Publisher and Agent Representation
C. Hampton II Agency Group
PO Box 668
Pittsburg, CA. 94565
Attn: Codis Hampton II
~~~~~~
Publicist: Richie Hampton
Rich Tycoon presents
PO Box 70444 Oakland, CA. 94612
Please visit our web site located at www.Unchon-ni.com to view pictures of Camp Kaiser and Unchon-ni during that 1961 thru 1963 time-span.
Send your questions and comments to Unchon_ni@yahoo.com.
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Copyright 2010 Codis Hampton II, all rights reserved.
ISBN: 9781609849702
Acknowledgements
First and foremost, let me acknowledge Jesus Christ, God almighty, without whom, I would not be here to tell this or any other story. At the beginning of each day, I say a simple prayer. It’s the Serenity Prayer as follows;
God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.
To the one and only wife, Sandra Hampton, I’ve ever known. Damn, we are still together, huh? Who in the world thought that we would see our 42nd anniversary this past August 31, 2010? In the words of Lionel Ritchie, “I do love you…still.”
To my children, Shawn Lynn Hampton, Richie Hampton, Codis Brandon Hampton III, and my one grandson, Khayree Cooper Davis, this book is dedicated to you. Know that you are always in my thoughts and will forever be in my heart. My sincere hope is that you gain understanding of who you are from my struggles to be who I am. You should always look to the roots from whence you came to discover who you are and what you can achieve in life. And finally, continue to set your goals high, yet be satisfied you gave it your all if you fall short of a few of your goals. Most of all enjoy life along the way and thank God that you were given the chance.
To my father, who has passed on, you not only gave me the gift of life, you taught me how to live it. By your actions, you showed me the role of a man and father in the household. And my mother, who taught me that people, may or may not be who you think they should be. Love is shown in many ways, and always boils down to being patient and understanding of one another.
This book is also dedicated to two great women in my life who have passed on, but taught me how precious a woman friend could be. Their calm and cool demeanors in the midst of trying times, or joyous occasions reflected how I wanted to approach a problem. It was no small coincidence that both were great listeners.
The first of which was my Stepmother, Rosalie Hampton. She would sit and listen to me talk, and talk about who I wanted to be, and what I was going to do when I grew up. She would intently listen when I complained about my father not letting me go around that corner. She would listen, and then give opinions that made sense. I may not have like all of her responses, but they always made sense. She was the sounding board for my stepsister and me. I’m sure my little sister, Lois, and my brother James, who were born well after me and my stepsister, Johnny Mae noticed those traits in her as well.
The second lady, who became one of my best friends, was my mother-in-law, Ruth Moseby. She was another one of those great listeners, especially when I talked to her about my marriage issues with her daughter. She counseled patience and assured me that her daughter loved me, but had some growing to do. “Don’t we all,” I used to quip. The lady had the patience of snail, and I mean that in a very loving way. I see why my father was drawn to Ruth after my stepmother died of cancer. It always made my wife and me smile, seeing my father and her mother interact as a couple. It was priceless. For me it was almost like watching my dad and stepmom all over again. Those people were special in my life and I truly miss them.
To my brother, sisters, cousins, aunts, uncles, other family members along with friends who are like family, Thanks for being you, and letting me be me.
To the 8th Army, 1st BN, 17th Infantry, Echo Company Crew of 1962-1963, I hope one or all of you see this book and get in touch with me. I’m still Hamp.
Special thanks for the following organizations and web sites whose pictures were extremely instrumental in pulling the sights and sounds of that time span from my memory. Looking at the natives, village of Unchon-ni itself, Camp Kaiser, and other important landmarks drew me back to the areas themselves. I always had the faces of lovers and friends in my mind from that time of long ago. Your pictures helped me remember them in the environment where we met.
Camp Kaiser Korea, 1961-1965, Pictures from Wayne Golden, at Kaiser 1961-1961. And Bruce Richards, US Army Vet, 1960 to 1982. Check their site below,
www.qsl.net/wd4ngb/ckaiser5a.htm
Brotherhood of U.S. Army Veterans Assoc. at site above
The site of rokdrop.com (Korea from North to South) and GI Korea
Camp Kaiser Korea, 1952-1971, provided by Richard Eichinger
Special thanks to the two women who edited this book with the professionalism I needed to make it a success. This was no easy task. They had to deal with a rookie author who was adamant about depicting the spirit and soul of these players 50 years ago. Jennifer Decker, and Maureen Kreklow, you are the best at what you do.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Special thanks to Professor of History, Barry A. Mehler who wrote a Review (Helfred Publications, Washington, D.C.) pointing to a paraphrase from James West Davidson’s ‘They Say’ Ida B. Wells and the Reconstruction of Race, attributed to James Baldwin in 1963. The quote on the cover came from those remarks.
In the aforementioned review, Professor Mehler writes, “An epigraph from James Baldwin succinctly expresses the theme of the narrative: ‘If I am not who you say I am, then you are not who you think you are.’ (Describing the author, James West Davidson, works, Professor Mehler continues in his review) ‘In his afterword, he returns to Baldwin’s aphorism explaining that it is actually a paraphrase from remarks Baldwin made in 1963, “So where we are now is that a whole country of people believe I’m a ‘nigger,’ and I don’t, and the battle’s on! Because if I am not what I’ve been told I am, then it means that you’re not what you thought you were either! And that is the crisis.”
The professor goes on to say, the crisis was not only for white America, it was for African Americans as well.
The quote of 1963 fit the mood of the black community at that time. We were trying to find out who we were and where we came from as oppose to having others define us. Being a member of the United States Army in 1962 caused even more mental challenges between duty and staying true to who we were. That is why I was drawn to Mr. Baldwin’s quote. As you read my story, you will see what I mean.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Author’s Note
Over the years, I have often thought of how I arrived in Korea approximately eight months after my seventeenth birthday. I distinctly remember what happened while I was there, and how those experiences affected me up through this day and age. Even at that, I wonder if my life has been so much more interesting than anybody else’s. Can I hold one’s curiosity during these times of the 15 second attention span long enough for them read this entire story?
If they read it, will they understand the nuance between the boy and the man he is trying to be in the ultimate men’s club, the United States Army? Can I articulate well the lessons learned from unlikely sources such as the men and women whose lives crossed in a third world country during that 1962-1963 time span?
I’ve concluded the answer is yes. I can explain the road this boy traveled from the concrete city streets of a little Midwestern city to the dirt roads and alleyways of an impoverished Korean village located on the outskirts of a U.S. Army base. I have to tell the story of his love affair with a lady whose profession was practically chosen for her out of the necessity to survive in a war torn environment. I need to put his experiences down on paper and share them with others who then can judge the players’ behavior in this story for themselves. It is imperative that the leading character’s, that is my, story is read, his actions scrutinized, and his interactions with others are understood as a result of who he was and who he would become one day.
This is a story about a young black American soldier trying to find himself amid the chaos and obstacles that life throws at him. He often looks back in his life in order to move forward. Over this tour of duty, he will look to love, organization, and purpose in establishing who he is and where he fits in the scheme of life itself.
There are many questions that form in a young person’s mind as they move through puberty, the teenage years, and especially before they reach that magic number of 21 years of age. It is how and by whom those questions are answered that begins to shape his core personality.
I thought writing this book would be traumatic remembering how it was. I found that it was more of a labor of love. I knew where I came from and who I was as a child. My life foundation was laid by a man whom I loved and respected more and more the older I got. It was my father’s home where I found the love and discipline to understand and recognize a lesson when it was demonstrated for me. It was the family environment of cousins, aunts, uncles, and grandmothers that taught me the sense of being in a group of two, five, hundreds, and even one.
Korea opened my eyes to life. It’s ingrained in my brain because the incidents and experiences are as if they happened yesterday. That is what I gained from living such a full existence for almost 14 months of my life. This is a story about how I became a man.
I learned another lesson while authoring this book. I miss that time in my life when my mind was free and my soul alive. I truly miss the friends that I made, the women that I loved, and conversations with various people about life itself.
I have since had two sons and a daughter that I truly love with a woman I have been married to for over 42 years. No doubt there is a deep love there. I would not have it any other way than to meet her and go through the trial and tribulations that comes with a new love and a family. But that’s another story for another time.
This young black man was born of a generation that believed in a different world than their fathers, mothers, and grandparents saw as adults. These youngsters of color looked to those who sought the changes in race relations they felt America deserved. They would obediently follow as long as the destination led to making America the land of the free for all no matter the race, color, or creed. And for those who thought black people should bide their time and wait, and wait, and wait, this generation was not having any of that type of thinking.
It was because he was a soldier, not in spite of, that he would gladly lay his life on the line for America. He wanted it to be for an America he envisioned, not the country that allowed terrorization of a race of people on its soil.
At the same time, there were questions in his mind of his mother’s love. Did he really know her? Frankly, did she know who she was and her role as a mother? After all, he had lived with his father and stepmother for as long as he could remember. And that home was indeed a happy home where the overriding mantra was, “Boy, you got to make something of yourself.” He wanted his mother question issues behind him once and for all.
Most of the questions were reserved for himself. Could he be a good soldier, a good person, a good U.S. citizen and eventually a loving husband and father? Would he ever make his father proud of him?
In the end, the young man would discover while racing from one experience to another, that one’s brain is constantly recording and storing pertinent life lessons for reference and use in the future. He would find that some things are learned by accident. And yet others by being aware and having the capability to truthfully process what is going on around him.
It is the mere fact that a lesson has been learned and ingrained in his thought process that benefited his development as a person. When you couple those experiences with his family environment as a child you have the makings of one’s self.
One of the primary questions in any affiliation – man-woman, father-son, mother-son, sibling-to-sibling - is what does each participant brings to the table. In other words, can we carry our weight and perform as expected? We long to satisfy those who love us in deeds, realized ambition, and in the expectations of any type of relationship.
The following quote are words of wisdom to me as an independent black man.
“I do my thing and you do your thing”
“I am not in this world to live up to your expectations.”
“And you are not in this world to live up to mine.”
“You are you and I am I.”
“And if by chance we find each other, it’s beautiful.”
- Frederick S Perfs
Yet all of this is overshadowed by the need to be recognized as an individual of content. We want desperately to become people who make themselves content and happy with whom they are as a person. Ultimately this is who we will have to live with the rest of our lives.
If I lay my head back and close my eyes, I can still smell that aroma that can only come from a Korean village. For me, it was Unchon-ni. For countless other GIs it was another little village not far from their base in Korea. I bet they all have stories too.
But for now, please enjoy my little romp through time. I think you will begin to understand why the old soldiers before and after me felt that South Korea was one of the U.S. Army’s best kept secrets.
Love & Peace,
Codis Hampton II
Table of Contents
In The Beginning
Chapter 1
Next Stop Tokyo
Chapter 2,
Hey Korea, We Are Here
Chapter 3
Unchon-ni, My First Visit
Chapter 4
An Angel Appears
Chapter 5
Another Alert - Duty Calling
Chapter 6
A New Best Buddy & Promotion
Chapter 7
Jeannie and Hamp’s B-Day Celebration
Chapter 8
Annyonghi kaseyo Dave
Chapter 9
Dave, Alicia Kim & JB Grant
Chapter 10
Cowboys to Girls to Missiles
Chapter 11
Civil Rights Fallout appears at Camp Kaiser
Chapter 12
Tops Arrival
Chapter 13
E Company Crew
Chapter 14
Thugs or Soldiers
Chapter 15
Hamp’s Sick Call
Chapter 16
Katie and Jeannie
Chapter 17
Short Timer
Chapter 18
Times Almost Up
Chapter 19
In the Beginning
It seemed like the last few months had been a blur. Although time is long when you are training or on bivouac in the field, the weekend is as elusive and longtime coming as a special holiday. I could feel the ship rocking to and fro and imagine it parting the waters as it heads toward its first stop.
I could hear some of the men snoring as if they were home in their own beds. Others were tossing and turning from the uncomfortable feeling of the ship’s motion. And then there were those moments when all was quiet until a small inexperienced voice uttered in what sounded like a whisper. ”Jake, hey Jake, are you awake?”
I smiled, guessing that the young soldier was not prepared for the reply to come from so many others: “Oh! Is him missing his mommy tonight?”
“Yes him is,” come a reply from one corner of the tight sleeping quarters. “Does he want some milk and cookies?”
“Maybe he missing his little teddy bear,” someone else chimed in. “I got you and his teddy bear right here in my hand.”
“Shut the hell up and leave little man to his dreams,” another GI joined in. “Are you a long way from home, Sonny? Miss your little girl friend…do ya?”
“Knock it off. Lights are out so shut the fuck up and go to sleep. We’ll give your asses extra work in the morning and see if that will quiet you down at night. Now knock it the fuck off.”
There is nothing like a voice of authority, recognized even in the dark. I am willing to bet no one could see the non-commissioned officer. You could bet money that he was a non-com because of the way he spoke. We didn’t know his rank or if he was Army or Navy. And, frankly, we didn’t have to know. After all, this was a Navy troop ship transporting a large number of Army soldiers to our first stop, Hawaii, followed by a stop- off in Tokyo, and finally arriving at our destination, South Korea.
After that voice of authority, even the snoring stopped, at least for a while.
As for me, my mind kept wandering and thinking about the last few months. Hell! I couldn’t sleep.
* * * * *
….Yeah, it was just a few months earlier that my cousin, Eugene Poindexter, and I were walking past an Air Force and Army recruitment office, side by side on Third Street and North Avenue. That was a day we had both decided to skip school. I remember the air was turning cooler as fall was fast approaching. The leaves were falling from the trees as if on command and shouting, hey, it’s October already.
Eugene was scheduled to go to court for stealing something so small that he forgotten. Whatever it was, he was going to have to do a few months in Waukesha Department of Corrections. I was scheduled in about two weeks to go to juvenile court for the third time for skipping school. If I went to that court, I was going to be sent to the home for wayward boys in Waukesha. It was a juvenile detention center. I was confused, not stupid. A detention center meant that I would not have the freedom I had grown to love. Damn… it was not so long before that Daddy first let me go around the corner.
Just two seventeen year old kids, although we thought we were men, walking along trying to figure out what to do with our lives. We had to make a decision pretty soon.
As we walked along, I heard Eugene talking, but couldn’t pay attention; I was so immersed in feeling sorry that I had disappointed my father. He wanted me to “be somebody” as he often stated. “Make something of yourself” was another one his favorite sayings. And now, I was going to go to jail? Albeit a juvenile facility, but nevertheless… me… the kid was going to jail? I resolved; “Playtime is over for me. I am going to straighten up.”
“I’m going to beg for another chance,” I heard myself telling Eugene as he pushed me into the Army and Air Force recruiting office, urging “Come on… let’s go in here.” We went into the Air Force side of the office.
We were not in there long because the Air Force was not taking seventeen- year old high school drop-outs. “Go next door. The Army will take you,” the Air Force recruiter advised.
As we entered the front office a man in a uniform asked us how old we were. “Seventeen,” I answered, having just turned seventeen on the 16th of August of that year (1961). He told us we were old enough as long as our parents gave their consent. I wondered if my father would go along with this as we filled out the preliminary paperwork before taking the test. “Can I finish high school in the Army?” “Sure,” the enlisted man said. “You can take night courses and study to take your GED which is a high school equivalency test.” That would answer my father’s concern. “Will I have to go to court?” I asked, and I explained what was scheduled to happen. “We will send a letter to the juvenile authorities letting them know that you have enrolled in the Army. Once that letter is issued, no one can touch you. You will belong to Uncle Sam.” I smiled as I realized I had found the ideal situation for me. Hey, $78.00 per month and I get to travel and I don’t have to go to jail. It was a godsend for me. But I could tell that Eugene was not as sold on it as I was.
Next thing I know, I’m at home begging my father to sign my enlistment papers to join the Army. “Daddy, please,” I asked. “Me and Eugene are going in together. I want to travel. I want to see the world, and I get paid for it.”
To put it mildly, my father was not having it. He wanted me to go to school and get an education. He didn’t care if I went to the detention center. Maybe that would teach me a lesson and I would come out and return to school on top of having to attend school while in there. I started crying without even realizing it.
* * * * *
…..Dad saw it as another case of me running away from my responsibility. He had sent me to Saint Benedict de Moor straight for seventh grade out, of elementary school because he felt I was smart. He was disappointed when, after getting good grades in the first year, I began to slide. When I joined the wrong crowd in the ninth grade, I was asked not to return for what would have been the tenth grade.
There were about four of us boys who just refused to become more involved in the academic environment at Saint Benedict. It was not that I was following the other boys; they just gave me cover for what I had begun to view as an institution that was hypocritical. They taught and preached a strict religious format wherein one should always turn the other cheek. By my second year, the eighth grade, I was beginning to wonder why God had allowed black people (or colored, as we called ourselves back then) to suffer at the hands of white men.
You have to understand that earlier I would skip school and go to the library and read. I loved history. Yet, every history book I read either didn’t have blacks in them or the blacks were slaves, fools, lazy, and good for nothing. There were a few black heroes: such as Joe Louis; Jackie Robinson. Milwaukee’s own, Braves baseball star Henry Aaron was another. My Aunt Mittie Lou baby babysat hammering hanks kids. I never saw them, but it seemed to be a thing of pride among the greater Hampton family of Milwaukee.
So, I began to ask the hard questions regarding race and race relations and how did God allow for a race of his people to be subjected to such cruelty. My questions were not being answered. Not only that…I was told on the side, and in front of the class, to stop asking such question because this was not the time and place to address such issues. Well, those issues became such a problem in my mind that I begin to rebel against the very school that I loved to attend. Therefore I became one of the malcontents in class that were “disruptive and not there to learn.”
I was torn between trying to prepare myself for a “good job,” as my father put it at the time, and having a good time, since these people were never able to or going to answer my questions. I began to ask why there were so many religions and if God knew everything, then didn’t he already know who was going to heaven and who was going to hell? Believe me when I say that Sister Theopaine, my seventh grade teacher, and who even now, I would seek out for advice, didn’t like me rocking the boat. Her answers were supposed to be final and not be challenged by some little smart-mouth kid. The result was I not only let her down, but was unaware of the damage I was doing to myself.
I know my father was very disappointed when Saint Benedict De Moor School administrators told him that I was being asked not to return for the next school year. I tried to explain, but to no avail. Frankly, there was no explanation except that I had reached the teenage years.
My father enrolled me in North Division, high school. I quickly got it in my mind that North Division was not teaching me anything at all. They were worse than Saint Benedict. The classes were dull. I would sit in class and look out the window, bored with their entire curriculum. I started skipping school more and more. Most of the time, I skipped alone. I would go to the public library in downtown Milwaukee. I tried to stay in there all day, but I could tell the attendants were getting suspicious after seeing me a few times. So, I had to go there only occasionally and not every other day.
The following year, juvenile counselors recommended sending me to M.A.T.C. That was a school where one was sent to learn a trade, like auto mechanics. It was the Milwaukee Public School systems ways of saying we better teach this kid a way to earn a living as an adult. Not me…not the kid. I was going to wear a suit and tie to work. I was not going to come home to my wife with grease under my fingernails.
* * * * *
….Well, one thing led to another, and another thing led to me pleading with my stepmother, Rosalie. “Please talk to him, Mama.” Dad was not pleased.
“Boy! You need to finish school. The only way you are going to get anywhere in this life is through education. You need to finish school.”
“That’s the great thing about the Army, Dad. The recruiting sergeant told us we can finish school in the Army. We can get a high school equivalency diploma by taking GED courses. Think about that. I can get paid to travel the world, get my high school diploma and come out of the Army with a trade.”
“Let the boy go. It’s better than him ending up in Waukesha,” my stepmother came to the rescue. After what seemed like a couple of hours of persuasion from both of us, she convinced Daddy to sign the papers giving his consent. I promised that I would finish school and get my high school diploma while in the Army. I was due to take the test the next day. If I passed, I would be sworn in.
* * * * *
Now on this ship sailing across the Pacific from Oakland, California, USA to South Korea, I lay there reminiscing on how I came to be here. I was proud that I had not shown any signs of sea sickness. After all, they would not let up on this little guy if I showed any kind of weakness. I was a soldier, and regardless of size, I would carry myself as such in all instances.
You could hear some of the guys running to the bathroom and throwing up in the toilet. Sea sickness didn’t care how big or small you were. If your stomach couldn’t take the motion of the ship, it would let you know. I remember wishing I could turn on the light. That would allow me to read myself to sleep. No such luck; All I had were my thoughts of how fast the last few months had passed. My mind drifted back to the day after my father signed the enlistment papers.
* * * * *
…..That next day, November 13, 1961, I was to meet Eugene downtown at the induction center to take the test. He didn’t show up. “Oh well,” I thought as I went through the office and took a seat in the examination room. The test was not difficult for me. Believe it or not, out of the fifteen to seventeen other people in taking the exam about four or five of them did not pass.
I learned my first lesson about the Army that day. I had dreams of signing up, returning home, getting dressed, and going out to celebrate. It didn’t happen. After finding out I passed the test, I was sworn in immediately. We all were asked to step into the next room adjacent to the examination room. We took the oath in unison. We were given our papers and told to report to the Sheraton Hotel in downtown Milwaukee the next morning at 3:00 a.m. My eyes blinked. We may have all asked in unison, but I heard myself and others ask, “3:00 a.m.?” “Yes Private, 3:00 a.m. We will leave the hotel and proceed to the train station where you will board with a few others with a final destination of Fort Carson, Colorado.” Now, I was thinking, they still call them Forts? “Did you hear me, Private?” “Yes, Sir,” I answered. Believe you me, it would not be the last time I said, “Yes Sir.” In fact, I would soon learn that those two words were a mandatory requirement in answering an officer or non-commission officer. Needless to say, I was there a little before three the next morning.
There was an incident on the train ride that would forever make me hustle anytime I thought I could go no more. It would make me run a little harder, a little faster, a little farther, and study a lot more, in order to have no one doubt my ability to serve as a soldier in the United States Army.
At the time of enlistment, I weighed 112 pounds and stood all of 5 feet 2 inches. My shoe size was 6 ½. I was a short seventeen years old and looked the part of a street- smart kid. While our little gang of new recruits was walking through the train heading for the dining car, we passed two busboys and a porter. They were black. One of them took one look at me wearing this green tight banlon sweater and slacks and busted out laughing. “Hey! Look at that little dude. What the hell is he gonna do in the Army? He ain’t big enough to carry a bucket of water. Hey Charlie! Would you look at that little runt? Ha-ha, ha-ha, ha-ha.” I mean they said it so loud that passengers sitting near began to look at me and smile. It made me feel so bad, and then I got pissed off and turned to go after Mr. Funnyman. One of the other recruits stopped me and pushed me toward the dining car. He was a tall black dude, from Milwaukee as well.
As we sat down at our table my fellow recruits begin to talk to me. “Don’t mind him. He is a fool and a busboy. That’s all he will ever be. He is just jealous.” I heard him and yet I could not tell if I was more embarrassed or pissed off. I reasoned it was about equal. All my life I have had to prove to somebody that “dynamite comes in small packages.” I ate my food in silence; the other guys were talking about this and that. All I could think about was that I was not going to ever embarrass myself in Uncle Sam’s Army. No matter what they threw at me, I would take it and stand in line for more. “My name is Codis Hampton and I am a man. And any motherfucker don’t believe that, then let them come see me about it,” I thought to myself.
We ate our food and passed by the same busboys. I didn’t say anything and neither did they. I don’t know if that idiot got the message but I shot the old Hampton glare at his ass as I walked through. As if to say, “You have no idea, and I mean no idea, who you are fucking with.” He turned away from my glare, mumbled something to his friend that neither I nor anybody else but his friend could hear. My recruit buddy was pushing me on as he saw what was happening. He kept saying, “Keep it moving, Hamp. Go on, keep it moving.” Little did I realize then that this busboy would be my inspiration to succeed where others had failed.
* * * * *
I don’t know when I fell asleep or how long it took. I do know that I didn’t sleep long. My eyes were almost numb to the flashing lights and hearing someone scream. “Get up, ladies. Get out of that sack and hit the floor at attention.” Those that were slow to wake-up were given personal attention by the Army Sergeant. “Didn’t I tell you to get up? You think you’re on a pleasure cruise or something?” With that bit of encouragement, all in our little cramped space that housed about two dozen or so bunk beds were told to get dressed and be ready for chow in one hour.
We all took our turn at serving some kind of duty onboard, but there was a lot of downtime on this voyage that would take twenty-three days, including stops, to get to Korea. We were instructed to check for our names on the duty rooster. I just remember that wherever I worked, I hoped it would not be in crowded quarters. This boat was huge, but the living and working quarters made human contact up close and personal.
The first day out, breakfast brought sea sickness too close to comfort. As we sat at a long mess table bolted to the floor, the ship was literally rocking and rolling, so much so… that a guy sitting closer to the front of the table threw up in his mess plate. At that very moment the ship pitched and rolled as if jumping over a wave. Guys were trying to hold on to their seats and food trays. The guy directly across from me didn’t have time to grab his tray or wasn’t fast enough. His tray hit the floor and was replaced by the tray with the vomit in it that slid down the table landing directly in front of him, just as he grabbed it.
Composing himself from the shock of it all and looking at the puzzled stares on his table mates faces, he quickly announced that, the plate was not his and he didn’t throw up. “I’m sorry,” the perpetrator at the front end of the table could be heard repeating to himself as he ran for the doorway, no doubt heading for the latrine, or men’s head.
A collective, “eeewwwe,” was uttered by the remaining soldiers, including me. The soldier threw his napkin over the tray with the vomit and took it to an orderly. He came back with a fresh tray, sat down and began to eat again, holding his tray with one hand and learning how to eat on a moving ship with the other. Somebody and it was not me who usually had something smart to say, said, “Seconds already?” Everybody at the table just cracked up.
And so it went. The first couple of days at sea were interesting as Army land lubbers sailing for the first time were getting acclimated to our vessel and duties. The sailors who were assigned to the ship were not very amused at our jokes, and some act as though we were from a foreign army. We just chalked it up to stupid sailors with water on the brain.
The first stop on our voyage was a one day layover in Honolulu. I looked forward to seeing Hawaii but was one of the unfortunate ones who had duty while we were in port. We left the next morning. Those who were able to go were only given a few hours leave and had an early curfew in order to be on board for our departure. I would get to see Honolulu on my trip back from Korea but that’s another story.
The days grew longer during the voyage. We made the best of it. I found other soldiers that played bid whist. We had some hellavu games. One thing I learned in my young Army career is that any game or any type of competition is very competitive. And, as I had in all my life, I made sure other people knew I was good at almost every game I played.
Sometimes I would stare at the water or at the horizon from the side or the bow of the ship and think to myself, “That sure is a lot of water out there.” I prefer the land, and could never have joined the Navy.
During the nighttime while lying in my bunk, my mind would forever drift back to how I came to be on this ship heading to a strange foreign land. I’d heard of the Korean War. I was familiar with Japan, at least via books, magazines, and old soldiers talking about their escapades, so I felt somewhat prepared.
However once again, I lay back and thought of reasons for my enlistment. The urgency of staying out of juvenile detention was only one of those. No, I had another big reason.
* * * * *
…..Her name was Joyce Siefert. She lived in Milwaukee on Sixteenth and North Avenue. It was an area where I was hanging out for a few years of my teenage years. My girl Joyce and I had broken up. She had been my second real love, at least that’s what I thought, and I intended to put some distance between her and my heartache. What better place to do it than in the United States Army. I came from a family with modest means and I saw this as a way to be on my own, travel, get paid for it, and get the hell away from Joyce.
Besides, her father being a racist and forbidding her, a white gal, to associate with black people, let alone go steady with one. Joyce had another problem. She was a young 16 years old, who was experimenting with one of my running buddies’ older brother. For now, we will call him JT. He must have been in his early thirties. The day I caught them in a loving embrace and slobbing (as we use to call a deep tongue kiss) on each other was too much for me. A few days earlier, Joyce and I were crying because we had to break up now that her father had caught on to her. At least that’s what she told me.
We all used to hang out in the bedroom JT shared with my running buddy, Reid. Now, here she is with JT, slobbing on the bed with his hand halfway up her skirt, legs open, and she was no doubt feeling it. I was crazy about that girl. I was also deeply hurt and confused. She just kind of looked at me after I walked into the room. She then excused herself and left running out of the apartment crying.
Later on JT, who I liked and respected for being honest, told me that he had been fighting her off for some time. She told him about our break-up. One thing led to another and there you have it. He continued by saying, that frankly, I was better off without her because she was not serious about me, or him, or anybody else. I took him at his word and vowed to move on. I remember walking the three miles back to my house, crying, sobbing, and in the end being pissed off at myself for being so gullible.
Again, the major issue that stood out in that relationship was the fact her father didn’t like black people. Ironically, they lived in a predominately black neighborhood. It was well mixed but still predominately black.
For a couple of weeks after that night, I had not seen any of the old gang. . My intention was to see them the day after I passed the test and was sworn in. A three o’clock date at the Sheraton Hotel the next morning stopped those plans. My father made sure I stayed home until he dropped me off at the hotel that morning.
* * * * *
Damn! I thought as my reverie was interrupted. There go those flashing lights and the non-com screaming, “Get the hell out of that sack.” It’s another day of sea duty or watching the sea gulls follow us as we sped toward Tokyo. It got so bad and boring that the only way one knew it was daylight was to go on deck. And believe me; I stayed up there as much as possible because those cramped quarters were giving me claustrophobia. If I wasn’t pulling duty, I was playing rise-and-fly bid whist. Sometimes, I would catch a nap on deck and think about the first time I arrived at Fort Carson, Colorado.
* * * * *
…..When I joined the Army as a teenager in November of 1961, I left my friends and running buddies behind. They thought I was crazy. “Man! You’re giving up your freedom to do what you want, when, and where you want to do it.” “Plus, suppose there is a war,” they asked. “You might get killed, is that what you want?” At some time or another, those valid points had crossed my mind. I dismissed them without dwelling on it. The good outweighed the bad. “Man! You are in the prime of your life. Are you crazy or something?” Finally, they realized that I was serious and wished me well. They also told me not to expect too many letters from them because they would be busy taking care of the girls in Milwaukee. Oh yeah! They also told me to let them know when I got back to town on furlough or something. “Yeah, Blood, we’ll hang out and catch you up on the latest happenings since you been gone. Otherwise, we’ll check you later. Gotta run.” Hey! They were still my friends. But for now, I’d left them behind.
After going through a two-day indoctrination process after arriving at Fort Carson, we were asked to line up outside in specific areas directed by the non-com calling out your names. “Hampton, Codis; Area B over there,” he yelled. I didn’t have anything but a small bag; we were instructed not to bring anything but toiletry items, as Uncle Sam would supply everything else. The field was packed with Army buses waiting to take the new recruits to their assigned company.
I got on the bus for what turned out to be a very short ride to the company’s location on Post. As each bus pulled up to the parade field all you could hear was screaming. “Get the hell off of that bus, ‘Cruit. Move it, move it, and move it! Hell, you run like a girl. Don’t worry, we will fix that.”
Our bus pulled up alongside of this razor thin Staff Sergeant wearing a pile cap with the front resting on his nose. His sunglasses could not hide the frown or look of disgust on his face at the recruits he saw getting off the buses. “All right people, off the goddamn bus. Now! Move your asses’ right now…on the double, double-time…march!”
As I moved toward the front of the bus I could see this sergeant was impeccably dressed in Army khakis, with a crease in pants that looked like they would stand up on their own if he took them off. He wore a parker shell with bars and other Army insignias that I would become familiar with at a later date. After everybody got out and lined up as instructed, our new platoon sergeant introduced himself.
“At ease! For you that don’t know… and I would assume that would be all of you… that means relax but stay in formation. My name is Staff Sergeant Wilson. For the next eight weeks, I am your momma, daddy, pastor, sister, brother, and any other goddam thing you need. Your ass belongs to Uncle Sam now, and since I’m in charge here, you’re mine.”
“We are going to tell you when, how, and with what to think. We will tell you when to eat, when to work, when to rest--and don’t count on much of that, when to talk, when to run, when to walk, and when to smoke if you got ‘em.” Somebody in line must have reached for their cigarettes, because he quickly shouted; “Not now, dummy. I will tell you when.”
“I am here to tell you that I don’t give a shit if you belong to the American Legion, YMCA, PTA, AA, or any number of organizations. I don’t care if you are the son of a congressman or your mother is married to the President of the United Sates. You could have been a member of the Vice Lords, Black Disciples, Aces, Klu Klux Klan, NAACP, or any affiliation you once had or a member of your family still has.”
“Remember this and we will get along fine. Your ass is now mine and I will do with it as I fucking please. If you don’t remember anything else, remember that, any questions?”
There was a long, and I do mean long, silence as people tried to take in what they just heard. As for me, I started wondering what the hell had I got myself into. I heard somebody giggle, and Sergeant Wilson heard him too. He stepped to the dude’s face and yelled so that everybody could hear him. “Son, I haven’t smiled since, Hell, I don’t know when was the last time I smiled because ain’t nothing funny about this man’s Army. As a matter of fact, the last time I smiled, my mother slapped the shit out of me because she thought I was laughing at her. Now, you weren’t laughing at me were you, ‘Cruit?” “No, Sir.” “What did you say?” “No, Sir, Sir!” “I can’t hear you. What did you say, Worm? Do you find anything about me funny?” “No, no Sir!” The recruit’s voice trembled. “You goddamn skippy, and remember that too,” replied the Sergeant.
He continued, “All right, I am going to say this once and only once. All you teenage delinquents bring all your weapons, that includes guns, knives, razors, box cutters, pellet guns, and any other item that would be considered a weapon, and pile it on this table up here. Uncle Sam will supply you with all the weaponry you will need. Once you have placed it on the table, fall back in line.” Believe it or not, the table ended up to have a pretty good collection of knives, shanks, and other assorted small cutting items. I don’t remember seeing a gun. I must admit I had to turn in my razor that I kept in the crown of my hat. Hey, you never know. You know what I mean? I was a black man traveling. You never know.
Afterwards we were sent to our barracks. The next few weeks taught me how out of shape I really was.
There are all kind of opinions about young men and women being in service. However, there are a couple of commonalties that are realized by 99.9 percent of those who have served. First of those commonalities is that most young men will grow up in a hurry. Those that don’t will have serious problems.
You have seen the movies and television shows about the nasty and mean drill sergeant. Well, my basic training platoon sergeant was all that and more. I thought I was a tough guy when I enlisted. Hell, I came from the streets of Milwaukee, etc., etc. You know the story. Well, the sergeant didn’t care where any of the members of my platoon came from. He knew where we were now and he made sure we got the message during the next eight weeks. Within that type of environment, you learn, and - this is by the Army’s design - to depend on your weapon and your fellow platoon members. And you better be there for them as well.
That is when you realize that your friends do not have to come from the same neighborhood, town, city, or state. They don’t have to be the same color or have the same beliefs or even belong to the same religious group to which you belong. They all, including the drill sergeant, have one thing in common. They belong to the same platoon, the same company, the same division, and the same branch of service that you belong to, and that alone makes you and them friends and comrades. Why? Because it is made crystal clear that if you land on a beach, hill, or swamp in a foreign land fighting an enemy, the only friends you have at that time are your weapon and your platoon members. And if you want to stay alive, you better embrace and take care of your weapon and friends for they will take care of you. Get the picture?
So, as you might have imagined, I made some very good friends while in basic training. I will not go into a list, but some of my special buddies I think about all the time. There were some very good times, scary times, and most of all, a lot of male bonding going on during my Army days. I have a lifetime of memories from that experience.
After weeks at Fort Carson, I graduated from basic training. I can truthfully say that I, along with the Army’s rigorous demands, almost killed myself. But the 112 pound, 5’2” youngster left Fort Carson as a soldier. Thanks to the men and women who trained us to be just that. I was sent home to Milwaukee on a 14-day leave and directed for reassignment to Fort Ord, California, for my Advanced Infantry Training (AIT).
* * * * *
Next Stop Tokyo
Meanwhile, the ship sailed on. The days became longer and the nights shorter. About three days out of Tokyo, the majority of soldiers were getting restless. Hell, you can only play so many card games, or amuse yourself in other ways before you begin to be stir-crazy.
With so many guys on the ship, you didn’t pull too much duty because they spread it around among the hundreds. That meant we had a lot of spare time on our hands in which to amuse ourselves. We spent a lot of that time talking to those soldiers who had already served in Korea or other overseas duties. The consensus was that it was easier than serving in the States in that the rules were much more relaxed. However, we were reminded that it was not too long ago South Korea and the United States were at war with North Korea, and when “in country” you better mind your P’s and Q’s.
To hear them tell stories of firefights during the war and about losing fellow soldiers and friends in those scrimmages was frightening to some, including me. They reminded us that just because the war was officially over… the war was not really over to many Koreans.
The message was always the same from each story teller. Remember your training. Don’t trust anyone, male or female, in the villages. Keep your hands on your valuables. They have people over there that will steal the gold teeth out of your mouth while you are eating and you won’t feel a thing. Keep in mind they live off of GI’s “in country”. It’s all they have, because most are dirt poor people are used to living off the land. And for God’s sake wear a rubber when screwing those girls over there. You want to make sure you carry back to the States all the body parts that arrived in Korea with you.
It became a ritual that when I lay down to sleep at night I would reflect on where I had been the last few months and where I would be the next 13 months.
…..This particular night, I thought about my family and, in particular, my father. Boy, that man wanted me to succeed at something. He always told me that he worked so his family would have a better life than he. I used to watch the trucks driving through the alleys of the city with a couple of men walking behind them. The garbage men, who were different from the trash men, would pick up the full cans and toss the ingredients into a big hopper on the back of the truck. They would bang on the side of the truck and the driver would move up to the next house and row of garbage cans.
My dad was a trash man for the city of Milwaukee. They would haul away items like small appliances, cans, bottles, and things that were not considered garbage. He worked on the East Side of Milwaukee where the people of another color than us had wealth. And as such, they would throw away clothing, toys missing a wheel or something, a perfectly good electric can opener.
When I was a young boy age nine through twelve years old, I would look forward to items my father would bring home that he would give me. A lot of the items he would fix, and they would become useful items in our household. In fact, my stepmother, who I loved every bit and sometimes more than my real mother, would go through items that Dad would bring home, helping him sort them.
You have to picture that Dad was a proud but poor black man. He, and his first wife, my birth mother packed up their meager belongings, including me, and left Banks, Arkansas, headed for Milwaukee two weeks after I was born in August of 1944. We all moved in with my uncle until they got their own place to live. Dad left at a time when the white man was lynching Negroes for any reason they wanted. But Dad always wanted something more for his family. Later on, after he and my mother got a divorce I lived with him and his new wife, Rosalie, and her daughter, Johnnie Mae.
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