Voices from the Korean War - Douglas Rice [179]
I departed Korea in April of 1953. However, I served in the Navy for another twenty years, retiring in 1971 as a Chief Petty Officer. During my tenure I served aboard the Lexington, Oriskany, Geiger, and Barry.
~~Sixty-Six~~
Robert Bickmeyer
Signal Company
7th Infantry Division
U.S. Army
As the 7th Infantry Division was making the Inchon Landing on September 15, 1950, I was employed at General Motors—waiting to be drafted. When confronted with something distasteful I tend to deal with it quickly, so I can put it behind me. For example, when eating dinner I eat my vegetables first, and then I enjoy the meat and potatoes. So, I called the local draft board and volunteered to be drafted. They advised me they could not call me until my number came up, which it did in February of 1951.
I soon boarded a train loaded with draftees, and some enlistees, headed to Fort Jackson, South Carolina. The 31st Infantry Division, known as the “Dixie Division,” was a National Guard unit from Mississippi and Alabama that had just been activated. It was being reinforced with recruits from New York, Oklahoma, Texas, and elsewhere.
I was assigned to M Company, which was a heavy weapons company that consisted of three platoons—machine gun, mortar, and 75mm recoilless rifle. We were given our choice of platoons, so I chose the machine gun. I could see myself mowing down North Korean and Chinese “commies” as they attacked in waves. I was young, but not bright.
During the first roll call of our platoon, when our last names were called out, one recruit named “Dallas” responded with a loud “Yo.” The platoon sergeant asked him if he had any relatives in Texas.
Dallas replied, “Maybe. We’re like horse shit; we’re all over the place.”
The serious sergeant, who was a veteran of the Second World War, laughed along with the rest of the platoon. Needless to say, Dallas wasn’t his real name; I changed it for obvious reasons.
The platoon was made up of four squads, with twelve men per squad. Our home was a square tent, and our street was lined with twelve tents. There was a guy—Geno—in our squad who played a harmonica. After a long day of training, we were soothed by Geno and his harmonica as we laid on our bunks at night. His favorite song was “Harbor Lights.”
During training, Dallas, who had become a close buddy, decided he was going to finagle his way into a medical discharge. He was a physical specimen that everyone admired; he was very health conscious and an avid weight lifter. Being an excellent soldier and welled like, he complained about the Army more than anyone. We were on night maneuvers and had bedded down for the night on some pine needles, when he whispered, “This is it Bob. I’m gonna go bananas. The CO is here, the platoon leader, and our sergeant.” Suddenly, he jumped to his feet and let out a blood-curdling scream of agony, mingled with cries of a severe headache. They loaded him into a jeep and took him to the medics.
I easily slept through the night having marched along dirt roads all day. The next morning Dallas returned to our squad explaining, “They insisted my headache was nothing serious. It was caused by inhaling dust all day long during our forced march.”
We ended our basic training with a few weeks of maneuvers at Fort Bragg, where we spent each week in a pretend war against “aggressors” who were seasoned GI’s trained to be the enemy. During our last week, Dallas, “Frankie,” and I were assigned a machine gun. We were instructed to dig a U-shaped trench, placing our gun inside the U at shoulder height. This allowed us to fire