On a return trip to the island, after vacation, I had just sat down in the connecting bus to our charter flight from Oakland to Honolulu, when a middle-aged man wearing a flowered shirt sat down beside me. 

On the trip to the airport we chatted amiably, and the conversation got around to the Army's Nike-Zeus anti-missile system. Having just finished a tour with the U.S. Air Force, I felt compelled to contrast the Army's Nike-Zeus with the Air Force's anti-missile approach. I raved on about how the Air Force's boost-phase intercept was superior to the Army's terminal-phase interception. 

He listened very patiently, never disagreeing. When the bus reached its destination, we parted company. 

About a week after having returned to the island, my boss, myself and several fellow workers were entering the Officer's Club for lunch, when I was greeted by the outstretched hand of a U.S. Army, Four Star General with his entourage of assorted bird colonels and majors in tow. 

I did a double-take. It was the guy on the bus! 

With his entourage patiently waiting, we chatted like long lost buddies for a few minutes, never once alluding to our previous conversation--he was magnanimous. 

After taking our leave of one another, my boss--who was suitably impressed, turned to me and asked how was it that I knew the head of the U.S. Army Missile Command...

As the bus would near the Technical Area, it was filled to capacity with a bunch of "zombies," nobody was talking to anybody. We were all setting there as if we had had a really bad night, the night before--as some had. 

On the bus ride, we were required to stop at the "guard shack" where the civilian security guard would board the bus and check everyone's I.D. badge. 

There was this particular guard, who when he came on board--taking his time, would speak to everybody--individually; making small talk and cracking jokes--just a happy guy.

When he would leave the bus, he would make some parting remark that seemed to always be original, and very funny--breaking everyone up. 

As the bus started to move out, everybody--I mean everybody, would be in animated conversion with someone else. It was as if a bunch of robots had just had their switches thrown! It was one of the most amazing things I have ever seen, or more correctly, been a part of. 

His enthusiasm was truly infectious! 

The sad ending to this story was that after about six or eight months on the island, he was fired. The story was that he had been keeping Beer in his water cooler; which just happen to be located in an un-air conditioned wooden shack the size of a phone booth, in the hot equatorial sun just 8 degrees above of the Equator. 

Most believed that he must have pissed off someone in Security, and they used something many in that group practiced themselves, to nail him with...

He was born in New York City, and grew up in relative luxury on the island of Mallorca, Spain. He served in the U. S. Army in World War II and the Army of Occupation in Germany as a communications technician. 

In the early '50s he worked for Bell Laboratories at White Sands Missile Range in New Mexico, testing components of Nike and Nike Zeus defensive weapon systems. 

Dick came to the Nike Zeus Project by way of Project Mercury at Cape Canaveral. There he picked up the nickname "Space," while on Kwaj we lengthened it to "Space Ace." When America sent Alan B. Shepard on his sub-orbital flight in 1961, Dick was the Bermuda flight controller. There he was the defense projects communication engineer assigned to Bermuda and responsible for the intercommunication philosophy in operation at the various Project Mercury locations. 

Dick once confided that his formal education only went as far as the tenth grade. Yet he was a self educated, outstanding working electrical engineer, and the acting launch director for the Nike Zeus ABM system there on Kwajalein. He was granted a patent on a method of simultaneously transmitting two messages over the same radio frequency, "Multiplex System Employing Polar Modulation."

Any evening you stopped by his room, there he would be, sitting in bed, a martini in one hand and a dime novel in the other. He loved to read dime novels, he would finish one, toss it in a pile (over two feet high) and go on to the next one… 

Dick was also an avid Ham radio operator. He operated a Heath kit portable SSB rig ~35Watts, from his room in the Reef BOQ. Several of us on that and other islands, would spend hours talking on 20 meters, his rig would eventually drift up and out of the band, and we would tell him to move back down the band when he drifted too far. 

Among his other accomplishments he invented "dual monitoring" and the hierarchy of communications concept now used universally by missile ranges. 

He also owned one of the first Accutron watches, it was so accurate that, instead of using WWVH, the National Bureau of Standards out of Hawaii, just before a launch, the Launch Director would call Dick for a "time hack."
The Nike Zeus Launch Director found the pressure of the job so daunting that  he gave the task to Dick, who did a flawless job. 

I was to find out that after Dick left the island, he met the love of his life, and they were married soon after.

A year or two later they came to Kwajalein for yet another tour. There he was a planning engineer on the Safeguard ABM System, and test director for the first intercontinental ballistic missile track from Meck Island.

I found this out in 1998 while attempting to find out, "whatever happened to him."  Sadly, I was to contact his widow in my efforts. He had passed away in 1996, at the age of 68.

In writing this, I regret that my limitations as a writer prevents my doing him justice. He was a remarkable person, and those of us who were fortunate enough to have him as a friend, won't soon forget him. 

I knew the guy, we were class mates in George Washington High School. What are the odds? We spent the next several hours reminiscing, until the band went out.

When I got back state side to Danville, I looked him up.

I would love to know the odds of that happening...
 

I remember one such time. 

One of my jobs, among others, was to calibrate and repair the test equipment used on the island. One day I was unusually bored and looking for a diversion. I happened to be working on a signal generator (miniature transmitter), and I needed to test it out. So I got the bright idea to connect it to the 120 volt A.C. wall receptacle and broadcast through the power mains to the AM radio in the lab that was tuned to the island's only radio station, AFRS.

I hooked up a microphone to the signal generator and started to broadcast as if I were running my Link Trainer from my old Air Force days. Since I had been stationed near Albany Georgia, I used the same voice procedure I had used there: "Air Force 123 this is Albany Approach. I understand you are declaring an emergency, is that correct?" "Roger, understand you are declaring an emergency. You are cleared for a straight-in approach on runway 27, contact Albany GCI on 125.2 at outer marker..."

The broadcast came out loud and clear on the lab's radio. However, it also came out loud and clear on every radio in the whole Damn building--the U.S. Army's Joint Technical Operations (JTO) Building!  __Oops!

One of the secretaries whose husband just happened to work in the island's control tower, called her husband who was also the Chief Petty Officer in charge of the ATC section. She told him of the "plane that had an emergency at the Albany, New York airport." So he alerted God knows who!

Meanwhile, finding out the hornet's nest I had just stirred up, I'm looking under my workbench for a place to hide! 

My response to the news of the aircraft's plight, was, "gosh, I wonder how that radio signal got all the way out here--must be one Hell of a Skip."

Fortunately I had not revealed that I was the source of that broadcast. And, I Never Did!
 

One of the engineers was a good friend and we use to pal around and drink together One day he got a new room mate who he had known in the states. We had a few meals together and he seem like an alright guy. One day at lunch he realized that I was a technician, not an engineer like he thought. Well, from then on he was cold, almost rude to me. He would avoid me, and even pretend that he didn't even see me at times.

That really pissed me off, and even hurt a little. I asked my buddy, Kelly, what was up with his room mate, he said that he had a history of being a bit of a snob.

During some of our meals we talked about he and I both serving in the Air Force, and having the same rank, Airman Second (E2).

So wanting to fix this snob’s "little red wagon," and have some fun--at his expense of course! I got this idea, I would con him into believing that I was, in fact, an officer in the Air Force Reserves, which beat his rank of an enlisted E2. I wanted to see how he treated me then. I felt I knew, if I brought this off. I let my buddy know what I was up to and I also enlisted his help.

First I let it drop that I had misunderstood the snob when he told me he was an Airman Second, and I said that was my rank also when I served. But in fact I had been a Second Lieutenant Air Crewman at the time we were talking about. 

His attitude changed toward me somewhat, but I could tell he wasn't completely convinced

I was in the Air Force reserves, but at the rank of Airman Second (E2), and I happened to receive the monthly reserve magazine. The magazine was received by officers and enlisted alike, the only difference would be the address label.

I asked an Army Captain friend of mine what would be the difference in an officer's serial number and an enlisted serial number. He said where my number started with, AF, an officer's would start with an M. He also said that was true for both Air Force and Army, when I asked. So I proceeded to craft a fake mailing label for my magazine by first typing four or five carbon copies of the label, I took the second or third copy and cut it out the same as the original, including the two little notches that were cut out at the top and bottom. Once I had swapped them, you couldn't tell the difference. I was as proud as any counterfeiter who had just turned out a shinny new twenty.

Now came the hard part, since I wanted the "mark" to see the magazine, or more precisely, the label, I got my buddy, Kelly, to casually stop by my room with hin on the way to lunch. Before they showed up I planted the magizine, face, and label, down on my bed.

They walked in and we chatted a few minutes, I then pretended that I needed to show Kelly something about my tape recorder. As we were talking, I watch the mark in the mirror. He looked to see if I was watching, and quickly picked up the magizine, took a long glance at the label, then put it down, face down on my bed.

I could hardly contain myself. Nothing I had ever planned and/or tried had ever worked anywhere as well, I almost needed a change of underwear!

This guy fell hook line and "Stinker!" His attitude toward me changed as abruptly as when he first found out that I was a lowly tech. In point of fact, it was almost embarrassing to see him fawn. For the next several weeks I played with him, extracting as much satisfaction as possible, without setting him wise (;-)). About once a week I would give him the news that I had been notified that I was up for promotion from Captain to Major. The next week, the promotion had finally come through, that it was official __Blah, Blah, Blah...

The theme was a constant, "I'm a Major in the U.S. Air Force Reserve, and you are Not!"

Several weeks later my tour there was up, and I was headed back to the States; with all that money, and by the way, several pounds of fresh, Flesh!

So the day I left, I was finishing my lunch in the officer's mess with my buddies and coworkers, I said my Good Byes. On the way out I stopped by the snob's table, I shook his hand and looking him in the eye, I said, "be careful how you judge people in the future, a mere job title doesn't make the man." I called him by name (I wish I could remember it), "you're a God Damn arrogant little snob! I'm no officer, I was an airman second just like you. And I'm a technician, and a Damn good one, if I say so myself--and I do say so! 

I looked at everyone at the table, and doing my best Phil Silvers imitation, I said--with a big grin, "Glad to See Yea!" 

With that, I turned and left on that "Big Bird in the sky!" 

Boy was I glad to be Finally Leaving!!

That job was like my military service, I wouldn't take a million dollars for the experience, but I wouldn't do it again for a million dollars.  __Well, maybe for a million...
 

My call on Kwaj was KX6AY, (King Xray Six Always Yaking). I was known for talking more than listening; in fact there was a rumor that my receiver had been broken for three days before I realized it. 

I was 25 and single; worked for Bell Labs/Western Electric and had a GS rating equivalent to Major.  I lived in the BOQ and took meals in the Navy officers mess (not a pretty sight--we often snuck in the CPO mess).  If I had been married and accompanied by my family we would have lived in dependent's quarters.

I mention this because I was privy to sections of the social strata that some were not. The things that went on there at that time were pretty WILD--even by today's standards. If you were married and had your family with you, you could join one of the several "key clubs" there. Also, there was "organized" illegal gambling, drugs, smuggling, and other ways of getting your ass in a sling. There were several suspicious deaths (murders--gambling, etc.).

I knew several engineers single and married that were asked to leave before their tours were finished, due to their heavy dependency on alcohol--which was cheaper than Coke Cola!

In 18 months, there were three different island doctors--all of which left under a cloud...  --Three great tales to tell there (later editions).

The dependent kids were, for the most part, "unsupervised," they kept the island security pretty busy.
 During my tour, the population grew to more than 3500 people.

The justice on the Island was "Navy Justice," e.g., if someone walked up behind me and hit me in the head with a two by four, the Navy's solution was to hold no hearing, but declare both parties at fault and ship both off the island.

A positive side was the money: one could amass a good sized nest-egg fast!

Even though, after eighteen months, I couldn't wait to get the "Hell Off," I have fond memories: it was truly a life altering experience! "
 

One of my jobs was to work on Linden Flight Service's two de Havilland Beavers' com radios and nav aids.

I had the habit of demanding that the pilot take me up to check the quality of the repairs. One day after a missile shot, with the doors off of the pontoon Beaver, a co-worker and myself took just such a ride. I think the pilot had had enough of my crap, so as we taxied out and started our takeoff roll he opened the throttle, and pushed the aileron wheel over into my lap and held it there with his knee, and shouted, "here you fly the plane." I had never flown a plane in my life; the only thing close was that I had been a Link Trainer instructor in the USAF, which I always mentioned two or three times around the pilot.

When I protested that I couldn't fly, he shouted back, "yea you can, you use to 'fly' in the Air Force, you told me so!"

My buddy who was in the "jump seat" in the rear, couldn't hear what was being said for all the noise, and assumed that I could indeed fly, so he set back to enjoy the ride.

Meanwhile, about halfway down the runway we were rolling at about 85 knots, I realized he was serious; he shouted, "take off, take off!" As we started to run out of runway, I looked at the flight instruments and praying, I pulled back on the aileron wheel and started climbing out at about ~300 fpm, I flew it as if I were flying my old Link Trainer (C-47) in IFR conditions--never once looking out the front windshields.

At about a 100 or so feet I did look out the wind shields and realized we had a crosswind (~25 kts) that was pushing us toward the tower where all I could see was what looked like an upraised fist as I rolled it away from the tower.

We continued to climb to altitude ~5,000 feet where we got a radio call that there was an overdue boat out there somewhere and would we keep an eye out for it. So we flew around for what seemed like an eternity. All the time I was waiting and watching for the pilot to loosen his grip on the aileron wheel stalk so I could push it back into his lap--where it belonged, and scotch it with my knee; I sure as Hell didn't want to try and land that thing--especially with a cross wind!

Finally he directed me to the approach end of the island--right over the shark pit--to line up for final approach, at this point I was begging for him to take the wheel, but he kept saying "you can do it!" As we entered the approach pattern he backed off on the throttle and as we started to descend he took the wheel and landed the plane, I was so grateful I could have hugged his neck.

Later back at the JTO building I told my buddy what had actually happened--that I could not fly and had never flown until that day, when he finally understood what I was saying and finally believed me, he turned white and ran into the latrine where proceeded to "loose his lunch." Meanwhile I went back to the BOQ and took a shower and changed underwear. 
 
 

About half way through my tour on Kwajalein we had the excitement of a fire in the antenna of a very powerful radar, the Zeus Acquisition Radar (ZAR). This radar was so powerful (30MW peak) that it used separate antennas, one for transmitting and one for receiving, which were about a thousand feet apart. 

The transmitting antenna consisted of three separate antennas, each 80 feet long by 10 feet high, arranged like a three cornered hat.

Shortly after the fire there were people in baskets suspended from cranes, inspecting the ninety foot high, 660 feet in diameter, stainless steel beam-forming fence, that completely encircled the transmitting antenna and building, for bullet holes. 

Meanwhile, to find out what had happened, Bell Telephone Laboratories (BTL) in Whippany, NJ, over a weekend, sent out a C-130 full of antenna engineers.

Several of us from our lab were sent to assist. I was given the responsibility for designing and conducting the tests on the antenna material--copper strips in fiberglass. That test consisted of measuring the resistance (heating) of copper strips embedded in fiberglass which made up the "lens" of the antenna. 

This is all done in the presents of the island's fire department, the same department that was called when the first fire occurred.

First, with all personnel sequestered within the safety of the shielded transmitter building, the transmitter was turned on for a few minutes--without the antenna rotating. This allows the antenna to heat up, if it's going to. Then it's turned off, the shielded door beneath the antenna is quickly flung open and we run out, remove the shield protecting the Wheatstone bridge connected to the copper strips, and made our measurements. 

To make these measurements the operator must "play" the bridge like a musical instrument, if the sensitivity buttons were not pushed in the right sequence, the test would fail and the entire process would have be repeated.

I think the wisest thing we did out there was to request that we "choreograph" the steps, and rehearse it--many, many, dry runs!

It went off like clockwork, there were no mistakes--we got good data. 

That weekend was an adrenaline pumping 36 hours with everybody--and the fire department, in attendance.

And, the overtime wasn't bad either...