R.J. Cantwell Fiction/Korea
43635 Millwood Est. No. Words
Dunlap, CA 93621 80,000
(209) 336-2477 Unpublished manuscript - 1994
RE: A & A Literary Consultant
INCHON
1955 - 1957
by
R.J. Cantwell
For Choi Keun, Kim Sang Tae, and for Barbie
This story is neither fact nor fiction. It is based upon memories, either accurate or otherwise, and told through the eyes of a fictitious character who does not represent the author but rather a man the author wishes he could have been. Names of American participants have been changed to protect the innocent. Names of the Korean participants are accurate to the best of the author's memory.
WINTER 1955-56
Chapter 1
The little boy peered cautiously out from behind the sagging wooden fence which surrounded the American mess hall. The small of urine permeated the air. A forty-watt bulb swung violently with each fresh gust of wind, sending eerie shadows dancing across the yard. Beyond the fence, a sentry trudged through foot-deep snow. It was dark out and very cold, and the boy hoped the sentry would not linger long at his rounds. He tugged nervously at the ragged ends of his jacket and watched. Inside, his stomach churned uneasily, trying to digest a piece of frozen potato peel he'd found buried among the tin cans and coffee grounds which filled the open can marked NON-EDIBLE GARBAGE.
At last, the sentry faded into the darkness and the boy was alone. He crouched back and listened. All was quiet. Only the high pitch of the wind disturbed the night. He slipped through the broken slats of the fence and out into the field. High above, the moon's bright image bathed the field, turning the fresh-fallen snow into myriads of luminescent crystals and over all, a blanket of blue pervaded with only the boy's tiny, creeping figure to mar its elegance.
Inchon, Korea; December 1955:
The little boy slid down the embankment and into a ditch which ran parallel to the road past the American Military Police guard shack, known as George Gate. It was almost completely hidden by the high banks of snow but, here and there, an exposed bit of frozen earth shown through, jagged and black. He crouched low in the ditch and began to follow its course as much by feel as by sight. He plowed ahead until he reached the decaying hulk of a tank that marked the halfway point to the guard shack. He would rest here for a moment under the leeward side where the winds could not reach him. He would rest but not sleep, though sleep pulled heavy on his eyes. He wouldn't sleep until he was safely past the guard shack.
Inside George Gate, a soldier leaned over a small wooden table and peered out through the frosted window, wiping a clear circle on it with his hand.
"Christ, what a night!" he observed, looking out at the huge flakes of snow being driven against the shack, "I'd sure hate to be out in this!"
His companion, a corporal, nodded his head and grunted. He was reading the Pacific Edition of the "Stars and Stripes," November issue. His feet were propped up on the table in front of the window.
The soldier suddenly straightened as a tiny shadow appeared outside. "Hey, Smith, there's a kid out there!"
"So?" Corporal Smith lowered his paper and winced as the soldier opened the door, sending swirls of snow to deposit on the floor near his feet.
Outside, the wind whipped the bottom of the soldier's parka around his knees, and his huge shadow fell upon the boy, paralyzing him. He bent down, lifted the boy and carried him into the shack. The heat from the pot-bellied stove was stifling and the boy felt he would suffocate as he stood rooted to the floor.
"Ugly lookin' kid," Corporal Smith remarked.
"He looks sick," the soldier exclaimed. "Look at his face and . . . God-damn, look at his feet! They look like they're dead!"
Smith screwed his face up in disgust and looked down at the grotesque, blue-grey stumps that served as the boy's feet.
"You'd better kick him outta' here," he said, "He might have some kinda' disease or somethin'."
The soldier's mouth dropped open. "Smith, we can't kick him out in that storm. He'll die out there."
"They ain't supposed to be in here," Smith reminded him, looking nervously down at the boy.
"Smith . .?" the soldier pleaded.
But Corporal Smith had already returned to his newspaper and the matter was closed.
"Couldn't we at least give him a sandwich or something?" the soldier asked.
"Go ahead, give him whatever you want. It's your lunch."
The little boy began to perspire. His feet had started to ache now as the heat in the room forced blood downward, toward vessels which had long since atrophied. He looked up as the big soldier approached and thrust a sandwich into his small, trembling hands. Food! Food enough to last for days if necessary. His mind swam wildly at the sweet odor of the bread.
The two soldiers began talking again. The door was only a few feet away. If he could reach it in time. . .
The gust of wind that plowed through the shack, startled the soldiers as the boy dashed for freedom.
"There, you see!" Smith exclaimed. "He didn't want to stay in here, anyway."
Outside, the boy ran swiftly, the sandwich clutched to his chest. The fast falling snow blinded him but panic drove him on. His eyes had not adjusted to the dark and he did not hear the others when they struck. He was knocked to the ground with the first blow and the sandwich was wrenched from his grasp. He was struck again and again, until the figures above him whirled in and out of focus. Frantically, he lunged out and caught one of the
figures by the pant-leg and hung on grimly while the others pummelled him into senselessness.
The boy lay, face down in the snow, tears mingling with the blood and mucus on his face. As the fog of unconsciousness lifted, he heard the voice of the big soldier and a bean of light began probing its way through the
blackness toward him. His panic rose again. Forcing himself to his feet, he fled into the night.
* * *
The blizzard died down with the passing of the clouds and the cold, crisp landscape took on the glow of a blue and silver mirage. Above, the stars began to reappear like salt crystals in the sky.
The dull ache in the boy's limbs were added to by the pain in his side where he'd been kicked, and his breathing seemed more labored now. He climbed stiffly down into the ditch and, spreading the snow at the bottom, curled up and closed his eyes. Sleep came hard and the nagging pains accompanied him into his fitful slumber. He dreamed of a large thatched and wooden farmhouse with a warm floor heated by a stove placed just beneath the spot he lay. There were other children too, all sleeping with him under the
same huge quilted blanket. A woman was there; a beautiful woman, warm and sympathetic, who would rub his head and gently sing him stories by the
ancient candlelight of their room. And then, the dream changed. There was noise and fire and screams and then . . . loneliness.
During the night, the snow fell again. It settled quickly, obliterating the grey, frozen streets of the city and the temperatures dipped low, so low the earth itself contracted in the chill.
* * *
The big soldier shivered in the early morning chill as he hurried to finish his rounds at the end of the lot near the guard shack. The January thaw had begun and the ice crystals in the soil were melting, leaving the streets a quagmire of ooze and mud. He jumped the ditch near the edge of the road, then stopped short as a patch of mud and rags caught his eye.
The battered head of the little boy, still frozen in sleep, peered out grotesquely. He lay on his side, his knees drawn up under his chin. Traces of the snow that had buried him earlier still lay on his clothes as though unwilling to give up its protective shroud. A man passed, wearing quilted trousers and rubber iddewah shoes and smiled as the soldier looked up. Others followed his example, seemingly undisturbed by the tiny corpse.
* * *
Corporal Smith looked up as the soldier entered the guard shack. "What's the matter?" he asked, seeing the look on his face.
"Remember that kid . . the one I gave the sandwich to awhile back?" The soldier's voice was no more than a whisper.
"Smith yawned and returned to his paper. "Yeah, what about him?"
"He's dead. Froze out in the ditch."
"Is that right?" Smith drawled without looking up. "He's probably better off."
The soldier nodded. He looked down at the mud on his boots, then sighed and walked over to look out the window.
The sun was up completely now, illuminating George Gate so its whitewashed walls gleamed brightly against the grey background of mud and rock. Across the street, a gaunt little boy began rummaging through an open garbage can.
Chapter 2
A 105mm shell fell three-hundred yards away from a railroad bridge which valiantly stood across the Han River, leading into Seoul. The shell exploded in a ditch, sending dirt and shrapnel whining through the air with abandoned fury. The atmosphere, charged with electrons, lay motionless and silent waiting for the next explosion that would send them hurtling recklessly through the air again.
Two officers of the ROK Army, stumbled frantically across the bridge, their faces frozen with strain. Another shell erupted close by, but its explosive power was blunted by the river's depth.
At the far end of the bridge, sitting astride one of the steel tracks, was an old man. His tall hat, white quilted trousers and long, stringy white beard marked his as an elder and head of his household. Only his household and family were gone now. They had gone on with the other refugees. He sat alone, head bent to one side, and gazed sadly across the river at the falling shells.
The two officers approached and stopped short at sight of the bent figure. "Yah, old man, get up!" the officers shouted.
The old man nodded his head but said nothing.
"Yah, old man, hurry! You must get up!"
The old man wagged his head in response, but did not move.
"Hurry, come with us!" the one officer, who name was Choi Keun, shouted. Thinking the old man was deaf, he reached down and grabbed the old man's jacket and motioned for him to get up and follow.
"My home is across the river, " the old man said in a faltering voice.
"There is no home there now," the officer said and tried to haul the old patriarch to his feet.
But the old man wouldn't move. He shook his head resolutely and repeated: "My home is across the river."
"You cannot go back across the river and you cannot stay here," the officer screamed. "You'll be killed."
But the old man either didn't understand, or refused to understand and slumped back down onto the steel rail.
"Leave him!" the second officer cried out in anguish as another shell struck close by, sending shivers along the rigid steel girders of the bridge. The first officer hunched and shielded his face with his arm, then let the old man slump back down. He stared down at him for a moment, shook his head, then hurried off.
The old man watched them only briefly as they scurried off and then turned back to the falling shells across the river. His mind wandered in and
out of focus. He was thinking of his home and of the life he had produced there.
Up on a hill a half mile away, the two officers stopped and looked back. In the valley of the Han, next to the bridge, the old man was only a speck of white against the grey, muddy background. As they watched, a shell struck very close to the far end of the bridge where a terminal shack stood only moments before. It disappeared in a tangle of orange and black and, near it, the bridge began its slow, sagging descent into the river below. The old man still remained motionless.
"He must be crazy!" the second officer said, looking down at the stubborn, pitiful speck of humanity.
"He's just old and tired," the first officer said.
"He's old and he's crazy!" his companion said, "come on, let's get out of here!"
Chapter 3
The four fishermen pulled desperately at the rudder-oar of their junk. Their faces were taut with strain as they struggled to control the craft. The incoming tide, together with the driving winds, was carrying them closer and closer to the forbidden area. The sea was rough and high, and cold waves and salt spray broke over the gunwales soaking the men without pity.
Lee Chin Ho leaned forward to grasp the torn sail that was flapping in the wind, but he could not reach it.
"Yah, Min! See if you can furl the sail and tie it down," he yelled at his cousin.
"It is too far up for me to reach," Min yelled back, his voice barely audible above the howling winds.
"You must!" Lee cried, "We will surely be caught if we cannot turn out of this tide."
"It is impossible," min replied. He looked back over his shoulder at the ominous, black clouds which were bearing down on them from the east. They were high, billowy and charged with electricity. At the top, they flattened out into an anvil-shaped cumulo-nimbus; the dreaded thunderhead.
Lee, too, saw the approaching storm and knew they must turn out of the tide or be carried inexorably into the forbidden area.
"I am stupid!" he scolded himself, "I am so stupid! I should have listened to Min and forgotten the fish we could not find. Now I am losing control and if we are caught . . .
He glanced down at his two sons who were struggling to maintain their positions at the rudder-oar. The eldest was holding his own, but the little one was visibly exhausted. His thin features mirrored the years of war in which food was difficult to obtain and he fed at his mother's breast until he was four. As a result, he was smaller than he should have been for his age, and it was necessary for Lee to be stern and encourage him to build his strength. For he knew, if the boy was not strong enough in this land, he would surely die.
"The storm is nearly on us!" Min shouted, looking back at the sheets of rain and sleet which were bearing down in their wake.
"Pull harder!" Lee gasped, "We must pull harder!"
The squall struck then, unleashing its pent-up fury upon the fragile vessel. The mast creaked ominously as the tiny boat rolled and pitched among the angry waves. The sleet and rain bore down against the battered sail, propelling the ancient craft forward and out of control.
The little one clung grimly to the rudder-oar, his face masked with determination. The sleet falling on his head froze to his hair and his hands grew numb at the oar. His body ached and he wished he were strong like the others. When at last his muscles betrayed him, he loosened his grip and collapsed in humiliation on the deck, his knees drawn up under his chin.
The eldest son slumped to the deck soon after and, together, they sat despondent, having failed their father in his hour of need. Lee and Min held on tenaciously but they realized now they could no longer hold out against the storm.
"You were my friend once," Lee grumbled to the sea, "Now you destroy me. My sons are wet and cold; they will get the sickness. We will all get the sickness. If we are caught, we'll go to jail.
He sat down next to the rudder-oar, his arm crooked over the time-worn handle. "I'm stupid. I deserve to go to jail. But my sons; what have I done to them? Aiyaah! Why did I not read the clouds? They were dark and heavy with storm. They told me to forget the fish and go home. They told me. My sons told me. Min told me; go home; it is late and there are no more fish left in the sea for me to catch."
The boys fell asleep, huddled against each other for warmth. They were exhausted and Lee knew he'd driven them beyond their strength. Min dozed off soon after, his head resting on the gunwales, his hair plastered down in strands across his lined features. Only he could not sleep. He tormented himself with self-pity and remorse at his failures. "I cannot feed my family; I cannot clothe my family; I cannot keep them warm. What has happened to us? It was not like this in my father's time. We were warm; we knew little fear and even less discomfort. What has happened?"
The squall continued to assault the craft, as though to strip it of its dignity. It drove down relentlessly, forcing the craft ever closer to the
forbidden area. The junk lurched and danced, its gunwales nearly awash, its timbers creaking and complaining oabstinently.
An hour passed and the wind and rain slackened. Stars began to appear as the dark clouds moved westward across the peninsula. The storm would strike the same way on land only the results would be different. Mud would slide, homes would crumble, and the people would add another complaint to a score of miseries of which Lee was only too well aware.
The junk pitched and rolled more easily now, slowed by the calming waves. Lee's spirits should have been lifted by the passing of the storm, but they were not. He still had to contend with the fast moving tide and torn sail. He looked down at his sleeping sons. They'd done well, perhaps better than some men he'd known. But the chill had settled deeply into their bones and he knew if they caught the sickness, especially the little one, they would die and he would have no sons to carry on when he was gone. He leaned over and picked up a couple of burlap bags that were partly hidden behind the gunwales and wrung out the wet ends. He layed them gently over the huddled forms of his sons. "They'll make it," he assured himself, "They must! They are my life!"
An hour passed. Min awoke and peered out over the bow. He was stiff from the awkward position he'd assumed during sleep and, from the cold night air which had come so close to killing them all. Ahead, a light flickered faintly in the distance. He rubbed his eyes and squinted out over the bow again. The light seemed to beckon to him through the still, heavy air and the boat moved toward it as though drawn by an invisible force.
"Lee!" he called out hoarsely, "There is a light."
Lee stood up, steadying himself on the rudder-oar, and peered over the bow in the direction Min was pointing. In the distance, the light flickered then faded then flickered again through the mist. "Yes!" he said, "I can see it."
He stumbled over and roused the boys. "There is a light," he told them, "Come, see for yourselves."
The boys rose obediently and followed their father to the bow where Min was keeling. They felt weak and unsteady on their legs and the strain of the night was still written painfully on their faces.
"See?" Min cried, pointing straight ahead across the bow, "We are heading right for it."
Through the mist that lay low over the water, the boys could see the light far off in the distance. The four men stared at it for several minutes as though transfixed. Lee wondered if the light would be of their village. If not, it would be of the forbidden area."It is still many hours before dawn," he thought, "Perhaps, if it is the forbidden area, we will be able to hide in the dark until we can repair the sail. Then we can sail back out without being caught."
He went back to the rudder-oar and looked over at Min and his sons. "Let us hurry and beach the boat so we can repair the sail before we are seen."
"Do you think it is the forbidden area?" Min asked, looking apprehensively first up at Lee and then back out toward the light.
"I do not know," Lee said, "But we must be cautious."
The men readied themselves along the rudder-oar and began the slow, monotonous movement back and forth that would guide and propel the little craft toward the shore. Lee noted with pride that his youngest son had again taken his place at the rudder-oar.
They rocked back and forth rhythmically, steering the junk in the direction of the light. As they neared, a second light flickered farther back and, through the mist, they could see a wooden pier looming up, its pileons nearly awash with the waxing tide. They slowed their efforts and then stopped as the tide took over and carried them swiftly toward the dock. They squinted and peered about, unable to discern any familiar landmarks.
"What do you think?" Min asked, his voice hushed and uncertain.
"I do not know," Lee answered, "Let us wait and see."
"Will we be caught, father?" the youngest son asked. There was fear and anxiety in his voice and he could not prevent it from shaking.
"Have heart, my son. Never show fear unless you have reason."
The boy hung his head in shame and then looked over to see if his brother had witnessed his loss of face. But the older boy was busy watching the shoreline as they approached.
"Min?" Lee called over to him softly, "Go to the bow and prepare to make fast the lines so we do not drift beyond the pier."
Min went forward and stood near the point of the bow where the hawser lines were coiled. He picked one of the lines up and stood waiting to get within range to jump out and onto the pier. He straightened suddenly, and without a sound, toppled over backward into the water almost before the others had heard the shot. A second burst followed almost immediately, sending the eldest son careening against the rudder-oar and into the sea while the little one fell to the deck, sprawling brokenly at his father's feet.
Lee stood rooted in shock, stunned by the suddenness of the attack. His eyes riveted on the two small holes that stained his son's back. His mouth opened spasmodically as if to protest when a third volley cut him down. He fell forward onto the deck, his blood mingling with that of his son's.
The soldier on the dock pulled the empty banana-clip from its position on the carbine and replaced it with another. A shock of red hair peeked out from beneath his pile cap and showed starkly against the whiteness of his youthful face. He had seen them coming and had crouched behind one of the warehouse shacks until they had come within range. He smiled wryly to himself as he watched the junk drift back and forth with each ebb and flow of the waves. He was thinking about the reactions of his companions back in the barracks when they learned of his daring feat.
Chapter 4
The trucks rolled down the road in a python-like column, their muddy tracks defiling the freshly fallen snow. Inside, the men huddled together in a vain effort to keep warm. The wind that had risen earlier in the morning had died away, but the twenty degree chill in the air persisted and it was damp. The kind of dampness that penetrates the blood, the bones and finally the brain, leaving it numb and lethargic.
Phillip Steiner pulled a cigarette from its container and struck a match to it. He pulled deeply at it and squinted out at the blinding white of the snow. It stretched for miles with only an occasional farmhouse of wood and paper nestled in among the rice paddies. Not one tree or bush was evident.
They had left the Inchon City limits where the muddy streets ran up to the very doors of the homes and scantily dressed children had run along behind the trucks, their middle fingers held aloft, and shouted: "G.I. go home! Go home, bastard G.I." And then: "Got gum, G.I.? Got candy?"
"What's the matter with them kids, anyway?" a soldier had asked of his companions, "Didn't they know who we was?"
The column slowed as they neared a narrow bridge that crossed a tributary of the Han River.
"Ahh, these Gooks don't appreciate nothin'." another soldier answered.
"After all we done for 'em too, the little bastards!" a third joined in.
"Maybe they didn't recognize who we were," offered the first.
"Ahh balls!" exclaimed the second whose name was Gordon, "They recognized us alright."
"I'll bet these people don't even appreciate what all we done for 'em," the third man said disgustedly.
"They ain't people!" Gordon snorted, "They're Gooks! Slope-headed, slant-eyed, sneaky Gooks!"
Steiner glanced back at the four men, all of whom occupied the bench opposite his. He could only barely make out their features in the gloom of the truck. "Maybe we're not the conquering heroes we thought we were," he said softly.
"Balls!" Gordon retorted. He sneered and turned his back on him.
Below the bridge, a girl, her skirt pulled just above her knees, squatted beside the trickling stream. She was washing clothes near the edge where she had cleared the ice away. She was bare-footed and not warmly dressed. A soldier in the truck ahead of Steiner's leaned out and commented lewdly. But the girl did not hear and the noise of the trucks drowned out the ensuing laughter.
Steiner drew in another deep drag on his cigarette and looked down for a brief moment at the girl. She continued to wash the clothes, pounding them roughly with a flat rock in the time-honored custom. She did not bother to look up as the convoy passed.
* * *
It was after midnight when the sleepy military police guards motioned the trucks onto the causeway that led to Wolmi-Do Island. The tide was out and Steiner could see the grey-brown mud flats of Inchon Harbor that separated the Island from the mainland. A searchlight probed the mud flats at the far end of the causeway in slow, sweeping arcs, exposing decaying hulks of American landing craft and other debris that littered the harbor floor.
The trucks ground to a stop in front of a group of low-lying Quonset huts. Nearby, were a canvas covered jeep and an armored car with a fifty caliber machine gun mounted on a turret above. A sign in front of the orderly room read: "8224th A.U. Military Police Detachment."
Steiner was the first to climb down from the truck. He pulled his duffle bag down and leaned it against his leg and waited for the other men to unload.
The company clerk, a corporal named Norton, was the only one to meet them. He was a small, squirrelish man with a very light complexion scarred by pits of acne. Steiner and five other men were assigned bunks in the first platoon quonset hut. Inside, two pot-bellied stoves burned cheerily. At the far end of the hut, some men had erected a Christmas tree of bent coat hangars and had decorated it with patches and insignias representing the various units billeted around Inchon. On either side of the tree, two men lay sleeping, their gear strewn in disarray beside their bunks. All other bunks were empty and without linen. The six men chose mutually agreeable bunks
and began transferring their equipment from duffle bag to foot locker and arranging the linen according to regulations.
Gordon had chosen the bunk closest to the sleeping men. It was his intention to get in good with the old timers as soon as possible and gain their confidence for favors when needed. He sat down and bent over to unlace his boots. "First thing I'm gonna' do in the morning is go into town and find me a moose," he boasted.
Peters, who had arranged his bunk next to Steiner's looked up, "What's a moose?" he asked.
Gordon flipped off one of the boots and bent over again to remove the other, ignoring Peters' question. The flab around his middle folded out fully over his belt and Steiner wondered how he could have survived basic training without losing it.
"It means girlfriend," Saurini informed Peters with a grin. He stretched out on the bunk opposite Steiner's and folded his hands behind his head. He was the smallest of their group but could handle himself well and seemed to know instinctively who he could dominate and who he should remain clear of.
"I hope that's not the only thing you've come over here for," Wilson, the eighteen year old from Iowa, admonished Gordon from his bunk next to him.
"What?" Gordon looked up, eyeing the boy with a frown.
"We were not sent here to molest or cavort with women," Wilson said, "We were sent here to stop the spread of communism."
Gordon's frown deepened. Rockwell, whose rough, angular hands attested to his Montana ranch upbringing, chuckled and shook his head. "Reckon we got us a sky-pilot here boys," he winked.
"Balls!" Gordon snorted.
Steiner finished arranging his foot locker and turned in for the night. The lights were turned off and, in the dark, he could hear Peters and Saurini whispering.
"I hear we work fourteen hours on and ten off."
"Damn! Really?"
"And, if we get caught sleeping' on duty, we catch article-15."
"Oh yeah? What's an article-15?"
"I dunno'."
"GET UP!" the corporal yelled, flicking on the lights. He moved maliciously down the line of bunks, yanking covers and slapping shoulder until each of the new men had been roused.
"ON YER FEET!" he ordered, "You are hereby notified that you've been selected to serve on the bayonet brigade. This is an honor bestowed upon only the finest of men. GET UP!"
Steiner glanced down at his watch. It was five a.m. He forced his eyelids open but found it impossible to focus.
"LET'S GO, TROOPS! ON YER FEET! YOU GOT FIVE MINUTES TO DRESS! OTHERWISE, YOU GO OUT AS YOU ARE!"
The men scrambled to their feet and groped blindly for their clothes. It was freezing cold in the quonset hut and it was all they could do to keep their teeth from chattering. At the far end of the room, a Korean houseboy was sucking away at an oil line that ran from a fifty-five gallon drum outside and connected to one of the pot-bellied stoves. It took several minutes for him to get the oil running.
"What the hell is a bayonet brigade?" Saurini stuttered as the men lined up bewildered and irritable. The corporal, grinning malevolently, handed each of them a bayonet and informed them they were to proceed to the latrine to
scrape the frost off the seats before the rest of the men were up. "And, when you return," he added, "I'll show you how we raise the flag each morning at this time."
Out of the corner of his eye, Steiner saw the houseboy spit oil out of his mouth and reconnect the oil line. He struck a match and leaned back as the flames leaped and danced toward him.
The men shuffled out into the crisp morning air, grumbling audibly. It was bitter cold and the first rays of morning had not yet scaled the horizon. They headed in a loosely knit group through the gloom toward the latrine, each man cursing silently the treachery of their barracks corporal.
"I can't even see the latrine," Gordon complained sourly.
"Follow your nose," Saurini told him.
They entered through the doorway which stood ajar on rusted hinges and looked around at the evil smelling shack. A long, narrow strip of wood
ran lengthwise with six neatly carved holes which emptied into a shallow pit below. And, sure enough, where the old papasan had washed the bench, a layer of hoarfrost decorated it.
A gust of wind cut through their parkas suddenly and Saurini turned and exclaimed: "Jesus Christ! They don't even have no window covers on this thing. No wonder it's so damned cold!"
"Balls!" Gordon said, "And I've got to take a shit, too."
"Man, I wouldn't lower my pants in this place for nothin'," Saurini declared, "I'd rather stay constipated."
"Man's-got-to-take-a-shit, he's-got-to-take-a-shit!" Gordon observed. he gripped his bayonet and began scraping away at the frost. "Shit!" he grumbled, "This ain't gonna' make it no warmer."
When he was reasonably satisfied, he unhitched his field pants, undid the snap and buttons on his fly, and lowered his trousers. He grimaced a bit and settled into place.
Rockwell eyed him cunningly. "What are you gonna' use for bunghole fodder?" he asked him.
"What are you talkin' about?" Gordon grunted.
"Toilet paper. What are you gonna' use for toilet paper?"
Gordon stared up at him quizzically, then it hit him. "Christ! Ain't we got no toilet paper?"
"This ain't the Ritz," Saurini cried and broke into peels of laughter. The others doubled up in glee at the look on Gordon's face.
"Hey, c'mon you guys, this ain't funny!" Gordon whimpered.
"The hell it ain't!" Saurini guffawed.
"Come on you guys, do somethin', will ya?" Gordon cried, "I can't get up without no toilet paper."
The door opened just then and a fat sergeant-first-class entered. "Ain't you guys got this place cleaned up yet?" he said.
The men sobered. "Almost, sergeant," Steiner answered.
The sergeant dropped his trousers and eased himself onto one of the holes the men had already cleaned off and pulled a newspaper from under his field jacket. The men watched carefully as the sergeant tore the papers into wide strips and began crumpling and softening them in his hands. "The Army always forgets to issue toilet paper," he explained when he saw them watching him "That's why we calls it the Stars and Wipes."
Gordon was especially grateful when the sergeant offered him what was left of his papers. "Stars and Wipes," he echoed wistfully after the sergeant left.
"A great monument to Man's ingenuity," Steiner acknowledged.
Chapter 5
Peters trudged through the foot deep snow toward the orderly room, following the well worn, labyrinthine maze of footprints that marked two days of activity since the last snowfall. It was a cold, dark evening with clear skies and little wind.
Inside, the orderly room was in comparatively neat order, and the heat from the pot-bellied stove gave the room an air of cheerfulness that belied its functions. Lieutenant Miller was sitting at the first sergeant's desk, shuffling through a stack of routine papers as Peters entered.
"Did you pick up your carbine yet?" he asked.
"Uh . . . no sir," Peters replied. No one had told him anything about a carbine.
"No matter," the lieutenant said, "You can get it from ordinance after I've briefed you."
"Yes sir."
Lieutenant Miller glanced up at the young soldier standing before him, noting his small size and slight build. "There are some Korean vehicles we impounded a few days ago over at the POL Dump," he began, "You're to guard them carefully. You'll be issued one banana clip and thirty rounds of ammo, not that I feel you'll need them, but you never know." He got up and walked around the desk to where Peters was standing. "Now remember, it's going to be a long night. If you hear any unusual noises around the vehicles or gas drums, you're to holler halt three times then chungee three times, that's halt in Korean, then shoot to kill."
Peters sucked in his breath.
"Are there any questions, solder?" Lieutenant Miller asked, eyeing the boy sharply.
"No sir."
Good! Pfc. Harris will be waiting for you out front, after you pick up your weapon and ammo. He'll take you out and answer any further questions you may have. Alright, you're dismissed."
"Pulled the big one tonight, eh?" the ordinance sergeant grinned as Peters entered the ordinance shack. He passed the carbine and banana clip magazine across the counter to him and shoved a paper and pencil in his face. "Sign here in triplicate and don't forget to clean it good before you hand it back in, in the morning."
The carbine felt heavy and awkward in Peters' hands as he left the ordinance shack and he tried to remember how well he had scored at the rifle range with a carbine during basic training. Outside, the jeep was waiting for him. He climbed in and placed the carbine, butt down, between his knees. The driver shifted into low and gunned off in the direction of the causeway. The guards at the Causeway Gate waved the jeep through and acknowledged the driver with broad smiles. The jeep slowed as they approached a sudden incline that marked the tracks of the Inchon-Seoul Railroad System and the driver spun the wheel sharply to avoid a particularly hazardous rut, then picked up speed again. They came to a corner of a block of ramshackle huts whose construction defied the laws of gravity and turned off the road.
"This is Number Seven Sa Dong," The driver announced, nodding his head in the direction of the dilapidated structures, "We calls it the Schanker Alley District. Best damned whorehouses in Korea. And up the road there is Suckahachee Hill; best blow jobs around."
Peters glanced over at the big, loose knit frame of his driver. Private-first-class Darnell Harris was an amiable youth of twenty-two whose weakness for drinking and whoring kept him from advancing through the ranks more rapidly. He was smiling, Peters noticed, as he wove the jeep in and out of the narrow alleys that snaked their way mysteriously through the slum district.
"This is the Star Club," Harris said, pointing to a sturdy looking building in the middle of the district, "And a block further down is the Victory Club."
Another alleyway presented the Paradise Club and still another the G.I. Club.
"I likes the Army-Navy Club best," he said, stopping in front of an imposing structure near the top of Suckahachee Hill, from which much laughter and clinking of bottles could be heard. He sat there for a moment, reflecting upon the merriment within. "Ahh well," he sighed at last, "Guess we'd better get going."
He spun the jeep around and descended Suckahachee Hill without regard to the ruts and snowbanks along the way. At the bottom of the hill, opposite Number Seven Sa Dong, he paused. "The Inchon Local, that's one of our deuce-and-a-halfs, picks guys up here about every hour of so," he said, pointing at the rubble that had once been a cement street corner, "Also, the PMO is right over there." He pointed toward a dimly lit cluster of small quonset huts surrounded by a cyclone fence topped with barbed wire. "If you ever get stranded or in trouble, remember that."
In ten minutes, the lights of the city were left behind and the dirty streets and sagging huts were replaced by the rolling hills that edged the Tidal Basin Area.
"What's the deal on the impounded North Korean vehicles?" Peters asked.
"They're not North Korean," Harris corrected him.
"What? But the lieutenant said . . ."
"They're South Korean; ROK Army," Harris informed him.
"Aww, come on!"
"I ain't shittin' yuh," Harris chuckled, "They're South Korean. We caught 'em siphonin' gas outta' our vehicles, so we had the trucks they was drivin' impounded."
"Why should they siphon gas from our vehicles?" We're their allies, aren't we?"
"It's Syg Man Rhee's way of savin' money for his own pockets," Harris explained.
"I don't get it," Peters said.
"You will after you've been here for awhile," Harris assured him.
It was six p.m. when they finally turned into an enclosed area that was surrounded by hundreds of fifty-five gallon drums filled with aviation and motor gasoline. In the distance, could be seen a small, well lit, guard shack situated within the compound.
"That's where a Transportation Corps guard pulls duty," Harris told him, "Here's where we pulls it."
He slowed down and parked in front of a group of olive-colored vehicles with ROK Army insignias emblazoned on their sides.
Climbing out, he walked around to Peters' side and stood quietly surveying the compound. Peters got out and stood beside him. He had picked up the carbine and was holding it in his right hand.
"Better plug in your banana clip," Harris advised him.
Peters had been holding the magazine with its thirty rounds of ammunition in his left hand throughout the journey and had completely forgotten about it. He pushed the magazine in but it would not fasten in place. He tried several times and finally began to curse under his breath.
Harris reached for the weapon, plugged the magazine into place, and handed it back to him. "The bent end of the clip juts forward," he explained.
"Oh!"
"Well, this is it, he said, "All you got to do is walk around these here trucks and guard 'em"
Peters nodded and glanced around at the sagging, dilapidated hulks that were to be his wards for the next thirteen hours. Some had been peppered with bullet holes, some had tires missing, and on nearly all the doors hung ajar crookedly.
"Think you've go your orders straight?" Harris asked.
"Yeah!"
"Yell halt three times then chungee three times, right?"
"Yeah!"
"Then shoot to kill!"
"Ye-ah!"
They stood quietly for a long moment then Harris said: "There's something I think you should know . . ."
"What's that?"
"See all them fifty-five gallon drums over there?" He pointed to the hundreds of huge cans that surrounded the compound.
"Yeah?"
"Well . . . they're loaded with Av-gas and Mo-gas."
"Yeah?"
"Well . . . if you was to hit one of 'em with a bullet, you and the whole POL Dump would be blown sky high."
He turned, fitted himself in behind the wheel, and sped off into the night.
Peters watched the rear light fade into pinpoints then turned and looked apprehensively over at the drums. In front of them, the impounded vehicles sat in an undisciplined group, quiet and mysterious, as though waiting for his next move. It was pitch black except for the tiny light that illuminated the guard shack a hundred yards away. Noises ordinarily inaudible assailed his ears, magnified by his solitude. Shadowy figures flitted across the snowdrifts and ghostly images danced in and out among the vehicles. He gripped his carbine and advanced toward the trucks his lips set grimly and his eyes dilated to the dark. A figure appeared suddenly in the cab of one of the trucks, but no, it was only a shadow. He moved cautiously along the side of the truck and peered in to make certain. Nothing was there. He let out his breath and closed his eyes. Finally, he chose a route and began inching his way ahead through the drifts and around the impounded vehicles.
The chill began to set into his body and he could feel his toes growing numb. Within minutes, he was freezing. Swinging his arms frantically about to increase circulation, he looked over at the light from the guard shack. It sparkled and beckoned to him enticingly.
Two hours passed. An eternity to the small soldier. His body was completely numb and he felt that his mind was slowly hardening as the cerebral fluid crystallized to form a solid chunk of ice that doctors would marvel over when they performed their autopsy on him in the morning.
He was jarred from his lethargy just then as Harris' jeep roared to a stop not three feet from where he stood. He had not even seen it approach. Harris stepped out and took the carbine from his numbed fingers.
"How'd it go?" the corporal behind the wheel asked as Peters climbed in. It was the same corporal who had sent them out on the bayonet brigade some two days earlier.
"Fi-ne!" Peters lied. He burrowed down into the seat and closed his eyes.
The corporal said nothing more and drove straight back toward Inchon.
"Are we going back to the barracks now?" Peters asked.
"Are you kidding? It's only eight-fifteen," he was told.
"Eight-fifteen?" Peters echoed, "I thought it was at least midnight."
"Naww! You still got a couple more shifts to pull out here yet. Right now, you're to spend the next two hours with me on patrol duty. We'll stop off at the PMO for awhile and let you get thawed out. Then we'll start closin' down the beer joints."
Peters collapsed further down into his parka and stared glassy-eyed out through the windshield.
The corporal parked in front of Charlie Gate and motioned for Peters to follow him. Together, they strode up the pathway to the PMO. Inside, the desk sergeant was drawing himself a cup of coffee from a decrepit coffee urn and looked up as the two men entered.
"Better get some of this hot coffee into the kid," he advised, gesturing with his cup toward Peters, "He looks like you borrowed him from KCAC Hospital."
The two men chuckled and shook their heads sympathetically at sight of the poor, half frozen little private. Peters settled down on one of the benches behind the sergeant's desk and gratefully accepted the coffee cup.
"How'd it go, Kid?" the desk sergeant asked, grinning down at him.
Fine!" Peters lied again. He raised the coffee to his lips and tested its flavor. Battery acid was the closest comparison he could make. He set it aside and leaned back against the wall. In the heat of the small room, he began to doze off and before he realized it, he was fast asleep.
He started suddenly as he felt the corporal's hand on his shoulder.
"C'mon, let's go chase 'em outta' the clubs."
Peters got up and staggered obediently after him. Their first stop was the Victory Club.
"You got any kind of weapon on you?" the corporal asked.
Peters shook his head no. He had surrendered his carbine to Harris when he took over his post. "Will I need one?" he asked.
"Yeah, you should have one. Here! Take my billy club, just in case."
In case of what? Peters thought as he followed the corporal up the steps to the club.
Smoke lay heavily against the ceiling, suspended in streaks that reflected the light from the dim bulbs above, as the two M.P.s entered. Most of the soldiers were holding girls on their laps or sharing intimate conversation at the bar. The girls were dressed in tight fitting American skirts of black market origin but few had jackets or coats. They would have to rely on their G.I. boyfriends for warmth.
"Okay! Let's close it up!" announced the corporal, moving casually along the bar.
Amidst grumbles and snorts, the soldiers downed what beer was left in their glasses and began to shuffle out. Peters stood near the door, the night stick gripped tightly in his hands. He was still wearing his parka, field pants and thermal boots.
"What's that you got with you?" one of the men asked, looking humorously down at the little M.P., "Is that your mascot?"
"What's he gonna' do with that billy club?"
"Is he tame? Will he bite?" and so on.
The corporal nodded good-naturedly and continued to herd the men and their girls outside. At the next club, Peters kept the night stick hidden beneath his parka.
"How can all those guys get into one deuce-and-a-half?" he inquired, remembering what Harris had told him about the Inchon Local.
"Most of 'em will stay in town tonight, shackin' up with their mooses," the corporal replied.
"But I thought all the whorehouses were off-limits."
"Only if you're caught! ONLY if you're caught!" the corporal chuckled.
It was three a.m. when Peters was returned to the POL Dump. The wind was up now and added to his misery. He stared sourly at the Dump and its sullen prisoners and then staked out his trail again, noting curiously that there appeared little change in the tracks since his last shift. Soon, the numbness returned and his toes felt as if they were separating at the joints.
An hour passed. At first, it was only a dull scraping noise, like metal against metal, and he dismissed it as a prank of the wind. Then he heard it again, only this time it was louder and out of rhythm with the wind. Peters stopped and stared hard at the dark, ghostly figures of the gas drums but he could see nothing beyond their evil contours. Then, though he could not be certain, the moon began to pick out shadowy images dancing macabre-like across the snow, around the drums, and into his mind like apparitions from a graveyard. He was certain now that one of the shadowy figures was scraping away at a gas drum. Peters opened his mouth to shout but nothing came out. He raise the carbine to his shoulder and peered out across the sights squarely into the side of a combustible, high-octane gas drum. His eyebrows furrowed and he lowered the carbine and stared blankly at the shadows for a moment. Then he turned and, selecting a suitable cab, crawled inside and closed the door behind him. Outside, the wind whipped the surface of the snow, depositing the dust-like crystals against the windshield. It was strangely warm inside and he snuggled down and peered out the window at the angry winds and haunting shadows and noises. It occurred to him then, how Harris had spent his time on guard duty and why he had not seemed as frozen as he should have.