Jan/Feb 2009 - Korean War Veterans Association

home state of Oregon, where he went to college.
They married in 1956.
Sara cared for their two children while Dick,
who has a masters degree in social work with
an emphasis in mental health, supported the
family with a 25-year career as a supervisor
of Winnet County Clinical Services and a psychotherapist
in private practice, something he
still does part time.
David Nooe had to take some poetic license
with his parents’ story, because it was destined
as a production for middle-schoolers.
The soldiers don’t carry guns, the war gore is
off stage, and the Marines are singing in the
battlefield. But, judging from the standing ovation
for both the school production and the
couple behind the story, David Nooe accomplished
his mission as both music teacher
and devoted son.
Reach Dick Nooe at 567 East Peckham
Road, Neenah, WI 54956, (920) 725-7102
We remember to
remember Leroy
Back in the Jan/Feb 2006 issue, pp. 31
& 57, we published a story, “I Remember
Leroy,” by Leroy Sikorski. We did not,
however, run his photo with the story.
Let us correct that oversight here.
Leroy Sikorski
A walk down a road near Pusan
Memories of an old Soldier: a walk
back in time.
By Eddie Deerfield
As a 1st Lieutenant, I commanded a
10-man detachment of the 1st
Radio Broadcasting and Leaflet Group,
based in 1951-52 on the summit of a hill
overlooking the city of Pusan and the
harbor. The detachment was responsible
for working with the staff of Station
HLKA of the Korean Broadcasting
System in preparing broadcasts beamed
into North Korea. We were a field unit
of GHQ’s psychological warfare operations.
The breakfast run for a three-quarterton
truck to take us to the CP Mess
about a mile away near the railway station
in Pusan was scheduled to leave at
0730. I was often up and dressed by
0630 and, rather than wait, would walk
down the hill. The temperature one
February morning was in the low 40s,
there was a light wind, and a weak sun
was shining.
The road was steep and heavily rutted,
lined with flimsy stalls made of rice
straw, mud and frame. The local folks
displayed a variety of legal and black
market goods, from vegetables and
dried squid to tires and diesel generators.
Odors of offal, garbage and human
excrement were heavy, mingled with
the smells of croaker and bean cakes
smoking in the open stalls. Even at this
hour the road was bustling with people
and bullock carts, a drab montage of
brown, black and white, brightened here
and there by the vibrant colors of a
woman’s dress.
A cluster of very young children in
short jackets cut from GI wool blankets,
their legs and feet bare in the nearfreezing
temperatures, seemed impervious
to the cold—except that they all had
runny noses. As I passed, they greeted
me with a chorus of “Hello,
okay....hello, okay.” Women coming
toward me up the slope were seemingly
tireless, many balancing 10-gallon tins
of water on their heads, with babies
wrapped papoose-like to their backs.
Small wiry men harnessed to A-frames
trotted by lugging sacks of commodities
weighing at least a hundred pounds.
A boy about eight years old rushed
up, pointing to my boots. He carried a
scarred wooden box holding several
battered cans of shoe polish, streaked
cloths, and a brush with only a hint of
bristles. He wore a threadbare dark
brown wool suit jacket three times too
large, so that it hung to his knees like an
overcoat. His padded trousers were torn
in places, patched in others, and his
shoes were frayed canvas over bare
feet. I wanted to keep walking, but was
bushwhacked by the boy’s pleading.
Looking up with a shy smile, he lifted
my foot to the top of the box. As he
set about briskly applying the polish,
the wind carried up the sound of a
ship’s horn and the faint clatter of trolley
cars which, 20 years earlier, had
been in service in Atlanta, Georgia. My
thoughts turned to the packs of homeless
children that wandered the streets
of Pusan along the waterfront, without
shoes or warm clothing, begging and
stealing to survive from day to day.
A middle-aged man and woman
walked by, arm in arm. The man disengaged
himself, stepped to the side of the
road, and urinated. The woman took the
moment to study an array of toys in an
adjacent stall. There were jeeps, airplanes
and guns made of strips of tin cut
from American food cans distributed by
UN relief agencies. The man returned,
and they linked arms and resumed their
leisurely stroll.
I gave the shoe shine boy a thousand
won, and with a huge grin he gave me a
snappy salute and darted away. The
money was worth 17 cents American. It
would buy one apple or one egg.
I continued down the hill.
Eddie Deerfield, LtCol, U.S. Army
(Ret.), ED303fsra@aol.com
23
The Graybeards
January – February 2009