BABY, IT'S COLD OUTSIDE

Alaska now has a warm spot in my heart, but the winter I spent in Fairbanks left me cold. Read this story and chill out with me. 02/26/2016

BABY, IT’S COLD OUTSIDE

In the days following my arrival at Elmendorf Field, Anchorage, the army vacillated on where to send me, the choices being one of the most god-forsaken places on earth, the Aleutian Islands or to Ladd Field, Fairbanks, located far inland, sixty miles below the Arctic Circle. I pleaded with an Officer to send me to Ladd. When he did, I felt so relieved. The stories one heard about the poor slobs who had to serve time in those remote outposts made one cringe.  Six or more months after being trained to be a Cryptographic Technician, I would finally serve in this capacity.

Fairbanks: In August, the sun never sets there. It shone continuously, day after day, the sky fading to a pale glimmer of dimness for a few hours around midnight before old Sol would burst out in all its glory once again. A few months later, arctic winter weather arrived and the sun disappeared.

Let me elaborate on the term, arctic weather. During the winter of 1946, Fairbanks experienced one of the coldest periods in its history. The army must have had a premonition because they stationed 15,000 ground troops there for six months to test men and equipment under severe winter conditions in the event we had to wage war against Russia. The army called this exercise, Task Force Frigid. It merited the name. That winter, these troops bivouacked three different times that winter, first for one week, then two weeks, and finally for three weeks. Numerous men suffered severe frostbite resulting in amputation of limbs, rumors said.

During a stretch of forty days beginning in late January 1947, the temperature ranged from a high of minus 40° F to a low of minus 67° F.

In stark contrast with the plight of the soldiers in the field, members of the Army Airways Communications Systems, a detached unit of about sixty men, had it made in the shade. We lived in Quonset huts that housed eighteen men, six to a wing, located near the mess hall and the main hangar, the site of my workplace office. An underground steam heated tunnel ringed the air base. It provided access to most of the primary facilities including Headquarters, the hospital, a PX, and the laundry. If you could make it to the tunnel, your chances of survival increased.

The biggest challenge the men in my unit faced involved getting to our assigned latrine, mess hall, and the main hanger without freezing to death. Most of us wore arctic survival gear while trudging over frozen snow to these destinations, but at times some desperate soul would dash out wearing less protective clothing when nature called. Our oil-heated latrine had an entrance door that opened into a vestibule, and a second door leading into the main room. The door hinges froze, every day. The first man to arrive would kick the vestibule door open, and then kick the second door open to enter the combat zone. Once inside, it took a brave man to open himself up to the elements, no matter how much his body urged him to do so. To be honest, no one used the place to sit down. The urinal consisted of a galvanized sheet metal wall and a trough. A block of yellow ice would soon form therein.

From time to time, some soldiers would dare to take showers in this facility. Somehow, the army had figured out a way to deliver warm water to this building. The drain would freeze, and a solid piece of ice would form on the shower floor, perhaps an inch high. The next bather would have to stand on this slab of ice, usually wearing wood clogs. By the time the last one arrived, he’d need a ladder to climb atop the block of ice formed under the shower head. Maintenance people came out to this latrine almost every day to put the doors back on and to chop away at the ice within. They had job security.

Fortunately, I had access to the heated toilet facilities located in the main hangar, which got most of my business. It had no shower facility, however. There seemed to be no alternative than to use our frozen block house. Enter Private Jay Meyer.

Jay, a New York Jewish lad with chutzpah, invited me to join him in taking a shower at two in the morning at an Officer’s steam-heated latrine that he had come upon. We trudged across the frozen tundra, finally arriving at Nirvana. We skinned off our parkas and jumped into the shower. Real hot water poured over our frozen hides. After about five minutes, company arrived.

“How’s the water?” asked a young Lieutenant. Jay and I looked at each other in disbelief. The jig is up. This Officer will discover that we are enlisted men and we will wind up in the Aleutians.

Jay had moxie. He said, “The water’s great.” Then turning to me he said, “Captain, you dropped your soap.”

I gasped. With those words, I now outranked the Lieutenant, who turned toward the locker room to undress. When he turned his back, we raced out, grabbed our parkas, slipped on our boots and “mushed” back to our Quonset hut.

My promotion to the rank of Captain ended quickly. In the morning, my uniform’s sergeant stripes confirmed my demotion. That is how it is in the army. Easy come; easy go.

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