The equipment we maintained at the Naval Communications Station in Guam was the latest and most sophisticated available in one sense and not so complex in another. But it was what the Navy had at the time and they used it to spy on the world: encrypted secret messages, Russian missile launches, radar communications sites, and a host of others, including simple, almost archaic Chinese digital communications. Then there were our own people: the media, telephone and shortwave communications, and others.
The reason I, Juan Trujillo, John Proza, Orion Larson and others were there is that the equipment would fail sometimes and the operators would call the electronics store in the basement and ask one of us to go to the third floor and pick it up. going.
The first step would be to discuss the problem with the operator present and many times, while explaining the problem, the operator would notice something they had missed and deal with the problem on the spot. But there were times when the problem was real and had to be fixed.
The typical procedure would be to place your body directly in front of a seven-by-three-foot piece of electronic equipment, then reach for the last drawer and turn the power switch off and then back on, sort of a system reset as done. these days with computers. If that didn’t work, we would open the PSU drawer and close it, and we could slam it shut if the first step didn’t work.
There were a number of first checks, and if none of them worked, we would finally get the oscilloscope out and start troubleshooting the beast. But that was always the last resort. We could go as far as removing one or more vacuum tubes, bending the little pins on each base, and then replacing the tube or tubes before going back to such drastic measures as a technical manual and the O-Scope.
When it was time to leave Guam, Juan turned to me as we were all outside waiting for a bus to take us to the airport. We had our dark green duffel bags beside us, some lying on the ground, others standing with one hand gripping a handhold as if the person feared the bag might get away with it.
Juan was one of those individuals. He seemed nervous, a little uneasy and said, “Wow, I’m scared to go back to America!”
He had mouth ulcers: on each side, top and bottom. I couldn’t sleep at night and daydreaming every second about the options that might be available to me once I got out of the Navy. I couldn’t wait to get my foot back on good solid North American soil and even turned down a pretty big reengagement bonus to get that chance.
I told Juan. I said: “Juan, you’re crazy. I can’t wait to go home! Besides, I have a woman there and I haven’t seen her for a year.”
Juan spoke slowly, with the remnants of an old-time Spanish accent, but he didn’t hesitate. Shaking his head, he said, “Well, I want to go home too. But it’s the flight back that scares me.”
My face took on a puzzled expression. “W … what do you mean by the flight home?” I asked him, as the two of us exchanged glances. “How else are you going to get back there? Hell, it’s six thousand miles to San Francisco, Juan.”
“I know,” replied the Mexican-American, “but aren’t we going to fly in a C141?”
“Yes, but …”
“And that’s an Air Force plane, right?” Juan continued without letting me finish.
“Yeah, but … what does that have to do with anything?”
“Well, you know how we maintain this electronic equipment. You know that Air Force men do the same!”