An Intrepid Hero
Chorwon Valley, Korea: August 12, 1952.
Mail call!
Some men from Company L gathered under a grove of trees on the reverse slope of their bunkers. Our terrified mail drove up with the mail. He quickly called out a number of names, tore back to his jeep then sped off to the rear. Charley observed,
“He looks like he just shit in his pants.”
“Maybe he did. When he comes up here, do you see how his hands tremble when he passes out the mail?”
It was a letter from Elaine. She included a very nice photo of herself in a bathing suit. Charley, leaning over my shoulder came up with his expected comment,
“Yeah, these Jewish girls look good. Then you put a dick into them and they blow up like a Macy’s Thanksgiving balloon.”
Charley had every ethnic group labeled and categorized. If he knew his ethnic group I’m sure he would have had some offensive remarks about it.
I returned to my bunker. My bunker buddy and platoon medic, Wayne was trying to compose a letter to his girlfriend. With a flickering candle trying to fight the gloom and dampness, it was difficult to elicit terms of endearment from a ballpoint pen. He hadn’t heard from her since the day he came to our company. Wayne and I became buddies when he arrived as a replacement then shared a bunker when we moved up to the line.
“Tell her you’re the same handsome guy as the day you left.”
“Cut the crap. I’m not handsome and she knows it. That’s why she isn’t writing.”
“It’s her loss. I’m sure your replacement cannot be the dependable and decent a guy you are. You’re the best. I saw you tend to our guys on the Hill 117 raid two days ago.”
“I’m no hero. Taking care of the wounded in a stupid war where our guys become crippled and killed. What am I going to do after my three-year enlistment? There’s nothing doing in Frackville. Maybe I’ll reenlist. Three hots and a flop as Charley says.”
“I’m with you. I don’t know about the other guys in the platoon, but raids and patrols leave me terrified. We walk into the night without a clue as to where the Chinese are hiding. Forget they’re there, forget the patrols, I’m hungry.”
While struggling to digest the salty, inedible ham and lima beans from an embarrassed C-ration can, Sgt. Flaherty, with his mustache leading the way, dropped into our bunker to report:
“Reilly, go to Massey (our armorer). Get an M1, a grenade launcher, a flare and a bullet to fire a flare.”
“What this all about? My weapon is a carbine. A flare? The only thing I know about a flare was when I accidentally kicked a trip wire on Outpost Mary and a flare rocketed into the sky. Tell Charley to get it. He loves these things.”
“Charley will point the way. We don’t need a runner on the next raid, so you will fire the flare.”
“Next raid? Where are we going? When?”
“This is a big one. In two days we’re going to attack Hill 121. Come to my bunker tonight and bring all the crap. We’ll go to the rear with the rest of the company for a couple of practice runs.”
In the evening, Flaherty and I climbed over two cratered ridgelines behind our position to practice firing the flare.
“Connect the grenade launcher to the end of the barrel. Fit the flare into the end of the launcher then put the bullet into chamber. OK, now place the stock of the rifle firmly into the ground. Good. When I tell you to pull the trigger, have a firm grip on the rifle, and make sure you close your eyes tightly. A blinding flash will come out of the chamber. I’ll count to three then pull the trigger.”
I pulled the trigger. A silver bolt streaked out of the barrel then rocketed into the blackened sky.
“We never used a flare on a raid, why this one?”
“A British Centurion tank is moving up to the bank of the Imjin. The 105 howitzers and the tank are going to bombard the hill. You will fire the flare as a signal to cease fire. Then we attack. Remember, shut your eyes when you pull the trigger.”
Two days passed. Company L was ready. Some snapped on their armored vests, some buckled their helmets, some wore neither helmets nor armored vests. All of us left for Massey’s bunker to pick up grenades, ammo, white phosphorus rounds for the recoilless rifle team and a bullet for my flare.
Under a grove of trees, Lt. Sidney, our company commander, made sure our weapons were in the locked position. To ease the tension, he called us by our names and casually adjusted our fatigues or armored vests.
Frye, who had a serious marital problem had just returned to our company from stateside. He was in a daze, wearing a greasy beard, blank stare and unfocused, bloodshot eyes.
We were on our knees as the chaplain read the 23 Psalm.
“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me…”
Where was thou on our last raid when Massengale, Camacho and Moen were killed? Where was thou when Nunns, Gehrig, Francis Mette, and Dickson were severely wounded?
We left the chaplain for the jon boats and the heavy rope that was suspended over the Imjin River.
Like empty sardine cans in the backyard of my tenement, the jon boats, were scattered along the Imjin shoreline. They held four men. Charley grasped the overhead rope then pulled us across the river. At the other side, we assembled at an unmanned outpost called The Bubble. Lt. Sidney reviewed the order of attack. Any questions?”
We could always depend upon Coy Jaegers who never brought home a grade higher than an F to ask an in-depth question.
“Why can’t that big ole tank go with us when we attack? We need pertekshun.”
“What’s between that tank and us?”
“Trees?” The men roared.
“The Imjin River, damn it.”
This slightly loosened the tension that was mounting from the time we left our bunkers. The boys had good laugh.
“First platoon, out and into the valley.”
After they covered a short distance, we (the second platoon) stepped out.
How many of our guys will I see when we return? Will I return?
Bereft of trees, the Chorwon Valley was naked, wide and long. The first platoon set up on a ridge in the valley.
The second, then the third platoons followed, and then the heavy weapons.
The recoilless rifle team moved forward then set up on on a small hill opposite Hill 121.
Tracer bullets from the Centurian tank’s machine guns pin-striped the the air above us as Hill 121 was being bombarded by the howitzers and missiles from the tank.
What’s this? I can’t believe it! Amid the crater blasts on the hill and the clatter of the machine guns, a searchlight company just reflected their beams off the low-hanging clouds and lit up Hill 121 like a wedding cake. Will we be the blown-out candles when we arrive?
Lt. Theiss signaled to fire the flare. I placed the stock of the rifle firmly into the ground, but curiosity got the best of me. I opened my eyes when I pulled the trigger. A blinding flash burst out of the firing chamber.
Lt. Theiss waved to attack. We ran up the hill. Like a swarm of bees, burp gun bullets zipped at us. Whenever I blinked, I was blinded. I stepped into a space. The hill was ringed with concentric trenches so that the defenders can move to the trench behind them if necessary. I fell and hit my head on the lip of the trench then went to the bottom. My helmet was no longer with me. Dazed, I found a firing step then grasped the top of the trench and pulled myself out. In a stunned frenzy, I joined the men from my platoon and made my way up the hill. This candle was still lit!
Flaherty and Wayne were further up front, to my left. A Chinese concussion grenade kicked up a cloud of earth near them. Our litter bearers ran to the area. I waited, then ran over to see if I could help. Neither Wayne, nor Flaherty was there. My vest plowed the earth as I crawled towards Gus.
“Hey Gus, did you see Wayne or Flaherty?”
“Wayne is probably treating the wounded. Our litter bearers carried someone down the hill.”
Human screams temporarily drowned out the buzz of the burp guns and the rattle of our machine guns. On a ridge to the rear, our recoilless rifle team spotted a squad of Chinese attempting to ambush us. Three phosphorus rounds from their rifle carbonized them. Thank you Lieutenant Sidney.
Lt. Theiss signaled to withdraw. I ran down the hill avoiding the trenches. But where was my buddy Wayne? I’ll check with Flaherty as soon as I see him. I soon caught sight of Flaherty lying on a litter at the base of the hill. The concussion grenade pulverized his jaw. It was resting on his chest like a wet, bloody sock.
I wanted to leave my skin because it wasn’t moving as fast as my heartbeat. Like sprinters we crouched and ran through the men of the first platoon. Was there any more adrenaline left in my adrenals?
To my right, Ed Heister was frantically running with a wounded man who was collapsed on his shoulders. But, where was Wayne?
Finally, we reached the jon boats! I joined three shaken men. We pulled ourselves across the Imjin then plodded to a battalion truck waiting a half a mile from the river. Frye, Charley, Whitefeather and Konnerth joined me. We lowered the slatted benches inside the truck then collapsed onto them.
Sitting on the bench opposite me was Frye. He had the same glassy, vacant gaze on his face as if in a hypnotic trance. When we were underway, he lifted his BAR, stuck his finger into the trigger and squeezed. Everyone fell to the floor. We didn’t rise until the truck, with its shredded canvas cover arrived at battalion headquarters.
Sitting on the ground in benumbed silence, Charley, Whitefeather, Kenneth and I awaited the next truck. A motor hummed in the distance. The truck pulled up.
“Hey Gus, did you see Wayne? Don, did you see Wayne?”
“Maybe he’s on the next truck.”
There was no “next truck”.
Where was he? Eventually, he was listed as Missing in Action. I kept in contact with Wayne’s family. No news.
I wrote to the Department of the Army, perhaps they knew. No, Wayne was still MIA. A month later I was sent to Japan to train for an attack on the east coast of North Korea.
Finally, after two years in the army I was discharged. Wayne’s mother and I exchanged letters. She sent pictures of Wayne to the U.S. repatriated prisoners at Valley Forge General Hospital in Pennsylvania. No one was able to identify him.
After the truce was signed in 1953, I thought this was the end of the story.
Some years later, I received an email from Wayne’s niece, Holly. She wanted to know the details of our raid on Hill 121. We had a very friendly exchange. I told her all I knew, which lacked many details.
In 2007, my wife and I decided to visit Wayne’s older brother in Allentown, PA. His wife and Wayne’s niece, Holly were there. The only information I could provide them with was that Wayne was that he was alongside Sgt. Flaherty. That was the last I saw of him. Their reaction to the two photos I showed them was, “Look how skinny he is.”
Six years ago, 2010, Holly was in Washington D.C. Persistent and determined to discover information about Wayne, she went to the Department of the Army. They provided her with a satellite photo of Hill 121. With a magnified viewer, she went through the entire Hill. The Caton family provided DNA samples. No luck.
It was only after I had contacted Ed Heister (a rifleman in our platoon), that we discovered the story of Wayne and Hill 121.
Ed Heister was carrying a hemorrhaging Truman Bastin back to the Imjin River so that he could reach an aid station. The jon boats that carried us across the river were waiting to bring us back.
Ed Heister placed Truman in a jon boat and told the GI in charge to release the boat. He refused. He said that three more men had to occupy the boat before it could be brought across.
Wayne, who was standing nearby, took out his pistol jammed it into the GI’s gut and told him if that boat is not released, he was a dead man. Truman was ferried across immediately.
“What happened after that?” I asked.
“Wayne returned to Hill 121 to see if there were any more casualties.”
That was Wayne: An intrepid hero in every sense of the word, and a treasured buddy.
For the complete story read: Cold Ground’s Been My Bed: A Korean War Memoir
danielwolfebooks@aol.com
