Sunday, May 30, 2010

The Last Hill

It started very innocently. At telephone call asking for information. The call opened up memories long hidden in a deep compartment ofmy psyche. The call erased 46 years. “What was it like in Korea?” A college student writing a history paper on a segment of history of which not too many people know; a professor challenging students to look into what has rather unhappily become known as the “forgotten war.” The need for some first hand information. The call, the student, the professor, the need, all converged on me.

It took time to answer. Digging away all those years and finding in the shoveled space the feeling, experiences so long past was a task happy and fearful. Happy because to share a part of ones life is always a fulfilling experience. Fearful because I was not quite sure what unwanted memories would bob their heads up from the sea of so many years. Memories safely tucked away should not be let into the light. They have been dealt with, let them rest. This would be wise.

“What was it like?” I remembered the fear. It was the constant companion. Fear was the cloud under which we all lived. Sometimes the fear gripped you in its vice like jaws, sometimes it was subtle. At times the fear was like a hurricane, blowing and screaming inside of you. The fear always challenged you. Who was going to wing the fear or that inner part of oneself which whispered “do not let it control you.”

One learned about fear very quickly. Learned that it could paralyze, that it could destroy the human spirit. This bed fellow which arrived in the heart the moment you realized that someone else was trying to kill you. You learned that there was no escaping it. The fear became part of who you were. Some where in the shadows of the psyche it was always there. To deny its presence would be to deny a reality. To deny it would be opening yourself and those around you to danger.

A strange paradox about fear. It could also be your friend. You learned that fear when controlled, and not controlling, had a dynamic all its own. It could drive the human heart to deeds which were thought to be impossible. Fear gave life to a deep sense of responsibility because all shared it. No matter what race, creed or color, the common denominator was that we all shared the same fear. Because of this shared fear there was a mutuality of life protecting. Because of this sharing someone else’s life became almost an extension of your own. This is why death in combat brings up an extra sadness. Looking at the dead body some where in that mysterious entity we call the human person we see ourselves.

As I sat in my silent and non-fearful room trying to answer the student’s question the fearful memories came back. The silence of my room was shattered by the sounds of war. Exploding shells, shouting voices, cries of pain, filled my room. It was then that I realized the fear had never really been forgotten. It was waiting to be called into the daylight. My hands did not sweat as they did those many years ago. The pressure behind the eyes was not there. The unthinking movements were absent. The fear was real. The sounds were real. Can all those years and all those miles vanish so quickly? Is it possible that letters forming words popping from a typewriter can form a bridge which spans all the years and miles? It was no longer “now.” It was “then”. It was no longer “here”, it was “there”.

The sounds stopped. It was now. It was here. My thoughts changed. It was no longer the fear that captured my memory. It was the cold. Fear could become a friend. Fear could transcend the moment and travel to somewhere
Higher. The cold was never a friend. It was always with you. Fear had its moments of highs and lows. The cold was always the same.

There was not escape from the cold. It was everywhere. The occasional bit of warmth was quickly neutralized by the wind blowing through the bunkers.
As many new things were learned about fear, so cold revealed its nature. The desire to find relief from its biting stabbing fingers could become obsessive. The dehumanization which it worked on the body, the numbing of the spirit so that at a point you were so cold that no longer would the spirit acknowledge its presence, a protection God build into us. Skin hardened and peeling without feeling, hands and feet blued, lips chapped-bleeding and always the dream, the hope that soon there would be warmth.

I remember looking out over the valley and seeing fires in the enemy lines. They were cold. A moment of bonding took place. The enemy was human. They were cold. They were afraid. The impersonalization which is such a necessary ingredient of war disappeared. They were huddled around the fire trying to get the last flicker of warmth. They were talking about the same things we talked about, getting home. They had mothers, fathers, family, wives, girl friends. The cold was the common factor between enemies which made them human.

The fear and the cold lived inside of bodies without sleep. Sleep, that simple thing which over the years has been taken for granted, was a prized possession. It was sort after at any time, any place. It was more important than food. Sometimes there were days without sleep. The eyes became dazed. The brain numbed. There was no thinking. Unthinking, trained reactions were all one could hope for. Constantly trying to find the last scrap of energy which would make the next step possible was a constant task. One realized that sleep walking was becoming a reality in life. What the cold and fear had not eaten the days without sleep would.

Life was brought to the very basics. It was stripped of the comforts and even the necessities of life. Common denominator had been found. Warmth, sleep, freedom from fear, these were the important things. Having reduced life to these bare minimums one also came to realize the great dignity of life. The accruements of culture seemed to trivialize life. It got hidden under a lot of “things.” In some strange way this reducing life its fundamentals went to elevate it.

The fear, the cold the sleeplessness all lived on a hill. I wondered, as I sat in my room bringing up these old images, what they, the hills, looked like now. Are they green? Are there trees? I wondered whether these long ago places of death had turned into places of life. Were the marks of war now covered with the signs of a hoped for peace? It was on the hills that our constant companions were with us. It was in the dust, the mud, the snow, of the hill that we shared our lives the cold, the fear and the sleeplessness.

My answer to the student’s question was complete. The fax machine sent the pages quickly. All those years were lived in such a short time. All those miles spanned in a blinked eye.

1 comment:

  1. When I was a little boy I used to ask you about your time in Korea with the eyes of a child wondering what it was like in the war. It seemed so exciting then... I would sometimes listen to the stories of Veterans of tow world wars and this "not-a-war".

    After rereading "The Last Hill" I think I understand why when it was still so fresh and clear in your mind, that you were reluctant to tell the tales.

    To all those who have fought and died for freedom and to a day when no mother will hang a Gold Star in the window ever again!

    Johhny

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