Memory

The memory is a fickle beast. We remember some of our past in vivid detail and most of it without a clue, vast stretches of shimmering seascape. And even the vivid detail is often false, just scenes we’ve repainted to fit our eye. I go back to my sixteen months in Korea in my youth and it’s mostly a blur. For example, I know I had to eat at least two meals a day, but other than one Thanksgiving meal in 1953 where the cook had underdone the turkey, I can’t remember a single time ever going to the mess hall for a meal. Bloody turkey leg made it memorable, but that’s it. I remember when Pop Ferrer, our platoon sergeant, would cook a chicken on our pot-bellied stove, breaking the chicken into six parts and putting it in a pot with water and vegetables to simmer all day. Probably the best chicken I ever ate. But I don’t really remember ever eating any of it. I remember stretches of several weeks eating nothing but C-rations and assault rations when I and a bunker mate had to live in a bunker with our 20-power scope, checking out the front lines. But not a single memory of ever going through a mess line. I don’t remember ever being sick while I was in Korea. Nor do I remember anyone else ever being sick. I remember having a-p-c pills available for those times I might have felt woozy, but they invariable pulled me out of it. A-p-c pills, “all purpose cure” pills. I wonder what the army put in those pills. Probably some strong antibiotic along with some pain medication, something like morphine. Don’t quote me on that, but as I said, I don’t remember illness ever being an issue in Korea, not for me or anyone else. The army needs healthy warriors, not sickies. A fickle beast, the memory.