Operation Counterpunch

4. Finders Keepers-1

Chapter Four

Finders Keepers

“Happy Birthday, Gus!”

The greeting from his grandmother startled him, not knowing anyone else was up.

“Thank you, Grandma. Thanks to FDR, I get to eat pumpkin pie and birthday cake!”

Gus Erickson turned eighteen on Thanksgiving Day, November 20th, in 1941. President Roosevelt opened a can of worms in ’39 when he moved Thanksgiving up a week. Gus’s family, Republicans all, just knew it had to be a big conspiracy. The truth: November 1939 had five Thursdays, and retailers petitioned the president to proclaim turkey-day a week earlier so they’d have more time between Thanksgiving and Christmas.

Since President Lincoln, the date was set each year by presidential proclamation, traditionally the last Thursday of the month. Gus knew that his folks, and a lot of other people, were pretty worked up about the whole thing; so in 1941 President Roosevelt acknowledged his mistake and Congress officially made Thanksgiving the fourth Thursday, but the legislation would take effect beginning in 1942. So, in 1941, Gus’s birthday fell on Thanksgiving Day.

“I’m heading out to milk the cows, Grandma.”

“Okay, Gus. I’ll have your breakfast ready when you get done.”

Gus entered the world on his great grandfather’s homestead on the south bank of the Siuslaw River, downstream from Mapleton a bit. An only child, he grew up in a very rural three-generation household. His grandmother, a tough hardworking woman, never wasted anything. The family didn’t have a lot of money, but they never wanted for anything. His father and grandfather would harvest a few logs each year from the homestead to sell to the mill. They always planted a big garden and raised cattle, sheep, hogs, and chickens. From the time he turned seven, Gus milked the cows every morning by himself. His mother, Grace, chilled the milk in the spring they used for water to the house; and his grandmother, Charlotte, made their butter and cheese.

The Morgans were invited over for Thanksgiving every year. There were eight in the Morgan family—in all, thirteen around the table for dinner. And coming up after dinner, all the deserts: pumpkin pie, blackberry pie, apple pie, and a birthday cake Gus’s grandmother made from scratch.

The Morgan kids heard a rumor about ice cream, a rare treat. Gus loved his grandpa Henry, and Gus knew his grandfather adored him. Gus appreciated his grandpa making the ice cream that the Morgan kids were anxious to taste. He rigged the hand crank gear on top of the ice cream maker to a shaft and belt driven from a water wheel in the creek. Henry just kept the ice and salt fresh around the tub and let the creek do the work. He’d never gone to school, but Gus zealously held to the notion that no one alive could match his grandpa’s intellect. He really could do anything with almost nothing.

Gus stood in awe of the Thanksgiving table overflowing with all kinds of good things: roasted venison, from a deer Gus killed the week before; roasted turkey from a bird Gus’s mother raised from a chick, just for this occasion; mashed garlic potatoes that Grandma made with potatoes and garlic from their garden; steamed broccoli; sweet potatoes; lettuce salad with cucumber, peas, and water chestnuts—a real feast.

* * *

On Sunday morning, December 7th, Gus milked his usual three cows. He poured the milk through cheese cloth into a ten-gallon milk can and set the can into the spring to cool the milk. He walked back into his grandfather’s shop. Grandpa sat by the wood stove, drinking a cup of black coffee. Gus grabbed a mug off the shelf above work bench, took a shop rag, and used it to insulate the metal handle of the coffee pot sitting on the edge of the stove. Gus didn’t quite understand why, but black coffee sure tasted good. He set a piece of un-split alder on its end and sat down with his grandfather next to the stove.

Gus’s dad, Joe, was in the pit under their Caterpillar dozer, draining the oil. He climbed the ladder from the pit, poured himself a cup of coffee, and leaned against the post, the three of them just visiting and enjoying the moment.

Shep, their collie, began to bark at the sound of a car coming up the driveway, which was kind of odd for a Sunday morning.

Gus stepped over to the window. “It’s Mel.”

Mel owned a little sawmill downstream from the Erickson homestead. When the Ericksons had logs to sell, they always sold them to Mel. Mel lived next to Hwy 126 and had power from the co-op, and he had a radio. As he burst into the shop, Gus’s dad turned toward the door.

“Hey ya, Mel. Is everything all right?”

“It’s Japan! They just bombed the hell out of our fleet at Pearl Harbor!”

The Erickson boys were trying to process the news.

Henry scratched his head.

“Pearl Harbor—where the hell is that?”

“Hawai‘i. It’s an island way out in the Pacific Ocean where we have a naval base.”

“What does it mean?”

“It means, sonny, there’s gonna be a war.”

Gus looked over at his grandfather—rail thin, always had been. Gus had seen him a million times, just like now, legs crossed, leaned back with his arms across his chest.

Henry rubbed the back of his neck.

“A war—I don’t like the sound of that. My little brother died in the Spanish American War in ’98.”

Gus measured his dad’s reaction—poking at a rock on the floor with the tip of his boot. Gus knew his dad fought in Europe during The Great War. He could read the worry on his face and knew his dad was concerned for his son.

Mel broke the silence. “I am going to spread the word. I’ll come back when I have more news.”

The Erickson boys just sat there in silence. The plans they’d just been talking about for spring would all be changing.

About six o’clock, Mel’s car came up the driveway. He reported that the president was going to address Congress and the nation the next day at 9:30 a.m. Pacific Time. He invited them over to his place to listen to the speech on his radio.

Gus’s grandparents opted to stay home, so Gus and his folks drove his dad’s 1934 Ford truck over to Mel’s place. Two weeks later, Gus was in the Army—four months later, on a troop ship heading for Hawai‘i, and who knows where after that.

* * *

The war was brutal, but for whatever reason, Gus had a guardian angel on his shoulder the entire conflict. He left the Philippines with MacArthur in 1942, when they retreated, and remained with MacArthur until 1944, when they recaptured the islands. Gus fought in several combat situations; he’d seen all the horror of war, but somehow came through unscathed. In August of 1945, Gus’s unit was stationed in China, attached to Lt. General Hodge. He received word that the Japanese surrendered. The mood in their camp—Euphoric!

The surrender ceremony was scheduled for September 2nd in Tokyo Harbor. Over the course of the war, Gus had been promoted to captain—no small feat. He left Oregon a very shy, cautious eighteen-year-old boy. The horrors of war turned him into a battle-hardened, still-cautious, about-to-turn-twenty-two-year-old man. He’d been in The Pacific Theater the entire war.

Lt. General Hodge briefed Gus and the other junior officers about their next move: their unit would go to Korea and be the military government there, south of the 38th Parallel.

Gus arrived at Inchon Harbor on September 8th and found chaos in Korea. The negotiations resulted in the Americans and Russians jointly administering the country. The agreement called for the Russian zone to be above the 38th Parallel, and the American zone, south of the 38th. When word spread that the Russians and their communist allies were going to be in charge in the North, 400,000 refugees flooded the South to avoid the tyranny they knew would follow.

Captain Erickson’s orders were to create a safe perimeter around their operations center. They searched and secured the buildings around their administration building. The goal was to prevent snipers and other malcontents from causing trouble. The American military brass decided to utilize many of the Japanese bureaucrats, already in place, to help manage the American sector of Korea. That decision proved very unpopular with the local Koreans and their leaders. The Japanese had treated the Koreans horribly for the past 35 years, and the Koreans did not want the Japanese to remain in any way; but Gus had his orders: make a secure perimeter.

He got to work.

Gus and his men were on the fifth floor, the top floor, of a building south of the administration building. They’d already barricaded the entire first floor so the building would remain secure once they finished searching.

Gus ordered Private Scofield to lead a group to the north end of the floor. He watched apprehensively as his men carefully made their way up the hallway.

Scofield shouted, “Captain Erickson, we need your help!”

Gus approached the door Private Scofield shouted from. Frantic wailing came from inside—the distressed cries of a woman.

Gus carefully peeked around the doorjamb, then entered the room. Five of his men stood in a “ready for anything” position, rifles poised. He glanced around and saw no immediate danger, then assessed the woman wailing on her knees with her hands up, eyes cast down, obviously terrified. She wore a long shirt that came over her legs like a nightgown, no shoes—no hidden grenades or other weapons.

“Scofield, what is going on in here?”

“Captain, we were searching this area room by room, and we found her—” He pointed at the woman with the muzzle of his rifle. “In that closet.”

Gus handed Scofield his rifle and walked over to the woman, who was still crying in terror. He knelt down to touch her on the shoulder.

She recoiled and gasped so hard she lost her air. Once she regained her breath, she began wailing again.

Gus reached across and gently held her shoulder, then began to rub her back. “Shhh, shhh, shhh.”

Gus ordered Scofield to go find their interpreter, and the rest of his men to step back and guard the opening to the room.

He held the woman while gently rubbing her back.

After four or five minutes, she stopped crying, but continued to gasp and quiver like a small child winding down from a tantrum. Her lips pressing against the inside of his forearm felt chapped—she needed water.

Gus retrieved the canteen off his hip. He unscrewed the top with his thumb, then drew his left hand toward himself to pour a bit of water into his palm, wetting her cheek.

She tensed up when she felt the water.

He smiled with satisfaction as she eagerly cupped the back of his hand in hers and sipped the bit of water.

For the first time, she slightly relaxed.

He lifted her chin with his finger, then gently swept her hair from her face.

Their eyes met.

Gus read her mind—he was not Japanese; she wasn’t going to die—not today, anyway.

Gus looked upon her face and saw a very beautiful young woman, then offered her more water.

She swallowed hard twice, then drew her hands up under her chin and collapsed into the crook of his elbow with her face buried in his chest. Her desperate cries of terror gave way to sobs of relief and grief all at the same time.

Down on both knees now, Gus cradled her in his arms and let her cry.

Ten minutes later Scofield returned with their interpreter, Myon, a Korean ex-pat serving his countrymen.

The woman stopped crying, still curled up in a fetal position cradled in Gus’s arms.

He could feel all her ribs. He asked one of his men to find something to drape over the woman, then picked her up like a feather and sat her on an old couch. He covered her with the blanket and gave her a cracker and some peanut butter from a ration kit. He positioned two chairs in front of her, one for the interpreter and one for himself.