Michael sedano
It was a day like any other day, except I was there, Hwaak-ni, a remote Korean village that hosted the 75 soldiers of Bravo Seven Five (B 7/5), the highest missile site in the world. 50 men in the Admin Area base camp, 25 on the mountaintop, two nights up, one night down.
High atop Mighty Mae Bong, 25 missileers would have lukewarm turkey dinner. Down in the Admin Area, we looked forward to hot chow, a Great Big Thanksgiving Day Dinner That Can’t Be Beat, as Arlo Guthrie was singing*, back in the States. Given what had transpired the previous months, the promise of real food, and a feast at that, had the men of B 7/5 bubbling with excitement.
Bravo's Best In the Snow at Hwaak-ni
The Summer had been disastrous for the men of Mae Bong. The REMF Warrant Officer responsible for ordering our chow has mucked it up so badly he exhausts our rations budget. The last hot meal the cook serves is boiled potato chunks. Chunks are what remain after Tyner, the cook, cut away the rotted and black spots on the spuds. We eat C-rations and ville-bought ramen for the rest of the month.
Morale was already in the toilet before the chow went to Hell.
The Battery Commander is a Dud of major proportions, an SAE frat boy from the U of Alabama. BC skulks around the Admin Area—never went up to the top—carrying a swagger stick wearing a scarlet turtleneck dickie. Scarlet is the heraldic color for US Air Defense Artillery. The cabal of ROTC Officers follows their leader and strut about with their own swagger sticks and dickies. They look silly and earn the contempt of every Enlisted Man and NCO.
A few moments before jumping onto the manning truck and heading up the mountain.
With that level leadership it’s no surprise the Battery flunks every combat-readiness inspection, and, as punishment, the battery has them every few weeks. Finally, the Colonel has enough and fires that jerk and forbids swagger sticks and dickies.
The new BC comes to Mae Bong determined to return military discipline to the unit. He arrives in time for Thanksgiving so when he announces the traditional dinner the entire morning formation leaps in the air, clicks their heels three times on the way up, and lands with a smart salute. Ajua, real chow, and not only that, turkey and all the trimmings! 6000 miles from home and mira nomás! Just like home.
To say the battery is brimming with joy would be an understatement. Me, I have a special treat: Tyner invites me to make the pies! I have not been in a kitchen since leaving Ft. Ord, so making pies is doubly special.
It is strictly against regulations for me to be in the kitchen, much less making food, but so it goes. Tyner used to give me rides to Camp Page in the back of the mess truck and on the ride back he’d give me a quart of pineapple juice—something B 7/5 wasn’t entitled to--with the proviso I toss the empty before we hit the front gate and not be seen when I exit the truck.
So there we are in the kitchen and I’m ready to make pie crust: flour, butter, salt, and hours of mixing, chilling, rolling, molding into pie tins. This is what I signed up for.
Tyner hands me frozen pie shells. I am struck dumb. Who’s ever heard of frozen pie shells? Then he opens cans of apple and cherry filling to dump into the pie shells. Presto! I’ve made four pies in no time flat! I take off my apron and leave Tyner baking turkey and doing all the work for a Great Big Thanksgiving Day Dinner That Can’t Be Beat.
“Crawl on out of there!” Pinky shouts at 6 a.m. as he rouses the barracks. Thanksgiving Day at Bravo has arrived. Órale, hit the latrine then head to the chow hall for a standard Army breakfast of fresh eggs to order, pancakes, bacon, papas, toast, coffee, milk.
Then the new BC sends out word that hits with major grumbling and profound disappointment: no Great Big Thanksgiving Day Dinner That Can’t Be Beat unless we dress up in our Class A uniform.
Soldiers passing a pipe, Admin Area B 7/5
Crap. We are a front-line working outfit, 15 miles from North Korea. Our uniform of the day is combat boots and fatigues. That military crap is for the rear echelon, headquarters soldiers. Bravo has a sign "welcome to the ruggedest, highest HAWK** missile site in the Free World." This is not Class A territory.
The road to Bravo
Bitter as can be we dress up in our monkey suits, show up at the appointed hour, four to a table, looking charp and soldierly. The new BC makes a speech, noting how good and military we all look, to stifled grumbles.
No one grumbles when Tyner and the Korean KPs fill our trays with turkey and all the trimmings. This is, indeed, despite the necktie and spit shined shoes, a Great Big Thanksgiving Day Dinner That Can’t Be Beat.
Y sabes que? Although it’s a tiny slice, the men of Mae Bong have pie for dessert, compliments of Specialist 4th Class Michael Sedano, who is heard singing a chorus of Alice’s Restaurant Massacree as he changes into fatigues and heads to the Commo Hootch for duty and a postprandial reverie thinking about home.
* Alice’s Restaurant Massacree
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WaKIX6oaSLs
**HAWK missile
2 comments:
Following in your tradition to listen to Alice’s restaurant on repeat during thanksgiving day cooking
The first to have ever published anything I've written and the last ones...I owe you Michael.. thanks again ☮️
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