I am given a bit of a hassle by Marine MPs as I check in at the air base near Kokura, Japan for my return flight to K-13. I am detained at the gate while verification of my orders is made with 8th Fighter Bomber Wing...completed within one hour. The MP wants to know where are the supplies I have purchased in Japan...Oh, sir...they are being shipped directly. I don't hear any more on that score.
Arriving at K-13, an air raid is in progress. Bed Check Charlie - BCC - is at it again...this evening over Inchon, about 60 miles to the Northwest. A bright flash lights up the sky in the direction of Inchon. The fuel dump has been hit by BBC bombs.
A couple weeks ago, an F-94 radar equipped Night Fighter from K-13, pursued Bed Check Charlie over Inchon Harbor... BCC flies low and slow. Our F-94 jet with two on board crashed into the sea.
Before the Armistice is signed, a US Marine pilot flying a propeller driven Corsair (see: BAA BAA Black Sheep) WWII vintage aircraft, succeeds in shooting down five BCC aircraft...becoming an Ace.
Sitting on the step of my living quarters back at UNC-MAC, I hear the motor of BCC approaching from north beyond the DMZ. I am amazed to see him fly directly over my head...all navigation lights on. Anti Aircraft guns erupt around Seoul; I walk the few steps onto our small airstrip, watching BCC fly south. From out of the curtain of fire around Seoul, another aircraft flies north... navigation lights also on. The two aircraft meet a mile away from me...machine guns firing. Both planes cut their navigation lights. A minute or two later, one aircraft falls out of the sky...the Corsair pilot has his fifth kill.
PANMUNJOM Base Camps, both north and south, are OFF LIMITS to military action. Again, sitting on the step of my tent, my model airplane, LITTLE STINKER, in my lap, a WHOOOOSH flashes over my right shoulder. I sprawl flat on the ground...a loud BOOM and a cloud of dirt showers over me; ...an artillery round from North Korea has found its way onto our Base Camp...narrowly missing me...narrowly missing a telephone pole...burying itself into the ground; ...the round does not explode.
Many visiting VIPs come and go through Base Camp as Armistice Day nears. I escort a small group of civilian visitors to the Helicopter Pads for their ride to the actual site of the Panmunjom peace talks about five miles into the DMZ. The chopper is delayed a bit. VIPs stand around chatting. One steps over to me...dressed in a suit, no indication as to who he might be; we chat. After the chopper takes off, Lt. J. asks...do you know who that guy is;...no;...he is Prime Minister Nehru...you just chatted with the leader of India.
The Korean War is fought by military from many NATO nations. India has a contingent here.
On June 27, 1953, NATO, North Korea, and China sign the Armistice Agreement ending all hostilities in Korea. 17 copies of the signed Armistice documents are delivered to our group. All are locked in my safe overnight.
The shooting has stopped...the war is not over.
I take the opportunity to often walk out of Base Camp, climbing into the surrounding hills. It is, of course, prohibited to stroll around the recently vacated battle fields...live ordnance litters the place...dangerous as hell. I really don't think about it...I go anyway.
I sit for hours in abandoned fox holes looking out over the DMZ, trying to picture the fighting around this spot. I take photographs of torn up hillsides...or partially standing mud brick farm houses - empty; I sometimes pass Koreans in soiled white clothing...farmers returning to their land??
Returning to Base Camp, I write another letter to Jeannie B.
From the day I arrive in Korea, I write letters to Jeannie . The few days in Kennewick before catching the train to Oakland...on my way to Korea, I spend most of my time in the City Library - still not welcome to stay home. Jeannie is working in the library. She sometimes sits and chats with me as I thumb through magazines, newspapers, and books. As my train pulls out of the Kennewick station, Jeannie is standing on the platform...rushes to me...gives me a hug. I never see Jeannie again.
Each of my letters to Jeannie follow my daily routine. I create her as a nurse, placing her in my day - without me -, writing the events as she experiences them.
Occasionally, Jeannie writes back. Her last letter is the one before she travels to Kokura, Japan...where she meets Keiko. I never hear from Jeannie again.
* * * * * * * *
I often think of Jeannie...wishing I could once more read the letters I have written those many years ago. Three years ago, I began an internet search. Today, I received notice that Jeannie B. has been found. I sit here in my Bellingham apartment wondering if I have the courage to call.
Late this afternoon, I received a phone call from United Parcel Service (UPS). A few days ago I completed an on-line application for employment...position: Driver Helper...a temporary job over the holidays. I am invited to an interview tomorrow in Mt. Vernon at 11:00 am. If I am accepted, I will participate in a 4-hour indoctrination.
Wish me luck, please !
Tuesday, December 4, 2012
POST 1012; DECEMBER 04, 2012; KOKURA, KYUSHU, JAPAN (SPRING 1953)
...her hair falls to her waist... she turns to me; please remove your robe. I do. From a cedar bucket she takes a copper dipper, fills it from the large cedar tub and pours steaming water over my shoulders. Standing face to face, Keiko hands me the dipper, glancing at the tub of steaming water. I dip it full...pour it slowly over her shoulders, water running down her glistening body. Her eyes do not leave mine as she reaches into the bucket, a natural sea sponge in her hand,
Please...warm water in the bucket. I dip the bucket into the steaming water. She dips the sponge into the bucket...begins to scrub my body with one hand, the copper dipper in her other. Scrub - rinse; scrub-rinse; scrub-rinse...water flowing from my body into the trough. Please sit...she lifts my foot...scrub-rinse.
... standing before me....hands me the sponge and dipper...your turn...
30 minutes ago, only my imagination had seen the body of a naked woman. Now, I am slowly sponging Keiko..her shoulders, her arms, her breasts, her hips, her thighs. She turns her back to me...it too gets scrubbed - rinsed...her buttocks. I have no idea what the perfect female body is supposed to be...it must be something quite close to the one beneath my hands.
Keiko takes my sponge and dipper, returning them to the bucket...takes my hand...steps us across the trough...stretches my arm toward two steps; I step up...the large cedar tub before me, and swing my leg over the side, finding a ledge inside. I stand on the ledge...Keiko sqeezes my hand... floats up the steps, steps into the tub and into my arms.
Now, she whispers, we enjoy our bath. We slide as one into the hot water.
Stars fill the clear night sky as we walk hand in hand up the gravel path to her cottage door. Keiko pushes the door open...leads me inside. My father's sister has prepared a meal...bowing... her Aunt returning her bow, gesturing to a small square lacquered table standing only a foot above the mat-covered wood floor...three pillows.
Please sit,,,Keiko tugs my arm down as she lowers herself onto a pillow. I awkardly sit, nearly falling backward. Keiko wears a kimono many shades of violet and blue which was waiting on the peg when we returned from our bath. I am back in my Class A, less tie and jacket.. Auntie still wearing her coloful kimono.
A delicate thin bowl decorated with tiny flying birds sits on the table above each cushion; chopsticks on an embrodered napkin. Small paper thin cups...the same tiny birds flying around their sides. sit in front of each bowl. A larger bowl, also decorated, filled with steaming rice is in the center of the table...a neighboring bowl with bits of meat floating in dark sauce...a third with small pieces of fish resting on a bed of leaves. A teapot, handle wrapped in thin bamboo, sits near Auntie's bowl.
Keiko, chopsticks in hand, lifts my bowl in the palm of her other hand...deftly fills it with rice...with pieces of dripping meat...with pieces of fish; replacing it in front of me. She does the same for her Aunt...then her own bowl.
Auntie lifts the teapot, reaches across the table, filling my cup... Keiko's...then her own.
Please...Keiko places my hand above the chopsticks. I pick them up, not knowing what to do with them. Keiko turns my hand, palm up; placing the chopsticks in their proper places;...holding the back of my hand in the palm of her hand, she closes my thumb over the sticks...this one is held tightly...it does not move; ...this one moves, grasping your food. Slowly she repeats the placement and movement of the sticks in her own hand...clicks them together...click - click - click - and picks up a piece of meat. I try...and try...and try...
Auntie smiles, slowly, silently picking at her bowl, popping morsels into her mouth...chews and swallows. I fumble my way through...two beautiful women smiling as I struggle.
Auntie surprises me in halting English...you are most welcome Mr. (......)
Bruce...I blurt out...I'm so sorry...my name is Bruce. I live in Seattle.
Auntie smiles at me. My Brother's daughter likes you very much, Bruce.
I glance at Keiko...her eyes lowered to her lap...I reach for her hand, smiling back at Auntie; me, too !
Keiko explains: I was visiting Auntie when the bomb fell on Hiroshima. Father was a surgeon at the hospital; both my father and mother died. Auntie is now my Mother. I was 12 when the bomb fell... now 19...........
* * * * *
What Keiko did not know as we three sat together that first fascinating evening, was that Kokura, being Japan's major weapons manufacturing center during World War II, was the primary target for BOCKS CAR, the second B-29 to drop an atom bomb on Japan in 1945...overcast skys covered Kokura as BOCKS CAR approached, causing the plane to divert to it's secondary target, Nagasaki.
But for a cloud...Keiko would not be...
Before leaving Asia, I travelled alone by bus to Nagasaki, spending two memorable nights....but I'm getting ahead of myself...
Please...warm water in the bucket. I dip the bucket into the steaming water. She dips the sponge into the bucket...begins to scrub my body with one hand, the copper dipper in her other. Scrub - rinse; scrub-rinse; scrub-rinse...water flowing from my body into the trough. Please sit...she lifts my foot...scrub-rinse.
... standing before me....hands me the sponge and dipper...your turn...
30 minutes ago, only my imagination had seen the body of a naked woman. Now, I am slowly sponging Keiko..her shoulders, her arms, her breasts, her hips, her thighs. She turns her back to me...it too gets scrubbed - rinsed...her buttocks. I have no idea what the perfect female body is supposed to be...it must be something quite close to the one beneath my hands.
Keiko takes my sponge and dipper, returning them to the bucket...takes my hand...steps us across the trough...stretches my arm toward two steps; I step up...the large cedar tub before me, and swing my leg over the side, finding a ledge inside. I stand on the ledge...Keiko sqeezes my hand... floats up the steps, steps into the tub and into my arms.
Now, she whispers, we enjoy our bath. We slide as one into the hot water.
Stars fill the clear night sky as we walk hand in hand up the gravel path to her cottage door. Keiko pushes the door open...leads me inside. My father's sister has prepared a meal...bowing... her Aunt returning her bow, gesturing to a small square lacquered table standing only a foot above the mat-covered wood floor...three pillows.
Please sit,,,Keiko tugs my arm down as she lowers herself onto a pillow. I awkardly sit, nearly falling backward. Keiko wears a kimono many shades of violet and blue which was waiting on the peg when we returned from our bath. I am back in my Class A, less tie and jacket.. Auntie still wearing her coloful kimono.
A delicate thin bowl decorated with tiny flying birds sits on the table above each cushion; chopsticks on an embrodered napkin. Small paper thin cups...the same tiny birds flying around their sides. sit in front of each bowl. A larger bowl, also decorated, filled with steaming rice is in the center of the table...a neighboring bowl with bits of meat floating in dark sauce...a third with small pieces of fish resting on a bed of leaves. A teapot, handle wrapped in thin bamboo, sits near Auntie's bowl.
Keiko, chopsticks in hand, lifts my bowl in the palm of her other hand...deftly fills it with rice...with pieces of dripping meat...with pieces of fish; replacing it in front of me. She does the same for her Aunt...then her own bowl.
Auntie lifts the teapot, reaches across the table, filling my cup... Keiko's...then her own.
Please...Keiko places my hand above the chopsticks. I pick them up, not knowing what to do with them. Keiko turns my hand, palm up; placing the chopsticks in their proper places;...holding the back of my hand in the palm of her hand, she closes my thumb over the sticks...this one is held tightly...it does not move; ...this one moves, grasping your food. Slowly she repeats the placement and movement of the sticks in her own hand...clicks them together...click - click - click - and picks up a piece of meat. I try...and try...and try...
Auntie smiles, slowly, silently picking at her bowl, popping morsels into her mouth...chews and swallows. I fumble my way through...two beautiful women smiling as I struggle.
Auntie surprises me in halting English...you are most welcome Mr. (......)
Bruce...I blurt out...I'm so sorry...my name is Bruce. I live in Seattle.
Auntie smiles at me. My Brother's daughter likes you very much, Bruce.
I glance at Keiko...her eyes lowered to her lap...I reach for her hand, smiling back at Auntie; me, too !
Keiko explains: I was visiting Auntie when the bomb fell on Hiroshima. Father was a surgeon at the hospital; both my father and mother died. Auntie is now my Mother. I was 12 when the bomb fell... now 19...........
* * * * *
What Keiko did not know as we three sat together that first fascinating evening, was that Kokura, being Japan's major weapons manufacturing center during World War II, was the primary target for BOCKS CAR, the second B-29 to drop an atom bomb on Japan in 1945...overcast skys covered Kokura as BOCKS CAR approached, causing the plane to divert to it's secondary target, Nagasaki.
But for a cloud...Keiko would not be...
Before leaving Asia, I travelled alone by bus to Nagasaki, spending two memorable nights....but I'm getting ahead of myself...
Monday, December 3, 2012
POST 1011; DECEMBER 03, 2012; KOKURA, KYUSHU, JAPAN (SPRING 1953)
...impossible...can anything be so stunning !
Hello, I manage to get out.
In perfect English...will you help me down please...arms extended. I step close, place my hands under her arm pits...she scoots off the tree letting me lower her to the ground. Looking down at her..challanging almond eyes smile back. Keiko does not move away, glances at my hands still under her arms...I drop them to my sides...gazing at unimaginable perfection...as though she just stepped out of a fashion magazine or down off a silvered screen.
Walk with me, please. Taking my hand in hers, she leads me onto the beach...to the waters edge...stops, looking toward the setting Sun reflecting off mirrored water.
...I felt I would meet you here today; I dare not reply...dare not look at her. You are American...a statement; We stand hand in hand on the shores of the Sea Of Japan; strangers; yet, somehow, something more.
Come...I will show you my home.
She leads me, still holding my hand, back the way I had walked. This is our hotel...you will stay here...a question... I don't know. Come...leading across the two lane macadam roadway down a dirt path past small cottages, flower baskets hanging from tiled roofs. This is my home...guiding me onto a neat gravel path, stopping in front of another cottage...door open...we do not enter.
In Japanese, Keiko says something. A small woman in a colorful kimono appears in the doorway. More Japanese...this is my Aunt, my Father's Sister. The woman bows deeply, straightens, looks into my eyes...I nod back. I wish my father's sister to meet you...we will speak with her later. The woman again bows, turns and is gone.
Wordlessly, Keiko drops my hand, turns and walks onto the dirt path, across the roadway... towards the hotel. I follow at her side. I will introduce you to my other family.
We enter a set of high thick wooden doors. Stepping into a huge room, woven mats cover the wood floor. Large wood beams seemingly float overhead outlined in natural light filtering through open windows high up on the wood walls. Small rooms are spaced around the otherwise open room, bamboo curtains hang before each room. Stairs lead to a balcony on one side. More rooms are seen above.
A short man wearing cloth sandals stands before us. More Japanese...you are most welcome here says the man in halting English, bowing deeply. Thank you...I bow slightly back. Keiko speaks more Japanese...the man bows, turns and disappears through a doorway.
Come, please; I follow Keiko to one of the curtained rooms. She holds the curtain ...stands back...this is our room.
Now wait just a minute, my mind is speaking to me...just what is going on here. This girl does not even know my name...I have not asked for a room...I start to speak; She puts her finger on my lips...later, she whispers.
The room is small, mats cover the floor...woven mat forming a ceiling. A bed stands in the center, not 6 inches above the mats. A large duvet blanket and one covered pillow. Beside the bed, a large ceramic vase...heat is rising from the vase. Dark sand half fills the vase...pieces of charcoal glow red and yellow, half buried in the sand.
Two white robes hang from wood pegs inserted into a roughly skinned wood corner post. Wood clogs sit below the robes. Two three legged wood stools stand beside the clogs.
Before we eat, we will enjoy our bath...as she, standing before me, unties the sash holding her white kimono. It falls open...Keiko rotates her shoulders back, catching her falling kimono with hands behind her back...looking deeply into my eyes, she reaches behind me, removes one robe from its peg, replacing it with her kimono. Not taking her eyes off mine, she slips her arms into the robe, wraps it around her and knots the sash in front. Keiko has stood perfectly still as she presented to me the most spectacular fulfillment of my most vivid dreams.
I am speachless.
Without realizing what she is doing, I stand mezmerized as she removes my Class A Uniform, replacing it with the second white robe.
Please remove your shoes...gesturing to the stool. I sit...remove my shoes and socks...slip on the clogs.
Come with me, please.
I follow her out of the room, across the floor mats, through the small doorway the man disappeared...finding us standing outside on a cinder path leading to a small wood building. A stream bubbles under the building, a water wheel lifting water into a funnel leading through the wall. Keiko holds a door open, gestering that I should enter. I step in. Two large cedar tubs stand side by side. On one side is a furnace of some sort, charcoal in a sand filled basin, a large kettle above, steaming water flowing down a bamboo half-pipe into one of the tubs...large enough to seat at least four..
In front of the tubs is a wood trough, reminding me very much of the gutter behind the tail of our milk cow in the barn of our stump ranch. A long cedar bench stands close to the trough.
Keiko turns her back to me, slowly slides her robe from her shoulders, reaching for the wooden peg..........
* * * * * * * *
In 1952 Japan, Community baths are the norm. Women at one end; men at the other end; families in the center. Community toilets even more common...the probability of a beautiful woman sitting down at the commode next to you is assured.
Nudity is accepted without thought.
For a 17 year old American having recently experienced severe punishment for attempting a peek at Nancy's showering Mom...surely like dying and going to Heaven !
Sunday, December 2, 2012
POST 1010: DECEMBER 02, 2012; PANMUNJOM, KOREA (SPRING 1953)
Within a week, all eight cots are filled...enlisted men, all, ranging from Master Sergeant down to me, Airman Third Class (one stripe), by far the youngest. In our tent, we become family. Outside our tent, I know nothing of what the others do for UNC-MAC...and I don't talk about my job either. I do know we all have "SECRET" Security Clearances. I pick up a couple model airplane kits from the PX back at K-13, spending most of my spare time carefully crafting a Navion low wing private model and "Little Stinker", a high-tech stunt plane (both models are oohed and aahed over as they come together, so I gift them to a two of my tent-mates).
I fit in easily as "secretary" to my senior officers, taking dictation, writing reports and meeting visiting VIPs from around the world. Early on I am given the task to keep our working spaces (tent) clean and constantly ready for inspection. The first day of that assignment, I'm sweeping the floor with a long bristled "witches" broom. Airman Maynard, General yells at me from his end of the "office"...walking to me...just where in the devil did you learn to sweep a floor...in a barn? Yeeees, sir...I did learn in a barn...picturing our old stump ranch back in Midway, Washington in 1939:
Dad standing over me as I raise a cloud of dust off the turkey house floor...geeeze, Son...try to do it without chocking all the turkeys to death
General B. stares at me...grabs the broom from my grasp;...this is the way to sweep the floor in MY office...reaching the broom out and slowly dragging it back towards himself...you see, Maynard, no dust...that is what I want to see...no dust...Yes, sir, accepting back the broom...reaching out and slowly dragging the rough bristles back. General B. watches a couple more strokes...if you find a better way, check with me first...Yes, sir.
Back at our living quarters, I practice sweeping the floor. Hard as I try, cannot stop the dust...until one of my tent mates stands, walks over to me, his drinking cup in hand; he fills it with hot water from the teakettle on our pot bellied stove...dips his fingers into the water and sprinkles it over the floor. Now sweep, he says. I sweep...no dust. I can hardly wait for morning.
General, sir...Yes...I have a new technique to sweep the floor without raising dust...really...yes, sir; I pick up my water-filled coke bottle, hold it upside down, swinging it back and forth as water seeps between my fingers, falling in a light drizzle onto the wooden floor. I set the bottle down, pick up the broom and with broad sweeps, happily brush the floor...no dust; Good job, Maynard; ...stifled chuckles from the Major as General B walks back to his desk.
The officers create a great quantity of paperwork, all of which I am tasked to type on my ancient Underwood mechanical typewriter. I manage to get it done, but not without having to retype many pages. Our work requires that all documents are presented error free; that is, I am not allowed to make erasures or smudges...every page I type has to be perfect.
Is there a chance we could requisition a new typewriter, sir? Well, we can sure submit a requisition. Type up a request, and I'll submit it, says Lt. J.
Two days later, a brand new Royal typewriter is sitting on my desk. WOW. Like in a different world, my production skyrockets. A few days later, I ask Lt. J. if he would dictate something to me so I can do a timed test for my shorthand and typing. He dictates; I write...then transcribe my shorthand swuibbles, typing on my new Royal typewriter.
I then take fresh paper, ask Lt. J. to time me for five minutes as I retype his words. Done, I count the strokes.., each 5 strokes equaling one word. I have typed for five minutes at the rate of over 100 words per minute...no mistakes.
On a dark night, someone slices open the office canvas over my desk...my beautiful new typewriter is stolen. I do not get another.
I am at UNC-MAC (United Nations Command - Military Armistice Commission) on TDY (temporary duty) from K-13. Since I am free on some weekends, I often return to Suwon, Korea to visit B.B. and ride brakes as he moves his F-86 around the tarmac. The Korean War is still in full swing. Each morning, Sabre Jets from the 8th Fighter Bomber and 56th Fighter Interceptor Wings line up in flights of four jets. Each flight of four form an arrowhead at the southern end of the runway...all four releasing brakes together gather speed as they roar north down Runway 36. When the first flight of 4 is 1/4 down the runway, the next flight of 4 release brakes. Flight after flight after flight of 4 streak after one another. The northern sky is soon filled with black exhaust smoke, blotting out the northern horizon.
Hours later, the jets return. Making left turns as they fly through the landing pattern, touch down on Runway 36, disappearing right or left off the runway, heading for their parking areas...that is, except for jets scoring a victory over a MIG-15...these jets scream down the runway, 100 feet above the concrete, barrel rolling all the way to the center, where the pilot pulls straight up spinning his F-86 'till out of sight.
Some weekends, upon arriving at 8th FB HQ, I drop in at my old desk, type up travel orders for the Adjutant's signature, and hop aboard the Gooney Bird bound for Kokura, Kyushu, Japan...to pick up supplies.
Landing at the US Air Base near Kokura, I walk out the front gate, hop aboard the civilian bus headed for Nagasaki. When the bus pulls into the tiny village of Seaside, Japan, I step out.
I arrive in Korea early in March 1953. My first trip to pick up supplies leads me to Seaside, where a small hotel nestles in a grove a trees reaching out onto a white sandy beach... the Sea of Japan, sparkling blue water stretches to the western horizon. A large tree stands alone at the edge of the treeline...unusual in that this ancient tree grows nearly horizontal for 25 feet or so before swooping up into the sky. She is sitting on the horizontal part of the tree trunk...white slippers just touching the ground...white kimono held in place around her waist with a wide silk pink sash, black hair piled high above her perfect round face.
Hello... her voice soft and inviting as I walk up to her...my name is Keiko.
I fit in easily as "secretary" to my senior officers, taking dictation, writing reports and meeting visiting VIPs from around the world. Early on I am given the task to keep our working spaces (tent) clean and constantly ready for inspection. The first day of that assignment, I'm sweeping the floor with a long bristled "witches" broom. Airman Maynard, General yells at me from his end of the "office"...walking to me...just where in the devil did you learn to sweep a floor...in a barn? Yeeees, sir...I did learn in a barn...picturing our old stump ranch back in Midway, Washington in 1939:
Dad standing over me as I raise a cloud of dust off the turkey house floor...geeeze, Son...try to do it without chocking all the turkeys to death
General B. stares at me...grabs the broom from my grasp;...this is the way to sweep the floor in MY office...reaching the broom out and slowly dragging it back towards himself...you see, Maynard, no dust...that is what I want to see...no dust...Yes, sir, accepting back the broom...reaching out and slowly dragging the rough bristles back. General B. watches a couple more strokes...if you find a better way, check with me first...Yes, sir.
Back at our living quarters, I practice sweeping the floor. Hard as I try, cannot stop the dust...until one of my tent mates stands, walks over to me, his drinking cup in hand; he fills it with hot water from the teakettle on our pot bellied stove...dips his fingers into the water and sprinkles it over the floor. Now sweep, he says. I sweep...no dust. I can hardly wait for morning.
General, sir...Yes...I have a new technique to sweep the floor without raising dust...really...yes, sir; I pick up my water-filled coke bottle, hold it upside down, swinging it back and forth as water seeps between my fingers, falling in a light drizzle onto the wooden floor. I set the bottle down, pick up the broom and with broad sweeps, happily brush the floor...no dust; Good job, Maynard; ...stifled chuckles from the Major as General B walks back to his desk.
The officers create a great quantity of paperwork, all of which I am tasked to type on my ancient Underwood mechanical typewriter. I manage to get it done, but not without having to retype many pages. Our work requires that all documents are presented error free; that is, I am not allowed to make erasures or smudges...every page I type has to be perfect.
Is there a chance we could requisition a new typewriter, sir? Well, we can sure submit a requisition. Type up a request, and I'll submit it, says Lt. J.
Two days later, a brand new Royal typewriter is sitting on my desk. WOW. Like in a different world, my production skyrockets. A few days later, I ask Lt. J. if he would dictate something to me so I can do a timed test for my shorthand and typing. He dictates; I write...then transcribe my shorthand swuibbles, typing on my new Royal typewriter.
I then take fresh paper, ask Lt. J. to time me for five minutes as I retype his words. Done, I count the strokes.., each 5 strokes equaling one word. I have typed for five minutes at the rate of over 100 words per minute...no mistakes.
On a dark night, someone slices open the office canvas over my desk...my beautiful new typewriter is stolen. I do not get another.
I am at UNC-MAC (United Nations Command - Military Armistice Commission) on TDY (temporary duty) from K-13. Since I am free on some weekends, I often return to Suwon, Korea to visit B.B. and ride brakes as he moves his F-86 around the tarmac. The Korean War is still in full swing. Each morning, Sabre Jets from the 8th Fighter Bomber and 56th Fighter Interceptor Wings line up in flights of four jets. Each flight of four form an arrowhead at the southern end of the runway...all four releasing brakes together gather speed as they roar north down Runway 36. When the first flight of 4 is 1/4 down the runway, the next flight of 4 release brakes. Flight after flight after flight of 4 streak after one another. The northern sky is soon filled with black exhaust smoke, blotting out the northern horizon.
Hours later, the jets return. Making left turns as they fly through the landing pattern, touch down on Runway 36, disappearing right or left off the runway, heading for their parking areas...that is, except for jets scoring a victory over a MIG-15...these jets scream down the runway, 100 feet above the concrete, barrel rolling all the way to the center, where the pilot pulls straight up spinning his F-86 'till out of sight.
Some weekends, upon arriving at 8th FB HQ, I drop in at my old desk, type up travel orders for the Adjutant's signature, and hop aboard the Gooney Bird bound for Kokura, Kyushu, Japan...to pick up supplies.
Landing at the US Air Base near Kokura, I walk out the front gate, hop aboard the civilian bus headed for Nagasaki. When the bus pulls into the tiny village of Seaside, Japan, I step out.
I arrive in Korea early in March 1953. My first trip to pick up supplies leads me to Seaside, where a small hotel nestles in a grove a trees reaching out onto a white sandy beach... the Sea of Japan, sparkling blue water stretches to the western horizon. A large tree stands alone at the edge of the treeline...unusual in that this ancient tree grows nearly horizontal for 25 feet or so before swooping up into the sky. She is sitting on the horizontal part of the tree trunk...white slippers just touching the ground...white kimono held in place around her waist with a wide silk pink sash, black hair piled high above her perfect round face.
Hello... her voice soft and inviting as I walk up to her...my name is Keiko.
POST 1009: DECEMBER 02, 2012; PANMUNJOM, KOREA
I am last to climb down the aircraft boarding ladder. Two Military Policemen walk up to us, salute the officers...follow me, please. I, duffel bag looped over my shoulder, follow behind the officers. One of the MPs point to a tent as we pass...you, Airman, report in there. I step up the single wood step, pull open the screen door. A army sergeant sits behind a wood desk...a battered table with six chairs in the otherwise empty single room tent. I hand the sergeant my papers...Airman Maynard reporting as ordered, sir. The sergeant looks over my papers...welcome to UNC-MAC, Maynard. He stands, offers his hand...follow me, please.
We walk along a neatly trimmed gravel path; stones line each side. The path winds among five or six widely spaced tents. We stop before a tent...this will be your living quarters...you are the first to arrive, so you have your pick of spaces. Report back when you get settled in...thank you, sir.
The tent is much like the one I just left at K-13. Pea gravel leading to the ten inch high wood step up; wood floor; three-foot high wood walls all around; door with Plexiglas window at each end of the open room; screen doors hang inside each door; eight wood / canvas cots set up end-to -end... four on each side along the wall; wood foot locker between each cot; pot bellied oil burning stove dead center - flat steel plate on top;... stove pipe in metal flashing rises through the roof; wood frame supporting tightly stretched canvas covers the entire building; electric light bulbs hang from the ceiling rafters, one bulb over each cot.
Standing room is in the center of the room between the two rows of cots.
I choose the first cot on the right beside the door facing south...the airfield 50 feet away beyond a line of ancient trees...Seoul 30 miles beyond the tree line.
My cot has one pillow and two scratchy brown blankets. No pillow case...no sheets. I unpack my duffel, neatly loading the contents into my foot locker.
Everything I own is packed into my foot locker. I select a fresh khaki Class B uniform and report back to the sergeant. Settled in, he asks. Yes, sir. You will be working here at Base Camp, assigned to General B. staff. If you will follow me, Maynard, I'll show you to your office.
Walking the graveled winding path, the Sergeant leads me into a tent...a tent hhigher, wider, and longer; four desks line each side; a single much larger desk cross-wise at the far end; a long wood table with ten chairs stands lengthwise in the center of the open room. two oil fired pot bellied stoves - each with flat heating plates on top - stand in the center, one on each end of the long table. Two lights hang from overhead rafters above each desk.
I follow the sergeant, stopping in front of the large desk at the far end. U.S. Army Brigadier General B. (one star on each collar) sits behind the desk. I come to attention - feet together, ramrod straight back, head centered, eyes straight ahead, arms stiff at my side, my "cunt" cap firmly under my left armpit.
General, this is Airman Maynard...handing the general my papers. The general scans my papers, looks me from top to bottom and back up...my eyes riveted on a spot on the wall behind the generals left shoulder. Thank you, sergeant...that will be all. Yes, sir, comes to attention, makes a smart about face and disappears behind me. At ease, Maynard. my eyes move to the generals face...the rest of me at "parade rest" - relaxed, but unmoving. Welcome to UNC-MAC Base Camp, Maynard. So you are my administration team member...you go to tech school? No, sir. Where did you receive your training? In high school, sir. You have been to no technical training school? No, sir. Where have you been assigned? I worked in the Orderly Room during basic training, sir...then I was assigned as Stenographer Specialist to the Office Of The Staff Judge Advocate, Sheppard Air Force Base, Wichita Falls, Texas, sir...then to K-13, 8th Fighter Bomber Wing, Headquarters Office, reporting to Lt. Colonel S., Wing Adjutant.
Any other administration experience, Maynard. Yes, sir...I worked in the office my Junior and Senior year at Kennewick High School...and helped my mother in the office of our trucking company in Pasco, Washington.
How old are you, Maynard? 17, sir. Impressive. Well, Maynard, let's meet the rest of our team.
Following the general, I am introduced to two US Army Lt. Colonels, two US Army Majors, and one US Navy Lieutenant; each welcome me, extending their hands which I shake...thank you, sir...thank you, sir...thank you, sir...thank you, sir...thank you, sir.
Lieutenant (J.) is your new boss. Our little group is about to become very busy, Maynard. We are pleased to have you join us. This - extending his hand toward the first desk on the left of the door I entered - is your office; anything you need...any questions, Lt J. here, is your man. My office is always open to you, Maynard...extending his hand, which I accept...good luck.
Lt. J. spends the rest of the day with me. I receive an overview of the mission of our staff...directly supporting the UNC-MAC negotiators at the Panmunjom peace talks. We walk around the entire Base Camp, divided into three general areas...Officer Country, Visitor area, and Enlisted area. All buildings are tents with wood floors, except for the new Theatre - Conference Center...a large wood building standing not 50 feet from my own living quarters. The Conference Center is an auditorium with about 150 chairs and a stage at one end. The airfield is on the south side of the Base Camp...on the north side is a helicopter landing zone, large enough to handle a number of aircraft at one time. All travel to Panmunjom is by helicopter from this spot.
Linking the Base Camp are continuous gravel paths. At irregular intervals along the paths are round metal tubes...a wire screen fastened to the open top... partially buried at 45 degree angles in the ground, surrounded by a circle of crushed gravel. Lt. J. explains...these are piss tubes...actually expended 155mm Howitzer Shells with holes punched in the bottom; very functional for our all-male staff...a bit awkard for the growing number of female visitors.
The Base Camp is neat as a pin. There is no fence around Base Camp. The Communist's have their Base Camp on the north side of the DMZ (Demilitarized Zone), which more or less straddles the 38th Parallel east-west across the width of the Korean Peninsula. By bi-lateral agreement (both sides agree), both Base Camps are strictly OFF LIMITS to any enemy activity.
The war continues to rage along the DMZ, guns firing night and day, but Base Camps are inviolate. Lights are on all night. Bed Check Charlie does not come near our Base Camp. The occasional artillery round does, however, find its way to us.
Base Camp staff are free to move about the camp. Written orders are required to leave the area. Loaded weapons are to be carried by anyone leaving...no weapons are carried on Base Camp grounds.
The next many months find me stretching a number of the "rules".
We walk along a neatly trimmed gravel path; stones line each side. The path winds among five or six widely spaced tents. We stop before a tent...this will be your living quarters...you are the first to arrive, so you have your pick of spaces. Report back when you get settled in...thank you, sir.
The tent is much like the one I just left at K-13. Pea gravel leading to the ten inch high wood step up; wood floor; three-foot high wood walls all around; door with Plexiglas window at each end of the open room; screen doors hang inside each door; eight wood / canvas cots set up end-to -end... four on each side along the wall; wood foot locker between each cot; pot bellied oil burning stove dead center - flat steel plate on top;... stove pipe in metal flashing rises through the roof; wood frame supporting tightly stretched canvas covers the entire building; electric light bulbs hang from the ceiling rafters, one bulb over each cot.
Standing room is in the center of the room between the two rows of cots.
I choose the first cot on the right beside the door facing south...the airfield 50 feet away beyond a line of ancient trees...Seoul 30 miles beyond the tree line.
My cot has one pillow and two scratchy brown blankets. No pillow case...no sheets. I unpack my duffel, neatly loading the contents into my foot locker.
Everything I own is packed into my foot locker. I select a fresh khaki Class B uniform and report back to the sergeant. Settled in, he asks. Yes, sir. You will be working here at Base Camp, assigned to General B. staff. If you will follow me, Maynard, I'll show you to your office.
Walking the graveled winding path, the Sergeant leads me into a tent...a tent hhigher, wider, and longer; four desks line each side; a single much larger desk cross-wise at the far end; a long wood table with ten chairs stands lengthwise in the center of the open room. two oil fired pot bellied stoves - each with flat heating plates on top - stand in the center, one on each end of the long table. Two lights hang from overhead rafters above each desk.
I follow the sergeant, stopping in front of the large desk at the far end. U.S. Army Brigadier General B. (one star on each collar) sits behind the desk. I come to attention - feet together, ramrod straight back, head centered, eyes straight ahead, arms stiff at my side, my "cunt" cap firmly under my left armpit.
General, this is Airman Maynard...handing the general my papers. The general scans my papers, looks me from top to bottom and back up...my eyes riveted on a spot on the wall behind the generals left shoulder. Thank you, sergeant...that will be all. Yes, sir, comes to attention, makes a smart about face and disappears behind me. At ease, Maynard. my eyes move to the generals face...the rest of me at "parade rest" - relaxed, but unmoving. Welcome to UNC-MAC Base Camp, Maynard. So you are my administration team member...you go to tech school? No, sir. Where did you receive your training? In high school, sir. You have been to no technical training school? No, sir. Where have you been assigned? I worked in the Orderly Room during basic training, sir...then I was assigned as Stenographer Specialist to the Office Of The Staff Judge Advocate, Sheppard Air Force Base, Wichita Falls, Texas, sir...then to K-13, 8th Fighter Bomber Wing, Headquarters Office, reporting to Lt. Colonel S., Wing Adjutant.
Any other administration experience, Maynard. Yes, sir...I worked in the office my Junior and Senior year at Kennewick High School...and helped my mother in the office of our trucking company in Pasco, Washington.
How old are you, Maynard? 17, sir. Impressive. Well, Maynard, let's meet the rest of our team.
Following the general, I am introduced to two US Army Lt. Colonels, two US Army Majors, and one US Navy Lieutenant; each welcome me, extending their hands which I shake...thank you, sir...thank you, sir...thank you, sir...thank you, sir...thank you, sir.
Lieutenant (J.) is your new boss. Our little group is about to become very busy, Maynard. We are pleased to have you join us. This - extending his hand toward the first desk on the left of the door I entered - is your office; anything you need...any questions, Lt J. here, is your man. My office is always open to you, Maynard...extending his hand, which I accept...good luck.
Lt. J. spends the rest of the day with me. I receive an overview of the mission of our staff...directly supporting the UNC-MAC negotiators at the Panmunjom peace talks. We walk around the entire Base Camp, divided into three general areas...Officer Country, Visitor area, and Enlisted area. All buildings are tents with wood floors, except for the new Theatre - Conference Center...a large wood building standing not 50 feet from my own living quarters. The Conference Center is an auditorium with about 150 chairs and a stage at one end. The airfield is on the south side of the Base Camp...on the north side is a helicopter landing zone, large enough to handle a number of aircraft at one time. All travel to Panmunjom is by helicopter from this spot.
Linking the Base Camp are continuous gravel paths. At irregular intervals along the paths are round metal tubes...a wire screen fastened to the open top... partially buried at 45 degree angles in the ground, surrounded by a circle of crushed gravel. Lt. J. explains...these are piss tubes...actually expended 155mm Howitzer Shells with holes punched in the bottom; very functional for our all-male staff...a bit awkard for the growing number of female visitors.
The Base Camp is neat as a pin. There is no fence around Base Camp. The Communist's have their Base Camp on the north side of the DMZ (Demilitarized Zone), which more or less straddles the 38th Parallel east-west across the width of the Korean Peninsula. By bi-lateral agreement (both sides agree), both Base Camps are strictly OFF LIMITS to any enemy activity.
The war continues to rage along the DMZ, guns firing night and day, but Base Camps are inviolate. Lights are on all night. Bed Check Charlie does not come near our Base Camp. The occasional artillery round does, however, find its way to us.
Base Camp staff are free to move about the camp. Written orders are required to leave the area. Loaded weapons are to be carried by anyone leaving...no weapons are carried on Base Camp grounds.
The next many months find me stretching a number of the "rules".
Saturday, December 1, 2012
POST 699; 12/01/12; BELLINGHAM, WASHINGTON
Dark and early this morning, I rolled out of my new queen-size bed - gifted by my dear friend, Karen E., Columbia, North Carolina while passing thru on my recent drive from the Outer Banks - ...cooked up and enjoyed some Cream Of
Rice hot cereal before pulling on my walk-"racing" duds.
Today was the 5 K Run / Walk to combat arthritis sponsored by the MOOSE Lodge in the nearby town of Mt. Vernon, Washington. Race time was 8:30am, so I was on my way in our usual Northwest Liquid Sunshine...however, in total darkness.
Before departing OBX (Outer Banks, North Carolina), I was gifted a Laser Surgery procedure to correct near-sightedness in my right eye...thank you again, Dr. Blakemore...the surgery I would term a fabulous success. I now see clearly from 12 inches to infinity...except in the dark. Driving from OBX to Bellingham - sometimes at night -, my night vision, while adequate, left something to be desired. A couple days ago, I installed the new xenon headlight bulbs in my MPV...touted on TV to significantly increase nighttime visibility. I can attest the claim is not bogus. I can now see at night as well as I ever did before the cataract surgery some 18 years ago.
Arrived at the Moose Lodge at sunrise...not even thinking about night vision while driving the 30 miles from Bellingham. Picked up my race packet...a long sleeve T-shirt and race number panel which I pinned to my reflective walking vest...SENIORS WALKING AMERICA...stenciled in large letters on the back.
Truth be known, I was still a but wobbly from my three days confined to bed in the hospital. Determined to participate in the Run / Walk, I downed a banana, a sip of water, visited the little boys room at the last moment, and was present when the starting gun fired. The timers clock read 38 minutes 20 seconds as I crossed the finish line, having power walked the 3.2 miles, passing at least half of the runners who crossed the starting line ahead of us walkers.
Took at least 30 seconds to shuffle to and across the starting line, so my walk actually took a bit less than 38 minutes...let's say 37 & 50 seconds. That calculates out to be a speed of something over 5.25 miles per hour (cannot find my calculator). Seems I have not lost any speed during the past few months of less than normal walking effort.
Next Saturday is another 5 K Arthritis Run / Walk. Will try to bring my time down to 37 minutes flat.
Oh, yes, I crossed the finish line a good 4 minutes before the next walker to cross. Looked to really piss off the second-place guy to have an Octogenarian beat him.
Still no word in response to my many request for employment applications. Tis Saturday, so perhaps on Monday invitations for interviews will flood in.
I wish to comment on my recent postings beginning with POST 1001, 1002, 1003, etc. The storyline of these posts are intended as a bare bones outline of a proposed book I am toying to write...to be fleshed out after the outline is a bit further on. I am aware that readership of this blog has increased a bit in the last couple weeks...so, my outline is being read. My interest is: whether or not such an effort is appropriate (on line); or, would it be best to stop posting the outline and pursue it privately...or perhaps, can the whole thing !
I realize most of us are uncomfortable in making comments on line, so I, tongue in cheek, ask consideration to indicate feelings on the matter by clicking "like". This would be a one-week activity; i.e., if after one week no "like" appears, I will have my answer.
Rice hot cereal before pulling on my walk-"racing" duds.
Today was the 5 K Run / Walk to combat arthritis sponsored by the MOOSE Lodge in the nearby town of Mt. Vernon, Washington. Race time was 8:30am, so I was on my way in our usual Northwest Liquid Sunshine...however, in total darkness.
Before departing OBX (Outer Banks, North Carolina), I was gifted a Laser Surgery procedure to correct near-sightedness in my right eye...thank you again, Dr. Blakemore...the surgery I would term a fabulous success. I now see clearly from 12 inches to infinity...except in the dark. Driving from OBX to Bellingham - sometimes at night -, my night vision, while adequate, left something to be desired. A couple days ago, I installed the new xenon headlight bulbs in my MPV...touted on TV to significantly increase nighttime visibility. I can attest the claim is not bogus. I can now see at night as well as I ever did before the cataract surgery some 18 years ago.
Arrived at the Moose Lodge at sunrise...not even thinking about night vision while driving the 30 miles from Bellingham. Picked up my race packet...a long sleeve T-shirt and race number panel which I pinned to my reflective walking vest...SENIORS WALKING AMERICA...stenciled in large letters on the back.
Truth be known, I was still a but wobbly from my three days confined to bed in the hospital. Determined to participate in the Run / Walk, I downed a banana, a sip of water, visited the little boys room at the last moment, and was present when the starting gun fired. The timers clock read 38 minutes 20 seconds as I crossed the finish line, having power walked the 3.2 miles, passing at least half of the runners who crossed the starting line ahead of us walkers.
Took at least 30 seconds to shuffle to and across the starting line, so my walk actually took a bit less than 38 minutes...let's say 37 & 50 seconds. That calculates out to be a speed of something over 5.25 miles per hour (cannot find my calculator). Seems I have not lost any speed during the past few months of less than normal walking effort.
Next Saturday is another 5 K Arthritis Run / Walk. Will try to bring my time down to 37 minutes flat.
Oh, yes, I crossed the finish line a good 4 minutes before the next walker to cross. Looked to really piss off the second-place guy to have an Octogenarian beat him.
Still no word in response to my many request for employment applications. Tis Saturday, so perhaps on Monday invitations for interviews will flood in.
I wish to comment on my recent postings beginning with POST 1001, 1002, 1003, etc. The storyline of these posts are intended as a bare bones outline of a proposed book I am toying to write...to be fleshed out after the outline is a bit further on. I am aware that readership of this blog has increased a bit in the last couple weeks...so, my outline is being read. My interest is: whether or not such an effort is appropriate (on line); or, would it be best to stop posting the outline and pursue it privately...or perhaps, can the whole thing !
I realize most of us are uncomfortable in making comments on line, so I, tongue in cheek, ask consideration to indicate feelings on the matter by clicking "like". This would be a one-week activity; i.e., if after one week no "like" appears, I will have my answer.
Friday, November 30, 2012
POST 1008; NOVEMBER 30, 2012; KOREA
I report into the Orderly Room at K-13 in late February 1953, am assigned to a barracks (tent with a wooden floor, a pot-belly oil fired stove, and wood-canvas cots lining the sides, four to a side. My duffel bag is emptied onto the cot, contents carefully placed in the wood chest at the foot of the cot...just like at basic training.
I walk to base headquarters, my assignment: steno-clerk to the Commanding Officer, 8th Fighter Bomber Wing. Across the field is the 56th Fighter Interceptor Wing. Both the 8th and 56th fly F-86 jets...flying into North Korea; the 8th dropping bombs while the 56th provides top cover for our bombers from MIG 15s (Russian jet). This is MIG ALLEY country.
My job is working under the Adjutant, 8th Fighter Bomber Wing, taking dictation, writing letters, writing orders, mostly routine office work under supervision of a Master Sergeant.
K-13 has a high wire fence surrounding the airfield. No one is permitted to leave the base without specific orders...and then, only when armed with a weapon.
Korean civilians are employed as "house boys" to clean our quarters...and to work in the kitchens of the mess halls.
Working in Base Hq (Headquarters), I routinely review correspondence passing over my desk. One day, reviewing a list of newly arriving airmen, I come across the name of my high school classmate, Bruce B. B.B. has been assigned crew chief for one of our F-86 Sabre Jet Fighter Bombers. I find B.B. on the flight line where we greet with hugs. The next year B.B. and I spend much time together...he even visiting me at Panmunjom a time or two. I have great times riding the brakes of B.B.'s F-86 as he moves it with his tug (small 4-wheel tractor) from the sandbagged revetment to the fuel depot or maintenance shed.
B.B.'s F-86 is flown by a North American Test Pilot, visiting K-13 to demonstrate the capabilities of the aircraft. This Test Pilot never using the runway...takes off from the taxi-way, rolling the plane 360 degrees as the wing tips barely clear the concrete. Landing is made in equally short distance...the pilot bringing the plane to nearly hover position, sashaying from side to side as the F-86 settles to the ground.
Three C-47 - Gooney Bird - transport planes are assigned to the 8th FBW. Working in 8th HQ, I write my own orders, signed by the Adjutant, authorizing my flight to KOKURA, Japan...to purchase supplies. Only once am I questioned in Japan as I report to the local air base to fly back to K-13. A quick phone call by the Marine M.P. (Military Police) to 8th HQ back at K-13 clear my uninterrupted travel to Japan and back.
A tennis tournament is held at the 8th Air Force Headquarters compound in Seoul. I receive orders to travel to Seoul to participate in the tournament. During the night, Bed Check Charlie flies over. Jumping into the ever-present trench, I watch the aircraft, engine idling, glide toward me, not 50 feet over my head. Two bombs fall as it passes...the bombs clearing the compound wall 100 feet behind me, exploding in the street. Two civilian Koreans die in that explosion. I could easily have hit that aircraft with a rock.
B.B. and I, receiving orders to visit Seoul, catch a ride from Suwon to Yong Dong Po, a large community on the south side of the Han River across from Seoul.. We visit the Army Motor Pool in time for lunch...then walk across the military floating bridge into Seoul. The main bridge crossing the Han River has been bombed during earlier fighting, the road deck lying in the river below. Most buildings are collapsed, streets, littered with rubble reminiscent of scenes of World War II Berlin after B-17 raids.
Walking the torn-up street, B.B. and I are surrounded by pre-teen age boys...Hey, Joe...you got cigarette; Hey, Joe...you give me money; Hey, Joe you want virgin...my sister, she .... Before we get away, B.B.'s back pocket is slit open, his wallet yanked out by the running kids.
Months later, B.B. and I, returning from his visit to Panmunjom, walk the highway south to the north gate of the walled city of Seoul. A young boy...about 6 or 7 years old, lies half on the pavement...half in the gutter, crying...reaching out to us. HE HAS NO LEGS. I walk toward him...B.B. grabs my shoulder...don't touch him...if you do, he's yours. I stare at the creature, look at the indifferent Koreans walking by...and leave the boy where he lay.
That boy often visits my dreams.
Early April, I receive orders to report to UNC-MAC (United Nations Command - Military Armistice Commission) at Panmunjom... near the ancient city of MUNSAN-NI...30 miles north of Seoul. I hop onto a Beaver - Canadian Bush Plane, together with three field-grade officers, for the flight to Panmunjom. Our plane flies low over a field being leveled by some bulldozers and road graders. We fly back toward Seoul in a sweeping circle, returning to the field...the equipment moved aside as the Beaver touches down, bumping across the partially cleared runway, coming to a stop next to some tents.
I have arrived at the Base Camp on the United Nations side of the 38th Parallel. 15 miles to the north lies the Communist Base Camp. In the center lies the meeting place for the peace talks.
As I step off the plane, guns are firing a short distance away...the Korean War is still in full swing.
* * * * * * * *
UP DATE:
Have not ventured out into the liquid sunshine drizzle falling onto passersby...many without coats. Most of the day, I have tended to my mini-computer, checking e-mail for the hoped-for reply to my request(s) for employment. No such luck. Prepared and submitted three more on-line employment applications.
In the morning, plan to drive the 30 miles south on I-5 to the town of Mt. Vernon, Washington. I have entered the "Jingle Bells" Run/Walk for Arthritis...a 5K competition to raise $$ for arthritis cure. Still am a bit weak from lying prone in the hospital for three days, but invested $45.00 to compete, so will go anyway.
I walk to base headquarters, my assignment: steno-clerk to the Commanding Officer, 8th Fighter Bomber Wing. Across the field is the 56th Fighter Interceptor Wing. Both the 8th and 56th fly F-86 jets...flying into North Korea; the 8th dropping bombs while the 56th provides top cover for our bombers from MIG 15s (Russian jet). This is MIG ALLEY country.
My job is working under the Adjutant, 8th Fighter Bomber Wing, taking dictation, writing letters, writing orders, mostly routine office work under supervision of a Master Sergeant.
K-13 has a high wire fence surrounding the airfield. No one is permitted to leave the base without specific orders...and then, only when armed with a weapon.
Korean civilians are employed as "house boys" to clean our quarters...and to work in the kitchens of the mess halls.
Working in Base Hq (Headquarters), I routinely review correspondence passing over my desk. One day, reviewing a list of newly arriving airmen, I come across the name of my high school classmate, Bruce B. B.B. has been assigned crew chief for one of our F-86 Sabre Jet Fighter Bombers. I find B.B. on the flight line where we greet with hugs. The next year B.B. and I spend much time together...he even visiting me at Panmunjom a time or two. I have great times riding the brakes of B.B.'s F-86 as he moves it with his tug (small 4-wheel tractor) from the sandbagged revetment to the fuel depot or maintenance shed.
B.B.'s F-86 is flown by a North American Test Pilot, visiting K-13 to demonstrate the capabilities of the aircraft. This Test Pilot never using the runway...takes off from the taxi-way, rolling the plane 360 degrees as the wing tips barely clear the concrete. Landing is made in equally short distance...the pilot bringing the plane to nearly hover position, sashaying from side to side as the F-86 settles to the ground.
Three C-47 - Gooney Bird - transport planes are assigned to the 8th FBW. Working in 8th HQ, I write my own orders, signed by the Adjutant, authorizing my flight to KOKURA, Japan...to purchase supplies. Only once am I questioned in Japan as I report to the local air base to fly back to K-13. A quick phone call by the Marine M.P. (Military Police) to 8th HQ back at K-13 clear my uninterrupted travel to Japan and back.
A tennis tournament is held at the 8th Air Force Headquarters compound in Seoul. I receive orders to travel to Seoul to participate in the tournament. During the night, Bed Check Charlie flies over. Jumping into the ever-present trench, I watch the aircraft, engine idling, glide toward me, not 50 feet over my head. Two bombs fall as it passes...the bombs clearing the compound wall 100 feet behind me, exploding in the street. Two civilian Koreans die in that explosion. I could easily have hit that aircraft with a rock.
B.B. and I, receiving orders to visit Seoul, catch a ride from Suwon to Yong Dong Po, a large community on the south side of the Han River across from Seoul.. We visit the Army Motor Pool in time for lunch...then walk across the military floating bridge into Seoul. The main bridge crossing the Han River has been bombed during earlier fighting, the road deck lying in the river below. Most buildings are collapsed, streets, littered with rubble reminiscent of scenes of World War II Berlin after B-17 raids.
Walking the torn-up street, B.B. and I are surrounded by pre-teen age boys...Hey, Joe...you got cigarette; Hey, Joe...you give me money; Hey, Joe you want virgin...my sister, she .... Before we get away, B.B.'s back pocket is slit open, his wallet yanked out by the running kids.
Months later, B.B. and I, returning from his visit to Panmunjom, walk the highway south to the north gate of the walled city of Seoul. A young boy...about 6 or 7 years old, lies half on the pavement...half in the gutter, crying...reaching out to us. HE HAS NO LEGS. I walk toward him...B.B. grabs my shoulder...don't touch him...if you do, he's yours. I stare at the creature, look at the indifferent Koreans walking by...and leave the boy where he lay.
That boy often visits my dreams.
Early April, I receive orders to report to UNC-MAC (United Nations Command - Military Armistice Commission) at Panmunjom... near the ancient city of MUNSAN-NI...30 miles north of Seoul. I hop onto a Beaver - Canadian Bush Plane, together with three field-grade officers, for the flight to Panmunjom. Our plane flies low over a field being leveled by some bulldozers and road graders. We fly back toward Seoul in a sweeping circle, returning to the field...the equipment moved aside as the Beaver touches down, bumping across the partially cleared runway, coming to a stop next to some tents.
I have arrived at the Base Camp on the United Nations side of the 38th Parallel. 15 miles to the north lies the Communist Base Camp. In the center lies the meeting place for the peace talks.
As I step off the plane, guns are firing a short distance away...the Korean War is still in full swing.
* * * * * * * *
UP DATE:
Have not ventured out into the liquid sunshine drizzle falling onto passersby...many without coats. Most of the day, I have tended to my mini-computer, checking e-mail for the hoped-for reply to my request(s) for employment. No such luck. Prepared and submitted three more on-line employment applications.
In the morning, plan to drive the 30 miles south on I-5 to the town of Mt. Vernon, Washington. I have entered the "Jingle Bells" Run/Walk for Arthritis...a 5K competition to raise $$ for arthritis cure. Still am a bit weak from lying prone in the hospital for three days, but invested $45.00 to compete, so will go anyway.
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