GRETA ON THE ROCK

By Dr. Robert E. Plucker 

                Alaska Airlines does not fly directly from Seattle to Haines; the closest stop is Juneau.  From there one gets to Haines by small plane, ferry, pleasure boat, fish-boat, tugboat, sailboat or whatever.  Margaret was returning home from Seattle, and John and I thought it would be fun to go down to Juneau ourselves and meet her, taking our sailboat, “Greta.”  To make an excursion out of the trip, we would anchor near the south end of Sullivan Island on the mainland side of the channel where the chart showed the symbol of an anchor.  This symbol is taken to mean "It's OK to anchor here."  So we arranged that Margaret would meet us at Auke Bay (Juneau) and we would triumphantly carry her home.

www.seaatrails.org

                With full fuel and water tanks, food, and sleeping bags we set out south under power, soon catching enough wind to be able to sail.  As we got to the far end of the channel between Sullivan and the mainland we dropped the sails to take advantage of the increased maneuvering ability of the boat under power.  We moved ahead at slow speed as we had never been in this anchorage before.  I had been warned by one of the old-time fishermen that there was a nasty rock near the anchorage cove, so we watched the depth-sounder very closely.  John told me that it was getting shallower, but that is what you expect as you approach a shore.  Suddenly the digital read-out changed from 30 feet, to l5, l0, and then to a horrifying eight.  It takes six feet to float the boat.

                We were moving at maybe two knots.  Conventional wisdom says that if you want to go to deeper water, you turn away from shore.  I did that, but the sounder read-out immediately jumped from 8 to 6 almost simultaneously with the sickening crunch of the keel hitting solid rock.

                Thinking that since we were headed out, probably we could slide right over the corner of the rock.  We raised sail and adjusted so that the boat would heel over as far as possible.  This is supposed to be a maneuver that gets the fin keel off the bottom and slightly reduces the draft of the boat.  So with sails and engine power John and I succeeded in perching our beloved "Greta" higher up on the rock, and totally immovable.  There was no damage, so far, except for embarrassment and the inability to get free.  In tidal waters like Lynn Canal you have no worries if the tide is fairly low and rising when you go aground; the rising water will lift you off in probably less than an hour.  We had the bad luck to go aground at very near the high mark, and of course the water level was already starting to drop.  This meant that there would be a wait of a bit more than six hours before the tide got as low as it would get.  Another six hours to rise, and after more than twelve hours we could expect to float away.  But wait!  High tide levels can vary from about 20 feet to less than 13.  Tomorrow morning's high would be only four inches above what it was when we hit, and we had already put the boat further up on the rock with struggling to get off.

                Would there be enough water depth to float us in the morning?  So it was by no means certain that our near-thirteen hours of waiting would get us free.

                We had had a fairly good wind sailing to the anchorage with its accompanying moderate seas.  I was glad when the wind dropped to almost a dead calm soon after we struck.  If the waves had been huge, the boat could have been partially lifted from the rock, only to come crashing down, creating unspeakable damage.  We had more than twelve hours of suspense, hoping the wind would stay calm, especially in the morning when the water would be almost high enough to float the boat.

                "Greta" has a thin fin keel sticking down from the bottom of the hull about four and a half feet.  This obviously won't hold the boat upright, and so it has to fall over to one side when there is not enough supporting water.  Since we hit the rock at high tide "Greta" was going to be totally high and dry by about half-tide.  According to the inclinometer, she wound up tipped to the port side by 55 to 60 degrees.  At least there was no need to put out an anchor.  It was a kind of puzzle getting in and out of the cabin as we had to pick our way on the port side of the hull, the floor now being more like a wall. 

                It was dark when the water reached dead low, but we were able to see that we had climbed onto a corner of a huge flat rock, about the size of a softball infield.  It had been completely submerged -- invisible at high tide but now completely exposed.  We were tempted to climb over the low side of the boat and walk around on the rock, but we found that it was extremely slippery with slimy plant life and we had no wish to break legs or other bones.  John had gallantly gone overboard while we were still partially afloat to stuff whatever we had for cushioning between the hull and the rock.

                The ironic part is that we had both a small-scale and a large-scale chart for the area.  The scale of the small-scale chart covered so much area that it ignored the rock entirely, but the large-scale chart dealt with areas small enough so that the rock could be included.  We were using the small-scale chart, the one that covered the full distance from Haines to Auke Bay, that's where we were going, wasn't it?  Why deal with a chart that covered only half the distance?   If we had been using the other chart, we would have seen the symbol for the rock, and could have seen that by turning toward the shore instead of heading out, we would have been in 30 feet of water.

                By our VHF radio we were able to inform various boats nearby of our plight and managed to get a message relayed to the Juneau airport to tell Margaret not to wait for us at Auke Bay.  As to immediate help, like dragging "Greta" off the rock, it was out of the question.  But it was great to get the sympathy, and the radio company of these other boats.  There is hardly a boater, apparently, who has never been aground somewhere at some time, and they feel for you.

                Alaska fishermen are a wonderful helpful bunch, but even if their boats had had power enough to haul "Greta" off the rock, much damage would have been done to the delicate fin keel, or the hull itself.

                My son-in-law Matt, a summertime fisherman, was also informed of our precarious whereabouts.

                So here we were--the fish-boats were all heading for home and it was late.  John and I went to bed, attempting to sleep in the V-shaped trough formed by the bunk and the port side of the hull.  I was in the quarter-berth and John in the V-berth in the bow.  John told me later that since the bow end was pointing up into the air in addition to falling off to the side, he was afraid to move for fear of having the boat shift position and come crashing down.  But I had my own worries. 

                Here I was, in my 70s; how much of this stress could I stand?  Would I have a heart attack?  A stroke?  Dare I ever consider sailing a boat again?  Am I kidding myself about being young enough to sail?  Will Margaret have gotten the message to not wait at Auke Bay?  If I have this heart attack, would John be able to handle the problem of getting the boat afloat again, and would I be dead or alive?  What if we fail to float off the rock in the morning?  The average highs after tomorrow morning would be lower and lower for several weeks, and we would be stranded there until the highs became high enough again.  Surely in that time strong winds would come up from the north, the least-sheltered side, and the resulting giant waves would crush beautiful "Greta".  I remembered the wonderful times Margaret and I had planning to buy her and my elation at being able to write out the check for $98,000 to pay for her, using most of the proceeds from the sale of our house.  Sure, I had insurance, but I just hated thinking of this beautiful sailboat which had been our home for four years, lying helpless in the face of possible ten-foot waves and fifty-knot winds.

                My son-in-law Matt, and daughter Holly decided they had to help.  Matt, who is the typical Alaskan "we're all in this together so we better help each other" type, got out in the middle of the night and took Holly and his fishboat out the thirty-five or so miles to see what he could do.  He and Holly were horror-stricken to see "Greta" completely exposed on this huge rock, lying on her side, mast approaching the horizontal.  We talked to them a bit on the VHF> radio and then set out to wait for the high tide at about five o’clock in the morning, "Greta" on the rock, and Matt's "Windbreaker" safely at anchor.

                The wait seemed like a month or more, but the time came and Matt's boat started running some exploratory circles to find out the limits of this more-or-less round, flat rock.  I watched, worrying about when would be the exact moment of the highest possible water.  I surely did not want to trust to luck to simply float away.  Matt just had to attach a line and tow/haul us off, because if we missed the opportunity and didn't get off on this one chance, "Greta" might be on the rock for several weeks and my worst nightmares would surely come true.  It appeared to me that Matt was entirely too slow and deliberate about getting a line across so that his big fishboat engine could save us.  Matt was just being careful that we both wouldn't crash into something.

                At last he came close enough so that John could throw him a line and he could start hauling.  My thought was to go for broke, turn on all the power we could muster and get "Greta" off no matter what.  Matt was the careful one and applied power cautiously in spite of my evident frenzy.  "Greta" was in a completely vertical position by now, and it felt to me as if it had better happen in the next few seconds or all would be lost.  I yelled at Matt, so did John, to pour on the coal, give it all the power he had.  We were doing the same with "Greta's" little three-cylinder Volvo.

                Matt's "Windbreaker" was pulling hard, at a slight angle; suddenly "Greta" twisted around a few degrees with accompanying ominous scrapes and protests from the fin keel on the rock.  Finally with a last-ditch burst of power from Matt's big Cummins diesel, we lurched into deep water.  We found that "Greta" would indeed still float, and if there was a lot of damage below the waterline it didn't seem to be immediately dangerous.  Matt cast off the line from the fishboat after towing us well away from the rock amid much cheering from John  and Holly, but of course I was the worry-wart and could hardly wait to get some diver to go down and inspect the bottom.

Haines just ahead

                Both "Windbreaker" and "Greta" got back to Haines before noon; next day Joey Jacobson came with his SCUBA gear to take a look at the bottom.  He was down there for a short time, came back and told us that he had searched for damage, but could come up with only a couple of superficial scratches.  Joey was right, as when we had the boat hauled out of the water a month or so later, we could hardly find the scratches Joey said were there.  How lucky can you get??

                John spent the next year in New Zealand, but when he came back, we took "Greta" back down to the Sullivan Island anchorage to get a long hard look at the rock exposed at low tide.  We were extremely careful, and were both amazed at how huge the rock was, and how close we had come to not hitting it at all.  We had nearly gotten through, between the rock and the shore.  We also thought that even if all had gone the way it was supposed to, we would not have liked the anchorage very well, too exposed to the north and not all that well-sheltered from the south.  We are not likely to anchor there in the future.

                Lesson 1.  Use the chart that gives you the most information about your immediate vicinity.  The big picture is OK, but it lacks important details.

                Lesson 2.  There is at least one location in the marine world where the deeper water is closer in to shore, not out in the middle.    

Bottom Photo by Jean E. Straatmeyer    

THE "AKBAR" MYSTERY

THE "AKBAR" MYSTERY 

By Dr. Robert E. Plucker

            After Margaret and I had sold our house to buy our wonderful new Ericson 34, "Greta", it did not take long for me to start talk about sailing up the Inside Passage to Alaska. We had talked about it long before, with our old boat, "Echappee", but had never gotten serious.  We did some reading about how to do it, attended lectures by fabulously successful sailors, and with a much more capable boat, we figured we could do it.  After all, we had some sixteen years of sailing experience in the Puget Sound area. 

             We had spent just about all we could afford on the boat; we got lucky with charts as we were able to borrow a complete Inside Passage set.  GPS was available then, but it was expensive, I thought, and if it came to a choice between radar and GPS I thought probably radar was the better one.

            So one morning we went to West Marine in Anacortes and talked to a salesman about radar.  I was fairly well persuaded to buy until the sales fellow started talking about the additional expense of mounting a set, added weight aloft, or spoiling the appearance of our gorgeous boat by mounting it on a stalk in the stern.  So that sale was not made.  I had actually tried a GPS some time past, and never could get the hang of it, so Margaret and I decided that we would get neither.  After all, her father had made that trip up as far as Skagway from Washington during the war years several times and he had done it without these new-fangled gadgets.  We could too.

            Daughter Holly had written to us from her Philadelphia college that the trip would be fun, and we would probably have opportunities every few days to stop at some town and enjoy the delis and restaurants that British Columbia would be bound to have.  We checked the charts, and after Nanaimo it looked as if the towns were a little far apart but we never doubted that we could get the necessary coffee and cinnamon roll at frequent intervals.  There were places on the chart like Bella Bella (perhaps an Italian restaurant?) and Klemtu (Chinese maybe?) and surely at least a deli at Butedale.  We found out differently, as soon as we got past the Strait of Georgia.

            Everything was great for the first week or so.  We had a pleasant surprise that Westview, next to smoky Powell River, was a nice town.  We had come from Pender Harbor, a collection of little towns, and plenty of opportunity to buy goodies.  But then, past Cape Mudge and Campbell River come the nasty currents of Discovery Passage, and the fearsome Seymour Narrows.  We tied up at Brown's Bay after shooting the Narrows, where there is a neat fishing resort, and a restaurant to go with it.  After that, there was not much for "civilization" until Port Hardy.

            Bella Bella turned out to be quaint, picturesque, and had the history of having been moved from one side of the channel to the other.  The Native people decided this was a better location, but not all of them moved.  Now there is an old Bella Bella, and a new Bella Bella.  The old one is behind a big rock in the channel, and is not so accessible by water.  New BB has a store which is open a few hours per day, but the most business is done at the fuel dock where we found there is always a lot of activity, with lots of pleasure boats and work boats coming to fuel up.  No deli, no cinnamon rolls, no quaint shops, not much use for tourists except at the fuel dock.

            Klemtu is not all that far from BB, and it too is a Native village where the most business is done at the gas dock.  There is a store that sells groceries and a few other items, but its business hours are even fewer than the store at Bella Bella.  I got the notion that the people who live there get along by themselves, thank you, and are not much interested in attracting any tourists, even if they do need gas or diesel fuel.

            Much further on the way up the Inside Passage is Butedale.  This town was described in "Sailing Directions" and in a book called "Charlie's Charts" as having a post office, at least one store, and a fuel dock.  It is located right beside a roaring waterfall, and is a sheltered harbor.  There are high mountains on three sides of it, and Work Island is out in front, sheltering the harbor from the fourth side.  On paper, it looked like at least a hope for the coffee and cinnamon roll.  A well-stocked store perhaps.  The surrounding mountains blocked off the light for much of the day, and gave the entire harbor a forbidding look.  So here we came, motoring confidently into the harbor, and found that it looked curiously deserted.

            The docks looked rotten.  I found out how rotten they were by attempting to tie Greta to a piling.  It broke off in my hands.  What appeared to be the wooden fuel dock was awash where it was not actually sunken.  No pumps.  There were buildings ashore which I suppose were the remains of a fish cannery, but these buildings were obviously abandoned and rotting.  About the only thing moving in the harbor was the waterfall.

            It was late, and we wanted to stay there for the night, so lacking a sturdy dock, we decided to anchor.  This is a small harbor with not much room to swing around an anchor.  This is also a deep water harbor, and so requires a lot of swinging space for all the anchor rope you let out in order to make up for the l00 or more feet of water depth.  We cruised around trying to find some place shallower than the rest, and finally anchored in about 90 feet with less rope than the yachting books recommend.  But there wasn't much breeze and since we were the only boat there, we didn't have to worry about crashing into someone while we were asleep.

            Not long before dark another boat showed up, a cabin cruiser that I would have guessed to be about 40 feet.  This boat was listing to port about ten or twelve degrees and traveling slowly.  I guessed that he was in trouble, as the boat made straight for the dock below the abandoned factory building, a dock we had rejected.  He found a place to tie up, right over a shallow spot, and I thought perhaps he wanted to intentionally ground the boat.  When the tide ran out, he could at least inspect the bottom and figure out what caused the list.  It appeared there were two men aboard; they went up on the dock and explored around in the old factory and in the bunkhouse above on the hill.  I wanted to do the same, but Margaret insisted that it was entirely too dangerous to walk around on all those rotten planks.

            The tide was indeed running out, and sure enough the other boat was left on the high spot, under what was probably the loading dock of the cannery, where the fish were taken from the boats in earlier times. Neither of the two men came to inspect the hull, they were busy prowling around in the buildings.  Night came; it got dark, but not pitch-black.  We went to bed and slept peacefully for a while.

            Somewhere around midnight there was a kind of loud clunking noise which apparently came from the other grounded boat.  I thought maybe it had just shifted position on the rock it was sitting on.  It didn't happen again so I went back to sleep.  I was having a good sleep, but Margaret kept poking me and saying she was hearing noises.  I would go back to sleep, but minutes later, poke, poke, poke, "How can you sleep through all this?"  I thought it was easy, because I had not heard "all this".  Margaret had turned on the VHF radio to find out if the other boat was in real distress.  They were trying to contact the Coast Guard at Prince Rupert, which is quite a trick at that distance with a line-of-sight VHF radio, but they had some success.

            From what they said, we gathered that they wanted a chain saw.  Could the Coast Guard bring them a chain saw, or tell them where they could get one.  Well, no, they either wouldn't or couldn't, and it was then that Prince Rupert asked if there was another boat in the harbor that might be of assistance.  So they called us, could we help them.  No, of course we did not have a chain saw either, but we found they wanted it to cut off a piece of the dock.  They apparently had gotten themselves so strongly attached to the dock they were afraid they would slide off the rock they were on, and pull the rest of the dock right down onto their cabin.  Pieces of the dock had already broken off their antenna while they were speaking to us.  So we had to relay all messages from "Akbar" (the name of the other boat) and Prince Rupert.  A tug boat was notified by Prince Rupert to come, and we had to relay messages to them.  Evidently the tug was already in the vicinity and could be there in an hour or so.

            I was still trying to sleep between pokes by Margaret and squawks from our radio, but finally gave up when the tug arrived, lights blazing, at maybe 2:30 am. Nope, the tug didn't have a chainsaw either, but they thought they could get a line aboard Akbar and haul it off the rock.  No doubt this would have brought the rest of the dock down on the boat, but they never did succeed in getting a line between the two vessels.  An hour later the tug left the harbor.  Before long it started to get light, even though Butedale seems to be in a pocket of darkness most of the time.

          Now the tide was rising, and Akbar was beginning to float.  Margaret and I were thinking about breakfast and all the sleep we lost, when I glanced out and saw Akbar, under way, leaving the harbor with the same ten to twelve degree list to port.  Later we heard some radio transmissions from Akbar to Prince Rupert. Where had they come from and where had they gone through Canadian Customs?  Akbar admitted that they had not passed through Customs, and hastily allowed that they would do so at Prince Rupert.  This struck us as odd, to say the least, because there had been at least three opportunities to do so before Prince R.  After all, they were within just a few miles of the Alaskan border now, and within the law, they should not have stepped ashore in Canada without passing Customs.  Where had they come from?  California. Where bound?  They said they were delivering a boat to Ketchikan.  Prince Rupert said, rather ominously we thought, they would be waiting for them at Customs.

            We never heard from, or saw the Akbar again.  Butedale is deserted and continues to fall apart.  No coffee, no cinnamon rolls.

Top photo by Jean E. Straatmeyer

Bottom photo from www.nauticexpo.com

 

LIFE IN THE 10TH SPECIAL SERVICE COMPANY, KOREA

 

By Dr. Robert E. Plucker

            Having attained the exalted rank of Corporal in the U. S. Army in l947, I let myself be persuaded at the time of my discharge to sign up for the Army Reserve, inactive.  One of the arguments for this, we were told, was that in case we ever got called up for active duty again, we would retain our previous rank, and would not have to go back as an ignominious Private.  So the Korean "Police Action" started in 1950, and sure enough, some bureaucrat in Washington DC made the decision that the "inactives" were to be called back before he "active" Reserve.  This was not being fair at all, but just as unfair was the fact that sometime between 1947 and 1950 all ranks were cut to the next lower.  Hence, all sergeants became corporals; corporals became privates first class; Pfc’s became private I; and the unspeakably low rank of "recruit" was introduced.  Not a good start for my second tour of duty.

            As it happened, the South Dakota retreads that were recalled were an outstanding bunch.  Two had been classmates of mine at South Dakota State College.  There were probably more college graduates in that "Refresher" basic training company than those without degrees.  I believe there were at least two who had Master's degrees.  It was inevitable, I suppose, that the first sergeant for this training cadre was virtually illiterate.  All of us trainees were "wise guys" and it must have been hellish for them to try to browbeat us like a bunch of raw recruits.  But of course they tried.

            Refresher Basic behind us, we were put on troop-ships to go to Japan and renew our acquaintance with the 4^th Replacement Depot (Repple Depple).  After a few dull days of waiting around, about a dozen of us were called out of the barracks one morning for a special detail.  We stood out in the company area for a while, wondering when they were going to issue the brooms and mops for cleaning out the latrines, where were the brushes and paint buckets for painting the rocks, where the dull bayonets for cutting the grass?  We had an unsuspected surprise coming.

            In those days when you were inducted into the Service, you were to fill out a big yellow card, a sergeant directing you, called a Form 20.  It was supposed to contain your entire history, your medical record, your civilian occupation, your capabilities, everything the Army thought it would be useful for them to know.  From our former Army experience, we had learned long ago to lie.  I told the sergeant that I could ride a motorcycle, drive a car, a heavy-duty truck, play the piano, play the clarinet, sing, conduct, be an MC, type, about the only things in which I was not expert were cooking and baking.  Of course I was shaking in my boots that the some responsible person would find out that I had been a qualified parachutist only three years previously.  The military at that time had what they called the "Pipeline", and if you stayed in that you would be sent immediately to the front lines.  My Parachutist, Infantry MOS (military occupation specialty) would have put me in the Pipeline immediately.  Those front lines were getting closer all the time as this was during the big retreat from the Yalu River, when casualties were very heavy and there seemed to be no end to Chinese troops pouring across the river trying to drive us off the Korean Peninsula.  There were not many troops in those days who thought of the war as glorious, a chance to give one's life for South Korea.  No thinking person wants to die in a war as dubious as this "Police Action".

            But some officer must have examined the yellow Form 20s, and so instead of being issued mops and brooms, we dozen or so were marched to the Service Club and auditioned for a musical variety show the Eighth Army Special Services was to put together.  A youngish lieutenant interviewed me, and after a few questions asked me to sing.  Since singing was what I thought I did best, I launched into some song, no accompaniment, of course.  Then he asked if I could improvise a second part to a song that he would sing.  It was a simple piece, and I had had a good bit of experience at this sort of thing in the ASTRP quartet, and several informal troop singing sessions we had had on the trip over to Japan.  At the end of this, he said, “You’re hired", and just like that I was eased out of the Pipeline.  I was now to be a troop entertainer.

            Thank you, God.

            Before we were to go into rehearsal for the show, the 10th Special Service Company (do you suppose there were nine others?) was given a special assignment.  We were sent to unload hospital ships that were taking the casualties from Korea to Japan, and eventually to the U.S.  These casualties from the Yalu Retreat were mostly severe frostbite, including the loss of fingers and toes, sometimes worse.  There was Trench foot, but not too many wounds from battles.  This was how we spent New Years Day 1951, and a couple of weeks following.

            Upon our release from this duty, we were put into a cozy little camp right inside the city of Yokohama, and were trucked to the Octagon Theater every day to rehearse the show.  It was a variety show, no plot or story involved.  It took a long time to get the show ready, because one fellow, a master sergeant, was put in charge.  He had had a little experience with a Broadway show, we were told.  He did he best he knew how, but the results were corny and not-very-entertaining.  He was then replaced by a tall commanding woman who had been a Radio City Rockette.  So we tossed out all the weeks of rehearsal we had behind us and started a new show, "One for the Road".  This woman called herself Skippy Lynn.  She should have been a drill sergeant in the Marines, but she did manage to put together a show that was flashy, loud, and not all that bad.  Her motto seemed to be "If it isn't good, make it louder.  If it still isn't good, make it louder and faster."  Just as in Broadway, we opened out of town.

            Ultimately my part of the show was to sing two solo songs (with the band), sing two more songs with the quartet, and sing with the entire platoon chorus for a big closing number.  Our swing band had two trumpets, a trombone, four saxophones, piano, bass, drum set, and a really good guitarist.  The show had a lot of action; if you weren't doing something that required you to stand still, you were moving.  We leaped up and down big steps made from different size boxes, whirled around, clapped, yelled, played tambourines, castanets, maracas, and triangle, whatever you could carry.  We were in loud colored costumes, I had a pink jacket for one, a green for another, and a blue with lots of ribbons attached for the Latin American songs. We even had low civilian shoes.  So at least it was a change from olive drab, greenish fatigue uniforms and combat boots.

            Then between shows (at times we did three shows per day, seven days per week) we loaded up the three big 6X6 trucks with the piano, all the costumes, a huge red curtain that could be extended the length of the three trucks, a tarp for the "stage", the electric generator, the PA system, the instruments.  Nearly all this stuff went into the van-bodied truck, and the other two were used to transport the troops.  Since I was Assistant Driver of the van, I found myself doing a good bit of the heavy lifting, and was in charge of stowing all this stuff away so it wouldn't get damaged.

            When the driving got mushy feeling, the truck would stop, we'd get out and kick the tires, and usually we would find a flat on the inside of the dual wheels, so both tires would have to come off to fix the flat.  Another duty was to keep the trucks reasonably clean, inside and out.  The military roads were bad, of course, and many times the trucks would be so splashed with mud you couldn't see the camouflage paint.  "Wash the trucks!" was the order, and to do this we would drive them into the nearest shallow stream, take off all our clothes and splash water on the caked mud.  I never actually saw any Korean civilian women watching us cavort around in the altogether, but I never really got used to it.

            It is possible that Skippy Lynn did not really want to go to Korea with this show, or any show, because by the time we left off rehearsing in Japan, she had long since gone back to the States.

            An interesting thing that happened because of the delay in leaving Japan was the trip from Yokohama west to the Hakone national park district in which is located the world-renowned Mt. Fuji.  This was one of the finest possible locations for troops (from the Pipeline) for R and R. The hotels were posh, there were golf courses, there were Japanese baths and massages (Nope, I had a massage, but from a man.)  So this is where we "opened out of town", and all the R and R goodies were available to us at no charge.  We did two shows here; no reviews were written that I ever saw, but there were no drastic changes made in the show following our debut.  Shortly after this, we were loaded on an overnight ferry and landed in Pusan on a thoroughly disagreeable day.  I don't remember much about it except there was a lot of rain and mud.

            There were some interesting characters in our show.  One young guy passed the audition by playing "The Holy City" on his violin.  I heard him play it, and it was magnificent.  Once we got down to learning the music for the show it became plain that that piece was the only thing he could play.  Probably the poor guy got sent back into the Pipeline.

            Skippy Lynn was always threatening us with the Pipeline if we did not meet her standards.  I remember her shouting at me once in rehearsal, "Plucker, take off those goddamn glasses, you look like a schoolteacher!"  My not so diplomatic reply was, "But Miss Lynn, I am a schoolteacher."

            John M. Wasson, who later on as a civilian became prominent as a Shakespearean actor and scholar, acted as the MC and sang bass in the platoon chorus.  John was probably the heaviest drinker in the platoon, and always seemed to be able to get all the liquor he could hold.  Once he got more than he could hold and spent a couple weeks in a hospital recovering from alcohol poisoning.  He was acquainted with most of the houses of prostitution on Isazaki Street; you could easily walk to a half-dozen or so from our barracks.

            Our platoon commander, Lt. Elgert, had arranged for the platoon chorus to sing some sacred music for the Armed Forces Radio in Tokyo twice a month.  This must have been something of a hit, as John Wasson reported that at least two of the whore-houses on Isazaki-cho were regular listeners.  John was our announcer of course, and read some inspirational material between the songs on the program.  I marveled at how John could recover from a Saturday night on Isazaki-cho, make the train trip into Tokyo, and do a creditable job of singing and reading on the Sunday morning show.  He was/is a fine actor and introduced me to all sorts of emotional interpretations of Lewis Carroll's "Twas brillig, and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe!"

            Constantine Limberakis Jr. was the music arranger and conductor for the platoon chorus.  He took a little ribbing from the men about his long Greek name, but we respected him for his musical ability and his care for excellence.  He was the fellow who found a Columbia 78 recording of the Brahms "Ein deutches Requiem" at some Tokyo store and played it every time he could wangle the use of the platoon PA system with turntable.  This was the first time I had ever heard it, and was completely bowled over with the grandeur of this great composition.  Since then I have had the privilege of singing tenor in it several times, and conducting it three times.

            "Dad" Marsh was our fabulous guitar player.  I don't remember his first name; I know he had one, but he always referred to himself as "Dad".  Perhaps it was because he was a bit older than most of the rest of us, and was more balding.  He had been "around", as they say.  We pitched our tents one hot afternoon near some trees but Dad went off to a patch of green across the road to explore, came back shouting with glee, “That’s marijuana out there!  Growing wild!  Tons of it!”  He was amazed that the entire platoon didn't rise up as one man to harvest marijuana by the ton.  I seem to recall vague interest on the part of one or two of the guys, but that was before there was much interest in it, I guess.

            Our swing band had it ups and downs.  One piece that they played rather badly and was not really worthy of hard rehearsal was called "B-19".  It was obscure at the time, and has achieved well-deserved oblivion today.  We did a show once in Korea when the band attempted to play this.  The show ended with a fine performance of Albert Hay Malotte's "The Lord's Prayer".  Afterward, one of the chorus members said in surprise, "Gee, did you notice that when we sang the "Lord's Prayer" some of the troops were crying?"  "Yeah", said another voice, "They cried when we played B-19 too."

            Just before we left Japan, the band had been rehearsing "Stella by Starlight".  This is a great song, and this arrangement had several quite distinctive chords to introduce the melody.  Later in the day at the Service Club they were having a "name that tune" contest, and just as I entered the room I heard the opening chord.  Of course I shouted out "Stella by Starlight" and won that round of the contest.  The other troops who were present could not begin to figure out how I could name the tune hearing only the first chord.

            President Truman had gotten around to fully integrating the Armed Forces by the 1950s, and so for the first time in my lily-white life, I had the opportunity to become friends with some black guys in our platoon.  David Dozier, pianist from Chicago was one of my close friends.  He was hoping to become a concert pianist, but I lost track of him as a civilian and don't know how well he fared.  I do know that at least one person from Chicago that I talked to many years later had at least heard of him as a pianist.  He tried to teach me some piano on the tour, but of course the platoon piano was not available much of the time and practice was worse than sporadic.  His advice to me, "Correct those mistakes, don't practice them because they will be come perfect".  David was working on the Liszt D flat major Etude and the Rachmaninoff 2nd piano concerto; with never enough practice time either.

            My actual "war" experiences certainly did not amount to much.  Maybe two weeks after we had arrived in Korea we had an air alert.  There was a message that there was an aircraft in the vicinity, Lt. Elgert, waving his sidearm, yelled at us all to take cover in a nearby ditch.  Perhaps he thought he could down the enemy plane with his pistol, but it turned out to be one of the ubiquitous Piper Cubs the Army used as observation planes.  So our good lieutenant never got to fire his 45

            Another time, having been delayed by a flat tire, my truck got separated a short, but significant distance from the rest of the platoon vehicles.  Trying to catch up, our driver made a wrong turn.  We were soon pursued by a speeding jeep whose driver told us we were headed straight for a Chinese detachment.  He probably saved the three of us in the truck from being taken prisoner.

            Beginning a show in Korea, the three trucks were lined up, the huge red curtain stretched across, with the tarp laid in front for the "stage", the few sets in place, wearing our loud-colored costumes, we were required to wait while a Lt. Colonel instructed our audience of troops where to go and what to do in case of a Chinese attack.  His entire battalion was out in front waiting for the show, but the Colonel told us later that he thought there were more Chinese than Americans who took in the entertainment.  They were said to be on a hillside where they could see our huge red curtain (target) very clearly.  Perhaps they liked the show, as they did not open fire.  We packed up and left as soon as we could.

            My worst night of no sleep was a time when we were with the 3rd Infantry Division.  Our tents were pitched in front of the Division Artillery, and they chose that night to deliver a light barrage over our heads.  The 3rd Division tried to treat us well, but the weather was against them too, and we had the disagreeable experience eating at their field kitchen with the incessant rain pouring down into our mess-kits.

            We did shows for others of the UN forces in Korea too.  Once for the Filipino troops (good beer followed the show), once for the Mexicans (also really good beer), a couple for the British (of course good beer) and even for a small Turkish detachment (no beer).  Good thing our show had no real plot, as I suspect only the British understood any of what we said – or did.

            When my tour of duty was over, I was replaced by a fine dancer who could sing reasonably well.  I don't know about his qualifications as a truck driver, piano lifter, or tire kicker.  Another fellow and I left the platoon and drove the 4X4 weapons carrier from where we were, a bit north of the 38th parallel, to Taegu where we were to be processed one more time.  From there we were to go to Fukuoka and take a troop ship from there to Seattle.  Taegu was an un-nerving experience for me.

            First of all, Taegu had been fought over at least twice during the course of the war, and was in ruinous shape.  I was glad we were to be there for only three days before leaving for Pusan.  I wandered "downtown" one afternoon from the barracks that was temporary home, sat down on a big piece of broken concrete and was immediately surrounded by a crowd of little Korean kids, begging.  One little short guy got to the front somehow and insisted (by signs) that he wanted to polish my boots.  I figured the polish job would not last the trip through the mud and dust back to the barracks, but OK, polish.  He did a thorough job while I sat there, pretty much looking over the heads of the crowd of begging kids while I wished I had something for each of them.  One of the shocks of my life was when I finally looked down and saw clearly the little fellow who had done my boots.  He had no feet.  Had they been frozen beyond saving in the cold Korean winter?  I gave him all the money I had with me, grieving that I could do no more. 

            In 1996 my daughter Holly had signed on to teach English in Korea and was sent to a private school in Taegu.  She did not miraculously meet this little guy some forty-plus years later.

HOW TO CHOOSE A COLLEGE

 

By Dr. Robert E. Plucker

            Back in the spring of 1945, I was in high school, very close to graduation in late May. In April of that same year, word came to the high school that boys who were 17 years old and would graduate at that age would be eligible to take an Army test. By passing this test one could join the Army Reserve and get in as much as a year of college at Army expense. This was a plan by the Army to get a head start on training new Engineers. This was a good plan for us high school seniors who were still sweating out the draft, as it looked as if Japan would fight on for a very long time. Furthermore, higher education for me was unlikely, as money was always in short supply. I had scholarship offers from Yankton College and Dakota Wesleyan in Mitchell, but the offers were so small that college seemed impossible. Since I was 17, and wouldn't turn 18 until the following January, I jumped at the chance. In about six weeks I received word that I had passed the test and was to report to Fort Crook, near Omaha, in June if I wanted to go ahead.

            The benefits for this Army Reserve program were just fine; there would be free tuition, free books, free room and board, free uniforms, and free medical care, everything the regular Army troops got except a monthly salary. Once we turned 18 we were to finish the term at the college, then report for Active Duty. Only two colleges were offering this Army Specialized Training Reserve Program (ASTRP) at this time, the University of Wyoming and South Dakota State College (of Agriculture and Mechanic Arts).  Brookings, where SDSC is located, is located only about 65 miles from my parent's farm.

            In June, according to directions, I took the bus to Omaha, stayed overnight in the YMCA, got an Army shuttle bus out to Fort Crook the following morning and was sworn in as member of the United States Army Reserve by afternoon. From then on, I was to be Serial Number 17149628, having raised my right hand and sworn to defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies. This was the first time I had ever traveled away from home without at least one parent.

            By early August, orders came in the mail to report to Fort Snelling just outside Minneapolis, to get uniforms and to get "processed", whatever that may have meant. . I made the trip by train from Sioux Falls and in a few days was shipped back to Brookings where the ASTRP school cycle began several weeks before the civilian quarter started. Thus the US Army chose my college for me.

            We Reservists were quartered in West Men's Hall, which we were told to call the "barracks", were assigned student officers and non-coms (I don't know how these were selected from our inexperienced ranks), and soon we were being marched in formation to classes, to the "mess hall" (not the dining room), to any place we were required to go. Since there were only a few male civilian students on campus, we were pretty much "it." Curfew was at ten, with a bed-check; required study was from seven to ten and about the only free time was between six and seven pm, or 1800 hours and 1900 hours, as we were "encouraged" to refer to the time. Saturday morning was inspection time, but most of the afternoon and all day Sunday were off-duty.

            As to course work, I did well in English literature and grammar, history, geography, physical education and military science, but poorly in math. I liked engineering physics and did reasonably well in it despite my mathematics difficulties. I was told that I could apply for a third quarter (a full year of college, total) if I wanted, but my math grades were falling steadily and I knew I would flunk the next course: calculus. So I reported for active duty at Fort Snelling on the 9th of February, 1946. The war had been over following the droppings of The Bomb at just about the same time we Reservists arrived in Brookings from Minneapolis, summer of 1945. We were vastly relieved, of course.

The Camponille at SDSC

            There were some fun parts to all this regimented life at SDSC. I somehow found time to work in a few voice lessons with Professor Karl Theman whom I had met before at a high school music festival. Three of the other ASTRPs and I discovered that we had some similar musical interests and formed a quartet. By some chance or other, our commanding officer, Captain Olson, heard of us and we had to sing for him. He must have been impressed because he called us out one night to sing some bawdy songs during the "short-arm" inspection. This was a job that I suspect the officers who inspected enjoyed about as much as we who were subjected to it. I don't believe that any of us was ever found to have a venereal disease. We also got a call to sing for a much more high-class occasion, a civilian banquet. Fortunately, we had a few songs that we dared sing in polite society. We were given special passes to leave the campus that night.

            Back to active duty: the stay at Fort Snelling was only about ten days, but I learned a bit about malingering whilst there. About a half-dozen of us were called out of the barracks one morning for a work detail. I was expecting that we would be given mops and brooms to clean up some latrine or other, but when we got to the place we were told to go, an officer told us to go back to the barracks and change to Class A uniform because we were to work in an office. So we went back, changed, and some clever fellow noted that the officer who had sent us back had failed to get our names, ranks and serial numbers. So most of us "got lost" on the way back to the work detail, but somehow found the shuttle bus to downtown Minneapolis. If anyone from the original group ever made it back to that officer's lair, we did not ask.

            After the Fort Snelling "processing" a few of us were sent to Fort Snelling, Alabama, for Basic Training. The SDSC military stuff was a help in getting through basic without much trouble, and now we were getting a monthly salary, a princely $50. The paratroops were getting an extra $50 and that appealed to me. At the same time, I was not above being macho enough to volunteer for the 'troops just to prove how tough I was.

            So the papers that identified me as a volunteer for parachute training were signed. Basic being concluded, we were given orders to report to Fort Lawton in Seattle to be "processed" for the Army of Occupation of Japan. But they gave us a ten-day delay-en-route, which meant that I could take the train to be home in South Dakota on the way, and to be a part of my sister's wedding. She had advanced the day by a month just so I could be there. I left on the train for Seattle almost immediately after the wedding.

            The voyage to Yokohama from Seattle's Fort Lawton was the worst experience of my life, up to that time. There was no air transport for us in 1946; we took a troopship, a converted Liberty ship. The Liberty ships were celebrated for rolling even in a dead calm sea when under way, and they were much worse in moderate to heavy seas. The Great Circle route that was used passes fairly close to the Aleutian Islands, and it was stormy and cold.  I was in fair shape all the time the ship was in the Strait of Juan de Fuca, but as soon as we passed Cape Flattery I got queasy and then outright seasick. It was a 16 day voyage and I was sick for 13 of the 16. Sick to the point of being afraid that I might not die. Dying would have been more fun. It would have been better on deck, but most of those days were so stormy that none but the ship's crew was allowed outside.

            After more "processing" at the 4th Replacement Depot just outside Yokohama (Most of the troops referred to it as the Repple Depple), I was sent to Yamoto in northern Honshu for parachute school. It was a short session, hellish enough, but that made the first five qualifying jumps seem easy by comparison. From there I was assigned to "G" Company, 188th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 11th Airborne Division. In due time I was promoted to Corporal, but never advanced to the exalted rank of Sergeant.

            I had a rather enjoyable time in Japan; "G" company was quartered at Camp Schimmelpfennig, near Sendai. I was a very tame soldier, seldom leaving camp and obeying all the rules punctiliously. Before Christmas of 1946, word was put out that a Methodist missionary college in Sendai was hoping to resume the practice of singing the Handel Messiah in December, and needed tenors and basses. They would supply the transportation for anyone who wanted to sing, and thus it was that the first time I had ever had any part of this great Handel masterwork was in Japan and with a Japanese-speaking (only) conductor. We were to sing it in English, and I was impressed with the quality of the Japanese women singers. I was equally impressed with the clarity of the conductor's directions. He was very clear as to what he wanted, even though he spoke only Japanese. I had occasion to sing with that choir one other time, but that was the extent of it.

            The chaplain at the camp, a Methodist minister with the rank of captain was the ideal person for the job. He was a qualified parachutist along with the rest of us, and was said to have made at least one jump with every class that had come through the Yamoto jump school. We all admired him. Cashing in a bit on the head chaplain's popularity was his subordinate; a lieutenant who was attached to the Division, but really belonged to the despised IX Corps Headquarters. He was not a parachutist and could never be as close to the men as his boss. He tried to organize some music for the Christmas Eve chapel service with the aid of his Chaplain's Assistant, and managed to round up four men to sing some carols in four parts. I was the baritone, as usual. Our only appearance was at that Christmas Eve service; the second tenor arrived with the smell of booze on him. He had a bottle with him to keep the buzz going. I thought there could be trouble with the singing but it went OK. What was not OK was that while we were still standing in front of the crowded Christmas Eve chapel, before we could even start to move back to our pews, the second tenor upchucked very noisily and messily on the floor. My memory of how that was cleaned up is completely gone and I would like to be able to forget the entire incident. But this convinced me that drunkenness, or any drinking before a performance is a bad idea.

            Not long after that, hoping to do some more music, I applied for a transfer, thinking that I would be able to slip into the spot that would soon be vacated, the Chaplain's Assistant. Nothing happened for a very long time and I had begun to think that no one in authority had ever seen my transfer application. Our First Sergeant, Jack Dudley, a tough "old" guy of some 30 years and 10 of those in the Army, talked to me first. The subject of the conversation was that I should re-enlist, as my tour of duty was nearing the end, and I could sign on for as little as one additional year, or two, or three. He made "G" company and the whole 11th Airborne Division sound very attractive, and I wrote home that I was considering signing on for one more year. Sgt. Dudley also mentioned that my request to be a chaplain's assistant was not viewed favorably by any right-thinking officer of his acquaintance.

            This hint of renewing my enlistment did not sell well with my father. But Dad was an immensely wise person, and instead of hitting the ceiling with wrath and fury about throwing away my life and chances for college, he wrote about philosophy. He wrote almost poetically about the work of a farmer, about preparing the soil, planting the seed, fighting the weeds, praying for rain. The harvest was nothing he had created, but his work had made it possible for the grain to grow and become useful food. I had never guessed that my Dad, a man who had tried several times to get away from the farm but had failed to do so, nevertheless felt so passionately about the creative aspects of farming. He mentioned, as a kind of afterthought, that the underlying purpose of an army is not creation, but destruction. Had it not been for this letter, it is likely that I would have signed on for another year, then another three years, and three more and so on. So, after completing one more "glory" jump, I was sent home in May 1947.

            In the fall of 1947 I was all set to take advantage of the really fine GI Bill that was in force then, and to pick up where I had left off, I thought that going back to South Dakota State College would be the way to go. After a year there, I thought I would look around and transfer to someplace where I could actually major in music, as the "Agriculture and Mechanic Arts" part of South Dakota State allowed only a Bachelor of Science degree, and only a music minor. Perhaps I would go to the University of Minnesota, I thought. After a year of some of the most enjoyable times of my life, I couldn't bear the thought of leaving, so I stayed and got my Bachelor of Science degree, history major, music minor in the spring of 1950. The genuine music degree was not to come until 1939 with an MA, University of Minnesota, made possible in part, by the Korean GI Bill.

GETTING LOST / GETTING "LOST"

 

By Dr. Robert E. Plucker 

            The peace-time army is loaded with wise-guys, who, on occasion, can become thick-headed and dull-witted when it is to their advantage to do so.  The art of getting "lost" is an example.  I learned about this rather early on during my first active duty tour.  I had reported to Fort Snelling Minnesota after completing my eligibility for specialized training (ASTRP) at South Dakota State College.  Since I had had a smattering of Army life and discipline in the Reserve at SDSC, I thought I was one of the wise guys.  But I had an important lesson to be learned, the art of getting "lost".

            Troops always have to be "processed", whatever that may mean, whenever they are transferred from one place to another, and so I spent a bit more than two weeks at Fort Snelling as a "casual", waiting to be assigned to a Basic Training unit.  There is always some scut-work to be done on any Army post, someone has to clean the latrines, pick up cigarette butts, paint the rocks, cut the grass, anything the authorities can find to keep the troops busy and out of trouble.

            One morning the squawk-box came on in the barracks, the voice saying that the following named men must report to Casual Headquarters at 0800 hours for duty.  So those of us who had been called duly reported, wearing our usual fatigues, expecting to be handed brooms, mops, scrub pails, paint pails and brushes, shovels, or something.  Instead, the 2nd Lieutenant who met us took a look at us and sent us back to the barracks to change to class A uniforms.  He said we would be working in an office, and the prescribed uniform for office work was class A, olive drab with jackets and ties.  So we went back to the barracks to change.  I was fully intending to comply with the order to report back, but one wise guy was smart enough to have noticed the officer's mistake when he received us, "Hey, that guy never took our names or serial numbers!"  Slowly, it began to register with me that this meant I could get "lost" on the way back and spend the rest of the day goofing off.  I was already dressed in class A uniform, I had no trouble at all finding the shuttle bus to get downtown, and so spent a pleasant day exploring Nicollet and Hennepin Avenues in downtown Minneapolis.

            Learning to get "lost" was a handy thing to know aboard the troop ship homeward bound from Korea in l95l.  This was my fourth crossing of the Pacific by troop ship as I had already made a round trip to Japan in l946-47.  I was not horribly seasick as I had been on my first trip across, and I felt well and able, happy to be heading home.  When the summons came for the troop compartment I was in to pull KP (kitchen duty) I thought I would go ahead and do my duty.  On the first day I was assigned to the chow line.  This meant serving the food to the men as the line passed the big steam tables.  There was always pressure by those in charge, to have the men "take what you want, but eat what you take."  If the food got onto the tray, the mess sergeant and his minions would, to put it delicately, encourage you to not throw it into the garbage can.  The wise guys, including me, got what little fun there is in pulling KP, by serving something that nobody liked.  Boiled beets, for instance.  The idea was to hit the tray with the beets no matter how far the poor GI backed away from the line.  Too bad for him!

            But KP lasts all day, not just when food is being served.  I was then assigned to the garbage detail.  This meant hauling the huge garbage cans of potato peelings, orange rinds, egg shells, the few remains of the men's trays and the like up out of the bowels of the ship, back to the fan-tail, and dumping the mess over the stern.  It was a nasty, hard, dirty job, well worth getting "lost" over.  But the worst of it was that I had the exalted rank of Corporal and outranked the Privates and Pfc’s who were also assigned to the garbage work.  I thought I would be an example to my "subordinates" and so went to work with a will and some false enthusiasm.  The other guys didn't follow my "leadership" at all; they got "lost", and I got stuck with doing everything alone.  It is astonishing how little authority a mere corporal can exert when all of the personnel is unattached to a permanent unit.  So to protect myself I had to get "lost" too, and let the mess sergeant "volunteer" the first ten men in the next chow line if necessary, but I was not ready to be THE garbage detail for a troop ship carrying 2200 men. Following this affair, I always went to the mess hall with a big crowd, never did anything to be noticed by anyone, and virtually disappeared for the rest of the voyage.

            The time I was lost in Tokyo, I must protest, was a case of genuinely not knowing where I was, or how to get back to the G company area.  It happened that the 11th Airborne Division was assigned to furnish an Honor Guard, during January only, for the Imperial Palace, the Imperial Hotel (the one designed by Frank Lloyd Wright, since torn down), and the Dai Ichi building where MacArthur's offices were located.  How our G company got selected for this honor I don't know, but we were transported by train from our Camp Schimmelpfennig at Sendai to Tokyo and assigned barracks there.  The guard duty was easy enough, mostly standing up straight, looking as handsome as possible in pressed class A uniforms, highly polished paratroop jump boots with white nylon laces and a special non-regulation white nylon ascot type tie.  We looked sharp!

            We had not been in the big city for more than a few days when it was decreed that each of us was to receive a full round of shots.  (You know, the kind with a square rusty needle administered by some Pfc who had never done this before.)This full round of shots can consist of four shots in one arm and three in the other, many of which give me raging headaches.  I would do nearly anything to avoid these, especially since I had had the full ration three times already in my short time in uniform           On the morning of the day of the shots, I was taken along with one of the sergeants to see to some business at one of the guard posts.  My sole reason for going along was to drive the jeep back to the company area.  There was plenty of time to drive back and take a place in line for the dreaded shots, but I must have taken a wrong turn somewhere and was lost.  Genuinely and hopelessly lost, not "lost".

            Not being able to read the street signs in Japanese and not seeing anyone on the street who could understand my questions, to say nothing of answering them, I drove around anxiously looking for some land-mark that would give me direction.  Nothing.  The gas gauge on the jeep crept down much too close to "empty".  A gas station in Tokyo?  In 1947?  When there were virtually no Japanese vehicles running, except a few charcoal-burning trucks?   What could I do when I ran out of gas?

            In desperation I finally somehow made myself understood to a Japanese policeman enough to get him to get in the jeep with me and point the way to the Imperial Palace, because from there I knew I could find my way back.  I hope the poor cop didn't get into trouble for deserting the beat he was walking.  So I got back to the G company barracks and they had already finished the shots.  The "medics" and their needles had packed up and gone.

            But I insist that this time, getting lost was for real. I swear it.