Countenance of Man

by Matthew Nuth

  Paul never did understand Truman. He had been instrumental in making the hard decision during WW II, perhaps the hardest decision, to win the war and save lives. Now this same man’s complacency and a new war had uprooted him out of his life in Colorado only to be set down in a country, 6,000 miles away; a country where millions of civilians had been killed and were continuing to be killed, and yet his president apparently had no interest in winning the war. What a waste. He hoped he was not destined to be thrown on the waste pile as had been so many US soldiers before him in the interest of what? a stalemate with the two-bit dictator, Kim Il-Sung, or some improbable hope of keeping China complacent?

  Paul’s previous army service along his successful experience in business and construction had landed him in what he had thought would be a reasonably safe role as a Sergeant with the US 8th Army Corp of Engineers based out of Pusan. His duty largely revolved around road bed grading to ensure the routes north out of Pusan remained adequately smooth for truck traffic while keeping them raised above the flooded rice fields that dominated this portion of the country. This was all going to change quickly with his redeployment north. It looked as though the rest of his time in Korea was destined to be spent too close to the front for his comfort, only several miles south of the 38th parallel separating North and South Korea.

  To date, the work was long, tedious, and safe. It sure as hell beat what he remembered of being shot at during the Battle of the Bulge. Now WWII seemed a lifetime ago. Paul’s days now were consumed keeping the grading equipment in adequate repair to keep the supply logistics running unimpeded to the north. It was pretty much the same each and every day. Even though he had only been in Korea for three months, he had settled into the monotony of continuous road repair.

  In one respect, he was thankful to be in a role where nobody was shooting at him, but this current job exposed him to a different danger, one more insidious in nature. His routine now concluded each day with a visit to a bar in town, one typically patronized by other NCOs from the engineers and supply corps. Night meant drinking cheap bourbon with his fellow sergeants from his platoon. Sergeants Simmons, Grey, Henry, Knight, and Halsey pretty much closed the bar each night. A Sergeant Jackson, the only negro sergeant in the platoon was not included in their small clique and yet also ended the day in the same bar, drinking with a small group of negro NCO’s from a different platoon. They had taken up residence at the far end of the simple room. Paul Simmons guessed segregation would be with people for a while whether the US Army wanted it or not.

  For Paul, evenings began with the same embarrassment; Grey would begin by making some pejorative loud comment regarding their black compatriots in the bar. Henry, Halsey, and Knight would nervously and quietly chuckle. Grey, gaining fortitude from his white buddies would then follow-up his first disparaging comment with equally despicable comments targeted specifically at his negro counterparts. Paul had determined early on that Grey was a jerk and chastised himself for being too much a coward to put Grey in his place. Tonight, would be no different. If he had any real grit, he would stand up and put his fist into Grey’s mouth and then head right over the Jackson’s group to make new friends. Maybe tomorrow. Tonight, he would continue being an apparent bigot via complacency. Okay, he was guilty, but it was a feeling that a couple glasses of bourbon would numb.

  Having been drafted against his will into the service for this war, isolated from actual battle, hearing more horrific stories every day, it was easy to become disaffected. He found himself seeking release through unconsciously developing self-destructive habits. He now opened his eyes in the morning looking forward to the night of drunkenness that would follow the day’s work. His responsibilities to his platoon and country had become secondary. He had also developed an affinity to finishing the night off liaising with local women with whom he had nothing in common other than being lonely. This was hardly the Paul that had haled from Fort Collins. It was also not a person Paul could be proud of.

  In spite of his decline into debauchery, his time in Korea was not all a bad thing. He had to come to acknowledge and enjoy a diversity of life that he could never have experienced back home. First off, his company was integrated. In Fort Collins, he could not recall ever having seen a negro, let alone eaten with one, elbow to elbow. Secondly, the Korean culture was SO different than anything he had ever experienced: the food, the language, the religion, the art; there was nothing that was comparable back home. Lastly, the people, well, they looked and acted so differently. And the women, they seemed to genuinely love the GI. Something good could come from this. Well, one could hope.

  Tomorrow, this would change, as his company was to pull out in the morning, moving north to a camp bordering the southern portion of a Chinese stronghold, an area referred to as the “Iron Triangle” about 60 miles north of Seoul. Even with the additional danger. the majority of the sergeants in the company were looking forward to the change. Paul was not.

  * * *

  This was so different from anything Paul had experienced in the previous war. The fighting, although furious, was so diffuse, with fighting centered around small outposts. The 8th had troops stationed on top and around naked, harsh mountains formally assigned hill numbers, but known more commonly by the troops by names such as “Bald Mountain,” “Pork Chop Hill,” and such. Paul had been raised at the foot of the Rockies in Colorado, majestic, picturesque mountains covered with cooling blue-green pines, rippling rivers and streams, and abundant wildlife. And the smell, almost perfume-like. No such thing here. These mountains were dead, rough, gray/brown completely devoid of vegetation and animal life, except for the 100 or so soldiers clinging to each of them.

  This was an odd war. Troops from the good ole USA, France, and Australia sitting atop one hill peering over a dead valley at their enemy, the PRC troops, or the more fanatical NKPA, sitting on the next hilltop 500 meters away. Both sides staring at each other, daring each other to attack. For the US, the effort had largely turned into a battle of attrition with each side lobbing deadly mortar rounds at their enemy. The US took pride in being more efficient in the killing.

  The engineering corps was charged with making sure these US outposts did not become isolated. Their first objective was to keep the service road from the Main Line of Resistance (MLR) open. It was maintained daily. Mortars and landmines made the job significantly more dangerous than Paul had expected. Every morning, small craters needed filling and repair. The land mines were another problem entirely. Even though the bulldozer’s blade and sheer mass pretty much protected the driver from any blast, the damage to the dozer meant road repairs were delayed constantly, putting at risk the resupply to outposts. A delay of a half day in getting food and ammunition to the soldiers could be the difference in life and death. Delays were not acceptable.

  A solution to the land-mines came out of a bleary-eyed and rare discussion between Paul and the black Sergeant Jackson. The booze that night had been particularly bad, but Paul and Jackson had no desire to turn in early. Although they rarely socialized together, tonight circumstances left them alone in the makeshift NCO tent. It had proven to be an excellent opportunity to get to know each other a little and to tackle a common problem: land mines.

  “Sergeant Simmons, you OK with me sittin’ here?” Without waiting for an answer, Jackson dropped heavily into the empty bar stool next to Paul. Jackson had obviously been drinking as heavily and every bit as long as Paul had this evening. His eyes were red-rimmed and he was having trouble talking.

  Paul was too drunk to be surprised by Jackson’s uninvited visit. “Heck, yes, Sergeant Jackson. Sit your ass down and have a whiskey wif me.” Amazing as it was, introductions complete, they were now, apparently, friends for life.

  Jackson was older than Paul by a full half decade, and had dealt with the discrimination of the old South his entire life. Even though he was bright, creative, and unusually articulate, when sober, Jackson had welcomed being draft
ed by the army selective service. For him the draft provided liberation from poverty and discrimination. For Paul, the same draft represented shackles. Perspective was everything.

  Without any preamble, Jackson looked directly into Paul’s eyes, “So, Simmons, what are we gonna do about those land-mines?”

  “What do you mean, Jackson?”

  “Well, not to be insensitive to those smarty college boys, but they don’t seem to know shit about the land mines we are getting blown up by every day. I think it’s about time we take the problem into our own hands, and I think I have a way to knock out those mines without killing ourselves. I was thinking if we could figure out a way to whip the ground with chains or something, you know, ahead of the dozers we could set those puppies off without ruining our tractors. You got any ideas?”

  Paul’s eyes started to light up “Hell, yes.”

  With that Paul and Jackson pestered the bartender for a pencil and some paper, and before dawn, Jackson and Simmons had penciled out a rotating bar laced with replaceable chains. The motion would be driven from the bulldozer drive train with a simple gear box. As the tractor engine RPM increased, so would the flailing action of the chains. As the chains flailed, slapping the ground, the land mines would be blown up at least six feet in front of the dozer, not under one of the dozer’s treads. Okay, the driver would have to replace the chain, but that was a heck of lot easier than fixing a track or a transmission. Neither Paul nor Jackson knew how to make the gear box or a clutch system to turn the flail on and off, but they figured there were a number of “college boy” engineers in camp that might be able to fabricate something.

  Within a week, a crude, but effective, gear box and flail rotor had been pulled together in the equipment shed and Paul had convinced a couple mechanics to rig up two dozers with the new flail, one for Paul’s squad and one for Jackson’s. The two sergeants had become famous within the small confines of the company.

  Unfortunately, creativity and success did little to ingratiate the colored Jackson with Sergeants Grey, Henry, Knight, and Halsey. It shocked Paul that fame with the flail innovation had fueled the strong racist beliefs in his compatriots. Even in the army, skin color overwhelmed the respect and admiration that should have been granted. By the end of the following week, Paul had returned to evening drinking with his white Sergeants and Jackson had once again relegated himself to the corner of the tent.

  * * *

  Grey winked toward the trio of Henry, Halsey, and Knight, then turned to Paul. “So, Simmons, what’s that uppity nigger like?” nodding his head towards Jackson. Grey was an old-school, Mississippi Democrat that had either never gotten the message of the 13th through 15th Amendments or was just a downright despicable person. Paul suspected Grey had never even read the Constitution, let alone understand it, and yes, he was truly an ass.

  All Paul could respond with was a “Huh?” and a look of shock.

  Grey continued, “Shit, Simmons, you know what I mean. He was all proud of that chain flail thing. Big fucking deal. Any of us would have come up with the same thing if we could have had the mechanics work with us. Hell, we all know they pulled together the link to tractor drive just because Jackson is black as night just like them. Those negroes all stick together.”

  Having regained his composure, Paul said, “Grey, you are so full of it. Jackson’s a stand-up guy. You’d like him. Let’s call him over to have a drink with us.”

  The other three sergeants at the bar stayed silent trying to avoid being pulled into an uncomfortable discussion, at least until they had poured a couple more glasses of liquid fortification into their gullet.

  “Jackson, what the hell, join us.” Paul yelled. Then under breath turning back to the sergeants at the bar, “Grey, now shut up and don’t be a jerk.” Although he only addressed Grey, by name, it was clear he was admonishing them all to keep their racist comments to themselves.

  Sergeant Jackson looked up uncomfortably at Paul and his buddies before slowly gathering up his beer and the letter he had been writing. He folded the letter and stuffed it and his pencil into his breast pocket and moved over to Paul’s table. Paul had to push his and Grey’s chairs to the side to make room for another chair. Grey stared at Jackson. Henry, Knight, and Halsey just stared at their beers, apparently, they had become mute.

  “So, Paul, how’d your flail do today? Ours ran fine, but didn’t get any mines. At least the privates have stopped pissing their pants out of fear of blowing themselves up every time they have to run the tractor.” At this Jackson started to laugh. “Guys, it’s a joke! You can smile man!”

  “You’ll have to let up on them a while, Jackson. You know, we are drinking with some good ole’ boys that have never had the pleasure of the company of someone with such a perfect tan like yours.”

  Grey finally cracked a smile. “Paul, I guess you are right. Welcome aboard, Jackson, to the infamous drunk boat. We move on to whiskey at ten.” At this Grey, Henry, Knight, and Halsey all stood up and extended their hands to shake. Jackson thought he was now one of the team, perhaps a not a full member of the first team, but member in any case. He was mistaken. It is sad how mean and disingenuous folks can really be.

  The following morning Paul’s squad had drawn the unenviable duty of maintaining a section of the service road closest to two particularly nasty and dangerous US Outposts: Hills 266 and 255. In addition, they would also begin work on deepening and reinforcing the almost 400 yards of communication trench critical for accessing the top of the hills. Paul had suspected the 2nd Infantry units occupying these hills were destined for glory as part of the US frontline against the Chinese.

  For the engineers, the duty was not only back-breaking, it was extremely dangerous. Landmines and mortar fire from Soviet manufactured guns were prevalent,and the danger had been exasperated by confusion introduced by a steady flow of refugees from the north. In general, these were fine people just fleeing the oppression and murder at the hands of Kim Il-Sung, but intermingled with the safety-seeking civilians were a small number of NKPA soldiers who had traded in their cotton padded white telltale pants and coats for typical simple black peasant garb in hope of infiltrating the US lines. The US troops now had to check and recheck the passing refugees to make sure one was not armed and intent on murder. The NKPA infiltrators could be armed with any number or weapons, but most likely it would be an outdated Hanyang 88 bolt-action rifle or the Soviet built the PPSh41 submachine gun, an incredibly efficient killing machine. The submachine gun, or “burp gun,” had become the North Koreans’ weapon of choice in that even in the hands of an inexperienced warrior, it was deadly at close ranges. Unsuspecting GIs died daily at the hands of these supposedly harmless refugees. Truly innocent refugees ended up being shot even more often by nervous soldiers trying to defend themselves. Paul had no idea how many US troops and innocent civilians had already died as a result of the North Korean subterfuge.

  In this region, most of the civilian refugees were escaping the area around Kaesong and were intent on moving on as quickly south as possible crossing over the Han River to a region controlled by United Nations forces. A handful of refugees had stopped their exodus once they reached the US Camp Castle, effectively turning the camp into an asylum of safety. Camp Castle was also the home to Paul’s unit. For these refugees, Paul had begun to develop a unique appreciation and respect. Anyone that could deal with the heartbreak these people had experienced in the north and yet share what little they had with the GI was amazing. It was here that Paul had met Seo-Young.

  Chapter 11

  Today was pretty much as every day inside the Iron Triangle this time of year. It was bitter cold and the view was crowded with bald, craggy hills that held no real value to mankind other than they were a proxy for how well or bad the war was going for your particular side. A meaningless hill being in US or Chinese control somehow gave politicians a sign they were winning or losing the war. Here the dead, wo
rthless land resembled the sepia tone photos from the 20’s and 30’s, devoid of all color save a monochromatic shading of browns. Unfortunately, human blood spilled in maintaining ownership of these meaningless hills was just as meaningless to the leaders thousands of miles away. Today, it was a stalemate between forces, and all was quiet.

  Private Harris was charged with running the dozer this morning. He loved this duty and proved to be extremely proficient with the operation of this 15-ton stodgy behemoth, the Caterpillar D7. This tractor, albeit slow, was a reliable, stable, and a reasonably maneuverable beast, at least in the hands of Harris. He had just completed pushing tons of broken rock and stone to form a defense wall for the initial length of the critical communications trench serving Hill 266. What he accomplished in less than an hour saved the rest of the squad weeks of work, time that they did not have. That said, getting the dozer up the hill had been precarious at best. Twice Harris had been targeted by mortar rounds, the second coming as he was pre-occupied with saving the tractor and himself when the rock floor failed and crumbled along the entire length of his left tract, leaving the dozer lurching precariously to the port. For a just a brief moment, Harris considered jumping from the tractor before it would slide further and roll on its side. Gathering his courage, Harris collected himself to ride out the slide; jumping was not a guarantee of safety. It would likely just put him on the same crumbling surface as the tractor, to get crushed between rock and steel.

  Thankfully, the left tract finally grabbed solid rock righting the tractor before he needed to abandon the ride. When asked how he kept his composure during the slide when the mortar shell hit, all he could say was “What mortar?” The whole episode took no more than 10 seconds, but it had been a very long 10 seconds.