C-54 MATS transport plane

Dead tired, I sit on the padded bench, my back contoured unnaturally to the curve of the fuselage. The aisle in front of me is a jumble of crates and cargo, lashed down and covered by tarps. Feeling the C-54 MATS transport plane begin to descend, I twist to peer through the small window at my back. Under a cloudless sky the deep blue waters of the Pacific pass endlessly. We continue down, down, until the peaceful blue carpet of ocean transforms to a rhythmic pitching sea. The plane slows: blue sea changes to aqua. Machinery hums as the flaps come down and motors throttle back. Suddenly white surf and coral boulders flash past the window. Then when it appears we will certainly crash into the reef, I see black runway. The wheels squeal on touch down, and I involuntarily sway as the four engines reverse and the plane slows. We taxi to the terminal building and the plane’s cargo door swings open. With smiled greetings, half naked GI’s swarm aboard the plane to begin unloading the cargo. I position my cap, shoulder my duffel bag and struggle down the aisle for my first glance at my new home. At the door a stifling blast of hot air fills my lungs. Looking out at the blazing sun reflecting off the black tarmac, I feel sick. My khakis are stained with sweat, and rivulets run down from under my over-seas cap, across my face, to drip off my nose and chin. I descend the portable stairs and seek the shaded shelter of the metal terminal building, but it brings no relief. The thought strikes me. I have to survive in this heat for one year. * * * It seemed like a good idea back at Camp Cooke in California. Twelve months on a tropical island. Stationed at the Headquarters for the Atomic Proving Grounds in the Pacific. Working in Quartermaster where I received my training. So I volunteered for Joint Task Force 132 and Eniwetok. At an interview, my Quartermaster experience was deemed adequate, and I passed the FBI security investigation. I’d heard of Eniwetok years earlier, when US troops invaded the island to capture the Japanese air field. A part of the Marshall Islands, it had a tropical climate and coral sand beaches. I remembered news photos showing shattered palm trees and exhausted sweaty marines. Leaving San Francisco, my spirits were high. First stop, Hawaii, land of the hula. Wouldn’t you know it, 20 minutes for refueling. "Don’t leave the terminal." Then on to tiny Johnson Island. A two hour layover on this little strip of sand in the expanse of the Pacific. The runway starts at the waters edge and ends across the island again at the waters edge. Bearded Navy cooks fed us a midnight meal. Shaving is allowed only once a week. Water shortage. Some tropical paradise, this. Next stop, Kwajalein. A lot bigger then Johnson. We’re getting closer: it’s part of the Marshall Islands with many building and lots of people. We ate a hurried breakfast here and left. And finally after 23 hours on that damn plane, Eniwetok. At the terminal a driver offers me a jeep ride to Army Headquarters. The 300 acres of the island are about two miles long and very narrow. The one asphalt road, Lagoon Drive, stretches from the airport around the southern tip of the island, and then two miles back up the lagoon side to the north end. We pass a few tattered palms and tropical bushes among rows of tents and corrugated metal buildings. Only eight years ago thick jungle grew here. Rusted hulks of landing craft and LST’s beached or disabled in a desperate battle, litter the lagoon shore. I see men with deep bronze tans, and like my driver they wear only khaki shorts and work shoes. Looking across the water far to the northeast, are small mounds of green raising from the Pacific. Parry Island lies low and flat and the speck on the horizon is Japtan. These are just two of 38 islands, most of them over the horizon, forming a giant circle which comprises Eniwetok Atoll. The entire land mass totals less then three square miles. Coral reefs run from island to island and enclose the central lagoon, about 35 miles across. On the lagoon side of the island, gentle waves lap sandy coral beaches; my idea of a tropical island. In contrast on the ocean side great roiling breakers explode on the living coral reef and send small waves across the shallow to break against the shore. These breaking waves resound in a quiet thunder that continues day and night. This noise is the culmination of thousands of miles of wind pushed waves, which ends in a wild burst of energy as they hit the island reef flinging water high in the air. The living coral is gouged and ripped by this force, yet seems to thrive and grow. From the air the surf appears white, the shallows green, and the ocean depths a deep blue. From up there it looks as if one could walk the reefs from island to island. In reality during high tide, water eight feet deep surges across into the lagoon and when the tide falls, it exposes a jumble of slippery jagged coral that defies a firm footing. There are several breaks in this wall of coral around the atoll, one just west of Eniwetok Island and another east of Parry. These channels permit large ocean going ships into the placid anchorage of the 1000 square mile lagoon. * * * The ten minute jeep ride continues on the island’s only road. The driver gives this impromptu tour with a rambling narration. "This is the Depot Supply area. Got a cigarette? Left mine at the tent. Where you from?" I start to answer but he rattles on. "Over there - Air Force. Those guys can pull an engine from a C-54, overhaul it, and stick it back on the next plane in. "No natural fresh water on the Island. Those water distillation units convert salt water into drinking water, and we get fresh showers too, but not heated. "On the right. Officer’s quarters. They get metal Butler buildings. Tents for the enlisted men. Tents are a hell of a lot cooler. You can roll up the sides and catch the breeze, but you can’t hang stuff on the walls. What part of the states you from?" I start to answer, "Ah---I’m---" He cuts in, "Navy contingent lives there. Those small jobs that look like PT boats in the lagoon? Crash boats. They go out every time a plane lands or takes off - in case they have to ditch." Crash boats The drivers conversation doesn’t miss a beat as we wheel around pedestrians and ponderous trucks. His deep tan and sun bleached hair make him a brother to those he waves at as we pass. "There, consolidated mess. Food’s not too bad. Feeds three meals a day plus another at midnight for those working all night. If you have to miss a meal just stop in, and they’ll get you something. They have homemade ice cream every day. KP’s a bitch though. Consolidated Mess . "All military. No women, no kids, no natives. Just like being in prison except we can’t have visitors. Were all serving a one year sentence. Where you say your from?" I’m catching on now and say nothing as he rattles on. "These tents and latrine buildings are Army. They provide all the services we need. Laundry, cooks, military police, stevedores, maintenance, you name it. "Got a Coast Guard loran station on down the road. Sends out radio signals for ship and plane navigation." The jeep slides to a sandy halt. His shrugging shoulder points to the Army Headquarters tent. "Here we are. Only got three more weeks, then I’m stateside and out of this man’s army. Where’s home to you?" Grabbing my duffel bag, I slide out of the jeep and shout as the driver peels out, "ILLINOIS!" Without turning his head, he raises his right arm as a signal of understanding. Eniwetok Island with the Airfield Down the Center Dick Dunlap Email:DDunlap2@aol.com

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