There is an atoll in the heart of the Carolines which is best remembered for a tiny island at is north end. The atoll is Ulithi, and the island is Mogmog. Eleven years ago the great lagoon there witnessed the comings and goings of the most powerful striking force in naval history. Forays against the Philippines, Formosa, the “Jimas,” and Japan itself began and ended here, and after each such assault, when the ships had returned to base and swung at anchor in rows as far as the eye could reach, Mogmog Island rose to its dedicated role, that of recreation and refreshment. For some of the thousands of officers and men who hustled ashore there it was, for many months, the only land they trod on.
So Mogmog would be remembered anyway, even if it were not unique. But it was unique. A native village had been taken over intact by the SeaBees, who, instead of bulldozing it to one side and building a half-dozen quonsets on the site, used the existing structures as a basis for an elaborate recreation center. The native huts, on their neat platforms of coral gravel, were repaired, their sides opened up to the breeze, and their interiors furnished with chairs and tables. In these improvised cabanas, small groups could establish themselves for a day’s swimming and loafing, with cards, beer, and assorted delicacies from home. As a central gathering place, an airy pavillion was built overlooking the water.
At the east end of the island, where the enlisted men thronged, was a baseball diamond flanked with a mountain range of cased beer. Even though the commodity was served warm, it was not to be had elsewhere, and therefore rare and wonderful.
Each morning early, working parties came ashore and policed every foot of the island, so that it always had a pristine look— white sand and green verdure, with neat, shady paths between. Two pontoon jetties gave access to the island from the lagoon side, and a banner proclaimed, “Welcome to Mogmog, Paradise of the Pacific.” Although many of those who saw the banner might disagree with it, the place was a welcome oasis of relaxation in the long drive to crush the Japanese Empire.
As one of those visitors, I sometimes wondered about the natives whose homes we had preempted . . . what they were like and how they were getting along on nearby Fasserai Island to which they had been moved, together with the natives of the other islands of the atoll. What did they think of the staggering power displayed before their eyes? Would they ever come back to Mogmog, and if so would they ever be the same as before the upheaval?
Recently an opportunity presented itself for me to answer these questions and to gratify an old nostalgia for half-remembered shipmates, extravagant sea-stories, and crucial poker-pots. My command was assigned to surveillance duties in the Trust Territory of the Pacific and our itinerary included the Ulithi Group. Here, as elsewhere, we were to send a landing party ashore to make routine inquiries, check conditions, and render emergency medical assistance if needed. Previous landings had been at off-lying Falalap Island, where the Coast Guard maintains a loran and weather station, but, as near as I had been able to learn, no Navy ship had entered the lagoon itself since 1949. So Mogmog presented a worthwhile subject for reconnaissance, apart from the element of personal interest.
The destroyer escort Hanna entered Ulithi by Mugai Channel, but this proved to be no longer the simple matter it was when three sets of buoys marked its limits. They are gone now, and in piloting one must depend on visual tangents, notoriously unreliable where coconut islets are concerned. Since the reef along here is well submerged, its colors are not as distinct as those the “coral navigator” usually enjoys. Finding the passage consists in selecting the darkest shade of blue; we headed prayerfully over it. A few hundred yards inside Mugai we encountered a rusty buoy watching Rori- parakku Rock. It proved to be the only one of any kind remaining in Ulithi!
Thanks to the men who blasted and dragged great areas of the lagoon to least depths of 55 feet, it was possible to make good speed covering the eight miles between the entrance and Mogmog. Through the spectacularly clear water, crewmembers looking over the side could see rocks and sand patches rushing by below, and probably wondered when a bump would end our progress. We finally anchored in seven fathoms, not far from where the tenders used to lie, and went ashore in the motor-whale- boat. The two pontoon jetties installed there so long ago turned out to be still serviceable, though requiring nimble footwork to negotiate them.
On the beach, we were greeted by a crowd of boys in scarlet loincloths. They led us politely to the village, where we met one of the most noteworthy people in the whole Trust Territory, Fr. William Walter, Missionary to Ulithi. Barefoot, sporting a pair of faded blue shorts and a bushy red beard, he looked more like a beachcomber than a prelate, and it was only after talking with him for a while that one came to appreciate the scope of his understanding and wit, his devotion to the people of Ulithi, and some of his personal sacrifice. Most of my information on the locale, apart from personal observation, came from him.
The erstwhile park-like simplicity of Mogmog village has given way to the normal clutter of Micronesian habitation . . . piles of coconut husks, festoons of fishing gear, and so on . . . but the huts are the same and their mossy stone retaining-walls look as timeless as ever. The “Officers’ Club” is gone, and in its place a lofty fallu, or men’s house, rises. It is thatched and timbered in the traditional way, but eked out at the ends with sheets of corrugated steel. Aside from this touch, there are only Fr. Walter’s ancient quonset chapel and the skeleton of what may once have been a bulldozer to show that “modern civilization” ever came near the place. The millions of empty beer cans have long since turned to red dust, washed away in the coral sand.
Nor could one surmise from the Ulithians themselves any past upheavals or strange visitations; there seems to be no past as far as they are concerned, and very little future. This special branch of the Micronesian race numbers about 400 people, small, dark, and very well-proportioned. Of these, 116 live on Mogmog and the rest on Falalap, Fasserai, Sorlen, Asor, and Potangeras Islands. Their language, according to Fr. Walter, is different from any other in the world, and he admitted that even after five years of residence there he hasn’t mastered it. “For one thing,” he said, “they will never tell you when you make a mistake, because they don’t want to hurt your feelings. I learn mostly from the children, because when I say something wrong they giggle, and then I get them to tell me. A very complicated language, with lots of subtleties. I’m working on a dictionary, but the job is taking a long time.”
I remarked the complete absence of modern dress, for on a majority of the Trust Islands the natives are very clothes- conscious, and either wear them daily for the sake of prestige, or don them whenever a ship arrives, in deference to a supposed white-man’s-taboo against seeing the body. Not so on Mogmog. Here it is actually against the law to wear more than a lava- lava or-a grass skirt. “The reason is simple,” Fr. Walter explained. “If a man goes to Yap and comes back with a pair of pants for himself and a dress for his wife, before long all the others would want pants and dresses too, no matter how impractical, and the expense would be ruinous. After all, the average annual income here is only twenty dollars per family . . . they have nothing of particular value to trade. The economy is self-contained and is adequate as long as the people aren’t led to buy a lot of things from the outside which they don’t need.”
Fish and taro form the staple diet, and only the missionary is dependent on food supplies from the outside, a fact which grieves him, because he had wanted to adopt the natives’ life completely. “But,” he said, “I almost died trying to eat their food, and decided after about a year that it would be better to give in on this point and continue my work. The difficulty is that a Ulithian always shares . . . they are the most generous people in the world. So they do not understand, and it is awkward.”
A kind of tribal socialism exists on Mogmog. Every morning the chief calls a meeting at the fallu and announces the community project for the day, for which each clan is designated to furnish a certain number of workers, whether it be fishing, copra-gathering, boat repair, or holiday routine.
The most important joint enterprise is the building of a canoe, and fortunately the local canoes are so well built that they last for generations. “Fortunately” because breadfruit trees, essential to canoe-building, grow nowhere in the vicinity, and it is necessary to send a deputation to Yap for the purpose of cutting a tree and hewing it laboriously into shape. As the price of accommodating one of these working parties for several months and for taking the timber out, the Yapese exact a considerable fee in pandanus matting, coconut honey, lava- lavas, saiche (an extremely potent liquor made of roots and coconut sap), and other produce from Ulithi totalling in terms of labor-value about six man-years. Small wonder the Mogmog canoes are not only the best, but also the best cared-for in the whole area!
While we were on the island, one of these great sailing canoes returned from a five- day expedition on nearby Mangejang Island, loaded with pandanus fiber, cooking pots, men, women, and children. It was a magnificent craft, black with orange and white stripes, and it carried its ton-and-a-half burden as gracefully as a leaf upon the water. Moreover, it travelled at a better clip than I could ever get out of Hanna's motor-whaleboat. About a hundred yards off the beach its crew lowered sail, unstepped the mast, and pushed it the rest of the way, for it is taboo for a boat to sail between the SeaBees’ old jetties!
There is another taboo associated with these decrepit pontoons: anyone from a neighboring island who sails within a stone’s-throw of either jetty must stop and pay his respects to Chief Fefan. Should he omit to do this, a complaint is lodged with his own chief, who will cause him to pay a forfeit in goods or services.
Ulithi lies within the Yap District of the Trust Territory, whose civil administration has since 1950 been in the hands of the Department of the Interior. In harmony with the principle of the least government being best, there has been a minimum of interference in local affairs. Here as elsewhere in the district, the island chief is given maximum leeway. Chief Fefan is every inch a leader, dignified, kindly, and perceptive. And it is only by real leadership that these native rulers function. They cannot force their people to do anything. Rather, a chief’s effectiveness stems entirely from the islanders’ deference to his superior judgment and ability. All the chiefs of the Ulithi Group acknowledge one paramount ruler, King Malovich on Falalap. His most notable prerogative, we learned, is that only he may catch sea-turtles!
Whereas the District Civil Administrator concerns himself with matters of health, education, logistics, and strengthening of the local economy, the vital matter of security is still the U. S. Navy’s responsibility. Today the vast reaches of the Carolines, once Japan’s illegal preserve, are kept under constant surveillance by naval surface and air patrols. Once again the Carolines are virtually “closed,” but this time not for exploitation or military aggrandizement, but in fulfillment of the terms of our trusteeship. Some of the finest fishing grounds in the world exist around these tropical islands, and they are rightly reserved for the people who have lived here from time immemorial.
Like most of the lonely plots of coral and palm trees in the Hanna’s bailiwick, Mogmog boasted a tattered U. S. flag, and as we parted from our hosts it waved stoutly from a pole near the fallu. It was visible from the ship as we weighed anchor and headed down the lagoon, and we could also see the dark, wonderful people along the shore waving palm fronds in farewell.
It is good to know that at least one spot which was subjected to the tumult and shouting of ten years ago bears no scars. We had come to Mogmog to find it a place entirely different, but still a place always to remember.