Like A Toppled Gravestone
Korea September 1952
Dampness in my bunker, mixed the with raw mid-September chill sent me on a short trot to the reverse slope of our position. The experimental button-in field jacket liners battalion sent Company L were a total failure. They conducted the cold instead of insulating us. “Keep them clean,” said battalion. They were sent back as brown as our trenchline.
Upon my return, Lt. Crowe, our new platoon leader was waiting.
“Do you want to go to Japan?”
“I haven’t been on R and R (Rest and Recuperation) yet. Yes, I would like to go to Japan.”
“No, it’s not for R and R. The 8th Army wants to send combat veterans to Japan.”
“Why combat veterans?”
“Peace talks are not going well. An invasion of North Korea is being planned. There are a number of infantry divisions in Japan who haven’t seen combat. The 8th Army wants to integrate combat veterans into these divisions who haven’t seen combat in order to make an effective landing.”
“I need two more months on the line and I will have enough points to return stateside. What would you tell your son if he had this choice.”
“I would tell him that you’ll never know when a piece of shrapnel or a bullet has your name on it.”
The M.S.T.S. Sadao N. Munemori, which brought me to Korea, had me on a cot along with a few hundred other veterans to join with the GIs Japan.
Camp Schimmilpfennig, in Northern Honshu was my assignment. Warm barracks, a bed with a sheet over a mattress, and a woolen blanket! Showers and hot food! I wasn’t in Japan, I was in Shangri-La!
A sincere attempt was made to shed the trauma of our Korean experience. Arts and Crafts, accompanied by country music was our first diversion. To this day (62 years later), I have a very nice leather wallet from the class. A counselor came to ask us about our life before the army. She had no idea what a brakeman did and was shocked when I told her I was a brakeman for the NY Central RR. One week of this R and R, and then we were assigned to an infantry company.
Like the unfortunate GIs who were sent at the beginning of the Korean War to fight the North Koreans, the men in my company were not combat ready. Physical conditioning was for athletes, nights were for sleeping, and combat tactics were for military manuals. It was a life of ease and I did not complain.
The end of the month was pay day. The financial penalty for my court martial ended two months ago. I went to the PX and bought my father a self-winding Omega watch, and my mother a Mikimoto pearl necklace along with a watch. What a life!
Schimmelpfennig finally decided to play soldier. We were transferred to a camp in Central Honshu where training for the UN seaborne invasion of North Korea was to take place.
Complaints about sleeping on cots resounded off the canvas wall of our squad tent. For my Company L in Korea, a squad tent was the Waldorf Astoria.
The LSTs (Landing Ship Transport) were waiting for the troops. What will our assignments be once we landed on the beach? No rehearsals. On with the show!
Two platoons were stuffed into an LST accompanied by two tanks and some trucks. Mail Call in the LST! Elaine sent me a sachet saturated with perfume. It diffused through the entire ship’s sleeping quarters temporarily negating the acrid odor of the oil and dampness. The boys enjoyed this.
The following day was D-day. The sea was deep enough to allow the LSTs to reach the beach. Its massive doors opened for two tanks, some trucks and two companies of GIs to proceed with the invasion. We stood on the beach for a while then a whistle blew. “OK men, return to your place on the ship.” Had this been the real thing, we would have been annihilated as were the GIs who left their Japanese girlfriends at the beginning of the Korean War.
A two-day trip brought us back to the Japanese mainland, and from there to Camp Schimmelpfennig. The southern GIs who had difficulty pronouncing their own names, called it Camp Shittyfinger.
Winter came to Northern Honshu and it was time to play soldier again. Off to the Hokkaido where the snow was heavy and deep. We had legitimate liners for our field jackets, Mickey Mouse boots to keep our feet warm, and lined mittens with a projecting trigger finger. We dare not walk without snow shoes because the snow was substantially higher than our heads. Most of the exercises involved pulling ahkeeyos (sleds) holding mortars and machine guns to a specified area, and then firing at cardboard targets. On Sunday, after the chaplain’s sermon, anyone who wanted to cross-country ski was issued a pair of skis the size of a giant Redwood in the Muir Woods of California. The skis did not have a release for the boot, just a buckled strap. As a result, one of the boys broke his ankle.
An enterprising Japanese conniver brought some girls to warm up the boys. A latrine tent was his seat of commerce. With a knapsack strapped to his back, he collected a substantial amount of Yen for his clever enterprise.
With the arrival of spring, tryouts for the baseball team was posted on our barracks bulletin board. I became the Camp’s centerfielder. Our coach, who was an artillery officer knew nothing about baseball. We travelled all over Honshu.
A game was scheduled for Camp Drake where the baseball coach selected the incoming GIs from the states who played minor league baseball. We were no match for them. When I picked up my glove to go to the field, I heard,
“Wolfe! Wolfe!”
It was Benny Hoover! He saved my life when a Chinese soldier tried to ambush us in the Imjin River! I ran over and was about to throw my arms around him, but he backed up. This was not in his repertoire. Our coach saw this and he sat me down. He accused me of having “rabbit ears” (listening to people in the stands). When I tried to explain, he paid no attention to me. I was transferred to the regimental baseball team with a coach who knew the game. We had a very successful season.
The men on the baseball team were given very few military assignments. While the Camp was on a mission, our team was assigned to cut the overgrown grass in the culverts. We were given a yo-yo (a 3’ pole with a metal serrated band at its end). While I was swinging my yo-yo, a Jeep pulled up in front of a building where a court martial was to be held. In the Jeep was a prisoner and a guard. The prisoner stepped out of the Jeep and began running. The guard shouted,
“Halt!” “Halt!” “Halt”
The prisoner jumped over a culvert. The guard took aim and fired. He hit the prisoner in the thigh. The prisoner, while wriggling, he swore he was going to kill the guard. The guard told me that the prisoner threw a heavy metal ashtray at an officer hitting him in the head.
Friday night. I was at the Service Club listening to the camp band and a vocalist singing country and big band music. A group of nicely dressed Japanese young ladies were ushered to the dance floor. I approached a short, attractive young girl, and asked her to dance. Fred Astaire would have ripped his tails, and crushed his top hat had he seen me moving to the rhythm of the music. Although the band was playing Wheel of Fortune, my feet were probably moving to Two Sleepy People. In the midst of this, I asked my partner if she would rather go for a short walk. She said she wasn’t permitted. We stepped outside, a strong wind rushed through the telephone wires overhead. I fell to the ground like a toppled gravestone. The young lady ran back to the Service Club. The wind, zooming through the wires, sounded like the whishes of incoming mortar rounds.
Well, three more months and I will be stateside.
To read the complete Korean War stories read, Cold Ground’s Been My Bed: A Korean War Memoir