Signal

The lights in Madison Park are flickering, which raises concerns about whether this story will be completed. Due to a recent power outage and today’s winds, it is possible that another outage may occur. I am documenting the events regarding the army in 1957 and the ironwork job I restarted after returning home.

My grandfather, Walter Larsen, facilitated my employment upon my return home. Serving on the labor board of Iron Workers, he secured my position. I ascended a crowded elevator to the seventh floor, where I positioned 6 x 12-foot window mullions from a bosun’s chair for a welder to attach to I-beams. The view was impressive, provided I focused straight ahead rather than looking down. Working as an iron worker on a ten-story building presented significant challenges. Iron workers exhibit high morale, similar to military personnel. 

I was assigned to the 84th Engineers Communications Company. Each night, I studied materials related to the ANG RC 1926 radio. Alongside ten other technicians, I was exempt from KP, Guard, and Motor pool duties. We were stationed at Fort Hunter Liggett in the Santa Lucia mountains. There, we sent, received, and relayed messages to Fort Ord, Camp Roberts, and the group constructing Hearst Castle. We recorded all signals received by frequency scan, Morse code, teletype, and other methods for daily reports, some of which were classified as “priority” for senior staff in a secure room.

It was mandated that all correspondence be documented and distributed exclusively to authorized personnel, and any deviation from this procedure could result in court martial. This took place in the 1950s, 68 years ago. It can be assumed that communications today are even more stringent.

One early morning at my monitoring station, a reserve officer reviewed my log of signals and frequencies and proceeded to reprimand me. He questioned, “Do you not stand at attention when an officer enters the room?” I calmly responded, “Not typically, as we are in the field here at Hunter Liggett and reside in tents.” Upon realizing that I was permanent party and he was a reserve officer, he relaxed and even showed appreciation for my cartoons.

One morning while monitoring priority signals, I overheard a high-ranking officer on a vessel in priority mode. An officer in the communications room exclaimed, “That’s high priority!” and called me to attention. I clarified that it was merely a routine conversation among ships. He apologized for the misunderstanding.

Through my active army career, it was known that there were conflicts in Vietnam and Korea and now there was political unrest in Lebanon. Our unit, the 84th Engineers, was to provide support. There were rumors that we would arrive via aircraft carriers or parachute with the 82nd Airborne. During Basic Training, we learned techniques for landing, rolling, standing up, locating large equipment, and establishing radio communications.

We were ordered to travel by aircraft carrier departing from Monterey, CA. Very early one morning, after sleeping on box spring mattresses in full combat gear, we assembled in formation. The colonel of the 84th addressed us: “Morning, men. I have some unfortunate news—the ship will depart without you.” This announcement was met with loud cheering. We made our presence felt in Monterey that evening.

I was happy to be home from war stuff. I worked in bars in Skid Row; it was exciting to witness the area’s transformation into Pioneer Square. Subsequently, I received a call from a friend offering an opportunity to become an illustrator, to which I enthusiastically agreed. 

The following morning, I met with art director Al Hopkins, who reviewed my portfolio that had withstood the test of time in my duffle bag. After examining my work, he shook my hand and suggested we have coffee. I nervously replied, “Why not? I can’t get more anxious than I am now!” His laughter and subsequent hiring reassured me that I had made a positive impression.

In the 1960s, many jobs contributed to large projects like Atlas, Golden Ram, and Titan during the missile race. The goal was to beat the Russians to the moon, leading to government-funded projects with extensive overtime. Our workdays ran from 7:30 a.m. to 1 a.m. the next day, leaving little room for conversation among colleagues.

I worked as a supervisor and tech writer, often multitasking due to tight deadlines. Materials such as schematics and design drawings were securely destroyed under armed guard. Classified information required strict handling, and any breach of protocol could lead to severe consequences, including court martial. Today, enhanced security measures like checking cell phones should be implemented.

The demanding 110-hour workweek at Milmanco caused me to miss several reserve meetings. I requested the company secretary to send a letter to the Department of the Army explaining my absence. Weeks later, Major Hall from Sandpoint Naval Air contacted me, emphasizing that I had missed four meetings. Subsequently, I received instructions to report to Headquarters and prepare for deployment to Fort Ord for six months.

Within 48 hours, I reported to Major Hall with a letter from Atlas describing my current employment. Standing there in my wrinkled uniform, freshly retrieved from my duffle bag, Major Hall stood up, extended his hand, and thanked me for my dedication and long hours working on national defense. I briefly mentioned the various processes involved, to which he responded, “Have a great day!” I left feeling relieved and somewhat surprised by the positive outcome of our conversation.

That incident occurred 64 years ago. Throughout the decades, I have learned to recover from setbacks and persevere. My most recent fall was on the sidewalk in front of Starbucks. After regaining my composure, a kind gentleman walking towards me reassured me, “No one saw you.” 

That is good training.