Valleys of Death

The water around the dock at Pusan was black and slick with oil and sewage. Two docks up from where we were was a cattle holding area, and when they cleaned the pens they just hosed everything into the water.

The pungent odor hit us as we approached the pier. Most of the guys stayed below, out of the smell, but I stayed on the deck mesmerized by the port.

Tucked into the southeastern tip of the Korean Peninsula, Pusan was Korea’s largest port. Thousands of U.N. soldiers were moving through this port. Everywhere you looked there were cranes, trucks and trains, all in constant motion. The piers were clogged with green Army trucks and crates of ammunition and food. Cranes lifted the supplies to the dock and forklifts zigzagged around bringing them to waiting trains. It was a complex, modern ballet of engines and men, and we’d arrived right in the middle of it. The docks and railroads reminded me of Philadelphia.

“A lot of you men have never seen a harbor. This one is busy and dangerous. Keep your heads up and make sure you stay out of the way of the cranes.”

The men nodded and we marched down the ramp to the dock. My company was quartered in a huge shed right on the dock. Winn told us that we’d be there a few days, until the ship was downloaded. The shed was dark and we were given a small spot to sleep. We used our shelter halves and blankets and slept on the floor. The grumbling started almost immediately.

Walsh took his shelter half and laid it close to me. “What a shit hole,” he said. That about summed up everybody’s attitude. And after two hot meals a day on the ship, we were now stuck eating C rations.

One daily ration had six twelve-ounce cans. Three of either meat and beans, meat and potato hash, or meat and vegetable stew, and three bread and dessert cans with crackers. We used a key, soldered to the bottom of one can, to open the rest of the three-and-a-half-inch-tall tinplate cans. The ration also came with a packet of gum, toilet paper, matches and a nine-pack of cigarettes. Everyone carried an opener on his dog tag chain.

During the first night, Vaillancourt came to me and asked if I could give a couple of thirty-round magazines to an old friend of his. On the trip over, I’d scrounged the magazines from the anti-aircraft unit to replace the fifteen-round magazines we had been issued. I then had my guys tape the bigger magazines together so that all they had to do was flip them to reload.

As we walked down the dock, I could see similar sheds crammed with men. Some stood outside smoking. Others just stood outside trying to get a little fresh air. After a few hours, the smell didn’t really bother us anymore. Now, it was just the waiting.

The American Eighth Army had established a perimeter to hold off the Korean People’s Army until enough troops could arrive and organize a counteroffensive. Set up in August, the perimeter’s western boundary was formed mostly by the Naktong River, and the Sea of Japan formed the eastern boundary. The northern boundary followed a jagged line of mountains north of the city.

We got our chance to see a few days later. At first, the men seemed happy to finally be moving, but soon it sank in that in a day or two we’d be in combat. We started breaking down our gear. I was determined to keep everybody busy, including myself.

“I want everybody to check his gear one more time. We’re moving to an assembly area north of Taegu first thing in the morning,” I said. “And take a moment and write home. You never know when you’ll get another chance.”

I dismissed them and hustled off to another meeting. On top of getting my own gear ready, I had to make sure our equipment was ready to move north. I got busy and failed to follow my own advice. I’d gotten as far as finding paper and envelopes, but never put pen to paper. That night, I thought of my dad and his new life. And I thought of my mother and Frank, but most of all I thought of my brothers and sisters. I hoped they weren’t worrying too much.

“Get your personal items out of your bags and anything else you want,” I said. “Make sure you have three or four pairs of socks. And if you aren’t sure, leave it. Your whole life is about to become what’s in your combat pack and bedroll.”

I had a tailor-made uniform in my duffel bag and I knew I could kiss it good-bye. I grabbed my socks, some additional pairs of underwear and a small can of foot powder.

Sitting on my now useless duffel bag, I waited for the order to board the train. My thoughts strayed to a bombed out railroad platform in Castle, Germany. As in the rest of the city, there was very little left standing. Wherever there was a partial wall, it was plastered with notes from people trying to find their loved ones.

A train load of German prisoners of war was returning from the Soviet Union. A small knot of civilians waited for the soldiers to get off the train, hoping that one could be their father, husband or brother.

Seeing them in dirty and threadbare uniforms that hung on their bony frames, I couldn’t imagine how much weight they’d lost. Or understand the misery they’d suffered. As they passed me, I saw nothing in their dark, dead eyes. It was as if they’d died already and their bodies were on autopilot. This was not the way to come home from war.

Then, suddenly, a young woman, not more than twenty-one years old, bolted from the group of civilians on the platform. I watched her sundress flap behind her as she weaved through the column of former prisoners.

She had spotted her father and run to him. He looked down and the faraway gaze melted off his face. His eyes came alive and he reached out and hugged her. They both started sobbing and holding each other. I turned away and saw the rest of the civilians turn away and leave the platform. Only a few stayed to watch. One older woman just stood on the platform and stared, tears running down her worn cheeks.

The trains to Taegu left just after noon. I heard a few cheers as the train picked up momentum. The train lumbered down the track for a while then stopped at a siding. Word came back that we were near the assembly area, but had to make way for a hospital train headed south. The train carrying the wounded stopped for a few moments and we could see the soldiers inside. IV bags hung next to litters. Men with bandaged arms, legs and heads lined the cars. The few walking wounded stared out the windows. Like the German prisoners, the wounded Americans had dark, depressing eyes and a vacant stare. A few of our guys tried to pass them cigarettes and candy from the window, but they didn’t react. They just stared into space.

The assembly area was full of soldiers and equipment headed toward the front. We were assigned the mission as regimental reserve. The next morning, we got orders to move forward. The North Koreans had penetrated some defense positions along the main road to Taegu, the South Korean’s temporary capital. We were to move north along the main road and retake the lost ground.

I gathered up my section in a semicircle and started to explain the mission. Everybody seemed edgy. Nervous talk or dead silence. Not much in between. Taking my helmet off, I had knelt down when I heard the crack of a rifle and felt a bullet race past my head. I signaled the section to remain seated, stood up and started looking around.

“Okay, goddamn it. You all couldn’t have a better lesson than what just happened,” I said in a growl. “From now on, weapons will be loaded with safeties on.This must become second nature to everyone. Do you understand?”

After my speech, we got on the trucks and headed toward the front. Someone slammed a Browning automatic rifle butt on the bed of one of the other trucks and three or four rounds went off, arcing high into the sky above us. I flinched this time. My nerves were fried. Despite what my section thought, after that first shot I’d almost shit my pants.