Chun Chon, Korea in 1965

(This is a late posting to my book "Looking Back." The reason why I'm posting it now is because somehow I have two (2) chapter 7's in my book and chapter 6 was omitted entirely. I know this has caused some confusion but this should straighten it out. C H A P T E R 06 (1965-1966)

The airfield was under construction at Camp Page, Korea, in 1965 1966 because it wasn't long enough, or strong enough to support the larger aircraft that needed to land there with supplies. Most of the supplies were coming in by rail, or overland on wheeled vehicles. The labor force used to rebuild and extend the airport was the women from the local populace. I was dumbfounded!

Never before had I seen this type of work done by women, or without machinery. It was road-gang type labor, of the sort one sees being performed by Paul Newman on the road gang in Cool Hand Luke. I never understood why women did this work. I later saw Korean men doing equally hard work in Seoul, so maybe it was a societal type of thing, while the men tended the fields, or performed their military duties elsewhere.

When I first arrived, I was only a private first class (PFC) and had to pull guard duty periodically at the various locations around Camp Page that required security. The airfield was one of these places. It was out in the open, of course, and on the northeastern perimeter of the compound. An eight-foot-high, chain-link fence, topped by barbed wire, ran the length of the perimeter. The guards were taken out to various points along this perimeter by truck, dropped off, and the old guard picked up. The guard walked along the length of the fence over a designated distance, constantly inspecting the fence for break ins or anything else of a suspicious nature. At the drop-off point, there was an enclosed box that had a field phone inside and the sentry was expected to call in at designated times to report the condition of his post. The phone line was connected to the guard shack where the Sergeant of the Guard stayed when he wasn't posting his sentries. As I said, the airfield was just inside the fence, and I got to get a real close look at the labor going on to extend it. Some of the women were breaking rock into stones and then into gravel. This was done by hand. It was then loaded into baskets, which the women carried on their heads out to the work in progress. A base layer of rock about a foot and a half deep was laid out along the runway and steamrolled or packed down (this was their only concession to machinery). PSP or heavy-duty perforated steel plates, about a foot and a half wide and ten feet long, were then interlocked along the top of the packed surface. This is what formed the surface for the planes to land on.

When the weather was nice, the guard duty on the perimeter was not too bad. In bad weather, though, it was wide open to the wind and bitter cold! The only way to stay warm was to keep moving. I much preferred the more sheltered guard post around the main compound during the winter. About this time I met a fellow I'll call Johnny. He was a specialist four (E 4) who wasn't much to look at, because he was shorter than I was, at just under five foot, seven inches, and wore glasses that looked like the bottoms of Coke bottles. But Johnny was beautiful. What he lacked in stature or looks, he more than made up for by having an abundance of personality and good humor.

Everyone was Johnny's friend. It was he who introduced me to chopsticks and peanuts. It was also he who introduced me to what is the Korean equivalent of a geisha house, thereby making my tour of duty in the Republic of Korea then, and subsequently, vastly more enjoyable.

The mamasans’ house was way up in the village along a steep and rutted dirt road. The area was declared off-limits, but Johnny didn't let that bother him. He knew his way around the city of Chun Chon like the back of his hand. He and I ducked into an entranceway along a cement wall that was topped with broken glass (to keep out thieves). Inside we found ourselves in an open area, surrounded on all sides by apartments with sliding doors that were covered with rice paper. A veranda ran along the front of the apartments, completely around the entire enclosure.

To enter an apartment, one had to remove one's shoes, leave them outside, then step onto the veranda and slide open the door. Johnny had been expected, but they didn't know he was going to bring a friend.

The mamasan (a woman of indeterminable age) greeted Johnny and me, and showed us to a room where we were seated on the floor around a small lacquered table with inlaid mother-of-pearl. Cushions were provided in deference to our being Westerners. There were no chairs.

It is interesting how the Korean houses are made. They're made in such a way as to allow the floors to be heated. The dimensions of the foundation are laid out, and large boulders of various shapes, but uniform height, are placed throughout the foundation area. Slabs of cement are then built to a uniform level over the boulders. This way, a hollow about a foot high is formed as a basement. At one end an exhaust pipe leads from this hollow basement to well above the roof. Another hole leads to the hollow area, and it is located in the kitchen and sunk below the level of the hollow. Here it is that shaped, charcoal briquettes are burned, one atop the other, with the bottom one being replaced periodically when it burns itself out. Twenty-four hours a day these briquettes are kept burning. They are used for cooking in the kitchen.

When not cooking, however, covers are placed over the charcoal so that the heat is diverted underneath the floor of the house. In winter, a Korean house always has warm floors even though the surrounding air in the room may be brisk. The floor is called an Ondul floor and is unique to Korea. The only drawback to this type of floor is that the room must be airtight. If it isn't, carbon monoxide given off by the burning charcoal, can seep into the room and kill the occupants. Thousands die yearly from this happening.

We, Johnny and I, had just arrived and were sitting on the floor of this Korean house of ill repute, and waiting for some service. Mamasan talked with Johnny shortly, but I don't know what they were saying, although there was some pigeon English thrown in. It was evident that they knew each other and were comfortable talking together. They laughed some, were animated, and from time to time looked my way, so I knew they were saying something about me.

Mamasan left and Johnny began telling me what the evening was going to be like. I lost interest in his recitation when a lovely young lady in a colorful flowing dress came in. The dress covered her from neck to toe (no skin), and was very loosely worn (showing no shape at all). She brought two nicely iced cold beers and some clean glasses. She opened each one and poured it for us, offering it with both hands, looking demure with a downcast glance. Another young lady entered with some foods on a tray and chopsticks. They both arranged the food on the table for us and then remained discreetly by our sides awaiting our bidding.

Johnny performed the introductions and kept up the small talk, because I couldn't talk Korean, and the girls did not speak English. The girl by my side did sing part of an English song for us later, and I had to laugh; it was "Jimmy Crack Corn." Where on earth had she picked that up? I'll be damned if I know! It was a house generally frequented by Korean men and not Americans. Johnny liked to find out-of-the-way spots like that.

The foods were new to me, but tasty. Since I could not use the chopsticks yet (a bowl of peanuts had been thoughtfully provided for me to practice with, and the girl showed me how, but it is a matter of practice, and one doesn't learn to eat with them in one night), the girl assisted me in eating the various dishes. Several kinds of Kimchee (fermented cabbage) were available, and the ever present rice; bulgogi (fried strips of lean beef that had been marinated in soy sauce, garlic, onion, and hot pepper), and yakeemondu (that's as close as I can get to the phonetic pronunciation of that dish), which is a mixture of various meats, and vegetables and spices, wrapped in dough and fried. It is similar to a Chinese egg roll. After we had eaten, the entertainment began. In Korea, it is customary to make entertainment among yourselves by taking turns singing songs, dancing, telling stories, or playing music on an instrument, if you have that talent. The girls are there to assist in any way they can. They sang songs while one of them played the guitar. We sang songs also, and they tried to learn them. Throughout all this, mamasan popped in and out to make sure everything was going okay.

I'm not going to insult anyone's intelligence by saying the evening ended that way. It ended on a very pleasant note, though, and a good time was had by one and all. The evening hadn't been too expensive: it was held in a convivial atmosphere, and everyone got some pleasure from the experience.

Another favored haunt of mine was the enlisted club on post. I would take a book, find a nice table, and sip my beer while reading. About three nights a week, a live band performed on stage. We could sign in guests from off post as long as we only took them to the club or bowling alley, stayed with them, and signed them out before curfew.

The off-post clubs attracted more business from the GIs though. All were vying for customers. They did this by having some outrageous name, like the Purple Onion, or a garish neon sign blinking on and off. The most popular method, however, seemed to be to have a bevy of lithesome lasses ready to accost the passing soldier, and entice him inside for fun and games. Since it was an unaccompanied tour (wives couldn't be brought to Korea unless they paid their own way or you were stationed in Eighth Army, located in Seoul, and had special dispensation to do this; highly irregular and seldom granted), a lot of married men did get involved in situations that not only jeopardized their career, but their family lives back home.

I wasn't married. I was twenty-five or twenty-six years old and a long way from home and female companionship. In short, I was vulnerable. About my fifth month in Korea, I met one girl whom I started to see on a regular basis, forsaking all others. That was a mistake, because emotional ties began to tighten the bonding, and it became harder and harder to let go.

Most Koreans, male or female, are hard working and industrious. They are family oriented and respect their elders to the point of obsequiousness. The oldest male is the dominant member of the family, and even his siblings are expected to follow his wishes. The female performs much of the same household chores as we in the Western world, but since she must move to the house of her husband's family once she marries, she is not accorded the same difference within the family as a male child.

It is not unusual to see great-grandparents, grandparents, parents, and their children living together in one enclave. The sense of family togetherness is very strong. Generally, additions will be made to the house as new brides join their husband's household. The house is usually built in a square with a center courtyard open to the air and a veranda running around the entire inside circumference. One must remove one's shoes and step up onto the veranda to enter an apartment of the house. The doors are sliding doors, and covered with rice paper. The house is surrounded by a tall wall, with sometimes, barbed wire or glass embedded in the top. This last is to prevent thievery.

Nowadays, I'm sure that most Korean families have inside plumbing. In 1965, however, only the big cities had it. Chun Chon hotels had inside plumbing, and offered communal baths, or private baths for a nominal fee. All private homes had outside toilet facilities (an outhouse) whose effluvium was periodically removed and used to fertilize surrounding rice fields.

The aforementioned information may seem incongruous to the reader at first, but if you will bear with me, as I relate the events which took place in Korea, you will see how they fit in.

My first contact with the Korean soldier serving with U.S. forces (KATUSA, or Korean Augmentation to the United States Army), came on my first morning at Camp Page, in the mess hall. After we had filled our trays and taken our seats, and while beginning to eat, some Katusa enlisted men seated at the next table began putting sugar in their milk. Some stopped at two teaspoons, but others put three and four teaspoons, and incredibly, one even added a fifth teaspoon after stirring in four, tasting it, and not finding it sweet enough! I found out later, that most Korean foodstuffs, including cakes and candies, have little, if any, sweeteners in them. As a matter of fact, one could even be so bold as to call these foods bland. There aren't many instances of widespread cavities among Koreans, but when given a chance to partake of American sugar or products containing sugar, they make the most of it.

The average Katusa came directly from the Republic of Korea Army (ROKA) upon completion of his basic training, and perhaps an orientation course to prepare him for working beside Americans. He generally had a better than high school education, with some English language instruction, and was between the age of nineteen and twenty-six.

The ROK Army chose only their brightest and best recruits to serve with Americans. This is because they didn't want their soldiers to bring disgrace upon the Korean army. This would have been a loss of "face," which was not acceptable. This sometimes led to misunderstandings and resentment.

There were several instances where American soldiers working with Katusa, gave instruction on how to perform certain procedures. Usually, the GI would then ask the Katusa if he understood. Most times, the Katusa did understand, and would do the task satisfactorily. At times, however, the Katusa would not understand, but rather than lose "face," would say he understood. Naturally, when the job didn't get done, or was done wrong, there would be accusations, and bad feelings would develop.

The Katusa first sergeant worked right out of the same orderly room where our first sergeant worked. As a matter of fact, all Katusa worked, slept, and ate, right alongside the GI. If something needed to get done to accomplish the mission of the unit, the combined forces worked together.

The discipline of the Katusa was administered by the first sergeant and he was exceedingly tough on his troops. I have seen him stand his men at attention in formation on the company street for over an hour, while he walked up and down their ranks, berating them for any shortcomings he found. Sometimes he even kicked them in the shins. They had to endure this without complaint or breaking formation.

Even with such discipline, the Katusa soldier had it better than his counterparts in the ROKA. It was much stricter there, so the Katusa considered himself lucky. Every month, the Korean government furnished him with what we came to call his "care package." It contained such items as toothpaste, toothbrush, soap, socks, underwear, towels, etcetera. His base pay ranged between six and eleven dollars a month depending on his rank. The average yearly income, for most Korean civilians, was about two or three hundred dollars. That's not a mistake, you read that right. The Korean economy wasn't very great in 1965, they were still trying to rebuild from the war.

With such a disparity in salaries between GI and Katusa, you would have thought there would have been more animosity. As I said though, most Katusa considered themselves lucky not to be serving in the ROKA. Technically, they were allowed to use the same facilities as we, such as the EM club, bowling alley, snack bar, etc. However, as you can see, their funds would not permit them these luxuries. Occasionally they would accompany GIs to these places, but not too often. They didn't want to feel obligated to the GI, and besides, the other Katusa would have felt resentment.

A normal tour of duty for an American soldier in Korea is thirteen months. Sometime during this tour of duty, he would have to fire his rifle for zeroing and qualification (that is, to make sure that the sights on his personal rifle were adjusted so that he could hit what he aimed at). Most soldiers serving there know that the main range for firing for qualification is just outside Tong Du Chon, at a place given the name of "The Nightmare Range." Not for nothing, is it called that!

The range is located between two hills (mountains?), with the control tower being in the center, and the firing positions in the center, and extending up along the face of both hills in a straight line. Generally, whole units (battalions or companies) will fire for qualification at one time, starting in early morning and continuing until finished.

Throughout the day, details comprised of several men, are picked (volunteered) for jobs such as loading ammunition clips with ammunition, carrying ammunition from point to point on the range for distribution, posting new targets, and various other police details. These jobs are usually doled out among the lower ranking enlisted men. Non Commissioned Officers (NCO's) did not do this type work, but supervised the lower enlisted men in carrying out these duties. All had to fire for qualification!

The center positions on the range were used for zeroing your weapon, and the targets were fixed at twenty-five meters. This consisted of firing three rounds of ammunition at the target (a Canadian bull's eye or half-bull), and trying to group the shot group so that it covered the bull, and the three holes could be covered by a quarter. After each three rounds had been fired by all on the range, all would go down to the target on line, and take note of where the shots had struck. Upon return to the firing position, the windage and elevation would be adjusted on the weapon by raising or lowering the rear sights, and adjusting the front site right or left several calibrated clicks. This procedure would be repeated several times until the shot group on the target was satisfactory. It was necessary that this be done correctly, or else, the person firing at the knockdown (KD) targets for qualification, would not be able to hit them. These targets were not fixed, but fell down when struck. They were placed anywhere from forty meters, to four hundred meters out from the firing positions located on the sides of the mountains. Each position had two men assigned. One acted as scorer while the other one fired for qualification. They would then switch positions and do it again. The targets would pop up at different ranges, and remain up until time ran out, or it would be hit by a bullet. The person firing had to fire from various positions, such as prone, kneeling, standing and foxhole. Ten seconds were the longest the target stayed up (the time varied), and the person firing could use more than one shot to hit the target, but only had twenty rounds to hit maybe twelve targets, so he had to be careful he didn't run out of ammo too soon.

Depending on how many KD targets you hit within the designated times, and at various ranges, you were given a score of expert, sharpshooter, or marksman. No matter what score was made every soldier who ever fired that range, will never forget it! I've heard that there is one in Germany which is tougher, but that is very difficult for me to believe! I fired on this range twice, once as an E-4 and again as an E-5. Naturally, it was easier for me as a NCO, but it was still memorable for it's toughness.

In November of 1965, my unit went to fire the Honest John missile at the missile range (entirely different from the rifle range). A Katusa, another radio teletypewriter operator, and me, drove my RATT rig (a radio teletypewriter set, mounted in a van, strapped with steel cables into the bed of a 3/4 Ton truck) in convoy to the range. I don't remember exactly where the range was, but the trip was a long one, over unpaved roads, and through mountainous terrain. The roads snaked up and down the mountains, sometimes making hairpin turns back upon themselves. Sometimes the roads paralleled rice paddies which had been terraced up and down the mountainside on both sides of the road.

This was winter, of course, but I had occasion in the spring to marvel at the ingenuity of the irrigation system employed to get water to all those paddies. I'll swear to this day that Korea was the first place I ever saw water running uphill. The system had been perfected for thousands of years, and custom has it that the land is handed down from father to son within the family for generations. Land is highly valued in Korea and almost all of it is used in one way or another.

To get back to the convoy, we followed the vehicle in front at about a ten meter interval and tried to maintain a speed of twenty to twenty-five miles per hour. This was the predetermined convoy profile. It was not possible for a convoy as long as ours to maintain that profile on those roads. There were about eighty vehicles in the convoy. There was a constant jockeying back and forth, and speeds fluctuated from six, to forty miles per hour.

We finally made it to the range, which, as I recall, was situated along the side of a dry river bed. We set up the Ratt rig and erected our camouflage net and checked into the Ratt frequency. We were all set for business.

It was very cold, which was especially noticeable early in the morning. Usually, before breakfast, the men had to shave, because the company commander, or first sergeant, watched the mess line to make sure that the men were maintaining their personal hygiene.

I would stumble out of my sleeping bag and take my steel pot (helmet) to the mess tent where the cook had some water heaters set up in clean trash cans. After filling the helmet half way with boiling water, I would go back to my vehicle and strip to the waist. I'd wash face, arms, and upper body (if more than three days, lower body was next), and then proceed to lather my face and shave. This whole procedure was accomplished as quickly as possible, amid much shivering and grumbling. After getting dressed, we would take our tin mess kits and get in the chow line for breakfast.

After breakfast on the last day, we broke camp, and lined up in convoy for the trip back to base camp. I drove, with the GI and Katusa sitting beside me (in an actual combat situation, they would be on the watch for air or ground attack along the route of the convoy).

About a third of the way back to camp, my vehicle broke down in a small village. There are mechanics in all convoys, but after he looked at my vehicle, he said he couldn't fix it. We would have to be towed in, bringing up the rear of the convoy. With no engine running, we couldn't run the heater. It was going to be a long, cold trip back!

I decided to fortify myself for that ordeal, so sneaked across the street to a village store, and bought a bottle of Yakju. This is a Korean rice wine with which I was familiar. It tasted a little like apple cider. The Katusa and the GI had a couple of swigs, but for the most part, I drank the bottle.

I remember singing American and Korean songs on the way back (I had learned a couple of songs), and occasionally, stamping our feet and flapping our arms to generate some warmth.

We got back to the motor pool, but I was too drunk to make it back to the barracks, so the GI said he was going to get help, and I should just sit there until he came back. I don't know how long they had been gone before I decided to try to make it back on my own.

I passed out on the chapel lawn, right across from the Camp Commander's Office. Someone saw me and got me back to my unit. I was called in front of the company commander the next morning, and the riot act was read to me. Luckily my platoon sergeant and the first sergeant put in a good word for me. I was a darned good soldier, and worked very hard; there were extenuating circumstances. I did not get busted, but only got a verbal reprimand. Three months after that incident, I made sergeant (E 5).

One day, while on liberty in the town of Chun Chon, I met a young lady who took me to her "hootch" (apartment) in a compound across from the entrance to Camp Page. She was a prostitute of about twenty years of age, and very knowledgeable about sexual matters. She couldn't speak much English, but there was another girl living nearby in the same compound who translated for her when she didn't understand something I said. This other girl was also a prostitute. That didn't surprise me, but later, when I became interested in this girl, I found out they were sisters.

As I mentioned earlier, girls were not as highly thought of in Korean families, so their parents had sold them to a "house mamasan" to train as prostitutes so that they could send home some extra money. The mamasan furnished them a room to conduct their business, bought them nice clothes, and even cooked and served their food, all for part of their earnings. If they were good at their trade, they made a lot of money, some of which, they sent back home. If they made enough money, they might even have a housegirl of their own to cook and clean house for them. This latter case usually occurred when a GI had agreed to "steady" them, or become their "yobo." In a lot of cases, the girl just became deeper and deeper in debt to the mamasan, and eventually, killed herself. Sometimes she would run away and try to begin life anew in /another location. That was hard to do though, because it was hard for her to be accepted into another community, especially if her profession became known.

I started going with this second girl, Chong Hui, on a regular basis; I became her yobo. That was a mistake, because I became very attached to her; so attached, that I decided to marry her and take her away from the life she was leading.

I only had about three months left in Korea, and I knew that wasn't enough time to get approval on a request to marry. What I did was to have a civilian wedding in a local church (Western style), and then a Korean ceremony at her home. They were both beautiful weddings and Chong Hui even made me a Korean costume for the ceremony. We'd planned the weddings for the weekend so that we'd have a couple of days to celebrate. We did that, and I had a most memorable time.

The marriage wasn't recognized by the U.S. Army or government. As a matter of fact, I could have been court martialed for marrying without my commanding officer's permission, so I kept it very hush-hush. Johnny and another friend were the only U.S. military at the wedding, and I cautioned them to keep quiet.

Later that week, I put in a formal request to get married. The Army frowns on anyone marrying a Korean girl for several reasons. The Korean culture is so different from American culture that many times, marriages of this kind do not last, so they try to stop such a marriage before it happens. The girl may be a prostitute, out to marry a soldier so that she can get an allotment and the other benefits that accrue to being the wife of a serviceman. Many times it is the serviceman's first time away from home and he is easily beguiled by feminine charms. I was twenty-six years old, however, and I figured I knew what I wanted to do, and I wasn't about to let them talk me out of it.

I soon had my orders to go back to the states! I guess the Army figured if they couldn't talk me out of it, they'd send me back to the states to let time erase the thought. I had time enough to take a train to Uijongbu to start the official paperwork for the marriage (they have to do a background check on the bride, and that's where her family papers were). We boarded the train in Chun Chon. That was an experience I'll always remember. The house mamasan had packed us a lunch of kimchee, and kimpop, which is fermented cabbage, and rice, pickled radish, and spinach, rolled into pressed sea weed; quite tasty once you acquired a taste for it! It was well she did, because the train ride was a lengthy one, involving many stops along the way. Most of the passengers had brought their own food and were willing to share it with their fellow travelers. It was a very friendly crowd of people. Most were peasants, going to the big city to sell their produce. The prices they commanded in Uijongbu, were better than in Chun Chon.

I was the only westerner on the train, and as such, I created quite a commotion. All eyes noticed me. The people were very courteous for the most part, but there were mendicants who zeroed in on my presence. Most of these people are allowed to ride the train on a daily basis, and press the passengers for alms, as long as they don't make pests of themselves. It is how they earn enough money to subsist. Most of the beggars appeared to be healthy enough to work and elicited little money from the passengers. One fellow, though, will always haunt my memory. His face had been ravaged by syphilis, and was most repugnant to look upon. The poor soul was so piteous, standing before me and begging for money, that I was happy to give him some money just to have his visage removed. Years later, I was to see the movie "Elephant Man," and it reminded me of him.

From Uijongbu, we caught another train to Seoul. We had to transfer some of the paperwork to Korean offices there, and fill out additional papers at the American Embassy. Rather than go through the hassle of a return train ride to Chun Chon, we caught a bus back. All too soon, I was also catching a plane back to the states.