Korea: May 18 1952
Under any other circumstances I would have reveled in this evening. The temperature was in the high-sixties, if I stood on my toes I felt I could tickle a star, and a slight breeze kept me alert so that I could appreciate the clean country air, but Captain Smith, our company commander, assigned our platoon to patrol a sector of the Chorwon Valley that spread out in front of us. The Chinese weren’t going to surprise us. My bunker buddy, Jesse would have appreciated this starlit night, but he had rotated a month ago, so I soloed in the the dampness of my bunker.
We gathered at our armorer Massey’s bunker at 7:30 PM. Charley, our point man picked up a Snooperscope. He connected its screen to his carbine which, when activated, showed a green image in the darkness in front of him. He filled the battery wells with water, and then strapped it to his back. The rest of the squad received their grenades, magazines, canisters and whatever they needed. Down the free lane we went and passed a long, barbed wire fence (Smith Fence) running parallel to our bunkers. Now we were in the Chorwon Valley.
Ten minutes had passed. The grass beneath our boots led us to a dense formation of tall, slender reeds, the kind that grows in wet or damp areas.
Sgt. Flaherty whispered, “O.K. guys, move ahead, but roll down your sleeves, those leaves could cut like razors.”
Stomping down on the tall, brittle reeds, we added another deep scar in the wide valley.
Charley pointed a path for us. Flaherty lowered his voice,
“Stop! Did you see those reeds move? There, over there. Get down! Get down! Charley, do you see anything?”
Sgt. Flaherty was especially alert in this forest of shoulder-high reeds. The Chinese, who had been at war since the early 1930s, were masters at camouflage and military tactics.
Charley lifted his carbine to his shoulder, moved it in a 180º arc, but the Snooperscope showed nothing.
“Ken, creep up quietly to the far left of those reeds,” whispered Flaherty. “Don’t go too far. See if anyone is there. We’ll cover you. The rest of you remain here, with me.”
Ken approached the area, checked it, and then signaled it was clear.
After 30 minutes of patrol, we weren’t engaged. Sgt. Flaherty decided to take a direct route back to the MLR. We set off with Charley leading the way. After a few steps, a deafening screech broke the silence. Charley stepped on, or near a pheasant’s nest. A pheasant rocketed upwards, but no faster than our heartbeats. A combination of fright, and then relief dropped us to the damp floor of the valley. A few deep breaths then Flaherty said,
“Let’s go!”
“Shit! Hold on, hold on!” It was Charley. “My back is itching and burning!”
Charley removed his battery pack and found that the back of his fatigue shirt was soaking wet. He noticed that he didn’t cap the wells in the battery and the acid poured onto and through his fatigue shirt.
“Charley remove your shirt,” whispered Flaherty. “Guys, open your canteens and pour water over Charley’s back!” We emptied our canteens. Once Charley was relieved, he tied his shirt around his waist then led us towards an opening in the Smith Fence.
Burp guns, grenades and rifle fire to our far left halted our return. Captain Smith was on the radio telling our commo (communications) man, Mendel to have Flaherty lead us to that area.
“Charley, point the way to that noise!” shouted Flaherty.
By the time we arrived, Company I’s patrol, with two of its men on litters were returning to their bunkers.
Finally, we trudged past the Smith Fence and up the free lane. Flaherty asked the men to gather around him. He was furious.
“Son of a bitch! Son of a bitch!” shouted Flaherty.
“Who?” asked Oscar
“Who? Who?” he asked. “Smith! Captain Smith, C.P. Smith! Command Post Smith! That’s who! He sits on his fat ass in his command post barking orders by radio while we’re out on a raid or patrol. Just once, I’d like to see that turd lead a raid. O.K. guys go to your bunkers and get some sleep.”
For breakfast, our cooks came up to the line with real eggs. A great substitute for the cardboard we scooped out of a can. We sat dispersed enjoying a rare, hot and delicious breakfast. Brockett wandered over to complain about the few letters he received from his girlfriend.
“You know how mail comes,” I replied. Some days in batches, many days zero.”
That was no comfort. To my relief Cpl. Brown, our assistant platoon sergeant who was filling his canteen at the Lister Bag came by with unexpected news.
“We’re leaving tomorrow night. The 45th Division is replacing us. Our company is going into reserve. Before we leave, clean out your bunker, get four grenades from Massey and leave them for your replacements.”
The following morning I gathered the few things I owned, placed them in my backpack, rolled up my sleeping bag then strapped it to the pack. When it was closed, I hooked my entrenching tool to the backpack and waited for precious night to arrive.
Soon it was time to accumulate some stains on my fatigue shirt. A very small, hooked manual can opener easily cut through my C-ration can. I scooped out a spoonful then spit it out.
“This isn’t Ham and Lima Beans I’m eating; it’s a clot of salt!” I grumbled.
I hurled the can onto the minefield in front of my bunker joining its many relatives littering the landscape.
At last, the stars and moon appeared. The sound of men crawling up the reverse slope of our hill alerted me to the arrival of the 45th. Sliding down the reverse slope while our replacements climbed up, I felt that I had a renewed lease on life.
A two-mile march led our company to waiting 2 ½ ton trucks. The trucks became our guardians, and our backpacks became pillows. Sweet sleep took hold of my body.
In the morning, our grimy knees pressed up against the truck’s tailgates, and then we lifted ourselves up to its slatted benches. Once inside, the overhead canvas enclosed faces beaming with delight. Where were we going? Did it really matter? South was the direction, south of the MLR (frontline).
For the ongoing chapter, read my book, Cold Ground’s Been My Bed. A Korean War Memoir. danielwolfebooks@aol.com