How Lost my Brother in Korea #2

by Mary Fahey

 

When I got old enough to understand, Andy took me to the Museum of Natural History and explained the exhibits. Then we went to the Hayden Planetarium and he told me about the planets and the stars, pointing out the constellations.  He knew so much and I hung on his every word.

            He taught me to swim holding me afloat while I dog paddled around, gradually letting go ‘til I could swim on my own.
            He took me on my first roller coaster ride,and reassured me that he had hold of me and I would be safe. He said “If you feel like screaming, then scream. I won’t let you go.” When the car made that slow crawl to the top, the even slower curve at the crest and then the stomach lurching drop on the first hill, I screamed and screamed, not from fright but from excited exhilaration. When the ride came to an end, I said “Let’s do it again,” and we did. 

  At 10 years of age, I got hit in the face with a bat when I foolishly walked behind the batter, as he took a swing, in a street ball game.  The stick landed right across my nose. It bled profusely and swelled to three times its normal size. I didn’t want to go to school or leave the house. I felt so self-conscious about my protuberance.
            Trying to cheer me up, Andy said. “It doesn’t look so bad. If I didn’t know you got hit by a stickball bat, I would never have noticed.” My cries subsided.
            “Really? You mean that?” I said.
            “Sure,” Andy answered and then he said “Besides, I like girls with big noses,” which started a flood of tears again.
            He loved to take things apart to see how they worked. Anything electrical or mechanical became fair game for his inquisitive prying. I’d sit beside him as he explained how an egg beater functioned, or the workings of a radio, showing me the tubes that needed changing.

            Andy graduated from high school with a full scholarship to Holy Cross College. He attended for one year and then quit saying “I’ve had enough of school. I want to travel.” A restless wanderlust struck his heart. He talked about going to Australia, Africa, and Japan.
            He left home to wend his way across the country. He worked at various jobs until he got enough money together to take off again, sometimes he paid for a train ticket, sometimes he rode the rails. Tired and broke, he made his way to California. He enlisted in the army as a means to get overseas to the exotic countries he dreamed about. After boot camp, he shipped out to Japan, where he met and fell in love with a Japanese girl. Her family forbid her to see him or any American soldier, so he had his heart broken. In June 1950, when the North Koreans invaded South Korea and the conflict that’s called the ‘Forgotten War’ began, Andy found himself among the first wave of soldiers sent to Korea.

            In bitter cold November, the Chinese hoards from Mongolia flooded across the border into American held territory. The retreat of American soldiers became swift and furtive. What they couldn’t quickly carry in the evacuation, they set afire to prevent the enemy getting it. Supplies of food, clothing, boots and ammunition went ablaze as the war-weary troops, unable to stop, rapidly retreated to the southern tip of the peninsula.
            During this retreat, the Chinese/North Koreans ambushed Andy’s platoon. He fell to the earth uninjured and lay there as if dead. He barely breathed as the enemy soldiers walked among the fallen, and thrust their bayonets into the bodies to make sure they were dead. Andy thought his time had come, but the enemy passed over him. He lay immobile until dark. When sure the enemy had gone, he stirred. Like him, five other American soldiers survived by playing dead. They called to each other in whispers and gathered together to create a plan. They were now caught behind enemy lines.
            The “Missing in Action” telegram arrived at our home.
            For safety, they decided to break up into smaller groups. By twos they set out to try to make it back to friendly ground. They traveled by night and hid out in the mountains during the day...their only food, an occasional turnip, stolen from some farmer’s field. It took over two weeks but they all made it back to the American side of the battle. Andy received a medal as a Prisoner of War, although he had not been captured. Because of those two and a half weeks, behind enemy lines, he’d been considered a prisoner. The Army sent Andy to Japan for R & R, rest and recuperation. He stayed in Japan for two weeks and then shipped back to Korea where he remained for the entire duration of that conflict.
....to be continued

Korean War Memorial

Washington D.C.

How I lost my brother in Korea. #1

by Mary Fahey 

When I returned home that cold November night, I heard my mother’s wails push their way through the closed door.  I put my key into the lock and hesitated. I didn't want to hear what terrible news brought about such desperate sobs. Suddenly, the door  flung open. Our neighbor Betty stood on the threshold. She looked stricken. 

           “What happened?” I whispered. 

            Betty thrust the telegram into my hand. Frightened, I scanned the page. Words popped out at me in fragments. “Notify you... your son Andrew Thomas Fahey... missing in action.” My eyes darted back and forth across the paper like a tennis ball, Andrew Fahey... missing in action, Andrew... missing.  My mind did not fully understand. Don’t they usually say “regret to inform you?” There’s no regret in this telegram. Doesn’t that mean it’s not so bad?  If it was really bad, it would say “regret to inform.” I looked for any small evidence of hope; my denial so strong for what I didn’t want to accept. My face crumbled like the paper in my fist.

            When I think of the people who most influenced my young life, my brother Andy looms large in my mind. I grew up in a big extended family with siblings and numerous cousins all of whom were 6 to 12 years older. Most didn’t want the “spoiled brat” around and shooed me away from their games. Not my brother. Although eight years my senior, Andy treated me as an equal. From an early age, I tagged after him hoping he'd include me in his games. A family story tells of the time when I was two or three years of age. Andy tied me to the back of a dining room chair, stuck a lemon in my mouth and secured it with a cloth.  My mother found us, interrupted our game of cowboys and Indians and scolded Andy as she removed my gag.  

            “No! Put it back,” I protested. “I want to play.”

            I was willing to put up with the discomfort of being bound and gagged to be accepted in the game.

 1938 Dottie, Mom,

me (Mary) & Andy

By age six, I became his sidekick. In the winter, he and his buddies built opposing snow forts to wage war. I sat on the ground sheltered by the wall of solid snow and made ammunition for my brother. He taught me how to embed a pebble or lump of ice in the center of carefully hand packed snow to make a more solid weapon.

            Andy loved classical music and frequently tuned it in on the radio. The rest of the family groaned “Not that long hair music again.” He sat me down to listen and told me about the composer and what the music represents. He encouraged me to visualize images of what the music makes me think of and how it makes me feel. He took me to see the animated classical music film, ‘Fantasia.’ I remember being disappointed because for a Disney movie, it had no story line. I expected something along the lines of ‘Snow White’ or ‘Pinocchio’ yet the images and music of that film stay with me still. My love of classical music comes from my brother’s influence.

  ....to be continued

April Fool

April Fool

by Mary Fahey

“Today’s my birthday, April 1st,” Uncle Ted said peering at me through bushy eyebrows.

“No it’s not,” I retorted.

“Yes it is. Did you get me a present?”

“Uncle Ted, you’re playing an April Fool joke on me. Aunt Josie, is it really his birthday?”

“I guess it is if he says so.”

In the early 1920’s, Ted Winkler of German Lutheran descent married my mother’s oldest sister Josie McGuire, an Irish Catholic. In those days marrying outside your religion and ethnicity brought hell and damnation upon the couple. They must have really loved one another because Ted had to go through Catholic teachings and sign multiple oaths regarding Josie’s faith including the upbringing of any offspring. They could not get married on the altar of St. Augustine’s Church, but declared their vows in the Chapel of the priest’s rectory. They never had children but I don’t think religion had anything to do with that. Although he didn’t attend church himself, Ted always honored his wife’s devotion. She attended Mass at least weekly and observed all Holy Days. Crucifixes and religious statues held a prominent place in their home.

Ted worked as a baker at a German bakery in Queens N.Y. In my youth, he made all my birthday cakes and our family always had goodies from Uncle Ted’s bakery. At Easter, he made bread in the shape of a bunny with a colored egg for an eye. His sense of humor showed itself one year when he misspelled “birthday” on my cake. I didn’t notice it until after I blew out the candles. “Look how he spelled birthday,” my sister Dottie whispered to me.

“Happy Birdday, Mary,” in pink frosting decorated my cake.

Uncle Ted sat with his big fish lips clenched in a wide grin. I said nothing because I thought maybe he didn’t know how to spell and wrote it phonetically as he pronounced it with his Brooklyn accent. I forgot that as a baker, he made “Happy Birthday” cakes all the time.

One time he sat on a kitchen chair watching me wash dishes. I was in a hurry and barely rinsed them before putting them in the rack to dry.

“I guess no one in this house needs a laxative,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because of all the suds you leave on the dishes.”

When my mother gathered with her three sisters for lunch as they did every week, they often complained about their husbands and Aunt Josie joined right in. But if one of the sisters said anything negative about Ted, Josie came to his defense with a sharp tongue. She could complain about him but didn’t let anyone else say a bad word against her Ted.

When Josie died in 1953, Ted bought a plot in St. Charles Catholic Cemetery in Farmingdale L.I. He carried his wife’s wishes through to the grave, arranging for a Catholic wake and funeral Mass. After the service he gave the deed to my mother. He knew he could not be buried with his wife so he passed it to one of her sisters.

“The plot is big enough for four graves,” he said. “I’ll be cremated so you may as well use it.” My mother and father are buried there with Aunt Josie.

In the early 1970’s Ted entered a Veteran’s Home in upstate N.Y. He spent much of his time doing leatherwork and mailed the finished purses and wallets to me. I gave some to my sister and still have many. Ted loved the horse races and once a year in April, he travelled down to L.I. to visit Aqueduct Raceway and bet on the horses. I’d meet him at the track and let him coax me into betting on a hunch. After the races, we ate dinner at a nearby restaurant before he caught the train. Every year I invited him to come home with me and stay overnight.

“I can cook breakfast and drive you to the train station,” I offered. He always declined.

Uncle Ted died at the Vet’s home in Bath N.Y. in 1978 at age eighty three. Every April 1st, I remember him as a funny and generous person but still wonder about the validity of his Fool’s Day birthday.