The day I volunteered for overseas duty, I was scowling and out of sorts. I was angry at the U.S. Air Force because the promotion to Airman Second Class (corporal) I felt I had earned went to a guy from Indiana who typed papers in the Orderly Room at the 764th AC&W Squadron in St. Albans, Vermont.
He was a nice guy - I believe his name was Finch —who shot an expert game of pool when, at night after chow, pool and ping pong took over our lives in what was known as the Day Room. In one corner, near the door, a blackjack game run by an Airman First Class (buck sergeant), an Air Policeman named Barrett or Merritt or Garrett, one of those.
The game was never completely idle, though the number of players waxed and waned. Barrett was a banker, too, in the most elementary sense. If you went broke, he would accommodate you with a loan - he inevitably had money to spare - at a high rate of interest, payable on payday.
The Day Room was a recreation hall for all of us who lived in five big two-story barracks, across a narrow road. The whole squadron, except for the married guys, bunked in these barracks, two to a room; very comfortable, with tile floors and nice, modern showers.
My best pal, Hoey, from Worcester, Mass., tried to convince me not to volunteer, but I was hot under the collar that day and determined to seek a transfer. I got it, of course, in a week or 10 days. I had cooled off by then, and when it came through I hastened to the Orderly Room, wanting to cancel the orders because I had, the night before, sitting in a borrowed car by the shores of Lake Champlain, asked Ethel Riley to marry me.
The United States military does not work that way, the First Sergeant explained. Ya don’t just cancel orders because you’ve discovered you’re in love, see.
“So forget that,’’ he went on now, speaking in fatherly tones. “The fighting is over in Korea, so go over there for a year, and if you then want to hitch up in double harness when you come home (he was from Texas, cow country) well, son, do so and good luck to you.’’
So I went west to California after much difficult goodbye-ing and a few splashing tears and promises that we’d both be true, at the train station.
The USS General Collins was a troop ship carrying many hundreds of airmen and a couple hundred ground-pounders. Said to be on its final voyage before being decommissioned, the Collins made its way to Yokohama Bay in 11 tortuous days; and then sat at anchor for three more days.
Disembarking at last, a long train took us on a long ride, to an airport, where we disembarked again and hung around waiting for a U.S. Air Force cargo plane to deliver us to Seoul. When it did, we sat in uncomfortable bucket seats.
This was the start of a tough year, but a good one, because my bride to be and I wrote each other every day. For the first three weeks or more, unbeknownst to me, Ethel did not receive my letters because letters mailed to the United States required no postage. But my letters were sent to Canada, where Ethel resided. That meant they required postage stamps.
Oh well, no harm done. She was true blue; I made up for my mistake. We wrote each other every single day. And when my Korean hitch was over, I came home, we married, and the world was smiling on us again. And ever since, I guess, though she is now in heaven.
Lord, is it possible over 65 years have passed since then? Nah, can’t be.