“Save it for the Lieutenant, Mackenzie,” Johnson said.
“I’d better get going,” Jerry said.
“You don’t have to leave,” I said. “Gunny Sergeant Johnson, meet my life-long friend, Jerry Meyers.”
Gunny Johnson gave Jerry a waved salute which Jerry returned.
“Has Mick always been like this?” Gunny Johnson asked.
“Like how?” Jerry asked.
“A crazy dare-devil.” Gunny Johnson patted my arm.
Jerry shrugged. “There weren’t any North Koreans trying to kill him in South Carolina. Back then Mick was the studious one, good at math and science. The one the rest of us thought would go to college and be successful.”
“I always thought Bob would be the successful one,” I said.
Jerry shook his head. “That’s not how the rest of us thought.”
“If it’s okay with you, I’ll see if the Lieutenant is ready to see you now,” Gunny Johnson said.
“Fine,” I said, wondering why he’d cut me off from telling my story. Everyone was talking about me, and they needed to hear about Tony. He was the dare-devil, and it had cost him his life.
Chapter Fifty-One
A long, lonely hour later, tired of sitting up but dreading going back on my belly, Lieutenant Capers walked into the hospital tent with a Colonel, both had their heavy knee-length coats folded over their arms.
I sat up straighter, igniting a fire storm on my back. I wasn’t expecting the big brass.
We exchanged salutes, mine with clenched teeth.
“Sergeant Mackenzie, this is Colonel Jenkins.”
“How are you feeling?” Colonel Jenkins asked.
“Fine, sir.” I looked at the Lieutenant. “Sir, with all due respect, I’m a Lance Corporal.”
“Not any more, Marine,” the Colonel said. “Do you realize because of your single-handed, though wounded, flanking of the enemy position yesterday, we were able to rout the enemy, killing over fifty and taking even more prisoners? And though one is too many, we only lost one Marine. We destroyed a road block that had the whole division stopped.”
I shook my head. I wasn’t aware of what Tony and I had accomplished. My skin tingled with goose-bumps. However, I still wanted to correct his words ‘single-handed’ and tell him about the Marine the company had lost. But I decided to hold my tongue and let him talk.
“Your actions were above and beyond the call of duty, Sergeant. And I’ve proudly submitted the paperwork up the chain to request that you be considered for the Congressional Medal of Honor.”
I just sat there incredulously shaking my head. “The Medal of Honor? But what about Sculini, sir? He went with me and died for his efforts.”
“May God rest his soul. His actions are also being submitted for honors. But he wasn’t the leader, nor was he the BAR operator. And the rest of your fire team said based upon what they heard the BAR cleared that enemy position.”
I sighed.
“Do you know what this means, soldier? Until we get a ruling, you’ll be a non-combatant. And if my request is approved, you’ll be going home. This war will be over for you.”
“But sir, I got fragged, and Tony, Tony Sculini took my BAR and advanced on that enemy position by himself.”
The Colonel pulled back slightly, eyed the Lieutenant, and then focused on me. “Did Wilson eliminate the enemy and take the position?”
I shrugged. “Well . . . no. When I got there Wilson was down on the hillside with a North Korean standing over him on the verge of bayoneting him.”
“And?” the Colonel asked.
A surge of relief filled me. Someone was finally letting me tell my story.
“I shot him with Wilson’s gun and dove behind the dead gook when the NK in the trench started shooting at me. Sculini was hit in the side but alive. I threw a grenade into the trench, retrieved my BAR, loaded it, and jumped into the pit and finished off two of the enemy soldiers still alive. I don’t know how many Tony had already killed.”
The Colonel nodded.
“I went back and started dragging Tony to the trench when we came under fire again. Tony and I plunged into the pit, and I took out four charging NK. And . . . and Tony must’ve got hit when I was dragging him and . . . and he was dead.”
“Is that all, Sergeant?”
“Yes, sir, but,” my eyes began to burn, “I want it recorded that I was down, and Sculini took my BAR and attacked that enemy trench with at least ten probably more—”
“Fourteen by our count,” Lieutenant Capers said.
“Tony Sculini took them on by himself,” I finished.
“Duly noted, Sergeant,” Colonel Jenkins said. “But Sculini did not take the position did he?”
I looked away. “No, sir.”
The Colonel had said the magic words; I might be able to go home. The war could possibly be over for me. I had to go home.
And Tony would be going home too; in a box.
I dropped my head into my hands as my tears flowed.
Andong, South Korea
Dear Mom and Dad,
Don’t freak out. I got wounded yesterday, shrapnel in my legs and back. I’m whole and not disfigured or impaired, just sore from all the stitches. I’ll be hospitalized until the stitches can be removed. The bed rest is a blessing.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Two weeks later, I was stitch-less and out of the hospital and had just finished my first week in the motor pool. At Colonel Jenkins request, Lieutenant Capers had assigned me to be a driver for the Colonel.
I hadn’t seen Jerry Meyers since leaving the hospital. Word was the 1/5 had been moved out on an extended operation due to increased enemy activity to our west. I prayed he was okay.
Except for a few short trips around Andong with the Colonel, I had sat around either writing letters or playing poker with the other drivers. Most of them were like me, recovering from minor wounds or short-timers with only weeks before their enlistment time ended.
Quite frequently when we were playing cards, one of the other drivers would open up about what they had experienced in the war. It was like we were a club in which you had to be a bloodied Marine to join. And what else did we have in common other than the war? So we shared our stories.
In retrospect, talking about all the shit I had been through seemed a form of relief, like taking off a heavy pack after a long march. I knew I’d feel a whole bunch better if I could talk about my last action, but I couldn’t. The Colonel had asked me not to talk about the action until a judgment was made on his recommendation.
I tried not to think about whether or not I’d go home. The negative side was too dark.
One day in the middle of a game of stud poker, a grizzled Corporal named Davis got my full attention.
“I’ve never been as cold as when I was at Yudam-ni,” Davis said, hesitating in his card shuffle. “I couldn’t stop shivering. You couldn’t get away from the cold; it was always there. The friggin’ plasma froze as well as the morphine syrettes. None of the batteries worked. They had to leave all the trucks and tanks runnin’. Everything was frozen. It was like living inside a friggin’ freezer. And the more you thought about it, the worse it got.”
He rubbed his chin with the back of his deck-holding hand. “Funny, the only times when I didn’t think about freezing were when we could build a fire or when I was fighting. And most of the fighting happened at the coldest times, in the middle of the night, almost every night.
“There ain’t no fuckin’ trees in this country, least ways not in those mountains, so there wasn’t anything to burn. But on the morning after the first Chinese attack, one of the guys in my unit got an idea, and we gathered up some of those frozen-stiff gook bodies, stacked them, poured gasoline on them, and lit them. Smelled awful but it was heat.
He started dealing. “So as crazy as this may sound, I guess I’m indebted to those fuckin’ Chinese for both keeping my mind off the cold and possibly from freezing to death.”
&nb
sp; And we all laughed.
The insanity was alive and well.
Andong, South Korea
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Sculini,
My name is Mick Mackenzie. I’m a sergeant in the First Marines and had the honor of serving with your son. We were in the same squad and friends.
I am so sorry for our loss.
We often talked about our families. He was proud of being your son, missed you, and loved you beyond words.
Tony was more than a friend to me, I could always count on him whenever things got hairy. He was always calm and cool, my rock. I could be on the verge of panicking, and he’d be asleep. But his shoulder was always against mine when things got tough.
Tony was one of the bravest man I’ve ever met. He was both a fine young man and a damned good Marine.
War tests a man’s character; stripping away whatever camouflage he has created; baring his true self. Tony was a good man.
If and when I get home, I’d like to meet you. I think Tony would like that, and I know I would.
Respectfully,
Sgt. Mick Mackenzie, USMC
Chapter Fifty-Three
After two weeks of driving the colonel around, I knew our routine by heart.
I pulled up to his quarters and hopped out of the jeep just as Colonel Jenkins was coming out of his tent. I straightened to salute but he beat me to it. Dumbfounded that he saluted first, it took me a second to return his gesture of respect.
“Come in, Sergeant, we need to talk.” He turned and retreated into his tent.
In an instant, my mouth became a desert, and I had trouble swallowing. Had a decision about my receiving the Medal of Honor been reached? Had they realized that Tony was the real hero? I had no problem with that except-I stood frozen, my mind whirling. Was I not going home? I had to go home and find Sarah and my child. Or would I have to go back to the insanity? I’d die if I went back into action. There was no way I could continue to survive. There was only so much luck in this world.
I sucked in a deep breath. I’d do what I had to do.
After I entered the Colonel’s quarters, he walked to his desk and retrieved some papers.
”You’d better get used to officers saluting you, Sergeant.” He pointed the fisted papers at me. ”General Smith concurred with my recommendation. With all due respect, Sergeant Mick Mackenzie, it gives me great pleasure to congratulate you. You are a Medal of Honor recipient, for actions in combat above and beyond the call of duty; the highest honor awarded by the United States of America.” He braced and saluted me again.
I returned his salute as the back of my neck and head tingled with joy and excitement, both needing a means of release. Oh my God, I was going home.
He extended his hand.
I stood there, frozen. I knew this may happen, but I hadn’t thought about the reality of ‘the highest honor awarded’. I wanted to hug him, I wanted to jump in the air, I wanted to . . . to leave this place of death and go home.
The Colonel took a step toward me, hand still extended, and I awkwardly shook it.
“General Smith wants to meet you, and then you’ll be going home within the next day or two. An official letter will be sent to your parents, detailing your award, announcing your return, and inviting them to the awards ceremony on a date to be set. That ceremony will take place at the White House where President Truman will place the Medal of Honor around your neck.”
The President? Me, a hero? Home? Could any of this be true? Going home, alive and in one piece. Home to find Sara and my baby.
He tilted his head, staring at my moist eyes. “You’d better get used to the attention, son, you’re going to get drenched with it. The world idolizes heroes and rightfully so.” He leaned back against his desk. “So tell me, what are you thinking? You seem to be in shock.”
I was reminded of the first time I jumped off the bluffs above the May River back home. I was just a kid and scared silly. But once I had taken that first step it was too late to go back.
“It’s just that . . . there are so many others who deserve this honor more than me. I was just following orders, sir. I—”
“You were doing more than following orders, Sergeant. Wounded, you single-handedly flanked the enemy; resulting in a low casualty destruction of an enemy roadblock.”
“But sir, it wasn’t single-handed, Tony Sculini-”
“Private Sculini wasn’t the BAR man, you were, and you and your BAR took that enemy position that day. There are witnesses. So don’t be so modest. You are a hero, Sergeant Mick Mackenzie, get used to it. And oh, by the way,” he reached inside a desk drawer and removed a box, “here’s an actual medal for you; something you can put on your dress blues for your trip home; your Purple Heart.”
Chapter Fifty-Four
Charleston, South Carolina
March, 1951
As the four engines of the Lockheed Super Constellation bore through the air, I thought about what I’d say to Mom and Dad, particularly Dad. I was sure I wasn’t half the Marine he had been. He’d endured four years of combat. I had barely made it through six months. I shook my head; I don’t know how he did that.
None of that mattered now. The war was behind me. I wasn’t going back. I was going home, thank God, I was really going home.
So much had transpired in the past week, I didn’t think I had any options but to accept what the Marine Corps had planned for me. At this point, the US Government was deeply invested in me.
‘Invested’ probably wasn’t a big enough word. After meeting with General Smith, I was taken aside and informed of my new, Medal owner privileges. I would receive a monthly pension for the rest of my life that currently exceeded my pay. I, along with any of my accompanying family members, could fly free to anywhere in the world during my lifetime. My dependents and I would receive special commissary and exchange privileges. I could be buried in Arlington Cemetery. My children were eligible for admission to the United States military academies with no regard to nomination or quota requirements. I could even get a special license plate. But the craziest privilege of all was I’d receive an invitation to all future presidential inaugurations and inaugural balls.
Finally, able to shed my clinging Korean fears, coupled with the reality of going home with all my perks, I relaxed and let the drone of the engines sing me to sleep.
The plane touched down jolting me. I looked out the window and saw palm trees. I was home. A long sigh escaped my lips. I had made it home. I had to fight the urge to jump up and cheer. I’d survived.
As the ‘Connie’ taxied up to the terminal, I saw lots of people. The brass had mentioned there would be some sort of celebration for me; a homecoming. My collar felt tighter as I viewed the crowd.
After the plane stopped, a pretty stewardess escorted me to the opened door. As I stepped out onto the portable stairs, the roar of the throng sent tingles up my spine and made my palms sweat. The cheering was overwhelming. Eyes moist, I braced and saluted. The volume increased.
My pretty guide eased me to the side at the top of the stairs. A Charleston late afternoon warm breeze scented with pine and azaleas welcomed me home. Though I’d only been gone a little over six months, it seemed like years since I’d left; a different person ago.
The sunlight and clear skies were as wonderfully blinding as the cheers were deafening. As other passengers deplaned, I took the time to savor the heat after months of bitter cold. Then a marching band struck up The Marines’ Hymn, and the stewardess told me to go down to the tarmac. Two steps into my descent, I saw Mom and Dad walking through the crowd toward the plane. My racing heart stopped me. Dad had on his dress uniform.
I couldn’t remember a prouder moment in my life. If only Sara were here; it would have been above and beyond.
Chapter Fifty-Five
I was home; well almost, I was in Charleston. I stood near the top of the roll-away airplane steps shaking my head. The tarmac between the plane and terminal was jammed with people. A band played, photographers
seeped out of the crowd like stalking hunters, and a podium topped with microphones suddenly appeared.
The once balmy warm air seemed to get hotter, laden with humidity. And my uniform collar got smaller. I squeezed a finger between the tunic and my neck hoping to stretch it.
An older bald man wearing a dark suit climbed the stairs with a large gold key in his hand, and a younger man with a camera trailed him. The old feller was breathing hard by the time he got to me. He took a moment to wipe off his perspiration and to gain control of his breath. Then he gave a ‘thumbs up’ to his colleague.
“Welcome home, Sergeant Mackenzie, I’m William Morrison, Mayor of Charleston, and on behalf of the people of this fine city, I’d like to give you the key to Charleston, sir.” He extended the large key toward me. As I took one end of it, the Mayor held on to the other and turned to face the cameras, waving and smiling like he had just cinched the next election. Then he shook my hand and again posed for more photos. After allowing more than enough time for both filming and more photos, Mayor Morrison hooked my arm and led me down the steps where my parents waited.
As I stepped onto the tarmac, my father, beaming with pride, stiffened to attention and saluted me. This all seemed so out of place, so odd, and yet I braced and returned the salute; not as if it were a father and son thing but more like one Marine to another.
My dad ended the salute and offered his hand. When I took it, he pulled me into his arms, into an “Old Spice” tainted with moth balls hug. He said into my ear over the band and cheers, “Welcome home, son. You’ve made your mom and me, first and foremost, glad you’re back; and second, extremely proud of you.”
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