Korea, 1950
Korea, 1950
Ken and his father entered the cafeteria near his father’s building on the lower portion of the Groton Base. Ken’s father guided him towards a long table set at the back of the cafeteria. A couple of men, slightly younger than Ken’s father, sat at the table.
His father frowned at them.
“Got to get up, guys,” his father said, stopping a few feet away from the table. “Combat vets only.”
“Seriously, Mike?” one of them asked.
“Does it look like I’m joking?” Ken’s father snapped. “This table was only for combat vets before I started here. So get the fuck up and out,” Ken’s father snarled, jerking the thumb of his free hand over his shoulder.
The two men grumbled, but they picked up their trays as they stood.
Ken’s father ignored them as they left, helping Ken pull a chair over instead.
“They’re morons,” Ken’s father said, putting his coffee down. “You sure you don’t want anything?”
Ken nodded.
His father shrugged. “You’ll need to eat a big dinner tonight, okay?”
Again Ken nodded.
“Gotta try and put some weight on you before football starts up again. No more tucking weights into your pants to make weigh-in. Ah hell,” Ken’s father said, grinning, “there’s Bill.”
Ken turned in his seat and saw a man older than his father walking into the cafeteria. He wore a gray sweater, black slacks and he had a curious, awkward way of walking. Bill’s hair was frazzled, a pair of reading glasses banging on his chest, suspended by a golden glasses’ chain. He rubbed at his chin idly, looking around but not really seeing anything.
“Bill,” Ken’s father called out, and Ken could hear the frown in his father’s voice.
Bill stood still for a moment, his hands opening and closing at his side.
“Bill,” Ken’s father said again, pitching his voice a little deeper and sending it rolling across the linoleum floor. Others turned their heads to look, but Bill remained where he stood.
Ken heard his father inhale just as Bill turned to face them. A smile, absent of most of its teeth, appeared on Bill’s face, and the man started his curious walk towards them.
“Saw a couple of shitbirds at our table earlier, Mike,” Bill said as he reached the table. The older man grunted, pulled out a chair and sat down heavily in it.
He looked at Ken’s father, nodding, then to Ken. Bill winked at him. “Don’t realize important toes are until their gone, kid.”
“Toes?”
“Toes,” Bill answered.
“Bill fought in Korea, Ken,” Ken’s father said. “You know when Korea was?”
Ken nodded. “Between World War Two and Vietnam.”
“Good job, kid,” his father grinned.
Ken felt his cheeks go red and he saw that Bill was nodding.
“Nicely done, Ken,” Bill said. “Most people don’t even know there was a Korean War. Fucking Truman. Called the whole thing a police action so he wouldn’t piss off the commies. Fuck them.” Bill shook his head and swore again
“What?” Ken’s father asked.
“Forgot my coffee.”
“I’ll get it,” Ken’s father said. “Want anything else?”
“Blueberry muffin,” Bill said. He pulled a five dollar bill out of his walled and passed it to Ken’s dad. Looking over at Ken, Bill asked, “You like chocolate milk?”
“Yes sir,” Ken said.
“Get the boy a chocolate milk on me, Mike,” Bill said.
Ken’s father gave a curt nod and headed off towards the kitchen and the register.
“You’re dad says you like to read, Ken,” Bill said.
Ken nodded. “Yes sir.”
“Military history?”
“Yes sir.”
“Have you read about Korea?” Bill asked softly.
“Only a little,” Ken answered.
Bill nodded. “Ever seen the name Chosin in your readings?”
Ken shook his head.
“Coldest place on Earth, far as I’m concerned,” Bill said, a small smile stealing onto his face. “Terrible cold, son. Terrible cold. Settles into your bones forever. You’re never warm ‘cause you never forget that cold. No. Not Chosin’s cold.” Bill chuckled. “You know what we call ourselves?” Bill asked.
Ken shook his head.
“The Chosin Frozen,” Bill said, nodding. “When we were up around that fucking reservoir you’d drop your pants, shit, and before that turd had time to hit the snow, well, it was already frozen.”
“Talking about Chosin?” Ken’s father asked as he sat down at the table, putting Bill’s coffee down near the man and a bottle of chocolate milk in front of Ken.
“Thanks, Dad,” Ken said, twisting the cap off. “Thank you, sir.”
“Name’s Bill, son,” Bill said.
“Okay, Bill,” Ken grinned.
“And yes, Mike, talking about Chosin,” Bill said. He reached for the coffee cup with his right hand Ken saw that the last two fingers were missing. Scarred skin had been stretched over where the digits should have been.
Bill laughed as he picked up the cup. “Noticed those, huh, kid?”
Ken nodded.
“Frostbite,” Bill said. “That’s what happens when you take too long clearing a jam in your rifle at Chosin.” Bill drank some of his coffee. “Lost all of my toes, too,” Bill continued. “All ten of those little piggies turned black and had to be taken off.”
“Don’t show him your feet, Bill,” Ken’s father said simply, taking a drink of his own coffee.
Bill frowned, but nodded. “Well, anyway, kid, take it from me, it’s not a pretty sight.”
Ken drank his chocolate milk and silence fell over the table. Ken’s father watched Bill, Ken watched his father, and Bill seemed to be looking through the concrete brick wall that seemed to be a requirement of cafeterias everywhere.
“It was so cold there,” Bill said softly, still looking through the wall. “So damn cold.”
Ken looked to his father, who shook his head and raised a finger to his lips.
“Our weapons didn’t fire right,” Bill continued, “and the bodies got stiff so quick. Just blocks of meat, frozen like broken toys. And those gooks,” Bill hissed. “Those fucking chinks were everywhere. Tens of thousands of them. They’d blow those damned horns and attack. Sometimes you couldn’t see them, but you could hear them. Thousands of feet on the snow. And Christ, you could smell the slant eyed sons of bitches, too. They smelled like garlic. Just fucking garlic.” Absently Bill drank some of his coffee. “I hate the smell of garlic. Scares the shit out of me to this day.”
Bill drank some more of his coffee, looked down at his cup and smiled. “I’m sorry, Ken, what were we talking about?”
“Football,” Ken’s father said, answering smoothly. “Just trying to figure out if the Patriots have a chance this season.”
“Probably not,” Bill frowned. “Probably not.” The old man twisted in his seat, nose wrinkling.
“What is it?” Ken’s father asked, looking around.
“Some asshole’s eating garlic,” Bill spat. Shaking his head he picked up his coffee. Bill looked at Ken. “You like garlic?”
Ken shook his head.
“Good,” Bill grunted. He set down his coffee and massaged the stumps of his fingers. “Good,” he said, and smiled.