Aug 16, 2014 | 1st pages, Historical, Memoir
Preface
Duty, honor, country: Those three hallowed words reverently dictate what you ought to be, what you can be, what you will be.
–DOUGLAS MACARTHUR
WHEN MY FATHER, Howard Louis Peckham, was a boy, he often imagined himself dressed in a gray cadet uniform, marching in cadence on a vast parade ground. Because he was an excellent student, especially in arithmetic, Howard could easily picture himself attending mathematics classes taught by a knowledgeable instructor.
Howard Peckham was born on May 29, 1897, in Norwich, a lovely harbor city located in the southeastern part of Connecticut, adjacent to the confluence of the Yantic, Thames, and Shetucket Rivers. It was an ideal fishing area, a fact that Howard and his younger brother, Oliver, took advantage of as much as possible. After an afternoon of successful fishing, they would eagerly bring their catch home, where their mother, the former Frances Lila Beckwith, would clean it and prepare it for dinner. Frances was an outstanding cook, so she used just the right amount of parsley, salt, pepper, and other spices to sprinkle on top of the fish before popping it into the oven.
Howard also seemed to enjoy doing chores for his dad, Frank Everett Peckham, who ran a flourishing truck farming business. Dad would fill to the brim large straw baskets of tomatoes, corn, lettuce, celery, and other vegetables—as well as flowers such as colorful zinnias and marigolds—that he had helped to plant and pick. Frank would then sell this delectable and fragrant produce to local markets.
Dad wasn’t interested in truck farming as a profession for himself, however. He also didn’t want to spend all his life in one location. Instead, he felt attracted to the more adventurous and less settled life of a U.S. Army man. After graduating from the Norwich Free Academy, he received an appointment to the United States Military Academy at West Point, thus fulfilling his dream of an army career. That career would take him all over the world, but his binding loyalty and love for the ideals of his alma mater, from which he received a bachelor’s degree in November 1918, continued. (It was at West Point, decades later, that General Douglas MacArthur spoke the famous words that appear at the beginning of this Preface.)
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Jul 29, 2014 | 1st pages, Memoir
The jungle, Johore State, Malaya 1955.
There was a hell of a bang from the huge swamp nearby, hidden by the dense Malayan jungle, as our mortar platoon started to bombard the nest of heavily armed Communist Terrorists reported to have taken refuge there.
Never volunteer for ANYTHING !! Guess I had already forgotten this good advice drummed into my thick, Scottish head during my very recent basic infantry training back in the U.K. What else could explain why McWhirter and I were clanking along, festooned like bloody mobile Christmas trees. Adorned with lots of empty, noisy, aluminium water bottles, we were walking alone on this lonely path through the edge of a rubber plantation situated right next to dense secondary jungle which reared it’s prehensile growth straight upwards, seeking the open sky above.
I should have had this bloody thought fifteen minutes ago when we were still safely with the rest of our mates in their secure ambush position.
McWhirter had probably been a bit bored when he volunteered to gather up all our empty water bottles and head for a stream which we had crossed on our way to take up our positions on the fringe of the rubber plantation late yesterday afternoon. Stupidly, I had offered to accompany him, temporarily forgetting my usual attitude to the volunteering thingy.
The loud bang alerted us to our plight. The exploding carpet bombing mortar shells in the swamp was hopefully designed to flush out a group of terrorists based there, tempting them to make their escape through the neighbouring rubber plantation where we would be waiting to strike. Well, as my Irish friend Kevin might say with tongue in cheek, ’Dat’s de teory of de ting’.
Unfortunately, the theory had not made any allowance for the stupidity of both McWhirter and myself when we jumped to our feet, volunteering to skip on our merry, innocent way to fetch a pail of water. We were now alone, only lightly armed, our empty water bottles banging against each other, noisily advertising our location to any interested party.
‘Oh we’re going down the track
and we’ll never come back.
Sergeant Harrigan is our leader . .
Oh we know he’s true
but he doesn’t have a clue ..
Away down in the green hell,
yes, the green hell'.
However, this was the real thing. Just like Pronto, we would have to adjust fast, or else.
It was at this point that McWhirter and I were both forced to adjust a lot bloody quicker than pronto. An entire section of the bushes near the edge of the jungle was being suddenly, noisily and violently disturbed, something or some bodies were crashing through the undergrowth right towards us!
It’s amazing what goes through your head when the adrenalin starts to flow through the endangered body. Apart from the repetitive Green Hell tune, my immediate, rather detached thought was, What the fuck am I doing here?
This thought should lead right into the real beginning of the story, starting with the invitation from The Queen of England, requesting my presence in this strange part of the world. But I am still mentally standing on the edge of a rubber plantation in Malaya in 1955, frozen stiff with fear, facing some violently disturbed bushes in the dense jungle only a few yards away.
We just had to stand and wait for God knows what to emerge; my sweaty thumb was rapidly pushing the rifle safety catch forward to the off position.
I also seem to be a wee bit frozen in time here; you will just have to carry on without me for a minute. Just get to the start bit all by yourself and read on, I should catch up with you fairly soon…..
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