TROUBLE IN PARADISE

(My Christmas holidays of 1952 were spent with the military on Eniwetok Atoll in the Central Pacific.)

It is an ominous wind blowing. We usually appreciate the light breezes that temper the heat of the tropical sun. But this wind blows constantly and hard. The ocean swells are up, and what is usually a continual rolling thunder on our reef is now explosions of water and coral. Even the lagoon side is throwing three foot waves on the beach.

We skip our daily swims. One doesn’t have to go swimming in less than ideal conditions — when your living in a tropical paradise. Christmas will be the exception. It is important to swim on December 25th. At home they will be
bundled in coats and sweaters, in mittens and boots. But, my letter home on Christmas day will mention smugly that I had gone swimming.

The holidays are fast approaching; my first away from home. Each daily mail call brings a new wave of cookies and good cheer onto the island. My folks surprise me with a three pound canned ham and a box of crumbs that used to be
Mom’s peanut butter cookies.

We approach a cook at the mess hall and beg a pound of butter, than on to the bakery and get a loaf of fresh baked bread still warm from the oven. In the
evening with the radio playing carols, the boys in tent 4 have a Christmas party with ham sandwiches, cookie crumbs, and Joe Cantatori’s macaroni soup.

We assemble a punch out paper Christmas tree with paper ornaments that Dad had included in my package. The 12 inch tree is set on a footlocker and will have to suffice for decorations this year.

The wind blows harder. Weather reports warn of a typhoon in the mid Pacific. Christmas day I take a short swim in a choppy lagoon, and write a letter home.

On the 26th we receive news that we are in the path of a typhoon. We finish work fastening things down in the Depot Supply storage yards and then leave work early.

The usual lively banter starts at lights out, but this time not about women or cars.

“How bad is a typhoon?”

“You’ll find out when the waves start coming across the island.”

“Where’s the best place to go?”

“I’m going to the top of the hill with my M-1 rifle to keep you guys from pushing me off.”

We always talked about “the hill” on flat little Eniwetok. It supposedly was 8 foot above high tide, but nobody was sure just where that hill was.

“I’m going right up to the top of the water tower.”

“In typhoon winds — I don’t think so.”

“If it’s our turn to die, than we’ll just die. Now go to sleep.”

“It may be you guy’s turn to die, but I still got car payments to make.”

“Yeah, Whitmore, everybody dead but you because it’s too late for us to buy a car.”

“GO TO SLEEP!”

“Maybe we should all get life preservers.”

The 27th is a grey and windy day. We make our preparations. The canvas tent is rolled up and lashed to the tent frames. We take our cots, duffel bags, and foot lockers, and crowd into near-by corrugated metal buildings. What we can’t
move or don’t have room for, we stack on the concrete floor of our tent and cover with tarps.

Several of our group are detailed to help the Coast Guard prepare. Their Loran station has to broadcast continually. They fill sand bags and build walls to keep the water away from the powerful electrical equipment.

In the Butler buildings, cots are jammed together, and we sleep fully clothed. There isn’t a lot of talking tonight. Tomorrow is T-Day.

We awake to an overcast sky with the howling wind. Leaning into that wind we make our way to the mess hall and eat breakfast. While there we hear the good news.

Permission has finally been granted to move us by landing craft to the large ships in the lagoon to ride out the storm. The bad news: The lagoon is so rough that it is unsafe to move men out to the large ships.

We stand in awe looking out on the Pacific. The wind continues to build. It becomes difficult to hear over the booming surf and the the bellowing gusts. Where the ocean waves hit the reef, tons of water is flung fifty feet in the air. This causes five foot waves to cross the 200 foot reef toward us. Reaching our shore they surge up and over, and the water continues across the island into the lagoon.

I instinctively step up onto a tent frame as a wave breaks. Large one foot chunks of coral roll and grind in the swirl of waters below me. I quickly move on.

About 1/2 mile down the shore in the lagoon, our two sleek crash boats drag their moorings and wash ashore, grinding into the coral. Engineers, working against time, maneuver a giant crane with the hopes of lifting the boats clear of the water. The best they can do is to pull out the engines, wondering if even
those can be salvaged.

The Island Commander’s home was built overhanging the ocean. As waves pound it, men work frantically to remove the furnishings. The home’s collapse results in one broken leg.

Nearby, the metal wall of the mess hall breaks loose at the bottom and tons of sand and coral boulders wash in. But the troops must be fed. Supper is served that evening from tables set up buffet style, outside. The sandwiches and
juice taste mighty good. At last the wind is starting to subside.

The next morning, returning to our tent, we find a paper Christmas tree sticking out of the mud. We shovel off the tent pad and unfurl the canvas and are back home once again. In the coming days we’ll cart sand and coral in wheelbarrows out of the mess hall. Dig up water mains and empty them of sand. Patch roads where asphalt has been washed away. But for now, its to bed and a good nights sleep.

“See, that wasn’t so bad, I told ya.”

“Sure, when I saw the latrines weren’t knocked down, I knew you’d be OK.”

“Those guys in the Loran Station were working in about a foot of water.”

“You guys think it was such a breeze. You should have been on KP.”

“Shut up and get some sleep.”

“I really wasn’t scared.”

“SHUT UP!!!”

“If we had life preservers, we could always have swum out to the ships.”

Story ID:	1314
Written by:	Dick Dunlap (bio, contact, other stories)
Story type:	Travel
Location:	Eniwetok Marshall Islands
Year:	1952