Valleys of Death

In minutes, our fatigues were soaking wet from sweat. We marched for five miles, and with every step I hoped that we didn’t get attacked. Moving through the skeleton of houses burned out by constant fighting was eerie. We could see debris and torn clothes in the rubble. I scanned each mud hut as we passed and waited for the ambush around every corner, but the village was deserted and we made it without firing a shot.

We all took turns carrying the guns and ammunition. I didn’t want to tire out the gunners. Everybody was shuffling along. It reminded me of the march at Camp Stoneman, but this time we weren’t hungover.

Just outside of town, the land spread out into untended fields and rice paddies with the high ridges that formed the bowling alley on both sides. We were moving at a good clip when all of a sudden we were receiving fire from the high ground to our right front.

We ran into a field where we could get into position to fire at a better angle. It was amazing: Everybody was moving at top speed and just a second ago they were dragging ass.

In seconds I could hear Gray’s gun start firing and soon after Walsh started pounding the hill. I grabbed Gray and had him fire some white phosphorous—Willie Peter—on the target. The smoke concealed McAbee and the rest of the company as it got into position. I could see our soldiers open fire and start moving up the hill. I shifted the 57s away from them and continued to pound the North Korean machine gunners. In minutes, McAbee and his men overwhelmed the North Korean defenders.

From my vantage point, it looked like it had been scripted for a movie. It was beautiful to watch the soldiers move so perfectly in concert with our fire. A perfectly executed attack. But it seemed too easy. McAbee seemed to think so too and ordered everybody to hurry up the hill and dig in.

We raced up to a ridge and started to dig. By now, my section had become good at quickly getting the guns up and in position. Then, with our now strong backs, we snapped open our entrenching tools and started digging foxholes.

A foxhole was rectangular shaped and deep enough so that we could stand in it with only our head and shoulders exposed. The hole widened at the bottom so that during artillery fire we could crouch down. If we had time, we also dug sumps so that we could kick enemy grenades into them, possibly saving our lives.

At dark, North Korean shells started to crash down around us. Volley after volley showered us with debris. The ground shook like an earthquake, and the roar of the explosions made it impossible to hear or even think.

As I crouched down in my hole, holding my helmet tight against my head, my leg started to shake. I tried to press down on it, but the leg continued to shake and jump. I never got the shakes in the daylight no matter how tough the situation was. Why? I didn’t know. Maybe because I could see what was happening around me, I felt more like I was in control. At night it was the unknown that shook me, but when the fighting started I was under control.

The first time this happened to me was when I was fourteen years old. I was being questioned in regards to a payroll robbery of a local company. I had nothing to do with it, but the police still took me in for questioning. During the questioning, my right leg jumped uncontrollably. I stood up to try to stop it but to no avail. I have no idea why my leg shook so badly, because I really was innocent.

I prayed that none of my men ever noticed my leg shaking. Adrenaline always seemed to flow at the right time for me; it was the same playing football: The more often or the harder I got hit, the better I seemed to play.

The smoke and dust still hung in the air when they attacked again. The first waves came with rifles; behind them more soldiers followed and picked up the weapons left by the dead. On almost every attack, the North Koreans tried to slip behind our lines and cut off our avenue of retreat. Once they did, they would pound our flanks. This time, the North Korean soldiers charged up the hill right into the teeth of our machine guns. After the third attempt, they quit and we settled in for a tense night.

We waited all night, but they didn’t attack again. The North Koreans instead went around us and cut off the road back to Tabu-Dong. As the fingers of pink light shot up over the horizon, we were ordered to withdraw through the North Korean line. This was not going to be easy.

Just as we were ready to start our dangerous trek, we were notified that the remainder of the battalion had breached the North Korean line close to Tabu-Dong. Colonel Johnson ordered McAbee to withdraw off the ridge. He was sending trucks through the breach in an audacious attempt to get us out.

We found a field near the road where the trucks could turn around, and we dug in. We were in a bad spot and knew it. If the trucks got stopped, there was little hope that we could fight our way back to our lines. If we stayed put, they would smash us with another artillery barrage. And I was sure we wouldn’t escape without losses.

“Move quickly when the trucks get here. Be prepared to fire as we go down the road. I want everybody facing out,” I said as calmly as I could. “I want half of you on each side of the truck ready to fire. Fire on my orders. Look for orange panels. Those are friendlies.”

Soon, I could see the trucks coming down the road. Five two-and-a-half-ton trucks. They had machine gun mounts, but since the Army was short, no machine guns. They raced down the road at a breakneck pace. Their engines screamed as the drivers pushed them. They pulled into the field in a semicircle and barely stopped before we started climbing aboard. Things were tight, and in minutes the whole company was crammed into the truck beds. Witt, one of the section’s pudgy ammo bearers, tapped me on the shoulder just as the driver started back toward the road.

The trucks quickly got up to speed. I kept talking and repeating orders to scan the road and be ready to shoot. Standing near the cab, I watched the truck in front of me swerve and almost lose control. Shit. If one of these trucks crashed, there wasn’t enough room to go around it.

I ordered the section to fire. I wanted to keep the North Koreans’ heads down. We kept up a steady stream of fire. I have no idea if we hit anything, but I could hear the North Korean rounds hitting our truck. When I saw the panels getting closer, I started shouting to my men.

I could hear the fire slack off as each truck passed through. I finally exhaled and watched as the men relaxed. I helped Witt up from the bed of the truck and slapped him on the back.

It didn’t take long and we were off the trucks and quickly organized to move against a position to the east of the road. This seemed a little crazy. We’d attacked way out in front of our lines and luckily withdrawn through Tabu-Dong; now we were attacking a hill that seemed to be in the rear of the positions we had just passed through.

We were part of Lieutenant General Walton H. Walker’s “mobile defense.” The strategy focused on using a small number of soldiers to form a thin screen while the bulk of the force waited to counterattack. The idea was unheard of in the 1950s and considered a “theory” at best, but Walker used it to perfection. We could move at ease since the Air Force controlled the skies and there were ample roads and trains so we could flex to trouble areas.

For us ground troops, it was confusing. This game of chess had become maddening. I never had a map and seldom knew the number designation of the hills or objectives. We only knew to move, attack and defend unknown hills that would stop the North Koreans from breaking through and capturing the city of Taegu. This was our world: following orders, fighting for one another, being successful and somehow surviving.

So once we made it back to our side, we quickly moved up another unnamed hill against light resistance. When we got to the top, Vaillancourt contacted me on the radio and told me to go to the reverse side of the hill and wait.

There were a lot of dead North Korean bodies on the hill, most of them bloated from the heat. It looked as if they had been stacked there for a couple of days. While we were waiting for orders, we broke out some C rations, and my mind drifted away to Philadelphia. A neighborhood drunk was passed out on the sidewalk and someone had placed a penny on his nose. The older guys hanging on the street corner were egging the kids on to try to take it off. We were all too scared to try to do it. Finally, I tried, but as I moved close to the drunk he grunted and scared the hell out of me. Now here I was sitting on the ground eating beside stinking dead bodies, and a penny on a drunk’s nose didn’t seem to be too bad. Life is strange.

As we were moving to our position, I touched base with Sergeant Herbert (Pappy) Miller, who was occupying the last position of the First Platoon. Miller was from Pulaski, New York. He’d served in World War II, but after the war he couldn’t find a decent job. So he enlisted, and had three months to go before we left for Korea.

“Great,” Miller said. He and Gray were friends from back at Fort Devens. I heard Miller tell Gray that the platoon had been hit hard on the first day.

The ridge looked familiar to me, and after a few minutes I realized we’d been there before. For a change it was a half-decent position for the 57s. I planned to put one gun on the left side of the draw and the other on the right side. The squads would be separated by twenty yards. I showed Gray where I wanted him to put his squad and told him to come with Walsh and me to the other gun position. I needed to talk to both of them about how we were going to cover the draw that night.

When we got to the other side of the ridge, I turned and looked back at Gray sitting on a tree stump. He had his head in his hands. Gray and Walsh had been great squad leaders and I hoped he was okay. I needed him and his leadership.

I had taken off my helmet to wipe away some sweat when Gray and the stump suddenly disappeared in a fireball. An artillery round landed right on him. I was stunned and just stood on the ridge looking at the smoking crater.

Something happens to men who see combat. No matter how you try, you cannot make death invisible, it is there with you every moment. That split second would be seared into my mind for the rest of my life. But at the time, we didn’t have time to mourn Gray. We had to get dug in.

For the rest of the day I kept the men busy. Anything to keep their minds off Gray. What drove me more than anything was a positive outlook and the fact that my men were watching everything I did. I often wondered when we were moving down the road what went through their minds.

It had to be a lot tougher on them than on me. While they had only death to dwell on, I had dozens of things that I must be thinking about and be prepared for. What was ahead? Where would I be if I were a North Korean? How would I react if we got hit from the right or left? How was our ammunition? Water? Was the bore sighting of the guns still all right? Were the men taking care of their feet?

Luckily, the barrage never came. But I knew that we wouldn’t be so lucky when it got dark. Standing in my hole, I took a deep breath. The first attack started soon after the sun set. We could hear them coming up the hill. Artillery rounds slamming into the ground farther down the line rattled off the walls of the valley. I squinted into the darkness looking for the shadows.

The first North Korean assault started with screams and machine gun fire, but we beat it back with mortars and our own machine gun fire. Running between holes, I made sure everybody was ready for the next wave. Walsh had his section up and ready to fire. Hall was also ready, which was impressive since he had just taken over from Gray.

I could hear Walsh screaming at the men to stay in their holes. I was frantically changing the magazine in my carbine as two of the North Koreans were within ten feet of me. Walsh and Hall saw them too and opened fire, cutting the North Korean soldiers down. I saw another North Korean to my right and fired. He staggered back and dropped to the ground.

I stayed low in my foxhole and kept firing straight ahead. Hall and Walsh kept firing to the rear, hitting the North Koreans attempting to move through our position. We had them in a cross fire, and in minutes our position was littered with North Korean bodies. Sliding a fresh magazine into my carbine, I poked my head up waiting for the next wave. But it never came.

The bodies of about a half dozen North Korean soldiers lay crumpled in between our foxholes. I slowly picked my way, my rifle at the ready. My nerves were on fire. I’d never been this close and was ready for even a slight movement. Two were badly wounded and kept muttering in Korean. I saw Hall kick their weapons away and then drag them to the rear of our position. Eventually our medics would take care of them. We dragged the rest of the bodies away from our position and piled them to one side. I didn’t look at their faces. I didn’t care.

As daylight peeked its head over the hills, a tall, scrubby-looking infantryman carrying a carbine approached me from out of the mist. As he got closer, I saw the small white cross painted on his helmet. He stuck out his hand as he approached.

Chaplain Emil Kapaun, from Pilsen, Kansas, was a Catholic father who joined the Army toward the end of World War II. He served in Burma and India until May 1946. He returned home and was assigned a parish in Kansas. But he felt his calling was with the troops, so rejoined the Army in 1948. He joined us in Korea after spending a few months in Japan.

His uniform was dirty and he, like the rest of us, needed a shave. It was clear he’d spent the night close to the fighting and not safely in the rear. There was a peacefulness about him, though, that put me at ease. A quiet confidence. He seemed to care where I was from, and I watched him as he spoke to the rest of the section. Each time, he asked where the soldier was from and gave him a firm handshake. It was not long before he had us all smiling.

For the next five days we found ourselves fighting south and east of the road junction at Tabu-Dong. We attacked during the day and defended against their attacks at night. Due to casualties in the battalion, the three rifle companies were beginning to look like three rifle platoons. My section was down to eight men.

We received two replacements. They showed up with their gear and clean uniforms. One was named Jackson, but I didn’t catch the other’s name. Jackson had a lot of questions about the North Koreans and where we were on the line. I tried to answer what I could but was content to let Hall and Walsh deal with him. I just gave both of the new men a little advice.

I didn’t see them until the next morning. We’d been attacked again, but this time we were able to keep the North Koreans from our lines. But not without cost. Three men were gone; one missing and two wounded, including both replacements. The missing one, Jackson, had just gotten up and left. Walsh said Jackson’s brother had been missing in action since July and he volunteered to come to Korea so he could find him. After the attack, he climbed out of his foxhole and walked into the darkness. We never saw him again.

We were taking casualties every night and soon could no longer hold our position south of Tabu-Dong. The constant North Korean attacks drove us south to the lower slopes of Hill 570. It had been raining constantly for two days as we dug into yet another new position on the slope; later that night we got orders to withdraw. Withdrawing in the daylight was bad enough. Now we were going to attempt it at night. I led Hall’s squad out first since they’d lost two men in an attack that afternoon. When I got back for Walsh, everybody was ready to go. I ordered everybody to move out. Walsh took the lead while I waited for the last men to go. Everyone got up with the exception of one man. He was lying on the ground under his poncho. I pushed him with my boot.

I felt terrible. It hurt to see another one of my men dead in the mud. I didn’t even know Johnson that well. He was another replacement and I’d only just learned his name. The fact that I had little time to dwell saved me. Plus, I knew that if I showed weakness my men might finally give in and feel sorry for themselves, and I couldn’t have that. We needed to stick together. I became stoic and would remain that way for a long time.

Grabbing two of his unit mates, it was so dark I wasn’t sure who, I told them to pick Johnson up and carry him out of there. We started to head toward the assembly point on the other side of the hill. Once we were on the road, the movement was agonizingly slow. We moved for about an hour and then stopped. I was called to the front of the column with all of the platoon leaders.

“The entire battalion is going to attack Hill 570. Three ridges go direct to the top of the hill. K Company will be on the left, we will move in the center, and I Company on the right,” McAbee said. “We will attack at daylight with no artillery or air support. The Second and Third platoons will attack abreast, Second on the right, Third on the left. Richardson will follow with 57s in the center; the First Platoon will be in reserve.”

The hill, two miles southwest of the village of Ka-san, was a strategic point because it overlooked the Taegu Road. The hill was defended by bunkers, and intelligence reports said the North Koreans would likely make a strong stand there because once it fell, the way would be open for unrestricted advance.

A thick fog hugged the ground as we climbed Hill 570. We knew the North Koreans were on the top of the ridge waiting. The climb was steep and took us a while. I knew the North Koreans were just waiting for us to get into range. When we were halfway up, they finally opened up on us with machine guns and mortars.

I kept my head down and kept climbing. There was nothing else to do. I didn’t think about getting killed. I only worried about my men. I constantly urged them to keep climbing. We couldn’t stop. And we didn’t.

Soon, the firing stopped, the North Koreans withdrawing farther up the hill. The visibility was getting better as we kept moving up. Still we had not made contact with the main Korean positions.

All of a sudden we started receiving fire from the positions on the top of the hill. I could see men from the other platoons running from the machine gun and mortar fire. Many of them were being hit by shrapnel from the mortar fire. We were panicking.

“Stay down,” I yelled at my men as soldiers from the other platoons brushed by us heading down. If they tried to run, they would be cut down by the mortar fire.

Climbing behind a cluster of rocks, I managed to hold my men in place. But there was no one in front of us. Since they didn’t have any targets, the North Koreans slacked off in their firing. I knew we couldn’t take the hill alone. I kept the men in position, and shortly after, Lieutenant Peterson, the company executive officer, came up the hill.

He turned around and went back down the hill. I realized that I’d never told him how many men I had. I was sitting there with only eight men counting myself.

I moved up the hill until we started receiving fire. I had my men spread across a finger of high ground. I stayed in the center. We set up behind rocks and holes dug from artillery rounds. We were lying there no more than thirty or forty yards from the North Koreans and nobody was behind us. Every once in a while we would receive sporadic small arms fire.

I knew the other men wouldn’t speak up, but I could look in their eyes and see they were scared. I just hoped they couldn’t see the fear in my eyes.

I spoke up loud enough for the whole section to hear. Farther down the hill, mortar and artillery fire was very heavy. We could see the North Korean positions and they could see us. I was hoping we were out of grenade range and too close to their position for them to put mortar fire on us. Soon, instead of mortars, the North Korean soldiers started sending down taunts. We didn’t speak the language, but each word had a charge.

As the minutes and then hours ticked off, I realized that slowly but surely we were moving back a foot at a time. A guy would reposition and then the rest of the section would go off of him. At this rate, we might be off the hill by the end of the war. I knew one thing, there was no way we were staying overnight.

I didn’t know how long we were there, but finally I heard someone coming. It was Vaillancourt. He signaled me to withdraw. I told Walsh and Hall to fire one 57 round each on my order and for everyone to immediately start moving down the hill. Everyone got ready.

They fired simultaneously, and immediately we started running down the hill. What seemed like only a few seconds later we started receiving small arms fire. I was hoping all the way that we wouldn’t receive any mortar fire.

“He was killed along with one of the platoon leaders. The company had regrouped and tried to come back up the hill but was ripped apart by heavy mortar and artillery fire. We lost the two lieutenants and two platoons took heavy losses.”

“Lieutenant Brown and the first platoon were moving into position to continue the attack when the battalion commander issued the order to withdraw. That’s when Captain McAbee told me you were on the hill and for me to get you down.”

Back on the road, we started to take mortar fire from the hill. The road had deep culverts that ran from one side to the other. The ditches were big enough for a man to go through standing up. I quickly ushered my men down into one of them. We got three quarters of the way through the culvert and ran into two dead North Koreans and an American soldier. The Koreans were lying in a heap, and the soldier, a lieutenant, was holding his head and moaning in pain. When I got there, Vaillancourt had him by his collar and was dragging him to the other end of the culvert.

The lieutenant was Vaillancourt’s friend from Pusan, the one that needed the large magazines. We drug him out of the culvert and got a medic to take care of him. I found out years later that he’d been withdrawing down the culvert when he stumbled into the North Koreans. Luckily, he’d been able to get two shots off, but they had too. One North Korean bullet struck him in the chest, but a near fatal shot was deflected by the magazine. He was lucky.

As we got farther down the road, men from the battalion sat along both sides of the road. None of the companies had succeeded in securing their objective. We were a sad-looking bunch as we moved to what looked like an orchard. We were told we were going to stay there awhile to rest and reorganize.

I pulled my now eight-man section off to one side of the orchard. We threw our packs to the ground and sprawled out dead tired. The men were in good spirits, and before the first bite of my C ration they were trading barbs.

He started to walk away. Frustrated with the attack, I knew this was my chance to speak my mind and the mind of my men. I wanted to know how many more times we were going to have to climb up a hill only to leave it and fight our way up another. From my point of view, we were just getting our asses kicked.

I turned away and slowly walked back toward the men. I thought to myself how great Walsh, Hall and Heaggley were. It was their courage and bravery that held us together. As I looked at them it almost brought tears to my eyes.