Valleys of Death

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.

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.

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.

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.

Later that day, Wollack sent for me. I walked across to the west side of the perimeter and saw him standing near a machine gun position. He looked concerned and started pointing out toward what looked like an open field.

Then I saw it. A faint shovelful of dirt flying into the air. The little bastards were digging a trench. There were about a half dozen or so digging a path right for us. Our machine guns had been keeping them at a distance. But when their trench was done, they could move under cover right up to the edge of our trenches.

We were receiving harassing fire the whole time, but late in the afternoon the Chinese started to bombard us with 120mm mortars and rockets. We spent the rest of the day hunkered down in our holes as the explosions rippled through the ground. The Chinese focused much of the barrage on the tanks. One got hit and burst into flames. The tank crew and some of the other men managed to put the fire out.

Finally, Giroux told the tankers to move outside the perimeter. The mortar and rocket fire followed them. Tanks were made to fight and move, and in the perimeter they weren’t effective. Low on ammunition and fuel, Miller decided to try and get out while the tanks could still fight. He ran back into the perimeter and told Giroux his plan. Giroux agreed, and just as it started to get dark Miller and the tanks moved out toward the road. That’s the last we saw of them. Miller eventually had to abandon the tanks, but he was able to reach friendly lines on foot. He was the only one that got the message to our lines that we were trapped.

Sunset was a bad time. Night always meant another attack. It started with a probe. A few Chinese soldiers would move up to the perimeter, followed by a short and violent firefight. Shortly after the probe, the artillery and mortar fire would start, followed by the demonic bawl of brass bugles and whistles as the Chinese infantry attacked.

As soon as I heard the bugles, I raced to the interior foxholes and got the men up who could fight. I was getting aggravated trying to get the men to move out to the perimeter. We needed all the men and firepower we could get to stop the Chinese from breaching the line, because as sure as they breached it, we were done.

The men looked at me with weary and tired eyes. All of us had scruffy beards and our skin was caked with mud and blood. None of the soldiers could look at me. They knew that they wouldn’t survive unless they got up and fought, but they just sat there. They were not cowards, just frozen by fear. For some, this was their first taste of combat. Boys who overnight were forced to become men. I could only imagine the terror they must have been going through.

That shocked them into action. I don’t think they thought I would shoot them. I had no sooner finished prodding the men out of the interior holes than one hell of a fight took place at the battalion command post. I knew there were mostly wounded soldiers there and I feared for Jones, the lone man on the machine gun.

The bugles and whistles broke the silence and the Chinese rushed the east side of our perimeter. They came in waves straight into our fire. As quickly as they fell, more appeared. They moved into our fire like they were possessed. I raced from trench to trench, moving men where the Chinese concentrated their attack. When the attack on the east side slowed, they launched an attack on the west side. Although we were dug in, our casualties were mounting. I kept moving men to where the most Chinese were concentrated. The attack slowed down, but it was not long before they began an assault on the west side of the perimeter.

When I got there, Wollack had his men focused on the trench the Chinese had dug the day before. Each time a Chinese soldier popped out, Wollack’s men quickly cut him down. I could hear the men screaming all types of obscenities over the roar of the guns.

Wollack suddenly burst from the perimeter through a hail of fire toward the Chinese. He hurled four or five grenades into the Chinese trench and dove to the ground as they exploded, throwing a plume of dirt into the air. Before the dust settled, Wollack jumped up and ran like hell back to our position. We waited for more Chinese, but they never came.

When I got back to Bromser and Giroux, I told them about Wollack and how well he was doing on the western side. But that was the only good news. We had very little ammunition left. The mortars didn’t have any illuminating rounds, which lit up the battlefield so that we could see the Chinese coming.

“We have a few rifle grenades. I am sure along with machine gun tracers we will be able to ignite the trucks,” I said, warming to the idea.

I gathered up a half dozen men armed with rifle grenades and a machine gun crew with its tracers ready to fire when the next attack started. As soon as we heard the bugle, Giroux gave the order to fire up the trucks. We hammered the gas tanks and engines until they started to glow. Soon flames shot out of the cabs, engines and tanks.

When the Chinese infantrymen ran past, we could see them silhouetted against the light. It was a shooting gallery. We cut down the first wave only to watch the next one climb over their comrades and keep coming. We mowed down the next wave, but they still kept coming. For the rest of the night, the Chinese came at us like waves to shore. But each time we stopped them. They never reached the perimeter.

The next morning, I took stock of our situation. Water and food were a problem, but ammunition and the wounded were our biggest concerns. We had eighty-five able-bodied men left out of about two hundred. The rest were dead or wounded. We were also out of morphine, and the screams of the wounded were starting to have an impact on the rest of the men. I could see in their eyes a tired, haggard look.

“A relief column is coming for us. They’ll get through today,” I told the men as I walked the line. I said it over and over again, hoping to calm them and, as I realize in hindsight, probably hoping to convince myself.

When Giroux saw me walking the line, he called me over and asked me to go with him and Lieutenant Mayo to try and check the situation at the command post perimeter. I nodded and we quickly moved out.

Again, we made it without firing a shot. When we got there, everything was smashed. The Chinese had overrun the position. Every inch of the dugout was covered with the wounded. Only Doc Anderson was left. Also wounded, he hobbled over the men, trying to help. But he had few supplies and there was little he could do.

Between patients, he told us the Chinese had knocked out Jones and the machine gun position with grenades. I left and started to look for Jones. I didn’t really know the guy. But after our conversation a few days ago, I felt like I did.

The machine gun was gone. The bodies close by had been dead for more than twenty-four hours. Maybe Jones was still alive—somewhere. I went back to Giroux, who was still talking to Anderson. The doc said that when the Chinese got into the dugout, Chaplain Kapaun stopped them from killing all of the wounded by surrendering himself. The Chinese took him and fifteen of the walking wounded, including my old company commander, Captain McAbee.

Miller was Gray’s friend from Pusan. Standing in the dugout, we were all astonished by the chaplain’s bravery. But Doc Anderson, I thought, stood in no man’s shadow either when it came to bravery.

We left what food we had and went back to our perimeter. There was nothing we could do, and there was no way we could get the wounded back to our trenches. Plus, we already had more wounded then we could treat.

When I got back, I organized about a dozen guys to follow me out of the perimeter and gather up some of the Chinese weapons and ammunition. We were out of almost everything, but lying in front of us were weapons and ammunition, including much needed grenades. Before we left, I told the men to be careful because some of the Chinese might still be alive.

It was a gruesome business, but the only solution to our most pressing problem. Crawling over piles of dead Chinese, the smell was overpowering. At times, I could hear gas seep out of the decaying corpses. I could hear men behind me gag and throw up.

The bodies closest to our position had weapons and ammo. We quickly gathered up their rifles, including some submachine guns, which we called burp guns because of how they sounded when fired. But the farther we got from our trenches, the fewer weapons we found. I knew when the North Koreans attacked, their soldiers in the rear ranks would be unarmed. They would pick up weapons from the wounded and killed and keep moving forward. I wondered if the Chinese were doing the same thing, or if they just did a good job recovering their weapons and equipment.

For the rest of the morning, we passed out our new trove of ammunition and dug in deeper. As we worked, I heard the faint buzz of an airplane overhead. The spotter plane that had dropped the bags of medical supplies was back. This time instead of dropping supplies it dropped a message. And this time the pilot dropped it on target.

Giroux opened the message. I saw the color leave his face. I knew what the message said before he told me. We were on our own. No relief column was on its way. Our new order was simple. We needed to get back to friendly lines the best way we could.

The meeting was tense. I realized that what I had been telling them was going to happen wasn’t going to. No relief. No rescue. And if we stayed in this hellhole we would all die.

“I don’t think we can keep the Chinese out of the perimeter for more than one more night, if we can even do that,” I said.

There was silence. We were facing death, but bravery is a funny thing. It comes in all sizes and shapes and appears in men you would least expect it from. Most of us didn’t know one another, but we fought hard together like we were blood brothers.

“What do you all say about staying one more night? Maybe somehow they will break through to us,” I said. “Tomorrow, we talk about the wounded.”

Everyone quickly agreed. No one wanted to leave the wounded. I told Giroux the way the men felt, and after he met with Bromser, Mayo and Peterson, they all agreed. No one was comfortable leaving our wounded or the wounded nearby in the battalion headquarters.

That night the Chinese attacked three times. And three times we held, but not without suffering more casualties. After the last attack, I literally fell into a hole near the center of the perimeter. I was fighting a losing battle against sleep. I could feel myself slipping away. My body felt numb, damp and heavy. There was no noise, no sound. I was paralyzed, and the harder I tried to move, the more my body felt like stone. I tried to scream.

I tried to relax and gain control, but I was beginning to shake. The ground was wet and I was cold. All of a sudden I heard voices in the distance coming out of the fog.

I was trying to focus my mind. I felt like I was falling down in darkness. I kept seeing scenes flashing by in my mind. Where was I? What was going on?

Oh God, I never had a chance to say good-bye or tell them how great they were, how proud I was of them, or tell them I loved them.

I was confused and cold, but in a few seconds I realized where I was. The ground rumbled and explosions crashed around me. The Chinese soldiers were almost on top of us. The men were screaming obscenities, bugles were blowing. It sounds and looks like the devil bathed in blood should be dancing over our heads. How could sane men be engaged in this apocalyptic dance?

I instantly got a sick feeling. I bolted out of the trench and crawled toward the machine gun position and fell into the hole headfirst. The gunner was wounded and the assistant gunner was trying to put the gun back in action. There was ammo, but the gun was jammed.

There were Chinese within twenty yards of us and I was screaming for the men to keep firing. I pulled the gun into the hole and started to take it apart. I adjusted the headspace—put the barrel and chamber in alignment—and reassembled it. The assistant gunner laid the ammo belt in and slapped the cover down. I racked the bolt back and pulled the trigger. The gun jumped back to life. The fire immediately had an impact and drove a wedge into the advancing soldiers. The first burst took out half a dozen.

Some of the wounded and dead Chinese fell into our trenches. Others crumpled in a heap near the edge, close enough that we could reach out and touch them. I looked down and saw that the gunner was dead. The assistant gunner was hit in the arms and I could see blood staining his fatigue jacket, but he kept firing his rifle and replacing the ammo belts when the machine gun went dry.

Just as fast as it started, the attack ended. There was some sporadic firing from the other side of the perimeter. A couple of guys close to the gun position came over to me and took over. As I headed back to my hole, I crawled over several dead Americans and Chinese. Every trench and hole seemed to be full of wounded men screaming and crying for their mothers.

We had an added problem now since some of the wounded were Chinese soldiers. The dead were not a problem. We just pushed them out in front of the trench. But the wounded we had to help if we could. The medics did their best, but we barely had enough for our own men. The Chinese were all scared to death, crying and moaning.