Eniwetok, Marshall Islands, 20 Years After Hiroshima And Nagasaki.

Eniwetok, Marshall Islands, 20 years after Hiroshima and Nagasaki. A working diver's account of the recovery of a re-entry vehicle in the Pacific Missile Range in 1965 by Vern Clinton The Marshall Islands are a small group located just north of the equator in the Central Pacific. Most Americans had never heard of the group until late February 1944 when the 22d marine regiment and the 196th Infantry Regiment won the atoll, Eniwetok, from the Japanese in a bloody five day battle. In the aftermath of the battle the small string of islands and coral reefs lay littered with the debris of battle. Bombs and bullets, bodies and wreckage competed with sand and coral for space. A few years later Eniwetok was again the scene of violence of a new and terrible sort. The hell of atomic tests ripped and gouged at the coral and deadly radiation and heat decimated the life on many of the islands and in much of the lagoon. Millions of years ago the mountain which is the present foundation of Eniwetok thrust its enormous bulk up through the dark pacific depths to feel the light of day. In the warm shallow waters on the shoulders of this mountain small coral colonies began their eons long job of building the atoll. With the ban on Nuclear tests the lagoon was converted into a target area for Air Force missile testing. Now, in 1965, strategic missies are hurled from California downrange into the blue waters in order to measure their accuracy and effectiveness. One of the ring of islands that comprise this atoll is the base of operations. It is tiny by most standards being 2 1/2 miles long, 100 yards wide and the highest mountain on the island is about 11 feet in altitude at high tide. The islands themselves are ugly and barren for the most part. One or two are populated with coconut crabs and a few remaining Komodo Dragons, a giant reptile the Japanese had imported as a food source. Others are covered with rotting buildings rusty equipment, and only sparse, ragged vegetation. Here and there are partial barriers of lead bricks. Rusting hulks, concrete bunkers, and an incredible litter of cables and wires foul many of the beaches. The outer reef which protects the placid waters of the lagoon from the trade wind driven waves that lash at its coral 12 months of the year 24 hours a day is, however, clean, but inhospitable to man. The lagoon is another matter. To be sure the bottom is in many places littered with the ugly debris of man's passing, but here in the warm quiet bosom of a sunken mountain of coral the quiet builders of the pacific are at work covering and erasing the clutter. A three inch power cable used at one time to link two islands now has its black skin covered by basketball sized balls of coral; brilliantly colored gorgonian fans have fastened to discarded wing tanks and disguise their functional

ugliness. A jeep lying in 60 feet of water discarded fifteen years ago is now a coral encrusted home for myriad colorful sea creatures and 200 pound bump-head wrasse patrol endlessly nibbling at the coral with powerful beaks. Left alone this tropical microcosm beneath the surface of the sea will forget man's passing very quickly. Already only twenty years after the life of parts of the lagoon were virtually eliminated by the hell of atomic fire and radiation the waters are teeming with an incredible abundance of tropical sea life. On this particular day, in the center of this fantastic 60 mile diameter lake called “atoll” in 200 feet of water the fresh remains of a space ship lies, a re-entry vehicle in military jargon, flung there as the latest in a series of military experiments designed to improve our "deterrent" weapons. My job is to work with a diving team to recover the pieces of the re-entry vehicle nose cone. On the deck of the recovery boat it is hot. The sun is almost directly overhead and the steel deck plates of the converted navy landing craft are steaming where wetted by an occasional wave that splashes over the gunnels. The wide, flat main deck holds a clutter of equipment now temporarily abandoned by the diving crew who are manning the three anchor winches which are used to position the boat directly over the missile remains As those with sighting equipment on shore direct the boat crew by radio the boat slowly wallows into position. Finally, the winch brakes are set and the winch engines shut down. The only machine noise now is the low rumbling below decks of the auxiliary generator supplying power to ventilation fans lights, and galley equipment. The boat operator and his one man crew relax with a cup of coffee and a sandwich as the diving crew prepares for their part of the operation. The huge cylinder of the recompression chamber has been carefully checked and tested during the trip to location and now its valves are checked again so that in case of emergency an injured diver can be quickly placed in it for treatment. The pressure in each set of scuba bottles is checked by the man who will depend on them for life in a few minutes, and regulators are attached and checked. It's time to go to work. "OK, Clint, you and Ron are first pair. Cobb and Jack are standby, and Bozo's got surface." The dive master personally rechecks each man's equipment. We don our equipment. The standby divers take their place near the edge of the deck where they can come to our aid if trouble develops below. The surface swimmer with only mask and fins enters the water checks quickly and reports all clear meaning no big "Manacheetas" or sharks in the area. His job will be to keep an eye on our location by watching our bubbles and to report what he can to the diving supervisor or timekeeper. Manny, the crane-operator, lowers the concrete weight or “clump” to the bottom 200 feet below. In order not to get lost we will use a descent line attached to the clump and once on the bottom attach a light nylon cord to the concrete weight to control our search. All is ready. My diving partner, Ron, and I step to the edge of the deck. We have instructions to locate the missile, note range and bearing from the concrete clump and return. We have a maximum of ten minutes before we must ascend. At 200 feet the two air bottles on our backs charged to 3200 pounds will last no longer. Ron and I check our watches, take a quick breath from our regulators, nod at each other and jump simultaneously into the water three feet below deck level.

The momentum of my jump carries me several feet down below the surface. The water is cool after the heat of topside. Seconds later the cloud of bubbles that accompanied me from the surface clears, and I look around for orientation and to locate Ron. Our eyes meet and he gives me the thumbs down "let's dive" signal and kicks down along the descending line. This close to the boat the throb of the auxiliary generator pounds like a drum. It dims in my senses as I follow Ron down and now there is only the intermittent rush of bubbles from my regulator and the susurrus of sea life. My ears also pick up the whistling of Ron's equipment as he breathes. Even when we are not looking at each other we are aware of this sound from each other. At 200 feet an equipment failure means that we both must share one set of air tanks as it is too far to swim safely to the surface without air. Now we are about halfway down. Looking back I can see the boat looking tiny with the insect sized figure of the surface swimmer. Below, the shadow shapes of sand and small coral heads are becoming visible in the blue gloom. Ron looks over his shoulder checking to see if I have had to stop to equalize the pressure in my ears. I give him the "OK" sign and we continue our descent. The concrete clump is dimly visible below. About twenty feet from the bottom we stop. From here we can see to the limit of water visibility without our sight being obstructed. We avoid swimming too close to the bottom to keep from stirring up sediment. We attach the nylon circle line and I stretch it out to its full length of 100 feet. Ron stations himself at the midpoint and we begin to swim in a circle to search for the missile. As I swim I see ahead of me in the sand what appears to be a portrait of the head of Lenin. Strange, but I know the effect to be the result of narcosis and fully expect the picture to dissolve into small rocks and plants as I pass its location. Yet to my fascination as I pass over it about ten feet above, it does not dissolve but winks at me in a most solemn manner. The effect is sobering. At two hundred feet a diver wants to have his wits about him at all times and this startling evidence of my befuddlement unnerves me. Since I am at the end of the circle line I have to swim twice as hard as Ron to complete the circle in the time allotted. I am working harder to maintain position as we circle. More work means more narcosis. To reduce the narcosis I signal Ron that I want to change positions with him. Swimming the smaller 50 foot radius circle will reduce my effort and the effects of narcosis. We change position and my breathing rate lessens. We continue and I noticed a small shark is curiously following behind Ron. Distances on the circle line are marked with small rags and the shark eases up to the one to Ron's left and takes it in its mouth as though tasting it and then discards it. I don't know what attracts it. The cloth which is red at the surface at this depth is jet black due to the filtering action of the water on sunlight. Since I am wearing a bright red swim suit my attention is as much behind me as ahead of me as we continue the circle. About three quarters of the way around the circle we spot the missile resting on its heat-shield nose in the sand. We measure its distance from the clump against the circle line and take a compass bearing from the clump to it. Our time nearly expired we ascend planning gleefully to tell the next pair of divers of the monster shark that waits for them below.