Wondering what became of my old service buddies

Walker was 6 foot 6 and had kind of a mean streak. There was no point in trying to stop him near the hoop.

A deep, wide trench running across the mountain top in South Korea where I was stationed was said to mark the 38th Parallel. The war had been over for six months by the time I arrived in January, 1954 to join 15 or 20 other guys at a radio directionfinding site. Our job was to help lost pilots get their airplanes home.

There was a base camp at the bottom, too, with six or eight airmen encamped. Truck and jeep maintenance was done there. My place was at the top.

I think of those guys around Memorial Day and at other times, too. Some of their names were Tarpinian, Lombardo, Coleman, Nance, Dumonthier, Tex, Blakeley, Chance, Krah, Smitty, Cookie — who was Oscar Cook, a great kid, 17 years old — and another Cookie, an older guy who could never find his teeth who was our cook. The boss was a second lieutenant known only as “Lieutenant.’’ He was a scholarly-looking dude, an ROTC officer. He was a terrific leader and proved it more than once.

Three more guys – Walker, Gilmore and Shorty were Air Policemen who had charge of two large German Shepherd guard dogs.

We didn’t have much to do, besides take turns manning the apparatus and radio office, a small, sturdy shack, located on the highest place on the mountain. We played a lot of cards and went swimming on the hot days in a natural pool located in a stream halfway down the mountain. It was only about 12 feet across but very deep and very cold. We boxed a lot too, in the mess hall at night.

Now and again, Frank Smith (Smitty) and I would walk along the trench, looking for articles of war we might spot, but we never found anything worth saving, not even a spent cartridge. We’d walk along talking and wondering how many guys our age (19) got killed on this spot or that spot.

Behind the Quonset hut that was our living and sleeping quarters and the attached mess hall was a flat, hard-packed surface that we used as our basketball court. A sturdy pole, wooden backboard and hoop stood at the near end. Basketball was our chief activity when the weather was right.

We had lively games. Walker and Gilmore were tall men. Walker was 6 foot 6 and had kind of a mean streak. There was no point in trying to stop him near the hoop. The only guy that could do that was

his pal Gilmore. We always made sure they were on different teams.

Gilmore was a good guy. One day, we were all swimming. We didn’t know Gilmore couldn’t swim until he stepped off an underwater ledge and started to drown. Luckily, we were near the edge and a couple of us were able to grab his arm and pull him out.

One night, we had the gloves out and Walker was itching to fight, but none of us would step in with him. Finally, Chance, a burly corporal from Louisiana, said, “OK, Walker, I’ll box you.’’

It was a one-round, one-punch fight. Walker — so tall and strong — faked and then swung from the side. He hit Chance on the button, knocked him flat . . . and cold.

Somehow, after that, Walker gained favor with the rest of us and seemed to lose his tendency to bully. He had shown concern after the KO and immediately picked Chance off the floor like a rag doll, saying, “Whoa, you all right there, boy?’’

Soon, our hitches in Korea were up and we dispersed, never to see one another again.

When Memorial Day arrives each year I visit one cemetery or another and think of the guys I knew in Korea, especially Smitty, who loaned me two bucks before I left the mountain and was reassigned to a base in Seoul. I promised I’d send it to him but procrastinated and finally lost his address. I feel bad about it, but I’m afraid it’s too late now because those of us still chugging along are almost halfway through our 80s. I wonder how many are still with us and if they remember those things that I remember.

Smitty was from Missouri. If you live in that state, and read this, and you run into Frank Smith, tell him I’m still holding his money, will you?