- Charlie Kaurneckis
Chorion Valley, Korea 1952
“Sarah, roll the wallpaper off the walls, we’re moving.”
This was Charley. He had a negative comment for every ethnic group. Did he know his own? When I told him that I was Jewish and from New York, he exclaimed,
“Oh, a New York Irishman! From now on you’re no longer Wolfe, you’re Reilly!”
And I was no longer Wolfe, I was Reilly of the 2nd platoon.
He dropped out of school at the age of 17, and then enlisted in the army. In spite of a lack of education, he was adept at, and knew all the particulars of anything that exploded. Sgt. Jeffreys, our platoon leader had complete confidence in fearless Charley. He was the point man for the 2nd platoon, Company L, 15th Regt., 3rd Division in Korea. Charley wouldn’t allow anyone to point a patrol or raid. He was best at it and all of us knew it. I was from New York City. Who knew from military ordnance in the Bronx? We were first generation offspring of parents who escaped from progroms (attacks) on their tiny shtetls (villages) in Europe.
Charley was the landscape, the landscape was Charley. He could be found anywhere, and everywhere. I first met him when Oscar Konnerth, Charley and I were assigned to Outpost Mary, a small hill about two hundred yards in front of our bunkers on the MLR (Main Line of Resistance). It gave us a broad view of our frontal area therefore; we would be able to alert our company commander, Lt. C. P. Smith (C. P. for Command Post because he never left his bunker) if the Chinese were coming.
As soon as we reached Outpost Mary, Charley busied himself with connecting trip wires to flares surrounding our position. He warned Oscar and I,
“You see those wires? When a wire is tripped by the Gooks, they’ll set off the flares. Don’t go near them.”
Apprehension and tension were our constant companions in Korea. Oscar Konnerth was easy to talk to. I left my foxhole and made my way towards his. In the dark, I accidentally kicked a trip wire. As I watched the sky set on fire and the white flare slowly descending from a small parachute, I became enraged at my stupidity. Charley came tearing at me.
“God damn it Reilly. I showed you the wires! We’ll have to give you some ballet lessons when we get off the line!”
After three days on Mary we returned to our bunkers. Charley couldn’t wait to tell our men about my “trip”. I had recently arrived to Company L. They looked, they laughed, and then forgot about it.
In two weeks Company L was sent in reserve to await replacements.
Each platoon assembled a squad tent, the fifth tent for the offiers was erected by “volunteers” from our four platoons.
On our first day in reserve, Mess Sgt. Goff, using the excuse that he had to build a mess tent, distributed an entree of C-Rations and slightly brown coffee to the troops. Later, in reserve, we were served the usual basic training food, but it was warm.
Sunday was a day of rest. Organized Athletics, which Charley called Organized Grabass, or a rare USO show kept us occupied. On the following days we were served basic training food, but i was warm.
Lt. Sidney, who had replaced Capt. Command Post Smith, blew his whistle which was a signal to line up in front of our tents.
“We’re going to a USO show today. The performers came to us from stateside. I expect you to behave like the gentlemen you think you are.”
As we were marching towards the show, Charley said he’ll bet that not one of the performers was under fifty and he saw more magicians than an usher at a vaudeville show.
Sgt. Jeffrys heard it all.
“Shut up Charley. Maybe you’ll get on the stage to entertain us?”
A stage was set up on an open field about a mile from our tents.
A comedian came on stage with the most pathetic delivery I had ever heard. The only thing funny about him was that the buttons on his fly were misaligned.
He introduced a buxom singer who was a woman over fifty, but her familiar songs and brassy voice brought us back home. She received a very nice round of applause, and then he went on to introduce the next act.
“Now for you lovers of classical music; hey you guys up front get your eyes off the violin. I give you Rima Rudina!”
Standing on the stage was a beautiful young woman with anthracite black hair, and a shimmering blue gown obediently following every hill and dale of her body.
As expected, most of the GIs hollered, “I’ll take her!”
Then Charley, who had to dominate the scene took over.
“Rima Rudina? Hey. I’d like to ream ‘er!” Of course the boys roared, but Lt. Sidney shouted,
“Charley, step out.”
Lt. Sidney had already learned how important Charley was to the platoon. Sid played the role of a disciplinarian, but it was only a role. Charley quickly returned to us.
Next on the program was our chaplain. He said it was Sunday and he had a very short sermon.
“I accompanied the battalion commander when you had an inspection last Sunday. Tacked to one of your tent poles was a large photo of a movie star. Don’t use a movie star as a measure for your future wives. I stand before many bent lids, and for every bent lid I see, there is a bent pot waiting for you back home.”
I can’t wait to return stateside to locate my bent pot.
On the march back to camp Whitefeather zeroed in his arrow,
“You palefaces have very strange medicine men.”
Lt. Sidney knew that Charley and I were very tight. He punished Charley for his remark, and my guilt-by-association by assigning us to build a barbed wire fence between our company area and a nearby village.
While he was pounding the metal stakes and I was stringing barbed wire, Charley noticed a village about a quarter of a mile from our position. He put down his sledge hammer and looked toward this small community.
“Reilly,” he said, pointing in that direction, “There are a couple of Mooses (young ladies) over there that want us.”
“What are you talking about? You haven’t been there.”
“Just wait until it gets dark. They need us.”
Our fence construction was finally finished. Before dinner we lined up and Lt. Sidney had me read this edict:
“Anyone found outside the barbed wire fence without permission would be court martialled.”
“You heard what I read to the company, Charley. We’ll be court martialled if we go to that village and get caught.”
Charley laughed and said, “The most obvious way is the least suspected. You’ll follow me when it gets dark.”
What ever possessed me to join him at nightfall? I admired his courage, but why should I get involved in such a harebrained mission?
Charley appeared with a can of beer in his hand, and who knows how much in his bloodstream.
“OK Reilly. We’ll go straight to the village.”
There was no vegetation in the area. It was flat, and dusty-dry. Few words were exchanged as we made our way towards the thatched huts.
What will I do when I get there? Say, “Hello, where’s your daughter?” This is ridiculous.
Maybe I could convince Charley to return to our tent? Uh-oh, What’s that?
A short distance to the left appeared three figures.
“Hit the dirt, Charley!”
I became one with the soil. Through the corner of my eye I saw Charley sitting up and singing “Ahrriang, Ahrriang, Ah-Ah Ree Oh”, a Korean folksong.
The-Officer-of-the-Day and two corporals stepped in front of us..
“Get up and march back to camp,” growled the officer. “You know if you’re caught outside the barbed wire fence you would be court martialled.”
After a few steps, Charley spun around and hurled his beer can at the three men then shouted,
“Look out! A grenade!”
The three were on the ground, flat as a newspaper. Charley stood up, pointed at them, and laughed.
“I was going to let you guys go, but this calls for a court martial,” snapped the officer.
“Sir,” I said. “I wish you would take into account that we were three months on the line …”
“Don’t beg. Don’t beg Reilly. I can’t stand a beggar.”
“That’s it. March back to your company commander.”
Lt. Sidney was not there. The officer took our names from our dog tags and left a note describing the heinous crime we had committed.
In a week, we were summoned to the battalion commander’s tent for the court martial.
We waited a while, then I asked his sergeant if the colonel was here.
“He’s here, but he’s drained from the Whistling GIs.”
“Whistling GIs? What’s that?”
Son, did you ever shit so fast that your asshole whistled? Well, that’s the Whistling GIs.”
Who said you can’t use in civilian life what you learned in the army?
We were fined one month’s pay ($110) and we couldn’t change our allotment.
Safe and dry, training went on in reserve. How many times did our platoon “attack a fortified position”? How many times did Company L with the support of tanks “attack a major hill occupied by the Chinese”?
Sgt. Jeffreys rotated stateside. He was replaced by Sgt. Flaherty. Lt. Boatner, direct from West Point became our new platoon leader. Unlike a couple of the other platoon leaders, he was sharp and confident. Although he kept a distance, we respected him. Of course Charley contributed his opinion.
“I’ll bet he starches and irons his underwear. Wait ‘till we move up to the MLR (Main Line of Resistance), he’ll bring a houseboy along to polish his boots and iron his socks.”
Lt. Boatner was with us a week-and-a-half when Company L was ordered to move up to act as a buffer for the ROKs (a South Korean company) who were on the frontline.
While deuce-and-a-half trucks were waiting, our men were breaking down the squad tents, assembling their gear and loading them on the trucks. Lt Boatner was already packed.
A helicopter swooped down and settled adjacent to the trucks. A short, stocky, elderly officer stepped out of the helicopter. Lt. Sidney shook hands with him. It was Gen. Haydon Boatner who had just put an end to the Chinese prisoner rebellion on the island of Koje-Do. Lt. Boatner and his father, the General entered the helicopter, and flew south, away from the frontline. As the helicopter faded into horizon I turned to Charley and said,
“It’s good to have a poppa in the business.”
“Reilly, that’s all you Jewish guys think of is business.”
The U.N. wasn’t confident of the ROK’s performance, so Company L spent two weeks blocking behind them. They carried out their mission extremely well. Now it was time for Company L to replace them.
Lt. Theiss replaced Lt. Boatner as our platoon leader. Although he was from the Bronx, my only contact with him was during the practice runs for a mission. He asked me if I wanted to be a runner for the platoon.
Since I wasn’t aware of a runner when we were previously on line, I asked Charley what was the mission of a runner.
“Take it. You’ll be close to me,” he replied.
I gave my BAR and cartridge belt to Gus Chobot, receiving a carbine in exchange. In the blocking position we went through a number of dry runs. I felt as if I could carry the carbine in my pants pocket compared to the 20 lb. BAR.
We replaced a South Korean company which was entrenched slightly west of our previous position in the Chorwon Valley,
The first week on line Ken Brockett’s bunker received a direct hit from a mortar round. The bunker collapsed, but Ken was not hurt. This was a call for Charley. He went to Massey (our armorer) and secured a shape charge. It somewhat resembles a domed oil can. He placed it inside the bunker and wired it to a primer. He yelled “Fire in the hole!” and then, set off the blast. Unaware that the earth, the pebbles and rocks would fly so high, I removed my helmet and was soon pelted with a mound of earth. Charley of course, was delighted.
On the second week we were completely oriented to our position. Our squad was sent to patrol a mile into the valley in front of us. It was a damp valley dense with tall reeds. Our squad met Charley at Massey’s bunker where he was strapping the battery for a sniperscope onto his shoulders. A sniperscope sends out infra-red rays, and then transmits whatever is before it to a small screen attached to the carbine.
We crossed the Imjin in jon boats then proceeded to tramp down the reeds in the valley. After fifteen minutes in the patrol, Charley whispered to Sgt. Flaherty,
“Hold it, my back is burning!”
“Take off the battery,” Flaherty replied.
Charley’s fatigue shirt was soaking wet. He forgot to screw the caps onto the acid wells of the battery.
“Hey guys. Empty your canteens onto Charley’s back,” whispered Flaherty.
This was not a high point for Charley.
On August 8, 1952 our platoon’s mission was to raid Hill 117 and take prisoners. “Take prisoners” was a fantasy. Only silhouettes were seen, and they dissolved into the darkness as soon as we saw them. Charley led us along a cliff overlooking the Imjin River. Lt. Sidney was at the center of our patrol. About a mile in our trek he asked me to contact Charley. I crept up to Charley. He was on edge.
“It’s kim-chi! Don’t you smell the garlic? They’re breathing heavy! They’re shittin’. Tell Sid the Gooks are here! ”
I returned to Sid. He said to tell Charley to move up ten yards, we’ll move up to him.”
Upon returning to Charley, burp guns and concussion grenades ripped apart the silence.
Lt. Sidney spread us out then told us to move around while firing our weapons. The exchange of fire and the burst of grenades was deafening.
Camacho, Moen and Sgt. Massingale received deadly burp gun fire. Gehrecke, Ed Browne and Philip Dickson were severely wounded. I cannot account for others.
Four days later, on August 12, Company L carried out a raid on Hill 121, a pimple in the middle of the Chorwon Valley. My mission was to fire a flare as a signal for a Centurion tank and the 105 howitzers to cease firing. Where was Charley? Where was anyone in this chaos? I saw Flaherty with a macerated jaw being carried on a litter towards the rear. Ed Heister had a hemorrhaging Truman Bastin on his shoulders. We lost my bunker buddy, and medic, Wayne Caton.
Our next mission was to eliminate a bunker on the opposite side of the Imjin. Charley led us up our side of the Imjin River. When we entered, the water was knee-high. As we moved upstream Company I’s bunkers were on the cliff above us. I was carrying a bunker bomb to scorch the sniper and his bunker with napalm. The water became deeper as we approached the sandbar we were to cross. I held the bomb above my shoulders. The water was lapping against my chin. One more step and I would be drinking the Imjin. Fortunately, Charley came running back to Lt. Theiss.
“One of the idiots (Company I) up there threw a grenade at me! Did Sid tell them we were coming?”
I realized I would breath tomorrow when Lt. Theiss abandoned this reckless and ill-advised attack.
Arctic chills paid us a visit in mid September. Two weeks ago we were issued field jackets. When Charley protested to Lt. Crowe, who had replaced Lt. Theiss, about the new field jacket liners, he was told they would be replaced later. They must have been experimental liners. On one side they resembled white, synthetic toweling, the other side was covered with thin, silky O.D. nylon. It conducted the chill instead of insulating us. We were told to keep them clean. Hah!
On a sunny day in late September, Lt. Crowe called me to his bunker. He asked if I would like to go to Japan and spend the rest of my remaining time there. There was a U.N. plan to invade Korea from the north. Men who had combat experience were needed to integrate with the men who had never left Japan. Three more months on the line and I would have enough points to go stateside. I paused.
“If you had a son here, what would you tell him?” I asked.
“You’ll never know when a bullet or piece of shrapnel has your name on it.”
I am ready to go, I told him.
I hurried to tell Charley.
“What are you doing? I could go too. I’m staying. We’re a team! I never trusted that Lt. Crowe since Lt. Theiss left.”
I wasn’t happy about his attitude because I was filled with remorse in leaving my buddies. I said my good-byes, and then left for a waiting truck.
Thirty-five years later, Sgt. Flaherty located seventy men of company L. He sent me their addresses, among them was Lt. Sidney.
“Write a newsletter and we’ll have a reunion of our company.”
I wrote a few newsletters, and then I asked if the men would participate in a reunion. I got a resounding, “Yes”.
Our reunion was at Fort Stewart in Georgia. Forty-nine single men and couples came from as far west as California.
Shoney’s was not a triple star hotel but did that matter? The men we shared the nightmare with in Korea were there.
Sheila went into the diner for coffee. She thought she heard someone ranting about “Those freekin’ Gooks and Chinks…” She assumed it was Charley.
I didn’t know whether Charley was contacted.
“I’m sure it was him,” I replied, after she related the conversation in the diner.
The men of Company L gathered in the Hospitality Room. After a number of “Hellos”, I went directly to Charley. When I knew him he was as straight as an I-beam, now his 6’2” frame was thin and bent like the bow for an arrow.
“Charley!” I called out. “How are you?”
“Who are you?” he faintly asked.
“Charley. You were the point man. I was the runner. We were in the same squad. We always kept in touch. Don’t you remember our court martial?”
“Court martial? I had a lot of court martials. I don’t remember how many of them. I wasn’t good at math.”
This was a fragile, vacuous image of the Charley, the ex-airborne paratrooper I knew.
After the Korean truce, Charley returned stateside. Reluctantly, he was sent to a military motor repair school. Upon completion of the course he volunteered for Vietnam. Unchallenged while repairing motors at the Mekong Delta, he volunteered for a rifle company.
“What did you do in the rifle company?”
“Nothing much. The Gooks hid, and we had casualties. I was sprayed with Agent Orange twice.”
I could see that Charley was a reformed alcoholic. He had a can of Coca-Cola (instead of beer) in his hand wherever he went.
The reunion was a triumph. We promised to meet again the following year.
Feeling sorry about Charley’s dramatic change, I called him a few times after the reunion to try and revitalize him.
“Why do you call me so often?” he asked.
“We were buddies in Korea. I’d like to know how you rate managing your life.”
“Why?”
“Don’t you remember the raids and patrols we went on when we were in Korea? You were there point man and I was the runner.”
“I don’t remember anything about Korea.”
He was bewildered.
I called him again. He told me that he had a pain in his chest and went to the VA to see a doctor. The doctor told him he had stretched a muscle in his chest and the pain will eventually go away. Knowing that he was sprayed with the cancerous Agent Orange, and knowing the VA, I advised him to get a second opinion.
“No, the VA is good enough for me.”
At our second reunion, Sheila bid good-bye to Charley and hoped to see him again the following year.
“You’re not going to see me again, Sheila. I have lung cancer.”
My wife and I went to Poquoson, VA in December 1998 to attend Charley’s funeral. After a member of the American Legion delivered his eulogy, I spoke about my experience with Charley. Needless to say, there were many laughs. But I learned that his family, two sons, a daughter and his frail wife knew very little about him. I guess after spending 30 years in the army, how much time did he spend at home, or did he want to spend time at home? One son told me he was an alcoholic, another son was married to a Black woman, and Charley’s sickly wife seemed to be unaware of what was happening. His daughter was a personable and a beautiful young married woman who lived in Colorado. She said that Charley was never home; therefore she and the boys had no meaningful relationship with him.
Rest in peace Charley, you never let us.
Heartbroken, we returned to North Carolina.
Thus, my experience with Charley came to an abrupt end.
For the complete story read, Cold Ground’s Been My Bed: A Korean War Memoir.