C H A P T E R 07
(1966-1968)
I had a fifteen day leave, so when I returned stateside, I went home to Virginia Beach. When I got to my house, my neighbors told me that my mother was in the hospital. My brother and his wife and family lived a short distance away in Portsmouth, Virginia, so I called them and they came to get me. I found out that my mother had suffered a nervous breakdown because of her divorce from my father; she was in a mental hospital.
My brother and I went to see her several times before I had to report for duty. She was in bad shape and there was nothing else I could do for her there. I was on orders for Fort Carson, Colorado, and I determined to try to get those orders changed so that I could be at a post closer to Virginia Beach. Maybe I could help my mother.
After reporting to my unit at Fort Carson, I contacted the post chaplin and explained my situation to him. He promised to intercede on my behalf to try and get me a compassionate transfer to Virginia. Meanwhile, I'd have to perform my duties in the new company until that came about.
I was a sergeant, E-5 radio teletypewriter operator in B Company, 5th Signal Battalion. As such, I had four mobile teletype rigs that had to be maintained and manned while in garrison and while on exercises in the field. When I first got there, we were in garrison. During the day, work consisted mainly of upkeep on the vehicles, radios, teletype machines, antennas and other associated equipment. Periodically, we would fire-up the equipment and run local practice messages and radio checks between rigs just to make sure that everything was working properly. The nights were ours to do with as we pleased. I would usually head for "The Golden Boot," our EM/NCO club. There were pinball machines, beer, and other diversions to take my mind off my woes.
About three months into my assignment at Fort Carson, the battalion had a field exercise at "Red Devil Range." We lined up in convoy early one morning and began the trip out to the exercise area. I'd never been out west before, so I was unprepared for the vista's that opened to me. Distances are so deceptive in that kind or rolling terrain. I'd look out at a point and think we would reach it in about fifteen minutes, only to discover that it took the better part of an hour to get there. No matter where we went on the range, dominating the scenery was the magnificent Pike's Peak Mountain, and NORAD, in Cheyenne Mountain.
We were three days into that exercise, when I got word to go in to garrison. My reassignment orders had been approved. When the orders were handed to me, I couldn't believe my eyes. They were sending me to Fort Knox, Kentucky. That would not aid me in helping my mother!
When I got to Fort Knox, I worked in the message center for the 33rd Armored Group Headquarters. I was the only O5C (radioteletype operator) assigned to the whole Group. They had one M-577 radioteletype, command-track vehicle that had never been used. Nobody knew how to set it up! I got it working, and from that day until I left, I'd copy some AP broadcast news on the teletype every day and take it to the colonel to read. He thought that was the greatest thing going since ice cream!
I was there about three months. Since I couldn't get reassigned closer to Virginia Beach, and since I wasn't doing my mother any good where I was, I decided to reenlist (I still had some time left on my original enlistment, but I had a shortage, or critical MOS [military occupational specialty]). I was allowed to take a short reenlistment for my choice of duty assignment. I also got a VRB (variable reenlistment bonus) of $6,000. Naturally, my choice was to go back to Korea. My brother would have to assist my mother on his own.
I had travelled to Korea by Military Sea Transport Service, or MSTS, the first time, but this time I flew out of Kentucky. There was a change over in O'Hare, a flight to Los Angeles, then Seattle/Tacoma, Anchorage, Tokyo, and finally Kimpo, Korea. From there, I went to a replacement company until they could determine where I was needed most.
I was hoping I would get Camp Page again, but it wasn't to be. I came down on orders to the Second Infantry Division, headquartered at Camp Howze. When I got there, they further assigned me to Headquarters Company, 1st Battalion of the 23rd Infantry, at Camp Young. It was located north of the Imjin River in the demilitarized zone (DMZ).
As soon as I got there, I asked the commander for a week leave in-country so that I could find my fiancé and continue processing the necessary paperwork for marriage. I didn't tell him that we were already married by the local church. He gave me leave, and I caught a ride going back across Libby Bridge (we were closer to it than to Freedom Bridge near Panmunjom), through the village of Chang Pa Ri, and to the town of Munson Ni, near RC#1, a recreation center. From there, I caught a military bus to Yongsan and made connections going to Chun Chon, near Camp Page.
When I got there, I went to the hootch where I expected to meet my wife. She was no longer there. Luckily, the mamasan who rented the apartments remembered me, and knew how to get in touch with my wife. She was in Seoul, supposedly, living with her family. I guess she caught a taxi from Seoul because she arrived about four hours later. We stayed overnight in a hotel in Chun Chon then went back to Seoul and filed some more paperwork with the American Embassy and some local Korean officials responsible for changing the family papers to reflect the marriage.
I told Chong Hui of my efforts to get stationed in the Yongsan area in Seoul but that I'd been assigned to the DMZ. There is only the small village of Chang Pa Ri near Libby Bridge. That was the closest place I could get for her to stay. We looked at several places and finally found one that could be made suitable with a little fixing up. I let her handle the arrangements with the mamasan of that apartment complex. Most of the inhabitants were prostitutes who worked the bars and served the GIs who were stationed in the DMZ.
After taking care of those arrangements, we went back to Seoul where she had been staying. We stayed there for four more days. At the end of that time, I had to report back for duty. I told Chong Hui that I'd come and get her when the place was ready for us to move in.
It would be two months before she would come to stay at Chang Pa Ri. I would get off night duty and hitch a ride to Seoul to be with her for about seven hours than catch a bus at Yongsan going back to Munson Ni. A shuttle bus ran from there to the DMZ every night, but the last run was at 10 p.m. A curfew was in place from 12 midnight until 6 a.m. On weekends, when I didn't have any duty, I would stay in Seoul overnight Saturday and go back Sunday night. We weren't supposed to stay off an American compound at night, but my company commander knew I was trying to get married so didn't press the matter.
Every time I went to Seoul to be with Chong Hui, I'd argue with her about moving up to Chang Pa Ri so that I could see her more often. She always came up with some excuse not to move. The apartment had been fixed-up and paid for. Occasionally, I stayed there by myself rather than stick around Camp Young during off duty hours. A duty truck from the DMZ would park in the village every night to pick up GIs and return them to their units across the river. We weren't allowed to stay overnight in Chang Pa Ri because of the proximity of the town to North Korea. There was always the danger of infiltrators from the north.
I became rather friendly with one of our neighbors in an adjacent apartment. Her name was Kim and she was quite pretty. Of course, she was a prostitute. At first there was no hanky-panky between us. She had met Chong Hui when we were looking for a place to stay, and I knew that sooner or later Chong Hui would be coming to live there, so I didn't want to horse around. When Chong Hui kept putting off moving to Chang Pa Ri, I did began sleeping with Kim. She was reluctant at first, but I needed a woman and she needed the money. If she didn't go out to the bar to pick up a GI, I could usually persuade her to spend some time with me.
Chong Hui and I finally did get married at the U.S. Embassy, so our marriage became legal. I applied for and received permission to get her an ID card giving her access to the commissary, Post Exchange (PX), theaters, etc.; privileges granted to all legal dependents. She then moved up to our apartment at Chang Pa Ri, but those amenities were not available in our area. In order to take advantage of those privileges, she would shortly move back to Seoul.
I thought everything would be idyllic with her there in the village, but it was not to be. The village of Chang Pa Ri was small and mean; there weren't many things for a sophisticated woman like my wife to do. She would be with me in the evenings from 5 to 11 p.m. when I had to catch the truck back to my company. Remember, there was a 12 p.m. to 6 a.m. curfew. I guess staying around that village during the day, doing nothing, was pretty boring for her.
After about a month there, one night at about 9:30 p.m., while we were lying in bed, we heard a series of gun shots coming from the area of Libby Bridge (our hootch was only about an eighth of a mile from it). I quickly got dressed and made it back to the bridge in hopes of catching a ride back to my company. Many other GIs had the same thoughts when they heard the shooting. We learned that some North Korean infiltrators had been seen and fired upon, along the bank of the Imjin River. All units were on alert and everyone was rounded up and returned to their companies.
Because of that incident, and because my wife was bored, she returned to Seoul to live. From then on, I had to commute to Seoul whenever I could in order to be with my wife. This gave her a whole lot of freedom to do whatever she wanted in my absence. It wasn't long before I suspected, and confirmed that she was black marketing items from the commissary and PX. That is to say, as the wife of a serviceman, she would legally buy items at those stores and sell them at an inflated price to local Koreans who weren't authorized to shop there. This is an action which is illegal, and punishable by the serviceman being reduced in rank, fined, imprisoned, or all three, depending upon the severity of the transgression. The spouse also lost her privileges.
I reported this activity to our post chaplain because I wanted him to intercede with my commander in trying to get me transferred to the Yongsan area in Seoul. I figured that if I were in Seoul, I could stop my wife's illegal activity. When I put in a DA form 1049 requesting transfer, I didn't state exactly why I wanted the change. Unfortunately, the commander refused the transfer.
About two weeks after my transfer was denied, the Criminal Investigation Division (CID) informed my commander that my wife had been caught black marketing in Seoul. The commander called me on the carpet to read me the riot act. I thought sure he was going to bust me back to private! I reminded him that I had tried to get a transfer and told him that this was why. He called the chaplain to verify that I had confided in him earlier. Because I had made the effort to stop my wife, the commander didn't bust me, but he didn't transfer me either. My wife just lost most of the privileges of a dependant. She was allowed to keep her ID card so that she could get medical attention if needed, but she could no longer abuse the shopping privileges. Any goodies she got after that came from me when I went to Seoul, and if I had the time. I made sure that I didn't buy anything she could sell behind my back.
Camp Young is located in a cul-de-sac off the MSR, or main supply route. That was the road that led from Libby Bridge, all through the DMZ, to the different companies along its path, and out the far end at Freedom Bridge, near Panmunjom. All the buildings on the compound were Quonset huts, heated by kerosene stoves that looked like fifty-five gallon drums with smokestacks. That is except the EM Club, which was an elaborate building built on a hill overlooking the MSR. The orderly room, supply room, 3rd Infantry Brigade Headquarters building, battalion headquarters, message center, motor pool, and small hospital were located on the lower road along the inside perimeter of the compound. All the billets, latrines, and section shops were located along the hills surrounding the cul-de-sac. The whole compound was so small that you could walk around it in about fifteen minutes.
Most nights during the week were spent on the compound at the EM club. We had one-armed bandits (slot machines) that took most of my spending money. Between them, and the beer and whiskey I'd drink, my monthly bar bill was around eighty dollars. American currency wasn't used over there, but script was substituted and slugs were used for the machines. This too, was a means of preventing black marketing.
Most of the men from the surrounding compounds came to our enlisted club to party. They didn't have formal clubs on their compounds. Oh, some of them did, but they were the ones located nearer to Panmunjom. On our end of the MSR, our club was a haven for drinking, socializing, and playing the slots.
One night, while I was Sergeant-Of-The-Guard, I heard a commotion up on the hill, and soon after that, the field phone rang. It was one of the guards I'd posted earlier. There was a race riot going on outside the club! I didn't know what to expect, but I quickly rounded up about six guards I had in the guard shack and issued them some live ammunition with instructions not to use it except as a last resort to save lives. We headed for the hill where the EM club was and the riot.
It was a madhouse outside the club! People were fighting all over the place. I didn't know what had started it but I was determined to stop it. I had a bull horn that I used to let everyone know who we were and that I wanted everyone to break it up. Most of them stopped when they saw my armed guards approaching. Many of them immediately headed down the hill and onto the MSR towards their own compounds. There was one man who became very belligerent toward one of my guards and began trying to get his rifle away from him. The guard jacked a round into the chamber and told the man to stop. He kept coming towards the guard and nearly grabbed the rifle. The guard fired a round into the air! That stopped all fighting and must have shocked some sense back into the men because they quickly dispersed.
I went into the club and talked to the manager. It had been a riot started by some racial slurs and had gotten out of hand too rapidly for anyone to control. It was a precursor of things to come in the military. The damage inside the club was minimal, but I told them to close it up for the night anyway. I didn't want to take the chance of the fighting breaking out again. I rounded up my guards and returned to the guard shack.
The commanding officer called and wanted to know what the shot was about. I told him and he asked if everything had quieted down. When I told him it had, he said good night. The next day, though, he called me on the carpet again because of the rifle being fired. I managed to convince him, with the help of some other eye witnesses, that if the guard hadn't fired a round into the air, the drunk may have gotten his rifle and killed somebody that night.
The club was closed for two weeks after that, and then only one or two other compounds were allowed to use it. The men from the compounds that had started the rioting were not allowed to use it again.
The commo chief, mortar platoon sergeant, and I went out along the DMZ road one weekend, ostensible to check on the security of our sector. In actuality, we had brought along two shotguns and were planning on shooting a brace of pheasants for supper. It was forbidden to hunt in the DMZ because there were still mined areas that hadn't been cleared since the cessation of hostilities. It was so isolated that we thought we could get away with it. Many other such security patrols had done so.
I'd never hunted anything in my life! The wildlife in the DMZ was phenomenal; it was as if the animals knew they were safe from man while there. Every once in a while we would hear of a deer or wild pig tripping a mine, so we knew we had to be careful to shoot the bird while it was in safe territory and not out over no-man's-land. The commo sergeant got two birds, and the mortar platoon sergeant and me, both got one each. We brought them back to the compound, plucked and cleaned them, and cut them up into frying pan size pieces. After rolling them in flour and spices, they were cooked in a pan on top of the space heater in the mortar platoon hut. That was the best bird I ever tasted! I don't know if it was the thrill of eating a forbidden morsel or just the fact that we had caught them ourselves.
That same road we had traveled on that day was later mined by infiltrators. Another security patrol making the rounds hit the mine and flipped over the 3/4 ton vehicle they were riding in, injuring the driver and three other people. When they managed to call for rescue, a tracked, M-113, medical vehicle was sent to the scene. After loading the wounded men, and while returning to the camp, it too, hit a mine, and all personnel had to be rescued. Three men were medevac'd to Seoul that night, and to the best of my recollection, one man died.
After that incident, we put up six rows of razor concertina wire around the whole compound. Every person on the compound assisted in the task and it took better than a week to get the job done. It was such a hilly area! In addition to that all persons, sergeant E-5 and above, had to continually wear a loaded 45 caliber pistol, night and day. We were cautioned to sleep with it under our pillow and even to carry it to the latrine with us. Talk about jumpy nerves, we had them!
It is well we were so cautious. Even with those precautions being taken, three barracks in A Company, 1/23 Infantry, located near Libby Bridge, were satchel charged by infiltrators one night. We lost twenty-three men, wounded, or killed in that action. Even a couple of reconnaissance patrols, that were sent out to predetermined sites to lay in wait for infiltrators, were themselves ambushed. Things were beginning to get hot!
Shortly after this, I got my orders returning me to the states. I was to report back to the 5th Signal Battalion again, at Fort Carson, Colorado. I only had a couple of days to say my good byes to Chong Hui in Seoul. She wouldn't be coming with me because the paperwork for her passport and visa wasn't completed. We arranged to write through an interpreter and I promised her I'd send her enough money to live on and try to expedite getting her back to the states with me. On a cold and rainy day in March, 1968, my plane left the tarmac at Kimpo, Airfield. I remember seeing her receding figure standing near the terminal as my plane taxied down the runway. Little did I know all that would happen between us before we met again!
Monday, April 13, 2009
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Chapter 6 of Looking Back
C H A P T E R 06 (1965-1966)
The airfield was under construction at Camp Page, Korea, in 1965‑1966 because it wasn't long enough, or strong enough to support the larger aircraft that needed to land there with supplies. Most of the supplies were coming in by rail, or overland on wheeled vehicles. The labor force used to rebuild and extend the airport was the women from the local populace. I was dumbfounded!
Never before had I seen this type of work done by women, or without machinery. It was road-gang type labor, of the sort one sees being performed by Paul Newman on the road gang in Cool Hand Luke. I never understood why women did this work. I later saw Korean men doing equally hard work in Seoul, so maybe it was a societal type of thing, while the men tended the fields, or performed their military duties elsewhere.
When I first arrived, I was only a private first class (PFC) and had to pull guard duty periodically at the various locations around Camp Page that required security. The airfield was one of these places. It was out in the open, of course, and on the northeastern perimeter of the compound. An eight-foot-high, chain-link fence, topped by barbed wire, ran the length of the perimeter. The guards were taken out to various points along this perimeter by truck, dropped off, and the old guard picked up. The guard walked along the length of the fence over a designated distance, constantly inspecting the fence for break‑ins or anything else of a suspicious nature. At the drop-off point, there was an enclosed box that had a field phone inside and the sentry was expected to call in at designated times to report the condition of his post. The phone line was connected to the guard shack where the Sergeant of the Guard stayed when he wasn't posting his sentries.
As I said, the airfield was just inside the fence, and I got to get a real close look at the labor going on to extend it. Some of the women were breaking rock into stones and then into gravel. This was done by hand. It was then loaded into baskets, which the women carried on their heads out to the work in progress. A base layer of rock about a foot and a half deep was laid out along the runway and steamrolled or packed down (this was their only concession to machinery). PSP or heavy-duty perforated steel plates, about a foot and a half wide and ten feet long, were then interlocked along the top of the packed surface. This is what formed the surface for the planes to land on.
When the weather was nice, the guard duty on the perimeter was not too bad. In bad weather, though, it was wide open to the wind and bitter cold! The only way to stay warm was to keep moving. I much preferred the more sheltered guard post around the main compound during the winter.
About this time I met a fellow I'll call Johnny. He was a specialist four (E‑4) who wasn't much to look at, because he was shorter than I was, at just under five foot, seven inches, and wore glasses that looked like the bottoms of Coke bottles. But Johnny was beautiful. What he lacked in stature or looks, he more than made up for by having an abundance of personality and good humor.
Everyone was Johnny's friend. It was he who introduced me to chopsticks and peanuts. It was also he who introduced me to what is the Korean equivalent of a geisha house, thereby making my tour of duty in the Republic of Korea then, and subsequently, vastly more enjoyable.
The mamasans’ house was way up in the village along a steep and rutted dirt road. The area was declared off-limits, but Johnny didn't let that bother him. He knew his way around the city of Chun Chon like the back of his hand. He and I ducked into an entranceway along a cement wall that was topped with broken glass (to keep out thieves). Inside we found ourselves in an open area, surrounded on all sides by apartments with sliding doors that were covered with rice paper. A veranda ran along the front of the apartments, completely around the entire enclosure.
To enter an apartment, one had to remove one's shoes, leave them outside, then step onto the veranda and slide open the door. Johnny had been expected, but they didn't know he was going to bring a friend.
The mamasan (a woman of indeterminable age) greeted Johnny and me, and showed us to a room where we were seated on the floor around a small lacquered table with inlaid mother-of-pearl. Cushions were provided in deference to our being Westerners. There were no chairs.
It is interesting how the Korean houses are made. They're made in such a way as to allow the floors to be heated. The dimensions of the foundation are laid out, and large boulders of various shapes, but uniform height, are placed throughout the foundation area. Slabs of cement are then built to a uniform level over the boulders. This way, a hollow about a foot high is formed as a basement. At one end an exhaust pipe leads from this hollow basement to well above the roof. Another hole leads to the hollow area, and it is located in the kitchen and sunk below the level of the hollow. Here it is that shaped, charcoal briquettes are burned, one atop the other, with the bottom one being replaced periodically when it burns itself out. Twenty-four hours a day these briquettes are kept burning. They are used for cooking in the kitchen.
When not cooking, however, covers are placed over the charcoal so that the heat is diverted underneath the floor of the house. In winter, a Korean house always has warm floors even though the surrounding air in the room may be brisk. The floor is called an Ondul floor and is unique to Korea. The only drawback to this type of floor is that the room must be airtight. If it isn't, carbon monoxide given off by the burning charcoal, can seep into the room and kill the occupants. Thousands die yearly from this happening.
We, Johnny and I, had just arrived and were sitting on the floor of this Korean house of ill repute, and waiting for some service. Mamasan talked with Johnny shortly, but I don't know what they were saying, although there was some pigeon English thrown in. It was evident that they knew each other and were comfortable talking together. They laughed some, were animated, and from time to time looked my way, so I knew they were saying something about me.
Mamasan left and Johnny began telling me what the evening was going to be like. I lost interest in his recitation when a lovely young lady in a colorful flowing dress came in. The dress covered her from neck to toe (no skin), and was very loosely worn (showing no shape at all). She brought two nicely iced cold beers and some clean glasses. She opened each one and poured it for us, offering it with both hands, looking demure with a downcast glance. Another young lady entered with some foods on a tray and chopsticks. They both arranged the food on the table for us and then remained discreetly by our sides awaiting our bidding.
Johnny performed the introductions and kept up the small talk, because I couldn't talk Korean, and the girls did not speak English. The girl by my side did sing part of an English song for us later, and I had to laugh; it was "Jimmy Crack Corn." Where on earth had she picked that up? I'll be damned if I know! It was a house generally frequented by Korean men and not Americans. Johnny liked to find out-of-the-way spots like that.
The foods were new to me, but tasty. Since I could not use the chopsticks yet (a bowl of peanuts had been thoughtfully provided for me to practice with, and the girl showed me how, but it is a matter of practice, and one doesn't learn to eat with them in one night), the girl assisted me in eating the various dishes. Several kinds of Kimchee (fermented cabbage) were available, and the ever present rice; bulgogi (fried strips of lean beef that had been marinated in soy sauce, garlic, onion, and hot pepper), and yakeemondu (that's as close as I can get to the phonetic pronunciation of that dish), which is a mixture of various meats, and vegetables and spices, wrapped in dough and fried. It is similar to a Chinese egg roll.
After we had eaten, the entertainment began. In Korea, it is customary to make entertainment among yourselves by taking turns singing songs, dancing, telling stories, or playing music on an instrument, if you have that talent. The girls are there to assist in any way they can. They sang songs while one of them played the guitar. We sang songs also, and they tried to learn them. Throughout all this, mamasan popped in and out to make sure everything was going okay.
I'm not going to insult anyone's intelligence by saying the evening ended that way. It ended on a very pleasant note, though, and a good time was had by one and all. The evening hadn't been too expensive: it was held in a convivial atmosphere, and everyone got some pleasure from the experience.
Another favored haunt of mine was the enlisted club on post. I would take a book, find a nice table, and sip my beer while reading. About three nights a week, a live band performed on stage. We could sign in guests from off post as long as we only took them to the club or bowling alley, stayed with them, and signed them out before curfew.
The off-post clubs attracted more business from the GIs though. All were vying for customers. They did this by having some outrageous name, like the Purple Onion, or a garish neon sign blinking on and off. The most popular method, however, seemed to be to have a bevy of lithesome lasses ready to accost the passing soldier, and entice him inside for fun and games. Since it was an unaccompanied tour (wives couldn't be brought to Korea unless they paid their own way or you were stationed in Eighth Army, located in Seoul, and had special dispensation to do this; highly irregular and seldom granted), a lot of married men did get involved in situations that not only jeopardized their career, but their family lives back home.
I wasn't married. I was twenty-five or twenty-six years old and a long way from home and female companionship. In short, I was vulnerable. About my fifth month in Korea, I met one girl whom I started to see on a regular basis, forsaking all others. That was a mistake, because emotional ties began to tighten the bonding, and it became harder and harder to let go.
Most Koreans, male or female, are hard working and industrious. They are family oriented and respect their elders to the point of obsequiousness. The oldest male is the dominant member of the family, and even his siblings are expected to follow his wishes. The female performs much of the same household chores as we in the Western world, but since she must move to the house of her husband's family once she marries, she is not accorded the same difference within the family as a male child.
It is not unusual to see great-grandparents, grandparents, parents, and their children living together in one enclave. The sense of family togetherness is very strong. Generally, additions will be made to the house as new brides join their husband's household. The house is usually built in a square with a center courtyard open to the air and a veranda running around the entire inside circumference. One must remove one's shoes and step up onto the veranda to enter an apartment of the house. The doors are sliding doors, and covered with rice paper. The house is surrounded by a tall wall, with sometimes, barbed wire or glass embedded in the top. This last is to prevent thievery.
Nowadays, I'm sure that most Korean families have inside plumbing. In 1965, however, only the big cities had it. Chun Chon hotels had inside plumbing, and offered communal baths, or private baths for a nominal fee. All private homes had outside toilet facilities (an outhouse) whose effluvium was periodically removed and used to fertilize surrounding rice fields.
The aforementioned information may seem incongruous to the reader at first, but if you will bear with me, as I relate the events which took place in Korea, you will see how they fit in.
My first contact with the Korean soldier serving with U.S. forces (KATUSA, or Korean Augmentation to the United States Army), came on my first morning at Camp Page, in the mess hall. After we had filled our trays and taken our seats, and while beginning to eat, some Katusa enlisted men seated at the next table began putting sugar in their milk. Some stopped at two teaspoons, but others put three and four teaspoons, and incredibly, one even added a fifth teaspoon after stirring in four, tasting it, and not finding it sweet enough!
I found out later, that most Korean foodstuffs, including cakes and candies, have little, if any, sweeteners in them. As a matter of fact, one could even be so bold as to call these foods bland. There aren't many instances of widespread cavities among Koreans, but when given a chance to partake of American sugar or products containing sugar, they make the most of it.
The average Katusa came directly from the Republic of Korea Army (ROKA) upon completion of his basic training, and perhaps an orientation course to prepare him for working beside Americans. He generally had a better than high school education, with some English language instruction, and was between the age of nineteen and twenty-six.
The ROK Army chose only their brightest and best recruits to serve with Americans. This is because they didn't want their soldiers to bring disgrace upon the Korean army. This would have been a loss of "face," which was not acceptable. This sometimes led to misunderstandings and resentment.
There were several instances where American soldiers working with Katusa, gave instruction on how to perform certain procedures. Usually, the GI would then ask the Katusa if he understood. Most times, the Katusa did understand, and would do the task satisfactorily. At times, however, the Katusa would not understand, but rather than lose "face," would say he understood. Naturally, when the job didn't get done, or was done wrong, there would be accusations, and bad feelings would develop.
The Katusa first sergeant worked right out of the same orderly room where our first sergeant worked. As a matter of fact, all Katusa worked, slept, and ate, right alongside the GI. If something needed to get done to accomplish the mission of the unit, the combined forces worked together.
The discipline of the Katusa was administered by the first sergeant and he was exceedingly tough on his troops. I have seen him stand his men at attention in formation on the company street for over an hour, while he walked up and down their ranks, berating them for any shortcomings he found. Sometimes he even kicked them in the shins. They had to endure this without complaint or breaking formation.
Even with such discipline, the Katusa soldier had it better than his counterparts in the ROKA. It was much stricter there, so the Katusa considered himself lucky. Every month, the Korean government furnished him with what we came to call his "care package." It contained such items as toothpaste, toothbrush, soap, socks, underwear, towels, etcetera. His base pay ranged between six and eleven dollars a month depending on his rank. The average yearly income, for most Korean civilians, was about two or three hundred dollars. That's not a mistake, you read that right. The Korean economy wasn't very great in 1965, they were still trying to rebuild from the war.
With such a disparity in salaries between GI and Katusa, you would have thought there would have been more animosity. As I said though, most Katusa considered themselves lucky not to be serving in the ROKA. Technically, they were allowed to use the same facilities as we, such as the EM club, bowling alley, snack bar, etc. However, as you can see, their funds would not permit them these luxuries. Occasionally they would accompany GIs to these places, but not too often. They didn't want to feel obligated to the GI, and besides, the other Katusa would have felt resentment.
A normal tour of duty for an American soldier in Korea is thirteen months. Sometime during this tour of duty, he would have to fire his rifle for zeroing and qualification (that is, to make sure that the sights on his personal rifle were adjusted so that he could hit what he aimed at). Most soldiers serving there know that the main range for firing for qualification is just outside Tong Du Chon, at a place given the name of "The Nightmare Range." Not for nothing, is it called that!
The range is located between two hills (mountains?), with the control tower being in the center, and the firing positions in the center, and extending up along the face of both hills in a straight line. Generally, whole units (battalions or companies) will fire for qualification at one time, starting in early morning and continuing until finished.
Throughout the day, details comprised of several men, are picked (volunteered) for jobs such as loading ammunition clips with ammunition, carrying ammunition from point to point on the range for distribution, posting new targets, and various other police details. These jobs are usually doled out among the lower ranking enlisted men. Non Commissioned Officers (NCO's) did not do this type work, but supervised the lower enlisted men in carrying out these duties. All had to fire for qualification!
The center positions on the range were used for zeroing your weapon, and the targets were fixed at twenty-five meters. This consisted of firing three rounds of ammunition at the target (a Canadian bull's eye or half-bull), and trying to group the shot group so that it covered the bull, and the three holes could be covered by a quarter. After each three rounds had been fired by all on the range, all would go down to the target on line, and take note of where the shots had struck. Upon return to the firing position, the windage and elevation would be adjusted on the weapon by raising or lowering the rear sights, and adjusting the front site right or left several calibrated clicks. This procedure would be repeated several times until the shot group on the target was satisfactory. It was necessary that this be done correctly, or else, the person firing at the knockdown (KD) targets for qualification, would not be able to hit them. These targets were not fixed, but fell down when struck. They were placed anywhere from forty meters, to four hundred meters out from the firing positions located on the sides of the mountains.
Each position had two men assigned. One acted as scorer while the other one fired for qualification. They would then switch positions and do it again. The targets would pop up at different ranges, and remain up until time ran out, or it would be hit by a bullet. The person firing had to fire from various positions, such as prone, kneeling, standing and foxhole. Ten seconds were the longest the target stayed up (the time varied), and the person firing could use more than one shot to hit the target, but only had twenty rounds to hit maybe twelve targets, so he had to be careful he didn't run out of ammo too soon.
Depending on how many KD targets you hit within the designated times, and at various ranges, you were given a score of expert, sharpshooter, or marksman. No matter what score was made every soldier who ever fired that range, will never forget it! I've heard that there is one in Germany which is tougher, but that is very difficult for me to believe! I fired on this range twice, once as an E-4 and again as an E-5. Naturally, it was easier for me as a NCO, but it was still memorable for it's toughness.
In November of 1965, my unit went to fire the Honest John missile at the missile range (entirely different from the rifle range). A Katusa, another radio teletypewriter operator, and me, drove my RATT rig (a radio teletypewriter set, mounted in a van, strapped with steel cables into the bed of a 3/4 Ton truck) in convoy to the range. I don't remember exactly where the range was, but the trip was a long one, over unpaved roads, and through mountainous terrain. The roads snaked up and down the mountains, sometimes making hairpin turns back upon themselves. Sometimes the roads paralleled rice paddies which had been terraced up and down the mountainside on both sides of the road.
This was winter, of course, but I had occasion in the spring to marvel at the ingenuity of the irrigation system employed to get water to all those paddies. I'll swear to this day that Korea was the first place I ever saw water running uphill. The system had been perfected for thousands of years, and custom has it that the land is handed down from father to son within the family for generations. Land is highly valued in Korea and almost all of it is used in one way or another.
To get back to the convoy, we followed the vehicle in front at about a ten meter interval and tried to maintain a speed of twenty to twenty-five miles per hour. This was the predetermined convoy profile. It was not possible for a convoy as long as ours to maintain that profile on those roads. There were about eighty vehicles in the convoy. There was a constant jockeying back and forth, and speeds fluctuated from six, to forty miles per hour.
We finally made it to the range, which, as I recall, was situated along the side of a dry river bed. We set up the Ratt rig and erected our camouflage net and checked into the Ratt frequency. We were all set for business.
It was very cold, which was especially noticeable early in the morning. Usually, before breakfast, the men had to shave, because the company commander, or first sergeant, watched the mess line to make sure that the men were maintaining their personal hygiene.
I would stumble out of my sleeping bag and take my steel pot (helmet) to the mess tent where the cook had some water heaters set up in clean trash cans. After filling the helmet half way with boiling water, I would go back to my vehicle and strip to the waist. I'd wash face, arms, and upper body (if more than three days, lower body was next), and then proceed to lather my face and shave. This whole procedure was accomplished as quickly as possible, amid much shivering and grumbling. After getting dressed, we would take our tin mess kits and get in the chow line for breakfast.
After breakfast on the last day, we broke camp, and lined up in convoy for the trip back to base camp. I drove, with the GI and Katusa sitting beside me (in an actual combat situation, they would be on the watch for air or ground attack along the route of the convoy).
About a third of the way back to camp, my vehicle broke down in a small village. There are mechanics in all convoys, but after he looked at my vehicle, he said he couldn't fix it. We would have to be towed in, bringing up the rear of the convoy. With no engine running, we couldn't run the heater. It was going to be a long, cold trip back!
I decided to fortify myself for that ordeal, so sneaked across the street to a village store, and bought a bottle of Yakju. This is a Korean rice wine with which I was familiar. It tasted a little like apple cider. The Katusa and the GI had a couple of swigs, but for the most part, I drank the bottle.
I remember singing American and Korean songs on the way back (I had learned a couple of songs), and occasionally, stamping our feet and flapping our arms to generate some warmth.
We got back to the motor pool, but I was too drunk to make it back to the barracks, so the GI said he was going to get help, and I should just sit there until he came back. I don't know how long they had been gone before I decided to try to make it back on my own.
I passed out on the chapel lawn, right across from the Camp Commander's Office. Someone saw me and got me back to my unit. I was called in front of the company commander the next morning, and the riot act was read to me. Luckily my platoon sergeant and the first sergeant put in a good word for me. I was a darned good soldier, and worked very hard; there were extenuating circumstances. I did not get busted, but only got a verbal reprimand. Three months after that incident, I made sergeant (E‑5).
One day, while on liberty in the town of Chun Chon, I met a young lady who took me to her "hootch" (apartment) in a compound across from the entrance to Camp Page. She was a prostitute of about twenty years of age, and very knowledgeable about sexual matters. She couldn't speak much English, but there was another girl living nearby in the same compound who translated for her when she didn't understand something I said. This other girl was also a prostitute. That didn't surprise me, but later, when I became interested in this girl, I found out they were sisters.
As I mentioned earlier, girls were not as highly thought of in Korean families, so their parents had sold them to a "house mamasan" to train as prostitutes so that they could send home some extra money. The mamasan furnished them a room to conduct their business, bought them nice clothes, and even cooked and served their food, all for part of their earnings. If they were good at their trade, they made a lot of money, some of which, they sent back home. If they made enough money, they might even have a housegirl of their own to cook and clean house for them. This latter case usually occurred when a GI had agreed to "steady" them, or become their "yobo." In a lot of cases, the girl just became deeper and deeper in debt to the mamasan, and eventually, killed herself. Sometimes she would run away and try to begin life anew in another location. That was hard to do though, because it was hard for her to be accepted into another community, especially if her profession became known.
I started going with this second girl, Chong Hui, on a regular basis; I became her yobo. That was a mistake, because I became very attached to her; so attached, that I decided to marry her and take her away from the life she was leading.
I only had about three months left in Korea, and I knew that wasn't enough time to get approval on a request to marry. What I did was to have a civilian wedding in a local church (Western style), and then a Korean ceremony at her home. They were both beautiful weddings and Chong Hui even made me a Korean costume for the ceremony. We'd planned the weddings for the weekend so that we'd have a couple of days to celebrate. We did that, and I had a most memorable time.
The marriage wasn't recognized by the U.S. Army or government. As a matter of fact, I could have been court martialed for marrying without my commanding officer's permission, so I kept it very hush-hush. Johnny and another friend were the only U.S. military at the wedding, and I cautioned them to keep quiet.
Later that week, I put in a formal request to get married. The Army frowns on anyone marrying a Korean girl for several reasons. The Korean culture is so different from American culture that many times, marriages of this kind do not last, so they try to stop such a marriage before it happens. The girl may be a prostitute, out to marry a soldier so that she can get an allotment and the other benefits that accrue to being the wife of a serviceman. Many times it is the serviceman's first time away from home and he is easily beguiled by feminine charms. I was twenty-six years old, however, and I figured I knew what I wanted to do, and I wasn't about to let them talk me out of it.
I soon had my orders to go back to the states! I guess the Army figured if they couldn't talk me out of it, they'd send me back to the states to let time erase the thought. I had time enough to take a train to Uijongbu to start the official paperwork for the marriage (they have to do a background check on the bride, and that's where her family papers were).
We boarded the train in Chun Chon. That was an experience I'll always remember. The house mamasan had packed us a lunch of kimchee, and kimpop, which is fermented cabbage, and rice, pickled radish, and spinach, rolled into pressed sea weed; quite tasty once you acquired a taste for it! It was well she did, because the train ride was a lengthy one, involving many stops along the way. Most of the passengers had brought their own food and were willing to share it with their fellow travelers. It was a very friendly crowd of people. Most were peasants, going to the big city to sell their produce. The prices they commanded in Uijongbu, were better than in Chun Chon.
I was the only westerner on the train, and as such, I created quite a commotion. All eyes noticed me. The people were very courteous for the most part, but there were mendicants who zeroed in on my presence. Most of these people are allowed to ride the train on a daily basis, and press the passengers for alms, as long as they don't make pests of themselves. It is how they earn enough money to subsist.
Most of the beggars appeared to be healthy enough to work and elicited little money from the passengers. One fellow, though, will always haunt my memory. His face had been ravaged by syphilis, and was most repugnant to look upon. The poor soul was so piteous, standing before me and begging for money, that I was happy to give him some money just to have his visage removed. Years later, I was to see the movie "Elephant Man," and it reminded me of him.
From Uijongbu, we caught another train to Seoul. We had to transfer some of the paperwork to Korean offices there, and fill out additional papers at the American Embassy. Rather than go through the hassle of a return train ride to Chun Chon, we caught a bus back. All too soon, I was also catching a plane back to the states.
The airfield was under construction at Camp Page, Korea, in 1965‑1966 because it wasn't long enough, or strong enough to support the larger aircraft that needed to land there with supplies. Most of the supplies were coming in by rail, or overland on wheeled vehicles. The labor force used to rebuild and extend the airport was the women from the local populace. I was dumbfounded!
Never before had I seen this type of work done by women, or without machinery. It was road-gang type labor, of the sort one sees being performed by Paul Newman on the road gang in Cool Hand Luke. I never understood why women did this work. I later saw Korean men doing equally hard work in Seoul, so maybe it was a societal type of thing, while the men tended the fields, or performed their military duties elsewhere.
When I first arrived, I was only a private first class (PFC) and had to pull guard duty periodically at the various locations around Camp Page that required security. The airfield was one of these places. It was out in the open, of course, and on the northeastern perimeter of the compound. An eight-foot-high, chain-link fence, topped by barbed wire, ran the length of the perimeter. The guards were taken out to various points along this perimeter by truck, dropped off, and the old guard picked up. The guard walked along the length of the fence over a designated distance, constantly inspecting the fence for break‑ins or anything else of a suspicious nature. At the drop-off point, there was an enclosed box that had a field phone inside and the sentry was expected to call in at designated times to report the condition of his post. The phone line was connected to the guard shack where the Sergeant of the Guard stayed when he wasn't posting his sentries.
As I said, the airfield was just inside the fence, and I got to get a real close look at the labor going on to extend it. Some of the women were breaking rock into stones and then into gravel. This was done by hand. It was then loaded into baskets, which the women carried on their heads out to the work in progress. A base layer of rock about a foot and a half deep was laid out along the runway and steamrolled or packed down (this was their only concession to machinery). PSP or heavy-duty perforated steel plates, about a foot and a half wide and ten feet long, were then interlocked along the top of the packed surface. This is what formed the surface for the planes to land on.
When the weather was nice, the guard duty on the perimeter was not too bad. In bad weather, though, it was wide open to the wind and bitter cold! The only way to stay warm was to keep moving. I much preferred the more sheltered guard post around the main compound during the winter.
About this time I met a fellow I'll call Johnny. He was a specialist four (E‑4) who wasn't much to look at, because he was shorter than I was, at just under five foot, seven inches, and wore glasses that looked like the bottoms of Coke bottles. But Johnny was beautiful. What he lacked in stature or looks, he more than made up for by having an abundance of personality and good humor.
Everyone was Johnny's friend. It was he who introduced me to chopsticks and peanuts. It was also he who introduced me to what is the Korean equivalent of a geisha house, thereby making my tour of duty in the Republic of Korea then, and subsequently, vastly more enjoyable.
The mamasans’ house was way up in the village along a steep and rutted dirt road. The area was declared off-limits, but Johnny didn't let that bother him. He knew his way around the city of Chun Chon like the back of his hand. He and I ducked into an entranceway along a cement wall that was topped with broken glass (to keep out thieves). Inside we found ourselves in an open area, surrounded on all sides by apartments with sliding doors that were covered with rice paper. A veranda ran along the front of the apartments, completely around the entire enclosure.
To enter an apartment, one had to remove one's shoes, leave them outside, then step onto the veranda and slide open the door. Johnny had been expected, but they didn't know he was going to bring a friend.
The mamasan (a woman of indeterminable age) greeted Johnny and me, and showed us to a room where we were seated on the floor around a small lacquered table with inlaid mother-of-pearl. Cushions were provided in deference to our being Westerners. There were no chairs.
It is interesting how the Korean houses are made. They're made in such a way as to allow the floors to be heated. The dimensions of the foundation are laid out, and large boulders of various shapes, but uniform height, are placed throughout the foundation area. Slabs of cement are then built to a uniform level over the boulders. This way, a hollow about a foot high is formed as a basement. At one end an exhaust pipe leads from this hollow basement to well above the roof. Another hole leads to the hollow area, and it is located in the kitchen and sunk below the level of the hollow. Here it is that shaped, charcoal briquettes are burned, one atop the other, with the bottom one being replaced periodically when it burns itself out. Twenty-four hours a day these briquettes are kept burning. They are used for cooking in the kitchen.
When not cooking, however, covers are placed over the charcoal so that the heat is diverted underneath the floor of the house. In winter, a Korean house always has warm floors even though the surrounding air in the room may be brisk. The floor is called an Ondul floor and is unique to Korea. The only drawback to this type of floor is that the room must be airtight. If it isn't, carbon monoxide given off by the burning charcoal, can seep into the room and kill the occupants. Thousands die yearly from this happening.
We, Johnny and I, had just arrived and were sitting on the floor of this Korean house of ill repute, and waiting for some service. Mamasan talked with Johnny shortly, but I don't know what they were saying, although there was some pigeon English thrown in. It was evident that they knew each other and were comfortable talking together. They laughed some, were animated, and from time to time looked my way, so I knew they were saying something about me.
Mamasan left and Johnny began telling me what the evening was going to be like. I lost interest in his recitation when a lovely young lady in a colorful flowing dress came in. The dress covered her from neck to toe (no skin), and was very loosely worn (showing no shape at all). She brought two nicely iced cold beers and some clean glasses. She opened each one and poured it for us, offering it with both hands, looking demure with a downcast glance. Another young lady entered with some foods on a tray and chopsticks. They both arranged the food on the table for us and then remained discreetly by our sides awaiting our bidding.
Johnny performed the introductions and kept up the small talk, because I couldn't talk Korean, and the girls did not speak English. The girl by my side did sing part of an English song for us later, and I had to laugh; it was "Jimmy Crack Corn." Where on earth had she picked that up? I'll be damned if I know! It was a house generally frequented by Korean men and not Americans. Johnny liked to find out-of-the-way spots like that.
The foods were new to me, but tasty. Since I could not use the chopsticks yet (a bowl of peanuts had been thoughtfully provided for me to practice with, and the girl showed me how, but it is a matter of practice, and one doesn't learn to eat with them in one night), the girl assisted me in eating the various dishes. Several kinds of Kimchee (fermented cabbage) were available, and the ever present rice; bulgogi (fried strips of lean beef that had been marinated in soy sauce, garlic, onion, and hot pepper), and yakeemondu (that's as close as I can get to the phonetic pronunciation of that dish), which is a mixture of various meats, and vegetables and spices, wrapped in dough and fried. It is similar to a Chinese egg roll.
After we had eaten, the entertainment began. In Korea, it is customary to make entertainment among yourselves by taking turns singing songs, dancing, telling stories, or playing music on an instrument, if you have that talent. The girls are there to assist in any way they can. They sang songs while one of them played the guitar. We sang songs also, and they tried to learn them. Throughout all this, mamasan popped in and out to make sure everything was going okay.
I'm not going to insult anyone's intelligence by saying the evening ended that way. It ended on a very pleasant note, though, and a good time was had by one and all. The evening hadn't been too expensive: it was held in a convivial atmosphere, and everyone got some pleasure from the experience.
Another favored haunt of mine was the enlisted club on post. I would take a book, find a nice table, and sip my beer while reading. About three nights a week, a live band performed on stage. We could sign in guests from off post as long as we only took them to the club or bowling alley, stayed with them, and signed them out before curfew.
The off-post clubs attracted more business from the GIs though. All were vying for customers. They did this by having some outrageous name, like the Purple Onion, or a garish neon sign blinking on and off. The most popular method, however, seemed to be to have a bevy of lithesome lasses ready to accost the passing soldier, and entice him inside for fun and games. Since it was an unaccompanied tour (wives couldn't be brought to Korea unless they paid their own way or you were stationed in Eighth Army, located in Seoul, and had special dispensation to do this; highly irregular and seldom granted), a lot of married men did get involved in situations that not only jeopardized their career, but their family lives back home.
I wasn't married. I was twenty-five or twenty-six years old and a long way from home and female companionship. In short, I was vulnerable. About my fifth month in Korea, I met one girl whom I started to see on a regular basis, forsaking all others. That was a mistake, because emotional ties began to tighten the bonding, and it became harder and harder to let go.
Most Koreans, male or female, are hard working and industrious. They are family oriented and respect their elders to the point of obsequiousness. The oldest male is the dominant member of the family, and even his siblings are expected to follow his wishes. The female performs much of the same household chores as we in the Western world, but since she must move to the house of her husband's family once she marries, she is not accorded the same difference within the family as a male child.
It is not unusual to see great-grandparents, grandparents, parents, and their children living together in one enclave. The sense of family togetherness is very strong. Generally, additions will be made to the house as new brides join their husband's household. The house is usually built in a square with a center courtyard open to the air and a veranda running around the entire inside circumference. One must remove one's shoes and step up onto the veranda to enter an apartment of the house. The doors are sliding doors, and covered with rice paper. The house is surrounded by a tall wall, with sometimes, barbed wire or glass embedded in the top. This last is to prevent thievery.
Nowadays, I'm sure that most Korean families have inside plumbing. In 1965, however, only the big cities had it. Chun Chon hotels had inside plumbing, and offered communal baths, or private baths for a nominal fee. All private homes had outside toilet facilities (an outhouse) whose effluvium was periodically removed and used to fertilize surrounding rice fields.
The aforementioned information may seem incongruous to the reader at first, but if you will bear with me, as I relate the events which took place in Korea, you will see how they fit in.
My first contact with the Korean soldier serving with U.S. forces (KATUSA, or Korean Augmentation to the United States Army), came on my first morning at Camp Page, in the mess hall. After we had filled our trays and taken our seats, and while beginning to eat, some Katusa enlisted men seated at the next table began putting sugar in their milk. Some stopped at two teaspoons, but others put three and four teaspoons, and incredibly, one even added a fifth teaspoon after stirring in four, tasting it, and not finding it sweet enough!
I found out later, that most Korean foodstuffs, including cakes and candies, have little, if any, sweeteners in them. As a matter of fact, one could even be so bold as to call these foods bland. There aren't many instances of widespread cavities among Koreans, but when given a chance to partake of American sugar or products containing sugar, they make the most of it.
The average Katusa came directly from the Republic of Korea Army (ROKA) upon completion of his basic training, and perhaps an orientation course to prepare him for working beside Americans. He generally had a better than high school education, with some English language instruction, and was between the age of nineteen and twenty-six.
The ROK Army chose only their brightest and best recruits to serve with Americans. This is because they didn't want their soldiers to bring disgrace upon the Korean army. This would have been a loss of "face," which was not acceptable. This sometimes led to misunderstandings and resentment.
There were several instances where American soldiers working with Katusa, gave instruction on how to perform certain procedures. Usually, the GI would then ask the Katusa if he understood. Most times, the Katusa did understand, and would do the task satisfactorily. At times, however, the Katusa would not understand, but rather than lose "face," would say he understood. Naturally, when the job didn't get done, or was done wrong, there would be accusations, and bad feelings would develop.
The Katusa first sergeant worked right out of the same orderly room where our first sergeant worked. As a matter of fact, all Katusa worked, slept, and ate, right alongside the GI. If something needed to get done to accomplish the mission of the unit, the combined forces worked together.
The discipline of the Katusa was administered by the first sergeant and he was exceedingly tough on his troops. I have seen him stand his men at attention in formation on the company street for over an hour, while he walked up and down their ranks, berating them for any shortcomings he found. Sometimes he even kicked them in the shins. They had to endure this without complaint or breaking formation.
Even with such discipline, the Katusa soldier had it better than his counterparts in the ROKA. It was much stricter there, so the Katusa considered himself lucky. Every month, the Korean government furnished him with what we came to call his "care package." It contained such items as toothpaste, toothbrush, soap, socks, underwear, towels, etcetera. His base pay ranged between six and eleven dollars a month depending on his rank. The average yearly income, for most Korean civilians, was about two or three hundred dollars. That's not a mistake, you read that right. The Korean economy wasn't very great in 1965, they were still trying to rebuild from the war.
With such a disparity in salaries between GI and Katusa, you would have thought there would have been more animosity. As I said though, most Katusa considered themselves lucky not to be serving in the ROKA. Technically, they were allowed to use the same facilities as we, such as the EM club, bowling alley, snack bar, etc. However, as you can see, their funds would not permit them these luxuries. Occasionally they would accompany GIs to these places, but not too often. They didn't want to feel obligated to the GI, and besides, the other Katusa would have felt resentment.
A normal tour of duty for an American soldier in Korea is thirteen months. Sometime during this tour of duty, he would have to fire his rifle for zeroing and qualification (that is, to make sure that the sights on his personal rifle were adjusted so that he could hit what he aimed at). Most soldiers serving there know that the main range for firing for qualification is just outside Tong Du Chon, at a place given the name of "The Nightmare Range." Not for nothing, is it called that!
The range is located between two hills (mountains?), with the control tower being in the center, and the firing positions in the center, and extending up along the face of both hills in a straight line. Generally, whole units (battalions or companies) will fire for qualification at one time, starting in early morning and continuing until finished.
Throughout the day, details comprised of several men, are picked (volunteered) for jobs such as loading ammunition clips with ammunition, carrying ammunition from point to point on the range for distribution, posting new targets, and various other police details. These jobs are usually doled out among the lower ranking enlisted men. Non Commissioned Officers (NCO's) did not do this type work, but supervised the lower enlisted men in carrying out these duties. All had to fire for qualification!
The center positions on the range were used for zeroing your weapon, and the targets were fixed at twenty-five meters. This consisted of firing three rounds of ammunition at the target (a Canadian bull's eye or half-bull), and trying to group the shot group so that it covered the bull, and the three holes could be covered by a quarter. After each three rounds had been fired by all on the range, all would go down to the target on line, and take note of where the shots had struck. Upon return to the firing position, the windage and elevation would be adjusted on the weapon by raising or lowering the rear sights, and adjusting the front site right or left several calibrated clicks. This procedure would be repeated several times until the shot group on the target was satisfactory. It was necessary that this be done correctly, or else, the person firing at the knockdown (KD) targets for qualification, would not be able to hit them. These targets were not fixed, but fell down when struck. They were placed anywhere from forty meters, to four hundred meters out from the firing positions located on the sides of the mountains.
Each position had two men assigned. One acted as scorer while the other one fired for qualification. They would then switch positions and do it again. The targets would pop up at different ranges, and remain up until time ran out, or it would be hit by a bullet. The person firing had to fire from various positions, such as prone, kneeling, standing and foxhole. Ten seconds were the longest the target stayed up (the time varied), and the person firing could use more than one shot to hit the target, but only had twenty rounds to hit maybe twelve targets, so he had to be careful he didn't run out of ammo too soon.
Depending on how many KD targets you hit within the designated times, and at various ranges, you were given a score of expert, sharpshooter, or marksman. No matter what score was made every soldier who ever fired that range, will never forget it! I've heard that there is one in Germany which is tougher, but that is very difficult for me to believe! I fired on this range twice, once as an E-4 and again as an E-5. Naturally, it was easier for me as a NCO, but it was still memorable for it's toughness.
In November of 1965, my unit went to fire the Honest John missile at the missile range (entirely different from the rifle range). A Katusa, another radio teletypewriter operator, and me, drove my RATT rig (a radio teletypewriter set, mounted in a van, strapped with steel cables into the bed of a 3/4 Ton truck) in convoy to the range. I don't remember exactly where the range was, but the trip was a long one, over unpaved roads, and through mountainous terrain. The roads snaked up and down the mountains, sometimes making hairpin turns back upon themselves. Sometimes the roads paralleled rice paddies which had been terraced up and down the mountainside on both sides of the road.
This was winter, of course, but I had occasion in the spring to marvel at the ingenuity of the irrigation system employed to get water to all those paddies. I'll swear to this day that Korea was the first place I ever saw water running uphill. The system had been perfected for thousands of years, and custom has it that the land is handed down from father to son within the family for generations. Land is highly valued in Korea and almost all of it is used in one way or another.
To get back to the convoy, we followed the vehicle in front at about a ten meter interval and tried to maintain a speed of twenty to twenty-five miles per hour. This was the predetermined convoy profile. It was not possible for a convoy as long as ours to maintain that profile on those roads. There were about eighty vehicles in the convoy. There was a constant jockeying back and forth, and speeds fluctuated from six, to forty miles per hour.
We finally made it to the range, which, as I recall, was situated along the side of a dry river bed. We set up the Ratt rig and erected our camouflage net and checked into the Ratt frequency. We were all set for business.
It was very cold, which was especially noticeable early in the morning. Usually, before breakfast, the men had to shave, because the company commander, or first sergeant, watched the mess line to make sure that the men were maintaining their personal hygiene.
I would stumble out of my sleeping bag and take my steel pot (helmet) to the mess tent where the cook had some water heaters set up in clean trash cans. After filling the helmet half way with boiling water, I would go back to my vehicle and strip to the waist. I'd wash face, arms, and upper body (if more than three days, lower body was next), and then proceed to lather my face and shave. This whole procedure was accomplished as quickly as possible, amid much shivering and grumbling. After getting dressed, we would take our tin mess kits and get in the chow line for breakfast.
After breakfast on the last day, we broke camp, and lined up in convoy for the trip back to base camp. I drove, with the GI and Katusa sitting beside me (in an actual combat situation, they would be on the watch for air or ground attack along the route of the convoy).
About a third of the way back to camp, my vehicle broke down in a small village. There are mechanics in all convoys, but after he looked at my vehicle, he said he couldn't fix it. We would have to be towed in, bringing up the rear of the convoy. With no engine running, we couldn't run the heater. It was going to be a long, cold trip back!
I decided to fortify myself for that ordeal, so sneaked across the street to a village store, and bought a bottle of Yakju. This is a Korean rice wine with which I was familiar. It tasted a little like apple cider. The Katusa and the GI had a couple of swigs, but for the most part, I drank the bottle.
I remember singing American and Korean songs on the way back (I had learned a couple of songs), and occasionally, stamping our feet and flapping our arms to generate some warmth.
We got back to the motor pool, but I was too drunk to make it back to the barracks, so the GI said he was going to get help, and I should just sit there until he came back. I don't know how long they had been gone before I decided to try to make it back on my own.
I passed out on the chapel lawn, right across from the Camp Commander's Office. Someone saw me and got me back to my unit. I was called in front of the company commander the next morning, and the riot act was read to me. Luckily my platoon sergeant and the first sergeant put in a good word for me. I was a darned good soldier, and worked very hard; there were extenuating circumstances. I did not get busted, but only got a verbal reprimand. Three months after that incident, I made sergeant (E‑5).
One day, while on liberty in the town of Chun Chon, I met a young lady who took me to her "hootch" (apartment) in a compound across from the entrance to Camp Page. She was a prostitute of about twenty years of age, and very knowledgeable about sexual matters. She couldn't speak much English, but there was another girl living nearby in the same compound who translated for her when she didn't understand something I said. This other girl was also a prostitute. That didn't surprise me, but later, when I became interested in this girl, I found out they were sisters.
As I mentioned earlier, girls were not as highly thought of in Korean families, so their parents had sold them to a "house mamasan" to train as prostitutes so that they could send home some extra money. The mamasan furnished them a room to conduct their business, bought them nice clothes, and even cooked and served their food, all for part of their earnings. If they were good at their trade, they made a lot of money, some of which, they sent back home. If they made enough money, they might even have a housegirl of their own to cook and clean house for them. This latter case usually occurred when a GI had agreed to "steady" them, or become their "yobo." In a lot of cases, the girl just became deeper and deeper in debt to the mamasan, and eventually, killed herself. Sometimes she would run away and try to begin life anew in another location. That was hard to do though, because it was hard for her to be accepted into another community, especially if her profession became known.
I started going with this second girl, Chong Hui, on a regular basis; I became her yobo. That was a mistake, because I became very attached to her; so attached, that I decided to marry her and take her away from the life she was leading.
I only had about three months left in Korea, and I knew that wasn't enough time to get approval on a request to marry. What I did was to have a civilian wedding in a local church (Western style), and then a Korean ceremony at her home. They were both beautiful weddings and Chong Hui even made me a Korean costume for the ceremony. We'd planned the weddings for the weekend so that we'd have a couple of days to celebrate. We did that, and I had a most memorable time.
The marriage wasn't recognized by the U.S. Army or government. As a matter of fact, I could have been court martialed for marrying without my commanding officer's permission, so I kept it very hush-hush. Johnny and another friend were the only U.S. military at the wedding, and I cautioned them to keep quiet.
Later that week, I put in a formal request to get married. The Army frowns on anyone marrying a Korean girl for several reasons. The Korean culture is so different from American culture that many times, marriages of this kind do not last, so they try to stop such a marriage before it happens. The girl may be a prostitute, out to marry a soldier so that she can get an allotment and the other benefits that accrue to being the wife of a serviceman. Many times it is the serviceman's first time away from home and he is easily beguiled by feminine charms. I was twenty-six years old, however, and I figured I knew what I wanted to do, and I wasn't about to let them talk me out of it.
I soon had my orders to go back to the states! I guess the Army figured if they couldn't talk me out of it, they'd send me back to the states to let time erase the thought. I had time enough to take a train to Uijongbu to start the official paperwork for the marriage (they have to do a background check on the bride, and that's where her family papers were).
We boarded the train in Chun Chon. That was an experience I'll always remember. The house mamasan had packed us a lunch of kimchee, and kimpop, which is fermented cabbage, and rice, pickled radish, and spinach, rolled into pressed sea weed; quite tasty once you acquired a taste for it! It was well she did, because the train ride was a lengthy one, involving many stops along the way. Most of the passengers had brought their own food and were willing to share it with their fellow travelers. It was a very friendly crowd of people. Most were peasants, going to the big city to sell their produce. The prices they commanded in Uijongbu, were better than in Chun Chon.
I was the only westerner on the train, and as such, I created quite a commotion. All eyes noticed me. The people were very courteous for the most part, but there were mendicants who zeroed in on my presence. Most of these people are allowed to ride the train on a daily basis, and press the passengers for alms, as long as they don't make pests of themselves. It is how they earn enough money to subsist.
Most of the beggars appeared to be healthy enough to work and elicited little money from the passengers. One fellow, though, will always haunt my memory. His face had been ravaged by syphilis, and was most repugnant to look upon. The poor soul was so piteous, standing before me and begging for money, that I was happy to give him some money just to have his visage removed. Years later, I was to see the movie "Elephant Man," and it reminded me of him.
From Uijongbu, we caught another train to Seoul. We had to transfer some of the paperwork to Korean offices there, and fill out additional papers at the American Embassy. Rather than go through the hassle of a return train ride to Chun Chon, we caught a bus back. All too soon, I was also catching a plane back to the states.
Friday, April 10, 2009
Chapter 5 of Looking Back
C H A P T E R 05
(1963-1965)
After leaving the Navy in April of 1963, I returned home to Virginia Beach, Virginia. Dad was overseas in Formosa (now called Taiwan), the Free Republic of China. Mom was holding down the fort at 921 Harlie Avenue by herself. She was glad to have me home. I realize now that she must have been very lonely. My brother, Harold, was in Scotland with his new and burgeoning family.
I loafed around the house for a while then I got a cheap car, a 1949 Chevy, and a job I'd seen advertised in the paper. I worked out of an office located on Little Creek Boulevard. Every morning we would gather for a pep talk and demonstration of the various features of the product we would be selling, which was the Kirby vacuum cleaner. We were required to wear a shirt and tie always. Our sales demonstrations were arranged before hand, by telephone operators who promised the called parties that they would get hundreds of green stamps (the big craze then) for letting us put on a demonstration of our product in their home. The words, "vacuum cleaner," were avoided like the plague over the phone. If agreed, a date and time were arranged.
We were given very good classes on the demonstration method. The idea was first to sell yourself to the people as the boy they would want their daughter to date or marry, and then to sell the product by demonstrating its versatility and utility. It was a good machine, but very expensive.
Through the use of filter papers placed in the intake, large quantities of dirt could be trapped. These filters were changed often, and shown to the prospective buyer. The visit had to be while the husband was there; the wife might not have the power of attorney. They were made to feel that whatever method they were using to clean house, it just wasn't getting the job done. They needed the Kirby, couldn't they see that? It was pressure tactics, and not done very subtly.
Sometimes the people would agree to a demo, and when you arrived, gave them the green stamps, and started the demo, they would cut you off and kick you out. Our policy was to let them have the green stamps anyway. It made me mad sometimes, but what the hell, we were being devious too. I neglected to mention that all new salespeople were paired with an experienced man until the "newby" learned the pitch, and how to put on the demo. Then you were on your own.
We worked on commission only. If you sold a lot, you made a lot. I worked there for about a month and sold only one Kirby. My commission was good, and after I'd been trained, I probably could have done well at it, but I just couldn't picture selling myself to people, over and over, every day. I quit the job, but I'm not sorry to have taken it, because they did teach me some-thing valuable, which I've been able to use throughout my life. They taught me self-respect, and how to sell myself to others.
My next job was at Economy Tile Company, Tidewater Drive, Virginia, as a tile-setter's apprentice.
I had worked with Ayers, Hagan, and Booth Construction Company in Argentia, Newfoundland, during my junior/senior hiatus at school. The experience setting tile with them is what landed me the job in Tidewater. The manager, Mr. Murphy, was a pretty shrewd judge of character. I had just got out of the Navy and was relatively soft (I didn't have one callus on my hands). But I sold myself, using the new techniques I had learned, and the limited experience I had laying asphalt tile.
Economy Tile put in everything. They worked with slate, quarry, asphalt, linoleum, vinyl, and ceramic. We tore out and put in new tubs, tub doors, ceramic walls and floors, drywall, and mud; quarry porches, plain and broken, kitchen floors, backsplashes, and formica counter tops; old and new houses. You name it in tile, and we did it.
Murphy had five or six crews, each consisting of a senior mechanic, and two helpers, with varying degrees of experience. Each crew had their own vehicle and were given several jobs, repair or new, to do each day. On big jobs like hotels (we got some of that action also), several teams might go to the site. Murphy also controlled the sales staff, which used to go out and drum up business, and the inventory and ordering of stock as it needed replenishment. Murphy's job is the job I would have liked to have, and in the end, I think he sensed that.
For the first few weeks, I didn't think I was going to make it. My whole body was one big ache. Not only did my hands have to toughen, but I was using muscles I hadn't used in years, or never used. I think the various crews were betting on how long I would last. Murphy was egging them on. Everyone was betting against me, but Murphy was a shrewd judge of character, like I said, and I think in the long run, I made him some money.
We went to the shop at about 7:30 a.m. and loaded the supplies we would need for the various jobs we had that day. Usually we would have two or three small jobs to start or finish-up each day. Occasionally, on big projects like hotels on Virginia Beach, several crews would be at that site on a daily basis until the job was done.
Mixing "mud" (cement) in a trough, with just the right amounts of sand, lime, and cement, to just the right consistency, or making a "dry" mixture of sand and cement for floors, requires knowledge of their properties. After it was mixed, it had to be hauled bucket by bucket to the head mechanic for spreading. Tile had to be off-loaded and soaked in tubs for a couple of hours if you were running a mud wall in a bath. The tile has lime in it and the mud has lime in it. The lime eats away at the fingers, and the tips are constantly sore.
I had to learn to use the tools of the trade: hoe, shovel, tile cutter, electric and mechanical, snips, various and sundry trowels, and a hod. I had to learn how to pick up a load of mud off the board onto a hod with the hod and trowel and spread it for a scratch or float coat. Grouting and striking the grout line properly to fill the joints was important. And cleaning up our mess was always the last thing before leaving for the day.
All these things, and more, I learned. I learned them so well that the head mechanic was entrusting more and more work to me, and eventually was letting me do complete jobs by myself, and he would just check behind me to make sure it was done right.
I began to fit in. I was part of the crew. So why was I getting restless?
I was working in new housing, putting in a tub and tile area, and a ceramic tile floor in the bath on 22 November, 1963. The head mechanic had already run, packed, and leveled the screed mud (moist cement and sand) on the floor of the bath. He was in the process of laying the ceramic tile and blocking it in.
When the cut‑ins had been made, I would sift and mix some pure cement with water, to a paste consistency, and that would be spread out on the floor and worked into the grout joints in the ceramic tile. Afterward, we would rub it down with excelsior (a fancy name for wood shavings) to get the majority of cement residue up, and about three days later we would return and give the floor a light acid bath to get rid of the film. We were about three-quarters of the way through that job and had a small portable radio plugged in to an extension line running to a temporary utility pole in the yard. I was just outside the bathroom door, making some cut‑ins around the jamb.
The music on the radio stopped, and a voice came on to say President Kennedy had been shot. There were no details, except to say that the motorcade had been fired upon on a Dallas street and the President had been seen to be hit and was on his way to Parkland Hospital.
My head mechanic guffawed, and said it served him right. The other helper and I just looked at each other. I was stunned! Not so much by what my boss had said (I had no idea he was not a Kennedy man), but at the fact that a head of state should be assassinated in broad daylight in that day and age. The rest of that job was finished while I was in a funk. Gradually, the enormity of what had happened began to sink in, and even my boss became more subdued. Other workers at the site (some brick layers and some plasterers) seemed to move in slow motion, and so did we all, I think. Everyone was listening to radios, it seemed.
We went back to the shop on Tidewater Drive around 3:00 p.m. we had knocked off early, an uncommon practice for us), only to find out that other crews were coming in early also. Murphy closed the place down early that day, and it stayed closed for three days. They say you don't forget where you were or what you were doing, when something of this magnitude happens, and you don't!
I had been working almost a year at Economy Tile. I knew what to do on almost any job before the mechanic told me. He and I had apprenticed together under a good mechanic who had taught him "real good." Bo was only a young man, about four years younger than I was, but he was a school drop-out, and had been working with Economy Tile since the age of sixteen. He knew his craft, and had to, because he was married and had a kid to support.
It was a little embarrassing actually, more for him than it was for me, because most jobs we went to in private homes, the owners would ask me the questions and I would have to direct them to my boss who was a bit of a baby-faced youngster. The owners soon learned where the expertise lay, though. Bo was good at his craft and strong like an ox.
At this time, he was letting me do more and more of the detailed work and just checking when I had finished. Sometimes he would have to make corrections when I made a mistake, but that boy had a lot of patience with me. He was mature for his age and we made a good team. But I wasn't happy.
After work, I would go home and eat and take care of my hands (They always seemed to have sore spots at the tips of the fingers from the lime in the tile and cement eating away at them (it's what is called an occupational hazard). If I wasn't too tired, I would go out to a couple of nearby taverns and listen to Country Western, or play pool and drink beer.
The Chuckwagon Restaurant and Grill on Military Highway was a favorite of mine. The owner's name was Monk, and he was fun to talk with. He had a big Negress who used to cook in his kitchen. She made the most fabulous hamburgers I had ever tasted! I would never go in the place without having her fix me several burgers. One day I ate eight of those things, and they were hefty burgers, let me tell you!
Anyway, as I was saying, I wasn't happy. I would sit at the bar with my beer and think about my day. It was hard work setting tile! Did I really want to do this for the rest of my life? I would have to do this heavy work for the next forty years before I would be eligible for Social Security, and the shop where I worked was a non‑union shop that didn't have a retirement plan. Any monies set aside for retirement would have to come out of the sweat of my brow for the next forty years. It's true that the job paid well, especially if you became a master mechanic. How long would that take me?
On the other hand, if I swallowed my pride and went back into the Navy, it shouldn't take me too long to get my rank back. I would be eligible to retire from the service in another sixteen years, draw a military pension of 50 percent of whatever my base pay was at the time of retirement, and still be young enough (forty-one) to get an additional job until mandatory retirement age of sixty-five. It sounded good to me, but I had my pride to overcome. These thoughts gnawed at me, week after week, on and off the job.
All this time, I never gave much thought to my mother. I mean, she was there. She was my mom; she didn't bring her troubles to me for discussion. I didn't know she had any
troubles, because on the surface, everything seemed to be going smoothly for her. The house my father had bought for their retirement home, was the first home we'd ever lived in, and we now had our own furniture and were living like people, in one place, with a lawn to mow, and shrubs to trim, etc. Why, we even had neighbors of long standing, and that was a first.
But my father, having returned from Formosa, and with orders to El Centro, California, couldn't get my mother to give up this permanent thing, this stability she had never had before. He went to El Centro alone, and my mother stayed with the house and me. I gave her part of my paycheck every week. I had always done that as a civilian and when in the military, had sent her an allotment or bond.
The catalyst that pushed me back into the service was a fistfight I had with another young mechanic who was working on a new home, with Bo and me, and our old mentor mechanic. We had been on site for about two hours, and most of us had been working our butts off. All, that is, except this third mechanic. I suppose he had a rough night, but when doing the type of work we did, you learn to shake it off and pull your share of the load. He wasn't doing that. I guess I blew up after seeing him laze around in the back of his pickup and joke and laugh while the rest of us were busting our tails. I had suggested several times that we had a lot of work to do and he was supposedly there to help. His laughter didn't help matters any.
Without volition or conscious effort on my part, I strode to his pick-up truck and knocked him head over heels off the end of the sideboard. He got up and came over the tailgate into the back of the truck where I met him with some straight jabs, and other punches that I never knew I possessed. He couldn't get in a hit on me, and finally I just grabbed him, and held him like a rag doll. I didn't want to hurt him any more.
As a matter of fact, my anger had cooled as soon as it had exploded. I felt bad about hitting the man in anger. I had never done that before. I held on until he, too, had cooled off some; then I let him go, turned my back on him, and walked off. The work progressed pretty smoothly after that, with all of us doing a fair share. I still felt bad about the incident, though and attempted to apologize at one point. He would not accept my apology.
Things weren't the same at work after that. The other crews, and even Murphy, had got word of the incident, and some were afraid to work around me. Others praised what I had done. That young mechanic, and his helper, never spoke to me again, unless it was absolutely necessary. Bad vibes were all around.
I told Murphy that I thought I would go back into the service. Another worker, a former serviceman, about forty years old, had trained with Economy Tile under the GI bill, and so learned his trade that way. He recommended that I go back in the service also; said this work was too hard for him.
Murphy tried to get me to stay by offering me a bonus, and promised me that if I continued to learn at the rate I was learning, he would make me a mechanic with my own truck and helper inside of a year. The offer was tempting, but I already felt that there was bad blood developing between me and a couple of others. Besides, I think I had really made up my mind. Murphy said that he would always be happy to hire me back, even after I completed the service. I really believe he would have too. That man was genuinely fond of me. I said my good-byes, however.
The Naval Recruiting Station in downtown Norfolk, Virginia in 1964 was not very far from my house. I went down there about ten a.m. with the intention of reenlisting into the Navy. I knew I had been out of the service too long (90 days) to be able to get my old rank or pay grade (E‑3) back. So in addition to having been busted from E‑4 to E‑3 just before I got out in 1963, I would have to take another automatic bust to pay grade E‑2 upon enlistment. I had forgotten to bring my DD‑214 (Record of Prior Service) with me, so the recruiter told me I'd have to get it and come back that afternoon.
My, how fate does work in strange ways! Upon my return that afternoon with my DD‑214, I stopped in around the corner where they had an Army recruiting station. Just for the hell of it, I thought I would see what they had to offer; I had no intention of joining. I listened to the recruiter and he began painting his rosy pictures. Yeah, I would have to take basic training because Navy boot camp was very different than Army basic. But look at all the schools I could qualify for. Airborne? "Why sure! The Army is looking for men just like you. When you finish basic, you will be given an airborne test and if you qualify, you'll be accepted. With your prior skills, you should make rank fast." To make a long story short, he sold me a bill of goods which I
bought, hook, line and sinker. I signed on the dotted line and was told I'd be notified when to report for training.
Basic training was at Fort Jackson, South Carolina, a place of pines and sand. It was picturesque I'll say that much for it. In different circumstances, I might even have enjoyed it.
Like Navy boot camp, Army recruits had to run everywhere also. That was the only similarity. Whereas the Navy had about 60 percent of their training as classroom work and 40 percent physical, the Army had about 80 percent physical and 20 percent classroom/lecture training. Almost all training took place outdoors every day, unless the weather was inclement.
Our day started much the same every morning. A 4:30 a.m. wake-up, SSS, and formation at 5 a.m. for physical training exercises. At the time of year we were going through basic (Aug‑Oct), the mornings were very cold and this exercise helped get the blood pumping and the body to warm up. I came to welcome this little ritual. After about a 30 minute warm up, we formed up in platoons, and with road guards in reflective vest and flashlight batons, started out on a run. At first we only started out at about a half mile run but, gradually the distance was increased on a daily basis, until we were running about 2 miles every morning before chow.
After the run, we were brought back to the barracks to change to dry clothes, and put the finishing touches on the clean-up of the barracks. At about 06:30, we fell out on the double into formation and were marched to chow. Outside the mess hall, we were made to stand in line at parade rest, without talking, and advancing in stages of about five men at a time, to what became known, and dreaded by all, as the parallel bars. You've seen something similar to them in playgrounds, I'm sure. A recruit had to make it down and back, and down again, a certain number of bars, which would be increased with each day, before he was allowed to proceed into the messhall to eat. Once inside the food had to be wolfed down as quickly as possible because the whole platoon (about 50 men) only had about 45 minutes to eat. The messhall could seat about 30 people at one sitting, and there was no time for dawdling.
In addition to this good training, anytime a recruit made a mistake, he was told to "drop and give me ten" (me being the Drill Sergeant, or DI for short). The ten, referred to ten pushups and they had to be done correctly, and be counted off out loud.
From about 7 p.m. until lights out at 9 p.m., time was devoted to personal hygiene, meaning body, clothes, and living spaces. Boots had to be shined and brass polished. The whole thing started again at 4:30 a.m.
Some of the classes we had were Escape and Evasion classes; hand to hand combat, weapons identification, disassembly and assembly, and cleaning of the M-14 rifle; land navigation, using map and compass; terrain identification; weapons qualification and Chemical, Biological, and Radiological warfare training (surviving the gas chamber).
Naturally, marching, or drill and ceremony as it was called, played a large part in our everyday movements. Eventually, we got good and we graduated.
I still had AIT (advanced individual training) to complete in order to get a MOS (military occupational skill), another fancy way of saying "job." Actually, the basic training graduation had given everyone an infantry skill MOS of 11B. If test scores had indicated that a person was trainable at a different skill, upon graduation from basic, he got orders for further training (AIT) elsewhere.
I was assigned to the radio school at Fort Jackson, ostensibly to become a radio operator (O5B), but since I was already an experienced communicator, they really were sending me so that I could learn to use the different equipment. When my classmates were struggling to learn the code, it was I who was assisting the instructor in running the tapes at the various speeds, at different consoles. I also graded the test papers.
The most memorable thing I can recall during this time period is the old WW II wooden barracks we stayed at. They were heated by old coal-burning boilers in each barracks, and for that purpose, a cement bin had been made outside each barracks, into which, dump trucks would heap huge piles of coal, which they replenished on a weekly basis.
The fires would be banked in the morning, and a barracks orderly would stay behind during the day to touch up the barracks cleanliness, and keep a fire watch. Heaven help him if he got caught sitting down during the day. This task was shared by all, and usually each student pulled this duty only two or three times while going to school. At night, though, each barracks had rotating fire guards, inside and outside, to attend the fire and keep watch. Woe unto him who let a fire die-out or get too low!
My next assignment was at Fort Gordon, Georgia, to attend the O5C (radio teletypewriter operator) course. This was an eleven-week course, which I finished in seven, because of my prior training. I had to learn the new equipment, though, and tactical communications in the field environment; all that was new to me. If I knew the subject being taught, I assisted the instructors wherever I could, if they wanted me to help them. All this special attention I was getting, because of my prior experience, was leading to resentment among some of my classmates. I didn't know this at the time, but will relate an incident later, that will point out this difficulty.
I played a scrimmage football game one night after school with some of the guys. Two days later, I was told to report to the PT field; they were going to give me an Airborne Qualification PT test. Hell, I was stiff as a board from the previous football scrimmage, and I ached all over. Needless to say, I didn't pass the test. I couldn't even do three chin-ups! I was told I could reapply again in six months. During that interim, and because of subsequent events, I had better thoughts about going airborne. I mean, after all, what kind of fool jumps out of a perfectly good flying machine, right?
Our final weeks of training involved simulated field communications techniques. This was where we had to operate a static radio set (in actuality, the set would be mounted in a van on the back of a vehicle, but here the van was on the ground) at a place called Mobile. We were to operate day and night, sending and receiving simulated traffic and keeping the proper logs and maintaining the equipment. We operated in teams of three or four men to each rig.
This was where the resentment against me, by some of my classmates, came to the fore. I tried to tell a young man he was handling a message wrong. He exploded and assaulted me pretty badly. I wanted to press charges, and had good grounds, but the instructors talked me out of it. I kept my opinions to myself after that.
After graduation from the radio teletypewriter operator course (O5C), at Fort Gordon, Georgia in 1965, I was on orders to the Republic of South Korea. I took a plane to the West Coast and boarded a ship in San Francisco, a MSTS (Military Sea Transportation Service) for the voyage by sea. I had already had experience at sea, you will recall, so the trip didn't bother me at all. There were a lot of troops aboard the ship, heading for such places as Hawaii, Okinawa, Japan, and Korea. Some civilian dependents were aboard also, going to live with their husbands or fathers.
The duties for the military passengers aboard ship were, for the most part, light. The berthing area had to be kept clean; some men were detailed to help the ships cook in the galley, and some were given various cleaning duties throughout the ship. I was detailed as a guard at the passageway leading to the ship's movie theater and the chapel. The men ate in shifts because the mess hall couldn't fit everybody at once and because the civilian populace aboard ship ate at a different time. The powers that be wanted to keep as much distance as possible between the civilian dependents and the military. We were cautioned more than once to watch our language.
Our intermediary stops were singularly uneventful and not worth repeating here. Days later, we arrived at Inchon Harbor, ROK (Republic of Korea). We could tell we had arrived while we were miles out at sea. The effluvium from the harbor announced that! Except for the strongly populated cities, most of the country was agrarian. They cultivated their fields using night soil, the natural excretions of the human body. It had been done for centuries that way in this "Land of the Morning Calm," which is what Korea means.
Our forefathers all, at one time or another, practiced this ancient form of fertilization. One of the nasty habits we Westerners have, that the Koreans and most Orientals frown upon, is carrying our body secretions around in a piece of cloth in our back pocket. That's right I'm talking about the handkerchief. Think about it!
We took a bus from Inchon to the replacement center, where we would have a layover for a few days, while it was decided where, in‑country, the powers that be, needed us most.
The bus ride through the city of Inchon and the suburbs was a real eye-opener. The sight of the people, their dress, mode of transport (bicycle, taxi, or overflowing bus with an occasional cart pulled by a bullock or water buffalo), and the huge "A" frames strapped to backs, and piled higher than a man's head with all manner of things. All these things began to register the fact that I was in a new and fascinating country.
Days later, my fate had been decided. I was to go to the Forth Missile Command (Honest John), in Camp Page, Korea. This area can be found on the map by looking for the town of Chun Chon, for it was in the middle of that city that Camp Page was located. We traveled by bus, and except for the environs around big cities, all roads were dirt or gravel roads.
Only twelve years had passed since the cessation of hostilities. South Korea was in the process of rebuilding itself from a war-torn economy. It was not an industrial nation (the industry had been up North, and that was now sealed by the thirty-eighth parallel), but an agrarian one. The per-capita income was less than two hundred dollars per annum. It was a poor country, and one that the U.S. was obligated to help get on its feet.
Chun Chon has some of the loveliest countryside in the world. It is mountainous, forested, and has many rivers and waterfalls of breathtaking beauty. It is in the foothills of a mountain range that stretches northward into North Korea and Manchuria. In the vales between the mountains, the people still practice their agrarian existence, and supply their neighbors with the necessary crops for daily life. Rice paddies are terraced throughout the mountains, and have been worked by the farmer and his family for literally thousands of years, being handed down from father to son for millennia.
Camp Page fired the Honest John Rocket, which was a rocket about twenty-two feet long, and slightly bigger around than a telephone pole. It could be fitted with a nuclear warhead. Above us in the mountains, were Hawkeye Missile sites. Camp Page, I think, was our most northern site to have an airfield. It was a small dirt field and we were in the process of making it longer and strengthening it to take in larger aircraft.
In the country, when we went on a field trip in the spring, we could see the rice farmers, both men and women, planting rice sprigs in the flooded paddies. They would be up to their knees in water all day long. It is interesting to know how the paddies were prepared for planting the rice.
The paddies are drained and allowed to dry out in late summer, and when dry, the farmer cuts the rice stalks off at about three inches above the ground. This stubble is allowed to dry during the Fall and Winter. In Spring the paddies are plowed under, flooded, and new grain is planted in sections of the flooded paddy. When these sprouts are about four to eight inches long, they are gathered.
Meanwhile the farmer has turned over the soil in his paddies with his plow and oxen, flooded them, and fertilized them with nightsoil (most use commercial fertilizers today) collected in nearby villages or houses. Most homes did not have indoor plumbing then, so collection, though arduous, was necessary.
It was quite common to see a farmer with a long poll across his shoulders, and two buckets dangling from the ends, walking up and down his paddies, fertilizing as he walked. The term "honey bucket," comes from this practice.
When the paddy is ready, all farmers help each other planting the new sprouts at about eight-inch intervals throughout the paddy. Men, women, and children work side by side. It will be
fertilized a couple of times and sprayed for insect control before it ripens. In late summer, it all starts over again. Some of the paddies are thousands of years old and have been farmed the same way all those years.
The view from the top of a yama mountain) in Korea at sunrise can be breathtaking. At least it was the first time I had that experience.
The afternoon before, we (a driver/guard and another radioteletype operator and I) had driven our three-quarter ton truck, with its radio teletypewriter van (RATT) on the back, as far up the mountain as the road/trail would take us. At a good location, with a commanding view at the top, we set up the rig, tuned in to our assigned frequency, made contact, authenticated our identity, and logged into the proper RATT net. From now until the mission was completed, we would maintain a twenty-four-hour vigil on the RATT frequency (the driver/guard was not an operator, so we had to split the watch two ways).
What was the mission? We were a relay and backup point midway between the firepoint (where the Honest John rocket was fired) and splashdown (where the rocket would land). It was our job to listen for the firing on the radio and watch for and report splashdown. If something went wrong in between, and the rocket didn't come down where it was supposed to, or civilians were on the range, we were supposed to report that too.
The afternoon was uneventful and fairly soon darkness began to settle in. Now I was the newby on this team, the other two having been in-country longer than I had. After dark, some young Korean peasant girls materialized out of nowhere on top of our mountain. It was dark and I heard a lot of giggling going on outside the van, but I was naive enough to think that all was innocent foreplay and nothing would come of it.
I found out differently in the morning, though. Those poor girls had sold their favors cheap. Luxuries were so hard to come by, so they had accepted some towels, and bar soap, and a few candy bars, for servicing a couple of horny GIs. My mates had known this would happen and prepared for it by bringing extra stuff to trade. I was to find out that this was not an isolated incident, but happened quite frequently on field trips to outlying areas.
Getting back to the sunrise that morning, after I had been relieved on watch, I got out my helmet liner, filled it with cold water, and performed my morning ablutions. Having done this, I had time to look around the area. The sun was just coming up and beginning to fill the valley below. The air was brisk and still cool on the skin.
It seemed I could hear everything that was happening for miles around. Someone was chopping wood someplace, a cow or oxen was lowing in the background, and I could see this farmer with his oxen and cart, way below me on a rice paddy dike. He had started some small fires around the periphery of his paddy, and was in the process of lighting another one. I could see the smoke lazily curling skyward. Later I learned that in the spring it is customary to build little fires to the gods, and burn in them, papers upon which prayers for a successful crop are written. The words are carried heavenward on the smoke for the gods to hearken to.
It was a lovely scene that, one that has stayed in my memories all these years. One of serenity and tranquility, which is automatically called to mind when I hear the words, "The
Land of the Morning Calm," for such is Korea.
It can have its violent moments also. Later, in late spring, we were on a training exercise about twelve miles outside of Chun Chon, and spread out along a dry riverbed. We had stopped and deployed tactically, put up our antenna, and settled in for a day of practice exercises. We were supposed to return to post later that afternoon. That is why we hadn't gone too far from the camp. It started to rain. At first nobody took particular notice of it. The monsoon rains would start soon in June, but this was early May and a few early showers were to be expected.
About an hour later, I began to be concerned. The water in the riverbed seemed to be climbing awfully fast. I voiced my concern to some others, and found out that the rise of the river bed had become a real topic of concern with the company commander, and the camp commander back at Camp Page. Finally word came to strike camp and head for the high ground. One five-ton truck tried to make it out of the riverbed and back to Camp Page on the road, but it got bogged down in the river. We made it to the highest point of land we could. A lot of Korean civilians joined us there to wait out the storm also. Finally, at about 6:00 p.m., when the water was over the tires of the trucks, and threatening to sweep us away, we were evacuated by helicopter. We locked the equipment as best we could and left it there. As many of the civilian populace as could be evacuated, were.
(1963-1965)
After leaving the Navy in April of 1963, I returned home to Virginia Beach, Virginia. Dad was overseas in Formosa (now called Taiwan), the Free Republic of China. Mom was holding down the fort at 921 Harlie Avenue by herself. She was glad to have me home. I realize now that she must have been very lonely. My brother, Harold, was in Scotland with his new and burgeoning family.
I loafed around the house for a while then I got a cheap car, a 1949 Chevy, and a job I'd seen advertised in the paper. I worked out of an office located on Little Creek Boulevard. Every morning we would gather for a pep talk and demonstration of the various features of the product we would be selling, which was the Kirby vacuum cleaner. We were required to wear a shirt and tie always. Our sales demonstrations were arranged before hand, by telephone operators who promised the called parties that they would get hundreds of green stamps (the big craze then) for letting us put on a demonstration of our product in their home. The words, "vacuum cleaner," were avoided like the plague over the phone. If agreed, a date and time were arranged.
We were given very good classes on the demonstration method. The idea was first to sell yourself to the people as the boy they would want their daughter to date or marry, and then to sell the product by demonstrating its versatility and utility. It was a good machine, but very expensive.
Through the use of filter papers placed in the intake, large quantities of dirt could be trapped. These filters were changed often, and shown to the prospective buyer. The visit had to be while the husband was there; the wife might not have the power of attorney. They were made to feel that whatever method they were using to clean house, it just wasn't getting the job done. They needed the Kirby, couldn't they see that? It was pressure tactics, and not done very subtly.
Sometimes the people would agree to a demo, and when you arrived, gave them the green stamps, and started the demo, they would cut you off and kick you out. Our policy was to let them have the green stamps anyway. It made me mad sometimes, but what the hell, we were being devious too. I neglected to mention that all new salespeople were paired with an experienced man until the "newby" learned the pitch, and how to put on the demo. Then you were on your own.
We worked on commission only. If you sold a lot, you made a lot. I worked there for about a month and sold only one Kirby. My commission was good, and after I'd been trained, I probably could have done well at it, but I just couldn't picture selling myself to people, over and over, every day. I quit the job, but I'm not sorry to have taken it, because they did teach me some-thing valuable, which I've been able to use throughout my life. They taught me self-respect, and how to sell myself to others.
My next job was at Economy Tile Company, Tidewater Drive, Virginia, as a tile-setter's apprentice.
I had worked with Ayers, Hagan, and Booth Construction Company in Argentia, Newfoundland, during my junior/senior hiatus at school. The experience setting tile with them is what landed me the job in Tidewater. The manager, Mr. Murphy, was a pretty shrewd judge of character. I had just got out of the Navy and was relatively soft (I didn't have one callus on my hands). But I sold myself, using the new techniques I had learned, and the limited experience I had laying asphalt tile.
Economy Tile put in everything. They worked with slate, quarry, asphalt, linoleum, vinyl, and ceramic. We tore out and put in new tubs, tub doors, ceramic walls and floors, drywall, and mud; quarry porches, plain and broken, kitchen floors, backsplashes, and formica counter tops; old and new houses. You name it in tile, and we did it.
Murphy had five or six crews, each consisting of a senior mechanic, and two helpers, with varying degrees of experience. Each crew had their own vehicle and were given several jobs, repair or new, to do each day. On big jobs like hotels (we got some of that action also), several teams might go to the site. Murphy also controlled the sales staff, which used to go out and drum up business, and the inventory and ordering of stock as it needed replenishment. Murphy's job is the job I would have liked to have, and in the end, I think he sensed that.
For the first few weeks, I didn't think I was going to make it. My whole body was one big ache. Not only did my hands have to toughen, but I was using muscles I hadn't used in years, or never used. I think the various crews were betting on how long I would last. Murphy was egging them on. Everyone was betting against me, but Murphy was a shrewd judge of character, like I said, and I think in the long run, I made him some money.
We went to the shop at about 7:30 a.m. and loaded the supplies we would need for the various jobs we had that day. Usually we would have two or three small jobs to start or finish-up each day. Occasionally, on big projects like hotels on Virginia Beach, several crews would be at that site on a daily basis until the job was done.
Mixing "mud" (cement) in a trough, with just the right amounts of sand, lime, and cement, to just the right consistency, or making a "dry" mixture of sand and cement for floors, requires knowledge of their properties. After it was mixed, it had to be hauled bucket by bucket to the head mechanic for spreading. Tile had to be off-loaded and soaked in tubs for a couple of hours if you were running a mud wall in a bath. The tile has lime in it and the mud has lime in it. The lime eats away at the fingers, and the tips are constantly sore.
I had to learn to use the tools of the trade: hoe, shovel, tile cutter, electric and mechanical, snips, various and sundry trowels, and a hod. I had to learn how to pick up a load of mud off the board onto a hod with the hod and trowel and spread it for a scratch or float coat. Grouting and striking the grout line properly to fill the joints was important. And cleaning up our mess was always the last thing before leaving for the day.
All these things, and more, I learned. I learned them so well that the head mechanic was entrusting more and more work to me, and eventually was letting me do complete jobs by myself, and he would just check behind me to make sure it was done right.
I began to fit in. I was part of the crew. So why was I getting restless?
I was working in new housing, putting in a tub and tile area, and a ceramic tile floor in the bath on 22 November, 1963. The head mechanic had already run, packed, and leveled the screed mud (moist cement and sand) on the floor of the bath. He was in the process of laying the ceramic tile and blocking it in.
When the cut‑ins had been made, I would sift and mix some pure cement with water, to a paste consistency, and that would be spread out on the floor and worked into the grout joints in the ceramic tile. Afterward, we would rub it down with excelsior (a fancy name for wood shavings) to get the majority of cement residue up, and about three days later we would return and give the floor a light acid bath to get rid of the film. We were about three-quarters of the way through that job and had a small portable radio plugged in to an extension line running to a temporary utility pole in the yard. I was just outside the bathroom door, making some cut‑ins around the jamb.
The music on the radio stopped, and a voice came on to say President Kennedy had been shot. There were no details, except to say that the motorcade had been fired upon on a Dallas street and the President had been seen to be hit and was on his way to Parkland Hospital.
My head mechanic guffawed, and said it served him right. The other helper and I just looked at each other. I was stunned! Not so much by what my boss had said (I had no idea he was not a Kennedy man), but at the fact that a head of state should be assassinated in broad daylight in that day and age. The rest of that job was finished while I was in a funk. Gradually, the enormity of what had happened began to sink in, and even my boss became more subdued. Other workers at the site (some brick layers and some plasterers) seemed to move in slow motion, and so did we all, I think. Everyone was listening to radios, it seemed.
We went back to the shop on Tidewater Drive around 3:00 p.m. we had knocked off early, an uncommon practice for us), only to find out that other crews were coming in early also. Murphy closed the place down early that day, and it stayed closed for three days. They say you don't forget where you were or what you were doing, when something of this magnitude happens, and you don't!
I had been working almost a year at Economy Tile. I knew what to do on almost any job before the mechanic told me. He and I had apprenticed together under a good mechanic who had taught him "real good." Bo was only a young man, about four years younger than I was, but he was a school drop-out, and had been working with Economy Tile since the age of sixteen. He knew his craft, and had to, because he was married and had a kid to support.
It was a little embarrassing actually, more for him than it was for me, because most jobs we went to in private homes, the owners would ask me the questions and I would have to direct them to my boss who was a bit of a baby-faced youngster. The owners soon learned where the expertise lay, though. Bo was good at his craft and strong like an ox.
At this time, he was letting me do more and more of the detailed work and just checking when I had finished. Sometimes he would have to make corrections when I made a mistake, but that boy had a lot of patience with me. He was mature for his age and we made a good team. But I wasn't happy.
After work, I would go home and eat and take care of my hands (They always seemed to have sore spots at the tips of the fingers from the lime in the tile and cement eating away at them (it's what is called an occupational hazard). If I wasn't too tired, I would go out to a couple of nearby taverns and listen to Country Western, or play pool and drink beer.
The Chuckwagon Restaurant and Grill on Military Highway was a favorite of mine. The owner's name was Monk, and he was fun to talk with. He had a big Negress who used to cook in his kitchen. She made the most fabulous hamburgers I had ever tasted! I would never go in the place without having her fix me several burgers. One day I ate eight of those things, and they were hefty burgers, let me tell you!
Anyway, as I was saying, I wasn't happy. I would sit at the bar with my beer and think about my day. It was hard work setting tile! Did I really want to do this for the rest of my life? I would have to do this heavy work for the next forty years before I would be eligible for Social Security, and the shop where I worked was a non‑union shop that didn't have a retirement plan. Any monies set aside for retirement would have to come out of the sweat of my brow for the next forty years. It's true that the job paid well, especially if you became a master mechanic. How long would that take me?
On the other hand, if I swallowed my pride and went back into the Navy, it shouldn't take me too long to get my rank back. I would be eligible to retire from the service in another sixteen years, draw a military pension of 50 percent of whatever my base pay was at the time of retirement, and still be young enough (forty-one) to get an additional job until mandatory retirement age of sixty-five. It sounded good to me, but I had my pride to overcome. These thoughts gnawed at me, week after week, on and off the job.
All this time, I never gave much thought to my mother. I mean, she was there. She was my mom; she didn't bring her troubles to me for discussion. I didn't know she had any
troubles, because on the surface, everything seemed to be going smoothly for her. The house my father had bought for their retirement home, was the first home we'd ever lived in, and we now had our own furniture and were living like people, in one place, with a lawn to mow, and shrubs to trim, etc. Why, we even had neighbors of long standing, and that was a first.
But my father, having returned from Formosa, and with orders to El Centro, California, couldn't get my mother to give up this permanent thing, this stability she had never had before. He went to El Centro alone, and my mother stayed with the house and me. I gave her part of my paycheck every week. I had always done that as a civilian and when in the military, had sent her an allotment or bond.
The catalyst that pushed me back into the service was a fistfight I had with another young mechanic who was working on a new home, with Bo and me, and our old mentor mechanic. We had been on site for about two hours, and most of us had been working our butts off. All, that is, except this third mechanic. I suppose he had a rough night, but when doing the type of work we did, you learn to shake it off and pull your share of the load. He wasn't doing that. I guess I blew up after seeing him laze around in the back of his pickup and joke and laugh while the rest of us were busting our tails. I had suggested several times that we had a lot of work to do and he was supposedly there to help. His laughter didn't help matters any.
Without volition or conscious effort on my part, I strode to his pick-up truck and knocked him head over heels off the end of the sideboard. He got up and came over the tailgate into the back of the truck where I met him with some straight jabs, and other punches that I never knew I possessed. He couldn't get in a hit on me, and finally I just grabbed him, and held him like a rag doll. I didn't want to hurt him any more.
As a matter of fact, my anger had cooled as soon as it had exploded. I felt bad about hitting the man in anger. I had never done that before. I held on until he, too, had cooled off some; then I let him go, turned my back on him, and walked off. The work progressed pretty smoothly after that, with all of us doing a fair share. I still felt bad about the incident, though and attempted to apologize at one point. He would not accept my apology.
Things weren't the same at work after that. The other crews, and even Murphy, had got word of the incident, and some were afraid to work around me. Others praised what I had done. That young mechanic, and his helper, never spoke to me again, unless it was absolutely necessary. Bad vibes were all around.
I told Murphy that I thought I would go back into the service. Another worker, a former serviceman, about forty years old, had trained with Economy Tile under the GI bill, and so learned his trade that way. He recommended that I go back in the service also; said this work was too hard for him.
Murphy tried to get me to stay by offering me a bonus, and promised me that if I continued to learn at the rate I was learning, he would make me a mechanic with my own truck and helper inside of a year. The offer was tempting, but I already felt that there was bad blood developing between me and a couple of others. Besides, I think I had really made up my mind. Murphy said that he would always be happy to hire me back, even after I completed the service. I really believe he would have too. That man was genuinely fond of me. I said my good-byes, however.
The Naval Recruiting Station in downtown Norfolk, Virginia in 1964 was not very far from my house. I went down there about ten a.m. with the intention of reenlisting into the Navy. I knew I had been out of the service too long (90 days) to be able to get my old rank or pay grade (E‑3) back. So in addition to having been busted from E‑4 to E‑3 just before I got out in 1963, I would have to take another automatic bust to pay grade E‑2 upon enlistment. I had forgotten to bring my DD‑214 (Record of Prior Service) with me, so the recruiter told me I'd have to get it and come back that afternoon.
My, how fate does work in strange ways! Upon my return that afternoon with my DD‑214, I stopped in around the corner where they had an Army recruiting station. Just for the hell of it, I thought I would see what they had to offer; I had no intention of joining. I listened to the recruiter and he began painting his rosy pictures. Yeah, I would have to take basic training because Navy boot camp was very different than Army basic. But look at all the schools I could qualify for. Airborne? "Why sure! The Army is looking for men just like you. When you finish basic, you will be given an airborne test and if you qualify, you'll be accepted. With your prior skills, you should make rank fast." To make a long story short, he sold me a bill of goods which I
bought, hook, line and sinker. I signed on the dotted line and was told I'd be notified when to report for training.
Basic training was at Fort Jackson, South Carolina, a place of pines and sand. It was picturesque I'll say that much for it. In different circumstances, I might even have enjoyed it.
Like Navy boot camp, Army recruits had to run everywhere also. That was the only similarity. Whereas the Navy had about 60 percent of their training as classroom work and 40 percent physical, the Army had about 80 percent physical and 20 percent classroom/lecture training. Almost all training took place outdoors every day, unless the weather was inclement.
Our day started much the same every morning. A 4:30 a.m. wake-up, SSS, and formation at 5 a.m. for physical training exercises. At the time of year we were going through basic (Aug‑Oct), the mornings were very cold and this exercise helped get the blood pumping and the body to warm up. I came to welcome this little ritual. After about a 30 minute warm up, we formed up in platoons, and with road guards in reflective vest and flashlight batons, started out on a run. At first we only started out at about a half mile run but, gradually the distance was increased on a daily basis, until we were running about 2 miles every morning before chow.
After the run, we were brought back to the barracks to change to dry clothes, and put the finishing touches on the clean-up of the barracks. At about 06:30, we fell out on the double into formation and were marched to chow. Outside the mess hall, we were made to stand in line at parade rest, without talking, and advancing in stages of about five men at a time, to what became known, and dreaded by all, as the parallel bars. You've seen something similar to them in playgrounds, I'm sure. A recruit had to make it down and back, and down again, a certain number of bars, which would be increased with each day, before he was allowed to proceed into the messhall to eat. Once inside the food had to be wolfed down as quickly as possible because the whole platoon (about 50 men) only had about 45 minutes to eat. The messhall could seat about 30 people at one sitting, and there was no time for dawdling.
In addition to this good training, anytime a recruit made a mistake, he was told to "drop and give me ten" (me being the Drill Sergeant, or DI for short). The ten, referred to ten pushups and they had to be done correctly, and be counted off out loud.
From about 7 p.m. until lights out at 9 p.m., time was devoted to personal hygiene, meaning body, clothes, and living spaces. Boots had to be shined and brass polished. The whole thing started again at 4:30 a.m.
Some of the classes we had were Escape and Evasion classes; hand to hand combat, weapons identification, disassembly and assembly, and cleaning of the M-14 rifle; land navigation, using map and compass; terrain identification; weapons qualification and Chemical, Biological, and Radiological warfare training (surviving the gas chamber).
Naturally, marching, or drill and ceremony as it was called, played a large part in our everyday movements. Eventually, we got good and we graduated.
I still had AIT (advanced individual training) to complete in order to get a MOS (military occupational skill), another fancy way of saying "job." Actually, the basic training graduation had given everyone an infantry skill MOS of 11B. If test scores had indicated that a person was trainable at a different skill, upon graduation from basic, he got orders for further training (AIT) elsewhere.
I was assigned to the radio school at Fort Jackson, ostensibly to become a radio operator (O5B), but since I was already an experienced communicator, they really were sending me so that I could learn to use the different equipment. When my classmates were struggling to learn the code, it was I who was assisting the instructor in running the tapes at the various speeds, at different consoles. I also graded the test papers.
The most memorable thing I can recall during this time period is the old WW II wooden barracks we stayed at. They were heated by old coal-burning boilers in each barracks, and for that purpose, a cement bin had been made outside each barracks, into which, dump trucks would heap huge piles of coal, which they replenished on a weekly basis.
The fires would be banked in the morning, and a barracks orderly would stay behind during the day to touch up the barracks cleanliness, and keep a fire watch. Heaven help him if he got caught sitting down during the day. This task was shared by all, and usually each student pulled this duty only two or three times while going to school. At night, though, each barracks had rotating fire guards, inside and outside, to attend the fire and keep watch. Woe unto him who let a fire die-out or get too low!
My next assignment was at Fort Gordon, Georgia, to attend the O5C (radio teletypewriter operator) course. This was an eleven-week course, which I finished in seven, because of my prior training. I had to learn the new equipment, though, and tactical communications in the field environment; all that was new to me. If I knew the subject being taught, I assisted the instructors wherever I could, if they wanted me to help them. All this special attention I was getting, because of my prior experience, was leading to resentment among some of my classmates. I didn't know this at the time, but will relate an incident later, that will point out this difficulty.
I played a scrimmage football game one night after school with some of the guys. Two days later, I was told to report to the PT field; they were going to give me an Airborne Qualification PT test. Hell, I was stiff as a board from the previous football scrimmage, and I ached all over. Needless to say, I didn't pass the test. I couldn't even do three chin-ups! I was told I could reapply again in six months. During that interim, and because of subsequent events, I had better thoughts about going airborne. I mean, after all, what kind of fool jumps out of a perfectly good flying machine, right?
Our final weeks of training involved simulated field communications techniques. This was where we had to operate a static radio set (in actuality, the set would be mounted in a van on the back of a vehicle, but here the van was on the ground) at a place called Mobile. We were to operate day and night, sending and receiving simulated traffic and keeping the proper logs and maintaining the equipment. We operated in teams of three or four men to each rig.
This was where the resentment against me, by some of my classmates, came to the fore. I tried to tell a young man he was handling a message wrong. He exploded and assaulted me pretty badly. I wanted to press charges, and had good grounds, but the instructors talked me out of it. I kept my opinions to myself after that.
After graduation from the radio teletypewriter operator course (O5C), at Fort Gordon, Georgia in 1965, I was on orders to the Republic of South Korea. I took a plane to the West Coast and boarded a ship in San Francisco, a MSTS (Military Sea Transportation Service) for the voyage by sea. I had already had experience at sea, you will recall, so the trip didn't bother me at all. There were a lot of troops aboard the ship, heading for such places as Hawaii, Okinawa, Japan, and Korea. Some civilian dependents were aboard also, going to live with their husbands or fathers.
The duties for the military passengers aboard ship were, for the most part, light. The berthing area had to be kept clean; some men were detailed to help the ships cook in the galley, and some were given various cleaning duties throughout the ship. I was detailed as a guard at the passageway leading to the ship's movie theater and the chapel. The men ate in shifts because the mess hall couldn't fit everybody at once and because the civilian populace aboard ship ate at a different time. The powers that be wanted to keep as much distance as possible between the civilian dependents and the military. We were cautioned more than once to watch our language.
Our intermediary stops were singularly uneventful and not worth repeating here. Days later, we arrived at Inchon Harbor, ROK (Republic of Korea). We could tell we had arrived while we were miles out at sea. The effluvium from the harbor announced that! Except for the strongly populated cities, most of the country was agrarian. They cultivated their fields using night soil, the natural excretions of the human body. It had been done for centuries that way in this "Land of the Morning Calm," which is what Korea means.
Our forefathers all, at one time or another, practiced this ancient form of fertilization. One of the nasty habits we Westerners have, that the Koreans and most Orientals frown upon, is carrying our body secretions around in a piece of cloth in our back pocket. That's right I'm talking about the handkerchief. Think about it!
We took a bus from Inchon to the replacement center, where we would have a layover for a few days, while it was decided where, in‑country, the powers that be, needed us most.
The bus ride through the city of Inchon and the suburbs was a real eye-opener. The sight of the people, their dress, mode of transport (bicycle, taxi, or overflowing bus with an occasional cart pulled by a bullock or water buffalo), and the huge "A" frames strapped to backs, and piled higher than a man's head with all manner of things. All these things began to register the fact that I was in a new and fascinating country.
Days later, my fate had been decided. I was to go to the Forth Missile Command (Honest John), in Camp Page, Korea. This area can be found on the map by looking for the town of Chun Chon, for it was in the middle of that city that Camp Page was located. We traveled by bus, and except for the environs around big cities, all roads were dirt or gravel roads.
Only twelve years had passed since the cessation of hostilities. South Korea was in the process of rebuilding itself from a war-torn economy. It was not an industrial nation (the industry had been up North, and that was now sealed by the thirty-eighth parallel), but an agrarian one. The per-capita income was less than two hundred dollars per annum. It was a poor country, and one that the U.S. was obligated to help get on its feet.
Chun Chon has some of the loveliest countryside in the world. It is mountainous, forested, and has many rivers and waterfalls of breathtaking beauty. It is in the foothills of a mountain range that stretches northward into North Korea and Manchuria. In the vales between the mountains, the people still practice their agrarian existence, and supply their neighbors with the necessary crops for daily life. Rice paddies are terraced throughout the mountains, and have been worked by the farmer and his family for literally thousands of years, being handed down from father to son for millennia.
Camp Page fired the Honest John Rocket, which was a rocket about twenty-two feet long, and slightly bigger around than a telephone pole. It could be fitted with a nuclear warhead. Above us in the mountains, were Hawkeye Missile sites. Camp Page, I think, was our most northern site to have an airfield. It was a small dirt field and we were in the process of making it longer and strengthening it to take in larger aircraft.
In the country, when we went on a field trip in the spring, we could see the rice farmers, both men and women, planting rice sprigs in the flooded paddies. They would be up to their knees in water all day long. It is interesting to know how the paddies were prepared for planting the rice.
The paddies are drained and allowed to dry out in late summer, and when dry, the farmer cuts the rice stalks off at about three inches above the ground. This stubble is allowed to dry during the Fall and Winter. In Spring the paddies are plowed under, flooded, and new grain is planted in sections of the flooded paddy. When these sprouts are about four to eight inches long, they are gathered.
Meanwhile the farmer has turned over the soil in his paddies with his plow and oxen, flooded them, and fertilized them with nightsoil (most use commercial fertilizers today) collected in nearby villages or houses. Most homes did not have indoor plumbing then, so collection, though arduous, was necessary.
It was quite common to see a farmer with a long poll across his shoulders, and two buckets dangling from the ends, walking up and down his paddies, fertilizing as he walked. The term "honey bucket," comes from this practice.
When the paddy is ready, all farmers help each other planting the new sprouts at about eight-inch intervals throughout the paddy. Men, women, and children work side by side. It will be
fertilized a couple of times and sprayed for insect control before it ripens. In late summer, it all starts over again. Some of the paddies are thousands of years old and have been farmed the same way all those years.
The view from the top of a yama mountain) in Korea at sunrise can be breathtaking. At least it was the first time I had that experience.
The afternoon before, we (a driver/guard and another radioteletype operator and I) had driven our three-quarter ton truck, with its radio teletypewriter van (RATT) on the back, as far up the mountain as the road/trail would take us. At a good location, with a commanding view at the top, we set up the rig, tuned in to our assigned frequency, made contact, authenticated our identity, and logged into the proper RATT net. From now until the mission was completed, we would maintain a twenty-four-hour vigil on the RATT frequency (the driver/guard was not an operator, so we had to split the watch two ways).
What was the mission? We were a relay and backup point midway between the firepoint (where the Honest John rocket was fired) and splashdown (where the rocket would land). It was our job to listen for the firing on the radio and watch for and report splashdown. If something went wrong in between, and the rocket didn't come down where it was supposed to, or civilians were on the range, we were supposed to report that too.
The afternoon was uneventful and fairly soon darkness began to settle in. Now I was the newby on this team, the other two having been in-country longer than I had. After dark, some young Korean peasant girls materialized out of nowhere on top of our mountain. It was dark and I heard a lot of giggling going on outside the van, but I was naive enough to think that all was innocent foreplay and nothing would come of it.
I found out differently in the morning, though. Those poor girls had sold their favors cheap. Luxuries were so hard to come by, so they had accepted some towels, and bar soap, and a few candy bars, for servicing a couple of horny GIs. My mates had known this would happen and prepared for it by bringing extra stuff to trade. I was to find out that this was not an isolated incident, but happened quite frequently on field trips to outlying areas.
Getting back to the sunrise that morning, after I had been relieved on watch, I got out my helmet liner, filled it with cold water, and performed my morning ablutions. Having done this, I had time to look around the area. The sun was just coming up and beginning to fill the valley below. The air was brisk and still cool on the skin.
It seemed I could hear everything that was happening for miles around. Someone was chopping wood someplace, a cow or oxen was lowing in the background, and I could see this farmer with his oxen and cart, way below me on a rice paddy dike. He had started some small fires around the periphery of his paddy, and was in the process of lighting another one. I could see the smoke lazily curling skyward. Later I learned that in the spring it is customary to build little fires to the gods, and burn in them, papers upon which prayers for a successful crop are written. The words are carried heavenward on the smoke for the gods to hearken to.
It was a lovely scene that, one that has stayed in my memories all these years. One of serenity and tranquility, which is automatically called to mind when I hear the words, "The
Land of the Morning Calm," for such is Korea.
It can have its violent moments also. Later, in late spring, we were on a training exercise about twelve miles outside of Chun Chon, and spread out along a dry riverbed. We had stopped and deployed tactically, put up our antenna, and settled in for a day of practice exercises. We were supposed to return to post later that afternoon. That is why we hadn't gone too far from the camp. It started to rain. At first nobody took particular notice of it. The monsoon rains would start soon in June, but this was early May and a few early showers were to be expected.
About an hour later, I began to be concerned. The water in the riverbed seemed to be climbing awfully fast. I voiced my concern to some others, and found out that the rise of the river bed had become a real topic of concern with the company commander, and the camp commander back at Camp Page. Finally word came to strike camp and head for the high ground. One five-ton truck tried to make it out of the riverbed and back to Camp Page on the road, but it got bogged down in the river. We made it to the highest point of land we could. A lot of Korean civilians joined us there to wait out the storm also. Finally, at about 6:00 p.m., when the water was over the tires of the trucks, and threatening to sweep us away, we were evacuated by helicopter. We locked the equipment as best we could and left it there. As many of the civilian populace as could be evacuated, were.
Thursday, April 09, 2009
Chapter 4 of Looking Back
Chapter 4 of 13 of LOOKING BACK
by John E. Hunt 75031,2735
Copyrighted 1996
At this time, I haven't a market for this book. It is a work of love, detailing events that have happened to me in my lifetime, as a boy and a man. I appreciate anyone critiquing this work, and especially this chapter, because I think the chapter starts great but could be presented more strongly - I'm not comfortable with it.
C HA P T E R 04
(1961-1963)
The lights hurt my eyes and someone kept asking me questions. I didn't understand all of it. I hurt! I slept, and maybe I died. "Hail Mary, ... grace, ... Lord is with thee ... Blessed ... women and ... fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Pray ... and at hour of our death, Amen."
The priest, he's giving me the last rites! I've seen him do that before! There's my mother and brother . . .Why doesn't Harold look at me?
God! I hurt all over! ....I know where I am now! It was a hospital ward and I'd been hurt. "Here's Mom and Harold again. He is still avoiding my eyes and leaves the room a lot." What happened? No one would tell me anything! We had a car accident! "Is everyone okay?" "Yeah, don't worry." "Your job is to get better."
I saw myself in the bathroom mirror on day four, after being helped out of bed. Then I knew why my brother wasn't looking at me. Mom was full of smiles, but she must have been hurting like hell inside to see me all busted up like that. I was thrown from the back seat, through the front windshield, and the car came to rest on the back of my neck. I had compound facial fractures, with my nose and upper jaw being broken in several places. I was wired together with what is called a Barton Cap. I would not be able to open my mouth for about six weeks. My meals were taken through a straw.
What happened to my boss? He got a broken hip and leg. He was worried I might sue, so he sent his girl friend, a pretty brunette, to make small talk, and keep me company during the day. She was nice, and good at distracting me. The Quartermaster? I found out later that he took the steering wheel through the chest. He had a wife and two teenagers too. She wrote me later. She didn't understand what had happened, but did not hold me to blame. God, I felt terrible reading her letter! What do you say to a grieving wife, and mother of two teens, who has just had her life torn asunder? How to explain it? Her husband was older than I was, and I suppose one could say he knew what he was doing. That doesn't make it any easier to swallow though.
Eventually, I was well enough to leave the hospital and go home to convalesce. They wouldn't let me go until I was made to understand that I must wear a scissors tied around my neck twenty-four hours a day, until the rubber bands came off my jaws. That was to prevent me from choking to death if I were to regurgitate. An airway could be cleared by cutting the bands.
When the bands came off, I was assigned to temporary duty until a new assignment became available. The temporary duty involved being a prisoner chaser at the brig (jail) on the Naval base. I was issued a loaded, 45-caliber pistol, helmet, night stick, and webbed belt. My job was to escort the prisoners, day and night, any time they had to leave the cell blocks. I also had to account for silverware at meals, razors in the morning (we watched them shave), and in general, maintain order and discipline among the inmates.
Most of the prisoners were in for petty crimes like AWOL (absent without leave), shoplifting, failure to obey a lawful order, etc. Some, however, were doing hard time for rape or murder. They're the ones who had me worried. I had just gotten out of the hospital with a broken jaw, and look what kind of assignment they gave me! I sometimes thought, if one of those hard cases had turned and stared real hard, my jaw would have broken again!
I only had one bad moment. It was on a wash detail one day, when a prisoner began teasing me, and threatening to run away. I told him to go ahead, that I wouldn't chase him, but would just shoot him in the back. He didn't know how to take that, so he stayed. It was a bluff, though. They gave you the equipment, but told you if you shot one of your charges, you'd end up in the brig in his stead.
My permanent assignment orders came in, and in the Spring of 1962, I reported to the USS Rockville, EPCER-851 (Experimental Patrol Craft Escort-Rescue) based at the U.S. Naval Research Laboratory, Alexandria, Virginia, which is just outside our nation's capital, Washington, D.C.
The mission of the ship was to support the research of the scientists at the Naval Research Lab. They were testing equipment for listening to sounds underwater. Our job was to take them to the various locations they used, such places as Bermuda, and the Tongue-Of-The-Ocean, in the Caribbean.
My job was essentially the same as it had been aboard the USS Hoist. I had to keep the radio telecommunications equipment operational, maintain proper logs of incoming and outgoing message traffic, and encode and decode messages for the commander. When I first reported aboard, there was a second class radioman in charge of the radio shack. I made third class petty officer shortly before reporting aboard, and shortly after that, the second class left the ship. I had my own radio shack, with a subordinate third class, and two radioman strikers under me. I was king of my castle.
On one trip to sea, a scientist must have taken pity on me because I didn't have anything to do (I was off-shift in the radio shack), so he showed me how to operate his equipment. It was a radio, photo facsimile set-up, and it fascinated me to be able to capture a picture from a radio signal. He taught me to listen for what a facsimile signal sounds like, and how to tune in to it.
It was the winter of 1962. To get to the ship, it was necessary to pass through the grounds of the Naval Research Lab, and through a large, chain-link gate at the head of the pier. The pier was about 250 feet long, and the Rockville was berthed at the end at a T-junction.
We had to have liberty cards in those days when we left the ship for pleasure ashore. The gate was generally locked after midnight, so if you didn't make it back from liberty on time, the gate had to be scaled; not an easy task to accomplish, this! Especially if it was two or three in the morning and you had been out partying in downtown Washington, D.C.
In the winter, that pier was a torment to cross. Being right on the river and open to the weather, on a blustery evening, the trip to the ship could sober up a guy. When you are twenty-two or twenty-three years old, though, you don't let little things like that stop you. It was rough at times, because our day usually started aboard ship at 5:30 a.m. Weekends were much easier on the health.
Aboard the Hoist, we had a ship's laundry, and turned in our dirty clothes to them to be cleaned and ironed. The Rockville did not have such amenities. One simply stored one's dirty clothes in a "ditty" bag at the foot of one's bunk for a few days, and then made a trip into Alexandria to a laundromat. In emergencies, the sink in the head (that's what a bathroom is called aboard ship) was used.
I used to go to a nice little laundromat I found, about three miles from the ship, within walking distance. There was a bar a few doors down that had a nice atmosphere (not a dive) and a good pool table. Generally, I would get the clothes started, and go next door for a couple of cold beers and some pool. Occasionally, I would check on the clothes, and transfer them to the dryer when needed, then back to the bar for more beer and pool. When the clothes were done, I'd fold them, put them back in the clean ditty bag (I washed it too), and store it behind the bar until I was ready to leave.
During the course of the evening, I would go down the street to a restaurant that made fabulous bean soup and crackers. That became a regular routine with me while we were in port, unless the wicked lights and temptations of downtown D.C. beckoned. That happened often enough also. Let's face it, though, I could only have just so much night-life on a RM3 paycheck.
In the Fall of 1962 we went into the Philadelphia Naval Shipyard for an overhaul and repairs. Gee, how could I get so lucky? In less than two years, and on two different ships, I had to go through that routine again! Again, the ship had to be put up in dry dock, stripped completely of paint, and repainted from stem to stern.
I got a little luckier this time around though. I had to get a driver's license to operate a mail jeep between the post office ashore, and the ship, which was in the yards, completely across town. In addition, I had to drive the commander around town during the day, if he needed me. I made the trip across town at least twice a day, which carried me past such famous spots as the Philadelphia Town Hall, with the Liberty Bell outside; Connie Mack Baseball Stadium (now called Veterans Field, I believe), and the notorious traffic circle at midtown. Additionally, I was able to pinpoint a few of the nicer establishments to frequent in my off-duty hours. That was quite an experience!
After we left the yards, we didn't have such a rigorous shakedown cruise as the Hoist had. We did have a mission to perform in the Atlantic, which involved some testing of sounds by lowering a device on a cable deep into the ocean. The scientists had all kinds of hydrophones and listening devices they checked out. This particular mission was to be sidetracked though, and when I tell you why, you will realize how desperate the situation had become.
Khrushchev began pounding his shoe in the United Nations, and storing missiles in Cuba at about this time. Kennedy was talking blockade. He had backed Khrushchev to the wall and given him an ultimatum to get the missiles out of Cuba. To do this, Kennedy had to have a show of force, blockading the island nation. You guessed it, he called for all ships operating in the area at the time, to head for Cuba, and become part of the blockade.
We didn't even have the advantage of a 40-millimeter antiaircraft gun that the Hoist had. Small arms were the extent of any armed resistance we could offer. Nevertheless, go we did! Fortunately, it was called off before we got there, or the Russians might have split a gut laughing.
The U.S. Navy tests all its enlisted men periodically in two areas, general military knowledge, and job skill. This comes in the form of written examination, and hands-on application in both areas. In order to take these tests, the enlistee must make it known through his chain of command that he is ready to take the test for advancement to the next higher grade. The personnel office will order the tests in that man's name if the executive officer has okayed it. The tests are given twice a year, and you are competing against everyone else in the Navy, trying for that same job skill advancement.
Only a certain percentage of those with the highest grade will advance in rank. That means that you could technically pass the test, but still get passed over for promotion, if someone got a slightly higher test score than you. I neglected to mention that your supervisor (next higher ranking in your skill) submits a written evaluation of your performance, which is also taken into consideration.
Once while I was on the Hoist, and once on the Rockville, I had been asked by my superiors if I wanted them to order the test for my advancement to RM2. Both times, I had declined, saying I didn't think I was ready for that responsibility. After the RM2 on the Rockville had left the ship, I was in charge. I ran the ship's communications for eight months. Naturally, I thought I had gained sufficient skill and knowledge to pass the test, and so, requested the personnel man to order the tests for me.
In late 1962, when it came time to take the test, one rating (job skill) after another was given the test on the mess deck. I kept waiting to be called to the mess deck for testing. When I wasn't called, I went to personnel to find out what had happened. I was told that no test had been ordered for me. I went to my signal officer and asked him to find out what had happened. Shortly thereafter, I was called into the presence of the executive officer (XO), LTJG Nunn, whose job it had been to okay the ordering of the test. My signal officer, a young ensign whose name I cannot now recall, was present. The XO told me he hadn't ordered the test. When I asked him why, he said he didn't think I was ready, and outlined an incident that had happened several months before.
As I recall the incident, the commander was expecting a message to come in on the teletype (subject matter forgotten at this time but unimportant for purposes of this narrative), and when it wasn't forthcoming, he sent the XO to the radio shack to double-check the files for it. He found it in the incoming log of messages, and my junior operator and I, had both initialed off on the teletype copy, as having reviewed the files. The XO called me on the carpet for that one, because I was the senior man.
After looking at the message, I knew why we had missed it. The shore station had readdressed the message incorrectly, and the call letters that we checked for in the heading of every message, had not been inserted. The only way we could have been expected to spot that message was if, like the executive officer, we had known the contents of the text to look for. The XO didn't buy that excuse, so I went to the radio shack and got the appropriate publication, which showed how the shore station should have readdressed the message to us. The XO had to admit that the fault for missing the message was not ours.
Apparently, being shown in black and white that we were not culpable, rankled the man, and his method of getting a pound of flesh from me was to not order my test. This last was to cause irreparable harm shortly.
The Rockville picked up some scientists, and we were off for the coast of the beautiful island of Bermuda; gently rolling seas, clear green water, and lots of white sand and colorful rooftops. The azure of the sky was reflected into our eyes by the gentle rolling of the sea. The mission of the scientists was continuing. We had been operating for several days.
When not on duty, the men lolled around on deck, getting a tan or writing letters home to wives or girlfriends. Some of the men fished. About the only thing that we seemed to attract, though, were sharks. Someone had a bright idea for sport, and talked Cookie (the chief mess cook) into letting the men have some meat to bait hooks for catching the sharks.
Old, orange-colored kapoks were used for floats on the line to keep the line from sinking out of sight beneath the keel. The water was clear as crystal, and one could see to quite a depth.
For days, we caught sharks. They were unpredictable as to when or why they attacked. Sometimes they attacked the brightly colored kapok instead of the meat. The old wives' tale that they had to turn on their back to hit a target on the surface was laid to rest. They can hit you from any angle. When the men landed one, invariable it was drawn up on deck and bludgeoned to death or eviscerated. Some of the men removed the teeth for souvenirs, and one enterprising young man took out the eyes, which he said could be dried out and made into interesting jewelry. This "sport" lasted for about three days, and then we headed in to Bermuda for a little liberty prior to going back to homeport. On the way in, someone caught a pompano and it was prepared for the Captain's meal that evening.
I was granted liberty when we tied up in Bermuda at Hamilton Bay. No one had prepared me for Bermuda. I didn't know that the local populace was black, for example, and it came as a bit of a shock, I suppose, but I don't know why. There are vestiges of prejudice in us all, I guess. Once on shore, I headed for the nearest bar. I wanted to tie on a good one. I was still mad as hell about being denied the opportunity to take the test for promotion. I learned long ago that solace will not come from a bottle. I was only twenty-two at the time and didn't know any better. I think I went to several bars until I found the one that captured my fancy the most.
The decor inside was tropical, the bartender, as black as polished ebony. His lilting speech, rolling off his tongue in the Queens' own English, fascinated me to no end. He played a mean game of Ship, Captain, and Crew also, this latter being a dice game, whereby participants take turns tossing five die to determine who can obtain a ship, a captain, and crew before the other. The winner must get the most crew. The game is played for money, or it can be played for drinks. Ah, that bartender! He was a most genial host. He liked Yankees also, and was generous to a fault with the libation of rum he was serving me. Just what I needed, right? Wrong!
I woke up the next morning in a jail cell. A jail cell is unmistakable in any country. I knew where I was, but I didn't know why. I knew my ship was supposed to get under way for homeport that morning. Hollering did not produce anyone willing to help me. I was pretty disheveled, and my eyes were red and bleary. My uniform was a disgrace also; it looked like I had slept in it, which I had.
My signal officer arrived, tight-lipped and ashen-faced, in late morning to take me before the Magistrate of the Queens' Bench and face my charges. I was placed in the dock, and a jury and three judges dressed in black with (God help me, I thought this was only supposed to happen in movies) white-powdered wigs sitting atop their heads (they weren't even good-fitting wigs), took their places, and the charges were read.
It appears I had broken a glass pane in a door of a house I was trying to enter to see my sister (I had one, but she died before my birth). It was late at night and the black family inside had retired for the night. They must have been terrified when I kept trying to get in. They called the police, and I was picked up.
The family whose home I had tried to break into was there, the arresting officer was there, and the proof of a crime was my quaking body in the dock. How did I wish to plead, the magistrate wanted to know? What choice had I? I plead guilty, naturally. Were their any extenuating circumstances, he wanted to know? Here, my signal officer stood up for me and said how out of character my actions had been, and that my military record bespoke of no derogatory facts until now. He asked for the courts' mercy on my behalf.
My sentence was approximately thirty-five dollars in fines (he said it in pounds and shillings, which I didn't understand), and I was banned from returning to Bermuda for the next twenty-five years, unless I first received permission from the Bermudan government. My signal officer paid the fine, and I was taken back aboard ship, a very crestfallen young man. It wasn't over yet.
Back aboard ship, I was allowed to clean up and make myself presentable. Then I was called before the commanding officer for a Captains' Mast. The captain gave me a monetary fine (I forget how much it was now), and reduced me to radioman striker.
I had been the chief radioman aboard that ship for over nine months, with three men working for me. Now I had to take orders from them because they all outranked me. I knew more about the operation of that radio shack than any of them and they knew it so they did not boss me around. They could have, had they wanted to, made my life miserable. I had always been fair to them, however, and pulled my just share of the workload. They felt sorry for what had happened to me.
The situation was actually very untenable for me. I had three months to go until my discharge/reenlistment date. When the last day had arrived, I chose to get out rather than try to salvage that military career. In April of 1963, I saluted the ensign at the stern of the Rockville, and the quarterdeck watch officer, and asked permission to go ashore. I was a civilian again.
by John E. Hunt 75031,2735
Copyrighted 1996
At this time, I haven't a market for this book. It is a work of love, detailing events that have happened to me in my lifetime, as a boy and a man. I appreciate anyone critiquing this work, and especially this chapter, because I think the chapter starts great but could be presented more strongly - I'm not comfortable with it.
C HA P T E R 04
(1961-1963)
The lights hurt my eyes and someone kept asking me questions. I didn't understand all of it. I hurt! I slept, and maybe I died. "Hail Mary, ... grace, ... Lord is with thee ... Blessed ... women and ... fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Pray ... and at hour of our death, Amen."
The priest, he's giving me the last rites! I've seen him do that before! There's my mother and brother . . .Why doesn't Harold look at me?
God! I hurt all over! ....I know where I am now! It was a hospital ward and I'd been hurt. "Here's Mom and Harold again. He is still avoiding my eyes and leaves the room a lot." What happened? No one would tell me anything! We had a car accident! "Is everyone okay?" "Yeah, don't worry." "Your job is to get better."
I saw myself in the bathroom mirror on day four, after being helped out of bed. Then I knew why my brother wasn't looking at me. Mom was full of smiles, but she must have been hurting like hell inside to see me all busted up like that. I was thrown from the back seat, through the front windshield, and the car came to rest on the back of my neck. I had compound facial fractures, with my nose and upper jaw being broken in several places. I was wired together with what is called a Barton Cap. I would not be able to open my mouth for about six weeks. My meals were taken through a straw.
What happened to my boss? He got a broken hip and leg. He was worried I might sue, so he sent his girl friend, a pretty brunette, to make small talk, and keep me company during the day. She was nice, and good at distracting me. The Quartermaster? I found out later that he took the steering wheel through the chest. He had a wife and two teenagers too. She wrote me later. She didn't understand what had happened, but did not hold me to blame. God, I felt terrible reading her letter! What do you say to a grieving wife, and mother of two teens, who has just had her life torn asunder? How to explain it? Her husband was older than I was, and I suppose one could say he knew what he was doing. That doesn't make it any easier to swallow though.
Eventually, I was well enough to leave the hospital and go home to convalesce. They wouldn't let me go until I was made to understand that I must wear a scissors tied around my neck twenty-four hours a day, until the rubber bands came off my jaws. That was to prevent me from choking to death if I were to regurgitate. An airway could be cleared by cutting the bands.
When the bands came off, I was assigned to temporary duty until a new assignment became available. The temporary duty involved being a prisoner chaser at the brig (jail) on the Naval base. I was issued a loaded, 45-caliber pistol, helmet, night stick, and webbed belt. My job was to escort the prisoners, day and night, any time they had to leave the cell blocks. I also had to account for silverware at meals, razors in the morning (we watched them shave), and in general, maintain order and discipline among the inmates.
Most of the prisoners were in for petty crimes like AWOL (absent without leave), shoplifting, failure to obey a lawful order, etc. Some, however, were doing hard time for rape or murder. They're the ones who had me worried. I had just gotten out of the hospital with a broken jaw, and look what kind of assignment they gave me! I sometimes thought, if one of those hard cases had turned and stared real hard, my jaw would have broken again!
I only had one bad moment. It was on a wash detail one day, when a prisoner began teasing me, and threatening to run away. I told him to go ahead, that I wouldn't chase him, but would just shoot him in the back. He didn't know how to take that, so he stayed. It was a bluff, though. They gave you the equipment, but told you if you shot one of your charges, you'd end up in the brig in his stead.
My permanent assignment orders came in, and in the Spring of 1962, I reported to the USS Rockville, EPCER-851 (Experimental Patrol Craft Escort-Rescue) based at the U.S. Naval Research Laboratory, Alexandria, Virginia, which is just outside our nation's capital, Washington, D.C.
The mission of the ship was to support the research of the scientists at the Naval Research Lab. They were testing equipment for listening to sounds underwater. Our job was to take them to the various locations they used, such places as Bermuda, and the Tongue-Of-The-Ocean, in the Caribbean.
My job was essentially the same as it had been aboard the USS Hoist. I had to keep the radio telecommunications equipment operational, maintain proper logs of incoming and outgoing message traffic, and encode and decode messages for the commander. When I first reported aboard, there was a second class radioman in charge of the radio shack. I made third class petty officer shortly before reporting aboard, and shortly after that, the second class left the ship. I had my own radio shack, with a subordinate third class, and two radioman strikers under me. I was king of my castle.
On one trip to sea, a scientist must have taken pity on me because I didn't have anything to do (I was off-shift in the radio shack), so he showed me how to operate his equipment. It was a radio, photo facsimile set-up, and it fascinated me to be able to capture a picture from a radio signal. He taught me to listen for what a facsimile signal sounds like, and how to tune in to it.
It was the winter of 1962. To get to the ship, it was necessary to pass through the grounds of the Naval Research Lab, and through a large, chain-link gate at the head of the pier. The pier was about 250 feet long, and the Rockville was berthed at the end at a T-junction.
We had to have liberty cards in those days when we left the ship for pleasure ashore. The gate was generally locked after midnight, so if you didn't make it back from liberty on time, the gate had to be scaled; not an easy task to accomplish, this! Especially if it was two or three in the morning and you had been out partying in downtown Washington, D.C.
In the winter, that pier was a torment to cross. Being right on the river and open to the weather, on a blustery evening, the trip to the ship could sober up a guy. When you are twenty-two or twenty-three years old, though, you don't let little things like that stop you. It was rough at times, because our day usually started aboard ship at 5:30 a.m. Weekends were much easier on the health.
Aboard the Hoist, we had a ship's laundry, and turned in our dirty clothes to them to be cleaned and ironed. The Rockville did not have such amenities. One simply stored one's dirty clothes in a "ditty" bag at the foot of one's bunk for a few days, and then made a trip into Alexandria to a laundromat. In emergencies, the sink in the head (that's what a bathroom is called aboard ship) was used.
I used to go to a nice little laundromat I found, about three miles from the ship, within walking distance. There was a bar a few doors down that had a nice atmosphere (not a dive) and a good pool table. Generally, I would get the clothes started, and go next door for a couple of cold beers and some pool. Occasionally, I would check on the clothes, and transfer them to the dryer when needed, then back to the bar for more beer and pool. When the clothes were done, I'd fold them, put them back in the clean ditty bag (I washed it too), and store it behind the bar until I was ready to leave.
During the course of the evening, I would go down the street to a restaurant that made fabulous bean soup and crackers. That became a regular routine with me while we were in port, unless the wicked lights and temptations of downtown D.C. beckoned. That happened often enough also. Let's face it, though, I could only have just so much night-life on a RM3 paycheck.
In the Fall of 1962 we went into the Philadelphia Naval Shipyard for an overhaul and repairs. Gee, how could I get so lucky? In less than two years, and on two different ships, I had to go through that routine again! Again, the ship had to be put up in dry dock, stripped completely of paint, and repainted from stem to stern.
I got a little luckier this time around though. I had to get a driver's license to operate a mail jeep between the post office ashore, and the ship, which was in the yards, completely across town. In addition, I had to drive the commander around town during the day, if he needed me. I made the trip across town at least twice a day, which carried me past such famous spots as the Philadelphia Town Hall, with the Liberty Bell outside; Connie Mack Baseball Stadium (now called Veterans Field, I believe), and the notorious traffic circle at midtown. Additionally, I was able to pinpoint a few of the nicer establishments to frequent in my off-duty hours. That was quite an experience!
After we left the yards, we didn't have such a rigorous shakedown cruise as the Hoist had. We did have a mission to perform in the Atlantic, which involved some testing of sounds by lowering a device on a cable deep into the ocean. The scientists had all kinds of hydrophones and listening devices they checked out. This particular mission was to be sidetracked though, and when I tell you why, you will realize how desperate the situation had become.
Khrushchev began pounding his shoe in the United Nations, and storing missiles in Cuba at about this time. Kennedy was talking blockade. He had backed Khrushchev to the wall and given him an ultimatum to get the missiles out of Cuba. To do this, Kennedy had to have a show of force, blockading the island nation. You guessed it, he called for all ships operating in the area at the time, to head for Cuba, and become part of the blockade.
We didn't even have the advantage of a 40-millimeter antiaircraft gun that the Hoist had. Small arms were the extent of any armed resistance we could offer. Nevertheless, go we did! Fortunately, it was called off before we got there, or the Russians might have split a gut laughing.
The U.S. Navy tests all its enlisted men periodically in two areas, general military knowledge, and job skill. This comes in the form of written examination, and hands-on application in both areas. In order to take these tests, the enlistee must make it known through his chain of command that he is ready to take the test for advancement to the next higher grade. The personnel office will order the tests in that man's name if the executive officer has okayed it. The tests are given twice a year, and you are competing against everyone else in the Navy, trying for that same job skill advancement.
Only a certain percentage of those with the highest grade will advance in rank. That means that you could technically pass the test, but still get passed over for promotion, if someone got a slightly higher test score than you. I neglected to mention that your supervisor (next higher ranking in your skill) submits a written evaluation of your performance, which is also taken into consideration.
Once while I was on the Hoist, and once on the Rockville, I had been asked by my superiors if I wanted them to order the test for my advancement to RM2. Both times, I had declined, saying I didn't think I was ready for that responsibility. After the RM2 on the Rockville had left the ship, I was in charge. I ran the ship's communications for eight months. Naturally, I thought I had gained sufficient skill and knowledge to pass the test, and so, requested the personnel man to order the tests for me.
In late 1962, when it came time to take the test, one rating (job skill) after another was given the test on the mess deck. I kept waiting to be called to the mess deck for testing. When I wasn't called, I went to personnel to find out what had happened. I was told that no test had been ordered for me. I went to my signal officer and asked him to find out what had happened. Shortly thereafter, I was called into the presence of the executive officer (XO), LTJG Nunn, whose job it had been to okay the ordering of the test. My signal officer, a young ensign whose name I cannot now recall, was present. The XO told me he hadn't ordered the test. When I asked him why, he said he didn't think I was ready, and outlined an incident that had happened several months before.
As I recall the incident, the commander was expecting a message to come in on the teletype (subject matter forgotten at this time but unimportant for purposes of this narrative), and when it wasn't forthcoming, he sent the XO to the radio shack to double-check the files for it. He found it in the incoming log of messages, and my junior operator and I, had both initialed off on the teletype copy, as having reviewed the files. The XO called me on the carpet for that one, because I was the senior man.
After looking at the message, I knew why we had missed it. The shore station had readdressed the message incorrectly, and the call letters that we checked for in the heading of every message, had not been inserted. The only way we could have been expected to spot that message was if, like the executive officer, we had known the contents of the text to look for. The XO didn't buy that excuse, so I went to the radio shack and got the appropriate publication, which showed how the shore station should have readdressed the message to us. The XO had to admit that the fault for missing the message was not ours.
Apparently, being shown in black and white that we were not culpable, rankled the man, and his method of getting a pound of flesh from me was to not order my test. This last was to cause irreparable harm shortly.
The Rockville picked up some scientists, and we were off for the coast of the beautiful island of Bermuda; gently rolling seas, clear green water, and lots of white sand and colorful rooftops. The azure of the sky was reflected into our eyes by the gentle rolling of the sea. The mission of the scientists was continuing. We had been operating for several days.
When not on duty, the men lolled around on deck, getting a tan or writing letters home to wives or girlfriends. Some of the men fished. About the only thing that we seemed to attract, though, were sharks. Someone had a bright idea for sport, and talked Cookie (the chief mess cook) into letting the men have some meat to bait hooks for catching the sharks.
Old, orange-colored kapoks were used for floats on the line to keep the line from sinking out of sight beneath the keel. The water was clear as crystal, and one could see to quite a depth.
For days, we caught sharks. They were unpredictable as to when or why they attacked. Sometimes they attacked the brightly colored kapok instead of the meat. The old wives' tale that they had to turn on their back to hit a target on the surface was laid to rest. They can hit you from any angle. When the men landed one, invariable it was drawn up on deck and bludgeoned to death or eviscerated. Some of the men removed the teeth for souvenirs, and one enterprising young man took out the eyes, which he said could be dried out and made into interesting jewelry. This "sport" lasted for about three days, and then we headed in to Bermuda for a little liberty prior to going back to homeport. On the way in, someone caught a pompano and it was prepared for the Captain's meal that evening.
I was granted liberty when we tied up in Bermuda at Hamilton Bay. No one had prepared me for Bermuda. I didn't know that the local populace was black, for example, and it came as a bit of a shock, I suppose, but I don't know why. There are vestiges of prejudice in us all, I guess. Once on shore, I headed for the nearest bar. I wanted to tie on a good one. I was still mad as hell about being denied the opportunity to take the test for promotion. I learned long ago that solace will not come from a bottle. I was only twenty-two at the time and didn't know any better. I think I went to several bars until I found the one that captured my fancy the most.
The decor inside was tropical, the bartender, as black as polished ebony. His lilting speech, rolling off his tongue in the Queens' own English, fascinated me to no end. He played a mean game of Ship, Captain, and Crew also, this latter being a dice game, whereby participants take turns tossing five die to determine who can obtain a ship, a captain, and crew before the other. The winner must get the most crew. The game is played for money, or it can be played for drinks. Ah, that bartender! He was a most genial host. He liked Yankees also, and was generous to a fault with the libation of rum he was serving me. Just what I needed, right? Wrong!
I woke up the next morning in a jail cell. A jail cell is unmistakable in any country. I knew where I was, but I didn't know why. I knew my ship was supposed to get under way for homeport that morning. Hollering did not produce anyone willing to help me. I was pretty disheveled, and my eyes were red and bleary. My uniform was a disgrace also; it looked like I had slept in it, which I had.
My signal officer arrived, tight-lipped and ashen-faced, in late morning to take me before the Magistrate of the Queens' Bench and face my charges. I was placed in the dock, and a jury and three judges dressed in black with (God help me, I thought this was only supposed to happen in movies) white-powdered wigs sitting atop their heads (they weren't even good-fitting wigs), took their places, and the charges were read.
It appears I had broken a glass pane in a door of a house I was trying to enter to see my sister (I had one, but she died before my birth). It was late at night and the black family inside had retired for the night. They must have been terrified when I kept trying to get in. They called the police, and I was picked up.
The family whose home I had tried to break into was there, the arresting officer was there, and the proof of a crime was my quaking body in the dock. How did I wish to plead, the magistrate wanted to know? What choice had I? I plead guilty, naturally. Were their any extenuating circumstances, he wanted to know? Here, my signal officer stood up for me and said how out of character my actions had been, and that my military record bespoke of no derogatory facts until now. He asked for the courts' mercy on my behalf.
My sentence was approximately thirty-five dollars in fines (he said it in pounds and shillings, which I didn't understand), and I was banned from returning to Bermuda for the next twenty-five years, unless I first received permission from the Bermudan government. My signal officer paid the fine, and I was taken back aboard ship, a very crestfallen young man. It wasn't over yet.
Back aboard ship, I was allowed to clean up and make myself presentable. Then I was called before the commanding officer for a Captains' Mast. The captain gave me a monetary fine (I forget how much it was now), and reduced me to radioman striker.
I had been the chief radioman aboard that ship for over nine months, with three men working for me. Now I had to take orders from them because they all outranked me. I knew more about the operation of that radio shack than any of them and they knew it so they did not boss me around. They could have, had they wanted to, made my life miserable. I had always been fair to them, however, and pulled my just share of the workload. They felt sorry for what had happened to me.
The situation was actually very untenable for me. I had three months to go until my discharge/reenlistment date. When the last day had arrived, I chose to get out rather than try to salvage that military career. In April of 1963, I saluted the ensign at the stern of the Rockville, and the quarterdeck watch officer, and asked permission to go ashore. I was a civilian again.
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