The Nike Missile Site

I don’t think I’d be divulging any classified information if I told you that sometime around nineteen-sixty, West Andover was considered so wild and empty that a Nike Missile site was located on the heights above River road, right about where the new houses of Stonybrook Circle and Avery Lane are today.

The West side of our old farmhouse faced a field that rose slightly, then dropped back down to the tree line. Just past the tree line was a brook .Someone from the past history of this piece of land had constructed a rather solid concrete dam across the brook, probably to capture water for grazing cows. Now, like the barn and the assorted sheds that dotted the area, the dam was suffering from old age. It was undercut, allowing water to leak underneath, and so most of the year, what had once been a pond was dry. In the Spring, though, when the snowmelt was strong, water would back up and again fill the pond. As the water receded in Summer, the banks were left exposed, leaving a thick layer of rich black mud crawling with earthworms. We would go there often, since, in spite of the thick swarm of mosquitos that thrived in the banks, it was the best place to get fishing bait.

Past the brook was what seemed to us children to be an endless expanse of woods. We began to explore this area, going North along the stream down toward the river, and West into the deepest part of the woods. Eventually, after what seemed like a long way then but was probably less than half a mile from the brook, we discovered the clearing that held the missile site.

To be fair, this site was rumored to be only a test site for the missile electronics, and probably didn’t actually have any live missiles. But it looked real enough, with a high chain link fence topped with barbed wire, and missiles on missile launchers far away from the fence.

There were real guards. My brother and I would stand at the fence, two harmless boys with our hands in our pockets, not even teenagers. Eventually our presence would be noticed, and a somewhat out-of-shape security guard would leave the building, walk the considerable distance to where we stood on the other side of the fence, and shoo us off with something like “Get the hell out of here before you get yourself in trouble.” Satisfied, we would scamper back into the woods—mission accomplished.

The purpose of the Nike missile was to defend cities and ICBM sites against the new generation of jet aircraft. They were a replacement for the World War II-era anti-aircraft gun batteries; active missile sites ringed many of the major cities along the East Coast from Massachusetts to Washington D.C, and the West Coast cities of San Francisco and Los Angeles.

As I mentioned, I now think that this site, virtually in our back yard, was a test site for the targeting radar systems rather than a live missile battery. First, the site was small, perhaps ten acres. Missile hardware was out in the open, whereas in active sites the missiles were stored in underground bunkers. Finally, we were often visited by low-flying aircraft, probably as part of radar tests.

Ponderous multi-engine propeller aircraft would pass across the woods at tree-top level, making quite a racket. Occasionally there were fighter jets, usually higher and moving fast. Once a jet broke the sound barrier, rattling windows throughout the area and causing loud complaints in town meetings and local newspapers.

The highlight of this chapter of our boyhood came one afternoon. We were upstairs, in my brother’s room. In the distance, we heard the sound of a fighter jet. Even from far away, there is something unmistakable about the sound of a fighter, an urgent tearing shriek that is instantly recognizable as different from commercial jets. We ran across the house to a window that looked out across the back field. Just as we did, a single jet came drifting across the far side of the field. He was off the power, hardly making any sound.

Time seemed to slow. It seemed like the jet was level with our window. Most military aircraft are a dull grey, but in my memory this one was the blue with the yellow trim of the Navy demonstration jets. We could see the pilot through the bubble canopy of the cockpit, could see his helmet, his shoulders and the side of his face. And as time goes by and the story gets retold, I could swear that he looked over to the house and raised his left hand in a thumbs-up sign as he rolled on some power and thundered out of sight to the South.

Frank Kearns