regarded severely by civilians. Whatever the effect on his comrades, the public then regards his failure as treason, or close to it.
Vengeance, indeed, is futile. It is not the purpose of justice. But when—as happened—an officer or man refused to go into combat, or threw away his weapon, crying, before ever a shot was fired at him, and then was permitted to resign, with honor, or had his sentence rescinded and his rights restored on petition at a later date, the nation is playing with disaster. There is a certain percentage of men who will always do their duty, just as there is a small percentage who will never do it, or even recognize it. The majority of men, however, will do unpleasant duties only if their society makes them, whether it is the study of English as children or service with the colors as men.
Busbey's two men received ten-year sentences—in itself unfair, since equally guilty men got off—but the matter did not rest there. For the father of one of these men was a man of some political influence in an Eastern state. Learning that some got off, while his son did not, this gentleman understandably raised hell.
The papers picked up the case, from Newark to Dallas.
An INS man came down to 32nd Infantry from Tokyo, looking for a story. He interviewed the men of B Company, still licking wounds from the night attack. Every man he talked to told him, 'Those men didn't get half what they deserved.' B Company had learned its lesson.
The INS man went back to Tokyo and phoned his chief. But he didn't have the kind of story his chief wanted. Many editorials were taking the tack that ten years for sleeping on sentry go was rather rough, even barbaric.
One year later, the son of the Eastern man was granted a new trial. The Civil Court of Military Appeals had discovered a flaw in the original proceedings. The president of that court had asked the law officer, present at all general courts-martial, 'What is the maximum sentence that can be given?' while neither the accused or counsel was present, a violation.
The new trial was held in Fort Meade, Maryland. The witnesses were now the other enlisted men who had been in the hole with the accused.
Jack Sadler, at this time in Baltimore, was not called, then or later. The verdict, understandably, and to everyone except Captain Busbey's relief, was reversed.
In itself, this case was nothing new. Justice, either military or civilian, can never be perfect.
But inevitably, sooner or later, a people will get the kind of justice and military service they deserve.
Before Arthur Busbey returned to the States on emergency leave—on the death of an infant child—with too many points to be returned again to FECOM, one incident occurred that he would never forget.
In the valley behind Heartbreak, where his company had now built fairly decent living bunkers for the winter, his patrols were just eating a hot meal at dusk before going in front of the ridge, down into the no man's land under enemy surveillance. He noticed a short soldier, unknown to him, trudging up the hill, a heavy pack on his back.
'Hey, soldier,' he called, 'come here.'
The man, just a kid, reported to him.
'Where're you going, soldier?'
'To the front lines.'
'What unit?'
'Any unit, sir!'
'Well,' Busbey told him, 'if you go around that ridge line you will be in the gooks' front lines. What's your outfit?'
The young soldier told him the 187th Airborne.
'Now I know you're lying, kid. The outfit's in reserve in Japan.'
But the young man was not lying. The 187th had made a practice jump near Pusan—and some men had immediately taken off for the front. The 187th— paratroops are a sharp but fragile tool, which, since they cannot be used and then put back into the bottle, are best reserved for special missions—had been out of action a long time, and these men wanted to fight. Any fight, anywhere, would do.
Busbey called Battalion. Battalion informed him he couldn't keep the young man, who was AWOL. But before he was sent back to the rear, Busbey gave him a letter of acceptance to B of the 32nd Infantry, In reply to case the paratrooper's C.O. would release him.
Just before Arthur Busbey went home, in December 1951, he got a letter from another man in the 187th Airborne, wanting to know if this man could have a letter too.
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33
Behind the Wire
— Ralph Waldo Emerson, SOCIETY AND SOLITUDE.
AS THE LINES stabilized and the year lengthened, Army Postal Office 971 also began to get things stabilized at Yongdungp'o, on the outskirts of Seoul. First Lieutenant Leonard Morgan received a new C.O., First Lieutenant Forrest Patrick. An ex-infantry officer, Patrick was blood and guts all the way, which was sometimes out of place in an APO.
He tried to get the four officers and eighty-five enlisted men shaped up, with lectures, and other exhortations, while the mail went through.
One day, he had the men assembled outside t
he shoe factory beside the Korean brewery, discussing the problem of the five-gallon water cans always being filled with native beer. At another time Patrick discussed proper conduct in the host Republic of Korea, in compliance with a directive put out by the 2nd Engineer Brigade in Inch'on.
'We've got to be friendly, and make a good impression,' Patrick said. 'I don't like this going into the local houses and carrying off the possessions, as some of you have been doing. I want it stopped.'
While he talked, two GI's walked past behind him, carrying a large antique dresser on their backs. Even though they were from another outfit, Patrick's show was ruined.
Finally, a new C.O. came in, Major Harry Steinberg, Adjutant General's Corps. And Steinberg, called 'Dollar Sign' because his initials on a piece of paper looked like one, was an operator. He got things done.
The first month, he got a shower for the em.
The second month, the water ran dry. A careful investigation proved that Kim, the Korean factotum who took care of the officer's tent, had been an engineer, and had diverted the water from the shower pipes underground to the Korean houseboy quarters.
Kim went, the water came back, and the mail continued to move.
Business was good.
During the third month there was an arrangement with the officers and men flying in now and then from staff jobs in Tokyo—who wanted to see how things were doing in Korea, earn a shiny new campaign ribbon, and qualify, if they came often enough, for the $200 per month income-tax exemption granted to all serving there—to smuggle in Air Force liquor.
And so the months went by.
It took a hell of a long time to accumulate thirty-six points this way, but as the boys of APO 971 knew, there were ways much worse.
On 17 March 1951 Sergeant Charles B. Schlichter's group from the Valley closed in at Prison Camp Number 5, near Pyoktong, on the Yalu River. The officer and N.C.O. ranks were separated from the others, and a physical count revealed 3,200 POW's of all grades present.
Between March and October that number was reduced by 50 percent.
American doctors were allowed to continue with sick call and treatment, but they were given nothing to work
