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With World War Two cycling down in the Pacific, our night flight from

Honolulu to Kwajalein Island was a long haul to get us closer to the action.

As the plane slowed, I felt a fright, there was nothing in sight! Expecting to

Hit water, the reassuring sound of rubber on asphalt grounded my fears. We

Had landed on an island only slightly larger than an aircraft carrier runway!

Five Quonset huts hunkered down at one end stuffed with Communication gear.

For a plane-load of teenaged sailors, hoping for hula dancers on the sand, reality

Quickly changed those plans. Luckier than most, my job occasionally took me by

Air to Guam, Tinian and Saipan where I took Court Martial trials in shorthand. Using

Up a life-load of luck, I was never threatened by bombs nor plane-based cross fire.

The highlight of each day was the delivery of airmail from a remote place

Called home. As the Pacific War stuttered to a stop, we bid goodbye

to a piece of the world unlikely to become a vacation destination!

Our lives had been seasoned: For a year, we had learned to be content living

In a tent with strangers. As we hurtled down that short runway for the last

time, I knew I was going away with a year’s training in getting along. In

That little tent, I had discovered a door to more of myself.

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1 commentaire

Your talent for placing us in the midst of your past experiences is AWESOME, Glen - beautiful language and memorable details. Thanks for sharing 😘

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