Showing posts with label Korean War. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Korean War. Show all posts

Saturday, March 5, 2022

Lots of war and not much peace...

Written by Jim Heffernan for the Duluth News Tribune/3-5-22

 

I have decided to write part of my autobiography, Here. Today.

 

I was born in Duluth one month after Nazi Germany invaded Poland, starting World War II. America wasn’t directly involved until two years later when Japan bombed Pearl Harbor. By then I was 2 years old, and I remember nothing about it.

 

So I was introduced into this world in wartime. World War II went on long enough for me to grow into being aware of the war. Fragments of childhood memory include seeing a lot of men in uniform and the deaths of two soldiers, sons of our church my family knew. I wanted a children’s military uniform and got a sailor suit. Lots of children wore little uniforms.

 

I remember the rationing of certain foods and gasoline and the saving of tin cans. My father sold our car because of gasoline rationing and tire shortages. We took the bus.

 

I was four when President Roosevelt died, the war still raging in Europe and the Pacific. I remember grownups talking sadly about the president’s death. And those grownups — mainly my parents — talked a lot about the war’s end, when the U.S. dropped atomic bombs on Japan in August 1945. By then I had completed kindergarten.

 

Everyone seemed relieved that the war was over. It was a joyful time. No more war forever, it seemed.

 

Five years later, when I was 10, the Korean War broke out. They didn’t want to actually call it a war so it was mainly referred to as the “Korean conflict.” My brother had graduated from high school and was concerned about being drafted. All healthy males in America were subject to the draft at age 18, war or no war, for decades. Unless, of course, they had bone spurs.

 

Things seemed to settle down a little after the Korean War came to an end following three years of fighting, About 40,000 American service personnel were killed, many more wounded. Duluth’s Marine reserve unit was hard hit. I was getting into my teens and soon would have to register for the military draft myself.

 

But throughout that period something called the Cold War was ongoing, with ubiquitous references to possible nuclear war with Russia. No actual fighting, though, involving the U.S. Everyone was relieved when Soviet Premier Joseph Stalin died, but it didn’t do much good, as Hungary found out a few years later.

 

What is more, there was this Indochina war going on throughout the rest of the 1950s. It seemed awfully far away and remote until America’s leaders started grumbling about the spread of communism in Asia (falling dominoes) and began sending more and more American troops to “advise” the leaders of a place called South Vietnam, under siege from the communist north of that country.

 

Oops, by now I’m of draftable age, but was deferred from conscription because I was in college. After I finished college in 1962, I joined the National Guard to avoid the draft (six months active duty vs. two years) and recall being told in boot camp that you guys better pay attention to your training because things are getting hot in a place called Vietnam.

 

I had joined shortly after tensions between the U.S. and Soviet Union resulted in the building of the Berlin Wall, and the closest most historians believe we ever came to nuclear war, the Cuban Missile Crisis of 1961. Dangerous times. War and rumors of war, as the Good Book says, portending the Armageddon.

 

The war in Vietnam kept right on going though and by the time it ended in 1975 with the fall of Saigon (we didn’t win), some 55,000 American service personnel, majority of them my age, had been killed. Their names are on a black wall in Washington, D.C.; you can’t visit without getting choked up. I served in guard and reserve units right here in Duluth until 1968 when my obligation ended. Whew. Never got called up.

 

 

I was getting too old for military service in the 1970s and had married and started a family. The next several years seemed pretty peaceful, and besides, I was busy being a husband, father and tending to making a living.

 

But that pesky Middle East kept flaring up and finally boiled over in 1990 in a conflict we now call the First Iraq War and also known as Operation Desert Storm. Short lived, and not many casualties, but war nevertheless. It drove Iraqi dictator Saddam Hussein out of Kuwait and kept American military personnel busy over there for several years.

 

And can’t forget the 1990s trouble in the Balkans, the ethnic cleansing, the disintegration of Yugoslavia, the revival of centuries old grudges among the populations of such places as Serbia, Croatia and Slovenia.

 

Then in 2003 American leaders declared the Second Gulf War in Iraq in response to the September 2001, attacks on the World Trade Center and other targets, including the Pentagon in Washington, D.C. No one has ever shown that Iraq had anything to do with the 9/11 attacks. That one went on until 2011, concurrently with the war in Afghanistan that also got going in 2001 and just ended last year. Many Americans died and were wounded in both theaters.

 

I’m almost out of space, but not wars. Here we go again. I need hardly mention that a couple of weeks ago war erupted in Ukraine, started by Russia for no good reason, just like all the rest. America is not directly involved with troops this time around. We’ll see if that lasts. And hey, they’re back fighting in Europe where this personal account started.

 

That’s my life in war and very little peace. I’m pretty old now, but feeling fine. I figure there could be a couple more wars before I call it quits. Stay tuned.

 

Jim Heffernan is a former Duluth News Tribune news and opinion writer and continues as a columnist. He can be reached at jimheffernan@jimheffernan.org and maintains a blog here at www.jimheffernan.org. You may find other Duluth News Tribune posts by searching Heffernan on the DNT site and HERE.

Thursday, January 21, 2016

Geography 101...

How are things in Burkina Faso?
 By Jim Heffernan

When the Korean War broke out in 1950 – I was quite young at the time – I’d never heard of a place called Korea. There were a lot of places I’d never heard of at that tender age, of course, but you accumulate knowledge as you grow older, and at least learn the names of various outposts as they show up in the news.

There even comes a day when your formal education is complete that you kind of figure you know where everything worth knowing about is on the globe. Well, not every little place, but at least countries around the world. Some might not be very familiar, but at least you know what continent some place in the news is on. If you’ve got a dental appointment in Samarra, you know right where to go, but I don’t recommend it.

So recently when there was news of unrest in a place called Burkina Faso, I was surprised I’d never even heard of it. Nor had I heard of Burkina Faso’s capital city, Ouagadougou. (Pity the poor broadcast journalist trying to pronounce that one.)

Where have I been, you ask?

I sometimes wonder myself. Here I thought I knew where most places were and this entire country in West Africa, with perhaps the most difficult-to-spell capital city on the planet, totally escapes me.

It set me thinking for a change, and I realize that many of the places I thought I knew about went and changed their names when I wasn’t paying attention. A check with Google reveals that Burkina Faso used to be called Upper Volta. Well, why didn’t they say so! I remember Upper Volta quite well. Isn’t that where we get our electricity from? Or is that Lower Volta?

This has also happened elsewhere. When I studied geography back in the Paleozoic Era, there was an island off the southern tip of India called Ceylon. So what happens? Suddenly it’s called Sri Lanka. When I first heard it called that I thought Sri Lanka was a tall skinny fashion model, maybe married to David Bowie, maybe not.

Then there was Burma. I knew Burma. It was on the road to Mandalay, where the flyin’ fishes play, and the sun comes up like thunder out of China ‘cross the bay. Suddenly, and without warning, no more Burma (although it’s still a pretty good shaving cream). They changed it to Myanmar. How confusing is that?

Moving over to India, what in the world happened to Bombay? I’ll tell you what happened to Bombay. They now call it Mumbai. Why? I don’t know. To confuse those of us who had been complacent in thinking we knew where most things are, or were?

And don’t get me started on Zimbabwe. Poor Cecil Rhodes, who had an entire country named after him, only to have Rhodesia become Zimbabwe. 

This sort of thing has been bothering me for a long time and I’m happy to get it off my chest. Such things rarely happen in the United States of America. A place gets a name and sticks with it. Duluth. Chicago. Miami. And when American cities change their names, it makes sense.

Take a town in New Mexico formerly known as Hot Springs. In 1950 it changed its name to Truth or Consequences, after a radio quiz show of the day. The reason? Too many honeymooners with the old name.

Enough.

Tuesday, November 9, 2010

Confessions of a quasi-veteran on Veterans Day...

By Jim Heffernan

This is a big week for American veterans, as I was reminded in a church service on Sunday (Nov. 7). In recognition of upcoming Veterans Day, they asked all veterans in the congregation to stand and be honored with a round of applause.

I didn’t stand, although I am a veteran of sorts. I served the Army, if not IN the Army, for six years in the 1960s, but only for six months plus two weeks every summer on active duty. Being a weekend warrior (oh yes, we spent one weekend a month on “active duty” too), I have never felt that I am a bona fide, genuine, real, 100 percent veteran.

So I didn’t stand with the grizzled old vets (most appeared to be of the Korean Conflict era) when the preacher invited them to rise. My father would have stood right up, though. He was a proud veteran of service during World War I, the end of which – eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month of 1918 – is the reason Veterans Day is observed on Nov. 11.

My father was a sergeant and waiting on the East Coast to be shipped to France and trench warfare when the armistice was announced. Instead he and a few buddies did New York City, the only time he was ever there, and then came home, proud veterans. He was a charter member of the American Legion when it was organized in the 1920s and remained a loyal member for the rest of his life, which ended in 1971.

His Army service, in the telling, was a high point of his life. It was not such a high point of my life, but certainly memorable. As a member of the Minnesota National Guard (and later Army Reserve), I only had to serve six months on REAL active duty, but it’s the worst six months as a trainee.

Going from enlistee to soldier was accomplished in those days (as it no doubt is today in somewhat different form) in eight weeks of basic training, or, as some call it, “boot camp.”

Thinking all of this over in the intervening years, I have come to the conclusion that I was not cut out to be a soldier. Maybe it was because I was three or four years older than the majority of the men in my basic training unit. I had graduated from college and many of the other guys were fresh out of high school.

I think the older you are the more you question and analyze the techniques the Army used to mold civilians into soldiers. At that time, the main technique was fear, administered by Army-sanctioned bullies called “drill sergeants” who, in addition to their apparent 24/7 meanness and anger, were the finest cursers I have ever known, with the oaths directed indiscriminately at individuals and groups. Many intimate body parts were mentioned, in addition to some of their purposes, including procreation.

It was not a good sign – at least I didn’t think it was after being trucked into a quadrant of buildings (barracks left over from World War II) -- that three of the sergeants administering our eight-week punishment were named Savage, Poison and Drear. I am not making that up, although I have altered the spelling a bit for effect. Poison spelled it Poisson, and Drear’s name was spelled Dreher.

Theirs was not an easy job, having to act angry all the time, leading troops on long marches through muddy Fort Leonard Wood, Mo., overseeing maintenance of barracks that involved constant mopping, wiping and polishing (including toilets) on the parts of their charges, getting up at 4:30 every morning in time to shake the bunks of sleepy soldiers-to-be.

In retrospect, I almost feel sorry for the sergeants, but that didn’t occur to me at the time. I felt sorry for me. Oh well, it was an experience.

One of the most interesting experiences was watching the sergeants’ favorite recruit, a Private Stahr, get out of almost all of the training due to alleged football injuries and other ailments. Stahr was a bulldog looking guy with a thick gorilla-style neck, who, it was rumored around the barracks, had been a professional football player -- nobody knew what team. Bart Starr was a Green Bay Packers standout in that era and the similarity in names rubbed off on our Stahr, for no sensible reason, but it did.

He did look like he could clean the clock of anyone who challenged him, and I think the sergeants were in awe of him, even a little afraid to get tough with him. The result was that Stahr spent most of his time in the barracks, reading and relaxing, while the rest of us tromped off – often at double time -- on what seemed like death marches. It was explained that Stahr’s old football injuries had cropped up, but, as the sergeants often put it, if Stahr could participate in the training he’d show you wimps what a real man was like.

I wonder if Stahr would have stood up last Sunday in church to be honored as a veteran. He was a six-monther like me who, it was rumored, would be drafted by the National Football League as soon as he got out of the National Guard, not sure which team, or if the injuries that prevented him from the tough stuff of boot camp would have healed in time for the next gridiron season.

But, as stated, I did not stand up to be honored. I looked around at the old vets who did stand up with great respect. Some had undoubtedly been shot at in Korea, and laid their lives on the line. Some might have spent their military time behind a typewriter. Armies need both.

So happy Veterans Day, or, as my father always put it, “Armistice Day.” Good thing they changed the name. There have been at least six wars involving America since 1918, including the two going on right now.

Monday, February 16, 2009

Mash Revisited...

Today’s (Feb. 16) Duluth News Tribune web site includes, in Andrew Krueger's “News Tribune Attic” feature, an interview story I did in 1974 with Larry Linville of the MASH TV-show cast. Linville, who played Maj. Burns on MASH, came to Duluth as part of a nationwide tour publicizing the show.

I remember the interview well -- it was held in a conference room at KDLH TV, the CBS affiliate. There were several others -- four or five -- in the room, a few of them just fans of MASH who worked at KDLH. It was difficult to interview him under those circumstances, with the others fawning all over him. That explains why there are almost no direct quotes in the feature story.

Linville was a total jerk, kind of surly and condescending at the same time. Maybe he was tired. He made a big deal about how he had attended the Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts in London and was a serious actor and not just some sitcom character. Must have been a frustrated Shakespearian. None of that is reflected in the story.

I was also hampered by the fact that I wasn't a fan of MASH, and had only seen the program once -- the week Linville came to town -- as preparation for interviewing him. I thought MASH imposed Vietnam-era values regarding war on the Korean War, when those values were not widespread in America in 1950-'53.

I recall that Linville died a few years ago, so I can't libel him here.

Jim