Chalky's Marathon

As far as I am aware the nearest I ever got to being hit by a bullet was in Korea; on a platform of what was left of Suwon railway station. There was a rather nasty war going on at the time so violence was to be expected, but this was up close and personal. Four of us were crewing a Centurion tank that was moving north by train to Uijongbu, nothing fancy of course, just a flat car with the tank chocked and tied on with straw rope. Arriving at Suwon in the early morning hours, we remained stationary at platform two and by late afternoon we were still waiting for something to happen. We passed the time by doing a great deal of nothing, eating compo rations and by brewing tea army style on our petrol cooker. Several United States and two Belgian soldiers had drifted by from time to time to talk to us, look at our Centurion tank and on one occasion to drink tea. He was a Lieutenant from Virginia who happily explained that his family drank tea at home. We gave him some of our British army tea just that moment brewed by Chalky White in which any teaspoon, had we possessed such a delicate and civilised implement, would have stood upright - or melted. Once there was sugar in the tea, our standard procedure was to stir with a small spanner, a 3/16" BSF if memory serves.
The Virginian officer accepted our offer of tea, politely ignoring the mahogany-varnish-like colour, explaining that ‘ my folks drink tea at home, we have English ancestors ‘, as if that was sufficient reason to drink tea. He at least had the good sense to sip the tea he had been given, but even then his face took on a strained, pained look as he swallowed. He took another sip. Then with an understatement his English ancestors would be proud of, remarked ‘ I guess you guys like it a bit stronger than we do back home’ before proceeding, gamely, to finish the mugful. In return he told us there was an American Red Cross canteen on the station where we could get free coffee and doughnuts. Having done his bit for Anglo-American relations he drifted away. Chalky drew the short straw and stayed with the tank while three of us strolled off to find the coffee and doughnuts.
Having sampled the culinary delights of the American Red Cross gratis, we remembered Chalky and fifteen minutes later we retraced our steps along the platform only to find Chalky in a huddle with three or four GI’s. We found him brandishing a chromium plated pearl handled Colt .45 automatic. The gun was up for sale or barter and Chalky having apparently a secret stash of Johnnie Walker Red Label ( news to us !) was ready to trade.
Most of us I’m sure have an inbuilt sense of our own preservation, which under certain circumstances is heightened. Temporary residence in a war zone is a classic example. As Chalky stepped forward to show me his trophy I had the foresight to turn sideways, but not before the gun went off. I have no idea how close I was to the round, but it was too close ! Even though my ears were ringing from the gunshot I still heard the round ricocheting off the concrete platform. The muzzle blast also scorched the front of my jungle greens charcoal brown - which suggested it had been really close, although I didn’t feel its passing.
Chalky really did go white. He stood stock still with a look of bewilderment. ‘ I didn’t pull the trigger ‘ he protested. ‘ I was only holding it ‘. A remark that under the circumstances seemed rather lame. The GI whose gun it was, grabbed it and smartly disappeared down the platform with his colleagues. Having a near miss experience was expected when there was a war taking place and to mention it other than saying ‘ steady on Trooper ‘ would have been thought un-English or even wimpish; in any event notions of counselling were thirty years in the future so little was said of the incident. I did however mentally file the ‘ Suwon Incident ’ away. Flagged and marked pending.
Three months later I had an opportunity to retrieve the ' Suwon File' and act upon it. The four of us were bedded down in a ruined glass factory not very far from Uijongbu, with the rest of the Squadron tanks spread around us. We were tucked snugly in a yard at the rear of the factory. In the yard was a standpipe, from which came forth an evil smelling water. We had been told, yet again, to avoid local water as there was probably typhoid in it, together with other devilish tropical diseases completely unknown to medical science. Now, no-one in their right mind drank water from a tap in Korea in 1951. It just wasn’t done. Well, it was done actually, by Chalky. In the early afternoon I watched dumbfounded while from the said tap, he filled his water-bottle and then drink from it. ‘ Nothing wrong with the water ‘ said he when I expressed alarm. ‘ Had some yesterday, still OK to-day’, and walked off.
Events changed dramatically later in the day. Chalky missed the evening meal, and turned up later looking decidedly under the weather, ashen faced and apparently suffering from the Delhi Trots or Squitters - gentle reader I shall refrain from describing further this illness, a description of which may distress your sensibilities - let me just say ‘it ain’t good’. It was at this time that I recalled the ‘Suwon Incident’ and acted upon it by telling Chalky that he most likely had Asian Aqueous Water Typhoid, which could be fatal. When he asked what could be done, short of requesting immediate evacuation by helicopter to the nearest MASH, I explained that a sure fire cure I had heard of from old Indian Army types was to work up a sweat, and sweat the condition out of the system. By this time several 8th Hussars had gathered to advise Chalky, and many agreed with my diagnosis, some citing the well known fact that in the Indian Army wrapping yards of grey flannel round the body was also a known cure.
In answer to his query of how he could work up a sweat, I further explained that he must run round the factory yard until I told him to stop. He hesitated, briefly, then off he went. We sat down to watch and encourage. I have no way of knowing the actual distance Chalky ran that evening before he came to a grinding halt, sweating profusely and gasping for breath. Maybe for six miles, certainly not fewer than five had Chalky run round and round that yard. With no trace of pity I watched him stagger to his bivvie and more or less pass out. At Reveille the next morning, Chalky was up, bright eyed and bushy tailed claiming he had never felt better and praising my ‘cure’ to anyone who would listen. Odd that.