Welcome to My Worlds: A Bipolar Christian Tells All

Sal’s hard gaze flew from his friend to the front of the cave. The silhouette of several men, rifles in hand, caused his eyes to widen and his chest to constrict. Then came the whispers of North Korean soldiers. A man crept toward them, cautiously moving forward about three feet. Another two and no question about it: discovery, torture, death.

Sal prayed. But would God be sick of hearing his requests by now? His glance riveted to the enemy, closing in on their position in the shadows. Then the North Korean stopped and cocked an ear. Sal didn’t dare breath. His now clammy hand clamped over the boy’s mouth. The soldier took a step, then turned, and exited.

Is their any limit to God’s grace?

“Let’s get back to camp,” Sal said, wiping sweat from his brow.

The boy scampered off, and he and Neal trudged down the mountain.

Sal retired to the canvas tent he shared with fourteen other men. He slept fitfully, waking with a start, chills sweeping through him. His gaze flew to the opening flap. His eyes adjusted to the dim light, and then he saw it: a thin wisp of smoke creeping through the canvas. It slithered like a snake up the seam of the tent, pausing where the side met the ceiling, then drifting toward him with agonizing slowness.

His breath caught in his throat. He slammed his eyelids closed, whispering a prayer the vapor would disappear, then opened his eyes. The death-mist inched closer. His limbs froze, then shook as if his body was a rattle in the hands of a baby. Heinous pictures of war flashed in his mind like vacation slides.

Sal ducked his head under the protection of his sleeping bag, fists clenched, head thrashing side-to-side. He knew what would happen if he uncovered his face, but an unseen force seemed to pull him back into the open, and the filmy smoke attacked his skin, invading his flaring nostrils. He shrieked like a prisoner in the throes of agonizing torture.

The smell of the dead seeped into his pores, permeating his senses. He slapped at the air, but couldn’t bat the mist away. Another high-pitched scream tore from his throat. Then another.

He couldn’t escape.

They sent him to a hospital ship anchored in the harbor, diagnosing him with battle fatigue. The area onboard consisted of rows of narrow bunks stacked three high, covered with thin mattresses. He inhabited one of the penthouses.

Sal lay there listening to another man beneath him and across the way. “Jesu, Jesu, Jesu,” he mumbled in Spanish.

Sal looked down to see him, but swung his head away and toward the wall. That guy has no chance. The dying man’s insides were in clear view, the skin of his stomach peeled back like the lid on a tin can. Sal considered himself fortunate. He added his own prayer: that God would take the suffering Marine home.

October waned, and General MacArthur announced the war neared an end. Sal’d “rested” for two weeks. They were about to ship out for R & R in Japan.

Sal asked to see his C.O. “Sir, I need to go back to my unit.”

“I hear what you need is rest.”

“Respectfully, I can’t go to Japan. My place is with the men, sir.”

He sighed. “Permission granted.”

***

Orders arrived that would prove costly. President Truman discounted vital information stating the Chinese would intervene. So, Truman sent the troops north of the 38^th Parallel to supposedly crush the remnants of the North Koreans and unify the country.

Sal and the 5^th sailed to the West Coast, landing in Wonson at the bottom of the entry to the Chosin Reservoir.

But the Chinese did join the fray. They feigned east, sneaking behind the Marines.

Ice covered the top of Sal’s helmet and light parka. If Hell had a spot the opposite of blazing hot, this place had to be it. In cold so deep it seeped through his skin to chill his bones, he manned a trench with the rest of his company in the most dismal of conditions.

Hunger gnawed at his empty stomach; his vigor ebbed like the departing daylight. He reached for a ration, then tossed it, ignoring the thud it made when it landed. Frozen solid, like everything else. He cupped shaking hands into the snow and swallowed it, desperate to keep hydrated, even though he knew his core temperature would fall to scary depths.

Engines of Chinese planes roared overhead, then the sky rained paper. Flyers fell all around him. He grabbed one and read: We will annihilate the 1^st Marine Division; the flower of the UN fighting force.

A hopeless situation. He glanced at the others. Some couldn’t walk from the pain of their frostbitten feet, some pockets remained empty, as the men manning them died at the hands of the Chinese.

Surrounded, Sal and the few survivors able to fight engaged 120,000 Chinese soldiers who kept comin’. Even when wounded, the Chinese advanced due to the opium balls they ingested. Apparently, they felt no pain. Sal wished he could say the same.

The combat ignited again. Starving, strength sapped, fingertips a nice shade of blue; Sal ignored the forty-below weather and concentrated on destroying the enemy, including the soldier who’d slipped on the bank while trying to kill him.

Lord, give me strength.

Heat surged into his veins, infusing him with power. He continued to battle as men dropped all around him. Was there any way to emerge victorious? He fired off another round, then remembered a Bible verse: With God, all things are possible. Mark 10:27.

He’d hang on, and he’d make it out alive.

I have God’s word on it.

***

Early December, 1950

The remaining troops of the 5^th and 7^th held out against heavy attacks. They mounted a bitter assault and against all odds, broke from the reservoir, sheer force of will driving them. These brave men earned the title: The Chosin Few. Some within the ranks lovingly dubbed them, The Frozen Chosin.

The Chinese suffered massive losses at the reservoir, gaining only a hollow, pyrrhic victory.

***

Christmas Eve, 1950

Sal watched the campfires on the hills above Wonsan Harbor from a LSD. Now a scant 128 pounds, he waited in line for what would be his first hot meal in weeks. Every man had to get a shot before they received their chow, and he hated needles, but ignored the minor prick as his mouth watered. Too bad his cramping stomach couldn’t keep the food down.

I’ll get over this. I’ll go on. That’s what I have to do. That’s what I will do. So help me God.

Sal paced a path in the dirt. The ship’d made him stir-crazy, and now the camp penned him in again. He decided to take a chance and escape his confines for an evening, sure the North Koreans weren’t on the prowl this time.

He and Neal finally made it to the Black Cat Inn, settling in an upstairs room to kick off

their shoes and relax. They played dominoes and for a few fleeting hours, forgot they were on foreign soil fighting a brutal war.

Then the thud of doors slamming and men yelling vibrated the thin walls. Sal looked at Neal. “I bet it’s the Army MPs raidin’ the place. Sounds like a whole battalion is floodin’ in.”

Neal scratched his head. “How we gonna sneak back into camp?”

“We’ve only got one shot,” Sal said, glancing at the lone window on the opposite wall.

They sprinted over, tugged the widow open, and hung their heads out to see how far the drop would be.

Sal moaned, then said, “Anything but that.”

Below them rested a huge vat of what stank like liquid fertilizer.

Sal gave Neal a shrug. “I’ll go first.”

With parka and shoes held over his head, Sal leapt from the second story with Neal following. They emerged stinking worse than a pile of steaming manure, but put on their boots and barreled back to camp.

Sal and Neal shimmied up the fence and dropped to the other side.

Neal suppressed a laugh. “Man, your hair has spikes of smelly icicles standing straight up.”

“Shh. Lower your voice.” Sal touched his head. “I guess that’s what happens when this stuff dries. Like you look any better. C’mon; let’s go.”

They used the rows of tents for cover. Crouching, then moving. Crouching; moving. A blast of light blinded Sal. “What the….” He put his hand over his eyes to shield them from the glare.

When focus returned, he stood in front of Major Treadwell. Sal’s stomach lurched.

Their superior officer looked them up and down, stroked his curling mustache, and said in a smooth Alabama drawl, “Nice of you gentlemen to join us.”

***

May 26, 1951

Corporal Sal Gottuso was the first Marine to disembark the U.S.S. General Hase in San Francisco, California. A Navy “wave” [a cute gal assigned to welcome them home] waited at the bottom of the gangplank to greet him and pose for a picture. But he sped by her and into the arms of a tiny woman who’d ducked around the Marines holding the crowd back.

“Mama, I’m home!” Sal embraced his mother, who smacked his cheek with a kiss as his sister-in-law stood behind the pair weeping tears of joy. Thankfully, the photographer snapped that shot, which Sal saw in the next morning’s paper.

“God brought me through each trial; answered every one of my prayers, Mama. And I kept Him busy.”

His mother’s eyes glistened as she looked at him. “I had feelings some days, and I knew you were in trouble, Salvy. Your father prayed. I prayed—told everyone to pray.”

Sal produced a shining grin. “Thanks, Mama. It worked.”

***

…This wasn’t the end of my dad’s military career. For his service in Korea, he made Sergeant. He also entered an MP outfit, never losing a prisoner.

When his service was up, his superior encouraged him to attend Officer’s Candidate School to become a second lieutenant, writing him every three months to convince him to come back.

Dad considered the offer, but after twelve months of careful thought, he declined, although he never stopped loving the Marine Corps. He eventually married my mother, Doreen, and had us three children.

Years later, the horrors of war continued to haunt him. He woke many nights in a cold

sweat, staring at the bedroom closet. The doors jiggled, and he surmised the mist swirled there, desperately trying to free itself.

His doctor’d told him to face his fears. So, he’d rise and pull the sliding door back with a flourish, then scream as the vapor rushed to envelope him. Invade him. Smother him.

It carried the rotting stench of the dead. Still.

When I asked my dad what he remembered most about the war, he replied, “There was tension all the time; it never let-up. I lost a lot of good friends over there, and I never prayed so much in all my life.”

My dad: Bronze Star nominee, undefeated Marine Corps boxer [the original pound-for-pound Italian Stallion], passed away on March 27, 2006. Cancer accomplished what the Chinese army couldn’t. My dad’s in heaven now, but I’ll see him again. Until then: Semper Fi, Daddy. You’ll always be my hero.

Author’s Note: My dad wanted everyone to know when I interviewed him his memory wasn’t what it used to be. If any of the statements written as fact are incorrect, he wanted to apologize. [Rest easy, Daddy. You’re forgiven.]

This entry was posted on Saturday, November 14th, 2009 at 06:36 and is filed under Kelly Wrote Somethin' Serious!. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.