Attack:Hill 117
Chorwon Valley Tuesday August 8, 1952
Our front lawn was plated with discarded C-Ration cans, and embedded with Bouncing Betties (land mines). A free lane leading to the valley in front of us assured us that we would never have a date with Betty.
Lt. Sidney, our company commander visited our bunkers to tell us that, “This Friday we’re going to raid Hill 117. The 3rd platoon will provide the base of fire, and I will lead the 2nd platoon in the attack. It’s flat ground with some bushes. Don’t forget to save some ammo when we withdraw, and try and grab a prisoner. Any questions?” No questions.
Without a newspaper or magazine, I joined my bunker buddy and medic, Wayne Caton who was inventorying his medic bag for the Friday raid.
“This is my first meeting with the Chinks. What can I expect?”
Unless one has experienced it, the dread of walking into darkness towards a waiting enemy, it is beyond comprehension. The fright joins every molecule of the air we inhale. It forms a composite that dominates every ounce of our persona. Oh no, I didn’t curl up in my bunker and wait for that dreaded night. I made small talk with Wayne, but the night of Friday, August 8, lurked behind every syllable.
The heat was oppressive, and our horrible halizone drinking water provided no relief. Last week, in the scorching heat, Nunns was sent to our aid station. He was familiar with the water thus, he was dehydrated.
Write a letter, it will get your mind off Friday night.
Dear Elaine, I just ate the foulest tasting thing that lodged onto my palate. It’s called Corned Beef Hash hidden inside of a C-ration can. I tried to kill it with jelly on top of a C-ration cracker, but the accompanying iodized water from the Lister bag was too strong an opponent for my digestive system. I nearly barfed. I haven’t had a shower since we landed in Japan a month ago. I’d take a picture, but my camera rusted from the dampness in my bunker. No more good news, so I’ll sign off. Love, Danny
I was overwhelmed by the torment that only a human in combat had experienced. Will I be captured? Will I be wounded? Will a medic see me? Will the short rounds from our artillery fall on us? Will I be killed? Why be a martyr for a corrupt regime?
A day had passed. It was Thursday. Why did I want Friday night be tonight? Twenty-four more hours to kill. The anxiety unnerved me. Let’s get done with it, and wait for the next outing.
Another day of anguish. Oh! A perfumed letter from Elaine. The same old bullshit.
“Take care of yourself.” “I miss you. It’s getting hot now.”
Crap. I didn’t miss her. If she thinks it’s hot there, try wearing month old underwear in this heat, and an entrenching tool for your toilet.
Charley passed by.
“Hey Charley. As our our volunteer point man, don’t you ever get scared “Scared? Scared of what Reilly?” (He called me Reilly, the Jewish New Yorker). “Just knowing that there is someone out there trying to kill or cripple you.” “Those Chinks haven’t hit me yet.”
What’s the use of talking to him?
Friday night arrived, Charley was the point man for the platoon and I was the runner. Charley wa to lead the platoon and I was to be the contact between Charley and Lt. Sidney.
Massey, our armorer, distributed grenades, magazines for the BARs, M1 rifles, and machine gun canisters containing belts of .30 cal. ammo to Sgt. Staszewski. The 2nd and 3rd platoons of Company L snapped on their armored vests and buckled their helmets. Swaddled in those damn armored vests resembling the grainy shell of a horseshoe crab, my clammy discomfort made me wish I could, like the crab, molt the vest and free it from my ribs. But reality kept it tightly wrapped around me.
Lt. Sidney requested artillery fire to soften the area. Battalion disapproved. It would compromise our mission, they said. But, in deference to his request, he was shown a clear plastic “measles overlay” which was placed on a map over the target area. He selected the “measle holes” which were to be the artillery concentrations for our support when the Chinese were engaged.
The Imjin River flowed between our position on the front line and our outposts, The Bubble, Little Nori and Big Nori.
A chaplain arrived to see us off. How many times have we gone through this? How many times did he try to penetrate the barrier that had been built up within me? How many times did I glance at my buddies and wonder which ones were going to return? Will I return?
We gathered around him in a cluster as he recited the 23rd Psalm: “Yea, though we walk through the valley of the shadow of death, we will fear no evil …” If he “feared no evil” why didn’t he join us? We needed replacements for our casualties. Was the Psalm intended to motivate me as a killer? Why would a man of God preach that God was with me while I hunted for a human to kill?
It was a night that I wish I could erase from my memory. Like a nightmare that compulsively clings and just won’t let go, August 8, 1952 still lingers after sixty-four years.
On that night, the full moon was conducting a chorus of stars to illuminate the clobbered Korean landscape. At approximately 10:00 PM the men of Company L stood on the riverbank of the Imjin River. Like empty sardine cans littering my backyard in the Bronx, 4-man jon boats lay scattered along the shore. Hand over hand we pulled ourselves across by grabbing a thickly braided overhead rope. The moon’s glow reflecting off our armored vests brought them clearly into view, leaving blackened faces and torsos in the background.
At The Bubble, our men gathered around Lt. Sidney. Sid reviewed the order of attack and the options for withdrawal. It never works according to plan, why whould this one?
It was a given that whenever we were assigned a raid or patrol, Charley was to be our point man and I was to be the runner. He led us up a hill past our outpost, Little Nori, and then Big Nori where some of our GIs shouted a well-meaning,
“Give ’em hell. See you on the way back.” which brought me as much comfort as the chaplain and his 23 Psalm.
From these outposts, we trampled down the underlying brush and commo wire on the cliff overlooking the Imjin.
When the enemy decides where and when an action will take place, they have the upper hand. They know the terrain, they know the best fields of fire, they can replenish their ammunition, they can quickly replace casualties. They have the upper hand.
We moved through the bush uneventfully. As the runner, I contacted our point man, Charley every ten yards. About a mile into our trek, Charley told me he had just flushed a listening post. I looked around and saw blackness.
“How do you know?” I whispered.
“Can’t you smell garlic? They’re breathing heavy. The Gooks are shittin’ like we are. Go tell Sid.”
Scared? No. They’d have to invent a new word. I ran back to Sid.
“Tell Charley to move carefully about five yards. We’ll catch up to him.”
Meanwhile I could hear Sid contacting our supporting artillery unit. I ran back to Charley.
“What did he say? What did he say?
“Move up five yards, then wait for us.”
As soon as the rest of our platoon reached us, a Chinese arsenal erupted. Crackling burp-gunfire ripped the air, exploding concussion grenades pierced our ears. The output of our M1s were no match for the relentless buzz of the Chinese burp guns. Lt. Sidney crawled among our men to be sure they were firing their weapons. Our fragmentary grenades were superior to their often malfunctioning concussion grenades, but there was a limit to the amount we could carry.
The supporting artillery consisted of a round falling into the Imjin and some far beyond us. The Chinese were still strafing the area when Sid ordered a withdrawal. He was aware that our men might run into another ambush on their return, so he ordered us to scale down the cliff and wade back through the river.
Sid stood at the top of the cliff guiding our men to the river. Sgt. Benny Hoover was beside him. He then left to climb down the cliff.
As I crawled towards Sid, Poodles (Pucelli) rushed by carrying three rifles.
“Massengale’s been hit, Massengale’s been hit,“ he said. “He’s laying out there!”
For a moment I was stunned. Infuriated, I turned to Poodles and whispered,
“Drop those goddamn rifles and help me get him.”
Poodles ran off shouting, “Supply Economy!” (Supply Economy was a movie shown in basic training emphasizing the need to safeguard our equipment.)
If someone told me that I would be at the center of this chaos, I would not believe it. My eyes focused on Massengale sprawled out under the burp gun fire. It was an unthinking, reflex action that had me crawl through the fire to a prone Massengale.
I grabbed Massengale’s collar and pulled him towards the point where Sid was standing. He remained, waiting, until all our men were accounted for.
The cliff was 80′ vertical rock carpeted dense with bushes. With Massengale in my arms, it was a difficult descent. Halfway down, I stopped. Was he wounded or was he gone? I grabbed a bush for support then pinched his cheek. It was like pinching a padded canteen cover; no response. Massengale was dead. Midway down the cliff, I could no longer drag him over the bushes. I removed my belt, strapped it around his legs, then pulled him towards the river. The teeth on the brass buckle opened. The belt was now useless. Where did I get the strength to pull him further? The descent down the cliff was a tumbling nightmare.
The density of the bushes and the darkness prevented me from seeing Benny Hoover below me. Nearing the river, I heard the report from an M1 discharging its rounds. In the river, Benny eliminated a Chinese soldier who tried to ambush him. The lifeless soldier floated by us.
The Chinese, from the cliff above, were sweeping the area below with burp gun fire. I brought Massengale as close as I could to the base of the cliff and moved on. When I reached the friendly area, Graves Registration was waiting with a zippered body-bag.
Forty-five years later, Company L had a reunion at Fort Stewart, 35 miles from Savannah, GA. Col. Sidney (our past Lt. Sidney) approached me, pointed to my lapel, and asked where my pin was for the Silver Star. I had no idea what he was referring to. He told me that he had cited me for the Silver Star Medal for the night of August 8, 1952. Reviewing his papers, he discovered that the following day two of our Jeeps were destroyed by incoming mortar rounds. One of them carried the citation. He cited me again for the Silver Star, but by this time it was downgraded to the Bronze Star with a “V” for Valor.
Sgt. Massengale returned home to Georgia. I returned home to New York City.
Pasted to my car’s rear bumper is a sticker, I Remember Korea. Does anyone remember? Does anyone care?
For the complete story read, Cold Ground’s Been My Bed: A Korean War Memoir by Daniel Wolfe danielwolfebooks@aol.com