“They Were My Buddies”

 

John J. Boyle is a war hero who tells it like it is.

By Edmund DeMarche

Men like John J. Boyle are a rare bred.

He’s exceedingly straight forward; if he doesn’t like you he’ll say it.

A retired veteran of the Korean War, he was a block away from St. Marks, after being honored at a ubiquitous Veteran’s Day ceremony, where children waved flags and confuse today with Memorial Day. He and his wife Peggy craved a good burger and decided to have lunch before heading home to Prospect Park.

I caught him outside the pub standing with his wife smoking a cigarette. Upon noticing his sailor cap and a red poppy pinned on his navy blue sport coat, I asked if he wanted to do an interview.

He was resistant, asking me if I had ever served in the military and then taking offence that I had not. To break the thick sheet of ice separating us, I mentioned my grandfather was one of the men who swarmed Normandy Beach in WWII.

“Come on in,” he said, begrudgingly, like I uttered a password that he wanted me to get wrong. “Oh come on,” said Peggy, his wife, disgusted that I’d be joining them for a brief meal.

But today is Veteran’s Day. Most vets who served their country want to have someone to tell their story to. Boyle was no different.

He was born four blocks from Ebbets Field. When he came across enough money, he attended games and still admits he’s a Dodger fan, even though the team moved to Los Angeles. He even attended the final game of the 1947 World Series between the Yankees and Dodgers. A game the Yankees won, taking the Series in seven games for the team’s first title since 1943, and the eleventh championship in team history.

He had two brothers and a sister, but didn’t talk much about them. “My one brother was a Giant fan,” he said. “Yeah, he sucked.”

Two cheeseburgers and fries were served. Peggy began setting her’s up, the varnishes, tomatoes, and lettuce like a child assembling a puzzle.

Engaged in the conversation, Boyle, 75, didn’t seem to notice.

For high school, he attended St. Francis Prep in Queens. Upon graduation in 1950, his mother was under the false impression he would apply to St. Francis College in Brooklyn Heights.

“I told my father that I was going to join the Navy,” said Boyle. “I didn’t tell my mom right away.”

“Eat your burger,” interjected Peggy, not taking part in the interview. (Boyle paid her request no mind.)

He was not drafted and when asked why he joined the Navy during the Korean War, he said, “I saw my country was in a war, and I wanted to do what I could to defend her.”

He trained for six weeks at a base in Bainbridge, Maryland, and was later sent off in what he called a Tin Can, or destroyer. He was groomed to be a frogman, which is today’s equivalent of a navy seal.

His group consisted of eight men, and ran covert operations into enemy territory to gather information. They also engaged in search and destroy missions.

After a 4-month tour, he and his men were eventually taken hostage. They were held for 18 months in a POW camp. The months were excruciating. They were malnourished and suffered daily beatings inside their cells. Growing weaker by the day, and waiting for the rescue party that never came, he and his men took matters into their own hands.

“We did what we had to do,” he said rising his hand to his neck, imitating slicing a throat. “We broke out. I really don’t want to talk about it,” he said, again, tears welling in his eyes.

“You had my back and I had your’s,” said Boyle with his eyes watering while taking a swig from his glass of gin. “They were my buddies.”

“Eat your burger,” said Peggy, tilting his plate.

“Are you gonna pay for this?” he asked me, pointing to his cheeseburger and fries at Wheelers, a bar along Sheepshead Bay Road. “I’ve been talking to you and my burger’s cold.”

He was not kidding.

He doesn’t sleep well even though it’s been more than 50 years since the war. He wakes up with night terrors and still sees vivid images of the prison camp.

Boyle, a member of Veterans of Foreign Wars and the Catholic War Veterans, said, “There my buddies,” while grabbing my arm.

When asked if veteran’s get the credit they deserve once back in this country, he said, “I hope they do,” his voice shaking. “They’re my buddies and there’s not a thing I wouldn’t do for them.”

When he began to finger his burger, the interview took a nosedive.

“Do you like that mirror behind you?” he asked. “How bout I put you through it,” he said, a clear threat to me.

I thanked him for his service and I excused myself. I would have, but after the threat, I did not buy him that burger.