A Seabee's Story

Early in January of 1951 I was called to the office of Rod Dorman, BBD&O’s personnel manager and a real big shot. He was the firm’s funeral director as well as casting agent for the many exciting and wonderful jobs at the agency.

This time it was my funeral. Dorman started by telling me that I had made a great impression at the agency and he believed I had a future in advertising. But then he delivered the bad news. As I was one of the next in line for promotion, he thought it fair to inform me that I would remain permanently assigned to the mail room. I was draft bait, he said and with the Korean War raging, the agency could not promote me and begin training me for a responsible job, for in the near future I would be wearing a uniform and in the employ of Uncle Sam.

Very disappointed, I asked the manager for advice. He suggested I consider enlisting in lieu of waiting to be drafted. That way, he said, I’d get my service over with and get back to the agency and my career as soon as possible. I’m not sure he ever considered the possibility that I would not be returning at all, as would be the fate of thousands of youngsters my age. But in any case, his advice did make sense to me and I gave it serious thought.

That night I told my sad tale to Warren Essner, my best buddy, and he affirmed that at the Ted Bates agency where he worked, they were advising their young employees to enlist too. So we lured our pal Whitey Janes into a pact and the three of us agreed to join the service the following morning. I opted to join The Marines and tried to convince my two buddies. But wiser than I, they were of the opinion that we would all be dead in months if we became Jarheads. The Navy was the place for us, they argued, and as we were anxious to serve together, I agreed that the Navy would be the lucky branch that got three Longhorns at one crack.

Telling mom and dad they were about to be parents of still another son in the service (Buddy was already in The Marines, preparing for assignment to Korea) wasn’t easy. Having turned 17 only a few months before, I was not used to presenting my parents with decisions I had already made. But, like Warren and Whitey were doing that same evening, I gathered up whatever resolve I could muster and told the folks I was enlisting the following morning.

My mother to dissuade me. She pleaded all the mother pleas: I was too young, it would be dangerous, my brother was already in the service and one son was enough for our family, they needed me at home, etc.. But I remained firm and finally my dad lost it. "All right, damn it," he yelled, "I’ll sign you in and you can go ahead and get yourself killed if that’s what you want to do." But I could see that he was visibly shaken. I also had watched dad during World War II, try to excuse his civilian status on a number of occasions. He was one of those caught in the middle during the war. He was 36 years old when the war began and with two kids, was just over the age acceptable for the draft. But he wanted to be in the action, I remember, and was embarrassed as were so many men of this age, to be at home making good money during the fighting, when so many of his friends and his older brother Arthur were serving their country.

So it was decided. The next morning, as we had planned, Warren, Whitey and I left our apartments with thermoses filled with hot coffee and sandwiches, took the subway downtown to the recruiting station and got on the longest line I had ever seen.

It was January 12, 1951, a cold winter day in New York city, when standing outside most of the night was something we would not have done for almost any other reason. But we were there not only because our beginning careers in advertising were put on hold. The Korean conflict was raging. Kids from our neighborhood and youngsters all over America were defending their country in a cold, difficult Southeast Asian combat area and casualties were reported daily in the newspapers we read faithfully. We were kids who were raised in a patriotic environment, only six years out of a major war that had claimed husbands and fathers and brothers and cousins from almost every family. Communism was the deadly enemy in our young lives, and we had no doubt that this war had to be won to keep America free. We knew that there was a better than average chance that we would wind up in combat, be wounded or even killed. But we were willing to go, even eager to get in the action. Not one kid in my neighborhood, as I remember, ever considered evading the draft or protesting the war. It was a just war, we were certain, and if it had to be fought, none of The Longhorns were about to see it fought by others and not by us. Adventure called to us too, no doubt about that. The lure of a uniform, the dream of returning home with a chest full of ribbons and perhaps a medal or two was thrilling to our young egos. So we joined the recruiting line eagerly and were willing to wait all night to enlist, if it were necessary.

There were probably a thousand young men queued up, waiting for their turn to be examined physically and processed for the Navy. Most of us had coffee and sandwiches and enough cigarettes to pass the night. I do not recall any six packs of beer but I’d be surprised if some of the kids did not do their share of drinking on line. Open container laws did not exist then, at least not in New York City and, in any event, it would have taken a tough-hearted cop to bother kids drinking on an enlistment line. Everyone in New York was caught up in a war spirit and looked proudly on young men who were volunteering to serve their country.

Finally the sun came up and with the dawn the line began to move. A couple of hours later we finally entered the building and wound up on another huge line that wound around inside corridors of the recruiting station. Finally a petty officer called everyone to silence and announced that no more men could be processed that day. We were bitterly disappointed. The petty officer gave us a ticket that would enable us to come back the following day and be admitted to the front of the line inside the building. But we would still have more hours to wait, for there had to be hundreds of others who were given the special admission passes.

""The hell with The Navy," I told Warren and Whitey, "let’s go upstairs and join The Marines!"

They agreed. We weren’t about to spend another night on line, so we walked away form the Navy and walked up and into the Marine Corps recruiting office.

What a difference! There were no lines, no young men save a handful being processed. A sergeant greeted us as if we were walking into a birthday party and took us straight to a recruiting officer. He walked us through some paper work, then told us we would be given the intelligence test, a physical, and be sworn in.

We looked at one another and knew we were thinking the same thoughts.

"We’d like to go outside for a smoke," Whitey told the officer. He gave his permission and we left quickly, electing to come back in the morning and wait to get into The Navy.

I think it was Whitey, always the leader, who said we were lucky to get out of there. We all had little doubt that the Marines would have rushed us through boot camp and straight to the front. And we knew we would have had an excellence chance of being dead and buried by Christmas. We were eager to go but we weren’t maniacs and we certainly wanted a chance to live through the service experience. None of us were crazy enough to want to become cannon fodder.

Little did I know then that I would wind up in Korea attached to The Marines anyway, or that I would soon be volunteering for exactly that duty.

In the morning we were back again and this time it wasn’t long before we were being processed. But the line outside the building had replenished itself with another thousand young volunteers who had probably decided to join up the night before.

Soon we were sitting for the intelligence test, which was a joke. Someone told us it was impossible to flunk. We had to answer correctly about 11 questions from a total of about 100, and one of them was remembering one’s own name. Yet an incredible thing occurred. Whitey flunked the test.

He was not a dull person, even though he did not finish high school, and he was mortified. We figured he had somehow gotten one line off in marking the answer sheet and therefore blew the entire test. But for Whitey, his Navy career ended before it began. He shook our hands, wished us luck and blew the joint. Later he would be drafted and manage to pass the test for The Army where he served for a couple of years, but now it was my buddy Warren and myself, and we continued with the processing.

I only recall two interesting events. One was that an officer called Warren and me to his desk and told us that we had scored higher on the test than about 98 percent of the kids who had taken it that day. "We’d like to send the two of you to officer candidate school," he told us. But we thought being an officer would be like being some kind of sissy, so we nixed the opportunity and told him we’d go for the regular boot camp. We may have been smart at test taking but we certainly weren’t very wise that day.

The other memorable situation was really funny. When we got to the head point of the line where doctors and corpsmen were measuring, taking blood samples and listening to heartbeats, I was dead ahead of Warren. A corpsman measured my chest normally and then told me to take a deep breath and hold it. My ribs jutted out like a skeleton with a flesh color paint job, and everyone on the line laughed. Obviously I was no Charles Atlas. I weighed 130 pounds. Warren had two pounds on me. He was just 18. I would not be eighteen until March 6. We were skinny as rails and looked about 15 years old. "Don’t ever do that again," Warren told me later. "You embarrassed the hell out of me!

The deed was done. We were sailors to be. Now we could go home and wait for the Navy to call with our marching orders. And the fun began. The neighborhood threw us a couple of parties and we were excited, proud and feeling like a couple of heroes. But four years lay ahead of us and some very sad days were coming as well as some interesting and valuable experiences.

The Navy

Warren was ordered to boot camp in a few weeks, ending our hope that we would serve together for our four year enlistment. The Navy waited until March 26th to send my orders. That way they got me for the full four years, for law required that anyone under 18 who enlisted, be mustered out before his or her 21stt birthday. In the Navy they called it a Kiddie Cruise. So Warren went off to boot camp at the Great Lakes Recruitment Center near Chicago. When it was my turn, I was ordered to the training center at Newport, Rhode Island. And Warren and I saw little of each other for the next four years.

Boot Camp was uneventful. I learned how to be a sailor, qualified as a Marksman on the rifle range, and otherwise got along fine. The Navy chow was a shock to a kid who formerly had lived on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and bread and mayonnaise, mixed in with mom’s home cooking. But I gained weight, added a little muscle and generally got along well. I had messed with the drums for years and had played in a little band in the neighborhood on occasions, so that eased me into the Recruit Center Band, where I had a damn good time.

After thirteen weeks of training, graduation day arrived. Like all the other new sailors, I was all spit and polish, marching in my graduation ceremonies, with proud parents, cousins, aunts and uncles watching proudly in the stands. It was June 25^th, 1951. And a beautiful young blonde named Nancy was there too. She was from my old neighborhood and we had fallen in love just before my enlistment. Life was wonderful and I had orders to Submarine School in New London, Connecticut. The marching and music finally ended. I got my handshake and saluted the officers. And my long awaited boot camp leave began. But what I didn’t know, as I walked so proudly to my family, was that their tears were not of joy, watching their Bobby graduate. They were all waiting, dreading, to tell me the news they had to tell, knowing that it would crush me as I had never been crushed before, and change my life forever.

Corporal Leo P. Markey, Jr.
Killed in action in Korea 14 June 1951

I walked out of that office a zombie. I was determined to keep control. I was a sailor now, not a kid. My family embraced me and everyone cried their eyes out. All I wanted to do was be alone. With Buddy. I wanted to tell him how much I loved him. And I wanted to have a little talk with God and ask him why he had taken my beloved Buddy away from me. And I wanted to get to Korea as soon as I possibly could and blow some Korean or Chinese communist bastard’s head off. That emotion kept me alive for the next four years and damn near got me killed.

We drove to my Aunt Betty’s summer home in nearby Westport Harbor, Massachusetts, only about an hour away. For the entire ride, Nancy held me in her lovely young arms and just loved me, as tears coursed down my face and my heart was torn in pieces time after time.

When we got to Aunt Betty’s, I excused myself, walked to the little wooden outhouse in the woods at the rear of the cottage, sat down on the wooden john seat and cried for a half hour. It was the one thing in life I was unable to accept, that my brother, so full of life, so competent, so tough and so capable of handling anything in life, had been blown to bits by a Chinese mortar, only five days after he hit the front lines in Korea. It was unbelievable, unacceptable, and I have great difficulty accepting the horror of it today, 48 years later, as I write this tale.

Memories poured over me, always returning to the last day I saw Buddy alive. He was leaving for California, there to be billeted on a troop ship that would take him and thousands of other young soldiers, sailors and marines, to battle in Korea.

I drove Buddy to the bus he had to catch in midtown Manhattan. We had a half-hour or so to kill and Buddy said, "Let’s get a beer."

We walked into one of the hundreds of bars of downtown Manhattan. There were a few drinkers keeping watch. Buddy and I made small talk with lumps in our throats. We talked about football, the guys on the block, mom and dad, our dog Rex... everything but what was on our minds. That we very likely would never see each other again on earth was there, as real as the beers in front of us, cold, glaring, chilling. But neither of us would bring it up. We simply sat there loving each other and praying to God that the horror of horrors would not happen, that Buddy would somehow make it through whatever he had to face in Korea, and come home a hero, medals on his chest, telling lots of war stories that would awe the guys and impress the girls.

He wore his dress blue Marine uniform and looked sharp. But New York ugliness, always waited to rear its head. Some big jerk made a remark about marines. I can’t remember what he said, but I recall Buddy’s reaction. Buddy got up from his bar stool, walked slowly over to the guy and said, "I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that. Did you say something about the Marine Corps?"

I walked slowly over to Buddy who was staring at the guy like you would a rat. His eyes were riveted on the man’s face and his hands, hanging easily at his sides, were, I knew from experience, about to flash into the jerk’s nose. I had no doubt that by the time the wise guy got half the next remark out of his mouth, Buddy would spread his nose over his face and the fight would be over. I was ready to back him up and take care of whichever of his friends wanted a piece of the action. But, as happened so many times before when Buddy stared someone down, the guy realized that this small marine looking into his face was about to clean his clock, so he took the smart way out.

"No, you got it wrong. I didn’t say anything about marines," the guy said, back pedaling like the coward he was.

Buddy and I finished our beers and left the joint. He gave me a hug, got on his bus and soon the Greyhound began pulling away. I couldn’t get rid of the feeling that I would never see him again. I drove Dad’s 1947 Pontiac convertible that Buddy loved so much, behind that bus most of the way out of town. I wanted to follow that damn bus forever!

I can still see in my mind Buddy, already striking up a conversation with a passenger, pointing to me out the bus rear window.

I knew what he was telling his fellow rider. "That’s my kid brother Bob. He’s probably going to follow this damn bus all the way to California." I wish I had.

Buddy only lived five days in Korea. It took his body six months to get home. The services didn’t break their necks returning dead servicemen in those days. I suppose the raging war had priority over bodies and all the planes and ships were used to ferry over supplies and troops and take the wounded back to stateside hospitals. Whatever the reasons, Buddy’s body came home six months later, at Christmas time in 1951. And we got to live the whole tragedy over again when he arrived at Connor’s Funeral Home on Broadway in our neighborhood.

It was a big deal. Buddy was the first in our neighborhood to be killed in action in Korea. Every church, temple, neighborhood club, sent representatives to the wake. The Knights of Columbus came and the American Legion, Jewish War Veterans, Veterans of Foreign Wars, you name it. If it respected the flag, its members came to the wake to honor Buddy, hundreds of them.

A number of other strangers came as well. And a fruitcake or two. One guy about 30 came in. He walked up to the casket, protected by two marine honor guards, and paid his respects. Then he stationed himself in front of the casket and would not leave. My mom and dad approached him and tried to ask if he knew Buddy, but he began to shout, "Get away. Don’t come near me." He was really wild.

The poor marines kept a close eye on the nut and would, I expect, have prevented him from touching the body. But clearly they were not authorized to enter into any controversy. I got the funeral home attendant on duty and asked him to remove the man. He said he did not know how he could. The man was becoming more agitated by the minute, rambling about the dead marine being his buddy and how he was at his side when he was killed. Everyone in the crowded room was horrified and my parents and I were particularly upset at the intruder’s inappropriate actions. So I decided to act.

I went quietly to the casket, in my Navy uniform, and tried to persuade the man to leave. He began getting even more upset. I finally grabbed him by the neck, hauled him away from the casket, pulled him through the crowded room and bounced him out on Broadway like a rubber ball. It was one hell of a scene.

Somehow we survived the very emotional wake and the following morning Buddy had a filled church at Good Shepherd for his funeral mass. Then a long line of cars motored to Pinelawn National Cemetery on Long Island.

I’ll never forget all my beloved Longhorns gathered at the grave site, standing at rigid attention as my brother’s Marine buddies played taps, and fired three volleys of blanks while his body was lowered into the grave. Warren, Phil Sullivan and I, in our uniforms, saluted Buddy a final good-bye. Then we put or arms around each other and cried.

When Buddy was killed I had orders for submarine school in New London, Connecticut. But without my realizing it, my parents had the chaplain pull papers naming me a "sole surviving son." Because of this status, my sub school orders were canceled and I was assigned to Brooklyn Navy Yard to await the return of my brother’s body from Korea.

After the funeral, all I could think of was that I had promised, in a letter to Buddy while he was awaiting shipment overseas, that I would someday meet him in Korea. It preyed on my mind. Also, I wanted very badly to avenge his death. I wanted my piece of Chinese flesh. I wanted to fire my rifle into the face of some slimy bastard, commie soldier, and hope to God he was one of those who had killed Buddy. But first I had to get to Korea and to accomplish this, I had to get rid of that damn sole surviving son designation.

After boot camp leave I reported to the Brooklyn Navy Yard Receiving Station and began my first real days as a sailor. I was given a choice: work as a mess cook, peeling potatoes and washing plates and pans—or learn to type and work in the office. It wasn’t a hard decision. Soon I was sitting in front of an old typewriter, reading a Navy instruction manual and learning how to punch the keys in a reasonable impersonation of a typist.

Thereafter, my duties consisted of interviewing sailors coming and going to locations and ships and bases all over the world. Most importantly, I began to understand the importance of paper in the armed forces. A piece of paper could deal up an immediate leave, a choice assignment to a good duty station, a promotion, assignment to school—even a discharge for a number of reasons. Learning to obey orders and to be a competent sailor was one thing, but learning to fill out the right papers that could change your life, was an asset that would serve me very well for the next almost four years.

I went home almost every weekend and when I had duty on a Friday or Saturday, Nancy would travel to Brooklyn and visit with me. My life, though still deeply affected by the loss of my brother, was wonderful. Nancy and I were deeply in love, the way only young and first lovers can be, and we explored every experience of that marvelous and exciting world with great joy. She was certainly the best thing that had happened in my life up to that time.

But my promise to join Buddy in Korea was not forgotten. I spent a lot of time planning ways to get to Korea. Eventually it seemed to be my best chance was to become a Seabee. The Seabees are the Navy’s Construction battalions and almost always serve on land, either at Naval bases or attached to the Marines. During combat periods, the Seabees followed the Marines into combat zones, building roads, living facilities, bridges, airstrips, whatever was necessary. My goal soon became to get myself transferred to Seabee school in Oxnard, California. But first I had to get rid of that damn sole surviving son designation. If I couldn’t, I would never get an assignment to Korea. Probably most of the young men in the nation were trying to find a way to avoid combat in Korea and I was doing my best to get there. Conforming was never my strong suit.

Luckily, I wound up in a serious dispute with a lieutenant commander. A lieutenant commander in the Navy is to a Seaman Apprentice, my rank at the time, as a King is to a person who cleans his bathroom. You didn’t pick fights with high ranking officers unless you had an overwhelming desire to spend the rest of your hitch in the brig. But I did just that.

I had conned my way into assignment to the motor pool, where I was learning to be a mechanic, though I had been fooling with cars, engines and all the things that make a car go bump in the night, since I was 13. So I was at least already a backyard mechanic of sorts. But in the motor pool, I learned to repair and service many different vehicles. I enjoyed it a lot.

One Monday morning I was ordered to appear in LCDR Moran’s office, not a usual experience for the lowest ranking sailor on the base. I asked my superior, Chief Falconeri why Moran wanted to see me.

"Beats the hell out of me," he said, "but let’s get up there fast because you are surely in deep trouble."

Even today, I can remember that scene. I stood at attention as the commander reamed me out from stem to stern, with the chief at parade rest at my side, but not saying a damn word. Even chiefs do not speak up to LCDRs unless they are requested to do so.

"Son," the commander said, "You are one of the most miserable bastards I have ever had the misfortune to have in my command. You are a piece of garbage. I’m going to be on your ass from this day forward. I’ll make a sailor out of you or see that you spend the rest of your cruise doing shit details you can’t even imagine."

"Excuse me, commander, I don’t know what this is all about. What did I do?" I unwisely interrupted.

"Shut your miserable mouth," he ordered, and proceeded to blast me from one end of the room to the other without explaining anything except that he thought I was the lowest low-life in the United States Navy.

Somewhere in his ravings I got the message that someone in the motor pool had been repairing private automobiles using Uncle Sam’s equipment and facilities and he was pissed. Someone, apparently, had informed him it was me, but that wasn’t true. The only vehicles I had ever worked on at the base, other than military ones, were the skipper’s new Ford convertible, which I washed regularly as part of my expected duties. But I figured it best not to mention that.

When the commander had finally exhausted his venom and threatened me with every rotten thing that could happen to a sailor, I figured it was my turn to inform him he was dead wrong, had the wrong sailor and owed me a serious apology. But when I asked to speak he told me to shut my mouth and get out of his office. I didn’t accept that well at all, but the chief, a good friend, got me out of there fast.

"Chief, it wasn’t me," I told him as we walked back to the motor pool. It’s damned unfair. I’ve got to get him to listen to me." But Falconeri told me to forget it. There was nothing I could do. He was the commander and I was a dumb kid. He said I was lucky he didn’t toss me into the mess hall.

But I wouldn’t let it drop. I asked for an audience with his highness the commander but he didn’t even reply. So I remembered my newly discovered respect for paper work in the Navy and realized that I didn’t have to take it. One little paper could get me in front of the Captain and the commander’s ass would be grass, I figured. Hey, I was only just turned 18. I still believed in total justice, right makes might—that sort of kid stuff.

The next day I told the chief I was going to put the commander on report. He laughed and said Seaman apprentices didn’t fill out report chits on commanders - it went the other way. But I knew it was possible. At least I could try. I went to the Officer-of-the-Day shack and asked for a report chit.

"Who do you want to put on report?" a yeoman asked.

"Commander Moran," I replied.

He thought that was very funny, announcing to all in the office that a loony-tunes was in the duty shack. But I insisted anyway.

Soon I was standing before an officer who asked me to explain what in hell I was up to. I told him. He told me to come back tomorrow and he’d have some decision for me but it sure as hell was not gong to be a report chit on the commander.

Within minute my chief was blasting me, telling me I was going to make it bad on everyone in the motor pool. I had to drop my request to see the Captain, he said.

I told him, "No way! That son-of-a-bitch had no right to accuse me of being out of line and not give me a chance to explain myself. It was to be decided by the Captain and nothing else would suffice. If the Captain refused to see me, I would write to the Commandant of the Navy.

"Lord, Markey, you are a crazy kid," he moaned. But he said, "Let me see what I can do to get you out of this mess."

The answer was fast coming. The commander had heard of the crazy kid who wanted to the him to report him to the Captain. He was outraged, but the chief managed to tell him that I was innocent and according to Naval regulations, I was within my right to file a report. I had him. Now the commander’s ass was in the sling.

Soon the commander told the chief he wanted me off the base. "I’ll send that son-of-a-bitch to Korea so fast he won’t have time to wipe his ass," he told the chief. But the chief told him that was exactly what I wanted. Further, the chief said, I wanted to go to Seabee school for that was an almost certain way to eventually get orders to the war zone.

So the deal was done. The commander signed papers transferring me to Port Hueneme, the huge Seabee base in California, and in days I was kissing Nancy good-bye and heading for the Seabees.

And during the negotiations, I managed to sign papers voluntarily withdrawing my sole surviving son designation. I was on my way to Korea. Or at least getting closer.

The Seabees

I breezed through Construction Mechanic school at Port Hueneme during the next few months. In the meantime, I met a nice girl in Whittier, the hometown of (soon to be) President Richard Nixon, who was according to the locals, not well liked, I guess they knew a lot more about him than the rest of us did in those days. Pretty Lee Nagel helped my tour there become enjoyable, as did my wonderful, adopted uncle Red Adams, actually an old friend of my dad’s, who owned Sardi’s Restaurant and Bar on Hollywood and Vine. He had to rename it Cardi’s after he bought the club and Sardis’ management reneged on a promise. But everyone used the French pronunciation of the name, Sardi’s, and that’s what it was called for years.

Uncle Red treated me like a son and more. He gave me spending money when I was broke, fed me on weekends when I had leave and even gave me my own set of keys to his new Ford convertible so I could tool up to Whittier and take out the lovely Lee. He was a fine part of my life then. I suppose he figured I was headed for Korea and might not come back, like my brother Buddy. But I loved him a lot and he loved me in return.

Soon, graduation day was arriving and orders for reassignment were to be passed out. I had watched about half the young Seabees who graduated before me get orders to combat in Korea and I wanted to be sure I also received the same orders. So I requested a meeting with the Billet Officer.

He was a young Lieutenant who listened to my fervent plea to be assigned to Korea. "Is there something wrong with you? he asked. "Kids your age are dying there every day. And you want to become another dead Seabee?"

I told him about Buddy being killed months before and I begged him to see that I got orders for Korea. I told him I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I broke my promise to Buddy to be with him in Korea.

"He’s dead. You’re alive. You’ve got a mother and father who need you. You don’t have the right to ask me to send you to a very likely death. You’re the last son in your family. I won’t do it," he said.

But I was a persuasive little guy then, despite my 140 or so pounds on a skinny frame. I talked and talked until he finally broke down.

"Okay you dumb little bastard. If one billet comes in for Korea, you’ll get it. And I have news for you," he said, mad as hell. "I’ve been there and it sucks. When you get there and see your friends die, you’ll know what a big mistake you’ve made today. And I’ve got more news for you. Unfortunately for me I’m going back again. And I hope I see your little ass over there cause when I do I’m gong to kick it from Pusan to Seoul."

I almost kissed him. I was finally going to Korea. I’d go home for a couple of weeks, make love to Nancy again, then kiss her good-bye and go to Korea and blast some miserable gook to hell. I was joyous!

Stuff happens. It didn’t turn out that way at all. For some reason unknown only to the top brass, not a single Seabee in our graduating class was assigned to Korea. My orders were to report to San Francisco after a week’s leave and be transported to Guam, a large island in the Marianas chain in the South Pacific. I was crushed. But there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. It seemed I was never going to get to Korea. But I knew that I would never give up trying. I made up my mind to paper the Navy to death until they reassigned me to combat duty.

In spite of my depressed state, I enjoyed my leave, which of course, like all leaves, passed by too quickly. Nancy and I spent every moment together, trying not to dwell on the fact that in a few days I would leave for overseas, not to return for at least a year or two—if I returned at all. Before I knew it I was at the airport, kissing her good-bye and boarding a plane to Frisco. As I looked out of the aircraft window at Nancy, crying and waving a sad farewell, I could not help wondering if we would ever be together again. She was sure to meet a lot of great guys at college and my chance of weathering the long separation and finding her waiting in a year or so seemed bleak. It was a really lousy day.

Reporting to Treasure Island Naval base, I found a bunk and tossed my seabag at its foot. Then I reported in, got a liberty chit and went ashore. I decided I’d drown myself in scotch and try and forget the lousy fate that awaited me in Guam. I feared that I would vegetate on that damn island until the war in Korea was over. I was one miserable Seabee.

Guam

In a week or so I caught a military plane to Guam. As soon as I checked into my new battalion, I found Tom Moak, a tall and lanky Texan who had become my good buddy at Port Hueneme. Tom had graduated about a month before I did and also was sent to Guam. He laughed like hell when he saw me. I told Tom all about rigging my assignment to Korea and how it all turned rotten. "When you see what kind of chickenshit outfit this is, you’ll really wish you were in Korea," Tom told me. I had no idea how crazy an outfit I had been assigned to. But I began to find out early the next day.

Reveille was blown around 6 a.m. I ate breakfast with Tom and he filled me in. The skipper, Commander John F. Dowd, was crazy, he said. Not just unusual but genuinely insane. "You’ll find out. If I told you some of the things this madman is doing here, you would not believe me. But you’ll probably get a hint of how nuts he is at formation," Moak said.

Dowd ordered the entire battalion to form up for a little talk. "You’ll see your new skipper in action your very first day. Good luck, buddy. And remember, keep your mouth shut, no matter what happens or you’ll be in deeper shit than you’ve ever known. Give this guy a wide berth, Bob. He’s really bonkers and dangerous as hell," Tom said.

I thought he was exaggerating a bit, giving the new guy a little bullshit to have a little fun. Was I wrong.

Probably 1,500 Seabees were soon sweating in formation, at parade rest, waiting for the skipper to arrive. Soon everyone started mumbling, "Here he comes."

It was incredible. The skipper drove down the broad island road, preceded by a number of Marines in Jeeps. His battalion commander flags were flying from both front bumpers of his staff car. His driver drove like a madman and as his car passed, I saw a number of enlisted men pick up rocks and toss them at the skipper’s car. His Marine guards were looking frantically from side to side as if they expected someone to assassinate the commander. I later learned that many Seabees had vowed to do just that. I also discovered why Dowd was in fear of his life, and for good reason.

His quarters had Marines posted on all sides, around the clock. I had just joined an outfit with a certified maniac in command. I knew one thing -- I had to get the hell out of there and get to Korea.

Soon Dowd was walking back and forth chewing out the whole battalion. "I know what many of you are thinking. I know what you are planning. But you aren’t going to get away with it," the wild looking commander said.

He raved on and on, ordering his men to maintain strict discipline, to obey his officers, to stop trying to undermine his command, to stop slacking off and to work like hell. He actually sounded like a man who had too many mortars fired his way, and that turned out to be the case. We were told much later that Dowd had seen a lot of action during World War II and apparently, though the big war had ended about seven years before, he had now become paranoid and needed help desperately.

Unfortunately, a battalion commander in the South Pacific is like a god in his own jurisdiction. And no one could touch him nor order him to a hospital for evaluation. There were more than 1,500 men who knew the commander was out to lunch, his junior officers included. But even the officers were frightened of Dowd and did not dare, at least openly, to either advise him or report him to higher authorities.

Finally the skipper wore down and looked at his men, company after company, filling a large area, every man just wanting the formation to end so they could get to work. But the commander wasn’t quite through.

"I defy any man to step forward and tell me what’s wrong with this outfit," he shouted. Any one of you. Ask any questions you want. Isn’t there a man here who has the guts to speak," he cried.

To my astonishment, a chief petty officer shouted, "Here, sir!" The skipper strode closer to the man’s company and said, "speak sailor!"

"I have just one question, Sir!" he hollered. "How the hell do I get a transfer out of this chicken-shit outfit?"

"Seize that man," Dowd shouted, his face so red I thought he would have a stroke. Marines rushed forward and grabbed the hapless chief and took him to the brig. I learned this was not an unusual occasion at all. Due to Dowd’s relentless pressure and crazy orders to his men, many were at the breaking point and some were getting as crazy as the skipper.

The chief who had yelled out at muster, later drove a jeep under a cable, raising his arms and almost losing them. After a long time in the hospital, he was finally discharged, but it was a tough way to get away from Dowd.

I also remember hearing of another petty officer who poisoned himself because Dowd kept pressuring him without cause, and there were rumors of other suicides.

Soon the skipper decided to down even more. He ordered every Seabee to work 15 hours each day, seven days a week. He closed the "geedunk" stand, where we all looked forward after a hard day’s labor to grabbing a hamburger and beer or two. That was the end of that. It seemed the commander was going to bring his men to their knees. But it also was quite possible that some Seabee or Marine would kill him before it was all over. Things were that bad.

I met a number of guys who vowed they would kill the skipper if they got a chance. Some of them were just cracking under the commander’s pressure and lunatic orders. Others had been treated very badly.

One friend of mine who said he would kill Dowd if an opportunity presented itself, was very bitter. A couple of months before, he been informed by the Red Cross that his mother was dying. The Red Cross notified the skipper and recommended an immediate emergency leave. Dowd wouldn’t let him go.

"Your mother isn’t that sick and we need every man here. I can’t spare you," Dowd told him.

The Red Cross heard my friend’s pleas but could do nothing. The skipper was adamant. In a week or so, the Red Cross passed on the news. His mom had died. My friend went before the skipper once again with another Red Cross recommendation for emergency leave to attend the funeral. Dowd refused to let him go.

""By the time you get there, she’ll be buried," Dowd told him. "There’s no need for you to go now."

The Seabee had to be dragged out of the commander’s office. He would have strangled him on the spot if it were not for the ever present and vigilant Marines. But they too hated the son-of-a-bitch, crazy or not.

That’s how my first month or two went on Guam, under the command of a maniac and working so hard and so long that I had little time on my hands to worry about Dowd. Besides, I had already started my paper campaign to get transferred to Korea.

I was driving the officers nuts. I actually started the first day I had arrived on Guam. After Dowd’s diatribe at muster, I received permission to go to the officer of the day shack to make a request. I asked for a request chit and filled out a request to be transferred to combat duty in Korea.

"Didn’t you just get here?" an officer asked when he was given my chit.

"Yes sir," I answered.

"Well son, you just take this back and save it and come back in about 16 months and I’ll consider it," the lieutenant said. "You have at least a year-and-a-half to serve here before you are likely to go anywhere," he told me, and tried to hand me back the request chit.

"I beg your pardon, sir," I said, "but I believe naval regulations require that any request chit be given consideration and I’d like you to consider it." I refused to take the paper from his hand.

Obviously assessing me as a wise guy or moron, the officer smiled and said, "By god, you’re right. And he checked denied on the chit and handed it to me. "See me in 16 months," he said with a smile.

I was back in his office in a week. Same request. Same denial. This went on for a month or so. I sort of hoped Dowd would hear of this crazy Seabee who wanted to leave his command. I fantasized him raving, "What? He wants to go to Korea. Send the bastard there," and stamping my request chit approved. But it never happened. As far as I know, Dowd never discovered I was alive.

Our battalion was building dependent housing on Guam as well as doing other construction projects and repairs on the huge base.

We had some funny times too. Dowd had a mascot, a black goat, the traditional mascot of Seabees throughout the world.

One day, Dowd’s goat wandered into our compound. A couple of Seabees grabbed it, shaved its rear, and a Seabee artist who was quite good was conned into painting a picture of Dowd’s face on the goat’s ass.

When Dowd finally saw his countenance looking back at him from his goats behind, he went crazy. All liberty was canceled, our hot water in the heads were turned off, and we were required to work even longer hours. But it was worth it. We were all proud of our caper.

The skipper gave direct orders to every officer, chief and petty officer, and to his Marines, to investigate the incident and turn up the culprit. But there was no way anyone was going to turn the guy in. He was a hero.

We finally were allowed to go on liberty, to Agana, the capital of Guam, not much of a city then, but at least there were bars and women there. Not that that did us much good.

The young women of Guam, as I remember, were devout Catholics and were forbidden to go out with servicemen. That left our 1,500 Seabees loveless and very frustrated. I met one hooker of the reported few in town. She was said to be a hermaphrodite. Seabees who claimed to have partaken of her services swore she had a vagina—and a penis, though a very small and undeveloped one. I wasn’t that hard up so I never found out

On one of our first liberties, about 50 Seabees were in a bar in Agana. A waitress was teasing the hell out of us in a skimpy little outfit. She sure looked good. She looked too good for a couple of love-starved Seabees, who were also pretty drunk. They grabbed her and started tearing off all her clothes. The waitress started yelling, the bar owners went nuts, and soon sirens of shore patrol Jeeps were headed our way. A number of Seabees got arrested. Tom Moak and I got the hell out of there before the shore patrol arrived. We also, all of us had our liberties canceled again. And the mood of the battalion grew venomous against our fruitcake skipper.

But good things were about to happen.

A day or so later, a number of new men arrived on base, enlisted men and a few new officers. There was nothing unusual about this except the very first day the men seemed to be all over the place, asking questions about Commander Dowd. We figured they were CID, naval intelligence people. And we were right.

After a few days gathering facts, the intelligence guys proceeded to Dowd's office, handed his Marines papers of authority from an Admiral in Pearl Harbor, and relieved Dowd of his command. He was taken immediately to a waiting aircraft and flown to Pearl. We never saw him again, but we were told he had been suffering from delayed battle fatigue induced mental illness but would be court-martialed, nevertheless, for his offenses and inhuman treatment of the men under his command. Later we heard he had been granted permission to resign his commission and retire, avoiding the court martial. But none of us felt sorry for him. He had made Guam a living hell for all of us.

Everything returned to normal on the island. We built our homes quickly and for a fraction of the cost that the Navy had formerly paid to civilian contractors who, until our battalion were assigned the construction projects in the South Pacific area.

I passed the test for Seaman and soon was learning to be a fairly competent truck and heavy equipment mechanic. But I continued to bug the officers for a transfer to Korea. I kept returning to the administration offices and filling out my request for transfer chits. An officer would take them, stamp them denied, and return them to me on the spot.

A few weeks after Dowd was mustered out, a Seabee engineer, Lt. Julius, called me to his office.

"I’ve heard a lot about you," he said, and asked why I wanted so badly to go to Korea.

I told him about my promise to Buddy and he was empathetic. "I’ve got a deal for you," he responded.

"I can’t promise to get you to Korea soon, but I do promise to do whatever I can to have your orders cut for Korea, if you are willing to volunteer for a special duty assignment."

He told me he had been given command of a special mobile construction detachment with orders to go ashore on a tiny island and build dependent housing there. He said he needed reliable men who were solid workers and knew their jobs. "You have been recommended as a mechanic who knows what he’s doing," the lieutenant said. "If you volunteer to go to Kwajalein as part of my detachment, you’ll be going back to the states in about nine months. If you stay here, you’ll have about 15 months to serve. Go with me and I promise you your next duty station will be Korea. It’s the best I can offer. What do you say?"

"Lieutenant, you’ve got a deal," I told him, and he shook my hand. Within a few days, I was packing my sea bag for the cruise to Kwajalein and saying good-bye to my best friend Tom Moak. I never saw or heard from him again. But he was one hell of a good guy. It’s like that in the service. If you haven’t been there you can’t understand. But you get so close to some of your buddies they seem like brothers. Then a piece of paper passes hands, you say farewell, and that’s the end of it. You move on and meet new buddies. Relationships don’t last long, and even if you meet again years later, there is no longer that special bond that once tied the two of you together. It stayed at the last duty station where your lives were so entwined.

Kwajalein

We dug up thousands of Japanese soldiers and sailors killed
during the invasion of Kwajalein during WW2.

As our ship sailed toward the spit in the Pacific, we crowded the railings, staring in awe at the smallness of it. We had been briefed, of course, and knew that Kwajalein was about a mile-and-a-half long and a half-mile wide, but imagining it and seeing it were different things. Our detachment, probably about 300 carpenters, welders, mechanics, plumbers, heavy equipment operators and general construction men, were excited about our project, but we surely all wondered how in hell we were to survive up to a year on that minuscule rock. If we had then known that our tour would be extended to 18 months, I believe some of us would have tried to swim back to the states.

For the next couple of days, we unloaded cranes, dozers, rollers, trucks and jeeps, supplies of every kind and tools of our trade. We were one "Can Do" outfit and had no doubt that we would build the finest damn houses in the Pacific.

It was quite interesting. Rather than ship concrete and other materials from the states or Pearl Harbor, we were chosen to create our own materials from island coral. We built "crushers" about 20-feet above the ground, then crushed the coral into "pea gravel", mixed it with cement and made our own concrete. Dump trucks would drive under the crusher and the concrete would pour into their turning mixer tanks, soon to gush out of hoppers onto a prepared pad that would be the foundation for our concrete block houses. We also created our own block plant and built the blocks out of our own coral concrete. It worked quite well.

Kwajalein was home to about 10,000 sailors, Marines and Air Force personnel, and a small number of Coast Guardsmen lived on a sister island, Ebeye, a short walk across a live coral and sand bed, which was passable at low tide and fully covered by the ocean as the tide rose.

There were Marshallese natives living on Ebeye, very dark-skinned, rather unattractive people with little if any schooling. They lived as they had for centuries, off the sea, wading into lagoons with hand-made nets to catch the seafood of their life. Their diet was supplemented with coconuts that grew plentifully on trees all over the island.

The Marshallese women were the least fetching I had ever seen, usually quite overweight and dressed in native sarong-like gowns. They had unkempt, black, thick curly hair and large noses above thick lips. "Don’t worry about it," a Seabee who was on the island before us said. "They get lighter and prettier every day. I never found that to happen.

The natives, as unattractive as they were, seemed to love the powerful lye soap with which they washed our work uniforms in the island laundry - and they doused themselves with it unsparingly. Imagine a 100-plus degree temperature, no air conditioning, and women exuding strong lye soap odors and you’ll know why romance was non-existent on Kwajalein. To further defuse whatever young libidos might cause us to chance, it was a court martial offense to be caught even walking across the coral reef that separated the two islands, and few attempted it. The few who did were caught either before they reached Ebeye or on Ebeye Beach, long before they made contact with any native woman. Also, I never heard of a Marshallese woman having an affair with a serviceman, so either they were very moral, or their husbands, brothers and fathers wielded wicked machetes. All I do know is that the many months I spent on "Kwaj" were long and lonely.

I’d like to try and relate how it was on Kwajalein, for if you understand Kwaj, you’ll know how it is for youngsters all over the world, serving their country in the loneliest places God ever created. You’ll understand why some kids go crazy and fight each other, even shoot or stab each other. It’s a relentless, continuing presence of loneliness and boredom and incredible heat that takes over your psyche, if you let it, and destroys the usual good nature that exists in most kids of seventeen to twenty one, which the majority of us were.

It was always about 100 degrees, the island sitting just six degrees off the equator. And it wasn’t just hot - we were doing tough, muscle-work, hauling concrete blocks, hammering nails, sawing wood by hand, driving heavy, hot equipment, working on over-boiling engines and doing all the things you have to do to build houses.

I spent over three years overseas and it was the only place I was at where sweat actually prevented us from working for very long without some respite. We had 55-gallon barrels of water in our work areas and every 10 minutes or so we would have to stop work and stick the upper part of our torsos as far as we could in the warm water that was still cooler than our overheated bodies.

We worked like hell but with pride. Seabees are not like other servicemen. There is a minimum of military discipline and courtesy in Seabee battalions. We did not salute our officers. We were considered, and considered ourselves, a working construction team, and that is just what we were. There were unwritten traditions in the Seabees that transcended usual military obligations. If a kid digging a ditch needed a hand and an officer was passing by, the Seabee would ask for help and the officer would jump in and work alongside the other Seabees. Still, we highly respected our officers, almost of them, and they seemed to deeply respect us as well.

Our skipper, Lt. Julius, was one of the best. He took care of us and we took care of him.

One day a group of Navy officers’ wives (they sure weren’t Seabees officers - none of our officers had family with them on the island) complained to the Admiral who ran Kwajalein, that the Seabees were an unkempt bunch, wearing shorts instead of dungarees, going around the work place bare-chested, and embarrassing the gentle women.

The Admiral chewed out Lt. Julius and our skipper gathered us together one morning to tell us about the complaints.

"There are a number of young women who are so tight-assed they are horrified at the sight of you young guys. But I tell you here and now, just do your jobs, wear any damn thing you please while on duty, and as long as you don’t walk around with your balls hanging out, the Admiral can go to hell."

As I said, he was some kind of guy.

But life on the island was miserable. We thanked God for the long and hard work hours, for it gave us something to do. When we weren’t working we tried to spend the time meaningful way. We read books, attempted to learn a language, studied for higher rank, wrote letters home to girls who were probably going out with other guys, and drank beer and gambled. Mostly we drank beer and gambled.

When we weren’t drinking our hours away or writing home, we swam in the ocean with sharks, barracuda, sting rays and assorted other sea life, who never bothered us at all. In the history of the island, there had never been an instance of anyone being bitten by a shark, though huge ones would often glide by within feet of where we were swimming.

And we climbed trees and picked coconuts. Not on Kwajalein though, for there was hardly a tree left on that island after the Army, Seabees and Marines invaded it and killed 10,000 defending Japanese soldiers sometime in 1944 or 1945. Occasionally we would take a small boat to a neighboring island in the Kwajalein Atoll and climb trees and pick coconuts, sucking the sweet, milky liquid down, chasing it with a cold beer.

But our day-to-day lives were filled with quiet, almost despairing loneliness. We worked our asses off, then tried to stay sane. Realize that most of us were just kids, 18, 19, 20 years old. We had raging genes and brilliant imaginations. We dreamed of love, yearned for it, fantasized about beautiful and willing young women - or about the girl friend or wife we left at home - and we suffered.

Off duty, we rode the island bus round and round the island, hoping to catch a glance of an American officer’s wife, hanging out her wash or playing with her kids. We anguished for just the sight of a young woman.

When we were tired of riding the bus, we sat in the outdoor and roofless Richardson theater, watching western movies we had seen many times. During the monsoon season, when it poured rain so hard it soaked into our ponchos and wet us to the bone, we sat there, for hours, for there was nothing else to do. That does something to young kids, sears their souls with scars of loneliness that lasts a lifetime.

I wrote to Nancy every day, cheerful letters, usually hiding the dreadful life that I had to live. But it’s hard to keep love alive with 10,000 miles between the lovers. A letter, solid gold to us, took about a week to reach one of us, two weeks round trip. Often I would write something that made her angry. She would write back in anger and in kind, and two weeks later I would stare at her writing and wonder what in hell she was upset about. I tried not to imagine the young and beautiful Nancy being romanced by all those "draft dodgers" back home that all of us despised. But we were on Kwajalein and they were with the girls we loved. It sucked!

When young men are bored, feeling abandoned, lonely, frustrated and alienated, they often erupt in irregular behavior. Trained to fight against an enemy, to be aggressive and assertive, young warriors far removed from an ongoing war, sometimes get into scrapes just for the hell of it.

A number of them occurred on Kwajalein, none of them very important, but one was interesting.

I probably started it. The toughest Seabee on the island was a 10 year veteran named Joe Gamrak. Gamrak was, at the time, a seaman, though he had worn the "crow" of a senior petty officer a number of times. Like so many career military men who loved to raise hell, Gamrak had been raised in rank a number of times, then reduced to a lower rank due to a brawl or drunken prank that some officer or civilian didn’t think was funny.


The late Joe Gamrak
Kwajalein 1953

He was a good-looking guy, about six-two and tough as nails. No one fooled with Gamrak, not the toughest in the battalion. He selected his companions like a god bestowing a blessing of friendship upon a lesser being. And those who were his friends were the envy of the outfit.

I didn’t care much for the huge enlisted men’s club on the island, crowded and noisy. But there was a Marine club, small and cozy, quite near our Quonset hut. I preferred to drink and hang out there and, as my brother had been a Marine, I was easily accepted.

One night I strolled into the Marine club and found Gamrak, whom I didn’t know very well, sitting with a few Seabees I did know. I joined them without an invitation, sitting down next to the venerable and unapproachable Gamrak.

"Hi guys," I said, never imagining there would be a problem with my joining them. And there wasn’t. Except for Gamrak.

He looked at me as if I were a roach crawling too close for comfort and said, "Who the hell invited you? Get lost!"

I thought he was kidding and said something dumb.

"I told you to leave," Gamrak said.

I answered something stupid, a bit embarrassed and somewhat annoyed. Gamrak struck like a coral snake. His open hand flayed across my face and almost knocked me off the chair. Everyone laughed, of course. When Gamrak acted, his friends went along.

I rose from my chair, prepared to demand who in hell he thought he was, but was amazed to discover he had returned to whatever tall tale he was spinning and had completely forgotten I was there. It was a mistake on his part.

Since I was a little kid, no one had ever hit me without being hit back, even if he was as huge and as bad as Gamrak. So I hit him a sucker punch and back-handed him damn near off his chair. Chairs skidded as Marines and Seabees made room for Gamrak to wipe the deck with me, and I prepared to belt him with all I had and hope at least it would discourage him from putting me in sick bay for too many weeks.

Gamrak rose slowly from his chair, stood towering over me, and damn near was incoherent. I held my fists ready, waiting for him to make his move. I also correctly assessed his predicament. Here was a skinny kid, ten years his junior, who had hit him a good one and was obviously not backing away, He could do his thing and it wouldn’t take much, but there would be no glory to it. All he would do is hurt his rep by tearing up a guy more or less half his size. It was obvious no one had ever done such an audacious thing to him in years.

I just glared at him, hoping the butterflies in my stomach would calm down enough for me to at least put up a decent defense.

After what seemed a minute, Gamrak just looked me in the eye and said, "Leave. Now!" I had guts but I had no suicidal tendencies. So I smiled—or tried to—and sauntered over to the bar and ordered a beer. No one dared talk to me but I could tell there was a lot of undisplayed admiration going on in that bar.

I finished my beer and took a walk back to the barracks.

For the next few days, I could go nowhere on the island without someone stopping me, saying Gamrak was looking for me. I did my best to see that he didn’t find me. I figured my mom could use my $10,000 GI insurance payoff, but wasn’t anxious to meet up with Gamrak for at least a year.

Fate being what it is, one afternoon I turned a corner and damn near ran into him. I kissed my ass good-bye.

Gamrak said, "I want to talk to you."

I figured those were the last words I would ever hear. He grabbed my arm and took me around a corner. I looked for a brick or board to level the field but there was nothing there but me and the towering Gamrak. He stared me down, then stuck out his hand.

"You little punk," he said, "You’ve got more balls than brains. I just want to tell you you’re my boy, anyone who messes with you, messes with me!" And he left me there, wide-eyed, and rejoined his buddies.

I began to more seriously believe in God’s providence and his love for dumb creatures.

Needless to say, Gamrak and I became friends and no one on that island ever gave me a bad time. They didn’t want to waltz with Gamrak.

A few days later, our detachment went on a beer ride to one of the little islands that were off shore. We boozed and played cards, sang hymns and had a pretty good time. When we boarded the landing craft to return to Kwaj, Gamrak decided to take a dive into the ocean and cool down. Bad move. He chose the side of the boat nearest shore, where the water was about three feet deep. He also broke his neck.

The medics fit him with a neck brace and ordered him to lay off from work for a while. He did. For as long as it took him to drown a six pack. Then he went back to work.

Later in the week, I was in the Marine bar and got into some dumb argument with a Jarhead who was all brawn and no brains. It was dance time, but cooler heads separated us. Still, a number of Marines were frosted and a series of minor incidents and scrapes occurred between Seabees and Marines. We all knew it had to be settled before it would get over.

I can’t recall the actual catalyst that started the brawl, but soon there were Seabees and Marines having at one another in the middle of our adjoining compounds. When it broke up, the survivors came back to our compound and told the rest of us that the Marines were asking for it. We were happy to oblige them and soon perhaps a hundred Seabees visited the Marine barracks with mayhem in mind. I went along for the diversion.

We were in a pretty good donnybrook, when I saw Gamrak enter the barracks. I pushed my way to his side and, with others, pleaded with him not to get involved. One shot and he could have been paralyzed for life. You don’t duke it out with a broken neck.

But Gamrak just yelled, "Shove one my way!" It sounds fabricated but it’s true. As a Seabee would grab a Marine and wear him down a bit, he would shove him toward Gamrak and the big guy would send him to sleep with a single punch. It was strictly for the movies.

As sirens split the humid air, we all raced back to our Quonset hut, bruised but happy as hell.

The following Friday night, the Marines issued an invitation to a settlement party and every Seabee sent back his acceptance. It was going to be one hell of a night. And as we outnumbered the entire Marine contingent about three to one, we figured the outcome was never in doubt.

Marines and Seabees were facing each other down, mouthing off, waiting for the first punch to be thrown, when the situation turned bad.

A Marine lieutenant with the IQ of a third grader squealed up in a jeep and ordered us all to disperse. No one moved.

Exasperated, he ordered a number of his Marines to double-time back to their barracks and arm themselves and believe it or not, fix bayonets.

They did. And in minutes, he had faced his men against the pack of Seabees. He again ordering us to leave. Seabees responded with advice as to how he could go fornicate himself and it became a very touchy situation. None of us really saw any sense in staying there, but not one of us were about to back down from this jerk of an officer who would order his men to fix bayonets against fellow servicemen. It was very dumb.

Finally Lt. Julius strode into the fray and faced the Marine lieutenant, asking him what the hell he thought he was doing.

The lieutenant, equal in rank to our skipper, stared him in the eye and told him to disperse his men or he would order his Marines to arrest us.

I was close enough to hear our skipper’s response.

"Lieutenant, you are about the biggest horse’s ass I’ve seen since I joined the Navy. But I’m going to give you a choice. I’ll give you 30 seconds to order your men to sheath their weapons and return to their barracks. If you don’t, I’m going to order my men to step back ten yards and stay peaceful. Then I’m going to kick your ass in front of your own men. Make your move!"

The Marine lieutenant swallowed hard, took another look at Julius, and did as he was instructed. That was the end of it and in a day or two, the Marines and Seabees were once again kidding and drinking with one another. But our skipper gained even more respect from his somewhat rowdy bunch of Seabees.

We were on that rock, most of us, for sixteen months. We were promised that our tour would be over in 12 months but the war in Korea and other considerations apparently did us in. Rumors began to pass around the outfit like summer rains. We were all going to Korea...we were leaving for the states before Christmas... we had been reassigned to Pearl Harbor. They never stopped coming - and all of them were without substance. Then someone who worked in the skipper’s office said we had been extended on Kwaj for another six months. No one believed it. We were doing what was then referred to in the Navy as hardship duty, and it was that and more. They could not keep us there for another half-year, we believed. We were wrong.

Lt. Julius gathered his troops together one morning and announced the dreaded news. We were indeed extended on the island and would remain there for another eighteen months. We all felt betrayed, especially the married guys, and Seabees like myself, who had girls waiting for us to return. We were more than despondent. So we quit work.No one actually led the rebellion. We simply said, "Screw it," and started slacking off. The skipper ignored our slowdown. He and the other officers spent a lot of time listening to us gripe about how unfair it all was. But they had nothing to say to us to make us feel better. The slowdown dragged on for a week or more and finally Lt. Julius hopped a plane to Pearl and, uninvited, had a word with some Admiral.

The next day he returned to Kwaj, addressed us and said he was unable to get the extension revoked. But he did have some decent news for us. He got the admiral to promise us our choice of duty when our job in Kwajalein was over. We all went back to work, probably more out of boredom and admiration for the skipper than for dedication to duty. The skipper also took me aside soon afterward and told me he had kept his promise. As soon as I finished my tour, I would be headed for Korea. I hoped the war would end soon, for so many young men were dying in Korea. But in another way, I didn’t want it to end before I got there.

The six months extended duty time took its toll. A lot of guys who had left wives and girlfriends began to receive the dreaded "Dear John" letters, telling them that their loved one had found someone new and that they would have no one to come home to. For the guys with girl friends, it was tough. But for the husbands, whose wives had finally had too much and could wait no longer for some sort of normal relationship, it was devastating. We all felt bad for our buddies who had spent a year telling us how wonderful their wives were, only to discover that love often cannot sustain the kind of separation that was part of being an overseas serviceman.

Not long after I had arrived on the island, my boss, a second class petty officer, was transferred off the Island. I had expected that another senior petty officer would arrive soon to take over the shop, but I was told there would be no replacement. I was to be the head mechanic, responsible for countless dozers, cranes, rollers, graders, jeeps and trucks and all sorts of small gas and diesel engines that ran lifts, welders, generators and other equipment. I wasn’t qualified for the job but that was the Navy way. You learned by reading maintenance books and taking things apart. In a few months I was a pretty darn good mechanic. Having to learn it all the hard way was the best thing that could have happened.

Largest Hydrogen Bomb Explosion


Castle Bravo H-Bomb shot at Bikin Attoll. Largest H-Bomb ever exploded.
Radiation from that blast would later bring early death to many of us on the island at that time. Some of us are still dying of radiation from Bravo.

On Feb. 28, 1954, we were witnesses to a significant historic event, though we didn’t know it at the time. Most of us were either in the head or walking to and from the showers, when it happened. It was still early morning, probably about 6:30, and not quite light yet, when the damnedest thing occurred. In an instant the sky lit up brighter than a noonday sun, as if someone had turned on a huge overhead light or as if the sun had come out of a huge, black cloud that was hiding its brilliance. It was quite odd and many of us on the way to or from the shower shack, stopped in our tracks and looked skyward. But it was an enigma that caused only a moment’s interest, though the sky remained oddly bright for some time.

Many minutes later, a low, heavy, roar began and it rumbled on and over our island as if some immense subway train had decided to bore beneath the coral. Now we were really interested. My buddies and I asked each other what the hell was going on, but finally we decided it was some huge storm or typhoon off shore that had screwed up the weather.

We weren’t even close. It was the largest hydrogen bomb ever dropped in the world and it was detonated on Bikini Atoll, about 150 miles or so from Kwajalein.

All the troops on the island were called to muster at the admiral’s headquarters, and we were told the news.

We didn’t know what a hydrogen bomb was, of course, but it was explained to us that it was many times the power of an atom bomb, and much more deadly than the A-bombs that had been dropped on Japan to end World War II. Actually its code name was Bravo and it was a 15 Mt blast, equal to fifteen million tons of dynamite, if anyone can imagine that.

We were ordered not to write home about the H-bomb or speak of it at all to any transient servicemen who visited the island. It was top secret, and to my knowledge, none of us wrote home about it. We had been warned that if we blabbed about it, a general court martial and federal prison time would be waiting for us, not to mention a dishonorable discharge from the service.

I can’t confirm it, for it might have been scuttlebutt passed around to make sure we kept our mouths shut, but we all heard about one serviceman on the island who did write home about it and the next day was removed from the island and not heard from again. But that probably was just Navy scuttlebutt.

Just for the record (with thanks to some of my Seabee buddies who sent me the data) the first deliverable hydrogen bomb (H-bomb) ever was dropped off Enewetak, also in the Marshall Islands, on May 8, 1951. It was equal to 45.5 thousand tons of dynamite, tiny compared to "our" bomb.

In October of 1952, a 10.4 MT bomb was exploded at Enewetak and a 13.5 MT bomb was set off in Bikini Atoll.

Just before the hydrogen bomb explosion, the wind had shifted and radiation-filled clouds had coursed over a nearby island. The native inhabitants were removed by US Navy personnel and were taken to Kwajalein, where they were given Navy underwear, socks and jeans to replace their contaminated clothing, causing a clothing shortage on the island, a bit bothersome for us but nothing compared to the health threats the natives suffered.

Later they were relocated to another island.

We just went back to work waiting for the day we could go home, at least for a couple of weeks until we were transported to our next duty station.

First home for dependents that we built on Kwajalein

We passed our time, working like hell to build those dependent houses, drinking a lot of beer, and sitting with each other at night, sharing dreams, telling each other about the girls or wives we left at home, and feeling sad as hell. It was probably very much like serving time in prison and about as much fun!

Going Home

Finally my tour on Kwajalein ended and I was on a ship heading for the states. Our ship docked for a couple of days in Hawaii to replenish supplies and take on fuel and water. We got to enjoy a couple of Cinderella liberties—"Be back on the ship by midnight!"

I had been to Hawaii before and knew it would be a nice liberty with lots to drink and good, rich ice cream and cold milk. But I also knew there would be no young women there for us to date. The island had thousands of young sailors, soldiers, marines and airmen stationed and stopping there, so I had no illusions that we would get lucky. It just doesn’t happen. Besides, Nancy was now only days away and after eighteen months, I could wait.

One thing we Seabees had on our way home, was lots of money. There wasn’t anything much to spend our pay on on Kwaj, so we were loaded.

I buddied around on that liberty with a Seabee named Paradise. He was, pound for pound, the fightingest, fastest and most capable guy with his fists, that I had ever known. So he was a good guy to have at my side if we got into a scrape, which Seabees often did on liberty.

Paradise, for all his worldly acumen, turned out to know nothing at all about girls, especially the working kind whose job it is to fleece love-starved servicemen of their money.

We wound up in some hula joint where wahines were dancing all over the place and selling pictures of themselves with the enlisted men. Paradise paid $5 to have his photo taken with one of them. She was no Princess Diana, but we weren’t exactly picky at the time.

Next she said she’d give him a kiss if he bought a second picture; then a quick feel for a third one, and on it went. I tried to convince him that she was draining him dry with no chance for anything more than photos to take home, but Paradise said, "No way! We’re getting laid tonight." The odds were 1,000 to nothing, but he wouldn’t listen.

Finally the place closed. The wahine had told him to wait for her outside and she and another of the "dancers" would join us and take us to their apartment. I figured miracles don’t often happen and bar dancers rarely tell the truth. But wait we did, outside that joint, for about two hours. I was disgusted. "They’ll show," Paradise said. "Sure, I told him, and when they show up it will be Christmas."

I had guessed correctly that the girls had left via a rear exit for wherever they were going, and had taken all of Paradise’s dough with them.

In time a car pulled up next to us. We were the only two guys on the street. I glanced at the car and a sailor asked, "What the hell are you looking at?"

"Not much," I told him. I wasn’t in a good mood.

"How would you like me to get out of this car and wipe that dumb look off your ugly face?" he challenged, and I told him, "Leap out and give your soul to God because your ass belongs to me."

I knew there were at least two other guys in the rear of the very darkened car, but I figured Paradise could easily take care of any two guys I had ever met, and I sure wasn’t worried about the one I had the beef with. So I smiled and figured we would at least have a little fun and have something to brag about when we got back to the ship. It sure wasn’t going to be about getting laid so it might just as well be about a fast one-rounder with a few candy-assed sailors.

But bad nights don’t get better. They get worse. The sailor in front got out of the car. Then the back door opened and two of the biggest people I had ever seen climbed out as well. They could barely make it through the car door. What they were, it was now obvious and to my great chagrin, were two sumi-wrestlers, Japanese types or Hawaiians who could rip off our arms one at a time and stuff them up our asses. I was one unhappy Seabee.

" Go for it, sucker," the sailor said. The wrestlers just stood there like pillars, their eyes piercing mine with daggers of disdain. They weren’t even amused.

Neither was I. Even with the best fighter in my outfit, outside of Gamrak, I was about to be murdered.

I glanced over at Paradise and saw he was ready. But his eyes told me, "Don’t be an asshole. This isn’t suicide night."

"Here I am, tough guy," the sailor said with a sneer. What are you going to do about it?"

I felt like the coward I had suddenly become, but I just looked him in the eye and said, "Forget it."

Thank God he did. The skinny little bastard laughed, got back in his car, waited for the two gorillas to stuff themselves in, and roared off into the night. God still loved me.

"Son-of-a-bitch, those were the two biggest bastards I ever saw," Paradise said. I laughed and said, "Hey Paradise, were you afraid of those two fat Japs?"

"Afraid? I almost crapped my pants. Half our battalion and Gamrak couldn’t take those two. You must be the dumbest bastard I’ve ever met, picking a loser fight like that," he said.

"Hey, buddy. That wasn’t the smartest thing I ever did," I told him, but it sure wasn’t as dumb as giving that broad all your dough to buy two hours of boredom and a long wait outside a dark beer joint."

Paradise laughed. "Let’s get drunk," he said. And we did.

Back on the ship, we watched flying fish do their thing off our port side and at night sat there, watching phosphorus boil up in the ship’s wake, always a beautiful sight. And we told each other how wonderful it was going to be to be at home at last.

Our ship docked in San Francisco and soon I was on a TWA four-banger headed for good old New York. When we circled left over Long Island and glided to a stop at Idylwylde, I knew Nancy would be there, beautiful and anxious and warm as a woman could be. She was there, all right. I was the happiest Seabee in the world, and she was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

My mom and dad were at the airport as well, so happy to welcome their world-traveling son home. But I couldn’t wait to get back to Inwood, spend a decent interval with my folks—and then drive off with Nancy to a very long-awaited welcome home.

Finally we were fed, talked out, and my parents agreed that we two young lovers could go out and be alone for a while.

I didn’t know that Nancy had arranged a little welcome home party at one of the local Irish bars we used to hang out in. But soon I was in the midst of a bunch of my beloved Longhorns and it was wonderful. For a while.

By this time thirteen guys from my crowd were in the service, but most of them were home and the other guys were all in college. It was a fine reunion. But something weird happened to me.

I was sitting in a booth in a rear room of the bar, in the center seat between Nancy and one of the other girls, when I suddenly got a serious case of claustrophobia or something similar. I started to get anxious, then really uptight and finally I had to get out of there. I excused myself and went out for some air. I can’t explain it, but for almost two years I had been isolated with only guys and small talk that was nothing like what I had been experiencing in that bar. It was crowded, noisy and stressful and I would have fought my way out of there in panic if I had had trouble leaving.

Nancy was frightened. All I could tell her is that it was too much too soon and I had to go somewhere quiet. Getting back to civilization was obviously going to take some time.

We drove to Nancy’s parents’ apartment. Her folks weren’t home. Finally we were alone. I kissed her and instead of it being wonderful it was scary. I was still too uptight for romance.

Nancy said, "I think you need a drink" and poured me a stiff one. I tossed it down without hesitation and had a couple more. The liquor did the trick. I took one look at her and almost cried at her beauty. She kissed me softly, then passionately and soon we were making love as if the incredibly long months of separation had not happened. It was marvelous and I thought I would never again be as happy as I was that night.

I had several weeks leave and was back to normal sooner than I thought. It was almost as if I had never left. But the clock kept ticking and soon it was time for me to leave for Korea. The war was over but not really. A truce had been signed but there were still kids getting killed in Korea in small skirmishes with guerrillas on small raiding parties. And we all believed the hostilities would break out in full force again momentarily. It was a very unfinished war.

I could not let my folks know I was going to Korea, not after they had lost Buddy. It would have been too much for them. So I had told them that I had been assigned to Japan.

"Isn’t that awfully close to Korea?" my mom asked. I told her my new outfit was strictly an noncombat battalion and that there was no chance of my going to the war area. Of course, I had not told my parents that I had revoked my sole surviving son status.

Nancy knew, and she and I also believed there was a very good chance that I would never come back. But she also respected my commitment to Buddy’s memory and knew that I had to go. Nevertheless, as we clung to each other in the airport, waiting for my plane to load, it was a heartbreaking experience. To this day, I get sad whenever I am in an airport. I know I’ll never get over that feeling.

In Frisco, after a short wait, I boarded an attack transport (troop ship) headed for Hawaii, then Japan. Then it would be a short hop to Korea by military aircraft.

I was now a second class petty officer, a Construction Mechanic Second Class, equal in rank to a staff sergeant in the Marine Corps or Army. My rank was considered by most Seabees to be the best rank in the Navy. As a second class petty officer, we were too high in rank to get scut duty and too low in rank to get very much crap from the officers, who usually dished it out to the chiefs. I was pretty happy about that and wondered how different it would be to be a military supervisor now, instead of a guy who did a lot of the dirty work.

Korea

It had been a long and irregular route, but at last I arrived in Korea. Though the fighting had formally stopped, neither side trusted the other worth spit. So as our plane touched down in a neutral zone somewhere in Korea, there were communist Korean soldiers there to count the GIs getting off the plane. As we disembarked, at long last I came face to face with my first communist officer. And if I had a weapon, I very likely would have been tempted to blow him away. He glanced at me and the other guys with disdain, I returned his look with one of pure hatred. All I could think about was this bastard could have been the one who killed Buddy. And I would have been happy to kill him on the spot.

Soon we were on another plane for a short hop to my new base, not far from Seoul, the capital of Korea, and just a few miles from the truce line, where our guys faced theirs every day, sometimes still getting into small shooting incidents where more young kids died on both sides.

My duty station, K-6 air base in Pyongtaek, was home for Marine jet fighters and prop driven aircraft. We Seabees were attached to the Marines of the First Marine Air Wing, Marine Air Group 12, but we had our own Seabee compound and work places. We did most of the construction around the base and my job was to keep our vehicles repaired and serviced. As a senior petty officer, I was placed in charge of the entire mechanic division. I had about 50 or more Seabees reporting indirectly or directly to me and I soon was learning to assume management responsibility. It was wonderful experience for a young man of 21, and what I learned there helped me succeed later in life.

My buddies and I went off base a lot, always armed, of course. There was still a lot of danger in that place. But after Kwajalein, I thought I was in heaven.

There were pretty girls waiting in the rice paddies and little villages around our base and they were business ladies. Two bucks would buy a "short time" and a fin would buy anything you could imagine.

If you were looking for a semi-permanent relationship, you could actually buy a young girl of about 14 or so from her parents, for about $100. The people were very poor and that hundred would buy them a new home, such as it was. I never sank so low as to even consider doing anything like that, but a few of the guys did. It was disgusting.

Our first day in Korea, we were mustered together and told about the place. An officer explained that it was still a combat zone and that though a tentative truce was in effect, it didn’t mean much. There was still a lot of shooting going on by diehards on both sides, and communist guerrillas were in the hills and mountains around our base. Occasionally they would come down and try to steal supplies and do in a few GIs. He assured us that when the air raid alarm sounded, we were to take off forthwith to our assigned foxholes and assume it was the real thing.

"There are no drills here in Korea," he said. "And when you hear that siren go off, know that it’s real and make sure you always have your weapon with you. You are very likely going to need it and if you don’t keep your head clear, you are likely to leave this place in a body bag."

Believe me, we were thoroughly impressed.

That very night, a few North Korean or Chinese MIGs made a wide turn and entered our air space and all hell broke loose all over Korea. A jet flying about 450 mph would be miles into our air space in seconds and we always had to assume it was the next round of the war starting. Before we Seabees got to our fox holes, our Marine Saber jets and Panther jets would be roaring off to meet the enemy. And we would sit in our foxholes for a hour or more before the all clear sounded and we could go back to our bunks. This happened almost every night in the beginning. We Seabees didn’t get much sleep. But the vets who had been there a while, brought their canteens filled with Old Grandad bourbon, and drank away the minutes. They weren’t worried at all, but we new guys were scared witless.

All I wanted to do was grab a truck or jeep and drive north to where Buddy had been killed. It was only about 60 or 70 miles from our base. But that would have to wait for the right opportunity. My officers had been made aware that I was itching to avenge my brother’s death and they weren’t about to let me take a trip north, at least not right away. I don’t know how they learned of my promise to Buddy, but they knew, I suppose one of my buddies mentioned it and asked them to keep an eye on me so I didn’t get myself killed doing something dumb.

Weeks went by and finally I got my chance. My company commander finally said I could go and try to find the place where my brother had died, but he warned me that on the map it appeared that it could be in enemy territory. He got me to promise that if it was, I would not try and go there. "You won’t last 60 seconds over that line if you try to cross it, and you damn well may start a firefight that will get a lot of guys killed trying to save your ass," he told me. I promised that I would do nothing stupid. And he let me go with a truck full of Seabees who were being allowed to visit Seoul for the day.

CM2 Bob Markey in Seoul 1954. The entire inside of the government building behind me has been bombed out.

Off we went. I was the senior petty officer in charge and responsible for seeing that my twenty or more Seabees got back to the base safely. 

We drove north on one of the two main north-south roads then in Korea, each of them merely a dusty, dirt road with no paving at all, at least until we got to Seoul.

It took about two hours to travel the 35 miles to that once beautiful city. As soon as we got there, we could see that it was beautiful no longer.

Every main building including the palace had been shot to hell by both sides as the allies or communists retook or lost the city to their enemies. Our planes and ships had decimated that city and either leveled or mostly destroyed every major building.

Much of the havoc was caused by the big 15- and 16-inch guns of battleships like the New Jersey and the Missouri (The Big MO) that, over a period of weeks, had lobbed thousands of its huge shells into the city trying to destroy the main railroad depot. Interestingly enough, that was probably the only thing they didn’t hit. When we finally retook the city, it was standing there as operational as ever.

My Seabees took off for parts unknown, looking for what they had come there for: girls, booze, good food and souvenirs. There was plenty of all of that waiting for them.

I drove the six-wheeler north of the city, trying to find a place called both Inji and Inje, where Buddy had caught his mortar round. Using a crude map, I finally came to as close to the place as I could figure. There were no signs around except for a few warning all who passed by that the enemy line was just to the north and that one should attempt to go no further.

I wound up in what seemed to be a fairly deserted spot. Then I came across some American soldiers who were on the line there. A sergeant asked me where I was headed and I told him. He said, "I believe the place you're looking for is about five miles up that road. But if you are thinking about going there, think again. There are about 5,000 enemy gooks up ahead who will see to it that you don’t make it.

 
Outskirts of Seoul, 1954

So, after talking to him for a while, I had to acknowledge to myself that I had come as close as I would ever get to Buddy’s initial grave. To go further would be just committing suicide and there was nothing at all to gain from that. So I quietly said a prayer, talked to Buddy there for a while, and left.

I had done what I came to do. I had "met" with Buddy in Korea. All promises were kept and I was finally at peace.

I faced north, all by myself and said, "So long, Buddy. I love you!" Then I saluted and drove back to Seoul.

When I got to where I was supposed to pick up the rest of the guys, I was not surprised to see all of them there, some a little drunk and all as happy as hell. They had found everything they had hoped to find in Seoul and were busy regaling each other with true and perhaps not so true tales of adventure and of the great roll in the hay they had enjoyed.

We were about to take off for K-6 w