MEMORIES from MUNDA
Isurveyed my surroundings as I waited for my eyes to fully adjust to the dim light. The late-morning air felt like a sweater, heavy and uncomfortable on my already damp skin. Or maybe it was just the air in the large shed that felt weighted and significant. There was no one around when we arrived, so my partner, Steve, had wandered up to the house to announce our arrival and I had taken shelter from the harsh sun inside the building.
The shed itself was little more than a 2-by-4 structure clad in wood, with a low gabled roof and a simple, hand-painted sign. The only light was the sun that was streaming in the large door and the propped-open hatch-style windows. I was standing in front of three long rows of tables, each full to overflowing with oddities and objects, all thoughtfully and meticulously arranged. What didn’t fit on the tables hung on the walls and leaned in the corners. What didn’t fit inside the shed sat neatly arranged on the lawn.
Outside, I heard Steve introduce himself to Barney, the proprietor: the familiar slap of moist flesh as they shook hands, the predicable soft laugh from the local when Steve broke out his few phrases in the regional Solomon Island dialect. The two men entered the shed, gravel crunching under their feet. I turned to say hello and was greeted with a broad smile. Steve and I were the only two visitors to the Peter Joseph WWII Museum that morning, and Barney seemed delighted to see us.
We had been to the island of New Georgia, in the western Solomon Islands, several times over the past few months but hadn’t heard of Barney’s place until recently. The township of
Munda was an area hub, one of the biggest small towns among several islands. We came here to find fresh provisions, clean fuel and a cellphone signal. The anchorage was protected behind an extensive reef, which made navigation a slightly nervous affair but guaranteed a good night’s sleep regardless of wind direction.
Munda was also a tourist town—thanks partly to the amazing diving outside the reef, and partly because it was easy to land an island-hopper plane on the long airfield located behind the town. The strip was built by the Japanese during World War II as a stepping stone on their move east out of Rabaul, Papua New Guinea, toward the American bases in Vanuatu and the
Old shells, bottles, tools, and even entire engines and ordnance can be found spilling out of the Peter Joseph WWII Museum and into the countryside. Seeing the collection of dog tags—rectangular for US servicemen, round for the Japanese— was particularly moving.
conquest of the greater South Pacific.
It took most of late 1942 to complete the project, however it remained virtually undetected by Allied air surveillance until it was operational. Located on an old palm plantation, the Japanese engineers cleverly camouflaged the whole construction effort. First, they created a grid of cables just under the tops of the coconut palms. Then, as trees were felled, the crowns of fronds were suspended in the cables, allowing the men to work freely down below throughout the day.
When the last of the crushed coral was flattened into place on the 44-by-1,094yard airstrip, they cut the wires, cleared the palm fronds, and revealed a fully operational runway. However, once in clear view, Allied forces were quick to attack. Shortly after the first Mitsubishi Zero landed in February 1943, the Battle of Munda Point saw the Allied forces gain control over the airfield and the island.
It was partially because of the Munda airstrip, and the fact that both Japanese and American troops occupied the island, that Barney’s collection at the Peter Joseph Museum was so interesting. It represented both sides of the story—not a particularly common point of view when it comes to history.
Back in the shed, Barney told us that he had been collecting items found on and around the island for more than 20 years. The project started innocently. One Sunday on his way to church, a dog tag belonging to Peter Joseph, an American soldier, was unearthed. Barney saw the dog tags as more than just a relic from the past. To him, they represented a story and, more importantly, a soldier. He decided that they should be preserved, perhaps even one day returned, so he put them somewhere safe.
As people dug in their back gardens and went exploring in the bush, other items were discovered. Slowly people started bringing items to Barney for safekeeping. As his collection grew, he started researching the items: who made them, who used them and what they were for. Eventually he was known as the go-to guy for anything WWII.
Barney explained that the museum started out in his garage. As it grew in size and popularity, he needed a venue to properly and respectfully display and preserve the collection. A few years ago, he secured government funding to build his shed. His pride was plain to see as he surveyed his accomplishments. “Have a look around!” he encouraged. “If you have any questions, please feel free to ask.”
Steve and I wandered among the tables together, inspecting the helmets and weapons, marveling at how intact the old life jackets and mess kits still were. Then, as we always do when visiting museums and galleries, we strayed apart, letting the other linger or pass over pieces as our personal tastes dictated. Steve was drawn to the larger items on display outside: an almost fully intact Allison V-12 engine, bits from a Japanese Zero plane, a huge bomb casing. I kept circling back to a table packed with small goods: green glass bottles, pocket knives, small jars still full of insect repellent.
There was an assortment of handmade bracelets and other crude trinkets that I found particularly touching. No doubt these sentimental items had been crafted by men because small numbers of women by comparison served in the Pacific during the war. I imagined them lovingly whiling away the hours in the Solomons as their minds drifted home to the women they had left behind. That a little copper heart never made it off the island made my chest hurt.
My ears perked up when Barney started to explain to Steve how just last week, in a woman’s backyard a few miles away, some old ordnance was found lodged in a tree. The elderly woman was clearing some land and had cut down
the tree and went on to burn it. Suddenly, the piece of tree exploded, sending shards of wood and bits of metal flying. It was only divine luck that spared her from injury.
Now that Barney had our attention, he brought us over to a large, locked strongbox. He slowly opened the lid and careful laid out the contents on the table. Alongside a Japanese knife, its brass-knuckle grip worn smooth from handling, he placed a large keyring of dog tags. Most of them were the familiar American-style, rectangular and stamped in English, but a few were delicate rounds, inscribed with Japanese characters. Over the years, he had repatriated a few dog tags back to the families of the soldiers, but it was difficult. He showed us a small engraved plaque that was sent as a thank-you from a woman in the US. I got the impression that he didn’t want to be painted the hero, that he considered himself nothing more than a guardian of the past, grateful for those who had come before and sacrificed so much.
Then he laid out a collection of small personal items: a fancy red-glass ashtray, a small brass frame, a cigarette case. I hesitated, used to abiding by the strict notouching rules of more-formal museums. “Go ahead,” he said, “you can pick them up.”
I held the glass ashtray up to the sun, where the light danced and sparkled across the intricate decorations. What an extravagance to have this pretty little thing amid all this chaos. It must have belonged to an officer, I thought, because it was too fancy for a regular soldier to carry. Then I opened the cigarette case and found a small calendar nestled inside. It probably came in a pack of cigarettes. Was it used to count the days and months they spent here? I wondered. When I picked up the small brass frame, I was curious to see that it still held a photograph. It had faded over the years, but it was quite obviously a woman. Who were you? I pondered, her eyes staring back at me through time.
Looking at the keyring of dog tags and feeling the weight of each of these items in my hands, I suddenly realized that these were more than just found objects. These little luxuries, carried and protected through the unforgiving years of war, belonged not to a soldier but to a man: a husband, a brother, a father, a loved one. Suddenly all the history I had learned had a face; the war was suddenly very real. It had been fought on the ocean we sailed, the islands we visited, in the very spot that we stood.
I looked at Barney and understood. This is what gave him his purpose. This museum was not here to satisfy the many who come to marvel at the airplane engines and handle the American rifles or the Japanese handguns, although
Barney was happy to explain the history of each. It was a sincere act of remembrance. I didn’t get the impression that he rooted for one side or the other. Barney was simply celebrating the lives of all the men who fought bravely for their country. Whether he agreed with their cause didn’t seem to matter. He believed in their bravery.
Barney carefully repacked his wood chest and wandered over to a little table in the corner. It was only then that I noticed the small, laminated sign and a money box. Barney ran his museum on donations. There was a modest suggested fee, but we had no intention of letting Barney sell himself short. I stuffed a few notes into his donation box and thanked him for his time and his efforts. When Steve mentioned that we had a friend scheduled to visit us later that month and that we’d return, he looked genuinely excited at the prospect of seeing us again.
We had spent over two hours at the museum, and now the midday sun was high and bright and scorching hot. We wandered the narrow dirt streets that snaked through the encroaching jungle in relative silence, both absorbed in our own thoughts. I wondered how much the island had changed since the war had ended. How many secrets the jungle had swallowed, and how many more years would it take to unearth them. I wondered how much humanity had learned from the horrors that took place here—and on every other battlefield across the globe.
The whole western province of the Solomon Islands was an important stage in the Pacific theater during WWII. We would continue to see the leftovers of war peppered throughout the islands we visited. Rusty anti-aircraft guns and cannons stood silent guard at the mouth of many harbors, and Quonset huts lined the Gizo waterfront. On one of our daily dinghy adventures, we explored a beach strewn with the wreckage of a B-26 bomber; on another, we snorkeled a fully intact Hellcat. We hiked up into the hills to see a pile of twisted metal where a Japanese Zero fell from the sky. But nothing we saw was as impressive, or as moving, as Barney’s humble museum.
Heather Francis is from Nova Scotia, Canada. Since 2008, she has been sailing aboard Kate, a Newport 41, with her Aussie partner, Steve. They are currently in the Philippines. Follow them at yachtkate.com.