Chapter 6
John Wayne, Robert Mitchum, Richard Widmark, Gregory Peck and others too numerous to mention. He-men of Hollywood who shared a common goal; each played dozens of roles which glorified war. Without exception their portrayals bordered on the ridiculous, stretched credulity to it’s breaking point and completely shattered all known reality. Can you imagine? Glamorizing the mass killings of human-beings by other homo-sapiens? None but the movie dopes would dare stoop so low. One American general had a somewhat strange attitude about war. Peculiar, that is, for a career military figure. This particular man with stars on his collar didn’t relish the awful events which unfolded when armies clashed. He let that common-sense logic be known by stating: “War is hell.” Then along comes George S. Patton with his feelings about bullets, bombs and mayhem. Quite apart from his fellow officer Ole Blood and Guts surveyed the battlefield, gazed at thousands of dead, even larger numbers of seriously wounded, listened to the dreadful moans and groans, inhaled the stench of gunpowder and death into flared nostrils, turned to his aides and declared: “God, I love it!” I suppose it all depends on what one has grown accustomed to. John “Duke” Wayne did the totally impossible in his movies. He met the enemy in a most unusual manner, and seemed to enjoy it immensely. Surely you’ve watched Duke charge headlong into hostile hordes, totin’ his machine-gun with barrel resting on bare forearms. Geez man, don’t ever be so stupid. With the initial burst of fire that barrel gets red hot. As a burning ember in the night the long piece of metal glows. Prolonged firing will cause the durn thing to melt ala molten steel. Doggone it, John fired millions of rounds with the lethal weapon cradled against exposed flesh. Goodness gracious alive, Duke never once cried out in pain. Not even a singular “Ouch.” Fantastic, a superhuman feat. But you mere mortals among the readers should not attempt to duplicate Wayne’s courageous act. Unless ya’ want your arms resembling badly burned bacon rinds. Once upon a time Robert Taylor portrayed a navy flier who piloted a dive-bomber. Bobby was good at the job for which he’d been trained. One day while aviating high above the ocean Mr. Taylor looked down to see an amazing sight. At first he couldn’t believe his eyes. But there they were, like sittin’ ducks on a pond. Not just one Japanese fleet, but three naval armadas. Hellsfire, hundreds of ships! Duty called, and Commander Taylor answered in admirable fashion. Twenty minutes later thousands of good and able Oriental seamen had gone on to join their honorable ancestors. Robert had sent all that enemy shipping to the bottom of the Pacific. I didn’t realize we had a plane capable of carrying so many bombs and torpedos. Such glamour eluded me during my hitch in the military. All I ever got wuz 75 bucks per month, lotsa’ KP chores, standing an unending number of inspections…stints of guard duty that never ended. And one night of indescribable terror…
Chapter 7
The army has a nasty little chore called KP and it ain’t pretty. Neither is guard duty a pleasant way to spend your leisure hours. And yet both are among the most important military obligations, meaning “somebody has gotta’ do ‘em.” Take one guess who that “somebody” might be. Who would you think is the most likely prospect? Ladies and gentlemen, I rose to the lofty rank of PFC just one week before my two year tour of active duty came to an end. Before that? Well, the dog-face army has only one lower designation… the much-maligned private. Tis often said sergeants run the army. But, good buddy, hear me. Privates cause those wheels to turn, make the damned organization functional. Despite his valiant contributions he remains an abused dog, is lowest paid in the army, looked on with contempt, spat upon, scorned, knocked around and has every dirty detail assigned to him. PFC’s sew on that lone stripe and automatically become a mail clerk. He hands you that letter at mailcall, at which time the promoted scamp asks a private for a loan of five dollars. Corporals pretend to be chefs in the messhall, are sometimes orderlies to officers. These lads with two stripes go into town every night.. They ask privates to lend ‘em ten bucks. Sergeants are always hatching out devious plots to harass the men of their command. Sergeants spend an inordinate amount of time planning to steal something from the outfit just down the road. Course now, the word “stealing” is not a part of army lingo. Your American army has never known a thief. One requisitions a newer version walkie-talkie belonging to a neighboring unit. One acquires a field-kitchen which ain’t his. Sarge has a lotta’ self-pride, wouldn’t dare let a buck-private know he’s broke. Sarge ain’t gonna’ float a loan. And officers? Well. I never did learn the reason for their existence. Still don’t know. Reckon them officers had plenty of dough, cause nary a one of ‘em ever put the squeeze on me for a loan. But enough is enough. We finally arrive at the crux of this story…guard duty. The American army, wherever it may go around the world, guards every square inch of government property in sight. Nothing escapes the protective eye of your military. Valuable lakefront property, mosquito-filled swamps, parched desert lands, snow-capped peaks, lush green golf courses, craters of active volcanoes. Guards here, protectors there, sentinels everywhere. I pulled lotsa’ guard duty. All too vividly I recall a particular two hour stint on a bleak Korean mountainside. Supposedly I was the only life-form astir up there on a bitterly cold night. Such, however, was not the case, and even unto this day each remembrance brings on a new anxiety attack. You see, somethin’ else prowled those steep slopes on that long-ago night…
Chapter 8
Our military is it’s usual silly self when selecting places or objects to post guards around. I can’t speak for today’s modern army, but this was certainly true 40 years ago. I’m told it’s even more asinine now. Oh well, geese are eternally silly too. My chief functions while in the army were guard duty today, guard duty tomorrow, and finding my name on the sentry roster every day next week. I can therefore tell many stories which, though true, would find scant credibility among sane people. True stories, but absurd stories. Cause the army had a hand in ‘em! So we’ll steer clear of the non-believable by funneling our efforts toward a few “incidents” which hopefully won’t insult your common senses. This person once guarded a mudslide in California. Understandable if the slime had come oozing down on a busy highway. But this particular mess of mud happened way out yonder in the boondocks when a rain-sodden hillside decided to move downward. It occurred in a nearly inaccessible locale at least 27 miles from the nearest road. We had to walk in , and on arrival at our objective found no trace of civilization whatsoever. I can’t comprehend why folks can’t leave mud alone. Everyone does…’cept the army. They gotta’ guard the damned stuff!! I’ve performed sentry duties at a vacant lot in Seattle. Wuzn’t nothin’ on the neglected parcel of land but rusted tin cans, weeds, and several colonies of really big rats. Why were guards posted there? I honestly don’t know. Maybe we were supposed to shoot those rodents. But the army has a saying: “Walk my post a mile a minute, M-1 rifle with nothin’ in it.” Ya’ can’t annihilate rats with an unloaded weapon. Maybe club ‘em to death with a rifle butt? Throw rocks at ‘em perhaps? Or, if all else failed, puncture the durn pests with a bayonet. Another odd occurrence unfolded when my unit was yanked outta’ California and flown to a God-forsaken site in the New Mexico desert. Cactus, sand, tumblin’ tumbleweeds and Gila Monsters. Reminded me of a harsh lunar landscape. What were we doing out there? Well, to this very day that whole episode remains fuzzy, like last night’s dream remembered two years from now. Faintly, vague, in bits and pieces. A really huge boulder which seemed artificial and completely out of place stood on that arid desert. The stone just didn’t fit in with the surrounding background. I was fully convinced in 1951, and am equally certain today, that what we saw there among the dunes was an artifice…man-made! More’n likely put together by those people who build Hollywood props. Really made no difference. Orders came down through the chain of command : “Guard the damned thing!” Imagine. Playin’ sentinel to a rock! Or in this instance, “alleged” rock. Ladies and gentlemen, that “boulder” was placed out on the desert as a cover. And covers, as you well know, are used to hide something. I’m thoroughly convinced that “rock” was utilized to conceal hard evidence of an alien space probe sent to Earth from unknown origins. Yeah, a UFO…flying saucer! Exactly who these “visitors” are, where they come from and their reasons for being here haven’t yet been determined. A strong hunch tells me we’ll soon know. But memories of that sentry duty on a lonely Korean mountainside remain more vivid than any other. Chilling, horrific…
Chapter 9
Korea, 1952. T’was the week of Christmas. My unit was bivouacked in a valley on the narrow waist of that Asian nation. Steep mountains rose on all sides, causing a phobia among more than a few men. Seemed to me those hills were slowly coming together, much like a vise is capable of doing. I was sorta’ hoping we could move out onto the open plains, or down by the seashore. A company of engineers shared the valley, their tent-city encampment being just a short distance down a snow-covered road. I very much envied those engineer outfits. They were more akin to construction workers than soldiers, meaning the detested “spit and polish” routine forced on the rest of the army didn’t apply to them. Grease, soot, mud, grime and an assortment of other filthy materials were a standard part of their uniforms, and no one noticed. Shortly after Thanksgiving a tersely-worded message came down through channels to their commanding officer, a Captain Wooten. It musta’ read something like this: “Just east of your position is a steep mountain. Bulldoze a road to it’s summit.” Much thought was given to the message which, in typical army fashion, seemed like something straight outta’ “loonie toons.” Buildin’ roads in the in the dead of winter?? The hombre who dreamed that one up shouldn’t have been in uniform…he belonged in a nuthouse! Who could have possibly conjured up such a harebrained notion? Where did goofiness of that magnitude have it’s birth? More’n likely some moron at higher echelons of the Eighth Army was the culprit. Or maybe at FECOM ( Far Eastern Command ) headquarters in Tokyo. The Pentagon immediately became suspect…sounded like somethin’ which might originate within that puzzling maze of corridors. There was even talk among my company personnel that such a ridiculous decision might have been reached at a clandestine Cabinet meeting inside the White House itself! Bulldozers don’t work well in earth frozen like the Arctic tundra. But track-drills and dynamite can do a halfway job, so out came the blasting powder. For nearly a month a familiar cry rang throughout the valley: “Fire in the hole. Fire in the hole!” And then boom, boom, boom. All thru the daylight hours and night-time too. Then suddenly as it had began that road-building project ceased. Someone said the Joint Chiefs of Staff had held a meeting and afterwards issued a communique which plainly stated: “Stop dynamiting. We don’t need a road up there. Deadended. A road which began nowhere…led to noplace. Naturally the army decided guards were needed at the exact place where the project ended. Christmas Eve 1952 found this person pulling a two hour tour up there. Something waited on that mountain. Something fierce, powerful, cunning. A diabolical creature. A carnivorous beast…
Chapter 10
Nearly every living person thinks only of India when tigers are the subject for conversation. Seems most of us believe that land of the Rajah’s is the sole natural home of this biggest feline of all. A badly mistaken notion, a fact to which this person can readily attest. The tiger. Without doubt the most ferocious predator to ever roam planet Earth. Maybe Tyrannosaurus Rex of the dinosaur family was equally fierce, but not more so. Truth be known, the big cat is much more dangerous. Hell, old Rexcame crashing thru those primeval swamps and rainforests makin’ all sorts of racket. Even big trees were no barrier, didn’t slow his relentless rampage one bit. That big lizard just uprooted those tall timbers, tossed ‘em aside like so many matchsticks. Ain’t no way he could sneak up on a feller. It’s quite puzzling to me how Rex ever caught anything. But the tiger! A beautiful and magnificent killing machine…the world’s most efficient. Like a thief in the night he comes, perfectly camouflaged, always charging from the rear. A close relative of your purring, bird-killing household pet, this orange and black devil-cat mounts a lightning-like attack which no living thing can survive. It’s best not to venture into territory where tigers roam. Give wide berth to those woodlands, avoid ‘em if at all possible. But man is foolish, headstrong, seldom displays any commonsense. So man goes where the tiger roams. But safeguards are available in all situations, even against such dangerous creatures as the largest feline in all of catdom. Follow this bit of timely advice on yer next foray into tiger country. Carry a mask with the likeness of a human face. After penetrating ye olde matted jungle, wear consarned thing on the back of your head. The tiger, despite his ferocity and strength, is somewhat cowardly and more than a little dumb. He’s easily fooled by your deceptive ploy, will think you’re facing him. The beast is most reluctant about attacking a man who faces up to him. A basic safety procedure. Simple, none too costly, yet highly effective. So don’t act the macho Great White Hunter. Use caution, keep that mask handy when wandering through the forest (I wouldn’t walk across a pasture field without one ). It can mean the difference between survival, and being the entrée on a cat menu. It might prove fatal to assume India is the only place where tigers roar and show their horrendous fangs. These big bruisers range all the way up to The spruce forests of Soviet Manchuria. Northeast China has tigers. So does Korea…
Chapter 11
The Bengal tigers of India are “runts of the litter” when viewed alongside their brethern who are native to Northeast Asia, the Siberian Tiger. Truly a monster, males of this species are on record as weighing nearly 800 pounds. Mucho carnivorous feline fury. The whole jungle trembles when this cat roars. Tree-dwellers scamper to higher limbs when Siberian tigers stalk. Critters who live on the jungle floor crawl deeper into holes, fissures, cracks and crevices at his approach. Let’s assume each reader is a ground-dweller. I’m not absolutely certain , but this is probably true for a vast major of our population ( I’m not aware if any of my neighbors are living in a tree house ). Let’s further assume your residence is a hole in the ground. Pilgrim, your life is in jeopardy each and every time a tiger visits your neighborhood. It’s very difficult to thwart a striped carnivore with a meal on his mind, but it can be done. Heed the following, a common-sense plan of action which can be highly beneficial, increase ten-fold your odds for surviving a “cat onslaught.” After crawling to the deepest level of yer hole, turn around, zip it’s entranceway to the closed position…and pull the damned thing inside with you! No doubt you’ll be operating in cramped quarters, but what the heck? A small measure of discomfort is preferable to the alternative, being mauled and devoured by a wild beast. The most consumate predator in this world or any other , Siberian tigers are ideally equipped to play that role. Gruesomely long fangs allow him to take hold and not let go. With one effortless swipe those curved claws can easily decapitate the strongest of men. With rear claws he rips downward, disemboweling like a scalpel slicin’ through hot butter. Everything just spills out! Good buddy, I take no great pride in being able to relate these facts. I’d rather not know anything about hellish tigers. But my interest stems from a nightmarish “incident” which occurred nearly 40 years ago. Since that time I’ve been involved in a non-stop research of these jungle monsters, avidly compiling mountains of information on the brutes who, when old age prevents successful kills of it’s natural prey, quite often turns man-eater!! The Siberian tigers of Korea live mostly in the communist-ruled northern half of that divided land, are rather common along the Yalu River (many Asian people have named ‘em the Amur tiger, yet others call ‘em the Manchurian tiger ) But a severe winter will send the big cats scurrying south to the lower half. Ladies and gentlemen, the Korean winter of 1952 was unusually harsh. Very, very severe. Through the gloom of darkness, across rice-paddies and war-torn battlefields, non-human lifeforms were slinking silently on padded paws. In a southerly direction they came… |
