A Refrigerator Becomes a Urinal
Uijonbu, Korea July 1952
Sgt. Jeffries gathered the platoon around him to announce that we were going to the rear for rest, replacements, and training. As a treat George Whitefeather invited the boys to see his bent sapling before he dismantled it.
“Go near his bunker and you might not return,” I advised Charley.
“What’s that crazy Indian up to?”
“Don’t go near that tree. There’s a crateful of grenades with loosely bent pins dangling from its branches. He claims that the next time the Chinese attack, he will cut the rope projecting the sapling forward, and hurling the grenades at them.”
“What? I have to see it. I don’t believe it. He ought to be shipped back to the reservation.”
As Mr. Tolerance delivered his remark, a Jeep arrived with an infrequent trailer of hot food. Since we didn’t have the pall of patrols, raids and incoming hanging over us, three thin plastic slices of ham became a savory entrée.
In the evening, there was a somber exchange of positions with the men of the 45th Regimental Combat Team.
Like gymnasts, we climbed into waiting 2 1/2 ton trucks. Our silly chatter was in sharp contrast to the gloomy silence when we passed our replacements.
The drivers moved easily with the light provided by the slit-masked headlights and full moon.
The trucks came to a halt in a barren field. We hopped out, unrolled our sleeping bags, zipped up, and mummified ourselves. The stars shone brightly, twinkling as if to share our moment of joy, knowing that the enemy was ten miles to the north.
In the morning, the smells and sounds of the cooks preparing breakfast had us running to a water hose to fill our helmets for a “whore’s bath”.
Mess Sgt. Goff tried to add to our celebration by cooking stacks of pancakes.
They were dropped onto my metal tray, and then doused with syrup. I dipped my canteen cup into a large pot of coffee and joined Andy Concha for the feast.
“Reilly,’” said Andy. “Goff probably melted a Jeep tire to make these pancakes.”
“He should have melted the recipe,” I replied.
Upon leaving for the garbage drums to deposit my half-eaten pancakes, a hilarious comedy unfolded that could only occur the military.
Sgt. Flaherty dropped a pancake at Sgt. Goff’s feet. He placed his boot over it, removed his bayonet and proceeded to cut the pancake around the sole of his boot.
“Were off the line Goff. It’s time to resole our boots.”
Andy and I laughed hard and loud. Sgt. Goff glared at us in silence.
After breakfast, our platoon lined up on the company street. Details came rattling from Sgt. Jeffries. Most of the men were assigned to setting up squad tents.
When the rest of the platoon left for their assignments, Sgt. Jeffries told Andy and me that Sgt. Goff wanted to see us. What did he have in mind? Why us?
“Go to quartermaster and get two shovels,” said Goff. “I need a four by four pit dug at the end of the company street. It’s going to be my refrigerator until we return to the line.”
I could see Sgt. Flaherty’s “pancake sole” glaring at us from Goff’s eyes. OK. It was payback time for laughing at his pancakes.
The sun joined us in gouging out a rectangle in the dry soil. Out T-shirts were soaked and salted by the time we were finished. When the last shovel of dirt was scooped, we reported to Sgt, Goff. He smiled. He decided there was no need for a refrigerator.
“Now, go fill the hole from the nearby pile of gravel.”
We partially filled the hole with gravel; then we stuck into the gravel, a 155mm shell casing open at both ends. We added more gravel. Now Company L had a urinal at the end of its street.
From Cold Ground’s Been My Bed: A Korean War Memoir by Daniel Wolfe