As usual we had advance notice he was coming. Scuttlebutt had it, he was West Point and Airborne. A strange picture that made. Eye patch and peg leg in a cadet uniform, and like Charles Laughton, driving us before the mast. We had seen the movies and didn't feel we would like Capt. Bligh taking the helm. But I was a short timer with less then 60 days to go. I could live through it. Then one day he just walked into the depot office. I would never have pegged him for a Bligh. He hadn't got his short pants and shirt yet. He was in pressed tropicals, and had his overseas cap angled just right. No peg, no patch, just an air of self confidence and a name badge that read, Capt. Blyth. We even had the name wrong. Unfortunately, Major Shanahan was attending a staff meeting. As Chief Clerk I stood up and greeted the Captain with a hesitant salute. Here I was before him in my wrinkled khaki shorts and scuffed up work shoes, and the rest, bare skin. He returned my salute and inquired for the Major. I explained the absence and tried to make small talk. It did not go well. Finally I had an inspiration and asked if he would like to tour the Depot area. We went out the back door into the storage yards. "What's on those pallets under the tarps?" he asked. "Don't know," I replied hesitantly. "Here, let's take a look. Anti-freeze. What are we doing with eight pallets of antifreeze in this climate?" he said with sweat dripping off his nose. "Don't know, seems dumb, doesn't it," I replied hesitantly, with sweat dripping off my nose. "We'll check into getting rid of that. How long has that lumber been here? It should've been stacked and covered." "Don't know. Maybe a month." He whipped out a pad and pencil and started writing notes. After about 30 more "Don't know's," we returned to the office, and thank God, the Major had returned. It was obvious the Captain was a "get things done" kind of guy. That evening as we lay sweltering, Carlino came into the tent. "Guess what I saw. That Captain Blyth is out running laps around Pershing Field." "This I gotta see." I said and four of us got up and sauntered the hundred yards through the stifling heat to the field. There he was, slim, trim, wearing khaki gym shorts and tennis shoes. We watched from the shade of the dispensary as he completed lap after lap in the blazing sun. His muscular arms and legs pumped rhythmically, and his face although dripping sweat was relaxed and showed no pain. Finally he achieved his goal, slowed, and jogged to the officers barracks. We returned to the tent, our comments frequently incorporated the word, crazy, Captain Blyth quickly settled into the work at the depot. The NCO's and enlisted men who reported to him had nothing but good things to say about his leadership. When he came into the office, heads came up and smiled greetings were acknowledged by him. To our amusement and admiration he continued the torturous grind each evening at Pershing Field, but no one joined him on his "fun run in the sun." One day a Major Durling from Engineering came into the office to talk to Major Shanahan. "Have you seen what Blyth is doing?" "A damn good job, I'd say." "Oh yeh, he's out there now in this fatigues working right with the men restacking the lumber. It's not right for an officer to be engaging in manual labor. We're supposed to supervise." "Major, he has a lot of energy. Let him work it off." That's not the point. If the Commander sees him doing that, he's liable to have all us officers in fatigues and out sweating on the wood pile." When Major Shanahan promised to look into it, Durling left. The Major went back to his paperwork. "What are you going to do?" I asked. "Nothing, but I hope Blyth finishes the restacking soon." Both Shanahan's and Blyth's stock went up with us as that story circulated. My "short timer" status was improving. Now less then 30 days to go. It reached a point where I didn't even want to go swimming. If you drowned or got eaten by a shark, it would really make you mad, being so close to going home time. It was then that Captain Blyth approached several of us. He wanted to start a basketball team and challenge the other units. We spread the word and had nine guys show up for our first practice. If jogging on Pershing Field with its crushed coral surface was "crazy", then the adjacent open air basketball court with black macadam surface is indescribable. For 30 minutes we pounded up and down that court dribbling, jumping, shooting in our cloddy work shoes. The heat rose off the black surface in temperatures approaching those of hell. Finally the Good Captain called a break. We staggered gasping to what little shade we could find. Even the shadow of cyclone fencing gave some relief. Then Blyth brought out the life saver. A bucket of drinking water with ice cubes floating in it and a dipper. We consumed the full bucket. Then back to the court. At the end of our hours practice we ran--staggered--the two blocks to the swimming beach. Kicking off the shoes we fell face down into the salt water and floated as the heat was drained from us. The next day Major Shanahan said, "Blyth caught hell over in the Officers Barracks last night because of you guys." "What did we do?" "He stole all the ice cubes from the BOQ refrigerator for you guys, and the officers had to have all their drinks without ice. Real hell to pay." There was a twinkle in his eye. I don't know how serious the stolen ice cube incident was, but we continued to enjoy the cold water and ice without interruption. My last remembered contact with Captain Blyth happened just a few days before my freedom flight. The outdoor movie that night starred Ingrid Bergman. I inquired if he was going to see it. "No, I don't approve of her morals or life style. I won't be going tonight." I said something like, "If someone has a talent which is good, do we have to reject that talent because their life is bad? Don't we hurt ourselves for no apparent good. We don't pay for the movie and Ingrid will know no benefit, and won't know if you are there or not." "But, I'll know, and I have to live with myself." When the big bird finally took off with me in the belly, my thoughts were of home not of the military. I never heard from or about Captain Blyth again. Now some 50 years later my thoughts go back to that speck of sand in the Pacific and of the real men I had contact with, Shanahan, Blyth, Whitmore, Horowitz, Carlino. Some, like Captain Blyth, I don't even remember the first name, but, they helped to shape my future. Col. Rodney Alger Blyth Retired, of the West Point class of 1946 and Eniwetok 1953 died 5 July 1988 in Lebanon, Pennsylvania and is interred at Arlington National Cemetary. http://www.west-point.org/users/usma1946/15699/ Dick Dunlap Email:DDunlap2@aol.com

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