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Authors: Never Surrender
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his warning. “Whatever you do,” he said, “don’t let Snoopy get away from you. If you do, you’ll never catch him.”
As I drove to the quarantine area, a hot June sun beat down on the Suburban’s roof. I could hear the dog panting in the back. Five minutes later, I pulled up to the quarantine area, which bordered on Pusan’s pristine, rolling golf course. Rather than try to muscle the whole kennel inside for check-in, I grabbed Snoopy’s leash and opened the kennel door to snap the leash on his collar. That was my big mistake.
That animal shot past me like a convict in a jailbreak. He landed in the parking lot and took off at a dead gallop. General Faul’s words flashed through my mind:
Don’t let Snoopy get away . . . you’ll never catch him
. That blasted dog had been lying in wait!
I cursed and sprinted after him, my two legs to his four. Maybe the mutt wasn’t as stupid as he looked because he headed straight for eighteen holes of open range.
“Snoopy! Snoopy!” I hollered like an idiot, racing past generals and colonels teeing up. I could hear the dog ahead of me, yapping in celebration of his freedom. I raced across the first fairway, nearly sideswiping a woman who almost clubbed me with a seven iron midswing. Golfers laughed at me and cursed at me as my Army career flashed before my eyes. I chased that dog for seventeen holes, alternately calling his name, sucking wind, and picturing my new assignment handing out socks and jocks at the gym.
I don’t know why, but at the eighteenth green, Snoopy suddenly faltered. Seizing the career saving moment, I launched off both feet in a commando dive and dragged him down like a felon. And as I carried that blasted animal back to quarantine, I held on so tight I was afraid the Fauls were going to wind up asking me why their dog had fingernail marks in him.
4
DURING MY TIME IN KOREA, I existed in a kind of cultural disconnect. By then, Vietnam war protesters stateside began lining up to scream and spit at soldiers returning from the war. Such incidents infuriated me when I saw them on Armed Forces television. By contrast, I was struck by how proudly the Koreans sent their men to the war. For most of a year, I was right in the thick of their comings and goings. Every Korean unit deployed from and returned to Pusan, a major port city. Every time a Korean unit shipped out or returned, Faul and I would head down to the bustling waterfront for the official ceremony.
Each of these events was almost like a holiday for the Koreans. The city turned out the schools and all the children would stream down to the port waving Korean flags. I remember one day in particular, going down and watching as a ship tied up and the citizens waited for disembarkation to begin. When the Koreans came off the ship, they always brought their wounded off first. Some were litter patients; others walked on their own, bandaged and limping; some were missing limbs. There was a message of honor in the fact that the wounded disembarked first: these were the real heroes. And their fellow citizens treated them that way, with this incredible combination of joy and reverence. Cheers went up when the first of the wounded appeared. A band struck up a patriotic song and the children began clapping and singing.
I stood there, my heart split by admiration and sadness as I pondered the kind of reception American soldiers were getting on our side of the Pacific. I really started to question why the Koreans were so proud of their soldiers and why some Americans had such disdain for ours. Interestingly, the Koreans I got to know in Pusan had the same questions. I had a driver named Mr. Kim who had been born in South Korea. When Kim Il-Sung, backed by the Soviet Union, took control of the north, Mr. Kim enlisted to fight and was later captured by the communists.
“During interrogations, they beat me,” Mr. Kim told me one day. “In English, they called me ‘son of bitch.’ I did not know what they
As I drove to the quarantine area, a hot June sun beat down on the Suburban’s roof. I could hear the dog panting in the back. Five minutes later, I pulled up to the quarantine area, which bordered on Pusan’s pristine, rolling golf course. Rather than try to muscle the whole kennel inside for check-in, I grabbed Snoopy’s leash and opened the kennel door to snap the leash on his collar. That was my big mistake.
That animal shot past me like a convict in a jailbreak. He landed in the parking lot and took off at a dead gallop. General Faul’s words flashed through my mind:
Don’t let Snoopy get away . . . you’ll never catch him
. That blasted dog had been lying in wait!
I cursed and sprinted after him, my two legs to his four. Maybe the mutt wasn’t as stupid as he looked because he headed straight for eighteen holes of open range.
“Snoopy! Snoopy!” I hollered like an idiot, racing past generals and colonels teeing up. I could hear the dog ahead of me, yapping in celebration of his freedom. I raced across the first fairway, nearly sideswiping a woman who almost clubbed me with a seven iron midswing. Golfers laughed at me and cursed at me as my Army career flashed before my eyes. I chased that dog for seventeen holes, alternately calling his name, sucking wind, and picturing my new assignment handing out socks and jocks at the gym.
I don’t know why, but at the eighteenth green, Snoopy suddenly faltered. Seizing the career saving moment, I launched off both feet in a commando dive and dragged him down like a felon. And as I carried that blasted animal back to quarantine, I held on so tight I was afraid the Fauls were going to wind up asking me why their dog had fingernail marks in him.
4
DURING MY TIME IN KOREA, I existed in a kind of cultural disconnect. By then, Vietnam war protesters stateside began lining up to scream and spit at soldiers returning from the war. Such incidents infuriated me when I saw them on Armed Forces television. By contrast, I was struck by how proudly the Koreans sent their men to the war. For most of a year, I was right in the thick of their comings and goings. Every Korean unit deployed from and returned to Pusan, a major port city. Every time a Korean unit shipped out or returned, Faul and I would head down to the bustling waterfront for the official ceremony.
Each of these events was almost like a holiday for the Koreans. The city turned out the schools and all the children would stream down to the port waving Korean flags. I remember one day in particular, going down and watching as a ship tied up and the citizens waited for disembarkation to begin. When the Koreans came off the ship, they always brought their wounded off first. Some were litter patients; others walked on their own, bandaged and limping; some were missing limbs. There was a message of honor in the fact that the wounded disembarked first: these were the real heroes. And their fellow citizens treated them that way, with this incredible combination of joy and reverence. Cheers went up when the first of the wounded appeared. A band struck up a patriotic song and the children began clapping and singing.
I stood there, my heart split by admiration and sadness as I pondered the kind of reception American soldiers were getting on our side of the Pacific. I really started to question why the Koreans were so proud of their soldiers and why some Americans had such disdain for ours. Interestingly, the Koreans I got to know in Pusan had the same questions. I had a driver named Mr. Kim who had been born in South Korea. When Kim Il-Sung, backed by the Soviet Union, took control of the north, Mr. Kim enlisted to fight and was later captured by the communists.
“During interrogations, they beat me,” Mr. Kim told me one day. “In English, they called me ‘son of bitch.’ I did not know what they
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