Benny Hoover Korea
Uijonbu, Korea July 1952
An awning of blond, edging towards white-wavy hair shaded his pink complexion. From a distance the complexion appeared to be porcelain-pink, but upon approaching, one could see that the pink was composed of arteriole rivulets and their branching tributaries. His fatigue shirt billowed over his pants leaving a mistaken impression that he had a paunch. If there were a casting call for a wizened combat infantry veteran who disregarded his own safety in order to protect his men, Sgt. Hoover’s heroics defined him.
When Company L was finally sent into reserve, we familiarized ourselves with the men we hardly knew on line, but were at our side on raids and patrols.
Sgt. Hoover was a very private person, but when he spoke, gales 0f laughter swirled around him. Although we had been on numerous patrols and raids, hardly a word passed between us.
During the placid nights in reserve, we didn’t listen for intrusive sounds. There were no artillery shells hissing above us, or incoming mortar shells. No crackling of rifle bursts, buzzes from burp guns, no bells, no drumbeats from huge empty cans. Food was the usual army mess, but it was hot.
In the luxury of our squad tent, Benny Hoover’s cot was within talking distance from mine.
“Hi, I’m Dan Wolfe. Charley calls me Reilly. I guess you didn’t see too much of me on the frontline.”
“Yeah, I saw your ass around.”
Not too friendly I concluded, but I continued.
“Whenever I see you, Jungles from the third platoon is attached to you like a barnacle.”
“That Jungles, I can’t get rid of that snuggle-toothed scalawag. I tried everything, even the insecticide we were issued last week.”
“He told me that you were the funniest guy he ever met.”
“Did you ever hear him laugh? God damn it every time he laughs he puckers my asshole. How do we ship that bucket of lard back to Wisconsin?”
“Where are you from Hoover?” I just couldn’t call him Benny. The name Benny didn’t suit a hardened and chiseled combat infantryman.
“Hinton – Hinton, West Virginia. Did you ever hear of it?”
“No.”
“I didn’t expect you did. It’s so small that a bale of hay is our train station. When a passenger wants to get off, the train slows down, the passenger squats and the conductor kicks him in the butt. He lands on the bale of hay, and then the train speeds on.”
Sundays after lunch, Organized Athletics was on our schedule. In a cloud of dust, during a softball game, a Jeep commandeered by an officer pulled up near home plate. Sitting alongside of him was the raggedy likeness of Benny Hoover. His nose, lips, forehead and cheeks were smeared with lipstick. His pale hair pointed to every graduation on a compass. His fatigue shirt and pants appeared and smelled as if he had just crawled through an active rice paddy.
“Hoover, what happened?” asked a stunned Sgt. Staszewski.
“First of all, he was out of uniform,” interrupted the officer.
Hoover, soused by alcohol interrupted “Sorry sir, I forgot to starch and iron my corduroy spats.”
“You’ll pay for this. Where’s your commanding officer?”
“In the first tent at the end of that path,” replied Staszewski.
Lt. Sidney knew the value of Hoover to our company. A Jeep brought him to a shower point where he, shaved, soaped, rinsed, and was given a clean uniform.
After three weeks, Company L was sent back to the MLR (Main Line of Resistance). We returned to the Chorwon Valley, but our new commander, Lt. Sidney was far more aggressive than “Capt. Command Post Smith” who never left his bunker, ergo, “Command Post.”
Hill 117 (No Name Hill) was Company L’s target on the night of August 8, 1952. As we made or way over the north cliff overlooking the Imjin River, our company was ambushed before we reached 117. We received numerous casualties.
Low on ammo and grenades, Lt. Sidney gave the order to withdraw. Poodles, from the third platoon ran past me carrying three rifles. He yelled,
“Sgt. Massengale’s been hit! Sgt. Massengale’s been hit! He’s over there!”
“Drop those rifles and help me get him.”
He ran off yelling, Supply Economy! I crept about ten yards to retrieve my sergeant. Massengale’s collar was in my hand. I crawled with him to Lt. Sidney who was standing with Benny Hoover at the edge of the 60′ cliff overlooking the river.
To avoid another ambush, Lt. Sidney directed our men to scale down the 80′ cliff and wade back to our position on the MLR. I began to descend. To prevent me from skidding downward, I grabbed every bush I passed.
Was Massengale dead? I stopped and pinched his cheek. It was like pinching a canteen cover – no reponse.
Hoover was about fifteen feet below me. When we approached the river, a Chinese soldier, in the river tried to ambush us. Benny emptied his M1 magazine. The soldier floated by and down the river. Without a word, Hoover nodded towards downstream. From overhead a shower of burp gun bullets splattered the Imjin. We returned safely. I passed Sgt. Massengale on to the Graves Registration team.
The last time I saw Benny Hoover was in Japan. Our camp was playing Camp Drake. I was the right-fielder for our camp’s baseball team. As I entered the batter’s circle I heard a shout from the stands,
“Wolfe!, Reilly”
Benny Hoover approached me. I opened my arms to embrace him. He never would put up with that. We shook hands. This brief encounter caused my coach to dismiss me from the team because he claimed, I had “rabbit ears” that is, I didn’t concentrate on the game but listened to the fans in the stands.
Forty-five years later, Company L had its first reunion at Ft. Stewart, GA. Where friends come together, to reminisce Benny, as expected, was AWOL.
For the complete story and others, read Cold Ground’s Been My Bed: A Korean War Memoir by Daniel Wolfe.
danielwolfebooks@aol.com