Seoul
I lift my head and fill my lungs with the pure, invigorating night air of the mountains. Sykes and I are on another youthful adventure. It’s after midnight and we’re not supposed to be off base. We jog shoulder to shoulder, steadily uphill between rows of ginseng; the precious plants growing protected by wooden frames that support black fabric, providing artificial shade. The thrill is intoxicating, exploring distant lands and learning the ways of other people is what I signed up for. Of the few Eastern wonders, I have seen, nothing compares to this Korean moonlit landscape; the silvery mountains rising in the distance, strange lights and shadows cast grotesque details across the ginseng farmland revealing a strange and alien world. We are miles from any village, and no one knows where we are.
Sykes knows the farmer, says he sells bottle beer to Marines, and that we will be welcomed. Normally, I would be skeptical, but Sykes is the man, full of useful information, like where to buy beer in the middle of nowhere.
“How much further?”
“About another mile.”
My heart rises within me. I can barely contain my joy as we jog up the mountain. I’m overcome with wonder, my eyes widen, trying to take it all in. With all my heart, I pray. “May all the world, form one end to the other, be blessed.”
Before I know it, we are at the stoop, being greeted by the farmer and his wife. The jovial Korean remembers Sykes and gestures us to join him on his small porch.
Gazing out at the moonlit sky, I sip my beer listening to the old Korean speak his native tongue. His wife speaks English, takes our money and serves us another round. “What’s he saying?” I ask.
“He says he misses his family in the North.”
As Marines, we studied the battles of the Korean War, and the recent exercise has me familiar with the geography, but I’m totally ignorant of the real cause of the war.
Who does he blame for causing the war? I ask.
The old Korean’s response is stern and short. “Ah Shi, Romaji.”
“He blames the Japanese.” She interprets.
The Japanese? I exclaim!
The old man sing-songs in his beautiful language for a good forty, five seconds.
During the Japanese occupation from 1910-1945 Korea suffered some of the most horrific colonialism in history. He says he was a student, forced to learn Japanese and not allowed to speak Korean. After the great war, he was allowed to speak Korean again, but the Japanese power structure was kept in place; U.S. appointed Japanese sympathizers, into military, police and government leadership. “We protested against the government, but the police were against us, called us communists. This is why civil war broke out.”
I begin to see the Korean war in a new light, to think about my service in a different way.
“The government, police and military ran away, they abandoned us, the Korean people were disregarded.” I stare in wonder at the old man. From this day forward I would question Western attitudes and interests in the world.
We drink late into the night, listening to The Land of the Morning Calm, whisper of a once, great and united people.
Next morning, we board a bus for Seoul.
We arrive in a little under an hour. Soldering our packs, we file off the bus. The station is a mixture of old and new. Nervously, I study my map, but Sykes has already spotted the subway entrance. Dozens of people are coming from underground just ahead. Maneuvering through the crowd, I hurry after him.
I sense excitement in the other passengers, most are natives, but Seoul is a thriving international city, hosting the 1986, Asian Games, and getting ready to host the 1988, Olympic Games. People from all over the world are gathered. My romantic ideal of adventure grows as we file into subway gates. It’s my first, time riding in a subway. The platform is crowed, so we jostle our way closer to the tracks. The arrivals are announced in both Korean and English. The train arrives coming in fast then silently slows to a stop. The doors open and we quickly board. I’m amazed at how many people cram into the small car, the smell of kimchi fills the air, adds to the exotic experience.
We spend the day zig zagging across the city underground, popping up to the surface and visiting various cultural sites, museums and palace gardens. I am moved by the art and culture. I stand before a giant Buddha statue long stripped of its precious metals, vacant hollow eyes stare where jeweled eyes once gazed. Memories of Japanese occupation still lingered among the ancient artifacts. I feel their loss as I walk through the great city gates.
I can’t help being impressed by the city’s vast economic activity. Crisscrossing the city, I see many foreign tourists among the masses. One guy keeps smiling at me, asking to take my picture. He looks Middle Eastern.
“I take your picture?”
I smile back but shake my head. “No thank you.”
He smiles warmly, then asks, “Might I companion you tonight?”
While I’m trying to find a polite way to tell this guy to buzz off, Sykes is taking to a beautiful Korean woman.
Sykes is from Southern California and ever the smooth talker, manages to get us dates with a Korean tour guide and her sister. Most educated Asians speak English as a second language. I feel conscious of my ignorance, but we agree to meet them later at a restaurant in Namdaemun market.
We decide to take a cab toward the cities Southern gate. Sykes claims that certain taxi drivers in Seoul, sell weed. I’m intrigued but have strong reservations. He suggests we take cabs from now on, make our way toward the Han River. The first cab driver seems way too uptight, and we don’t dare ask. The next guy is more friendly, speaks fluent English and very talkative. We ask him about nightlife and food, he names a few places then Sykes, causally askes where to buy marijuana.
The taxi driver freezes up with fear for a second then shakes his head.
“No.”
We drive in silence. Sykes is clearly disappointed, but my heart is racing wondering if this guy will turn us in.
“Let’s give up on this Sykes.”
He agrees. We chat excitedly about our date, when next thing we know, the taxi pulls into an alley, the driver gets out, pops the trunk and soon returns smiling with a half-ounce of weed.
I watch old men playing games and relaxing in a park that stretches along the banks of the Han River. Dozens of kites are flying the most beautiful I have ever seen. Sykes and I take a needed rest upon the grass and watch the aerial dances of mythical dragons. The sun is setting so we hail a cab and head for the market to meet the girls. The market is massive, and the crowds are thick, finding the restaurant proves difficult.
The sister is incredibly beautiful. Her name is Moon, and we are shy at first, but she is soon laughing at my attempts to communicate. She speaks fluent English and makes fun of me all night. Korean dining is formal yet fun. I order a kimchi stew served in an earthenware pot. Rice and kimchi are served at every meal. Moon leans in and samples my stew and drink. Apparently sharing food and drinks is a Korean tradition. After diner they take us to a rooftop party of college students. We smoke weed and dance to Reggae music late into the night. I’m enjoying the moment and living carefree of the rules for once. We have random piss tests but luckily, I’ve managed to avoid testing positive. We are under Cinderella liberty which means we must report back to base before midnight. I’m not worried about being late and neither is Sykes, we figured we could get away without serious punishment. Failing a piss test would go on record but returning late from liberty stays within the company and off the record. I doubt they would make an example out of their two best men. For whatever reason, Cpt. Sharp seems to like me always pitting me against the other NCO’s. He should just promote me already.
Moon and I are getting on quite well she has stopped teasing me and has become increasingly affectionate. I’m smitten, almost terrified by her exquisite Asian beauty and intelligence. It’s after midnight and still we dance. Suddenly, I feel very nauseous and dizzy. Moon spreads a blanket and lies down next to me as I recover my senses. Slowly I drift off to sleep…….
I stand before a wellspring of water coming forth from a great black rock. A basin overflows with gushing, crystal clear water. The day is bright and the sun glistens in it. Above the well, the black rock has art upon it. There’s a sword and shield carved and worn into the cliff. I’m thirsty and want to drink but see many bodies upon the ground. All down the valley lay children of men, some woman, but most young men, various weapons, drawn in their hands. The wind stirs the rags of their cloths and hair. Their leathery faces are stretched grinning as if they died in pain. I’m suddenly overcome with thirst and here is good clear water. I kneel down, make a hollow in my hands and dip them into the water. It is warm to the touch feels thicker than it should. I raise the water up to my mouth when suddenly it turns sticky red. I stand up as the well bleeds red. The blood thickens like lava, it flows upon the earth, white puss spreads like a disease. I draw back and the water turns crystal clear again. I’m still thirsty and long to drink. But lo, a crow comes wheeling over the valley of the dead, he croaks and lands himself onto the pools edge. He thrusts his beak into the water, drinks and takes wing again, but before he is many feet, he gives a grievous croak and turning over in the air falls down stark dead at my feet.
Someone is kicking me. “What are you doing Joe?”
I’m confused and disoriented but begin to remember where I am. The party is over, and Moon is gone.
We stand under the dim light of the alley, not sure of the way. Sykes looks over the map while I wander off and scope out the area. Someone exits the building across the street, American by the looks of him. He has a certain way of shuffling his feet that remind me of SSgt. Colbert. Instinctively, I step into the shadows. The guy stops and tuns, the light hits his face and I swear it is Colbert. “What’s the bastard up to,” I wonder.
I go back and tell Sykes what I saw. “We should follow the bastard.”
Sykes is skeptical and wants no part of it. “We’ve got to get back to base before reveille.” He pleads.
I’m tempted to go after him alone, I know he’s up to no good, but Sykes is right, we’re late enough as it is.
It’s full morning by the time Sykes and I get off the bus at Dongducheon station. We walk the main road to Camp Casey Army Base, show our IDs to the duty officer and he waves us through. We turn right and head for the train yard. I can see my squad pulling nails out of wooden chock blocks. We walk past with eyes front and head straight for the Quonset hut at the end of the line. We pass Sgt. Shields at the door.
“The Lieutenant is waiting to see you, one at a time, you first Caldwell.”
I stride past tightly made bunks and footlockers to the Lieutenants office. I resent my circumstances and rap loudly on the door jam. “Enter!” Lieutenant Bronson angrily responds. I enter his office, march to the center of the room, stop three paces from his desk, come to attention and report.
“Lance Corporal Caldwell, reporting, sir.”
I say Lance with a hint of sarcasm. Lieutenant Bronson is having none of it, hauls up his 6ft, 2-inch frame and begins dressing me down with rage and artful use of profanity. I stand stoic and blank faced till he finally drops back in his chair in disgust. My resentment grows and I begin not to care anymore. I had the duties and workload of a Sgt. without the rank and pay. I did most of the work always having to return from liberty early and check everyone in while Lieutenant Bronson and Sgt. Shields spend days romping around the country with their girlfriends. I decide to let him know how I feel and respond insubordinately.
“Excuse me sir, but I have been taking on more responsibilities than anyone and I resent not being recognized for it!”
At that, he jerks his desk drawer open, brandishes my promotion papers to Corporal and rips them in half. He’s not done. Next, he hauls out a Navy Achievement Medal and tears up the award papers. I stand there stunned and utterly dejected.
Up to this point I had not ruled out a career in the military. My ambition for early advancement ripped up before my eyes put things in a new perspective. Gaining the next level in rank was the game and I burned with ambition. The Navy Achievement Medal is the highest peacetime medal and I regret losing it the most. I’m now eager to finish my enlistment, but still have over two years left.
The retrograde begins and all Marine units are returning to Okinawa. During the Korean War, the Marines had a bad reputation with the locals, so they are not allowed bases in Korea and have time a limit on deployments in country. Colbert is gone but everyone is too busy to notice. Captain Sharp is cold to me and seems preoccupied. Sykes suspects I had something to do with it and doesn’t believe me when I deny it.
My unit is back to working long hours sometimes over 24 hours non-stop with only MREs tossed at us to eat on the go. Forklifts move material off flatbed trucks and transfer it onto rail cars to be tied down with strands of steel wire. The Korean government doesn’t want military convoys traveling through towns and cities, so equipment must travel by rail to the Port of Inchon where it is loaded aboard ships. Heavy equipment needs to be driven up loading ramps and down the narrow rail cars crossing over one after another with very little clearance. I enjoy the excitement of operating a D-9 dozer up the loading ramp and down rail cars, its tracks hanging precariously over each side of the rail car.
Two weeks later I report aboard the USS Dubuque, which is docked at the port of Inchon, part of the Seventh Fleet supporting the Marines in the South Pacific. She’s an old flat bottom ship that could back right up to a beach, flood it is seven thousand square foot well deck and allow landing craft to speed to shore. She is an Austin-Class LPD-8, amphibious transport dock named after the city of Dubuque Iowa, five hundred sixty, nine feet long with an eighty, four, foot beam. I climb the gang way and report to the officer of the deck. “Lance Corporal Caldwell, request permission to come aboard, sir.” I wait patiently while he checks me on the list.
“Permission granted.”
I stride through an inner hatch and find a hammock below decks, stow my gear and go explore the ship. Everywhere, Bluejackets are chipping away old paint and polishing brass. The air is heavy and smells dank. I quickly find the crew’s mess and sickbay, but most of the upper decks are restricted to authorized personnel only. Unbeknownst to me, within that same year, I would have full access of a much larger ship’s restricted areas. I find the engine room and chat with an eager crewman about the engines, but soon chased away by tough looking chiefs.
The East China Sea rocks me to sleep as two steam turbines speed us back to Okinawa. I dream I’m being chased by police their sirens blaring. I surge out of my hammock in dizzy confusion. An alarm is sounding and realize it’s a fire drill. As Marines it’s our job to defend the ship from fire. We haul fire hoses up and down passageways, a petty officer calling us forward and back. “Fire team forward!”
“Fire team forward aye!”
The drill is finally called to end.
Three days later, we make an amphibious assault on a small beach in the Northern training area of Okinawa. Our platoon is assigned to ride in the first wave of amphibious assault vehicles. Marines call them “Amtracks” for the original designation, amphibious tractor. These are LVPT-7’s made in 1972 converted and upgraded in 1982. To tell the truth, I am terrified of the small, enclosed space, the danger of sinking in a metal box. Sykes is with me and gives a reassuring nod. I feel more secure for his steady presence. A warning sounds and the well deck is flooded. The assault begins with a stomach wrenching plunge out the back of the ship, sea water splashes in from above through the turret. The air is stale, smells of diesel and men. The engines roar as bilge pumps sputter along keeping the sea water from taking us to a watery grave.
In the dim light, I watch the crew chief for any sign of trouble. Suddenly, the pumps stop, and the chief frantically tries to get them started. No sooner than he gets them started, they fail again. He gets them going a second time, but on the third time they fail for good. The amphibian has a three-man crew and twenty, one Marine passengers. The other crew men radio for help while the chief goes through his checks.
I fight down panic as sea water starts rising up from the grated deck. Other amphibious vehicles pull alongside, and we are directed out the top hatch and instructed to climb across to the port vehicle. I’m furthest from the hatch and must control myself from rushing for it. I get a hold of my cowardice and start helping others climb out. I’m the last one to go when suddenly replacement parts are passed down and find myself passing them on to the crew chief. Again, I try to exit, but now a mechanic arrives with tools. I resign to stay and help. I hold a drop light while the experienced crewmen make repairs. The suspense and intensity of the moment has me shaking. I marvel at the quickness and sureness of the grew working under pressure as they make the repairs and openly cheer the welcoming sounds of pumps. Later, I’m invited up in the turret for a look. Sea spray blasts me and smoke from a dozen amphibians billow as we race for the Island shore.
I rendezvous with my unit directing traffic and supplies from shore to surface roads till early morning. I’m still gung-ho and positive for the mission even though I’m counting the days till my discharge. The next day we travel by truck to Camp Hanson, Bravo Company home base.
At the barracks I’m reunited with some old friends. I go out for drinks with Sykes and Johnson. Johnson talks about taking his thirty, day leave and going somewhere exotic. I too have accrued thirty days leave and we decide then and there to take them together.
J.D. Caldwell