Valleys of Death (2 page)

After an hour, I made it to the front. A sergeant in a crisp uniform, with chestnut hair, stared up from her small desk. She wasn't bad looking, but she had a lethal demeanor, like a cobra ready to strike.

“Name, rank, serial number,” she snapped.

“Corporal William J. Richardson, RA13150752.”

She looked down at my personnel file and then back at me.

“Corporal, we are discharging you for the convenience of the government.”

The words hit me like a hammer. I stood there stunned and muttering.

“What? I've got more than four months on my extension.”

Then I got mad.

“Goddamn it, I don't want to be discharged”

She looked up again. Her eyes narrow. Angry.

“Well goddamn it, you're going to be. Like it or not,” she snapped back.

I swallowed my anger and took a deep breath. I knew I wasn't going to argue my way back into the Army.

“Hey, Sarge, I'm sorry I came on so strong. Look, I really want to stay in,” I said, trying to be sincere. “I sure would like to have the rest of my time to figure out what I want to do when I reenlist.”

I smiled sheepishly. I really needed the remaining time on my extension to determine how I was going to get back to Austria or how I was going to get Rose, my girlfriend, over to the States. Rose and I met when she was a domestic working for two officers' families in my unit, and I hadn't thought of much else since I'd left.

“Come on, please. Give me a break.”

The sergeant stopped writing in my file and looked up at me. Sweeping a lock of chestnut hair out of her eyes, she stared at me like she was trying to see through my facade. Was I full of shit? I hated that coldhearted bitch, but I held on to my smile until my cheeks hurt.

Finally, she smiled.

“All right, damn it. I'm going to reassign you to Fort Devens,” she said.

Where the hell was that? I almost asked for Fort Dix, but I held my tongue.

“Gee, Sarge, that's great. Thanks.”

I made it to the replacement center at Fort Devens, Massachusetts, a few days after the North Korean invasion. That night, President Truman issued an executive order extending everyone for one year. He was going to make a stand against Communism in Korea. Only a few of the soldiers in line were there to be assigned to a unit. Most wanted to get discharged, especially with the news coming out of Korea, but they were now being assigned to new units. Units that were likely headed to Korea.

Everyone thought it would be over quickly though. Hell, we didn't even really care about Korea. When Secretary of State Dean Acheson had highlighted American interests in the Pacific a few years before, he didn't even mention the Korean Peninsula. That turned out to be an invitation to North Korea, backed by Russia and China, to test their expansion desires. We didn't leave tanks there after World War II since the terrain was not suitable, a fact the North Koreans dismissed when they crashed into South Korea with their Russian-made T-34 tanks.

The next morning ten of us were in the parking lot joking and laughing about all the other guys being extended. Who, by the way, were pissed.

The joking and laughter stopped when a deuce-and-a-half truck pulled into the dusty parking lot. We piled on and were taken to the Third Battalion, Seventh Regiment, Third Division headquarters. It was a typical old World War II building with white wooden slats. I handed my file to a sergeant who put me in L Company. The commander wanted to speak to us at the base theater. I figured it was a normal welcome brief. I got to the theater with a few minutes to spare. The lights went down and I settled into my second row seat.

“THIS IS THE INFANTRY ” splashed across the screen.

For the next eleven minutes I sat through a World War II film showing scenes of men charging enemy positions with bayonets gleaming in the sunlight. The next scene showed soldiers racing through artillery fire with rifles in hand. Finally, they were on a hill recapturing one of the Aleutian Islands from the Japanese. The action faded to a final scene: a company of soldiers standing ramrod straight in formation as an officer pinned medals on their chests.

“For every man that is decorated for bravery another five go unrecognized but proudly wear the Combat Infantryman's Badge,” the narrator boomed.

A picture of the badge, with its long musket flanked by a U-shaped oak wreath, flashed on the screen before it faded to black.

Just as the lights came up, Lieutenant Colonel Harold K. Johnson stepped in front of the screen. A slight man with short-cropped gray hair, he wasn't overly impressive but had an air of authority.

“You men already wearing the Combat Infantryman's Badge will soon be wearing a star on it,” he told us. “And the rest of you will be wearing the badge. We've been ordered to Korea and will be leaving in two weeks.”

I looked around me and there were only two or three rows occupied. There weren't enough men to make a good company let alone a battalion. But Johnson went right on talking as if he were oblivious to that fact.

“There's a lot to be done in a very short period of time and there's no time to waste. It's going to be action packed,” he said. “May God bless you all.”

There was a great silence as we filed out of the old theater. As we walked back, a young sergeant who had been sitting next to me finally broke the tension.

“God, I just got married and I'm on CQ tonight.”

“I'll take your duty tonight. I just got here and have nothing to do,” I said, introducing myself. Charge of Quarters, or CQ in Army lingo, is usually pretty boring. You answer phones and make sure the barracks don't burn down. It is like a nighttime front desk job.

“Sergeant Roberts,” he said, shaking my hand. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I'm sure.”

For a second I thought he was going to hug me. Back at the company we got clearance from the first sergeant and I took over the duty for the night. I settled into the desk that evening. My mind started to wander back to my last few weeks at home.

After getting my transfer to Fort Devens a month ago, I'd grabbed the last bus to Philadelphia. Sliding a scrap of paper with my mother's new address on it out of my pocket, I climbed into a cab at the bus station. I'd never been to the new house before. She'd moved soon after I left for Europe.

My sister Dottie had sent me the new address with a letter a couple of months ago. She'd also sent a picture. I didn't recognize her at first and knew I wouldn't recognize my other three siblings either. They'd all grown up since I'd been gone.

I got to the house just before midnight. It was one of a dozen two-story row houses. I jumped out of the cab, tossing a few bucks to the driver, snatched my duffel bag from the seat and ran up the old white steps. It was late, so there were no lights on in the house. I banged on the door and rang the doorbell.

No answer.

All of a sudden three heads popped out of the second-floor window.

“Who's there? What do you want?”

“It's Bill,” I said. Neither my brother nor my sisters recognized me.

All of a sudden a little head popped up between the other three. It was my youngest brother, Tom.

“It's our brother Billy, go down and let him in.”

All four came down and opened the front door. I was shocked by what I saw. I had been their big brother and took care of them, but now two of them were teenagers, Dottie and Jean; John was twelve and almost a teenager.

Tommy, the youngest, marched out onto the stoop and helped me with my bag. He seemed to remember me more than the others. We sat around the kitchen table and I fixed myself a ham and cheese on rye bread and had a beer. While I was eating, they were talking a mile a minute.

“How long will you be home?” Dottie asked.

“Do you have a picture of your girlfriend?” Tommy asked.

I tried to keep up, but I was in awe of how much they'd changed. Dottie had always been pretty, but she'd grown into a beautiful young lady. Jean too was well on her way to being another beauty. She still had the black curly hair that had earned her the nickname “Mop Top.” When I was home, I used to sing and dance for her while I was getting ready to go out. John had grown into a stocky teenager. He looked like a young Babe Ruth, and Tommy, the de facto spokesman despite being the youngest, seemed more mature than his nine years. While they were talking, I realized how much I had missed them.

My mother didn't get home until two-thirty in the morning. She had Frank, her boyfriend, in tow. I could tell they were three sheets to the wind. That was no change. My mother wouldn't stop saying how surprised she was to see me. When they walked in, I got up from the couch and hugged her. Frank stood nearby and we shook hands.

“It is good to have you back home, Billy,” my mother said.

She was surprised at how much I had changed.

She was forty-three years old, but she always looked ten years younger than she was. My father and mother had been separated for five years. How it lasted as long as it did, I'll never know. She had been the life of the party for as long as I could remember.

The next day I called my father. I hadn't seen him since I'd left four years ago. We made arrangements to meet for lunch on Allegheny Avenue, outside a Horn & Hardhart restaurant. It was a famous self-serve restaurant in Philadelphia where working people could catch a quick lunch. Dad had taken me to this restaurant once or twice when I was a young kid, and I thought it was great, and here we were together and I still thought it was great. I remember I had my favorite dessert, Philadelphia cheesecake.

As I walked down the street, I saw him coming toward me. He looked a little shorter than I remembered. Before I could react or say anything, he grabbed me and right in the middle of the sidewalk, hugged and kissed me. It embarrassed the hell out of me. We went in and grabbed a table by the window. By the time we got to the Philadelphia cheesecake, we'd caught up. But when we started talking about my mother and siblings, I could see the tears well up in his eyes.

“Bill, I see Dottie once a month. She meets me on Frank-ford Avenue and I give her the child support money. Most of the time we just hug and cry. It's hard.”

I quickly changed the subject.

“Where are you living now?” I asked.

“I'm still at Herron's house.”

Bill and my dad had been partners since they were kids. They were song-and-dance men who played all the local clubs along the eastern seaboard and on the Friehofer's radio show. My father played the banjo and Bill Herron—I called him Uncle Bill—played the marimba.

Entertainment ran in the family.

My dad's brother Frank had sung on the stage since he was eight years old. He made it to Hollywood and appeared in nine movies;
Fox Movietone Follies of 1929
,
Sunnyside Up
and
Happy Days
, to name a few. In 1932 my dad and Uncle Bill were scheduled to go out to Hollywood when they finished their engagement at Million Dollar Pier in Atlantic City, New Jersey. But before their last show the studio sent a telegram canceling the trip.

Frank had promised to marry a chorus girl and put it in writing. Of course he was already married, and she threatened to slap him with a million-dollar breach of promise suit. Things had caught up with him, and when it hit the headlines across the nation I had a new aunt. But the scandal stopped any interest Hollywood had in another Richardson. So my father, Bill Herron and Frank continued to play in clubs and theaters along the eastern seaboard.

In 1944 they went on tour with a show entertaining troops all across the country. In 1945, they went overseas. It was two days before I left for Europe myself. My dad arrived back home from the USO trip in Europe. My mother had her boyfriend move in, and when my dad came home she told him he was no longer welcome. We went out together and it was the first time I saw my father drink. I wanted to cry for him. My heart was breaking. I dropped him off that night at Bill Herron's house. I spent the night at my mother's house with my brothers and sisters and felt a million miles away. I loved my mother through it all, but I always felt sorry for my father.

After lunch, we went downtown to one of my dad's booking agents, checking to see if they had any shows. Dad was working at Yale & Towne as a tool crib expediter in the daytime and at nights and on weekends playing club dates.

We walked into the office and said hello to the receptionist. My father introduced me and started a pitch that I would hear with every new face about my tour overseas and how well I was doing in the Army. He was also showing me off. He was very proud of me.

Back outside, he told me he was seeing a young lady who was divorced with four children.

“She's very nice and I think you will like her, we'll get together soon,” my dad said. “Hey, Bill, suppose we get together tomorrow night, go to dinner and a movie, with Cathy and me?”

“That'll be great.”

The next night we went to a movie at the Earle Theater and to dinner at Bookbinders, one of Philly's best restaurants.

The one thing I remember most about Cathy was she loved my dad. I saw how she snuck glances at him and how they tenderly held hands during the movie. At the end of the night, Cathy asked my dad and me if we could come to dinner at her house on Sunday. She wanted me to meet her children.

On Sunday, I pressed my uniform and met my dad at Cathy's house in northeast Philly. She had three boys, ages nine to fourteen, and a sixteen-year-old daughter, Claire. Cathy was a good cook, and she laid out a spread of roast beef, mashed potatoes and peas. In between bites, I fielded questions about my travels to Italy, France and Austria. They were Catholic and marveled at my stories about the Vatican and St. Peter's Basilica.