The Small Inhappy War in Company A pg 2

The Small Unhappy War In Company A - continued from page one

When Sergeant Major Redeye saw the company jumping back into the trenches, he tried desperately to round us up and send us back. But living in the hills we had become like the rats of the hills. Redeye chased the back of this one and then that one until he was standing alone.

When we were pulled out of the line, Sergeant Major Redeye had his revenge. Though all the other companies of the regiment were dismissed after early morning inspection, he drilled us for more than two hours on the frozen rice paddies. Through it all Cooper fared the worst. The Sergeant Major shouted continuously at him:

"Pick it up, Cooper. Stand straight, Cooper."

When he singled him out for a dressing down, he always began with, "You dozy little man."

Through each harangue, Cooper looked straight ahead, never flinching, standing as ramrod straight as a rotund 5'3 " soldier can. But his joy had left him, the comical mimicry, the absurd wisecrack by which he could raise the morale of the whole company were no longer heard.

One night Sergeant Major Redeye caught a cold and began to sneeze. Sometimes, instead of saying "A-a-a-a-t-e-enn-shun" he would say "A-a-a-a-at-e-enn-shoo" his voice trailing off to a whisper.

When his cold became worse, we thought we were going to get a vacation from the drilling. But each day we were disappointed. No matter what the weather, he would be out there: red-faced, runny-eyed, shouting commands.

One day the colonel ordered a cleanup of all the beer bottles in the A Company area. When we finished, hundreds of bottles had been piled, more or less, like pulpwood on the parade square.

Meanwhile, the sergeant major's cold was getting worse. His bird-like voice sometimes broke when he gave commands. In conversation, he hardly spoke above a whisper. Before going any further with this story, I want you to understand that army boots are the toughest boots in the world. A college in Nova Scotia banned them because they destroyed the floors of the buildings. I remember a landlady in Edmonton who put up a sign: "No war boots in my home." Army boots have soles one inch thick, with iron toe and heel caps.

By the time the colonel arrived to inspect the area, we had already been on the parade square for an hour. The sergeant major was decked out in a brand new blue and gold regimental scarf, a pressed uniform— something unheard of so close to the front—and boots unsullied by the Korean mud. The instant the colonel got out of his jeep Redeye marched us straight for all those bottles. Thirty meters away he gave the first part of the command. "A-a-a-a-a-b-o-o-ut!"

We waited for the rest, knowing intuitively it wasn't going to come, and remembering the scores of small injustices at the hands of Sergeant Major Redeye. Two Korean labourers were piling bottle on bottle, re-building the three-feet high rows so they wouldn't topple. The sky was grey, threatening snow. The bottles shone dully. Just before we were upon them, the two Koreans turned towards us, caught a glimpse of 100 determined faces, heard the thunder of two hundred marching feet.

They ran, fled to safety.

In a matter of seconds, we reduced the three-foot high rows of bottles to a heap of rubble. We marched towards an opening between the mess tent and the cooks' quarters, towards the terraced rice paddies sloping down to the ImJin River . "A-a-a-a-a-a-b-o-o-ut...” he shouted again. The last part of the command stuck in his throat; he had lost his voice.

We marched through the cooks' clothesline, snapping it like a string. Underwear and dishcloths caught the barrels of our rifles and flapped like flags as we marched to the ImJin. A Canadian artillery battery across the Imjin had been firing most of the morning, but now the guns were silent, waiting it seemed for this small anecdote of the human struggle to play itself out before getting on with the big war.

And then it happened, suddenly, spontaneously. Up and down the ranks of this run-away company, soldiers began their ineloquent imitations of Woody Woodpecker. "Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha." Our boots were splattered with mud, we were out of step, and as Cooper would later recall, "We weren't very pretty." But our spirits were soaring. We went 200 meters across the rice paddies before the sergeant major got his voice back.

“Turn.”

We turned, marched back past the mess tent, back through the glass, reducing it to a pile of powder. I caught sight of the sergeant major through the comer of my eye as we passed him. Every vein in his neck bulged. Though he was gasping desperately, not a word would come.

Finally, he pleaded "Halt."

The long straggling line that was our company stood still. Soldiers from other companies, odds and sods from our own company, stood in two's and three's, watching with astonishment from the high ground and along the dusty road.

They waited.

We waited.

Standing by the company commander's tent, the colonel waited. Suddenly, the sergeant major's voice came back. "Diss...," he shouted. Though the company was in disarray, he breathed in deeply, thrust his chest out and threw his shoulders back proudly. But when he tried to shout the final part of the command, there was only a wheeze and a cough. Knowing the sergeant major had had enough, we quietly broke off and went back to our tents without waiting for the rest of the command.

Next day we mustered in platoons rather than as a company. Our lieutenant told us the two hours of drill had been cancelled and Sergeant Major Redeye would be leaving and taking up new duties at Baker echelon. He said we shouldn't have done what we did to our sergeant major, that we wouldn't survive the front lines if we tried to get even with every officer or NCO we thought had wronged us. What I understood better than justice at that moment was the absence of anger in the lieutenant's voice. The small unhappy war in Company A was over.

Terry Meagher went to Korea as reinforcement to the First Battalion, Royal Canadian Regiment and finished his tour with 3 RCR. After airborne training and the completion of his three-year military term of engagement, he attended university—graduating from three different institutions. He taught, including 21 years at an agricultural college. In 1991 he started a farm publication and book publishing company, now managed by his son.