Ted Williams: The Splinter Who Flew Through Fire

They called him the Splendid Splinter, this tall, raw-boned kid from San Diego who swung a bat like he was trying to knock the cover off the ball and send it clear to the moon. But twice in his prime, Ted Williams traded the green diamond for the wild blue yonder, putting away the lumber for a joystick because his country asked. Not many ballplayers saw real combat; fewer still did it twice. Williams flew 39 missions over Korea as a Marine pilot, came back with a plane on fire and belly-landed it like he was sliding into second ahead of the tag. And he never whined about the five seasons it cost him—seasons that might have pushed him past 600 homers, maybe even Ruth's mark.

It started in 1942. Williams had just finished the greatest hitting year anybody had seen since the dead-ball days: .406, the last man to crack .400, with 37 homers and 120 RBIs to boot. He was 23, already a star, but Pearl Harbor changed everything. Classified 3-A because he was supporting his mother, he fought the draft board and the newspapers that called him yellow. Then he enlisted anyway, in the Navy V-5 aviation program, because if he was going, he wanted to fly.

He earned his wings in 1944, commissioned a second lieutenant in the Marines, and spent the war training fledgling pilots in Pensacola and Jacksonville—tough, demanding, the kind of instructor who made you better or washed you out. No combat in World War II, but he was ready when the call came again.

By 1952 he was 33, coming off another monster year—.318, 30 homers, leading the league in slugging. Six games into the season, the Marines activated the reserves. Williams was furious—thought he had an understanding he'd stay inactive—but off he went. After refresher training on the F9F Panther jet, he shipped to Korea with VMF-311, same squadron as a young major named John Glenn.

His third mission nearly ended it all. February 16, 1953: 35 planes hitting a troop training area. Anti-aircraft fire stitched his Panther; hydraulics gone, fire in the engine, radio dead. Glenn and the others signaled bail out, but at 500 mph and low altitude, Williams nursed the flaming bird 50 miles back to base, belly-landed at 225 mph on a rough strip, skidding 2,000 feet in a shower of sparks. He popped the canopy and ran like hell—said later he beat Mickey Mantle's time to first. Only a sprained ankle. Next day he was back in the cockpit.

He flew 39 missions total, many as Glenn's wingman, dropping bombs, strafing, taking fire. Earned three Air Medals. Ear infections and pneumonia finally grounded him in July '53; the armistice came days later.

Back home in August, he picked up a bat like he'd never left. In 37 games he hit .407 with 13 homers, slugging .901. The man could still rake.

What he did over 19 seasons, interrupted twice, remains staggering: .344 lifetime, highest on-base percentage ever at .482, 521 homers, 2,654 hits, two Triple Crowns, two MVPs, 19 All-Star games. And the what-ifs: project the missed years and you're looking at 660 homers, 3,400 hits, numbers nobody touches.

He was prickly with writers, stubborn as a mule, but on the field pure genius. Wrote "The Science of Hitting," still the bible for batters. Fished like a fiend, managed the Senators for a spell.

Ted Williams never bragged about the wars. Said the real heroes didn't come back. But he did his duty, twice, when it cost him the most. In an age when stars find ways out, he flew straight into the flak.Not bad for a skinny kid who just wanted people to say, when he walked down the street, "There goes Ted Williams, the greatest hitter who ever lived."

He got his wish. And then some.