Valleys of Death (16 page)

“You know, Sergeant,” the chaplain said, sporting his broken pipe, “it is All Souls' Day.”

“I hope the hell someone's looking after our souls because we sure need it,” I said back.

Kapaun smiled at me. “Well, He is, He is.”

The chaplain moved on to another position, but before he left he told me we were fighting the Chinese. We'd heard rumors about Chinese soldiers coming over the border. That pretty much confirmed what I had thought for the last couple of hours. Jones had basically told me when he mentioned that their quilted uniform jackets looked so much different than the North Koreans'.

First Lieutenants Phil Peterson and Walt Mayo had also scrambled into our perimeter. Both officers were artillery forward observers but had lost their radios in the confusion. They'd gotten reports hours before the attack that the Chinese were in the area. The Chinese soldiers had crossed the Yalu to protect electrical generators along the river. That night, Peterson had seen a Chinese prisoner in his quilted jacket but had no idea the danger we were in. They'd been ordered back to the battalion and then tried to escape when the artillery unit tried to save their howitzers. But the Chinese had already cut the road. We were trapped.

For the rest of the day, we set up our defenses. We knew the Chinese would come for us that night. Stragglers from the other units in the battalion kept arriving. By nightfall, we had about 120 men, with 50 wounded and approximately 90 dead. I moved around the perimeter checking on the men and tried to identify noncommissioned officers. None of the corporals or sergeants had any rank on their fatigues. It had been that way since we first exchanged uniforms in the Pusan perimeter. It was just as hard to find officers. They'd started pinning their rank under their collar because snipers were picking off the leadership first.

Some of the stragglers were from the mortar section. As they set up the 60mm mortar tubes, I quizzed them about Roberts and Vaillancourt. We'd been separated since arriving at Unsan, and I feared the worst.

“Both missing, Sergeant,” one of them said.

The news hit me in the chest and nearly took my breath away. I tried to stay focused, but my mind wandered to Pusan, Camp Stoneman, the train. To that damn infantry movie at Fort Devens. Walsh was dead. Now Roberts and Vaillancourt were missing. I was the last one. The only witness to the regiment being destroyed.

I kept circulating around the perimeter trying to keep guys focused. We needed so many things, but ammunition quickly became the most critical. I found out from one of the sergeants that the battalion had lined up all of the unit's trucks the night before the Chinese attack. We needed the ammunition in the beds of those trucks. I'd learn years later that all the rifle companies had been ordered to withdraw through the battalion headquarters area. My battalion was under orders to hold as long as possible and withdraw early in the morning. That was why all the vehicles had been lined up by the road.

I found Giroux near the tanks. He was talking to the tank battalion headquarters on a radio. Giroux called me over. There were bombers on the way; he wanted to call in an air strike and needed targets.

We knew that the Chinese were attacking us from three sides—east, west and south. After a short discussion, we decided on a riverbed in the east, the hill with the machine guns in the south and another riverbed in the west. There was still some vestige of hope. One of the last radio messages from division was that help was on its way.

While Giroux called in the details for the strike, I dashed out of the perimeter toward the trucks. I knew the Chinese machine gunners were watching, but I hoped that one guy wasn't worth wasting the ammo. Running in a half crouch, I zigzagged my way out slowly, trying to take advantage of every little burrow in the field. It felt like forever before I finally got close to the trucks.

The olive-drab trucks were lined up on the shoulder of the road. Some were open and full of supplies. Others were kitchen trucks, mobile kitchens that could be wheeled to the front and cook hot food for the troops. I concentrated on the trucks with guns and ammunition.

I climbed into the back of one two-and-a-half-ton truck and started pulling open crates of ammunition and grenades. We needed both if we were to keep the Chinese off us. I worked my way through the bed of the truck as quickly as possible, trying to stay low. The Chinese must have spotted me, because suddenly I could hear the machine guns start firing from the nearby hill. Rounds smashed into the truck as I snatched up two large cans of ammo and stuffed grenades into my pants and fatigue jacket.

Diving out of the back of the truck, I raced back toward the perimeter. I could see the rounds kicking up debris all around me. Dropping the loot in a pile, I went back again. I played this game of chicken with the machine gunners three times before I couldn't stand any more.

At the end of my last sprint, my legs felt like jelly. My chest burned and I could barely hold the ammunition cans in my hands. I collapsed next to Giroux and Bromser in the trench. They had the grenades stacked up neatly in the foxhole we were using as a command post.

“Sergeant Richardson, let's keep the grenades here and pass them out only where and when we need them,” Giroux said.

I just shook my head and leaned back in the hole. My fatigue jacket was soaked and my body felt weary, exhausted. I quickly recovered when Giroux patted me on the back. He didn't need to say anything. The moment was broken when we heard the rumble of the engines. They echoed as the planes approached from the south, dipping into the valley and flying over our position.

They were Australian bombers.

The planes came around low and fast and strafed the riverbed in the east. With their wings dipping low, the planes swung around and came right over our position again as they approached the hill south of the bridge where the machine gun positions were. Their guns sounded like loud zippers as they pounded the hills with long bursts. The machine gun links from the planes were falling right on us as they unloaded on the machine gunners who'd pinned us down. Every link increased morale. Everyone was excitedly waving and cheering them on. Pulling up after hitting the hill, they slipped over the mountains and disappeared. They didn't hit the west riverbed. Out of ammo, low on gas, who knows? As the saying goes, don't look a gift horse in the mouth.

Taking advantage of the attack, Bromser wanted to check out the battalion command post before the Chinese soldiers recovered. Operationally there was nothing left in the command post. The only communications we had were in Sergeant Miller's tank. I didn't think Bromser should go, but there was no stopping him. He wanted to check for survivors. It would be a treacherous dash fully exposed to the Chinese; however, the air strike must have shook the shit out of the Chinese. They never fired a shot.

Bromser and Giroux went into the command post while I waited outside and talked to Corporal Jones, who was still manning the machine gun. Jones was a medic from Massachusetts, and we mostly talked about home. I could tell he was nervous after manning the gun for so long. He'd kept the wounded in the command post safe and seemed grateful just to have some company. Anything to take his mind off things.

It's funny the things you find yourself talking about. He told me how he planned to join the State Troopers when he got back. I looked into his eyes and thought, Here's one hell of a brave guy. But I couldn't take my mind off our bigger problems.

Inside the command post, I knew what the officers were talking about. It was a forbidden subject. What were we going to do with the wounded in the terrible final moment that everyone knew was coming? The battalion surgeon, Doc Anderson, and the chaplain were doing what they could for about forty wounded men. But we couldn't hold out for long without a relief column. And if we had to run, the wounded officers were going to have to decide whether or not to leave themselves and the other wounded men behind to the mercies of the enemy.

Bromser and Giroux came out. They didn't say anything about their decisions and told me to get ready to head back to the perimeter. I knew this might be the last time I'd see Jones. He smiled as I stood up and waved. I didn't want to leave.

“Lieutenant, how about I come back with some men and help defend this position,” I said. “Jones is beat, and if he doesn't get some help they will never be able to hold the position.”

If they didn't let me come back, the Chinese would easily overrun the battalion position. It was a hard decision.

Bromser looked at Giroux. They knew the situation. They knew we were surrounded and trapped. You could see them doing the battlefield calculus in their heads. Could they spare anyone at their own position? Finally Giroux turned to me.

“Rich, you're coming back with us,” he said.

I could see the pain in his face and I didn't fight him. I knew he hadn't made the decision lightly.

We moved back to the perimeter, racing through the open area but still not attracting the gunners. When we got back, I went to the west side to check on our defenses.

Remnants of 3rd Battalion, perimeter defense. November 2-4, 1950. Excerpts from Major General Gay, 1st CAV Div. Commander 1950-1951.
National Archives

Wollack, a stocky sergeant, had taken charge. I never got his first name, we really just used last names, but I do remember he was Polish and one of twenty-six children off a farm from somewhere in the north-central part of the country. As we talked, I saw that a group of twenty men were running right at us. They were Americans and were hollering and waving at us. I prayed they were the lead element of a relief column. The others guys were cheering them on as they made the short dash to our trench. They slid inside, their chests heaving.

“What unit are you guys from?” I asked.

“Second of the Eighth,” an officer said between deep breaths.

The stragglers pushed by us and collapsed in the center of the perimeter. Everyone's morale sank lower than whale shit. The energy and excitement seemed to deflate from the men in the trench, and all at once their heads hung and shoulders dipped. These guys weren't a relief column. They were just more stragglers from the Second Battalion.

I couldn't shake the thought that no one was coming for us.

CHAPTER TWELVE

DYING ONE BY ONE

The faint buzz of an L-5 artillery spotter plane shook me from my despair. I looked up, shielding my eyes from the sun, and could just pick it out. The olive green plane circled over us for a few minutes, then the pilot dropped two duffel bags out of the door and flew off. I watched the bags tumble from the plane and land in an open field about one hundred yards north of the perimeter.

I crouched at the edge of the perimeter and looked at the bags. Anyone sent out there would be exposed to the Chinese gunners on the hill. But we needed the supplies. And if we waited until dark, the Chinese would get them.

Without thinking, I dashed out of my hole. “Cover me,” I yelled over my shoulder. I tore across the field toward the bags, hoping to catch the Chinese by surprise.

No such luck.

I was nearly to the bags when shots hit all around me. I dove to the ground and crawled the rest of the way. I prayed that the duffel bags would be filled with ammunition and grenades. Grabbing one of the bag's olive green straps, I hoisted it onto my shoulder. The bag wasn't as heavy as I had figured but still weighed enough that I could only carry one at a time.

Taking a deep breath, I stood up and started running as fast as I could back toward the trench. Staying as low as I could, I dodged back and forth. Most of the shots cracked above my head. About halfway to the trench, a round hit the bag and almost knocked me down. I staggered forward and quickly regained my balance. Just as I reached the first trench, I stumbled and fell on some rocks. Two guys jumped out of the trench and dragged the bag and me to safety.

“You okay?” one asked.

“Yeah, I'm all right. What's in the bag?”

The soldier pulled open the bag, and medical supplies, mostly morphine and bandages, spilled out into the dirt. The other bag must be the ammo. I crawled down the trench, jumped out and ran like hell for the other bag.

This time the Chinese were ready.

Rounds were hitting the ground in front of and beside me. They must be awful marksmen, I thought, just as a round ripped through the sleeve of my fatigue shirt and burned the hell out of my arm. I dove for the bag, snatched it up and started back to the trench. I was hustling with the speed of fright and dove the last few feet. I was spent and I sat on the ground trying to get my breath. My heart was pumping like it was about to jump out of my body.

Some of the other men opened the second bag and, like the first, it was filled with medical supplies. We needed the medical supplies, but we could not throw bandages at the Chinese. Giroux looked at me, smiled and shook his head.