RIP Tribute and Honor to Atomic Veteran Jerry Heskett: Memories of Enewetak

"We followed orders, stood our ground, and did our duty. The memories endure, and the bonds remain. Rest easy, Atomic Veterans—you are not forgotten."

This post has been a long time coming. For years, I’ve thought about sharing my experiences, especially on the Atomic Veterans’ site, hoping to document my memories of Enewetak. I want to capture these recollections while I still can. My journey may not follow a perfect timeline, but every moment is deeply etched in my memory.

In June 1977, fresh out of AIT, I joined A Co, 84th Engineer Battalion, eager to start my assignment in Hawaii. The warm sun, lush landscapes, and vibrant energy were exactly as promised. Schofield had its quirks—the barracks, crawling with cockroaches, left lasting impressions—but I adapted quickly. Just a few months in, my path shifted to a new destination: Enewetak, an unknown island that sounded both mysterious and challenging.

The night before leaving, my buddy Cozz (Chuck Cozzolino) and I took a bus down to Waikiki Beach, where we prayed together for protection. We ended up missing the last bus back, and in a small panic, called for help. Thanks to a slightly tipsy but kindhearted fellow soldier, we made it back safely, sparing me disciplinary action and igniting a lasting love for Subarus.

Landing in Enewetak felt like stepping into a blast furnace—hot and humid beyond anything I’d felt in Hawaii. Our barracks near the airfield were rundown, and the briefing about “no more radiation than Denver” rang hollow in hindsight. Days were spent rust-proofing equipment, meeting Chief Johannes (a true character who loved his candy), and watching some guys fish for shark off the pier.

Soon after, we moved to Lojwa, a stark setup of open-air hooches shared with 20 to 25 men, and latrines without a shred of privacy. In contrast, the lagoon’s crystal-clear water, full of vibrant marine life, remains one of the most beautiful sights I’ve ever seen. Nights were spent under breathtaking constellations, and the island chapel became a sanctuary for my quiet moments of prayer and reflection.

I met great friends like Dave Young from Newark AFB, who became a close friend until his life was tragically cut short in a pedestrian accident. I treasure those moments we shared, and I miss him dearly.

Our work on Runit brought unexpected experiences—learning carpentry while building a warehouse for dome cap supplies and operating the rock crusher by the ocean. Close calls weren’t uncommon, like when I accidentally shocked myself with 440 volts or faced a Moray eel with little more than a stick and a prayer.

Even the unpleasant duties—the latrine barrels, rats sneaking into bed, and dealing with unholy smells of burning waste and diesel—became stories I’ll never forget.

I still remember the night we were evacuated to Guam after a tropical storm hit. The Navy’s expert crew navigated us through pitch darkness and relentless rain, bringing us safely to the airfield. Those days on Guam were a strange return to “civilization,” filled with new sights, local foods, and memories of laughter and camaraderie.

Returning to Enewetak, we resumed our long workdays. We wore radiation badges, but questions lingered about our true exposure. Doubt remained, but we did our duty, following orders with resilience. As the years passed, I realized the gravity of our work, and while I am blessed with good health, I will always wonder about the potential impacts of our time on that island.

Today, I’m grateful for my family, my health, and the time I spent serving. My daughters remain healthy, and I haven’t faced significant health issues, other than routine check-ups. I take supplements as a precaution, hoping our service hasn’t left a legacy of risk.

From battling cockroaches in Schofield to the distant shores of Enewetak, my journey has been a mix of challenge, friendship, and growth. Our stories are part of a legacy shared by those who served in places most will never see or understand. To my brothers and friends who walked this path with me—you are remembered with respect and gratitude.

—By Jerry Heskett, NOV 77 - MAY 78, as enhanced.