feet – in this way we could stay on top of the pursuit - while giving the LAPD helicopter plenty of clearance.  Bill also advised the Santa Monica Tower of our activity and height – since we were operating well within the north portion of their control zone – while keeping an eagle eye peeled for conflicting air traffic.

     The little Datsun broke off Wilshire and headed southbound on Berkeley.  Then turned right and proceeded westbound on Arizona.  He appeared to be out for a “Sunday drive.”  He was in no particular hurry - and actually signaled properly with his turn indicator.  It was totally ludicrous – causing Bill and I to chuckle in disbelief – as the little red car merrily led the LAPD copter and 14-car police caravan up and down the streets of Santa Monica.  The helicopter was way too low for this type of pursuit – it couldn’t keep up with the Datsun’s tight turning radius and would swing out wide – dragging its searchlight off the Datsun. 

     I also noticed at this time several disturbing flaws its Spectrolab Nightsun searchlight possessed: 

     First of all it was a bulky cylinder 18 inches in length by 11 inches in width, much like a stage light on a movie set, which was mounted on a gimbal and flimsy metal fork.  It seemed flimsy, because the helicopter’s main rotor caused it to vibrate from side to side.  Also, apparently when you got some time on this light, a dark spot would gradually develop at its center.  It weighed 26 pounds, but with its junction box and gimbal the total installation weight was bumped up to 55 pounds.  Bottom line: One ended up with a heavy, rotating, bulky cylinder attached to the bottom of the helicopter, creating tons of drag, which produced a shaking ring of light on the ground.  I have no idea why they’re still in use today.

     In contrast, our searchlight on the Sky Sentinel was a product of the Vietnam War and approached the problem differently.  It was Optical Radiation Corporation’s “Locator” molded in the shape of a fixed, streamlined bomb, measuring 19 inches by 9 inches, and had a total weight of 21 pounds.  The nose of the “bomb” was flawless, tempered glass, containing the lighting element rotating inside, resulting in little drag, no shaking and no dark spots.  And, with the Chinese hat, spring-loaded thumb button, on the pistol grip mounted to our Bushnell’s, we could easily slave the searchlight to our optics – turning night into day wherever we looked.

     We regularly used the Locator at night to checkout boats anchored inside the breakwater, lifeguard shacks on the beach for break-ins, rooftops for break-ins, and once illuminated a roof for firemen fighting a fire – getting a commendation from the SMFD Fire Chief.

      It was especially good for high speed pursuits, like the time we illuminated a racing motorbike doing over a 100 mph on the shoulder of the 405 Freeway at night. 

     We just opened up the throttle, pulled up alongside him at 1,000 feet, matched his speed and flew formation as we kept the searchlight on him.  A vast improvement over the Hughes 300B since it could only give us 87 mph.  In contrast, at a Vno speed of 140 mph, nobody could outrun the Sky Sentinel.  Plus the pursuing units behind us easily saw our great, silver-finger of light – indicating where the suspect was – so they could slow down and patiently wait for the idiot on the bike to either crash or eventually park.

      At 100 mph they usually crash, dear reader – clipping a car, truck or retaining wall - and, after the bike and “rubber-man” quit bouncing around, the pursuing units would sedately arrive to scoop up the pieces.  This was the safe, sane way to run a high speed pursuit.

     As I sat comfortably on my 1,500 foot perch, watching the little red car merrily lead the LAPD caravan on a slow speed pursuit up and down Santa Monica streets, I was mystified as to why 14 squad cars were needed in this bumper to bumper pursuit.  Several times the compact Datsun would circle a block and almost collide with the 14^th squad car bringing up the rear.

     This was turning into a comical Mack Sennett episode of the “Keystone Kops,” dear reader.  Unfortunately, for the suspect, it had a tragic ending.

     Apparently, out of sheer frustration, the lead patrol car rammed the little Datsun’s rear end, whereby it spun out, glanced off a phone pole, and bounced up onto the front lawn of a house - on the west side of Franklin - just a couple of houses short of Nebraska Avenue. 

     For a few moments the compact red car merely sat on the front lawn, and didn’t move, while Franklin abruptly became a log jam as 14 squad cars parked helter-skelter; their officers bailing-out on foot.  In short order the Datsun was surrounded by twelve officers - who began pounding on it with their nightsticks.  That’s when the Datsun began to move...very slowly.  Apparently the collision with the phone pole had crimped a front fender onto a wheel, preventing a hasty departure. 

     This only seemed to enrage the officers – their blood was up and the “pack mentality” reigned supreme – they smashed in the Datsun’s windows, opened the driver’s door and pulled out the driver.  Who turned out to be a huge, overweight Black man in a white T-shirt and jeans.  He was beached on the lawn like a whale - as the officer’s performed a “Rodney King” - going to work on him with their nightsticks and feet.

     Sadly, this was decades before inexpensive, hand-held video cameras were on the market and came into vogue to record such events.  Therefore, this blatant example of police brutality was only recorded by me in my patrol log.

     The Rodney King beating caught on tape.

     A couple of days later, before I went on patrol, I presented a copy of this same patrol log to the watch commander, and innocently asked if he’d heard anything about this incident from the LAPD.  He professed ignorance - saying he’d make some calls to follow it up.  A week later, I checked back with him and learned he had indeed made several calls, trying to find out why this suspect was being pursued and why the brutal response.  LAPD claimed to be looking into it.  But my watch commander, in all honesty, felt he was being stonewalled.

     As time dragged by, dear reader, my patrol log recording this event disappeared and everyone lost interest.  Evidently the “incident” was swept under that massive LAPD carpet - never to be seen or heard from again.  My only consolation: it didn’t ignite another senseless LA riot.

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