Night Skies

Every child goes through a period when nighttime frightens it.  Our culture is filled with legends, songs and tales that perpetuate these fears, though not necessarily intentional.  Reaching adulthood usually eliminates fear of the darkness, but more often than not, a persistent memory will resurrect these fears under the right circumstances.

As a child, I had my share of such fears, including the classic, something’s under the bed or someone is hiding in the closet.  The most graphic incident that I recall is while taking a bath in our new home in Classon Point in The Bronx. For reasons that I can never understand, I became obsessed with the thought that something was stalking me from the hallway, though my view of the hallway was limited by the open door of the bathroom.  My father came up to see what the problem was, searched the area to assure me of my safety, and stayed with me while I finished my bath and went to bed.  I don’t recall my reaction to his assurances, but from later experiences with children of my own, I doubt that I was entirely convinced the area was free of the somethings that haunt young children. 

Young adulthood found me with residual memories of whatever lurked in the darkness, real or imagined.  Living in a city, as I did, nighttime and darkness were never absolute.  There were always the streetlights and porch lights from private homes.  Later, as I approached manhood, these fears vanished or, more properly, regressed.  Then in July 1941, I joined the Marine Corps.

A city born and bred individual, such as I was, could never appreciate the blackness of true nighttime until leaving the city.  The unbelievable darkness of the boot camp tent city, the periods of wartime conditions at sea, and someone who was there can only appreciate the blackness of the Pacific Islands.  Perhaps the closest conditions to this blackness would be a farm or a campout at night.  Astronomers have been complaining for years over the destructive effects of city lighting to their viewing efforts. 

But there is a beauty to the night that must be seen to be appreciated.  The most spectacular difference is in the sky.  City dwellers can never, never appreciate the nighttime sky.  Away from the cities, the stars appear close enough for the viewer to reach up and harvest a handful.  The beauty of the nighttime sky is unimaginable to the city dweller.  Of course, there are always the many planetariums, but it’s not the same.  Close, but no cigar!

My fondest memories of life aboard ship are the nights when I would take my bedroll to the flight deck and sleep under the gorgeous night sky, away from the hot and smelly quarters below decks.  There always was the possibility of the ship meeting a squall or two, and common sense dictated that we sleep under a wing.  Of course, this was not possible during night operations, but it was possible often enough to be appreciated.  Early in the war, before Marines were operating aboard carriers, assignments were made for Marines to man the 20mm antiaircraft mounts on a number of lesser vessels.  This decision was made when the Navy found itself short of 20mm gun crews and called upon the Marines.  Usually, these mounts were on platforms at the top of the ship’s masts.  The standard arrangement was for two pairs of 20mm per mount, fore and aft.  As you might expect, they were referred to as “sky-fore” and “sky-aft.”  These platforms could be exciting during heavy or rolling seas, but there were compensations: An unimpeded view for 360º of a beautiful black sky filled to the brim with countless stars.  Later the carriers had multiple 20mm and 40mm guns mounted along both flanks manned by both services.

On the islands, it was the same sky, but the circumstances were different.  On board ship, you always knew where you were and where you were going, even in the blackness of the weather decks.  Not so on the islands.  Life at night could be interesting.  At Midway, living quarters were in dugouts or Quonset huts.  Both were equipped with door interlocks that automatically shut the interior lights off when the doors were opened.  A person stepping from a bright interior to the outdoors would feel he was stepping into a bottle of ink.  After a moment or two to permit the eyes to adjust, the person would blindly try to find his way to his destination.  On moonlit nights, this task was less adventurous than on dark nights.  If the person’s travels would take him past the airplane revetments, an added risk was present: Sentries guarding the planes.  Most people tried to be in quarters before darkness to avoid the risks of night travel.

In Samoa, the crew quarters were arranged in wood structures, called falles, built off the ground on multiple concrete pedestals under the lush trees and foliage.   Where growth on Midway was limited to short ground cover called scaviola on Eastern Island, and the few trees planted by Pan American on Sand Island, Samoa was overgrown with towering trees and vines that joined overhead to form a solid canopy of jungle growth. The planes were housed in openings cut from the jungle and connected to the airstrip by taxiways, all of which were covered by the jungle, augmented by camouflage nets, which in time became overgrown with vines. 

The combination of jungle trees, vines and nets, served to form an overhead blanket screening the outside world from the activities of the military below.  Flying over the area, searching for life or any of man’s activities, would be a useless exercise.  The foliage was so dense that nothing could penetrate it.  Samoa was always subject to rainfalls.  There were times when less than the usual drenching rain would fall and none of the rainfall would reach the ground.  At worst, the rain would collect on the leaves and vines, eventually reaching the ground along the tree trunks.  As you might expect, under the described conditions, little was seen of the sky.  But it was there, and flight crews could vouch for its existence. 

Interesting aspects of flying from Samoa were the weather flights.  Weather moves from west to east.  It was important for military operations to know what tomorrow’s weather would be.  Every morning one or two weather flights were launched.  These flights took off around four in the morning in pitch-blackness.

Their task was to spiral upwards over the island to in excess of 20,000 feet.  The individual flights reached different altitudes based on the craft.  During this stage of the flight, you would feel that you were rising to the stars: The feeling was exhilarating.  Shortly after take-off, you would witness the Sunrise and the stars would disappear.  After attaining maximum altitude, the weather instruments would be activated, and the plane would start its long, boring descent.  In time, the plane would descend enough for the Sun to set and some of the stars to reappear.  The plane would land on a still darkened airstrip and in an early sky glow.  Later, the Sun would rise for the day and we would be subjected, once again, to the miserable heat and humidity.

I doubt that anyone appreciated the skies during their overseas tours.  They were more interested in surviving.  I know that I paid no special attention, though I did take occasional note, especially aboard ship.  We should pay more attention to God’s work. 

June 2004