Chapter 12
Guard duty is a lonely profession, always performed in the most God-forsaken places on earth. The U.S. army doesn’t protect anything along those dazzling strips called Broadway, Times Square, or Bourbon Street. Not a single guard-post has ever been established at Hollywood and Vine. None will be found at Disney World, nor do guards patrol the ski-slopes where jet-setters glide downhill. The mayor of Honolulu has some emphatic thoughts about guards: “We’re in the tourist business here, and our avowed objective is to rip off every dollar we can from them gullible mainlanders. The presence of heavily-armed men is oft times misconstrued. Tourists might suspect a disaster is imminent, maybe think one of our volcanoes is about to erupt. Git them damned guards outta’ here. I don’t want ‘em pacing back and forth on my beaches!” Guard posts in tropical Hawaii? Few and far between, pal. Few and far between… don’t hold your breath til it happens. Those among the reading audience who are contemplating guard duty as a lifelong career would be wise to pause and ponder. First, don’t place credence in rosy pictures as painted by recruiting sergeants. I mean, these dudes work under a “quota system.” And the very best way to reach quotas is by distorting every fact humankind has ever known. So what does the potential army enlistee do? Well, he launches a probing investigation to determine the true facts. Let’s examine this perplexing situation , have a long hard look so we can increase our odds for arriving at a sane decision. The army likes to torture it’s sentries by placing them among those scorching sand dunes of the Sahara. Out there on the shifting sands a guard might be hacked to death by marauding bands of bandits. Or an even greater peril might await. He faces the ever-present danger of being on by ill-tempered camels! An obnoxious brute is this “ship of the desert.” Spit is his favorite weapon! Our military takes great delight in posting guards atop the windswept Himalayas. That mountain range presents challenge and dangers galore for even the bravest sentinel. He might be blown off steep precipices to an untimely fate during a blinding blizzard. Gasping his final breath during an avalanche is a very real possibility. Or the unwary could be subjected to a relentless onslaught by the world-renowned Abominable Snowman. Now pilgrim, this creature is just too much. Called Yeti by the natives, he’s a hairy half-human monster. Towering 9 feet into the stratosphere, weighing 500 pounds, there’s little doubting the outcome of a chance encounter twixt puny guard and hulking Yeti! Treacherous swamps are a locale the American army dearly loves. Forbidding, ominous places where sentries can stand knee-deep in mucky slime while guarding an endangered species of swamp toad. He’ll just hafta’ take his chances with cannibalistic crocs, leeches, nettle weeds and deadly snakes. Good training, excellent training. Makes ya’ tougher than a gorilla…that is ,if’n ya survive. Or a sentry might find himself alone on a desolate , snow-covered mountainside in Korea. Where a “thing of the night” prowled, wearing an orange coat with black stripes. Dressed to kill he was. And no pun is intended…
Chapter 13 The American army is somewhat ritualistic when one sentry relieves another at a guardpost. Lotsa’ saluting, most of which is totally un-necessary. A smart clicking of heels is heard. Crisp, rapid moves are seen. A shrill barking of orders is clearly audibile. At least such was the case 40 years ago, though I’m told our military is growing more lax in “spectacle” as time goes by. Too bad, because the army has thrived on “pomp and circumstance” since way back yonder when George Armstrong Custer scared Indians from their wigwams to chase ‘em oer hill and dell, thru gullies and ravines, across western prairies and plains. Course now, Yellow Hair became involved in one chase too many. Boy, did he ever! George should’ve remained inside his fort that day. Changing of the guard…a solemn ceremony reeking with stiff formality. Be that as it may, the American military will never be anywhere near as good as our British cousins with “parade ground stuff.” Them thar Limeys are durn excellent, the world’s best. But really now, let’s be sensible. Ceremonial duties do not a soldier make. For instance, how about those honor-guard units stationed in and around Washington? Pretty bunch of rascals, ain’t they? Hear me folks, it’s all “showcase.” Them thar spit-and-polish boys have more’n likely gone soft. Doubtful any of ‘em could take a leisure stroll around the block without gittin’ pooped, much less endure a forced-march of 20 miles. Glamorous duties have taken the lads far afield from regular army routines. Forexample, map reading and the workings of a compass. I’ll bet a dollar to a donut not one in a dozen D.C. soldiers could find their way from the White House grounds to the Potomac river. Hell man, trail along behind an honor-guard and he’s liable to lead ya’ into hostile territory. Deliver ya’ right to the enemy commandant at his headquarters. I’d much rather soldier with plain old dogfaces who can read maps and are adroit with a compass. One specific “changing of the guard” is permanently burned into my memory. It happened 38 years ago, but the darn thing won’t go away. Four decades have intervened, and still the nightmare is frequently re-lived. Peril is a constant companion of the guard, but not all are in the form of physical dangers. Eerie things happen out there in the darkened shadows, high strangeness waits to wreak havoc with your mental state…
Chapter 14
Hobbs was the name, Sergeant his rank. A 15 year holdover veteran from World War II, this quick-tempered gent from Kentucky found himself assigned to “Sergeant of the Guard” duties that frigid night in 1952. At 1:30 A.M. I was awakened in a none too gentle fashion, a gruff voice bellowing in my ear: “Come on, git outta’ there. Time to relieve yer buddy (my tour being from two till four A.M. ). Never during my military hitch was I asked in a genteel manner to arise from bed. Generally speaking, a well-placed kick sent the army cot spinning wildly in a clock-wise direction. Quite often the bed was knocked over completely, a tactical strategy guaranteed to spill all contents and make ya’ “git the hell outta” there” ( army life 40 years ago called for, even demanded, moocho “adapting.” As for dialing Mom or your Congressman? Well, such a threat would surely be your undoing, cause oodles of regret, make you rue the hour. The army of yesteryear had ways to bring trainloads of misery and woe to any person so foolish ). Snow had fell relentlessly from gray skies for several days, dumping maybe 24 inches of the dang stuff on mountains and rice-paddies. Mercifully the blizzard-like conditions had ceased the previous afternoon. Now a full moon radiated it’s silvery beams down on an earth blanketed in white, causing a glistening effect that made the eyes squint even at this ungodly hour. No doubt those clear skies were responsible for the thermometer plummeting to the 35 degree below zero mark. People, the night air was indeed brisk. Really invigorating!. Ten minutes before the hour of two in the morning, my watch said. Sergeant Hobbs, with myself a front seat passenger, was chauffeuring a jeep up the snow-packed mountain road in a manner both wild and reckless. Ladies and gentlemen, those engineers hadn’t built a modern highway. That two-mile stretch would not have qualified as a link in our interstate system. The width of a bulldozer blade, that’s all…a mere “cowpath.” Steep, narrow, twisting. And with 24 inches of packed snow resembling blue ice, atrociously dangerous. A precarious ride to say the least, and before it ended I was shaken to my bone marrow. Any internal fortitude I might have possessed was totally obliterated. Enough was enough. I began my interrogation by asking: “Sarge, can you and I have a few minutes off-the-record civilian talk?” “Guess it will do no harm. What’s on your mind?” “Where the hell did you get a driver’s license? From the Montgomery Ward Catalog Company?” “Private, our off-the-record talk has ended.” His voice came as the hissing of a snake. Indeed our chit-chat had ended , for the sentry I was relieving now stood directly on the road ahead. Surprisingly, I was tickled pink to begin that tour of guard duty. It meant separating myself from that jeep and it’s maniacal driver. Not a fit night for man nor beast. But as events would later prove, both were abroad that night a long, long time ago…
Chapter 15
The United States army insists on retaining a number of long-held traditions, some of which date back to the Revolutionary War. Thus any “changing of the guard” requires a few rigid formalities. Makes no difference where these solemn scenes might occur. Geographical locations plays no role whatsoever. The site of one such somber rite is the Tomb of The Unknown in Arlington National Cemetery. But wait a minute. Maybe we’re talking about the main entrance gate leading into sprawling Ft. Bragg, North Carolina. Guard changes occur hourly there every day. Possibly we have reference to a remote outpost somewhere near the North Pole. Or midst a rookery of penguins a world away at the South Pole. Perhaps we’re thinking of our nuclear installations. The army believes these sensitive locales should come under close scrutiny and rightly so. Our military has a saturation of sentinels pacing around these places. Which raises an important question . What the hell is a sentry to do if placard-totin’ demonstrators converge on his post at an atomic energy plant? Huh? Shoot ‘em? One would be well-advised to have second thoughts before resorting to such drastic measures. A stray bullet might hit an atomic device, blow the whole damned facility to smithereens. You’re no doubt aware of the familiar mushroom cloud that would surely follow! Or that “changing of the guard” might occur on a freezing mountainside in Korea. All the mandatory rituals completed and dispensed with, Sgt. Hobbs, the man I was relieving, and myself returned to the normal world of reality. Hobbs inquired: “Everything alright out here? Anything unusual to report?” Such questioning usually brought a nonchalant response: “Nope, all is quite tonight.” Exactly the answer one expects, and very much wants to hear. But folks, in this particular instance it just didn’t happen. “Hear me Sarge,” said Butner, the man I was relieving. “Something real spooky about this place. I’ve been on edge since coming out here.” Hobbs perked up , showed more than passing interest. And pilgrim, soon to be left alone here in this God-awful place, so did I. Sarge pushed his interrogation further: “What do you mean?” PFC. Butner replied: “Well, I’ve been hearing noises. Snap, crackle pop. Snap, crackle, pop.” “Have any idea what they might be?” our noncom continued as he cast a furtive glance around. I sidled in even closer, not wanting to miss a word. “No, I don’t,” Butner replied. Korea was in a deep-freeze that long-ago night, and his next remark added to the considerable chill already creeping along my spine: “Sarge, I’ve had the feeling of being watched.” A spooky place! A sense of “being watched?” Ominous omens, and my heart sank even while exclaiming : “ Damn old Miss Mitchell.!”
Chapter 16
Pfc. Butner Handed over the walkie-talkie radio. An innocent act, but one which made me the person responsible for that government property on a frozen Korean mountain. And what a property…an abandoned road project. A road which started at nowhere, snaked it’s way thru a white Twilight Zone, and ended at noplace. No doubt it’s listed in dusty military annals as an “engineering marvel.” Did the establishing of a guard post there contribute to the efforts of U.N. forces in that strife-torn land? Very, very doubtful. Did placing sentries on that mountain help the American Eighth Army in any way? Why, hell no! For nearly four decades I’ve maintained a close contact with both Sgt, Hobbs and Pfc Butner. Phone calls, postcards, exchanging holiday greetings, etc. (none of us have yet taken ownership of a fax-machine. Therefore, horror of horrors, we can’t “fax-it.”). But many moons ago we did arrive at a unanimous decision . Namely, our collective efforts on that mountain in 1952 did not help bring a speedy end to a bloody “police action.” Our service up there didn’t even slightly resemble war as depicted in hundreds of Hollywood motion-pictures. Hell man, wuzn’t nothin’ up there ‘cept tree stumps, scrub brush, and lotsa’ snow. And a deadend road only 10 foot wide. Which is why Sgt. Hobbs rammed the jeep in reverse and began backing the 2 miles to our bivouac area. No room to turn a vehicle, not even a compact jeep. The hours of my tour, two till 4 a.m. in the morning, were definitely not to my liking. Because that most awful hour, three a.m., is sandwiched within this time parameter. Three a.m. in the morning…the wee hour. A subject I’ve touched on many times, but is worth mentioning again. Since the dawning of time on a prehistoric Earth not one good thing has ever happened at three a.m. It’s unwise for any person to be alone at that dreadful hour. The time when all mankind slumbers, leaving “things” to reign supreme in urban areas and out in yon hinterlands as well. In this instance, hinterlands meaning a Korean mountainside. So then. Fear not the so-called “bewitching hour of midnight,” don’t fret about it. Not a single spook or spirit will ever come your way when the clock strikes twelve midnight. Ghouls and goblins remain in cobweb-filled closets at that hour, totally exhausted from their previous night activities of hauntings and “skeerin’ the hell outta’ people.” But beware, be leery when your clock tolls three a.m. The hour when supernatural entities begin stirring. Even in 1952 I was keenly aware of this fact. You see, it had been proved to me over and over that, like grapes and bananas, bad situations come in bunches…at three a.m. It was certainly proved anew that frigid night. Ladies and gentlemen, not all “creatures of the night” are of the supernatural variety. The thing I encountered up there was very much of this world…
Chapter 17
Guard duty, especially if your tour is during the night hours, can cause severe cases of jitters. One’s extrasensory perceptions are highly magnified out there, honed to the nth degree. A fella’ must strive mightily to hold his imagination in check, else the bloomin’ thing will run wild and cause him to become unglued at the seams. A high state of alertness can, unless sane reasoning is practiced, be far more detrimental than beneficial. One stands alone in the darkness, with overpowering forces of evil arrayed against him. All sorts of anomalies begin happening. A falling leaf flutters down from a tree in an erratic pattern. As a downy feather it settles in the soft vegetation of the forest floor. To the ears of a nervous guard the sound is that of a 30 ton slab of concrete crashing to earth. An owl swoops in eerie silence thru the pre-dawn hours in search of prey. An “uptight “ sentry hears the screaming whine of a jet fighter. A lone human approaches an apprehensive sentinel through a murky gloom. That guard, in his exaggerated state of alertness, sees an imminent attack by Genghis Kahn and his barbaric hordes. The first 45 minutes of my tour passed with no unusual happenings up there on “the road to nowhere.” That time was spent in a constant stomping of the snow to keep circulation in feet, moving about in circles to prevent my metamorphosis from human being to icicle…brrr! Many people have expressed interest in cybernetics, the art of freezing humans and reviving them at some future date. Not me pal, not I. Not even for the sake of science would I be a willing volunteer in such a goofy experiment. Korea turned me off to all things cold. Even today I don’t like ice cubes in my tea. I just drink the durn brew at room temperature. Then the biggest no-no of all occurred…I got to thinking. Even worse, glanced at my watch (an inexcusable boner. Always allow more than half your tour to elapse before checking with the old timepiece ). The reliable Timex read 2:54 a.m. Never, never use yer thought processes when you’re alone during the early morning hours. Thinking allowed the dawning of a dreadful realization …in only six minutes it would be 3:00 a, m.! The shudders began immediately, a trembling that rattled me to the core. I’d had far too many bad experiences at that frightful hour, and knew that history had an uncanny habit of repeating itself. I sensed an impending disaster. And that sense, be it ESP or whatever, is seldom deceiving. That’s why I requested aloud: “May the Good Lord be with me…
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