by Larry Bond
He looked back at Kevin. “Don’t expect too much or anything too fancy. General McLaren, the Big Boss here in Korea, doesn’t like seeing officers spending their time riding around like some kind of foreign potentates.” The captain’s Alabama drawl stretched the word “potentates” into something that sounded vaguely obscene.
The captain yawned. “You’re lucky I’m in a merciful mood, Lieutenant. And now that I’ve put your case in Sergeant Ferguson’s capable hands, I’ve done all that I can.” He yawned again. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some important paperwork to clear up.” With that, the captain sauntered into his office and closed the door.
Sergeant Ferguson, a wiry, little man, motioned Kevin over to a chair. “Better take a pew, Lieutenant. This might take awhile. Not a whole lot going up toward the Z today. Should be able to get you something though.” He started flipping through a huge stack of papers on one of the desks.
Kevin sank into the chair. Jesus, here he was. Stuck in Korea. Stuck in the hands of a bunch of Army clerks. His new battalion commander had probably already listed him as AWOL, absent without leave. He could just see writing to his parents: “Dear Mom and Dad, arriving back from Korea tonight. Please write care of Leavenworth Army Prison.” He leaned his head back against the office partition in misery and then sat bolt upright.
The captain snored.
ALONG ROUTE 3, SOUTH KOREA
Two hours later Ferguson came through and Kevin found himself in the cab of an Army supply truck trundling north toward the DMZ. Jet lag was starting to catch up with him; he was tired, sore, and more than a little nauseous, and the truck driver, a shifty-looking corporal, seemed to delight in making hairpin turns, sudden lane changes, and ear-splitting gear shifts.
The driver hadn’t even saluted him when he’d climbed aboard back at Kimpo Airport, and Kevin wasn’t sure if he should report the man for insolence or just ignore it. Maybe they kept discipline pretty casual here in Korea — he just didn’t know.
He looked out the window to hide his discomfort. They’d driven right along the Han River through Seoul before turning north. And Seoul, at least, seemed pretty interesting. Tall, modern skyscrapers and huge freeways all built right next to delicate, tile-roofed palaces and narrow, winding streets. The place was huge, too — a lot bigger than Spokane or even Seattle. It must have been nearly an hour before they left the city’s sprawling suburbs behind.
The countryside wasn’t like anything Kevin had ever seen back in the States either — flat, green, water-logged rice paddies reaching out all the way toward rocky, knife-edged ridges running along both sides of the highway. The tiny villages they passed looked like something out of National Geographic with brown-painted cottages topped with curving orange, green, blue, and turquoise roofs. Narrow country roads bordered by tall poplars and gently swaying willow trees bordered the highway. Kevin began to feel a bit better. Then the odor hit him. Charcoal smoke and unleaded gasoline and thick humidity rolled up into a foreign smell that seemed to magnify the strangeness of the place.
The corporal chuckled a bit when he saw Kevin wrinkling his nose. “You won’t notice the smell by tomorrow morning, sir.
“If you think that’s strange, they got that homemade napalm relish they call kimchee. They don’t eat nothin’ without it. Take a bunch of red peppers, cabbage, cucumbers, radishes, and stuff, mash it all up, and let it ferment for months. You can smell kimchee all the way to Honolulu if the wind’s right.
“Course, it ain’t so bad right now. You oughta smell it in July and August when the heat really comes on.” That was just about the last complete sentence Kevin could get out of him all the rest of the way to Camp Howze.
CAMP HOWZE, NEAR TONGDUCH’ON, SOUTH KOREA
Camp Howze looked like an Army camp. The rows of whitewashed barracks, supply warehouses, and office buildings were all laid out with straight-edged, military precision. There was a big difference, though, from the stateside bases Kevin had seen. The camp was surrounded by barbed wired and cleared fields of fire, and he could see camouflaged bunkers guarding the main gate.
A large sign declared that Camp Howze was “HQ 1st Battalion, 39th Infantry Regiment — 3rd Brigade, 2nd Infantry Division.”
The driver let him off right in front of the main entrance and watched while Kevin hauled his bags out of the back of the truck. Then, without a word, the corporal wheeled his truck around and drove off back west toward the highway.
A sergeant walked down from the gate to meet him. “Reporting in, sir?”
Kevin nodded, fumbling in his jacket pocket for his travel orders. “My plane was late. I was supposed to be here last night.”
The sergeant glanced through his orders. “Yes, sir. Battalion left word that you’re to report to Major Donaldson, the XO, as soon as you arrive.”
Kevin looked down at the pile of baggage at his feet and was acutely aware that he desperately needed a shower and shave to look, feel, and smell human.
The sergeant smiled. “I think you could interpret that order a little loosely, Lieutenant. I don’t think we’ll be able to log you in here at the gate for another half-hour. In the meantime, we’ll get you up to the BOQ.”
The sergeant broke off to yell up at the two privates watching from the gate. “Malloy, Brunner! Move your lazy asses down here and help the lieutenant with his bags.” He turned back to Kevin. “Welcome to Camp Howze, sir.”
A quick shower at the BOQ — the bachelor officers’ quarters — left him feeling a lot better, but Kevin still had knots in his stomach when he knocked on Major Donaldson’s door.
“Come.”
He opened the door, stepped inside, marched toward Donaldson’s desk, and came to attention. “Reporting in as ordered, sir.” Damn, why did his voice have to break every time he tried to sound properly military?
Major Colin Donaldson, a short, square-jawed man, looked Kevin over carefully for a brief moment, with all the studied disinterest of a man eyeing a horse he might want to buy someday. The major’s gaze made Kevin feel as though he were being X-rayed. He wondered what Donaldson saw.
He knew he wasn’t tall — barely average in fact. And though ROTC exercises and training marches had kept him in good shape, with a trim, flat stomach and muscular arms and legs, Kevin also knew he’d inherited his father’s stocky build along with the older man’s straw-colored hair and pale blue eyes. His father only kept his weight down by working from sunup to sundown on the family’s Eastern Washington ranch. The Littles didn’t have much choice, Kevin thought. It was either sweat or grow fat.
Feeling self-conscious under Donaldson’s gaze, Kevin held his shoulders back and head rigid, resisting the temptation to scope out the maps and personal mementos scattered throughout the major’s office. He had the feeling this wasn’t the right time to give his innate curiosity full rein. Not by a long shot. In fact, if he’d learned anything in the ROTC, it was that there was always a time to just play dumb. A succession of increasingly irritable instructors had made that painfully clear to him over three summers of basic and advanced training. It had been a difficult lesson to learn.
Curiosity, brains, and the itch for adventure were a large part of why Kevin wasn’t back home herding beef cattle from one sun-baked hill to the other. If he’d been the average kid in Ellensburg, Washington, he’d never have wanted to go to college. And if he hadn’t wanted to go to college, he’d never have signed up with the ROTC to pay for it. And now his service obligations to the U.S. Army had landed him smack dab in the middle of this camp just south of the DMZ.
Part of him was still pissed off. South Korea hadn’t been what he’d bargained for, and his orders to report there had come as both a shock and a disappointment. But another part of him was excited. This posting was sure to be a lot more interesting than the godforsaken spots in Texas, Tennessee, and Georgia that most of his classmates had been shipped off to.
After what seemed like an eternity, Donaldson pushed his chair back and came around
the desk with his hand held out. “At ease, Lieutenant. I ain’t going to bite your head off.”
He shook Kevin’s hand, waved him into a chair, and then perched himself on the corner of his desk.
Kevin thought he should explain why he was late. “Sir, I’m sorry I didn’t get here on schedule, but you see, my plane was — ”
Donaldson interrupted. “Don’t worry about it, Lieutenant. We don’t expect our officers to control the weather, or even the airlines. Eighth Army phoned this morning to let us know what happened to you.” He paused for a moment. “But don’t get the idea you can be late from now on. I’m going to expect your platoon to be ready to move when I say ‘move’ and to jump when I give the word. Clear?”
Kevin nodded.
“Good. That’s settled then.” Donaldson pulled a file off his desk and started leafing through it. There didn’t seem to be much in it.
“Now, I see from your service record that you’ve had some language training. That was in Korean, I hope.”
Kevin couldn’t quite keep the bitterness out of his voice. “No, sir. I took four years of German in college — I never expected to …” He decided it might not be a good idea to finish the sentence.
Donaldson looked over at him, amusement clearly showing in his eyes. “You never expected to get sent to Korea, Lieutenant?”
“Well, sir, no. No, I didn’t. I applied for an Army Intelligence posting in West Germany.”
Donaldson shook his head. “Let me get this straight. You took years of German, probably studied their politics and culture and all that stuff real hard, and then you expected the Army to send you to Germany?”
The major tossed the personnel file back on the desk. “Welcome to the real U.S. Army, Mr. Little. Let me clue you in on a well-known secret. The Army moves in mysterious ways. It doesn’t send you where you want to go, or even where you’re best suited to go. It sends you where you’re needed.”
Donaldson stood suddenly, walked over to a map of South Korea, and jabbed it with a finger. “And that’s right here, Lieutenant. It just so happens that we’re short a platoon leader in this battalion. That’s going to be your job for the next twelve months. You read me, Lieutenant?”
Kevin remembered the Eighth Army captain’s laughter at his cadet salute, so he simply nodded. “Yes, sir. I’ll do my best.”
Donaldson smiled again. “Good. I know you will. Now let me bring you up to speed on your assignment.”
He walked back over to his desk. “I’m giving you the Second Platoon in A Company. That’s Captain Matuchek’s mob. Matuchek’s a damned good officer, so you live up to his standards and you’ll go far. You’ll also stay clear of trouble and off my shit list — which is exactly where you want to stay.”
The major handed him a thick folder. “Here are the personnel records for your troops. Get to know them. Get to know which ones you can depend on and which you’ve got to watch. But remember, those records are just paper. They don’t tell the whole story. You get to know the real men — the ones behind the paper — and you’ll do all right.”
Kevin didn’t know what to say to that, so he just nodded again — feeling a bit like one of those little bouncing dogs some people stick on their car’s dashboard.
He looked up as Donaldson asked, “Now tell me, who’s the one man you can rely on to set you straight, spoon-feed you the info you need, and generally make sure you look and act like a proper young lieutenant?”
This sounded like some kind of test, but it seemed straightforward enough. “Captain Matuchek, sir.”
“No. No, Lieutenant, it ain’t Captain Matuchek. He’s got a lot better things to do than try to keep you in line. No, the man you’d better rely on pretty damn heavily is your platoon sergeant. He’s the one with the experience and the motivation to keep you from screwing up too badly.”
Donaldson looked down at him. “And that’s where you’re a lucky man, Lieutenant. Your platoon sergeant, Sergeant Pierce, is a fine soldier — one of the best. He’s a combat vet. Did two tours in Nam. So you listen up real close when Sergeant Pierce ‘suggests’ something. It just may save your platoon in a shooting situation. May even save your life, too.”
The major stood. “Okay, Lieutenant. I’ve jawed at you enough.” He looked at his watch. “It’s eleven twenty-five hours now. Your troops won’t get back from the firing range till fifteen hundred. So get some lunch, study those records, and then go over and get acquainted with your men. Any questions?”
Kevin did, but this didn’t seem like the right time to ask about transfer application procedures. He shook his head, stuffed the platoon personnel files under his arm, and saluted.
Donaldson returned his salute lazily and turned to some of the paperwork piled up on his desk. But as Kevin headed for the door, Donaldson’s voice stopped him. “One more thing, Lieutenant. Forget most of the crap they drummed into you in ROTC.” He pronounced it “Rot-see.” “It ain’t going to help you worth a damn in dealing with real soldiers.”
2nd PLATOON BARRACKS — CAMP HOWZE
Excluding the commanding officer, a full-strength U.S. “leg” infantry rifle platoon contained forty-five men, and all forty-five of them were lined up and waiting for Kevin Little when he came in the door of the whitewashed building housing the 2nd Platoon, A Company, 1st Battalion, 39th Infantry Regiment.
“Attention!” A loud, bull-like roar brought the troops up straight and nearly gave Kevin a case of premature cardiac arrest. He’d hoped to come in quietly and talk to the platoon sergeant before officially assuming command. Scratch Plan A. Too bad he didn’t have any Plan B.
A big man wearing sergeant’s stripes stepped out of the ranks and saluted him. “Welcome to Second Platoon, sir. I’m Sergeant Harry Pierce.” Pierce was even taller than Kevin and probably outweighed him by at least fifty pounds — all of it in muscle. He wore his graying hair in a crew cut so short it was almost invisible.
Kevin knew he couldn’t just stand there gaping like some kind of idiot. He cleared his throat. “Thank you, Sergeant. Ah …” Cripes, now what was he supposed to do, make a speech or something?”
Pierce cut in. “Would you care to inspect the platoon, sir?” His tone made it clear that this was one of those “suggestions” that Donaldson had talked about, and Kevin felt grateful. The sergeant seemed to be doing his best to keep him from looking too stupid.
Kevin nodded, trying to act as if taking over a platoon was just an everyday occurrence for him. “Yes, Sergeant. I certainly would.” Jeez, that sounded pretty pompous. Well, he’d just have to drive on.
Pierce led him along the row of soldiers lined up by their bunks. Names and faces flashed by Kevin so fast that he knew he’d never remember more than a tenth of them. PFC Donnelly, 1st Squad Leader Corporal Kostowitz, PFC Simpson, his radioman, Corporal Jones, Weapons Squad Leader Corporal Ramos, and on and on.
The equipment he saw looked in pretty good shape, although Kevin knew he’d have had trouble telling the difference between a really well-cared for weapon and one that had just been “prettied-up” for inspection. But Sergeant Pierce obviously knew his business, and he hadn’t taken any names — so everything must have been A-okay.
There was just one thing left out of the inspection, and when they reached the end of the line, Kevin turned to Pierce. “I’d like to take a look at the APCs, too, Sergeant. I assume they’re parked over at the motor pool?”
Kevin heard a muffled chuckle, or maybe it was just a cough, from somewhere in his new platoon. He reddened. Now what?
Pierce flashed a warning glance into the ranks and kept his voice low. “We don’t have any armored personnel carriers, Lieutenant. The battalions in the Second and Third Brigades here in Korea are pure foot soldiers. We’ve got trucks to get us up to the Z and back again. But anywhere else we want to go, we walk — just like the old days.”
Oh, shit. He should have remembered that from the briefing paper they’d given him back in the States. It had just slipped o
ut of his brain somewhere along the way.
“Right. I suppose that’s because we’ll be fighting from bunkers and the other fortifications up at the DMZ — if it ever comes to that.” Jesus, that sounded professorial as all hell.
Pierce eyed him calmly. “Yes, sir. That’s about the size of it. Plus the fact that mechanized stuff doesn’t do too well plowing through rice paddies or trying to climb the bastard-steep hills they’ve got around here.”
Kevin nodded as if Pierce was just confirming everything he’d known all along. He had the uncomfortable feeling, though, that he hadn’t fooled anyone — and certainly not the platoon sergeant.
He’d better get out of here before he said anything else that was laughably ignorant. He clasped his hands behind his back. “Well, Sergeant, the platoon looks fine. Carry on with today’s schedule. See me in my quarters after chow tonight, and we’ll go over the plans for the rest of this week. Okay?”
Pierce saluted. “Yes, sir.” The sergeant wheeled to face the troops still standing in ranks. “All right, you heard the lieutenant. You know what you’re supposed to be doing. Now, move.” The troops broke ranks — the polished image of unity and order vanishing in a split second, changing instead into a milling crowd of individuals who just happened to be wearing the same clothes.
Kevin looked around him, trying hard to conceal his uncertainty. He wasn’t ready for this. By rights he should be sitting at a desk on a base near some little German village, evaluating the latest intelligence reports coming in from across the Iron Curtain. Korea hadn’t been in his plans at all.
Damn it, it just wasn’t fair. He’d joined the ROTC to help pay for college and to see the world. But not to wind up making an ass out of himself in front of a bunch of tough, professional soldiers. And he had a sinking feeling that was precisely what he was doing so far.
Pierce’s deep voice broke into Kevin’s thoughts. “Don’t worry, Lieutenant. It isn’t really as difficult as it might seem. You’ve got a good group of troops here. I’ve worked ’em hard and they’re ready for just about anything.” Kevin nodded. The men of his new command might be ready. But he sure as hell wasn’t.
