The very first day I moved in, Henry was lying there in his bunk listening to his country and western music through earphones. "That's about all Henry does when he's not at work," said the airman who led me to my cubicle in Barracks Number 3. I was beginning a 12-month tour of duty on Johnston Island, a tiny coral atoll in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. Henry had the cubicle immediately to my right. The dividers between cubicles didn't extend all the way to either the floor or the ceiling in order to let the breezes from the ocean circulate around the barracks and counteract the tropical heat. I was envious of Henry Ferris after I found out that he only had one month to go on the island. The only consolation I found when I compared my situation to his was that I would be getting discharged from the Air Force at the end of my tour while he was a career man.
Everyone hated being on Johnston Island. The airmen made jokes about it, complained all the time, counted the days 'til they left. Several months before, one guy had started the custom of going just outside the three-story barracks every night at 11 right after the playing of "Taps" and yelling loudly, "I hate this fucking place."
There were no more accidents and disasters than one found anyplace else, but stories were told about unfortunate incidents that had taken place before, like the time that two men had climbed up a telephone pole to make repairs and it had collapsed, crushing both of them. The most horrifying incident had happened way back around 1962. Before that time, the families of the married servicemen had been allowed to live on the island, but the government decided not to allow that anymore. It was around the time of the Cuban missile crisis. It took several planeloads to evacuate the families. Finally, the last airplane took off with a full load as the husbands watched it leave from the ground. It curved to the left, but it never came out of the turn. Something went wrong with the wing mechanisms, and it crashed right into the ocean. No one came out alive. The ones that survived the crash were eaten immediately by sharks.
Not all the stories that were passed on were tragic. Many involved pranks or funny incidents, usually when someone was drunk. There was the one in which a guy by the name of Evans was standing next to a second-story window. They were having a little party in one of the cubicles, and by then he was very drunk. It was claimed that he somehow fell through the window while holding a half-full glass. It was a 20-foot drop and he hit the ground on his left side. As everyone looked on, he got up, held up his glass, and said calmly, "Didn't spill a fucking drop."
The men acted much more crazy on J.I. than they would have at a regular base because it was a remote site. The closest inhabited land was Hawaii, and that was 700 miles to the northeast. The worst thing was that there was not a single woman on the island. Every 3 or 4 months, go-go dancers were brought in for a couple of nights and everybody went wild watching them at the NCO Club. The dancers were guarded 24 hours a day.
The island was about 2 miles long and one mile wide. You could stand in the middle of it and see the ocean in all four directions, a bright, clean, penetrating shade of blue. There was no natural vegetation, but there were palm trees and skimpy lawns kept up with the close attention of the gardeners. Although it wasn't apparent from looking at it, the military mission on the island was supposed to be concealed in deepest secrecy. Everyone was under strict orders not to say anything about why they were on the island, not even to their closest relatives. Cameras were not allowed.
I finally got to talk to Henry after a few days, trying to be neighborly. He kept mostly to himself, associating mainly with Jim Carnes across the middle aisle from his cubicle whenever he did feel like socializing. He talked gently, "They try to make it as pleasant as possible for you here on J.I. They try to keep you entertained with movies for 50 cents and real cheap booze and great food, like prime rib on Wednesday nights and steak on Saturdays. The worst thing is trying to keep yourself from climbing up the walls after a while, especially if you need to be back home." He pointed to a photograph of two boys, ages about 10 and 6, "Those are my kids." He said it proudly but with a touch of sadness in his voice.
Henry seemed to take a liking to me. He said I could play his stereo system if he wasn't using it. Carnes was the only other person who had that privilege. Of course, it was true that he was almost always listening to it whenever he wasn't at work. He would usually lie in his bunk listening through his headphones. He would listen to the dreariest of the country songs, tear-jerkers pouring out endless pity and sorrow. He often put on the sad ones by Hank Williams like "Your Cheatin' Heart," and he usually sipped bourbon the whole time he was listening. Two of the other guys nearby sometimes yelled across the bay warning him, "Come on, Ferris. Stop listening to that sad shit so much. It's just gonna make it worse for you."
I wasn't aware of it at first, but apparently they knew that he was having family problems back home. I was convinced for many years after, that Henry's problems had been magnified by his listening to country music and believed that country music should probably be banned to prevent it from contributing so much to people's depression.
With the layout of the open cubicles in the barracks, it was easy for conversations to get started. One man could start complaining and be heard for a long way, or two might talk to each other from one cubicle to the other and then others might join in, gathering in one cubicle or in the middle aisle. One evening a conversation got started among five men. It was a popular topic: complaining about Johnston Island.
"Sometimes it really gets me. Having to be out here in the middle o' nowhere on this rock, while everybody I know back home is having a great time," lamented Ron Springer a lanky guy of 22. The men in that particular barracks were an average age of 21.
"I know. A friend of mine just wrote and told me he went to this concert. The Doors were playing and some other group. He said it was great," commented Frank Richardson excitedly.
"Heck, I don't care about all them concerts and stuff," said Sandy Miller, a slow-drawling Tennessean who was probably the oldest one in the barracks at 26. "I don't go for that kind of music much anyway, but I sure miss my wife and kids. I never imagined I'd miss 'em that much. Boy, and I tell you, those kids of mine can be a real pain in the ass, but I'd give anything to be back with them now."
"Man, what I hate is sitting around, wondering when you're going to get hit with a Dear John from your girlfriend," remarked Mike Bandini from Simsbury, Connecticut. "It seems like Patty's been laying down some hints in her last few letters. I knew I shouldn't have given her permission to go out with other guys."
"Did you hear Simmons got one from his girlfriend yesterday?" Frank asked.
"No, really?" exclaimed Mike. "And I thought they were talking about getting engaged."
"That's the way it goes sometimes," remarked Jim Cooper, a black from Alabama, half-jestingly, "but thank goodness us married guys don't have to worry about that."
"Hell, don't be so sure," warned Mike. "Look at Ferris. That's why he's always so down. Things aren't going so good between him and his old lady."
"Then you gotta think about getting hit by the Russians with a missile someday," Sandy pointed out. "You never know."
"Shit, you don't have to worry about that because you'll just never know what hit you," Ron disagreed.
Frank added, "Hell, you don't have to worry about that because this damn place isn't important enough for the Russians to bother with."
"That's right," said Bob Leavitt from New Jersey, "this place is nothing. They've got a lot more important targets to go after."
"It'll be all over by the time they think of us," Frank remarked.
"The thing that's more likely to get us is some mean tidal wave," Bob said.
I quickly started looking into some of the things to do after work. I lifted weights in the gym for a couple of months but later decided to take up swimming regularly in the Olympic-size swimming pool. I hardly knew how to swim so this would be good opportunity to finally learn. I got to know Carl the lifeguard, a big, friendly Hawaiian of Polynesian descent. He must have weighed 300 pounds. He gave me a lot of help in improving my swimming. Earl was a civilian like all the other men there who took care of the nonmilitary duties such as kitchen work, building maintenance and cleaning. We Air Force guys didn't have to lift a finger other than in our own job.
Becoming a good swimmer would allow me go in the ocean skin diving and scuba diving. These were popular pastimes as was shark fishing that involved several men going out on the west end of the island on a raft made up of a plank of boards on top of several empty 55 gallon gasoline drums. The bait used was big chunks of raw meat from the chow hall. If they got a shark to bite, which wasn't often, they would pull it over the the side of the raft and bludgeon it to death with sledge hammers. Except for some rainstorms that would last for days at a time, the weather was very favorable for outdoor activities. Everyone wore T-shirts and shorts the year round.
I enjoyed my first couple of weeks getting acquainted with Johnston Island, but there was a sour note in the middle of it all. Robert Kennedy was shot. We kept up with his progress in the hospital the next day since it was dark and rainy on J.I. and everyone stayed inside. It was 1968 and there were other distressing events that took place in that year around the world. Johnston Island seemed so far removed from all that. Because of this peaceful isolation and the good weather, it was sometimes admitted by the troops that Johnston Island wouldn't be such a bad place in which to stay except for, of course, the lack of feminine company.
Then there was another special event that caused commotion on the island soon after that, although it wasn't of world-wide importance. A newspaper in Honolulu discussed in an editorial that the missile that was located on the island was almost obsolete and a waste of taxpayers' money (allegations that seemed true). It even mentioned the type of missile it was. The revelation didn't upset our commanders very much or apparently anyone in Washington. The ones that were upset were the airmen. There was widespread discussion, and I remember most of the same ones that had been complaining a few days before talking about it once more.
"Now, you see. That proves they don't know what the hell they're doing," pointed out Mike. "This is some big secret mission if even that Hono newspaper knew exactly what's going on."
"Now the Russians will know exactly where to find us if they decide to hit us," said Sandy.
"What I can't see is all the money being wasted for nothing," lamented Jim Cooper. "That launch on Wednesday night alone I bet'll cost close to a hundred thousand dollars, and that missile will just wind up buried in the middle of the ocean."
"It'll be over in just a few minutes," added Sandy. They were referring to a practice launch that was to take place in a few days. There were 2 or 3 practice launches per year.
"And how about all the money they waste just in making the liquid oxygen all the time," Cooper said in consternation referring to the continuous production of liquid oxygen that was necessary just in case the missile had to be launched at a moment's notice in the event of a Russian attack.
Henry, who worked in the section in charge of liquid oxygen heard this and commented, "Yea, we spend a lot of money on making that lox but what else are we going to do. If we don't keep our guard up, the Russians'll get us. The government knows what they're doing."
"I'm not saying we shouldn't have a strong defense," replied Cooper, "but I just think we're spending a lot more money than we have to."
Henry didn't seem to want to get into an argument, just wanted to make a point and then turn to a lighter note, "I know one thing. I'm gonna enjoy seeing that missile shot off. I've never seen one yet and I've been here for two launches. I was in the blockhouse both times." The blockhouse was an enclosed shelter with thick walls next to the launching pad where those directly involved in the operations necessary to launch the missile stayed for several hours before and during the launch.
"I guess they say it's a real pretty sight, huh," said Mike who had never seen a launch either.
The next day Carnes told me about the fateful letter Henry received from his wife when we were eating in the chow hall. "Henry got a Dear John yesterday. He looked really down, even more than usual, so I asked him what was wrong. He came out and told me a bunch of things."
"Does it look pretty hopeless?" I asked.
"Yeah. His wife wants a divorce. She's set on it. Says she's not going to change her mind."
"I thought things had gotten patched up when he went home on leave last Christmas," I said, based on something Henry had said to me.
"That's right but things apparently get worse when he's away. He was thinking he could get back and straighten everything out again, but he's not so hopeful anymore."
"Maybe his wife has a boyfriend back there," I suggested.
"Could be. That's what Henry says but I don't think so. It sure does make it hard for a woman to stay away from temptation when a guy has to go on remote tour every few years. That's part of the risk of being in the service, I guess."
Henry immersed himself more than ever in his music and in work. He was putting in long hours in preparation for the launch. I figured it was good for him and would help him get through. One evening he waved for me to come into his cubicle as I was passing by and asked me if I was going to be in the blockhouse during the missile launch. I told him I wasn't. It would be a beautiful sight to behold, he said. We talked a little more and then he abruptly asked me if I had a girlfriend back home. I didn't.
"Just as good," he said. "You don't need to jump into anything that might be the cause of a lotta headaches later on. You got to be sure you're good and ready to get married and you got to be sure you're choosing the right one. Too many people go along and before they know it, they fall into a trap. But I've seen you got a good head on your shoulders. You're a good man." At this point I realized he had had a good number of drinks. It wasn't always easy to tell with Henry, but he was definitely opening up much more than his usual. His tone was soft and warm. It seemed like he felt like being fatherly.
"Don't worry," I said. "I'm in no hurry to get married. I've got a lot of things I want to do first."
He went on. "I don't hang around with hardly any of these guys around here. I'm sure you've noticed. I just don't take a liking to many of them, but you're O.K. You've got a good head, and they tell me you do your job well. You'll do O.K. You know life is funny in a lot of ways. You start out and you think that things are a certain way and you never expect it really, but things happen and then you gotta sit down and try to figure it out. And then when . . ." He rambled in soliloquy for a long time. I tried to extract some profundity from it at first but eventually gave up. I did realize he wanted to talk, which was rare, so I was patient. I didn't have anything else to do at that time. I remember feeling he just wanted to be close to someone.
The morning of the launch I went into the restroom before going to work and found Henry in front of a lavatory starting to fall backward. No one else was in the restroom. I was shocked when I noticed blood on the sink and on Henry's hands. It took a moment before I realized that he had slashed both of his wrists. "Henry, Henry," I yelled not thinking of anything better to do, but he had already hit the floor and was in a daze.
I ran back to the bay where our bunks were and luckily saw a couple of men who had still not left to work and yelled to them for help. They ran up and helped me carry Henry to the dispensary, which fortunately was only about a half-block away, but he lost a lot of blood on the way. Someone else had called the dispensary, and so the medics met us part-way with a stretcher. They did what they could but had to call for an emergency plane from Hickam Air Base in Honolulu. It took almost two hours for the plane to get to Johnston. I'll never forget the sight on finding Henry in the restroom. Later we all kept asking each other if anything had been reported from Honolulu on Henry's progress as we worked that afternoon in getting everything ready for the launch at 10 that night. Dinnertime came at 6 and still not a word. I kept pulling for Henry in my mind, confident that if he could only pull through he would go back home and everything would be fine.
About 9:30 those of us who wanted to get as close as possible to watch the launch were getting ready to walk to the space where we would be allowed to stand. Frank ran into the bay, "Hey, they just got word at the dispensary. He stared intensely at us and at the same time through us, "Henry died an hour ago."
"Naw," Mike exclaimed in anguish, "somehow I felt sure he was going to make it."
We stood around as everyone else offered his own confused expression of consternation and disbelief. Then we started walking glumly to watch the shot and didn't say much after that.
The sky was perfectly clear, displaying many stars. The launch went off right on time. The noise of the missile was overpowering as it shook the ground through the entire island. Everyone stared at the missile and sometimes looked at each other with only a smile since the noise wouldn't allow any words to be heard. I stared at it closely as it headed quickly toward the heavens and then started to slowly make an arc toward the northwest. I tried to experience the moment as intensely as possible and felt how frighteningly awesome, almost mystical, the missile was.
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