From the passenger seat of the speeding Jeep, Don Hardy observed that the landscape was unlike anything he had seen before. He was a little awed by it, in fact — the jagged mountains against the distant icy blue sky, the dusty hills, Korean farmers working their fields using yoked pairs of oxen. You're not in Kansas anymore, he reminded himself.
Then again, Hardy wasn’t actually from Kansas, but close enough. He was from Indiana, Hoosier country. He looked like he could have been a midwestern farm boy himself, big and rawboned, ruggedly handsome in a blue-eyed, sandy-haired way.
But Hardy sure wasn't a farmer. He wasn't a soldier, either. He was a journalist, with a newly minted degree from Purdue University. He had been able to finish his degree with a deferment, but the ink had hardly dried when the Army got its hands on him and he was on the way to Korea. It was a rude awakening, being yanked from civilian life into uniform — or as one of his college friends might have put it more crudely, it sure would have been nice to be kissed before he was screwed.
Hardy sat beside his driver in the Jeep bouncing its way along the rough road toward the Taebaek Mountains, away from the coastline where Hardy had landed just a few days ago. Being a budding wordsmith, he searched his mind for descriptive snippets from all of the Faulkner, Hemingway, and Wolfe that he had read as an English major. He would need to include some details in the news article that he would be writing for Stars & Stripes. It didn't occur to him yet that his audience would already be quite familiar with the landscape.
He took his helmet off, to better enjoy the fresh breeze, which was spoiled only by a slight scent of… he wrinkled his nose, trying to pinpoint the odor.
"Best keep that on," the driver said. "Captain Dorchester will chew my ass if you get your head shot off before you get to take pictures of anything with that camera of yours."
“Has a helmet ever stopped a bullet?”
“Not that I’ve heard of, but there’s always a first time.”
Hardy put his helmet back on, just in case. Captain Dorchester was the editor of Stars & Stripes, and he didn't want to cross him, dead or not. Dorchester was a pudgy little ogre of a man who showed next to no patience with the fresh-faced reporters and photographers that he was sending out to document the war. Like some caricature of a big city editor, he kept a cigar clamped between his yellowed teeth and a bottle of scotch hidden in his desk drawer.
The publication itself was supposed to be quasi-military and independent, and yet the newspaper’s staff followed a military hierarchy, with most of the editors being officers and most of the reporters and photographers being newly minted privates like Hardy. There wasn't any saluting, but there was a definite pecking order. Still, Hardy supposed it might land him a newspaper job back home. Not only that, but it sure as hell beat being an infantryman in a foxhole.
Hardy wrinkled his nose again. "What is that smell?" he wanted to know.
The driver barked a laugh. "What's the matter, haven’t you ever smelled an outhouse before? This whole place is one big latrine. That's because all the farmers fertilize their fields with, you know, shit."
Hardy realized that he had a lot to learn about Korea.
Guys who had been there a while might have said, Good luck with that, buddy.
Testing out his journalistic skills, Hardy had already ventured to ask some of the soldiers that he’d met so far in Korea what the objective for the war was, and had mostly received blank stares. He turned to the driver.
“Hey, do you know what this war is all about? What we’re fighting for, I mean?”
The driver barely gave him a horrified look. “What are you, one of those secret Communists they keep warning us about? Don’t tell me I drove a Communist all the way out here.”
“Oh, never mind,” Hardy said, deciding that he had better keep his mouth shut unless he wanted to get out and walk. He went back to brooding over the landscape.
So much for that. Still, Hardy struggled to define the war clearly in his own mind.
The purpose of the war wasn't to defeat and invade China. Maybe it was to liberate North Korea. Or was the goal to make the Communists stay or their own side of the 38th parallel? The last two objectives might even have been obtainable if it hadn't been for a few hundred thousand screaming Chinese. In the end, the goal wasn't only uncertain, it was downright murky. And often, the goal changed from week to week. It was one hell of a slippery subject to write about, that was for damn sure.
Hardy had been sent by the irascible Captain Dorchester to document some of the fighting that was taking place in a new push to dislodge the enemy. He wasn't completely sure if the editor really wanted the latest news and some photographs, or if he was just trying to get Hardy out from underfoot. And if he didn't come back, to the editor's way of thinking, it might just be one less reporter to worry about.
"Find some happy news," Dorchester had ordered, although the captain didn't appear to be familiar with that particular emotion himself, poking the much-taller young reporter in the chest to emphasize his point. "These articles also get read by people back home. They need to hear about how their soldiers are fighting the good fight. They need some good news for a change, God knows."
It would be Hardy's job to interview some soldiers at the front, report on how the UN forces were winning Operation Showdown to drive the Chinese off these hills, and even to take a few pictures. He had been supplied with a small, state-of-the-art Kodak camera for this very purpose. The reporters at Stars & Stripes often had to do double-duty by taking photographs as well as writing articles.
Captain Dorchester had poked him in the chest one last time before he left and warned him, "If you break that goddamn camera, it's coming out of your pay. Understood?"
"Yes, sir."
He had then saluted Captain Dorchester, who rolled his eyes. The military press corps was not big on saluting. "Oh, for chrissakes. Get the hell out of here!"
So far, Hardy's only previous assignment had been to cover Marilyn Monroe’s visit to the troops as part of a USO tour. He had been excited about seeing such a big star in person, and he wasn't disappointed. The military's own press corps always managed to be right up front when one of the big stars arrived on a USO tour, and Marilyn Monroe had been no exception.
Her visit was already well-covered by reporters and photographers, meaning that Hardy really didn't have a role to play in that regard, but a buddy had found Hardy a spot right up front, supposedly helping with the microphones and other equipment.
Wow, had she been a knockout. She wasn't much of a singer; it was more like she talked her way through "Diamonds Are A Girl's Best Friend" and other songs in a sultry bedroom voice, but most soldiers weren't interested in the quality of her singing. Heck, even her band had the suggestive name of Anything Goes.
You couldn't hear much of her singing, anyhow, on account of all the hooting, catcalls, and whistling. To his surprise, a group of black soldiers was in the front row, although their enthusiasm seemed subdued. Maybe they felt like they shouldn't show too much excitement over a white woman.
To be sure, that woman could fill out a dress. The fabric hugged her hips and thighs, and despite the chill, she showed off her shoulders and revealed plenty of cleavage.
Up on the rough stage, surrounded by drab tents and dull landscape, she had looked incredibly out of place, like a diamond in a sea of coal. The thought occurred to him that she must be kind of chilly up there. Back home, she could live at the Ritz and wear all the furs she wanted. But she didn't complain, and she put on one hell of a show for the boys. Hardy had come to the realization that the soldiers weren't the only heroes that day.