Testimonials: Vignettes from Korean War veterans (M-S)

The following are excerpts from some of the vignettes sent to The Virginian-Pilot to commemorate the 60th anniversary of the start of the Korean War. Authors are listed alphabetically by last name, (M—S):

On the 24th of December, I was in the fourth platoon on a hill where the ridge line went straight to the enemy positions. We were so close we could see them walking in their trenches.

When the sun started to set, it began to snow. Just before midnight, I heard Christmas music from the other side. I thought, as an 18-year-old, that the music was brought up somehow by the American Army. I felt sad and nearly cried.

Then the music stopped and a voice said, “This is the Chinese communist army and we invite you to surrender.”

The speaker told us how we would get a hot meal and read letters from prisoners of war. Meanwhile, a voice from the foxhole next to me said, “Pass the word, get the artillery.”

So I told the soldier in the next foxhole the same thing. It did not take long.

Soon the shells were flying over our heads toward where the sound was coming from.

When morning came and the fog lifted down in the valley, near the bottom of the hill was a ring of bodies around a speaker stand. Christmas Day, 1951.

To this day, at age 80, I am sometimes visited by that war. I remember the intense combat that never ended even with the day of the armistice, when five Chinese soldiers came up out of the smoke brandishing potato masher grenades. I still remember the atrocities of 1950-51, and the waiting on line in July 1953, for it all to end. It never did.

In the fall of 1951, the U.S. Army 2nd Infantry Division moved into position overlooking Hill 931, better known as Heartbreak Ridge.

The field artillery fired thousands of times into the hillsides at Heartbreak Ridge, but the North kept coming out of their holes when the shooting stopped. When the ridge was finally taken (the first time), our intelligence officer   called on me to prepare for a trip to the top to photograph the inside of the bunkers.

We had to be very careful to avoid land mines and little mines that hung on bushes; those little ones could blow your leg off. Halfway up the hill, someone across the valley spotted us and started to lob artillery shells. The shells began to creep up on us and then we heard one that was going to land very close. The only shelter was a trench with two guys already in it and in the middle was a 75 mm recoilless rifle. We dove in on top of the two guys. My head and feet were in, but my butt was sticking out. Shrapnel was flying and buzzing by. No Purple Heart that day.

I did photograph the bunkers on Hill 931.

While cruising off the Korean coast in 1950 on the Fred T. Berry, the fleet was entertained daily by curses and propaganda being broadcast from long-range loudspeakers mounted atop a site on shore.

As threats of “die Yankee dogs” rained down, a member of our fleet, the Wisconsin, lumbered close in and leveled a broadside with her nine 16-inchers.

From a mile away, we could feel the heat and shock when they fired. But to our dismay, we watched the shells bury into the mountain 200 yards below the target, followed by the speakers cursing our aim and failure to come even close.

Within seconds, the top of the mountain disappeared in a cloud of fire and smoke from the delayed-action shells. End of broadcast and its broadcasters.

Napalm is a “politically incorrect” term these days, but it was a very effective weapon in the valleys of Korea.

Early one morning, our two planes were contacted by an airborne forward controller and told to napalm a village housing Chinese soldiers. Did so, and immediately out poured about a company of white-robed Chinese troops. They formed a “skirmish” line and advanced toward a Marine-controlled hill about two miles east.

We used aerial burst bombs and cannon to essentially eliminate the threat.

Fifty years later, I met the Marine officer in charge of that hill. He was quite appreciative.

(Sgt. Frank Alexander) was injured in one of the many battles of the Han River on March 7 by communist forces who pushed to take back their former positions in a night attack.

An exploding mortar shell mangled his right hand and he attempted to make his way to an aid station. He was spotted, however, by a communist rifleman, who shot him in the right leg.

“I passed out and I guess the Reds passed me up for dead because the next thing I knew, I was back at an aid station where I had been taken by some 24th Medics after the attack had been repulsed.”

In late October 1951, my time of service in Korea came to an end.

Early in the morning, I boarded an almost-empty car on the train going to Inchon. I noticed a corporal boarding the car. There were many empty seats. The corporal looked around, walked over and took the seat next to me. He extended his hand and said, “Hello, my name is Pete.”

We chatted for a while and learned that we were both from Pennsylvania. I was from Pittsburgh, and Pete was from Butler, a few miles away. Pete and I hit it off pretty well and talked all the way to Inchon. He was on his way to be discharged also.

All the way across the wide Pacific, Pete and I hung out and shared our dissatisfaction with the way we were being treated on the way home. We arrived at Port Mason in San Francisco. I remembered the GIs returning from WWII with all the bands, parades and the excitement. We arrived after dark. No parade, no band, no excitement. There was one lady in a red dress who sang as we disembarked. Except for her, no one noticed that we returned.

We loaded onto buses and were transported to Camp Stoneman, where we were processed and paid. Pete and I were given train tickets and ordered to report to Indian Town Gap near Harrisburg, Pa. I guess that was as close to home as they could get us. We remained there during our last few days in the Army, and we were each discharged. Pete and I said goodbye and I think with the understanding that we would never see each other again.

I think it was about two or three weeks later, one of my brothers, my youngest sister and I were walking down one of the streets in a section of Pittsburgh called Homewood. Lo and behold, we ran into Pete. I introduced Pete to Jim and Alice. Somewhere in the conversation, Pete was invited home to supper. Pete never left.

On Sept. 6, 1952, Pete and Alice married and remained married until Pete’s death on Jan. 1, 2002. Pete was a treasured member of our family for 50 years.

Landing on the protected side of Tae Do Island, we were greeted by members of the ROK (Republic of Korea) marine platoon supporting the U.S. Marine detachment. Their assistance in carrying some of our gear up the 200-meter, steep hill to the spotters’ bunker was greatly appreciated. Our sea legs were great, but our mountain climbing legs left much to be desired.

“What did you bring to eat, Navy,” shouted First Lieutenant Burke, USMC.

“Cold cuts, sir!” I replied.

“What? I ought to throw you off my island!”

“But we have five cases of fresh bread, sir,” I wheezed.

“All right! Now you’re talking,” said the island commander as he led us into an L-shaped, concrete bunker, built by the Japanese during World War II. There, to my astonishment, was a huge gleaming white refrigerator, powered by kerosene, filled with steaks and beer.

Burke broke into a big smile, shook my hand and acknowledged that he was mighty glad for the relief and would trade steaks and beer for fresh bread, which he hadn’t tasted in months.

In March 1951, I found myself at Suwon, Korea, where I was assigned to B Company, 151st Combat Engineer Battalion. By April, we had moved to the Iron Triangle at Sopa Ri. The unit was an Alabama National Guard battalion. The American captain CO of B-151 had been a POW at the Battle of the Bulge during WWII. He recruited his company from small farm towns. When the unit was activated, the captain spoke to the wives and families of the men and promised to bring them all home alive.

I was the first regular Army engineer officer attached to them. We were in general support of I Corps and situated directly behind the 6th ROK Division, a tenuous position at best.

The Chinese spring offensive placed major pressure on I Corps in an attempt to capture Seoul, the national capital. The 6th ROK Division straddled the road to Seoul and took the major thrust from the Chinese army.

Noise, artillery fire and traffic changed one day. It was an ominous warning of things to come. The company commander of 151 became nervous and started to pace, mumbling over and over, “I can’t face those mothers and fathers.” He then fell on the dirt floor of his tent and began to make involuntary jerking movements of his arms and legs. Suddenly his eyes lit on me. “Sawyer, you’re regular Army. You have to get us out of here!”

I told the first sergeant to prepare the men of the Engineer Company to fight as infantry. It was the only way they were going to survive. I then went up to Infantry Battalion to obtain the latest battle report. The 6th ROK had crumpled, and the Red, White and Blue (killed, wounded and MIA) list was staggering.

I sent a message to my first sergeant to get the men ready. My message was if I wasn’t back by sun up, he was to move to Battalion Headquarters in Suwon. Later we found out members of the 6th ROK Division had slipped through our lines and were over 75 miles to our rear! They had run from battle, leaving us exposed to the advancing Chinese army.

Several hours later, my jeep driver returned with a message from the first sergeant: The 151 had been ordered to move and build a floating bridge to facilitate the retreat. Fifteen minutes after we moved, the 5th RCT [Regimental Combat Team] was mauled in what is known as “The Valley of Death,” about a quarter mile from my unit’s area.

No men from the B-151 lost their lives that day. The captain kept his promise. I continued my Army career and retired with 23 years service.

Cherished moments from an old man’s past The years others knew as a fun-filled carefree youth, I spent learning the meaning of death and fear of just< keeping alive from day to day. The time others spent learning to love, I spent just hoping to live another day filled with endless nights of terror. The years others remember as laughs in the classroom or the high school dance, I remember as fright and agony in the jungles and villages of a war-torn nation. The instants and moments of pleasure, taken for granted by others, I remember as forgotten hopes, crushed by the reality of a war filled with terror, loneliness and hatred for a person you had never seen before, who was pledged to kill you in an instant and end your life on Earth. The unfulfilled dreams of others are yet to even be thought of by me, since I am in search forever of my elusive youth, looking for the years that could have been, that were lost in endless misery on a battlefield in combat, years which will never again be. But now as I think of these years gone by, I cherish each thought spent in this misery of hell for they have taught me to cherish each precious moment that I live today free of the fear that I knew so well. For this freedom, I have had a taste the protected will never know. Submitted by James Driver, from Daniel Serik Jr. 187th Airborne Regimental Combat Team

–Submitted by James Driver, from Daniel Serik Jr., 187th Airbo rne Regimental Combat Team