You’re Being Stationed Where?

The story of my time living on Diego Garcia, a place few have ever heard of and even fewer will ever live. 

An aerial view of Diego Garcia.

Upon completing my military journalism training at the Defense Information School (DINFOS) in Indianapolis, IN, I took leave with my family in Philadelphia before departing to my next duty station – Diego Garcia.

Commonly known as “DG” or “The Rock," Diego Garcia is a British territory and living coral atoll, located 7 degrees south of the equator in the middle of the Indian Ocean. Ever heard the phrase “middle of nowhere?" Well, it’s just beyond that. Depending on the map, it may show up only as part of the Chagos Archipelago. 

As my leave was ending, my parents drove me to the Philadelphia International Airport with my two sea bags worth of uniforms and personal effects as well as a carry on bag packed with a CD player, CDs and lots of extra batteries. As this was prior to 9/11, my parents were actually able to wait with me in the USO lounge until I made my way to the gate for my flight. Soon enough, we said our goodbyes and I was off to DG.

The trip from Philadelphia to Diego Garcia was a grueling bit of travel. Including flights, layovers and refueling this trip generally took over 40 hours to complete. My plane flew from Philadelphia to Lajes Air Base in the Portuguese islands of Azores. From Azores, we flew to Sigonella, Italy. From Italy we flew to Bahrain, Saudi Arabia. And from Saudi Arabia we flew directly to Diego Garcia.

Descending into Diego Garcia by plane for the first time is awe inspiring. I quickly realized that this was probably the most beautiful place I would ever live. Nothing else has even remotely come close. And then getting off of the plane, you’re hit with a Mack truck sized wall of heat and humidity.

Exhausted, all of us were led into the tiny flight terminal where British customs agents proceeded to line up all of our bags and counsel us on the dangers of bringing any sort of contraband onto the island (drugs, weapons, chinchilla in your pants, etc.). And then, to prove how serious they were, they brought out a drug dog for a demo. Prior to every flight arrival they would hide a marrow bone impregnated with heroin somewhere in the terminal just so they could let their dog lose to find it in front of groups of weary travelers who would want to think twice about the naughty stuff they’ve attempted to smuggle onto the island. The customs process took about an hour – really the absolute last thing you would want to do after traveling for that long.

After the demonstration, we were free to go. Just outside of the terminal, I met Rick Vane, my sponsor. He was supposed to write me while I was at DINFOS to let me know a bit more about life on Diego Garcia. Apparently, he forgot. I guess I should have just been happy that he remembered to pick me up at the airport that day. We hopped into a tiny white van and drove off toward the populated end of the island.

We briefly stopped at what would be my place of employment for the duration of my tour – Naval Broadcasting Service (NBS) which, a few months later was rebranded as Naval Media Center Broadcasting Detachment. I would just come to know it as “The Det." I was introduced to a few of my coworkers (some of whom I had already known from my days at DINFOS) before handing in my orders and being assigned a barracks room.

One of my former DINFOS classmates, Laila, recommended that we catch up later that evening for dinner. With everyone knowing how arduous the trip to Diego Garcia could be, I was allowed to head to my room, settle in and sleep for the rest of that day. In my daze, I set an alarm and passed out for a few hours.

Laila knocked on my door at 6:15 p.m. As we walked to the Peacekeeper Inn, the nicest restaurant on the island (well, perhaps outside of the Officer’s Club… but I was enlisted and they didn’t allow my type there), Laila talked about working at the detachment and a little bit more about life was on the island.

Diego Garcia had its fair share of quirks and interesting policies. First, there was no indigenous population on Diego Garcia. Well, there was many years earlier but sadly they had been forcibly removed by the government to make way for the military build up. In addition to the U.S. military, a small contingent of British Royal Marines and other personnel, there was large Filipino and Mauritian population living on the island. These folks worked at and maintained many of the island services – from working at the base retail stores to operating restaurants, the island barber shop, running the sewage and fresh water treatment plants, pier operations, etc.

So why would you need a military base on Diego Garcia? I’m glad you asked. DG is strategically important to the military for a variety of reasons. First, it serves as a base for antisubmarine warfare squadrons who patrol the Indian Ocean. Second, the island hosts a naval communications station which refers messages throughout the fleet. Third, the Air Force operates the Ground-based Electro-Optical Deep Space Surveillance or GEODDS facility which helps to track all man-made objects in space. Fourth, sitting in Diego Garcia’s harbor and lagoon at any one time are around 15-20 maritime prepositioning ships operated by the merchant marines. These carry all sorts of military supplies and hardware – everything from tanks and Humvees to meals ready to eat (MREs) and tactical gear. And lastly, at 2.27 miles long, the runway on Diego Garcia is not only capable of supporting large bombers, but also served as an alternate landing site for NASA’s space shuttle.

The weather on DG, while beautiful like any tropical locale, could also be oppressive and turbulent at times. For the entire duration of my time there (14 months total) the temperature never dropped below 74 degrees. Never. Most days it was over 90 degrees and extremely humid. And then there was the day when I walked to work in six inches of water. Then again, it was a tropical island so was I about to complain? Absolutely not.

With Diego Garcia being as isolated as it was one of the things the base command focused on (and put a lot of money behind) was what the military refers to as Morale, Welfare & Recreation (MWR). On Diego Garcia, you could find and practically do anything the island locale allowed for – deep sea fishing, speed boat and sailboat rentals, golf (they had a nine hole course), watch movies in the open air movie theater, swim in their Olympic sized pool, skeet shooting, softball, basketball, racquetball, volleyball, etc. They also supported a ton of island wide events – from BBQs to running and biking competitions and much more.

There was no drinking age on DG which meant that everyone – from the 18 year-old sailor fresh out of boot camp to anyone else who happened to step off the plane – was able to imbibe. And they did. In some cases with reckless abandon.   

A coconut crab on Diego Garcia.

One thing that was plentiful on DG was wildlife. There was a standing rule that you could be fined $5,000 per incident for “molesting” any of the wildlife. Wildlife was everywhere on DG. There were feral chickens and cats roaming the island, a herd of donkeys, all sorts of tropical fish, sharks and turtles in the waters. And then there were coconut crabs which were pretty damn scary. The pincers on these things were created to tear coconuts in half. They were downright prehistoric looking.  

Next, there were no families on the island. If a married person received orders to Diego Garcia, their spouse and other family members would remain living at their previous duty station until their return. This made wedding and engagement rings sort of a novelty item. For some people, they simply didn’t matter. And let’s be honest, even though this was the military, it was still a tropical locale where the humidity was high, summer clothing and beachwear left less to the imagination and people were generally thumping like bunnies all over the place.

If you did happen to meet the person you wanted to spend the rest of your life with on Diego Garcia (and it did happen, believe me), the couple were permitted to get married and have one night in the finest room island accommodations could offer. The next morning, one of them was immediately put on the first departing flight – whether it was going to Thailand, Japan or elsewhere as they were not permitted to stay on DG as a married couple.

Lastly, the ratio of women to men on Diego Garcia was well in favor of the women. If a girl ever wanted to have her pick of any man in her geographical area, she should get stationed on DG. Even the ugliest of girls could expect to have a bevy of potential suitors at her disposal.

And, speaking honestly, my friend Laila was not the most attractive of girls – not by a long shot. Beyond that, she had an especially coarse and spiteful personality. A common reply of Laila’s to practically anyone she ever interacted with, regardless of military rank or station, was a sarcastically tinged, “Thanks. I’ll blow you later.” With that being said, prior to us heading to the restaurant, we stopped at the Enlisted Man’s Club so she could grab Tommy, her merchant mariner boyfriend who was going to join us for dinner.

The Det where I worked operated two television stations (for entertainment and informational purposes) as well as one radio station. All of the television shows we aired were relatively current (within a few weeks) and sent to us on broadcast quality Betacam tapes from the Armed Forces Radio & Television Service (AFRTS). As far as radio programming, the station was manned by our on air staff from 6 a.m. until the early evening. After that, we would simply simulcast a satellite feed available to us from AFRTS headquarters in Washington D.C.

The next morning, I reported for work at The Det. All incoming personnel were immediately assigned to the most boring and mundane task the exciting world of broadcasting had to offer – running boards. In order to keep all of those fancy television shows on the air, someone had to be there physically inserting the tapes and playing public service announcements (in the Navy, these took the place of regular commercial spots). This was literally a 24-hour a day operation where someone like me was seated at a control board with a bank of video players making sure that everything was played properly and on time. After all, people tend to get kind of pissed off when you play Guiding Light in the time slot where General Hospital should be.

My training commenced immediately. From the time I could run the boards on my own, following the precisely designed schedules timed out to the minute, I was assigned to work 12-hour shifts. While it was tremendously tedious work, I still gleaned a lot about how the station operated. The television boards were located right next to the television news master control room and just down the hall from the radio studios.

Within a few weeks, running boards became a duty assignment as opposed to a full-time job. Some people on military duty are tasked with walking a perimeter with a machine gun. Me? I got to make sure that The Simpsons played on time. After exclusively working at running boards for a few weeks, I was put to work writing, voicing and producing radio announcements. And not long after that, I was given my first shot to work as a radio DJ – playing Top 40 and other popular music from 6 to 10 a.m. every week day.

Me standing in Diego Garcia's radio Studio A.

Working as a DJ was fun – even when I made really stupid mistakes such as mispronouncing words like Tagalog (a dialect spoken in the Philippines) or playing the wrong CD. Eventually, it got easier and I became a little more relaxed behind the microphone. I was even doing well enough that I received a unique piece of fan mail – a postcard from a listener in South Africa. Apparently our AM signal reached that far and he used to tune in each day to hear me.

With the constant cycling of personnel coming to and leaving DG, The Det held what they referred to as “Hail and Farewell” parties each month. These were BBQs where we as a group would take some time celebrate those who were leaving DG and also to welcome new people to the detachment. Also, it was a great excuse to leave work early and go have a party on the beach.

One of the new people we welcomed during one of my first Hail and Farewells was Dave Winters who had just come to us from the naval air base in Jacksonville, Florida. Dave had become a journalist by “striking” into the field through on the job training in the fleet. While he had no formal broadcast training, he had perhaps the most natural radio voice of anyone I’ve ever known. Dave and I hit it off immediately and he is still one of my closest personal friends to this day.

I had recently been moved to another room on the opposite side of our barracks and given a different roommate – Petty Officer Second Class Brandon Hamilton – who also happened to be in charge of the television news division. Brandon, a proud native of Omaha, Nebraska was a nice enough guy. I was just generally disgusted by his habit of dipping (using chewing tobacco) and leaving his spit cups at random places in the room.

One Friday evening I had gone to bed early. I had to be up very early the next morning to run boards. Brandon knew I was attempting to sleep but chose to hang out on the balcony just outside of our door drinking – straight Jack Daniels, I might add – with another of our coworkers. A few hours had passed when Brandon opened the door and drunkenly walked into our dark room toward our bathroom.

From my bed, I saw the bathroom light flick on and then I heard it. A retching. Then a delay. Then a tremendous splash of regurgitated Jack Daniels. I jumped out of bed to investigate. “Holy shit! You puked all over EVERYTHING!” I said, seeing my formerly white bath towel now half brown and sticky. Brandon, still loopy from just having exorcised the contents of his stomach, responded to me sincerely, “Well, not anything above three feet.”

“You’re cleaning this up. Right now. I have to be at work in two hours and I’m planning on getting a shower before I go in,” I responded angrily. I went back to bed, leaving Brandon to clean up the mess on his own. A few days later, I was allowed to move into a room with my friend Dave.

A few days after that came a drinking incident of my very own. I was 19 years old when I arrived on DG and had never really drank alcohol before. As there was no drinking age, I generally took the path of least resistance – a few wine coolers here and there. One of my coworkers (and not one that I knew very well socially) named John was due to leave the island soon. We were all gathered at The Det and he was asked if there was any last thing he wanted to see before he departed. For some inexplicable reason, he pointed at me, “I want to see him drunk.”

Half-startled, I pointed to myself, “Me? Why?” His response was simple and to the point, “Just because I think it would be fun.” I kind of shrugged my shoulders, “Okay, but you’re buying. Where do you want to go?”

Where we ended up was a particular establishment that not everyone frequented on DG – the FilMau Club. The Filipino and Mauritian population of DG had their own section of the island. It was kind of a shanty town of bungalows and other structures. Their club, although nice, was kind of the dive bar of DG. The group of us grabbed a bunch of tables and they started feeding me drinks – in this case, wine cooler bottles of which 2/3 had been poured out and replaced with vodka.

Lacking in tolerance, I began to feel the effects of these weighted wine coolers almost instantly. But I was also intent on keeping in the conversation and enjoying hanging out with my coworkers. Suddenly feeling hungry and lacking any sense of taste or other sort of inhibitions, I began grabbing at the bowl of pork rinds the table had ordered. And then, getting bolder with each drink, I began dipping them into the screwdriver of my coworker Stan whenever he wasn’t looking. The rest of the group could see what I was doing and when Stan finally noticed he went ballistic.

After he was calmed down, someone suggested we hit the dance floor. I really, very rarely, dance. It’s just not something I’ve ever felt I was designed to do. Apparently, vodka changes things – a lot. Not only was I dancing that night. I was actually asked to leave the FilMau Club (okay, I was kicked out) for dancing on the tables. Thankfully, after my headache subsided the next day, things went back to normal.              

Keeping in contact with family from DG in those days was tough outside of letters and packages. Mail sometimes took up to two weeks to reach the U.S. The Internet was in its infancy and not widely available in any way. I was able to purchase calling cards to reach home but the time difference was always an obstacle. And the cost, at $20 for each 10 minutes, wasn’t easy to deal with either.

In addition to work, there was a lot to keep me busy. My coworkers formed a softball team and, possibly out of pity, allowed me to play with them. Sometimes a few of us would head out to the Brit Club, a favorite haunt of most people on DG, and then put together a catching and batting practice around 2 or 3 a.m. The fun part was that after we turned on the lights to the field, we would have to chase away frogs which had come onto the sand along the baselines to keep cool during the night.   

The Det was soon assigned a new officer in charge – Senior Chief Petty Officer Michael Dunbar. We were lined up at attention to be inspected and addressed (something which was practically unheard of under the previous officer in charge).

Mostly bald and wearing Teddy Roosevelt style glasses, Dunbar spoke with an English accent. “I am not here to be your friend. I have my own friends. I am here to make you work. And I plan to squeeze all of you. Some of you may pop, but others will flourish under my command here. Does anyone have any questions?” he asked. Silence. He continued, “We are going to make the productions which come out of this detachment some of the best in all of the military. I will guarantee you that. If anyone has a problem with that, don’t cross me because I will kick your ass. Do you understand?” We all responded with a loud, “Yes, senior chief!” and were dismissed.    

One of Dunbar’s first actions seemed almost entirely at odds with his speech – he instituted a casual Friday policy. We were all so happy we almost didn’t know what do with ourselves. It was a simple gesture but one that we all admired. And in that moment we all knew that life under Dunbar’s tenure was going to be a good thing for everyone.

By this time, I working as a radio DJ on the midday shift, playing alternative and rock music during a show called Choice Cutz (don’t blame me for the name – it came with the time slot). Also, Dave Winters and I had taken over hosting duties (we traded off) for the island’s hour long music video show called FMTV.

FMTV gave us an opportunity (and a good reason) to visit all sorts of interesting places all over the island. And, have some fun while doing it. That’s how I found out one of the best views of the island is from the top of the air traffic control tower. Or that Marines, unless properly trained, generally have absolutely no idea how to talk on camera or show a decent sense of humor. In addition to on camera interviews of everyone we could find, we also wrote and filmed comedy bits or other segments for air.

During one particular heavy metal themed show, my friends Barry, Mike and I took over DG’s musical instrument practice room so we could perform a song as “Roadkill,” a heavy metal band that demonstrated and personified every rock stereotype known to mankind. We lip synched to Cinderella’s “Gypsy Road” like no other band before. I would share the video, but someone could blackmail me with it.

Christmas was approaching. A few of my coworkers had decided to make the trip home. In most cases, people who took leave from DG chose to take their entire yearly allotment of military leave – 30 days – all at one time. With the amount of travel involved to and from, there was just no sense trying to do it any other way.

Instead of traveling, I picked up a few calling cards and reached out to family for the holiday. I had to thank them for the box of gifts they had generously sent along to make me feel at home. They were kind of jealous because in Pennsylvania it was cold and snowing. On DG, the weather was pretty much the exact opposite and I intended to spend Christmas celebrating with my coworkers at the Plantation recreational site on the other side of the island.

In the military, you tend to gain a new appreciation for those who work hours other than 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. This is primarily because in the military, whether you like it not, you’re going to have a job, task or duty that falls outside of those hours – or on holidays. Or both. I mention this because I was lucky enough to be assigned to run boards – for a 12-hour shift – which began at 11:30 p.m. on New Year’s Eve 1995 and ran until 11:30 a.m. on New Year’s Day 1996.

A few of my friends, some drunk and others not, were kind enough to take a break from their celebrations to stop by and visit me. It was one shift I was more than happy to be over and done with.

Not soon after the start of the year, I was asked to sit down with Senior Chief Dunbar. I knocked on his door jamb and he looked up. “Kaminski. Come on in and have a seat. I really, really like what you’re doing here on the radio and FMTV,” he said.

Coming from Dunbar, that was a compliment of highest order. What many didn’t know was that prior to joining the military, Dunbar had been a civilian radio DJ – and a damn talented one at that. Dunbar had originally apprenticed under the famous disc jockey Wolfman Jack and for a few years in the late 1970’s had the number one rated radio show in the country working out of Los Angeles. He chose to step away from it because, while he was well known, he still had little money or anything else to show for it. As he later advised me, “Fame without money is worthless.”

Anyway, seated in his office, he continued, “I like what you’re doing on the radio and I really want to see you translate that as our next TV news anchor.” I looked at him kind of sideways, “Me? Wouldn’t you really like to see someone else in that seat instead of me?” I protested. Never having been a fan of anchoring the news, I also knew that many other people at The Det had been interested in the role. Our current anchor, Karen Flynn, was winding down her time on the island.

Dunbar was insistent. “I’ve made my decision. You’re going to be my next news anchor. You’ll train for a week starting Monday and then the week after that you’ll be on air. Your last radio show will be the end of next week as well.” While I was unsure of myself, Senior Chief’s words certainly helped bolster my confidence a bit.

That Monday I arrived at The Det to begin training. I did my radio show in the morning and worked with Karen that afternoon on script writing as well as inputting everything into and operating the teleprompter. So far so good.

And then, Tuesday arrived. As soon as I arrived at the Det, I was told that Brandon Hamilton needed to see me. I found him working in our camera and equipment locker. “You need to go back to you room and get a uniform ready ASAP. You’re going to be anchoring the news tonight,” he said. I looked at him dumbfounded. “What?!?! Why?!”

“You didn’t hear? Karen is in the hospital with a burst appendix. Now get out of here.” With that, I scurried back to room to 1) find a uniform suitable to wear on camera and 2) iron it so I didn’t embarrass myself.

My first attempt at anchoring the news was absolutely pitiful. I still have the tape and it’s truly cringe inducing. I look like there’s a midget terrorist pointing a gun at me off camera telling me to read a ransom note. But, like with my time on the radio, I progressively got better and more comfortable with practice.

Around the middle of March, we floated an idea to Senior Chief Dunbar – we wanted to do a special April Fool’s Day newscast. We weren’t sure of what stories we wanted to focus on or how we wanted to execute just yet, but he told us he was completely and entirely on board with whatever we came up with.

One of the ideas we ran with was that the Smoke Free Navy initiative, something which the Chief of Naval Operations had been championing and planning to institute within five years, had instead been instituted immediately. In order to sell it as our lead story, we talked with (and interviewed on camera) the manager of the island store about how all of the cigarettes on the island would be destroyed. And then we got footage of his staff removing every single carton of cigarettes from the store shelves.

To further bolster our cigarette story, we interviewed the island’s senior medical officer who talked about what a great idea the new policy was, saying that it would make for a healthier Navy and that it was simply the right thing to do for all of our sailors.

For our sports segment, we enlisted members of the merchant marine football team (who were stationed on ships anchored at DG) to participate in a rather raucous game of “tackle golf.”

All other aspects of the newscast, from upcoming island event listings to flight schedules and weather forecasts were completely bogus. We also featured a human interest story about a bowler who wasn’t quite playing with a full set of pins. The entire newscast can be seen here.

As soon as it aired, the calls started pouring in to The Det. One poor Brit who didn’t realize it was April Fool’s Day immediately went out and purchased 50 cartons of cigarettes. The base commanding officer tracked down Senior Chief Dunbar to express his displeasure with the stunt. To his credit, Dunbar not only stood up for us, but actually thought the newscast was highly entertaining.

That May, we began ramping up for a multi-day fundraiser The Det did every year to support the Navy-Marine Corps Relief Society called Radiothon. The premise of the fundraiser was simple. For a donation (and in some cases, a series of increasing bids) we would give the radio airwaves over to the populace of Diego Garcia. If someone didn’t like a song being played over the air, they could simply call in, make a donation and “bump” that song off the air with their own selection. Of course we would play a clever sound effect (fire alarm, toilet flushing, etc.) to demonstrate that a song had just been bested by another donation.

We began to brainstorm in earnest about how we should promote it. My friends Dave and Barry, put together a great deal of the spots to promote Radiothon, all of which were simply fantastic. One, shot in black and white, was themed after a European silent film and starred various feral chickens from around the island.

I helped to write and act in one of them myself which, due to some incredibly bad timing, caused a bit of controversy. In the spot I was playing the role of a slightly unhinged person who just happened to be on the roof of our building with a radio listening to my “favorite song” during Radiothon. That song being Randy Newman’s “Short People." Below were a number of my coworkers pleading with me not to jump off of the roof. The camera cuts to another person who calls into the Radiothon hotline and requests the Van Halen song “Jump." I scream like mad, run and throw myself off the roof and my coworkers clap as I land, throwing myself 30 feet down against the grass. We actually borrowed a CPR dummy from the hospital and filmed it flying off the roof dressed in my clothing. When we went to the medical clinic to ask permission to borrow it their response was, “Ummm…. you’re going to use this for what?”

The problem came on May 16, 1996, a day which, as I was still also the island’s news anchor, was pretty tough. Apparently distraught over an upcoming feature article disputing his authorization to wear certain decorations along with his military awards, the then current Chief of Naval Operations Admiral Jeremy “Mike” Boorda committed suicide by a self-inflicted shotgun wound to the chest.

All of us immediately switched from making fun Radiothon spot mode to news gathering mode. Senior Chief Dunbar, who had worked with and knew Admiral Boorda personally, took the news especially hard.

With Senior Chief’s valuable input, we put together what we felt was a very respectful and touching tribute to Admiral Boorda for the newscast that evening. As the Navy-Marine Corps Relief Society was a charity which the Admiral championed, we felt comfortable in the decision to keep our ads promoting Radiothon in full rotation leading up to the event. That was until Senior Chief Dunbar, as the officer in charge, got a call from the island’s resident psychologist.

“Senior Chief, are you aware that you are currently playing a commercial where a sailor commits suicide over a song being changed off the of the radio and that the Chief of Naval Operations recently killed himself?” she scolded. As much as Dunbar liked the spot, even he agreed it would have to be permanently shelved.

A few days later, Radiothon commenced. While I wasn’t scheduled to be on the radio during the fundraiser, I was given a very special sort of assignment. Essentially, I was to be the taunter-in-chief. In many cases this meant I spent a good part of each day on the roof of our building with a bullhorn screaming at, yelling and cajoling people into opening their wallets for this worthy cause. In addition to me working from the roof, other teams from The Det were traveling around to various parts of the island, film crews in tow, doing their best to amp up the island population and get them donating to the Navy-Marine Corps Relief Society.

As part of Radiothon, one of the large donations we received wasn’t for a song that someone wanted played over the air. Instead it came from a couple of female British Navy “Leading Wrens” (Wrens comes from WRNS, an acronym for Women’s Royal Naval Service) who temporarily wanted my job as television news anchor. For a combined donation of $1,000, Leading Wren Jessica Pauley and Leading Wren Laura Baker took over anchoring the news for one night. I got to be their coach just off camera as they spewed all sorts of British jargon I couldn’t understand.

Not soon after Radiothon wrapped up, I again sat down with Senior Chief Dunbar. Due to some extraordinary circumstances, The Det was going to be short-staffed for the coming six months. Even though I was scheduled to move on to my next duty station in a few months – as a staff journalist aboard the USS Belleau Wood, home ported in Sasebo, Japan – he asked if I would consider a short extension on the island. Without hesitation, I immediately agreed to extend my time on Diego Garcia by two months. A few days later, I made the return trip to Philadelphia to take my 30 days of leave (minus all of that fun travel time) with my family.

On my return trip to DG, we boarded the plane in Sigonella, Italy. The captain came over the loudspeaker to inform us that there was a problem with engine number three of our DC-8 aircraft. A few rows ahead of me, an older gentleman jumped out of his seat and immediately went into the cockpit (we later learned that he was a traveling flight engineer/mechanic). He exited the cockpit, went down the stairs onto the tarmac and up a ladder to inspect the engine in question. A few moments later, he began, rather violently and in full view by the entire one side of the plane, banging on the engine with a very large hammer. After a few minutes, he again boarded the plane, went into the cockpit and then took his seat.

“It looks like we’re ready to resume our flight,” said the captain over the loudspeaker. You could see a look of fear in everyone’s eyes that had seen the supposed “repairs” which were done to the engine. It was actually so bad that people began, in earnest, to request that the flight attendants begin serving alcoholic beverages BEFORE the flight departed. As we took off bound for Bahrain, Saudi Arabia, it took nearly a full hour before people realized that engine number three was probably going to get us there. Thankfully it did – and back to Diego Garcia.

As we landed at Diego Garcia, the British customs officers proceeded to line up everyone’s luggage for their hour long or more customs demonstration. One of them recognized me from my time as the island’s news anchor and pulled me aside.

“Scott, you’ve been through all of this before, right mate?” he asked. I said that I had. “And you didn’t bring anything especially fun with you back from home, right? Drugs, knives, etcetera?” I said I hadn’t. He pointed to line of bags. “You can grab your stuff and go then.” I thanked him, grabbed my bags and headed out of the terminal. As I left, I could hear a collective groan as well as a, “Hey! Why does he get to leave?!?!”

The week after I returned, all members of The Det were subjected to something which we had heretofore never experienced: a good, old-fashioned military room inspection. Dave and I were standing at attention outside of our room as our inspector, Chief Sal Guardino, arrived to review our quarters and entered. Guardino worked at The Det as well, overseeing all of the technical staff who kept the facility (and every piece of equipment) up and running.

He quickly surveyed our room and then stopped. “Kaminski! What the fuck is this?!?!” he said, pointing to the matching Mickey Mouse sheets and comforter that adorned on my bed. “That? That’s Mickey Mouse, Chief,” I responded, somewhat sarcastically. A smile came to his face. Laughing, he told us that our room had passed and to get back to work.    

My final months on Diego Garcia went by very, very quickly. While I was no longer anchoring the news (my time in front of the camera ended in late June 1996), I did continue to put together and file stories for the news as well as worked on various other projects for The Det.

In my final week, I packed up the majority of my belongings and shipped them off to my parents in Pennsylvania. Not knowing how much space I would have aboard the Belleau Wood, I figured it best if I didn’t show up with a mountain bike, electric guitar and amplifier and everything else I had accumulated while on The Rock.

My flight was scheduled to depart around 8 p.m. one August evening bound for Okinawa, Japan. Dave drove me to the terminal, we said our goodbyes and he left to start a shift running boards at The Det. My plane, an Air Force KC-10, was massive. Intended primarily as a cargo plane, this particular model had been outfitted with approximately 20 passenger seats just outside of the cockpit. 

I boarded the plane and was greeted immediately by one of our pilots (there were three total on the flight) who pointed me to a seat. Besides the pilots, the only other humans on board were a rather large Marine (approximately 6’4”, 260 lbs.) in camo fatigues (who happened to be wearing a set of handcuffs) and two Naval Criminal Investigative Service (NCIS) agents who were escorting him off of the island. Obviously this 14-hour flight was going to be a blast.

The pilots began preparing for take off and instructed us all to buckle up. And then about 15 minutes later, one of them came out of the cockpit to inform us that we weren’t going anywhere. The engines simply wouldn’t fire. I collected my two sea bags, got off the plane and called Dave at The Det to inform him that I wasn’t going anywhere just yet. He arranged for coverage on the boards and ran back to the airport to get me.

I dropped my gear off in Dave’s room (I was not technically supposed to be living there any more) and set off to the Peacekeeper Inn to grab a late bite to eat. Dave went back to The Det.

For a good portion of my time on DG, I was somewhat infatuated with a Filipina girl named Cassandra who, at various times worked as a server at the Peacekeeper Inn as well as working at the island’s package and beverage store. I was always too shy to ever confess my interest in her in any way. As I arrived at the Peacekeeper, she just happened to be there working that night. As it was so late, we were the only two people in the entire restaurant. Not having anything to lose, I finally struck up a conversation with her.

I encouraged her to sit with me and tell me her story. To my surprise, she happily obliged. I learned that she came to Diego Garcia because good paying work was relatively scarce in her hometown in the Philippines. She was single and, after a few years of working on Diego Garcia, expected to be able to return to her country with enough money to build a home of her own and hopefully go to school to become a teacher. After I finished eating, I thanked her for taking the time to hang out with me and set off to The Det to find Dave.

I borrowed Dave’s room key (I had already turned mine in) and collapsed on the bare mattress which used to be my bed. I awoke the next morning to a knock on the door from Dave, who had just finished his overnight shift running boards.

I went to The Det to figure out how I was going to make it to Japan. I was put on the next outgoing flight to Okinawa which was scheduled to depart the next day. With Senior Chief Dunbar’s assistance, we called the public affairs officer (essentially my new boss) aboard the Belleau Wood to explain the situation.

After reviewing my flight and travel times, he determined that I would actually be arriving in Sasebo, Japan approximately two hours after the Belleau Wood would be departing on a trip headed for Vladivostok, Russia. He instructed me to check in with the personnel department at the base in Sasebo and insist that they arrange for me to “chase” the ship to its next port of call because I would be needed during the Russia trip. He told me that whatever the staff at the personnel office said, no matter how much they protested, that I was to insist that they make arrangements for me to travel and meet the ship. From his end, he would also contact them to ensure they understood that no matter what, I was to be on the Belleau Wood for the Russia trip.

My last hours on Diego Garcia were bittersweet. Dave again drove me to the DG airport, but this time the plane actually took off. Fourteen or so hours later, we touched down in Okinawa, Japan.

There were many things about life on Diego Garcia I would certainly miss: my good friends and coworkers at The Det, the amazing weather and island life and even encountering those scary ass coconut crabs. While Diego Garcia was a fantastic departure from civilization for a while (make that a long while), I was antsy to see and learn different things. And, come to think of it, I had a ship to go chase.

- Scott Kaminski

* - All names have been changed.