part0011

There has been much written on the causes and effects of the Korean War, strategically, tactically, politically, and economically and little about the personal emotions of those in the marine infantry that carry the brunt of the battles, know the agony, hold the ground and are commonly called “grunts” in the Marine Corps. What has been written has been in the context of a discourse of history where the actions of the grunt was seen to be that of an involvement in an emotionless plot. The absolute contrary is true. Emotion is all of the plot.

The grunt going into battle has emotions that range from self-preservation, to the preservation of the lives of his comrades, to reaching an objective that will end the emotional and physical struggle.

These actions took place on what were known as Combat Outposts (COPs), positioned well in front of the Main Line of Resistance (MLR) on the West Central Front that meandered near the 38th parallel, north of the Imjin River. The MLR that fronted these outposts also took a shellacking from the longer-range artillery and mortars. We had air superiority, and there were no days enemy aircraft attacked us in force in those days, although, there was a continuing air war being fought beyond our view.

The miles of MLR that the marines were holding was named the Jamestown line where the 1st Marine Division was on the line with supporting artillery, armored vehicles, and air support.

The hills that these COPs occupied were not impressive in height or pleasant to the eye, just mostly naked brown points on equally naked brown ridges, not yet with tufts of spring green, littered with things that were broken, thrown away, or remnants of dead foliage. Shards of metal from exploded ordnance littered the landscape. The empty, olive-drab C-ration cans that someone forgot to police lay waiting to rust. “Jerry” cans were obstacles piled in the trenches, some with pack boards still attached. Com wire snaking to a CP. Battered spent brass. There were holes, lots of holes, and trenches with fighting positions and connecting trenches. Some of the trenches were deep enough to be head high or better. Bunkers of sand bags and logs, and reinforced tunnels and caves were there for shelter from incoming shells. There were fighting holes disassociated with the trenches. In the deeper trenches steps were cut in the dirt to stand at eye level with the sand-bagged parapet, affording a firing position. In the caves were the sleeping areas, ammo, food, and medical supplies. To those that were there this was a temporary home until recalled to the MLR—a place to sleep on borrowed time—a dining room. Heads were dug, filled and re-dug. The COPs were fortifications surrounded by barbed wire and mine fields that were intended to counter enemy advances before they could strike a major blow to the MLR. Entry to the COPs was through a “gate” in the wire on the reverse slope, covered by mines and machine guns.

Engineers were many times poking around, blowing away earth and rock for new constructions or trenches.

The enemy enjoyed opportunities to lob harassing annoyances that aggravated the discomfort.

When it rained the sides of the sodden trenches caved-in, became quagmires of mud and water only a duck would enjoy. The overheads leaked and sleeping bags had to be re-spotted. When it was cold, it was terribly cold, damp cold that clawed its way into the clothing when out, stationed on watch in the trenches.

Day and night, waiting for an attack, an attack that might to some be a blessing to break the monotony—that had the quality of wearisome consistency and lack of variety. Heads full of crap that smelled like rotten C-rations.

Sweating the summer heat. Finding stifling shade in a bunker. Living on naturally heated water. Chasing rats that brought the lice. Eating dust that brought the pin worms.

Always on watch. Looking into the shimmering heat currents or icy ground haze.

Waiting, waiting, waiting, until your relief showed up.

For weeks before the 26th of March, 1953, it had been a time of light activity. The peace talks were getting the headlines. The marines were out at night patrolling No-Man’s-Land, forward of the outposts, and sometimes invading Gooney-land on their fronts, looking to set up an ambush or pull off a raid. Too often someone would order a daylight raid on the enemy positions, and bloody remains would be dragged back to the aid stations. This would cause a ripple of scuttlebutt (gossip) along the lines blaming everyone, including Truman, for the waste of life. The mentality of the trench warfare in the First World War with frontal assaults, in daylight, should have died by now! Assaults like these were shows of force sometimes staged for the benefit of visiting V.I.P.s with a covering objective of attempting to get prisoners and where photographers abounded to get their gory shots of the mutilated grunts.

The depth of the mud on the roads due to the spring break-up was unbelievable. Even the tanks had great difficulty pulling wheeled vehicles clear. The rivers were swollen, and bridges were in jeopardy of being carried away. Some of the farm land on both sides of the Imjin was inundated. Much of the ammo and food had to be air-lifted by helicopters. Jeep ambulances at times weren’t up to the job because of the mud. More and more frequently during the war the helicopters were grabbing the casualties because the terrain was too much for the jeep and cracker-box ambulances. At the front the Amtracs were a God-send for the wounded, giving them armor protection during evacuation.

Infantrymen weren’t too joyful when they had to accompany tanks. Tanks drew heavy stuff. But, on the other hand, a knocked-out tank yielded a Thompson submachine gun or one of those shortened M-1s, both highly valued as a trading item. The Black Watch would give up a good bit of Scotch for a Thompson or mini M-1. Souvenir hunting was a pleasant past time in a secured area. Both sides distributed propaganda leaflets, used as toilet paper or as an enclosure in a letter to support a sea story.

The March weather began clear, a bit warm for the season at first, changing to rain and light snow later in the month. On the 26th, a Thursday, the sun set at 1850, twilight ended at 1916. The moon had risen at 1456 and wouldn’t set until 0443 the following day. The moon would be 83% full the 26th and 100% full on the 30th.

This was also the month that the Great Red Star, Stalin, died, March 5, of a brain hemorrhage which occurred March 1. The death of “Uncle Joe,” a sure sign, we suspected, would bring the war closer to an end.

The scuttlebutt predicted an end the very next week—repeated week, after week, after week. The end was always just over the horizon of our expectations, of waking up in Hawaii sipping coconut milk delivered by one of those pretty girls all stacked up in a grass skirt with those flowered necklaces. Many of the flight drafts had landed in Hawaii to refuel for the long leg across the blue Pacific, just long enough to support the rendering of a delicious dream of returning to the island paradise while on the front lines in Korea.

The men of the Fleet Marine Force weren’t confused about the reason they were there. They knew of the Communist designs and the domino effect occurring in the countries bordering the iron and bamboo curtains. They did not have to be exposed to political indoctrination classes. Marines functioned in the manner of all the marines in wars of the past. The marines were always faithful to the protection of the country regardless of the pacifist activists spouting their slogans and showing their sorry ass in public disorders.

(They are still doing so in our continuing war against terrorism)

A surprise attack by the Chinese Communist Forces (CCF) started the battles of the Nevada Cities, at 1900 on March 26, 1953. Compared to the number of troops the Chinese threw into the battles, the COPs were very lightly manned by marines. Where the Chinese threw in forces of 500 to 800 on a hill and seemed to have unlimited reinforcements, the marines numbered about 39 to 42, counting the officers and corpsmen. The Chinese had the up-front available manpower to send in wave after wave of frontal and flanking attacks right under their own artillery barrages and ours. Regardless of the Chinese soldiers’ ideology, indoctrination, and the fact that they may have been threatened with immediate execution had they turned to run, their courage had to be respected on the battlefield.

The Chinese timing for the attack, on an almost full moon, helped the marine observers direct artillery and mortar fires at first until the battlefield haze had settled in on the 27th, obscuring vision. Tens of thousands of high explosive rounds from huge 8” guns to the small 60 mm. mortars were enough to create a man-made micro-climate that resembled a ground hugging smog when combined with the smoke screens generated.

In these ending months of the war the Chinese soldiers were over 60% armed with personal weapons, such as handguns, rifles, and submachine guns. Many of their weapons were those captured from UN forces. They attacked in waves. The first wave was well armed. The second wave was composed mostly of grenadiers that armed themselves with weapons from the first-wave casualties. The third wave scavenged from the first and second waves.

But, this wasn’t always the case. Sometimes they were all well armed with personal weapons. As the war raged the number of arms of the Chinese grew, and the age of the men declined.

What follows is about a Corpsman named Joe, Infantrymen of the U.S. Marines, and other Navy medical personnel that were assigned to the Fleet Marine Force (FMF) Pacific, in just one battle that lasted only five days in March, 1953. It was described as one of the “bloodiest battles ever fought by the Marine Corps,” as quoted from an article in Leatherneck magazine, published shortly after the battles, and described as one of the “highest beachheads.” In this battle 214 died, 801 were wounded, and 19 missing or captured. The majority of the captured were those that were caught while manning the outposts.

Joe’s full name was Joseph Francis Keenan, a Navy Hospital Corpsman, 3rd Class (E-4), referred to in general as a Petty Officer 3rd, and by the marines almost exclusively as “Doc.” Those that knew their corpsmen well referred to them by their first name or a nickname. Those that needed their services in an emergency just yelled, “Corpsman!” Even a straight-necked senior marine officer called them “Doc” because of their experience or the experience they were yet to have. Few corpsmen had ever set foot in a medical school or had a paramedical background. They were mostly Navy and Marine Corps trained.

After Boot Camp at Newport, Rhode Island, with a Blue Jackets Manual in hand, Joe’s training for his medical responsibilities began at Hospital Corps School, Portsmouth, Va., in Class 119. Medical knowledge was instilled through formal courses of instruction that covered in detail, the subjects: Anatomy and Physiology, Materia Medica and Therapeutics, Hygiene and Sanitation, Bacteriology, Pharmacy, Chemistry, Radiation Safety, Minor Surgery and First Aid, and Nursing procedures, to name a few. Other than the handout material, Joe also had in hand the Handbook of the Hospital Corps, 1939 Edition , as a guide to his responsibilities. He entered the school designated a Hospitalman Recruit (E-1) and graduated a Hospitalman Apprentice (E-2), February, 29, 1952. (The E-1 through E-7 designations were the pay-grades across the enlisted rates. Today they range from E-1 to E-9, and a lone E-10 as Master Chief of the Navy)

Joe may not have had a choice of attending Hospital Corps School. It is not known if he volunteered or was so placed for what is called, “for the convenience of the Navy,” or “Shanghaied” as a non-volunteer would say. Navy personnelmen had a way of finding souls to fill their quotas.

Further training, and his first “real” duty station, at the Naval Hospital, Charleston, S.C., was through formal and informal courses of instruction, self-study for advancement in rate, and on-the-job training guided by the more experienced members of the staff. Especially, by the Nurses and Medical Officers interested in a well-rounded education for the corpsmen. Joe made Hospitalman (E-3) on March 16, 1952, and October 16, 1952, he made hospital corpsman 3rd class (petty officer 3rd class or E-4), moving rapidly up the advancement ladder. This hospital gave Joe his first experience in serving the needs and working with actual injured and ill marine, sailor or dependent(wives and children) patients. Rotation through the various wards and departments gave Joe a pretty good idea of the workings of the medical/paramedical endeavors.

The complement of the hospital on Thanksgiving Day, 1952: from Chief to Apprentice, there were 209 Hospital Corps enlisted personnel, 32 Medical Corps officers, 2 Dental Corps officers, 7 Medical Service Corps officers, 3 Hospital Corps officers (2 CWO and 1 WO), 1 Chaplain Corps officer, 1 Supply Corps officer, 48 Nurse Corps officers, and 4 American Red Cross workers, all commanded by Captain James F. Hays, MC, USN, for a total hospital complement of 307 personnel. (The foregoing is taken from the Mess Deck menu for that Holiday dinner.)

Many of these were Joe’s mentors, many his friends, and many were about to go in the direction Joe was headed. All the Naval hospitals were operating near capacity with the numbers of marines and sailors returning casualties, many of whom would spend long months and some years hospitalized before they were physically rehabilitated. Psychological rehabilitation might go on through a lifetime, by trying to encapsulate the memories and store them in a dark corner of the mind—where they sometimes escaped as nightmares.

In the following accounts, “hospitalman apprentice,” “hospitalman,” and “hospital corpsman” were used synonymously for a “corpsman” or “Doc” by marines.

Field training and physical fitness for Joe was initiated by the marines, at Camp Pendleton, CA, were mostly field exercises consisting of obstacle courses, running with full field transport packs and weapons, landings from AmTracs, combat in towns, introduction to small arms, firing ranges, live fire and explosive exposure, some classroom, and the arduous cold-weather training in the Sierra Nevadas at “Pickle Meadows,” south of Bridgeport, California, just off of and to the west of highway US 395. Joe’s transfer to this activity was a sure sign of his impending involvement in things going on in Korea. The cold-weather training consisted of being taken by bus from Camp Pendleton to an elevation of 8000 feet in the Sierra Nevada mountains and being dumped on a snow field, where the night was spent in snow caves heating chow over Sterno cans. The caves had a shelter half door. Sleeping was fully dressed in mountain sleeping bags, accompanied by an M-1 rifle and thermo boots stuffed into the foot of the bag. After a day in the snow, C-rations became gourmet food for the evening meal. Days were spent rout stepping in single file with snowshoe trail breakers ahead, across valleys, struggling up mountains only to slide down the other side, crossing frozen streams hand-over-hand on ropes while the ice was blown with explosives. Sleep was fitful, with instructors that had to be repelled, probing the perimeter, firing blanks. A week later, un-bathed, they were boarding the bus back to “civilization” at Camp Pendleton. No more ice frozen in the nose hairs was a major relief. Chosin had left a lesson to learn about proper clothing and the need for training in the cold. In those days Pickle Meadows was a primitive encampment compared to today’s facilities with snow cats and helicopters and large, permanent buildings. The men look the same: young officers and sergeants pushing trainees into combat readiness experiences, preparing for the next beachhead or penetration of enemy strongholds.

Training with a Field Medical Battalion to become a field-medicine technician was adjacent to Camp Pendleton at Camp Del Mar and consisted of both classroom instruction and operations in the field. These formal courses of instruction were intended to prepare the corpsman for emergency first aid in the field, without the direct supervision of a medical officer, which in the fleet was called “Independent Duty.” What the Marine Corps gave Joe in the way of field training and physical fitness was to give him exposure to what life would be in a combat situation, simulated in practically everything but actual wounds. No one seemed to escape without some minor cuts and bruises. This was Joe’s conversion from the protected life of a non-combatant to those of the rigors of being an FMF corpsman and trying to emulate being a marine in a very short time. This training was to try to extend Joe’s usefulness in battle. His sole purpose, after this, was to treat the ill and injured, and to protect himself and his comrades from direct threats of an enemy intent on their destruction. He was armed, with at least a .45 caliber automatic pistol and usually had a longer-range weapon at his disposal when in the MLR (Main Line of Resistance) or outpost trenches. He was given a Geneva Convention Card with a Red Cross stamped across the front to signify that he was a person responsible for the care of the wounded and was not to be shot at or otherwise molested. Joe would have probably liked to have traded it for a steel plate big enough to hide behind. At an actual site of impending hostilities corpsmen wore nothing that would distinguish them as being anything other than a government-issue marine. Arm bands and helmets with Red Crosses made excellent targets and were shunned like the plague. No serum albumin cans strapped to the helmet and the “Unit One” rode on the rump, to be pulled around front when needed. (Albumin and Unit One, described later) Blood plasma and heavier medical supplies were to be found in forward aid stations and medical companies, growing in complexity at the sites of larger medical units to the rear. The movie and later the TV show, M.A.S.H. , depicted a large Army medical unit in Korea. Although, a comedy/drama, it quite fairly showed, in some scenes, what might be considered simulations of actual happenings.

A dedicated corpsman who took the training seriously was as well prepared as training time allowed to meet the unexpected in the turmoil, frenzy, and chaos of the battlefield. The continuing struggle of an FMF corpsman was the need to learn the medical procedures necessary to effectively treat war wounds, illnesses from bacteria, viruses, parasites, thermal injury, and stresses, problems related to hygiene and sanitation, and emotional disorders without the advantage of years spent in a medical school. He needed to maintain personal physical fitness to be prepared for the muscular demands of a combat situation, staying with the fighting marines, who have had many more months experience facing the strenuous physical requirements. He had to learn the care and cleaning of weapons assigned and the effective use of the weapon, cope with emotional feelings while treating the horrible looking wounds of war and gently consoling those that would probably die, and find the words to put into the letters to the families of his buddies that were seriously wounded or who had expired, wondering when and how it would all end!

Aside from the weapons and other combat gear (called 782 gear), the corpsman carried in a three-section zippered pouch called a Unit One, and his pockets:

Two cans of Serum Albumin* as a blood volume expander (When an individual lost a large volume of blood and went into shock, the blood vessels collapsed. The infusion of plasma to increase blood volume counteracted this. Serum Albumin did the same thing because the osmotic effect drew fluid from the surrounding tissues, restored blood volume, and kept the blood vessels open. The advantage of serum albumin was that a smaller volume could be used, enabling corpsmen to carry more of it.)

We carried other things also, like Assault Rations and parts of C-Rations to which we had become fond. Aside from the food, the cigarettes, matches and toilet paper were hoarded. Well indoctrinated personnel carried an “Eaty-Wa” spoon, made from a brass shell casing by a Korean grandpa, that had been acquired by a cigarette trade. The handle longer than an issue spoon, allowed for deep stirring of home-made stew and for flipping C-Ration hamburgers and sausage patties on a Yukon Stove. Grenades were hung on belts, straps, or carried in jacket pockets. Only those with the jaws of a Jackass could pull the pin with their teeth. Sometimes we got our hands on two ounce bottles of Old Monastery brandy to use as a soothing sedative or nerve tonic.

Joe was born March 4, 1933, in Boston, Massachusetts. He was the son of Thomas F. Keenan and Catherine (Colerick) Keenan. Joseph’s mother died when he was very young, and his father later married Claire (Cavanaugh) Keenan who raised him to adulthood. Joseph grew up in the Dorchester section of Boston, attended the Boston Public Schools, and graduated from Christopher Columbus Catholic School in 1951. He enlisted in the United States Navy in June, 1951.

Joseph was one of nine children who survived to adulthood, sisters Marie (now deceased) and Anne and six brothers. All the Keenan boys served in the military at various times. Brothers Tom (now deceased) and Paul in the Navy during World War II, Joseph in Korea, Richard in the marines, Michael in the Naval Submarine Service, James a Marine second lieutenant and lastly, far from least, Ralph, a decorated marine in Vietnam. These were the Minutemen of the 20th Century, one family giving its all in the defense of freedom and liberty for all of us.

Joe arrived in Korea on Friday the 13, February, 1953, and was assigned to F/2/5 (Fox Company, 2nd Battalion, 5th Marine Regiment) as a platoon corpsman. He gained some combat experience on patrols and raids in No-Man’s-Land and Gooney-Land, little knowing that in another month, or so, he would be engaged with his comrades in the bloody battles of the Nevada Cities. The quantity of patrols were a mandatory assignment from authorities who were of the Army top-echelon commanders. The marines have so often found themselves being driven by authorities of another service. Not that the patrols were not warranted; they are needed to determine enemy locations, strengths, interdict enemy activities, and to keep enemy patrols at bay, but the decision should have been left to seasoned front-line commanders. The outposts called the OPLR (Outpost Line of Resistance) were where bloody confrontations took place before the enemy could reach the MLR, and may not have been necessary, as some cautioned, because of the hazards associated with supporting them—as we shall see further along in this narrative.

This brings to mind the loss to the marines of direct control of marine air. In the beginning days of the war, on the Pusan perimeter, the Army marveled at the precision which the marine infantry, armor, and air coordinated operations. Marines always found it best to fight with all resources of its own composition and control because integrated training made a formidable force and saved lives. Once the Army and Air Force took control, the delay of response probably drove the marine commanders mad and ultimately cost many lives. Remember that prior to the war the Army, Air Force and Admiral Sherman conspired to disband the Marine Corps. Only the tungsten steel verve of Marine General Cates saved them from extinction, with much political help.

Sorry I haven’t written, and I am asking you to forgive me for my last letter; it was in anger and I didn’t mean the harsh words I said. We arrived in Korea Friday the 13th, and it’s a good thing I’m not superstitious. I went to confession and communion the night we left for the front. We were lucky and stayed here at Batt. Aid Station 2000 yards behind the main line of resistance for a week or more. Fox Company pulled a daylight raid on a Goonie hill; it was a slaughter compared to what results were expected. Sixty wounded and six killed. Some may die from wounds later on, but that’s what our log reads this morning. Many boys will wake tomorrow with either both arms or legs missing, and one will never see gain. I saw some pretty awful sights today and expect to see many more; I hope not, but there’s no getting away from it. This is a real war here and not just a police action. It is terrible over here, and it’s going to take a lot of doing and much praying to end the spilling of blood here. Everything that happens here usually happens at night, and it’s rough on the nerves. Once every two weeks they pull a daylight raid to get “Luke the Gook” worried. The hill had one thousand rounds of bombs and heavy artillery shells and mortar and rockets dropped on it for eight minutes before zero hour, yet when the marines got close to the top, Goonies were all over the place; some just stayed in their holes and just threw grenade after grenade over the top without hardly showing themselves at all. They asked for a volunteer corpsman to go up to evacuate some patients. I said I’d go but didn’t realize what I said till after I was in the half-track; then I got scared. I went up, but when I got there it was too late, so I came back to the aid station. I loaded eight or nine cases on the “copters” bay; they sure are life-saving machines. Well, that’s it for now. I’ll write again as soon as possible.

Just a few lines to let you know that I’m okay and getting long all right. Had my first casualty the other morning. Got it off an ambushed patrol out in front of the outpost. We were sitting out there for four hours, but nothing happened. Hit the sack at four A.M., and at five A.M. I was awakened and told I had a casualty coming up from the third squad area about a quarter of a mile to our right flank. Next thing I heard was “Doc! Doc!” This kid Jones had tried to disarm a hand grenade, and in the process it blew his thumb off down to the second joint and tore his fingernails off and almost half the flesh on his hand. He also had some small fragments in his left leg. Another guy in the bunker caught two tiny fragments of shrapnel in his big toe. He came up later, and I removed them and dressed his wounds, and he went back to his bunker. He’s okay now. Jones, I bandaged him up and called in for a Jeep to take him to Batt. Aid. Couldn’t give him anything for the injury ’cause it would make a stretcher case out of him and would take about an hour to get him down off that hill. We went on a combat patrol last night, and the marines were disappointed that we didn’t meet any of “Luke the Gooks” boys. We left here at 12:30 P.M., went down by the outpost, across the rice patty (200 yards) up on a hill called “Little Rock,” and across from “Little Rock” is a ridge lined with Goony trench lines in it. We fired six rifle grenades and two BAR magazines at it, but no return fire was received. We then sent a perimeter defense on the reverse slope of “Little Rock” and waited for some Goonies to come out and see what the story was, but none of “Luke’s” boys would come out to play, so we left after waiting for an hour. Tomorrow I go back to the outpost for six days and then I’ll only have a couple more patrols to go on before getting off this hill the 25th of the month. I just got word we got an ambush patrol coming off tonight; that makes five nights in a row I’ve been on patrol. The marines only go out every other night. Well, that’s all I have time for now. I’ll write again soon.

Received your letter today and was glad to hear from home. So Mike is going to go to “Christie.” Well, that’s great. I sure hope he passes his exams; I didn’t realize he was in the eighth grade this year. I bet Ralphie sure is hot ticket now. Anne must be quite a girl too. Well, we caught a lot of close mortar rounds today. The Goonies have their summer troops up in front of us now and they are hot for combat. We’ll be off the lines in a couple of days, and I’ll be glad to get in the rear for a while, and no more patrols at night. We expect to get hit before we leave here cause the “Goonies” overran Dog Company’s outpost and hit the rest of them except us. I hope you all have a nice Easter and tell the kids I was asking for them. I have to close now on account of I volunteered to help dig outposts on the trench line tonight where the rain and shell fire cave them in.

M.WA203 LONG GOVT RX PWUX WASHINGTON DC

R AND MRS THOMAS FRANCIS KEENAN

43 MATHER ST DORCHESTER MASS

Just a few lines to let you know I was on the raid last night when Joe got hit; he never got hit bad, so don’t worry about Joe. He got hit in the wrist and also got a little sand in his eyes but not enough to hurt them. He was with our fire team when it happened. So believe me Mrs. Keenan when I tell you Joe will be all right When we were out there Joe was doing a wonderful job taking care of the wounded, and when the corpsman came over to take care of Joe when he got hit, Joe said to go help the other guys who need care more than I do. Mrs. Keenan, I haven’t known Joe too long, but in my books he’s tops; he’s one of the finest guys I’ve ever met. Well, there isn’t much more I can tell about Joe. But Mrs. Keenan, don’t worry about Joe; he will be just fine in a couple of days. I will close for now.

This is just a short note to let you know about your son Joe. He got hit slightly in the arm by a mortar last night while on a raid with our company. He was with my firing team when we started the attack on the hill (Reno) and during most of the raid. He done the job of a platoon of men before he got hit and quite a while after. He also refused medical aid from anyone until he was sure everyone else was properly cared for. Your son is and will always be one of the most well liked guys in our company. I became good friends with him shortly after he arrived in Fox Co. We seen him leave the hill, and I also checked in the aid station to see if he was all right. He got quite a bit of dust in his eyes, but it didn’t bother his vision after they were cleaned.

The Chinese dug out the handful of Reno’s survivors from their bunker, which had been blown shut in the barrage, and took five marines and a corpsman prisoner. Reno had been quickly overrun. Company C, 1st Battalion, 5th Marines, rushed forward to help their beleaguered comrades, and Company F, 2nd Battalion, Fifth Marines, quickly followed. As they fought their way to the base of Reno hill, the flurry of shrapnel began to find “Fox” Company’s Marines. Joe now sought casualties in need of his care. Barely 20 years old, Joe had arrived in Korea in February only weeks before—ominously, on Friday the 13th. Now minutes into his first hellish battle, shrapnel from a nearby blast struck his hand. A fellow hospital corpsman moved to his aid, but Joe waved him off, directing him to nearby wounded marines. That sailor was killed by shell fragments an instant later.

(Shrapnel was an English invention named after the inventor of a shell that carried particles like ball-bearings, that emitted more particles than just mere shell fragments. Shell fragments are the casing of the shell blown into hot, sharp, razor-edged pieces of metal as small as a pea and as large as the palm of the hand, or larger. Most writers use the words interchangeably. Later there was a return to “true shrapnel” devices because of their effectiveness. This will be explained in detail later in the narrative.)

Joe continued his work until another piece of shrapnel found him, this time in the head. Fearing his wounds would be fatal, Keenan reluctantly fell back to his battalion aid station to receive cursory medical care. Although in no shape to go back into the fight because of his serious wounds, Joe restocked his medical supplies and crossed the dangerous 1,600 yards to his company’s position. The route back to Combat Outpost Reno provided no good news for the hospital corpsman. Steep hills flanked his path, and rice paddies and mine fields covered the adjacent flat ground. That left only the trail to the outpost, which the Chinese had pinpointed for their guns and mortars. Once back with his marines, Joe continued to move in the open, all the while exposed to incessant shell fire. As he found and treated casualties, a nearby explosion blew dirt into his eyes, partially blinding him. Although slowed, he was undeterred. Joe found his way to Reno Block, a small hilltop 150 yards behind the Reno outpost. There he found two hospital corpsmen from Charlie Company, 1/5, tending to the fallen. HN Francis Hammond pulled the wounded to safety and directed operations at this impromptu aid station. HN Paul Polley had been wounded by shrapnel and was blinded by the blast. Despite this, Polley had his hands guided to his marines’ wounds and treated them by touch alone. As Joe performed his medical work similarly impaired, a nearby marine remarked, “This is a bad night for corpsmen; they are all blind!” Once the casualties there were stabilized, Joe moved off the hilltop into a gully to aid those who were hit trying to retake Reno. Joe soon had six to eight wounded under his care. There, two marines from Joe’s platoon, PFC Floyd Caton and PVT Dan Holl, came across their friend while trying to find an alternative evacuation route back to the main line. Both implored Keenan to fall back to a safer area. Caton and Holl argued feverishly, pointing out Keenan’s wounds, his inexperience in combat, and the surrounding danger of shellfire and Chinese patrols.

“I’m staying,” Joe barked resolutely. “I got a job to do, and I’m going to do it!” Unable to convince their friend, Caton and Holl were at least able to flush Joe’s eyes with water from their canteens. The two then continued on with their assignment, leaving Joe to bandage his patients. When they passed the spot an hour later as a rear guard for the marines’ withdrawal, the marines did not see their friend. Unknown to Caton and Holl, some time between 0230 and 0530 on 27 March 1953, shrapnel struck Joe in the head again and killed him.

Joe’s body was returned home and was buried in the New Calvary cemetery in Boston, Massachusetts. Joe had been in Korea just 42 days.

Dan Holl, Floyd Caton, and Joe had made a pact to write to each other’s families should anything happen to one of them. The marines had seen Joe’s wounds from the early part of the evening battle and knew that he would survive them, so the two wrote to the Keenan family to reassure them that Joe would be all right. These letters arrived at the Keenan’s Massachusetts home shortly after the telegram announcing Joe’s death. Holding out hope because of the conflicting information, the family contacted government officials to discover whether there had been a mistake—that Joe was still alive. Sadly, Joe’s death was confirmed in correspondence from their Senator, John F. Kennedy.

(Floyd Caton has since passed away)

43 MATHER ST DORCHESTER MASS

ANOTHER REPORT RECEIVED FROM THE COMMANDING OFFICER OF THE FIRST DIVISION STATES THAT YOUR SON MADE THE REQUEST THAT PFC CATON AND PVT HOLL WRITE TO YOU IN CASE OF INJURY. PRIOR TO BEING KILLED IN ACTION ON 26 MARCH 1953 YOUR SON HAD BEEN TREATED FOR TEMPORARY BLINDNESS DUE TO SAND IN THE EYES CAUSED BY EXPLODING SHELL UPON TREATMENT HE WAS RETURNED TO FULL DUTY. THE LETTERS TO YOU BY PFC CATON AND PVT HOLL WERE WRITTEN AT THIS TIME AGAIN MY SINCEREST SYMPATHY IS EXTENDED TO YOU.