The Short Stories

PART I

Awhani Atoll was the smallest of eighty-three volcanic islands and coral atolls making up the New Hebrides. It was the eastern-most of the formations and was situated so far from the others that it was often overlooked by anyone other than the local fisherman with intimate knowledge of the island chain. The highest point of the elongated coral ring stood only five feet above the normal high tide elevation. With only a small group of coconut palms clustered on its southern point and no source of fresh water, it had remained uninhabited for thousands of years with the exception of a handful of reptiles and the occasional migratory bird.

     Awhani’s peaceful existence lasted until early in 1942 when the Imperial Japanese Navy began their advance across the South Pacific. In a desperate attempt to slow the progress of the Japanese, the allied forces quickly constructed numerous airfields across the Melanesian islands to provide fueling and resupply locations for the war effort. Because of their strategic location, the New Hebrides became home to several of those airstrips. The largest of these was constructed on the island of Espiritu Santo and was within easy striking distance of the Japanese strongholds on Guadalcanal in the Solomon Islands to the west. Awhani Atoll was also chosen for an airstrip, albeit a much smaller one, which would allow smaller fighter and supply planes a quick stopover on their way from Fiji. When completed, it occupied nearly all the buildable land on the tiny spit of coral.

     The year was 1945, and the war in the Pacific had been over for several months. Jake Gibson stood on the airstrip inspecting the work he had overseen three years earlier, reflecting on the equipment, manpower, and expense that had gone into its construction. His time with the U.S. Naval Construction Battalion, also known as the Seabees, had taught him that the economic principles that governed peacetime projects did not apply during war. He had also learned that the decisions made at the highest levels of the military could not be justified by common sense.

     Jake’s current assignment further reinforced this idea, since he had now been tasked with demolishing most of the airstrips in the island chain. A few of the larger ones would remain…those that might serve legitimate civilian uses in the future, but there seemed to be no rhyme or reason when it came to choosing which would stay and which would go. The decision to remove the airstrip on Awhani had been made, however, and sent down the chain of command. To Jake, it seemed ludicrous to spend the money and effort to destroy a strip of asphalt on a coral atoll that was uninhabited and would never be viable for agriculture or any other useful purpose once it was gone. He had taken up this argument with his senior officer, Commander Austin Bissel, but to no avail.

     One morning, as he looked at the few remaining palm trees on the atoll and then out to sea, Jake asked himself why preserving the airstrip was so important to him. But he had no answer. There was only a strong feeling that it should stay and, if necessary, it would be the proverbial hill he would die on. He would do everything in his limited power to delay the work, and the airstrip would remain.

     The next two months were spent reallocating men and equipment to other projects and making excuses as to why the demolition work on Awhani was not proceeding. As the days wore on, he faced increased pressure from his superiors.

     It was early December when he received yet another call from Commander Bissel. “Rear Admiral Hume wants to know why nothing has happened on Awhani yet. It’s the last demolition project to be completed before our battalion is reassigned elsewhere, and he’s furious.”

     “I apologize sir,” answered Jake, “and I take full responsibility. I made the decision to direct our resources elsewhere, but I see now that it was mistake on my part.”

     “I don’t want to hear any more excuses. The airstrip needs to go and it needs to go now.”

     “Understood.”

     Jake knew he could no longer delay the inevitable. Two days later, a team of bulldozers idled at the end of the runway, ready to begin their work. As the first dozer began to tear at the asphalt, Petty Officer Logan hurried across the field to where Jake stood.

     “I have Commander Bissel on the line for you. He says he needs to speak with you immediately.”

     Jake followed Petty Officer Logan to the radio shed and reluctantly picked up the receiver.

     “The battalion is being reassigned immediately. You’re to prepare all your men and equipment to pull out,” ordered Commander Bissel.

     “But we just started the demolition.”

     “It doesn’t matter now. We have our orders.”

     Jake hung up the receiver. The priorities of the United States Navy frequently changed on a whim, and this time it had worked to his advantage. The airstrip on Awhani Atoll would remain.

PART II

On July 30, 1980, the New Hebrides gained their independence from France and the United Kingdom and became the Republic of Vanuatu under the leadership of Prime Minister Walter Lini. By 1985, he had won his first of two re-election bids.

     In the Fiji Islands, approximately 670 nautical miles to the east, David Gibson loaded his personal belongings onto the Cessna 208 Caravan aircraft. He had been a pilot with World Relief International since 1983 and was nearing the end of his second year of service.

     A series of tropical cyclones had devastated Fiji over the course of a week, and David’s organization was one of many humanitarian aid groups answering the call to fly food and medical supplies to the island chain. The weather was fair and the sky clear as he ran through his pre-flight checklist for the return trip to Espiritu Santo for another load of supplies. With the plane empty and a strong tail wind, the flight back to Vanuatu would be a quick one.

As he reached cruising altitude, he settled in and allowed his thoughts to wander. The turquoise water, its surface marked only by an occasional whitecap, passed silently below him and he reflected on his good fortune. He had been drawn to the South Pacific since childhood when he would listen to his grandfather’s stories of service as a Seabee during World War II. Jake Gibson had always been his favorite grandparent, and David took it hard when he passed away the previous year.

     His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden loss of engine power. A glance at his instruments confirmed that he was slowly losing airspeed and altitude. David increased the throttle, and the Cessna returned to its previous altitude and speed. Very odd, he thought. The plane had quite a few hours on it, but it had been well-maintained and had never given him issues in the past.

     The next thirty minutes passed uneventfully and he was soon approaching the far eastern edge of the Vanuatu island chain. David radioed the tower at Luganville to update them on his ETA and do a final check on the weather conditions on Espiritu Santo. He was about to sign off when he felt another loss of power and noticed more movement on the instrument panel. This time, the air speed indicator showed his velocity rapidly decreasing, and the altimeter was registering a steady drop in elevation. He increased the throttle once more, but this time it had no effect.

     “Is everything okay?” asked the voice on the other end.

     “I’m not sure,” David answered, “I’m losing altitude quickly. My fuel level is fine, but there could be a problem with the delivery lines or pumps.”

     The single Pratt & Whitney engine sputtered, and he realized he was in trouble. He scanned the horizon. Open water stretched out before him as far as he could see. At the rate he was descending, it wouldn’t be long before he would need to ditch the plane in ocean. David quickly notified the tower he was in a distress situation and gave his current location and heading.

     “Unless there’s somewhere I can put this thing down, I’m going in the water.”

     The tower controller responded calmly. “Checking now for an alternate landing site near you. Give me a second.”

     “Uh, make it quick please.”

     The following seconds felt like an eternity as he waited for a response. The engine revved and briefly returned to normal before sputtering again. Finally, the voice from the tower broke through the silence.

     “I have a possible landing spot northeast of your position. Stand by for a heading and distance.”

     David repeated the information given by the tower and banked the Cessna hard to the right.

     “I’m not sure I can make it. Are there any commercial vessels in the area if I need to ditch?”

     “I’m sorry,” came the response, “that’s a negative.”

     The question was more of an afterthought than anything. If he didn’t survive the water landing, it would be a recovery operation rather than a rescue.

     David double-checked his heading and looked at the instruments again, but no longer needed to check the altimeter. The blue-green water passing closely below made his situation clear. Perspiration poured down his forehead as he strained his eyes against the glare ahead. He could see nothing.

     Then, as a bank of clouds momentarily blocked the sun, a small dot of green appeared in the distance.  He maintained his heading, coaxing as much speed as possible from the struggling engine. Soon, he could make out a stand of palm trees. The water was much closer now, revealing a shallow reef just below the surface. The motor coughed once before shutting off completely. All he could do was glide and hope he had enough speed to make it the rest of the way.

     A narrow asphalt strip appeared in front of him as the Cessna clipped the top of the palm trees, ripping apart the landing gear. He adjusted the flaps to pull the nose up, and the plane dropped onto the runway with sparks flying as the underbelly scraped across the macadam. It skidded reluctantly to a stop, and David sat in silence.

     The radio crackled momentarily.

     “This is Luganville. Do you copy? Is everything okay there?”

     “Affirmative. Everything’s fine, but I’m going to need a lift.”

     The voice from the tower chuckled.

     “Roger that. We’ll get someone there as soon as possible.”

     David kicked open the door, climbed onto the partially damaged wing, and surveyed the surroundings. The macadam was cracked and potholed from years of neglect, and a small radio shed stood fifty yards off the runway, its door barely hanging on by the hinges. He hopped onto the tarmac and strolled over to the shed, wondering exactly where it was that he had landed. In his nearly two years of flying in the South Pacific, he had never flown over this small dot of coral before or known of its existence. One thing he was sure of, however, was that its airstrip had saved his life.

     The hinges creaked as he swung open the door to the shed and looked inside. A few small crabs scurried across the floor, surprised by his arrival. It was empty otherwise… its equipment removed many years before. David shrugged and turned to leave when something caught his eye. It was a few lines hastily scrawled on the wall of the shed:

          Awhani Atoll Airstrip - Established 1942

          31st U.S. Naval Construction Battalion

          LCDR Jake Gibson

Copyright © 2021 James V. Boyer

Cover Photo by James V. Boyer

All Rights Reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without prior written permission.