The Bubble Burst
Chorwon Valley, Korea 1952
Korea, Tuesday, August 5th, 1952. The 2nd and 3rd platoons gathered around Lt. Sidney, our company commander.
“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.
As the days passed with the impending raid on my mind, a bubble containing the usual apprehensions began to inflate in my psyche.
Unless one has experienced it, the dread of walking into darkness towards a waiting enemy is beyond comprehension. The fright fuses with every molecule of the air we breathe. It forms a composite that controls every cell of our persona. It lurks behind every thought. Oh no, I didn’t curl up in my bunker and wait for that dreaded night. I made small talk with my buddies, but the night of Friday, August 8 lurked behind every syllable.
The heat was oppressive, our C-rations and the 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 ever passed my lips. Disguised as real food inside a C-ration can was Corned Beef Hash. I tried to neutralize 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 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
That took about ten minutes. What next? Charley passed by.
“Hey Charley. As 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?
A day had passed. It was Thursday. Why did I want Friday night be tonight? Twenty-four more hours to grind out. 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 using an entrenching tool for your toilet.
Friday night. Charley was the point man, and I was the runner. The chaplain sent us off with a wave and a prayer. We pulled our jon boats across the river. After a mile, Charley said there was a heavy smell of garlic in the air. We were caught in an ambush. Our machine guns hummed; our rifles cracked, and the recoilless rifle flashed. The bubble burst, the tension broke, all the angst flowed onto the field of fire.
I returned carrying Sgt. Massengale’s body. Moen’s and Jesus Camacho’s bodies lay on the site of the ambush. They were retrieved the next day by Lt. Sidney, Sgt.Flaherty, and PFC Ed Heister.
Gehrecke, Dickson and Nunns were evacuated. They had serious battle wounds.
What next?
45 years later. Charlie (left), Dan (right).
For the complete story, read: Cold Ground’s Been My Bed: A Korean War Memoir by Daniel Wolfe