”British officers’ messes in Korea were generous to a fault with afterdinner brandy.
The night was cold and dark. The jeep’s dim blue blackout lights revealed the narrow track only a few feet ahead. O’Donovan’s Gregorian chanting detracted not at all from my sense of insecurity. Eventually, however, we got back all right to our tent. It was an eight-man tent; but that night we were the only visiting correspondents.
”It’s freezing,” I pointed out.
”Wear your socks in bed,” O’Donovan suggested.
”But I do anyway.”
”How revolting.”
”I wish I had an electric blanket.”
”Effete Americans.”
”You’re the man who wanted to send his linen ahead to the Marines,” I reminded him.
”If you don’t know the difference, one can’t explain.”
Drowsily, the bickering continued. Too drowsily, I felt. There had been cases of asphyxiation in overheated tents. There was a rule that the cylindrical oilstove in the center of the tent had to be damped at night. The heat-control dial, calibrated from 1 to 9, was supposed to be set at 1, no matter what the outside temperature was.
”You haven’t turned up the stove?” I asked.
”Uh?”
”The stove – have you turned it up?”
”No. Have you?”
”I haven’t touched it.”
”Nor have I.”
I noticed that the interior of the tent was not totally dark. There was a faint glow of light. I wondered if I were dreamimg.
”It seems to be getting lighter,” I said.
”What is it now?”
”Oh, nothing . . . O’Donovan, is the stovepipe supposed to glow red like that?”
”It isn’t red; it’s orange.”
”It’s cherry red.”
”Nonsense – orange.”
”Now it’s getting orange,” I conceded. “It wasn’t orange when I first looked. It was red.”
”Oh, do shut up and go to sleep.”
”It was cherry red.”
Now the glow was spreading. The whole stovepipe became bright pale orange.
”You must have forgotten to turn the stove down,” O’Donovan said. I could see across the narrow floor that he was propped up on one elbow looking up at the pipe. I could feel its heat on my forehead.
”Since when have I been responsible for adjusting stoves?” I asked.
”The last man into bed is expected to turn the stove down.”
”Ha. But I happened to get to bed first.”
”You’d better do something about it. It’s yellow. It must be getting damned hot.”
”I’m not getting up. It’s taken all this time to get my toes unfrozen.”
“Go on – don’t be an oaf.”
”Why don’t you?”
”Look,” O’Donovan said in a milder tone of voice. “It really is rather splendid, isn’t it? It’ll soon be white.”
”It couldn’t turn white. It’s still quite a dark yellow really. It’s just the contrast with the darkness that makes it seem almost white.”
”Don’t be absurd. I’ve got eyes. It’s white.”
These were two reporters arguing about what they could see. Their reports were part of the free world’s effort in what had been called the global battle for men’s minds.
We argued until the top of the tent actually burst into flames of all hues of red and yellow and the intermediate mixtures – a Viking pyre, a miniature volcano in eruption.
We got everything out all right, including a flask of whisky which we passed to and fro as we leaned against the jeep and watched the dark canvas consumed. There was nothing that could be done to save it. The PRO had some camp beds set up in the mess.”
(Better than Working, Patrick S Catling, 1960)
(To be concluded)
“All I know is what they taught me at Command School. Rule number 1 is that in war, young men die. Rule number 2 is that doctors can’t change rule number one.” Colonel Henry Blake, MASH 4077, Korea.