No Thanksgiving Leave in 1950
By Dale Scherfling
Corporal Cameron Scott tucked his chin deep into his collar against the chill off the Ch’ongch’on River, some 80 kilometers south of the Chinese border. He shifted his carbine to a more comfortable position and tried to catch some shut-eye. By then, he had learned to catnap wherever he was—on frozen ground, in a shallow slit trench, even in a parked four-by-four—and here he was, waiting again.
That far up, they had missed the flown-in turkey feasts and the USO photo ops farther south. Thanksgiving had come and gone with canned rations and lukewarm coffee, men passing around contraband candy bars and pretending not to notice how thin the lines had become. No matter—they’d definitely be home by Christmas, everyone said. The Chinese wouldn’t risk a winter campaign. Not in this terrain. Not against the United Nations.
He dropped into the half-sleep that had been his habit the past two months and, for some reason, he was almost warm. Pleasantly so.
The first thing he noticed was the smell—roasting turkey, sage and butter, the sharp sweetness of cranberry sauce simmering on the stove. Beneath it all was the familiar scent of his mother’s house: floor polish, coffee, and something faintly floral from the drawer where she kept the good linens.
Mary’s laughter floated down the hallway, joined by his mother’s softer voice. Dishes clinked. Someone argued good-naturedly about oven space. From the living room came the steady crackle of the radio as Bobby Layne led the Detroit Lions to a 49–14 romp over the New York Yanks. His father and brother provided a running commentary, half football analysis, half family ritual.
The house was full—too full—and warm with bodies and conversation. Coats were draped over chairs, scarves hung on doorknobs. Cameron sat on the edge of the sofa, heavy and content, lulled by overlapping voices and the sense that everything was where it belonged.
Someone touched his shoulder gently.
Time to go.
His parents were already putting on their coats. Mary’s family was there too now—her father buttoning his overcoat, her mother adjusting Mary’s hat, the netting carefully straightened. Cameron’s older brother helped him into his dress-uniform jacket. The wool felt stiff and new, nothing like the field uniform he’d been living in for months. Strange—he didn’t remember changing.
His best man, Tommy Chen, home from Navy basic training, grinned and straightened Cameron’s tie. “You clean up all right for a guy on leave,” he said.
They took two cars. Cameron rode with his parents and brother. Mary followed with her family. The streets were familiar, passing in quiet procession, houses lit with early afternoon lamps, remnants of Thanksgiving dinners stacked neatly at the curbs. The low sun slanted gold across the courthouse steps as they pulled up to city hall.
Mayor Hopkins had come in as a favor to the family, opening his office on Thanksgiving Day. Inside, the building smelled faintly of floor wax and old paper. Mary waited near the door in her mother’s ivory dress, altered to fit her. When she saw Cameron, her smile trembled at the edges.
The ceremony was brief. Mayor Hopkins’s voice seemed to come from far away, but Cameron heard himself say “I do” clearly enough. Mary’s kiss was soft and tasted like cinnamon—pumpkin pie, he realized, the one she’d helped bake that morning. His mother cried. His father clapped him on the shoulder, solid and proud.
They signed the papers. Cameron watched his hand move across the certificate, black ink forming his name in his own handwriting: November 28, 1950. The happiest days of his life.
“Son?” His father’s voice sounded distant now. “Cameron?”
The warmth was fading. The edges of the room shimmered.
“Corporal? Corporal Scott!”
Cameron jerked awake. Sergeant Mitchell was shaking him hard, face drawn tight with urgency. “We’re moving out. Chinese came through the mountains. Thousands of them.”
The cold hit him like a fist.
Korea. The river. The road south clogged with trucks, wounded men, abandoned gear. The long retreat—frozen boots, jammed weapons, orders shouted and lost in the wind. He was still in Korea.
But his hand was warm where Mary had held it. And he could still taste cinnamon.
***
They flew him out two weeks later with a Bronze Star, a Purple Heart, and his left sleeve pinned up at the elbow. The citation praised his actions on November 28, 1950, when he held a position under fire for three hours, allowing his company to evacuate wounded during the withdrawal. He’d taken shrapnel just after dawn, they told him, but refused evacuation until nightfall.
He made it home for Christmas.
Mary met him at the station. She wore an ivory dress—maybe the same one, maybe not. When she kissed him, she tasted like cinnamon again.
“I knew you’d come back,” she said. “You promised at the wedding.”
He wanted to ask her what she remembered about Thanksgiving Day, but the words wouldn’t come. Some part of him was afraid of the answer.
***
Thirty-five years later, at his funeral, the youngest of his children packed up the photo display and military ribbons and memorabilia. She found the marriage certificate in its frame, Mayor Hopkins’s signature bold across the bottom: November 28, 1950, 3:47 PM.
The Bronze Star citation lay in the next box, pressed under glass. She lifted it carefully and read the date: For conspicuous gallantry in action on 28 November 1950, Republic of Korea.
She set them side by side on the table. Stared at them for a long moment.
Downstairs, she could hear her mother in the kitchen—Mary’s voice still strong at 87—telling the grandchildren stories. “Your grandfather was the bravest man I ever knew,” she said. “He promised me he’d be there for our wedding, and he kept that promise. No matter where he was, no matter what, he was there.”
The daughter picked up the marriage certificate again, held it to the light. Her father’s signature was unmistakable. She’d watched him sign checks and birthday cards her whole life. She knew his handwriting.
In the wedding photo beside it, her father stood in his dress uniform, his mother on one side, Mary on the other. He was smiling, but his eyes looked far away, like he was seeing something the camera couldn’t capture.
She noticed something she’d never paid attention to before. In the photograph, her father’s left hand rested on Mary’s shoulder. His right hand, hanging at his side, was wrapped in a clean white bandage.
Shrapnel wounds, the citation said. Right hand and left arm. Just after dawn on November 28th.
The photograph showed 3:47 PM the same day, eight thousand miles away.
She set the frame down carefully, her own hand trembling.
Some promises, she thought, are too strong for distance. Too strong even for the impossible.
Downstairs, her mother laughed, and the sound was warm as Thanksgiving, warm as coming home.
Dale Scherfling is a fulltime writer/poet and a creative writer and photographer instructor. He is a former newspaper sportswriter, editor and photographer and retired U.S. Navy photojournalist. His work has been accepted by The Monterey Poetry Review, San Diego Poetry Annual, Chiron Review, Mangrove Review, Letters Journal, The Blotter Magazine, 25:05 Magazine, Discretionary Love, Writing Teacher, Third Act Magazine, Yellow Mama, Close to the Bone, Flash Phantom, Dispatches Magazine, Five on the Fifth and Oddball Magazine. He is the recipient of three U.S. Army Front Page Journalism Awards and is also a college lecturer and instructor of photojournalism, photography, and music.
