KOREAN WAR

I had lived around three or four places during this period, maybe more. I don't remember exactly why I moved so often. I lived for a while in the home of a man named Ed, a Frenchman and a member of Rayne Memorial. He was also quite an individualist. He sort of took me under his wing and tried to make something out of me, but without very much success. He was a sort of old maid with strong moral ideas. Six years later he was one of the first people I told that I was going into the ministry. He looked at me and said, "Well as the Chinese say, a journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step."

My social and especially romantic skills were rudimentary in those days. I was 25, and I could pass as fairly normal, but I actually kept everyone at arm's length. I was afraid of being hurt by people, and never let anyone close enough to me to hurt me. I didn't realize this at the time of course. I identified with Humphrey Bogart, believing in nothing, trusting nobody, but a golden hearted man. As we said in those days, I didn't give a damn about anything.

What have I left out? Oh yes, the Jay Meadow incident. At loose ends I had answered an ad for employment. It got me an interview with Mr. Jay Meadows, a real promoter type and a terrible con man and womanizer. He had or claimed to have some experience with the medical instrument trade. I was supposed to visit doctors and contract to refinish their instruments. Actually he had no interest in any legitimate business. He wanted to con me out of whatever money I might have. I gradually came to realize this, when he proposed selling me the franchise for the business, which was virtually 100% a figment of his imagination. I had an old car which he offered to take with a promissory note for so many hundred dollars. I slept on this and realized there wasn't anything in it for me.

I think he also wanted to set me up receiving stolen automobiles, but I simply didn't give him any encouragement with that idea. Jay was smart--and anxious to outdo anyone. From Houston, he seemed to have the Houston business mentality--acquisitive, aggressive, underhanded. He was smart enough to make money legitimately, but had no interest in doing that. I imagine he wound up in jail somewhere. He told me I ought to go ahead and marry Gloria, but I appreciated very well that he wasn't that interested in my welfare. It was an interesting and instructive experience that really cost me nothing.

They called me about three months before my 26th birthday. Twenty-six was the cutoff age, and they had no intention of letting me slip through, as I was well aware. On the 13th of December 1951 a large group of us boarded the train in New Orleans for Chicago. Twenty-four hours later, in Chicago, it was 20 below zero; none of us had overcoats.

We got to Great Lakes Recruit Training Depot and spent most of our three months of basic training indoors due to the extreme cold. We would march from building to building, but they didn't keep us outdoors much. Just one day, we had firefighting. This involved waiting around outside in the cold for 45 minutes or an hour, then a short demo or exercise, and another long wait. In that experience I got a good idea of what it means to freeze to death. I was so cold! I found that just to stop moving entirely was the most comfortable way to deal with it. Left to my own devices I would have simply gone to sleep, and that would have been the end of me. Of course they wouldn't let me go to sleep. (Years later Dan Baker, an ex army sergeant, told me that he had had a terrible time keeping his black soldiers from going to sleep on sentry duty under those conditions.) At the end of that day I was absolutely the most exhausted that I have ever been in my life. I crawled into my bunk, had no interest in supper, just lay there aching all over. I never want to be that cold again.

I made 100 on the GCT, the general classification test the navy used in those days to grade recruits. This happened fairly often, but of course in my company it won me great notoriety. Our chief made me the education petty officer, which meant very little. The main thing it meant was that I missed service week, that is, the group KP when most of the company spent 18 hours per day peeling potatoes, washing dishes, scrubbing floors, etc. The other "petty officer" and I had the duty of keeping the chiefs' quarters clean, which took about an hour a day. The rest of the time we made ourselves scarce.

I was glad to miss that service week, but there were some positive things I missed that went along with it. It had to be the most intense experience of our boot training. The group came together through that common group experience. (The other day we heard a Marine sergeant telling a news person how men in his company who had been detailed to do things back in the states had come to them hoping to get orders changed so they could stay on the front lines. He said it was a consequence of a sort of male bonding; under conditions of stress close attachments are made.) I made none of those close attachments in the navy.

I joined the Bluejackets Choir at Great Lakes. We were a high class singing group. It was just about to begin singing weekly on CBS, which meant that the members of the choir would be permanently assigned there and have other (light) duties to perform. I hoped to get that slot, but they shipped me out a week or two before orders came through for that. They put me on a traingoing to San Diego, where I was to train as a radio operator. Duck soup for me, a former professional. I worked in the code room, starting tapes of code at various speeds while my fellow trainees sweat trying to get up to speed. I think this went on for four months and we finished our training. I must have been promoted to seaman at that point.

Then they sent me to San Francisco and put me on a plane for Yokosuka in Japan - an interesting experience. We stopped at Hawaii, Midway, and Wake. The flight crew operated that plane just like it was a commercial, which meant I got very decent treatment, a box lunch. They must have been deliberately preparing themselves for civilian work.

From Yokosuka I went to Tokyo and took a train south to the tip of the island, the naval base at Sasebo. The Japanese railroad system was very impressive. The trains full of people of course, very rapid, stopping frequently, going on a level straight through mountainous country; half the time we were in a tunnel and the other half on a bridge. Fantastic.

At Sasebo I went aboard my ship, the USS Currier DE700. A destroyer escort is a small cheap destroyer type ship, the kind used for the convoys I sailed in during the earlier war. I don't know exactly what mission the Currier had in the Pacific. We went to Hong Kong for a few days. As always the Orient is a shock. At a brothel they lined up 25 or 30 girls for the sailors' choice. One girl offered to take me in on a permanent basis for $3 a week; she said that's what she needed to live. She said that she came back to the brothel only when her money had run out. She was a refugee from Shanghai and had once been part of a higher class family. We don't know how fortunate we have been.

After a few days at Hong Kong we went to Formosa. That was the seat of Chiang Kai Shek after the Communists kicked him out of China. I remember very little about that. Shortly we returned to Sasebo, perhaps Yokosuka and then home. In fact I was back in San Diego about six weeks after I had left it. This short tour of the Far East filled out my total geographical experience bringing the number of countries I visited to 26.

I almost got left in Tokyo. We were tied up, 4 abreast of a tender, that is a large utility vessel that provided supplies, services, etc. One of their services was to maintain our radio watch while we were in port. Preparatory to departing I was sent across the four DE's to the tender to get our radio traffic and to tell them we were leaving. When I returned, my ship was well out in Tokyo Bay on its way to California. Luckily for me the officer of the day on the next (now outside) ship immediately noticed my plight and took quick action. He signaled the Currier and they slowed down long enough for me to catch them in a launch, which he had put me on. So many times I came so close to missing a ship, and I often wonder how different my life might have been--perhaps like poor Fitzpatrick (See SECOND.DAY).

Once again we stopped in Hawaii and I got ashore for a few hours. Don't remember much about it. From there we sailed on to San Diego, where I spent the balance of my two years in the navy. We became a sonar school ship. This meant that naval personnel would come aboard to learn how to operate the sonar equipment. We would go out for a week or two at a time, conduct exercises simulating combat primarily designed to teach the use of the sonar. We generally returned to port on Friday.

About a third of the crew would get a 72 hour pass (technically 5 P.M. Friday to 8 A.M. Monday. Another third would get a 48. During that time I spent a good many weekends in the San Diego area. I liked San Diego and seriously considered settling there after my active duty. I figured it would be especially good as a civilian. But as usual I got bored.

To alleviate the boredom I rented a little house in Tijuana. I used to go down for the weekend. We had locker clubs in San Diego where we would park our uniforms and don civilian clothes. I had a fair command of Spanish and fancied that I could pass as a Mexican. Not actually, but I was indeed a bit more conscious of the Mexican culture than the average sailor in Tijuana on liberty. The interest of the average sailor on liberty was confined to liquor and women. I shared these interests to some extent, but had broader interests as well.

I acquired a guitar and learned a good bit of popular Mexican music, including several of the songs of the popular singer, Pedro Infante. "Como un Criminal, huyendo por los montanas, etc. etc." Some of the mexicans made a semblance of accepting me. One family had me as godfather of one of their numerous progeny. We went with several hundred other family groups to the church. The priest came by and said some magic words, and all these children became good catholics. They generally went to church three times: for that ceremony, for marriage, and for their funeral. The Catholic religion seemed pretty minimal in Tijuana.

They are a sad people but capable of happy moments. Their psychology was somewhat akin to that of today's Arabs--a highly compensated inferiority complex. In conversations with them in the cantinas they would brag that they were freer than norteamericanos. I understand that they had a much greater freedom to starve to death. Of course they were poor relative to us. However I heard that Tijuana was the richest town in the country next to Mexico City. The Mexicans I knew, at least some of them, had an outstanding ability to share. They would give you half of their last crust of bread without thinking a thing of it. They have a limited sense of private ownership.

About the middle of my term I got a 30 day leave. I decided to hitchhike to New Orleans. I remember as much about that trip as I do 3 months of sea duty. Right outside San Diego I got a ride with an Air Force type. We drove to El Paso, roughly half way over about 24 hours. He was on his way to Colorado, but rather aimless. I could have talked him into going to New Orleans, but I didn't think that would likely be best for him. Out of El Paso I had trouble, finally got a ride about 30 miles and out on the road in a dismal little town. I went into a cafe for a cup of coffee and the temperature there was frigid. I felt like the stranger in the western movie in a nest of black hats. I finally got a ride out of there and learned that a week before a sailor had come through there hitchhiking; he was picked up and he murdered the man who gave him a ride.

Soon I got a ride with a Marine going to Jacksonville. He had been in the stockade for some time--a gruesome experience. He was going awol. He meant to turn himself in after 29 days; after 30 you're considered a deserter. There were two other sailors he had also picked up, not friends of mine. Soon he revealed that he had limited funds, and that to continue we would need to help with the gas. The other two boys got out. I bought some gas, and we eventually got to New Orleans. I filled up his tank at that point, hoping he might make it to Jacksonville. I could tell he was hard pressed, and I hoped that things would come out right for him.

During this period I also sang in a Bach concert. I remember just a few of my shipmates. Ski, a Polish boy of course, was very agreeable to go on leave with, but he got kind of squeaky when he had authority. I remember a Roman Catholic boy, an electronic technician, who was squeaky clean. He was doing some sort of social work on his liberties. I remember the kid I sort of took under my wing, tried to help qualify for an advancement. The communications officer commended me for this. Later I took him under my wing financially and tried to help him manage his money, but he found this hard. I remember our 2nd class, the chief of the radio gang, a nice man married to a Hawaiian girl who gave him a bad time. All these people touched my life very superficially.

I had told Edgar that I realized that everyone has to have some social life, but I was convinced that I could get along with less than anybody else I know. And I told him that when I got home for good, I was going to take my pirogue out to the middle of Lake Pontchartrain and just sit there. That was against the backdrop of sleeping in a compartment with 30 other guys with bunks stacked up 4 deep. At age 27 I learned even more to value my privacy.

The date of my release finally approached. Actually they let me out almost a month before my two year term--at their convenience. I was detached from the Currier so I would not be at sea on the date for the mustering out process. For a few days I was just a supernumerary on that ship. They had an inspection and the officer found my shoes unsatisfactory, but only admonished me to sharpen up; he knew my circumstances and didn't want to interfere.

We spent some time on the base getting ready for the end. We were served by a real crackajack salesman who attempted to persuade us to sign over, but he got no response. Many of the people in that unit had already been bitten. After serving through World War II they had been foolish enough to stay in the naval reserve and got called again for the Korean "police action". This guy offered us duty anywhere in the country, at any station we might care to name. It meant nothing to us; we wanted to be civilians again.

I remember a conversation about that time in the NCO club after a few beers. Another boy and I were beefing about the hardness of being called again. He was full of stories about how much hardship and abuse he had suffered. I remarked that if they tried to call me for another war, I would not answer; I'd go to Mexico if necessary. He got furious. In spite of his bitching, he was a true patriot. Looking back many years I can see there a dramatic contrast between the tribalist and the individualist; I wasn't nearly as aware of the distinction at that time; I just realized that he and I were different.

I got about $500 mustering out pay and decided to reward myself with a trip to Mexico. I don't recall clearly where I entered Mexico, but a native bus took me down the west coast to Mazatlan and/or Sinaloa. We saw wolves from the windows of the bus. I ate native food. I got in a conversation with a man who refused to believe that I was an American. He said, "You may be a Frenchman or an Englishman, but you're no American. Your Spanish is too good." I felt very flattered.

The sea at the port cities was beautiful, but I soon got lonely. I moved over to Guadalajara and got a room in a hotel there. They have the paseo there like most latin towns, and I met a young man named Ruben Porfirio. He invited me to come and spend some time at his house. His parents were very hospitable. It was a typical Spanish type of house with a large inner patio and rooms all around. I decided I wanted to take a shower. Senor Porfirio asked me whether I wanted agua caliente o tepido. I didn't have sense enough to say tepido. Tepido is the water heated on the roof by the sun; caliente has to burn electricity. I made lots of foolish mistakes of that sort, but I found the Spanish in general charming people and very hospitable.

A strange thing happened to me in Guadalajara, a kind of premonitory experience. I went to a Baptist church, conducted in Spanish of course. Although I could not understand a lot of what the preacher said, I was so moved at seeing Mexican Protestant Christians that I answered the altar call. They didn't have the vaguest idea what to do with me, and nothing (immediate) came of it. The spiritual consequences were delayed for several years.

I also met a young woman in the paseo. I guess I was trying to relive the Santos experience. I got into her home, too with a party of young people. She had other interests and soon got tired of me.

I decided to go to Mexico City and Ruben went with me. He had family up there. I don't remember his family there; I got a room. It wasn't as friendly as Quadalajara had been. I took a plane home in time for Christmas.

Actually I liked San Diego and thought of going back as a civilian, but somehow it never happened. Mother and Daddy were in Slidell by this time after 7 years at Oak Grove in the extreme northeast corner of Louisiana. Oak Grove was their happiest pastorate--a county seat with a congregation made up of professional people and business men. Dad built a new church while he was there.

Back at Slidell as a civilian I was at loose ends. I thought it would be nice to publish a little newsletter for Spanish students, but I didn't get very far with that. I spent quite a few hours getting together some material on my old typewriter, and sending hundreds of letters to high schools throughout the country inviting them to subscribe. I got 3 or 4 responses. Mother got worried about me spending so much time by myself working (I'm not sure I even told her what I was doing), and I gave it up.