Sitting adjacent to the HF CW position was a smaller room, enclosed on three sides in brick and painted off-white. The fourth side was glass which also included a sliding glass door, affixed with a small sign which simply said 'MF CW'. This little booth of modest appearance was well out of proportion with respect to the role that MF CW had played in the history of maritime communications. Inadvertenly or by intention, the Chief's desk was positioned so he had a direct view of the MF CW booth. The Chief's position had a compliment of Collins rceivers, and one was always tuned to 500 kc. More often than not, I'd get a glimpse of the duty Chief listening, with a gleam in his eye, to the evening traffic on 500 Kc.

Upon entering the MF position, one was struck with the sight of the largest 24 hour clock known to mankind. It had the most unusual red markings on its face. Two red wedges, starting from the center and flaring outward covered, respectively, minutes :15 to :18, and minutes :45 to :48. These, of course, were a blatant reminder to the operator of the two worldwide silent periods (more one these later). In addition, each of the twelve five-second intervals around the perimeter, had the first four seconds blocks marked in red with the last second left white. The sequence was: 4 seconds red, 1 second white, 4 seconds red, 1 second white, etc., around the entire circumference. These markings were to aid the 500 kc operator in manually sending the distress auto alarm: key down 4 seconds, key up 1 second, key down 4 seconds, key up 1 second, etc., for one minute. More on the auto alarm later.

One's attention would next be drawn to two Collins 651S receivers mounted in the operators console. The top receiver was locked on 500.000 kc and the bottom was usually a few hundred cps on either side of 500, say 499.500 kc. This, of course, prevented missing signals with whom our receivers were zero-beated with. The audio from these two receivers was fed into a 12 track reel-to-reel tape recorder, as were all receivers and transmitters at the station. One track was reserved for WWVH time signals. A second 12 track tape recorder acted as a back-up to the first. Reels were changed at the beginning of each new radio day (0000Z).

On a panel next to the two Collins receivers was a telephone-type rotary dial with four red lights above it. If digit 1 was dialed, the first red light would be lit, indicating our MF xmtr was on 500 kc in the A1 mode; if digit 2 was dialed, the second red light would be lit, indicating the transmitter was on 500 kc in A2, or MCW (modulated CW), mode. More on A2 later. Dialing digit 3 shifted the transmitter to 440 kc, A1 mode which was NMO's working frequency. Dialing digit 4 shifted the transmitter to 512 kc, A1 mode (more on 512 kc later).

I'm not sure if this was against FCC or ITU regulations, but our 500 kc transmitter was ALWAYS set to the A2/MCW mode when I was at the key; I hope there is a statute of limitations concerning this possible violation! I loved the musical notes A2 produced. Since our transmitter site was at least 5 miles away, on the 4000 foot peak of the Koolau Mountains, we enjoyed full duplex transmission.

At a right angles to the operators desk was a typewriter containing the MF CW radio log. During radioman school, we were instructed to attempt to log every signal we heard on 500 kc (an impossible feat), but at worst, make an entry every 5 minutes according to ITU regulations. If no signals were heard within a 5 minute period, which would never happen at night, then one would enter:

NO SIGS                                            500       2308Z
NO SIGS                                            500       2313Z
BEGIN SILENT PERIOD                                500       2315Z
END SILENT PERIOD                                  500       2318Z
KPH KPH KPH DE WNKL WNKL AMVER 425 K / WNKL DE
KPH R UP / UP / EE / EE                            500       2320Z
NO SIGS                                            500       2325Z

Thus, whatever we heard would be typed directly into the log. At right angles to the log typewriter, was a second typewriter which was used to copy traffic from ships to NMO: OBS, AMVERS (Automated Merchant VEssel Reporting), Dead Head Medicos (medical reports handled free-of-charge), and other non-commercial traffic. By U.S. law, Coast Guard stations cannot handle commercial traffic, for that would take revenue away from the commercial stations.

Sitting on the ops desk was a Vibroplex chrome-plated bug and a cheap straight key screwed onto a thin sheet of plexiglass. I, of course, only used the straight key. Shifts at NMO ran like this: 12 hours on; 12 hours off; 12 hours on; 72 hours off. The day watch started at 0700 and ended at 1900 (local); night watch ran from 1900 to 0700 the next morning...yawn. During my off hours, I rebuilt an old wooden sailboat that doubled as my home. That enabled me to collect money from the Coast Guard for off-base housing. What a life, huh?

No one on my shift had any particular love for the 500 Kc position. "What fools!", I thought. Even though we were supposed to rotate positions every 3 hours, I volunteered to remain at the 500 position for the full 12 hour shift, especially during the night watches. I loved it! It was from this modest console that I would spend the next three years of my life. The things that I copied would, at times, amaze me, cause me laugh so hard I would fall out of my chair, or cause me to break down weeping. To this day, I cannot forget the ship's op with whom I was working a distress. He stayed at his key while his ship broke up in heavy seas; his transmitter emitted a scream at the moment the ocean flooded his radio room shorting the batteries and radios.