Mickey's Wars

by Dave McDonald

  Me too; it was time I got back to the war. Time to shelf the whys and what-ifs about Sara. Time to be a Marine. A Marine who did all he could to save his fellow Marines and stay alive while doing it; that kind of Marine.

  We split up, a pair on each side of the road, and advanced in a half-crouch toward the village.

  When the other two reached the first hut, Big Eye and me took cover, and aimed our weapons at the windows in the small home.

  One of the Marines, standing to the side of the door, pounded on it. His partner braced on the other side.

  The door cracked open and a small elderly Korean woman peered out. One of the Marines motioned at the woman and then pushed the door open. Leaning inside, he scanned the interior. He backed out and singled it was clear.

  Now it was our turn.

  Just as the other two knocked on the fifth house, three men scrambled from houses at the other end of the village, running away.

  I stepped into the middle of the road and yelled for them to stop, “Jungji!” One of the few words of Korean I knew.

  They kept running.

  I fired a burst high over them.

  One of them slid to a stop, spun around, kneeled, and aimed a rifle at us.

  I dropped to the ground in a prone position.

  The Korean was young, very young, a teenager at best. His rifle looked longer than he was tall.

  I had him in my sights, but he was a kid, who couldn’t be much older than my brother, Jeffie. I couldn’t pull the trigger. And he wasn’t shooting at us, not yet anyway.

  My three fire team buddies began shooting.

  The young Korean rolled over, hopped to his feet, and ran between two huts as bullets kicked up the snow around him.

  By the time we carefully advanced, they were gone.

  “So that’s what the enemy looks like,” said the pimple-faced Marine as he checked his magazine with shaking fingers. “I’ve got nephews that age.”

  I didn’t have an answer.

  “Let’s clear the village,” I said. But the thought lingered. Had we gone from fighting professional Chinese soldiers to fighting Korean kids? Kids whose guns either jammed, weren’t loaded, or who were too scared to shoot.

  My rifle hung, the barrel pointed straight down. It would be so fucking easy to just pull the trigger and get myself a wounded pass out of this shithole; even if it was only for a week or two.

  Even we grunts knew flesh wounds were treated in country by MASH units. Many of the wounded had returned to the line and educated us. You had to have wounds requiring skills or equipment beyond the capabilities of a MASH unit to get out of country. Whatever those were?

  After the village was cleared, the platoon took a break just outside the hamlet.

  Tony and I rushed to each other,

  “I thought you were dead!” I said, hugging the small man against me. “I waited for you at the bottom of East Hill and never saw you come down.”

  “That’s because I didn’t. Right after you saved me, I clamored for safety and ended up in a different crater than you. When I started crawling down the hill I got hit in my ass and rolled into another shell hole. You talk about pain, damn that hurt. I laid there unable to move except for the wreathing for what seemed like hours until some corpsmen recovering bodies found me. They evac’d me to a Mash unit in Pusan. Wanna see my scar?”

  “Knowin’ you it’d take too long for you to remove all your clothing.”

  He chuckled. “That brings back the only fond memory I have about this war. Wonder what happened to Richards? What an asshole. Have you seen him?”

  The tunnel, the severed arm, Richards fixed eyes, it all came back, crystal clear. My abdominal muscles knotted. I stiffened. My mind fumbled for a response. I had to clear my dry throat. “I, ah, I recall Gunny saying he was KIA.”

  “Maybe there is a God.” He pursed his lips and nodded. “Whose toting for you now?”

  “Your looking at him.”

  “I’ll talk to the sarge and see if we can change that. Speakin’ of which, what happened to Gunny Mattson?”

  I couldn’t stop my chin from falling to my chest. “He didn’t make.” I raised my face and looked away seeing Gunny lying in the snow, cradled in my arms. “We’d just starting evacuating, only a few miles south of Hagaru-ri.” I shook my head.

  He sighed. “He was a damned good man. Sorry to hear that. He put us together; a good team, you and I. Let’s make that happen again. I like having you on my six.”

  “The feeling’s mutual,” I said, patting his shoulder. “The platoon is full of greenies which puts me on edge. And my BAR misses you. She’s constantly hungry since you left.”

  Masan, South Korea

  Dear Mom and Dad,

  Merry Christmas.

  I wish I was home. Jeffie has to be excited. I know I would be. Please tell me all about it including everything Mom made for dinner.

  It’s been quiet here, as if the insanity of the war has taken a time-out for Christmas. I know these people are Buddhists and don’t believe in Jesus, which makes it all the goofier to have a lull. Regardless, I’m glad.

  Any word from Sara?

  Her leaving makes no sense. I know her. She wouldn’t leave without telling me why, unless . . . unless something or someone forced her to. Something happened. Let’s just leave it at that. I know I’ll hear from her someday.

  Give each other a hug and kiss from me, and pray for peace and love through-out the world.

  Love,

  Mick

  Oh, one other thing, scuttlebutt is we’re moving again, north, near Seoul.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  I shouldered my BAR as our platoon approached base camp.

  New Year’s Eve was just another winter day on another patrol, more frozen hills climbed, more impoverished villages cleared. More tension and, thank God, no action. The enemy, whoever that was, had been quiet today; reportedly present, but out of sight.

  At least the weather was good compared to the shit I’d been through; in the high thirties and canteen-empty dry.

  The sun touched the horizon, soon to disappear as we entered camp. The place was a beehive of activity with people and trucks moving throughout the area. We were getting ready for another move.

  We gathered for ‘mail call’, and I got a letter from Mom and Dad, which I prayed had some news about Sara.

  As the Gunny Sergeant, whose name I now knew, Johnson, Gary Johnson, dismissed us, he called to me.

  “Yes, Gunny,” I said, sliding the letter into one of my pants’ pockets.

  “Lieutenant Capers asked me to tell you that because of your reported bravery and leadership at Koto-ri as well as the break-out to Hamhung, you’ve been promoted to Lance Corporal,” he said, and smiled. “The Lieutenant said the paperwork and chevrons have finally arrived and are in his quarters. He’ll send them to you this evening.” He slapped me on the shoulder. “Smile, Mackenzie, you just got a pay increase.”

  “What are all the things a Lance Corporal is responsible for?” I asked, feeling stupid but needing to know. “A lot of people with varying ranks have come and gone, I just followed orders from whomever. I know we learned that rank stuff in Basic, but that was a few battles ago.”

  “Well,” Gunny pushed up the side of his helmet so he could scratch his head, “minimally you’ll be a fire team leader. And if someone in the chain of command above you is wounded or ah, removed during an operation, you’ll move up a rank until the platoon has time to evaluate the options. So make sure you’re aware of what a corporal’s responsibilities are.”

  “But, Gunny, I—”

  “Hope you can sew,” Gunny said as he walked away.

  “Happy New Year,” I said to no one as I walked toward my tent.

  I’d wanted to ask him if Sculini could be my ammo carrier but he hadn’t given me a chance.

  The other three Marines, my so called fire team, were already in our tent. Gear and coats piled on their cots, they huddled around
the stove, chatting. They were all recruits who had joined us at Masan. None of them had that look; the one Sara had told me about; they weren’t killers yet.

  But I had the look. I saw it every time I shaved. And it scared the crap out of me. I wasn’t sure who I was other than a killer. And killing was becoming easier and easier. If I got out of here, would I have any soul left?

  They quieted when I walked in; causing me to wonder if I had been the subject of their conversation. I plopped down on my cot. I didn’t care if they talked about me; I didn’t care about much of anything, except going home and finding Sara.

  Now that I had a stripe, I wondered if going home in other than a pine box would happen. Stripes had high casualty rates; I’d witnessed it too many times.

  I searched through my duffel bag for a needle and thread. I had to keep my mind occupied if I wanted to remain sane in this land of suffering and death, whatever sanity was.

  A buried thought surfaced. With the exception of a very brief gathering at Hamhung, this was the only other camp site where the entire First Marine Division was together. I’d been on patrols non-stop since arriving at Masan. Before that I was extremely busy trying to survive. But for the next couple of days, I was staying at the camp. Tomorrow I would go to the Headquarters complex and see if I could find any of my Bluffton friends.

  Tonight I had some reading and chevron sewing to do.

  Dear Mick,

  About your last letter and needing a purpose; just come home. We’ll find a way to connect you with Sara and your child. I promise.

  I know I told you I survived because of luck. That’s true, but staying focused also helped. Let me worry about finding Sara. You concentrate on staying alive.

  There are professionals who find missing people, and I’m in the process of selecting one.

  Keep your wits about you.

  Love,

  Dad

  I reached into my pocket and touched the shell; my luck.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  I had never seen so many stripes and bars on uniforms in one place. The headquarters complex was jammed with non-coms and officers, ranging from Sergeants to Generals. I was in a saluting frenzy.

  After being directed and redirected from desk to desk, I was finally pointed to a bespectacled PFC who was a records clerk. The man sat at a makeshift desk of wooden boxes and was busy pounding on a typewriter, clacking faster than my BAR shot bullets.

  I stood there for what seemed to be at least five minutes before he noticed me.

  He sat up and flexed his fingers. “Yes, Lance Corporal, what do ya need?” His blank stare conveyed his exasperation more than his words.

  “I’m looking for some buddies of mine. We grew up together, and all joined the Marines.”

  “You and five-thousand other people.” He shook his head, grabbed a pencil and a pad, and slid it toward me. “Here, print your name as the requestor, and the names of who you’re looking for and their hometown.” He started typing again.

  I took the pad and pencil and printed everything he asked.

  “When will I hear something?” I asked over the clacking of his typewriter.

  “Probably a month,” he said without missing a keystroke.

  I braced on his desk with fisted hands and leaned down close to his face. “Are you fucking joking me? I’m not sure me or my friends will still be alive in a month.” I said just loud enough for only him to hear me.

  He stopped typing and pushed back as if I were contagious. He studied me for a few seconds. Then he removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “How long have you and your buddies been in the Marines, Lance Corporal?”

  I took a deep breath, not sure I could contain my anger if more bullshit was to be served. “There were five of us. One died in an accident in basic, and I’m not sure about the other three. I would’ve tried to find them at Hagaru-ri, but I was a little busy.”

  “You were at the Chosin Reservoir?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  He leaped to his feet and saluted me.

  I was stunned and not knowing what to do, I stood upright and saluted back.

  He motioned with his head over his shoulder. “A couple of the other clerks were at Hagaru-ri. They are . . . are different.”

  “They got overrun. Everyone had to fight. And they fought well. Though many of them didn’t make it.”

  He nodded. “We’re packing up tomorrow,” he said, settling back into his chair. “Give me at least a week at Andong to get unpacked and organized, and I’ll have your information.”

  “Thank you,” I said and walked out, wishing I hadn’t been so overbearing with him. He was just doing his job.

  So it was true, we were moving.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  A late January day found our division and me encamped at Andong, South Korea. It was still relentlessly cold. I sat in the crowded chow tent with a steaming cup of java and a large sealed envelope. The HQ records clerk had come through and had loaned me his files containing the information I sought. The man had trust issues. I had to leave my BAR with him until I returned his folders. And that took some trust on my part. My BAR was kin.

  I looked down at the envelope. Part of me wanted to rip it open, and the other part feared its contents. Carl Henry was dead, and Sara was AWOL. Could I stand anymore bad news?

  The chow tent was jammed with Marines, but I was oblivious to them and their noise. I was remembering my four friends, and some of the many good times we had together growing up. Bonfires on the May River sand bar. The weekend fishing or hunting trips. Chasing girls. Sandlot baseball and football games. School dances. Visions of our past lives together rolled through my mind like rewinding the film on a home movie projector. We had been inseparable; friends to the end.

  Then the friggin’ war had to come along, just when we graduated; and Sara.

  I took a gulp of the hot joe.

  My fingers fumbled with the glued envelope flap. In frustration I ripped the damned thing open.

  The envelope was stuffed with papers. As I tried to pull the top ones out I found there were three paper-clipped bundles. I pulled out the top bundle. It was the service record for Robert Bresnahan, my bespectacled friend. Bob, who of all of us, should have been the one to go to college, not the Marines. I scanned the top page. Bob was in the 1st Marine Division and 7th Battalion, the 1/7. I knew for a fact those boys had taken more than their share of the shit at Chosin and during the evacuation.

  Having never seen these forms before, I read each page. He had been promoted to Sergeant at Yudam-ni, a small village on the north side of the Chosin Reservoir. Obviously someone of rank also recognized Bob’s smarts.

  I couldn’t relax yet. I’d heard Yudam-ni had the highest Marine casualty rate at the Reservoir. I found myself holding my breath as I read on.

  Bob had been wounded, critically, on November 29th, evacuated by air to a MASH unit, and then flown to the US Naval Hospital at Yokosuka, Japan. He was currently listed in stable condition. I released a big sigh; he was alive.

  Was Bob disfigured or permanently disabled? The details weren’t in the report. But Bob was alive and probably headed home. He’d survived this shit.

  One pseudo-okay, alive at least, and two to go.

  Sam Davison’s service file was next. Big, strong Sam, the ideal Marine, surely he was okay. But I knew better; surviving had nothing to do with size, strength, or skills, only luck. I scanned through the pages. Sam was also in the 1/7. Hopefully he and Bob had remained close. Letters and words jumped off the page. Sam had been arrested and was being held in Masan for trial by court martial for intentional self-inflicted wounds.

  That definitely didn’t sound like Sam. But war changed people. I had first-hand experience. Christ almighty, I’d thought about shooting myself. I’d wager most men subjected to combat did. Hell, Sam had enlisted at least two months earlier than I had and had survived both the ‘Pusan Pocket’ and the Chosin. I couldn’t imagine all the hell he’d been
through.

  The self-inflicted wound incident occurred at Yudam-ni on November, 29th. I checked Bob’s record. Bob got wounded at the same place on the same day.

  I couldn’t help but wonder if Sam and Bob had been together, and Sam saw Bob go down. After losing Carl Henry and thinking Bob was dead, how much more could a guy take?

  I was guessing. I didn’t know what had happened. And there wasn’t anything I could do about it.

  I needed to find out what the standard court martial sentence was for self-inflicted wounds. How many years of imprisonment was getting home safe worth? Even a year may be too long to find or save Sara. My baby would be walking by then.

  I sat up, rubbing my temples. I couldn’t believe I was even contemplating serving brig time to get home. Due to this war and Sara, my thinking had gotten fucked up.

  After reading the first two of my remaining friends’ service records, I was hesitant to read Jerry Meyers’ paper work.

  But the file was there, and I had to know.

  I took a large swig of the strong coffee and picked up Jerry’s file; the short, stocky fireplug who, like Sam, was always a school hero in the fall during football season.

  Jerry was still a PFC in the 1/5, which didn’t surprise me. With the exception of sports, Jerry seemed allergic to advancing himself.

  A page later, I discovered he had been in the Masan camp with me and now was here at Andong. We’d had weeks to find each other. Why couldn’t we have had a chance meeting? I’d heard others talk about stuff like that. But maybe they hadn’t spent as much time on patrol as I had.

  I found myself looking around. We may have eaten chow in the same mess tent. We may have passed each other in camp. How would anyone recognize a high school friend after what we’d been through? There was no way we looked anything like we used to look; that innocent, greenie look.