Valleys of Death

As the trucks rumbled forward, we could see American troops moving south down the road. They looked like ghosts, frail, with torn and dirty uniforms. Their black eyes didn’t even register as we passed. They had the infantryman’s thousand-yard stare. They were lost. Gone.

The trucks pulled off the road and we jumped off the back. There was a sense of urgency as we got organized and started moving toward the village of Tabu-Dong on the horizon. Tabu-Dong sat astride a fork in the road, dubbed the bowling alley because the constant rumble of artillery up and down the valley sounded like pins falling.

We were operating under Lieutenant General Walton H. Walker’s standing order to “stand or die.” Walker, the Eighth Army commander, had issued the order in July, before we’d arrived.

“We are fighting a battle against time. There will be no more retreating, withdrawal or readjustment of the lines or any other term you choose. There is no line behind us to which we can retreat....There will be no Dunkirk, there will be no Bataan. A retreat to Pusan would be one of the greatest butcheries in history. We must fight until the end. . . . We will fight as a team. If some of us must die, we will die fighting together. . . . I want everybody to understand we are going to hold this line. We are going to win.”

Thick black smoke rose in a steady stream on the other side of the horizon. I could see only a few of the squat huts, but the valley and ridges had thick scraggly bushes, which made it very difficult to see any movement.

Suddenly artillery shells and mortar rounds crashed down around us. We dove into the ditches that lined the road and waited for the barrage to end. I waved to my section and got them together before we moved out toward the outskirts of the village. A smoky haze with the pungent smell of gunpowder hung over us as we started moving forward. I could feel my heart beating and my breaths came quickly, almost like I was running. But it wasn’t nerves. It was adrenaline. My body was on fire, popping with energy.

Back on the road, a North Korean machine gun to our right opened fire. I could see the tracer rounds in almost slow motion slashing into the line of men ahead of me. The soldiers ducked and dove out of the way as the rounds bit into the dirt around them.

Time is a strange thing in combat. Sometimes it moves so fast that you cannot believe it, and other times it is moving so slowly that you could scream. We dove into the dirt and pressed ourselves flat against the ground. McAbee started moving the other platoons toward the guns while my section, part of the weapons platoon, provided supporting fire.

This was real combat. All of my fears seemed so far away now. I didn’t have time to worry about how I’d react. I just had to act. Turning back toward Walsh’s gun, I yelled for him to get in position and start firing at the machine guns.

Walsh nodded and started calling to his men. Like veterans, they ignored the machine gun fire and got the gun up and ready.

Walsh pointed out the machine gun position, and Gomez, the assistant gunner, loaded a round and Hall sighted in the gun and fired. My section fired its first shot of the war. The round hit near the gun, and it paused before continuing to fire. By then, Gray had his gun up and both Heaggley and Hall pounded away at the North Korean troops dug in on the hill overlooking the village.

In a matter of minutes, we’d knocked out one of the machine guns. There was still one more somewhere. I didn’t wait for an order and moved both guns up the hill with the lead platoon.

Winn got Vaillancourt, Roberts and me together and told us K Company and I Company were on our left flank. There was an engineer company fighting as infantry located to our left rear, close to the village of Tabu-Dong. Winn placed the mortar section to the left of our position and fifty yards down the reverse slope. He placed me on the right flank of the company.

“Lieutenant, we can bring fire on the North Koreans as they approach, but we won’t be much use at night because we won’t see them until they get close,” I said.

My men didn’t have any grenades, but I was happy that I had gotten thirty-round clips from the air defense unit on the ship.

I shook my head. “That means a meal and a half a day. Supplies are that short? You’ll at least have grenades.”

When I got back to my section, the guys were digging in. I told them to set up the guns, but we’d be covering our section with rifles that night. We were all wired after our first firefight, and it was good that we had something to do. I was happy to see that everybody was digging with a sense of urgency.

I was worried about our open right flank. I ordered the section to dig some positions facing to the right in case we had to occupy them.

“Word is the North Koreans are attacking at night. Take the C ration cans and fill them with rocks,” I said. “And tie them at knee height in the bushes in front and to the right of us.”

“If you need to get to me, come from the side. No one should get out of his position unless it is absolutely necessary. If they get through, stay in your hole because I’m going to shoot anyone standing up.”

I had two men in each foxhole. Walsh was with me. I told Walsh to gather up some small rocks and put them in the bottom of the foxhole. He looked at me like I was crazy.

“We’re going to take turns throwing them at any hole that does not answer when we call them. I’m not taking any chances on anyone falling asleep.”

That night everyone was on edge. Walsh and I tried to make small talk, but this was not a small talk night. None of us could sleep. Mostly, I called out to my men and scanned the now pitch-black valley. Every noise, smell and shadow drew my interest.

The attack started with a guttural scream. The North Koreans came out of the brush in waves. We could see them moving toward us like shadows. Muzzle flashes exploded out of the darkness. There was very little aimed fire. Instead we were firing straight ahead in their assigned zone. Soon, screams from our wounded joined the chorus of battle cries, orders and machine guns.

Illuminating rounds from our mortar section soon lit up the area like a ballpark, making the North Korean soldiers look like silhouettes on a firing range. We dropped several before the flare burned out. Since the rounds were in short supply, the mortars waited several minutes between rounds.

During a lull, I could hear one of the engineers to our left screaming in pain and calling for his mother. His sobs and screams for help landed harder than the North Korean artillery shells.

Finally, Private Jones, one of my young smart-asses, had heard enough. He started to yell and scream. I covered Walsh as he scrambled out to Jones. He was on the bottom of Hall’s hole crying. Walsh tried to get him up, but he wouldn’t move. I climbed out and helped Walsh drag Jones’s ass out of the foxhole.

Snatching Jones by his shirt collar, I stumbled with him back to my foxhole. He crawled in and huddled against the wall sobbing. He couldn’t talk, even when I asked him simple questions. His body heaved with every sob.

The engineer had finally stopped screaming and now in an ever desperate voice pleaded for someone to come get him.

I was sure the North Koreans were lying in wait hoping someone would try to get him. God, I wished he would die. That thought sent a jolt through me. Jesus Christ, I didn’t really mean that. The poor son of a bitch. My only thought now was please God bring the daylight soon.

When the sun’s rays finally peeked over the horizon, we started getting the wounded off the hill. The rifle platoon to our left had some men who had been caught sleeping and the Koreans had slit their throats. The section watched as the wounded men walked past with their throats covered in blood, assisted by two men. It was a demoralizing sight—my men were scared shitless—because it could have been us. That would keep them alert at night, I hoped. When the wounded had all been evacuated, I got the medic to tag Jones.

“Roger, Sergeant,” the medic said, taking Jones by the arm and leading him back to the makeshift casualty collection point on the backside of the hill.

Walsh grabbed me after Jones left. We were getting ready to move forward, and I was making sure Jones hadn’t left anything behind.

Black, I didn’t know him very well. He was one of the company’s problem children. He’d gotten drunk after a unit picnic at Fort Devens and the military police had locked him up for bring drunk and disorderly. This incident confirmed what I already thought: Black was going to be a constant problem. I put him in Walsh’s squad and we’d both kept on his ass making sure he was doing the right thing.

When I got to Black, he was wrapped around a tree like a vine. Every time a shell landed nearby, he began shaking and crying. No talking was going to help. I just wanted to get him away from the rest of the men. The section had fought well, but after listening to the engineer all night they had their own nerves to contend with.

“Move the section up the road a little ways while I get a medic to tag him and get him out of here,” I told Walsh.

I got the same medic who tagged Jones. That made two men within twenty-four hours. If this continued, I would lose the whole section to fear instead of the enemy.

Greenlowe, my other young guy was doing great as my runner. Last night I sent him back to the company headquarters to pick up the grenades. He assured me that he could find the headquarters location in the dark. Over the next few days he proved his worth so much so that the company commander recognized his courage and ability to find his way around the battlefield and made him the company runner to battalion.