Chapter 1
North Korea
With a stop in Hawaii to refuel, the flight lasted almost 18 hours. Storms over the Pacific made it unusually turbulent, and the only noise louder than the drone of the engines was the sound of men retching into their barf bags. Finally, they landed, and the pilot taxied toward a dingy terminal. “Where the hell are we?” one of the men asked as he exited the troop carrier.
“Pyongyang, not that I know where that is,” the guy next to him grumbled.
“It’s so cold, brown, and gloomy, we could be on the moon for all I know,” another one said.
Actually, they were in North Korea to replace troops who had been wounded in a skirmish when the first cavalry moved north. The brass called it a “police action” as if it wouldn’t hurt quite as much when they got their brains blown out.
The men were directed to a Quonset hut where they waited to be briefed. Everyone stood when Lieutenant Carlson entered the room. “At ease,” he said. “Light ‘em up and listen.”
Carlson was “colorful,” to say the least. A big man, about twenty pounds past stocky, his stomach lopped over his belt. With a red buzz cut, scraggly mustache, and a florid complexion, his presence commanded attention. His speech, somewhere between a roar and a bellow, was peppered with profanities.
“We are facing a situation of good versus goddamn evil,” he began. “The commies are godless pricks who aim to take over the world. General MacArthur’s plan is to chase the little bastards back north, and that’s why you’re all here in their fucking capital. Our job is to break the North Koreans’ will to fight and help unify the country so the people can enjoy a Christian democracy. We figure their chicken shit troops will hightail it out of here when we push their sorry asses further north. Count on it. They’re gonna abandon their posts, and bingo, this whole goddamn war will be over.”
The next afternoon, the replacements were divided into groups of twenty and loaded onto armored vehicles before moving out on a rutted and rocky road toward the front. One of the drivers dropped a lit cigarette on his lap, and, while engaged in a frantic search, he lost control of his truck. It careened over an embankment, plunged about 30 feet, and overturned. Miraculously, no one was killed.
Five men suffered a variety of minor injuries but were well enough to press on. Judging from the grotesque appearance of his lower leg, one man had a broken ankle. A second was bleeding from the side of his face and couldn’t see because of gravel and other foreign material in his eyes. Without a shot being fired, these two guys were the first casualties in the unit. For their wounds, they would get free medical care and a ride home.
Carlson ordered them back to base, and less than 24 hours after they had arrived, both were aboard an airlift to Japan and medical treatment. It happened almost as rapidly as a round trip to Grandmother’s house for Thanksgiving dinner.
The two spoke some on the way to Tokyo, but they lost contact soon after arriving at the hospital. The medical care was good enough. Each was seen in a timely manner, but the eye needed additional treatment from a specialist in San Francisco, and the ankle needed more surgery in Hawaii.
Both men recovered without complications. They didn’t meet again until they ran into each other while applying for admission to a college back in Chicago. The government would be paying for their education, so why not?
At school, they recognized each other immediately. One of them, Jonathan Karlin, was from a suburb north of Chicago. He had the option of working for his father in the family’s metal design business but chose to give college a try, thinking that it might motivate him to strike out in a different direction. The other, Jackson Dunn Jr., grew up in a suburb south of Chicago where his father was a foreman at a steel mill. Like Jonathan, Jackson looked to higher education as a way to find a career that would be different from his father’s. “I might be interested in something less run of the mill,” he joked.
Prior to his brief sojourn to Korea, Jackson had some success in the boxing ring and went on to fight, for very little monetary reward, in a few minor professional matches. The army probably saved him from getting hit in the head too many times, but still, he liked to box. He had enjoyed the opportunity to serve his country as well, albeit briefly, and although his injury caused him to limp, he was clear of mind and ready to move on with his life.
Jonathan was a different sort. Studious enough and bright, high school wasn’t much of a challenge, and he did very well. Contrary to most of his high school buddies who were intent on avoiding the draft, he signed up despite the fact that his father might have pulled some strings to keep him out. He had seen almost no action; nonetheless, he recognized that the service wasn’t for him. It was too regimented and rigid, especially the requirement that orders from above had to be followed without debate, and afternoon naps were out of the question.
The injury to his eye came at exactly the right time. It was major enough to get him home with an honorable discharge before he was injured more seriously or got court-martialed for going AWOL.
Chapter 2
Recovery and the Future
Reacquainted at college, the men often had lunch together. Except for being in the same unit in the service and spending some time in a military hospital in Japan, they had little in common. They did share growing up near Chicago, but their childhood homes were in areas that were very different, both economically and culturally.
Each was grateful for the fortunate series of events that brought them together. They were glad to be home without having to worry about crawling through some desolate battlefield in an alien place. “Cigarettes do save lives,” Jonathan said, “especially when they’re in the hands of clumsy truck drivers.”
Neither had a specific plan for the future other than taking full advantage of the GI Bill. They envisioned completing their degrees and presenting their credentials to prospective employers who would be happy to hire them, dedicated and well-educated as they were. Despite his optimism over future prospects, Jonathan knew there was always the fall back option of joining his father’s business.
Jackson, too, kept his options open. If college didn’t lead to a good career, he could always work with his dad in the mills, a guaranteed job with excellent pay and benefits. Certainly, he would earn enough to court Mary Collins, a fine Irish lass and his high school sweetheart. He might even ask her to marry him.
What began as casual conversations over burgers and coffee solidified into a real friendship.They took math and science together and struggled through. Both enjoyed english literature and composition, but their favorites were courses in historical non-fiction, including foreign wars such as the one they had recently left. While many of their discussions were about philosophy or history, on occasion they talked about less profound topics like the Chicago Cubs and Bears.
Each lived at home with their parents—Jackson in a blue collar neighborhood and Jonathan in a more affluent area. They met up frequently and double dated when they could. Jackson saw Mary exclusively, but Jonathan usually brought his “Girl of the Week.”
“You know, your dates would make excellent magicians,” Jackson said.
“Why’s that?” Jonathan asked.
“Well, they have this incredible ability to make themselves disappear right after they arrive.”
Jonathan’s attitude toward these women was typically one of casual indifference until he met Dori. Call it love at first sight or whatever, she truly knocked him over.
After two years at college, both men married just a couple of months apart, and each served as the other’s best man. Jackson and Mary got married at St. Augustine’s, an elegant, old church on the southeast side. The ceremony was followed by a lavish reception and dinner with about 300 friends and relatives, many of whom could trace their ancestry to the Emerald Isle, in attendance. The party continued until just short of three in the morning, and more than a few seasoned old Irishmen, still whooping and wailing at the end of the festivities, looked as if they were just getting warmed up.
Jonathan