As I entered
the platoon office, Staff Sergeant Colwell gestured with his chin in the
direction of a soldier standing in front of his desk at parade rest.
Without looking up from the documents on his blotter, SSG Colwell squinted
the left portion of his permanent wrinkles in my direction—which was either
a smile, sneer, frown or grimace—and said in his quiet rumble (indicating it
wasn't a sneer or frown) “Sergeant, this is Private Wiznewski.”
I turned and
extended my hand. Wiznewski didn’t even move his eyes, let alone his
hand. I smiled and said, “At ease Wiznewski. Pleased to meet
you.” He slowly brought his eyes to meet mine, almost smiled and
returned the handshake like this was his first-ever. I glanced down at
his terrible handshake and murmured, “We’re gonna work on that.”
Before I could
say anything more, SSG Colwell interrupted. “Private.
This is Sergeant Glines. The squad leader for
second squad. He’s your squad leader. Which means you are
in the second squad. Got it?” I wondered about what had
been said to make SSG Colwell think it was necessary to hammer the numbers
and titles.
“Yes. . .second
squad, Platoon Sergeant; pleased to meet you, Sergeant.” Wiznewski
replied to both of us; his voice was average—matching his build, height and
hair color and contrasting with his apparent age (he looked about fourteen
years old).
SSG Colwell then gave us both some brisk
parting words containing a full complement of threats and ultimatums.
No matter that Wiznewski graduated from Military Police school last week,
arrived in Korea yesterday, only assigned to us this afternoon, and had not
been issued any equipment yet—he was to be ready to go to the field for
training with the rest of our platoon in four days.
As my squad—the
second squad, of the second platoon, of the 142d MP Company—departed the
platoon’s tactical operations area the first morning of the field training
exercise, we traveled in a convoy of three HUMMWVs. My driver was PFC
LaMott; in my opinion she was the best driver in the company. And,
with newly-issued equipment and (now) fully trained on how to correctly
shake hands, PVT Wiznewski rode in the turret as my M60 gunner.
Behind us, my
other two HUMMWVs contained three occupants each: SGT Tinley was my second
team leader and SGT Lee, a KATUSA, was my third team leader. CPL
Yoon, also a KATUSA, was SGT Tinley’s driver and PFC Witherspoon was the
gunner for vehicle two. PV2 Smith drove vehicle three (he hated being
called Smith or Smitty and somehow ended up with Robert as a nickname, even
though his name was Darryl—I think it was because of Robert Smith of The
Cure—it was 1989, but it still makes very little sense.) I don’t
remember the name of vehicle three’s gunner, we called him Joe; he was
either from California or talked about living there.
We parked the
vehicles near a roadside market, purchased snacks (which in the late-80s
usually meant 16oz returnable bottles of Pepsi and Choco-Pie brand moon
pies) and then I explained to my eight squad members how the week of
training was supposed to go and how it was actually going to go:
“Every day, all week,
we’re supposed to drive our entire assigned area in a tactical three-vehicle
convoy. Our platoon is conducting battlefield route recon. Our
squad has the area marked on these maps. The other two squads have
different areas, different maps. We’re tasked with comparing maps with
actual terrain and making corrections on the maps as we discover them.
For example, if a bridge is marked on the map as having an 18 ton weight
limit, but a sign on the bridge says 8 tons, we’d make a note. We have
many hundreds of miles of crisscrossing roads to cover.
“The way we are
actually going to accomplish this—much faster and more efficiently—is to
separate. Each team will drive an area, or a section, and make
notes. Before returning to the campsite in the evening before dinner,
we’ll meet and I’ll update the main map with your notes. That way
it’ll all be in my writing.
“I don’t know how
much you all heard this morning when he was talking, but SSG Colwell has
directed us to never change our radios off of the platoon frequency
and also he said we aren’t allowed to stop and buy any snacks or
local food.” I said this as I raised a Pepsi bottle over my head,
which got chuckles and laughter.
“He thinks he can
monitor us if he can always hear us, which would prevent us from
separating. But we will do it this way: I’ll give you each a
section. We separate. Drive different routes. When we need
to talk to each other without him hearing, say something on the platoon
frequency about an animal, then immediately switch your channel over to
696969.00, say what needs to be said—like meet for lunch at the market at
blah-blah grid coordinates—then switch back quickly to the platoon
frequency. Questions?”
And that is how it
went for three days. Smooth. Almost all our recons were already
complete and we still had four more days left.
On the fifth day, as
we were departing the platoon camp, my vehicle’s engine got an electrical
short. Melting plastic, smoke, flames and several fire extinguishers
later—we were down to two vehicles. No one was at fault. No
matter, SSG Colwell wanted to find someone to blame and hated that he
couldn’t twist this into someone doing something he had forbidden.
Because of this, his threats become more venomous.
My two vehicles were
now full with four people in each. I said to PVT Wisnewski, “Hey,
sorry man, you’re still a member of the second squad. It’s just that
I need you to ride with first squad for the rest of the week. Not as
an M60 gunner, just as an extra team member. Shit happens.”
And that was how it
went for two more days. Still smooth. Our recons were now 99%
complete, so we mostly fucked off and swam in a creek and relaxed in the
shade.
On the last day we
had only two roads to finish (which was expected to take no more than an
hour) and then everyone was ordered to meet with SSG Colwell and the
Lieutenant at a central area before 1700 hrs. Late? Expect to be
punished.
We finished the road
recons, took lunch—Pepsi and Moonpies, and then leisurely headed south along
the most direct road which the map showed connected to a highway leading to
the meeting area. About noon we exited the area we were responsible
for updating. An hour later, the road ended at the edge of a rice
paddy. The highway, which we wanted to be on, was about 200 meters
away. . .on the other side of the mud-filled paddy. A dirt track,
which appeared to be just wide enough for a HMMWV, had replaced what the map
showed was a two-lane gravel road.
“Sergeant, this is
exactly what we are out here to find! To correct on the map, right?”
“Yes LaMott.
And I’ll make sure it's noted on the map first squad was responsible for,
but, more important at the moment is deciding if we can slowly creep across
this dirt berm or if we turn around and make the full loop back to where the
road connects to the highway.”
“If you ground-guide
me across, I can make it. No problem. Driving that loop will add
an extra two hours of bumpy gravel roads. We’ll be fine crossing the
dirt-berm if we go slow. These are hummvees!”
I began to walk
backwards (signalling with my hands if tires got too close to the edge) and
she slowly, carefully, drove forward. The second vehicle crept behind
us with SGT Tinley ground-guiding it.
Half way across, the front tire on the
passenger side slipped off the dirt edge of the berm (my fault for not
ground-guiding further away from that edge). Four-wheel drive began to
churn loose dirt, but there was an obstruction catching the bottom edge of
the front bumper. It was preventing the truck from climbing back up
onto the top of the berm. We couldn’t reverse back up onto the berm
because the loose dirt on the edge began to erode, which was causing the
angle of the HMMWV to increase—too much more and it looked like the truck
might roll down onto its side in the deep rice paddy mud.
“I’m looking at what
seems to be stopping us from making it back onto the berm, Sergeant.
It just looks like a tiny sharp rock.” Said SGT Tinley from under the
front bumper.
“OK, get a shovel,
pickaxe, and the muscles of Joe and Witherspoon up here to clear it.”
I replied.
I began to
calculate. There were plenty of hours. We could do this.
Thirty minutes later
the hole around the “tiny rock” was now almost a five foot circle and at
least eighteen inches deep at the outside edge. We had all spent time
with shovels and various tools of destruction to no avail. The four
inches of rock jutting out of the edge of the berm was connected to a
massive bolder which sloped away in all directions like a wedding
cake. When LaMott drove forward, the front bumper came to rest against
the top few inches of the bolder.
Another thirty
minutes and I watched as Robert, shirtless, stood over the rock and
bludgeoned it with a ten-pound sledge hammer, sending shards of granite
splintering with every blow. Tinley and I stood back as Robert
shouted, “Fuck me to hell, Sergeant, this damn thing goes all the way to the core
of the Earth!”
“Ok.
Stop. STOP. Take a break Robert. LaMotte, begin unwinding
our winch. I want to see if it will reach that metal telephone pole at
the edge of the highway.” As she began to un-spool the cable, I got on
the radio.
“This is
DeltaTwoLima, warning anyone driving along highway eighteen-alpha near grid
coordinate SC189543, there is a cow loose in the road. Warning: cow in
the roadway. Drive with caution in that area.”
I switched to
696969.00 and waited. Two minutes. Three minutes. Come
on. Come on. Come on.
“Hello Veach? This is
Dan.” (SGT Dan Primock, the first squad leader.)
“Fuuck it’s great to
hear your voice, Dan. I was worried Wisnewski wouldn’t remember.
I owe him one and I will owe you double if you can help us out of a
jam.”
“What’s with this
secret squirrel shit?” He asked in a laughing tone.
“Got stuck at
SC432476 and need a vehicle with a winch at the edge of the highway where
that secondary road meets it. Can you do that without talking on the
platoon freq?”
“Umm, let me
look.” His pause lasted forever. “Yeah, we’re only 30 minutes
south. See ya soon.”
LaMotte came back and
pointed out that the cable was short by about ten meters, which was what I’d
assumed. I told them to continue to dig around the boulder, pry with
the pick-axe, and attempt to break chunks off with the sledge while we
waited for the first squad to arrive. I said, dejectedly, “Hopefully,
guys, you can find the edge of it. If not, I’m counting on Plan B:
connecting two winch cables together and them dragging us over that
motherfucker without damaging the undercarriage. Colwell is going to
broil my ass over his personal hell-fire. He’s someone who’d fuckin
love to ruin my career—I want to do everything I can to avoid
making him that happy.”
First squad showed up
and began to spool out their cable, connect them, and winch them
tight. Now, the hole around the boulder was deeper—about two feet at
the deepest—and, accordingly, the bumper came to rest about five inches
below the top of the rock. Try as we could (and did) there was no way to
winch/drive it up and over that BFR.
“Ok, guys. I was afraid of
this. Start winding up your winch, Dan. Everyone else!
Climb inside first platoon’s vehicles. You’re going to have to sit on
laps and climb into the bed with the gear. I’ll stay here with the two
vehicles. You’ll all make it to the 1700 meeting. That way, I’m
the only person who gets in trouble. . .aaannd. . .What. In.
The. Hell. Could. This. Guy. Want?”
As I was talking and
soldiers were re-winding winch cables and putting on shirts and beginning to
store tools, a very,
very, old and
extremely well dressed—in
traditional white suit, hat, and booties—Korean gentleman slowly shuffled
toward us along the berm, leading a large beige cow on a hand-braided
rope. The cow had a wooden ring the size of a dinner plate thru its
nose. The man was so stooped over that he seemed to only be able to look
at the ground in front of him. He stopped. I said, “SGT Lee?
CPL Yoon? Please tell this farmer that I,
we all, are so very
sorry for damaging the berm of his rice paddy. And ask him what we can
do to make up for it.”
While the two
KATUSA’s talked in hushed and respectful tones with the great-grandfather, I
went to some of the other soldiers and asked them to examine their wallets
for Korean money, and to please kick-in what they could (I assumed he would
want to be paid for the damage). I promised to repay them all if they
would give it to him. As they all began to check their wallets, SGT
Lee approached me with an odd almost-smile in his eyes but not near his
mouth.
“What did he say,
Lee?”
“Sergeant he...
He wants to help. Help us with the rock.” Lee was struggling
with keeping a smile away from his voice. I stared at Lee to see if he
had snapped in the heat and, somehow, thought that now would be time
to crack a joke. It didn’t feel like a prank.
“How would
he...?” I asked as I looked past Lee at Yoon, who was not having any
difficulty with laughter because the gentleman was handing him the rope to
the cow’s nose ring and beginning to untie the front of his white linen
jacket.
“Does he think that
his bull is going to have more success than the truck winches?” My
voice now had a bit of a giggle in it. Lee could hear my breathy
giggle and that caused the smile he was fighting off to reach his mouth.
“I do not think he
wants to use the cow, Sergeant. He only asked if... he... could... use
the sledgehammer.” The word broke out of his mouth with many more
chuckles than he wanted. He tried to stuff them back in.
But I had no similar
compunction. I laughed and said, loudly, “The fuck are you telling
me? Lee! Is this a joke? This old guy, dressed in his
Sunday best, can’t even stand up straight. You just watched four
strong soldiers fail to break that fucking hunk of Korea with a sledgehammer
and a pick-axe for over an hour—are you, seriously, telling me that
this dainty ninety-year-old wants a go?”
“Yes. He said
he can help.” Everyone, from both squads, were now standing and
chuckling and smiling. I looked at my watch. It was 1530 and the
drive—for them—would not be more than 30 minutes.
“Ok.” I shook
my head with laughter and shrugged my shoulders, “Joe, hand him the
sledgehammer.”
The man said
something. Lee translated, “He only needs the top part. The
metal.”
Joe turned the sledge
over, tamped the handle, the head slipped to the ground, then he picked it
up and handed it to the farmer, who was now hat-less. The cow seemed
inpatient and pulled on the rope a little. Yoon tugged back.
The man slowly, gingerly, lowered his
legs into the hole we’d dug around the rock and then picked up the head of
the sledgehammer in both hands, leaned forward toward the point of the rock
and then tapped the rock with the metal. He licked his hand, rubbed
the rock, and then . . . tap tap tick tap. He bent
closer. Looked at it from a slightly different angle, tap tick
tap. As thirty seconds became a minute ..tap, tap, tik.. and
then a minute became five ..tap tap.. the spectacle wore off. The
funny died down. Sure, there were still some giggles, but they were
becoming snickers of embarrassment. Someone said, with too much
volume, “A diamond cutter!” ..tap, tic, tap.. “This
farmer is going to find the vein in the granite!” ..tap, tick,
sloooooog.
The top tier of the
rock-wedding cake, the size of a basketball, slid off and settled near the
right foot of the diamond cutter. Everyone burst into shouts and
applause and shocked awe.
I glanced at my watch—and began barking
orders as I realized SSG Colwell may never get a chance to be happy on my
account. “Lee, get him out of that hole. LaMotte, get behind the
wheel. Dan, Joe, Tilwell please pool all the Korean money you can find
and give it to Yoon (I gave him about $20 worth)—Yoon, make a list of how
much everyone gives and I want that list. I’ll pay you
all back. Help him and his cow beyond the back vehicle and make
sure he understands how much we— I —love what he was able to do. I
think we just witnessed a miracle! Please explain to him why we
need to go so quickly. Thank you. And thank him!”
The HMMWV climbed
over the topless-boulder like it wasn’t even there, made it down the berm to
the highway in a few minutes, and we all drove to the meeting point.
We arrived before most. SSG Colwell asked about the dirt and mud on
the vehicle. I said, “We had to veer around a cow in the middle of the
road and went thru a mud puddle. We called to warn others who might be
driving in that area.”
“Sounds like you were
driving too fast for conditions. I told you to insure everyone drove
safely or I’d give you an article fifteen. Sounds like you didn’t
listen.”
“We weren’t going
fast. Hardly moving at all. But we didn’t hit the cow, just a
little mud.”
THIS STORY IS 100% FACTUALLY TRUE. IT IS AS ACCURATE AS MY 30-YEAR
OLD MEMORY CAN RECALL, BESIDES MOST OF THE NAMES (CHANGED TO PROTECT THE
GUILTY) IT HAPPENED EXACTLY IN THIS MANNER AND IN THIS SEQUENCE. I
THINK IT'S THE BEST TRUE STORY FROM MY LIFE.
still more short stories:
