part0014

I scrambled up the small hill of “Fox” Company to its crest. There straight ahead of me, some 300 yards away, sat Vegas, looming up like some monstrous whale, seemingly all the nearer because of its black shadow silhouetted against a graying black horizon. I darted into the entrance of the observation bunker. The C.O., Capt. John Melvin, was screaming at some men to lay a telephone cable out to the few survivors on Vegas. Abruptly he spotted me. “Doc! Thank God you’re here. Go down to the company mess tent on the reverse slope. It’s the only aid station we’ve got, and we re shuttling all the casualties through it. There’s one corpsman down there already. Go!” Outside a light snow had fallen. Half stumbling down the slope, I came cross the mess tent, a converted squad tent that had seen better days. The corpsman, Jim McKean, HN, USN, greeted me with ecstasy and incredulousness, since no Navy doctors had been permitted to come so close to an actual combat situation. Already he was handling the first of the walking wounded arriving from around the hill on which “Fox” Company was located. I surveyed the equipment at hand. Two multi-flamed gas burners were located under an old stove. Both were dragged out to the center of the dirt floor, lit, and surprisingly, afforded sufficient light. Boxes were lined along the periphery of the tent for some form of orderly management of the wounded. Miraculously, one corner of the tent revealed an ancient depot of first-aid supplies, cartons of plasma, battle dressings and right-angled arm splints. By now, casualties were arriving at regular intervals, and we fell to work. Stretcher cases in coma, profound shock or brutally mutilated were placed directly in “high shock” position, three abreast in rows on the floor of the tent. Bayoneted M-1 rifles were rammed into the ground providing poles from which plasma was hung. The walking wounded were divided into two groups: those requiring immediate attention, or attention requiring equipment we simply did not have. Among this group were the truly “shell shocked,” so designated if they could remember neither their names nor the first three serial numbers of their dog tags. All were shuttled along one side in parallel rows. On the other side we placed all active bleeders, possible or actual forearm amputees, exposed fractures, indeed anyone we felt we could help with a moments care. By 11:00 P.M. the numbers crammed into the bulging tent exceeded 200. The dead were laid outside at the far end of the tent in face up position, or some posture signifying respect. We tried not to stack the bodies, although toward the end of the night even this was impossible. By 11:30 P.M., two armored vehicles broke through the heavily shelled rice paddies to our rear. All available hands turned to help. Litter cases were stacked two abreast, one on another and five deep in the hold of each vehicle. Twenty, perhaps 30, of the wounded ambulatory scrambled aboard, too, hanging on to any available projection. I recall hearing later, with intense satisfaction, that both vehicles made their return trip without mishap. The break afforded by this event turned my attention back to the battle still raging. Indeed by this time, it was raging with incredible ferocity. Around midnight a three-pronged Chinese drive of about fully-complimented battalions assaulted Vegas in a last desperate attempt to gain the commanding territory. The allied response was literally to “box in” the outpost. Militarily, this means that every available piece of artillery from 20 miles back was to be concentrated on ringing the outpost to make it untenable for enemy penetration. Over the next three hours more than 100,000 rounds of artillery shells, from friend and foe alike, passed directly overhead. Allied air strikes dropped 200,000 pounds of bombs on terrain extending from Old Baldy, a mile away, to the valley dividing Vegas from “Fox” Company directly in front of us. The land was literally rent asunder. The noise was so deafening, that speech, even by screaming, was totally inaudible. All individual sounds were absorbed by one continuous, thunderous roar. Intermittent rocket barrages, passing no more than 50 to 75 feet overhead, created an eerie light which at times was sustained for minutes. Stars no longer twinkled, but danced in a weird fashion, occasionally blotted out completely by the metallic canopy. By 2:00 A.M., Capt. Melvin appeared through the rear end of the tent flap, his arms thrown up in a gesture of utter futility. Unable to speak because of the incessant roar, he scratched out the following message, using a large black crayon: “Gooks bypassing Vegas; coming around your side…close to battalion strength…laying down smoke screen first. Can’t bug out! Load walking wounded with grenades. Send them down far path…pitch them into smoke screen!” With that he abruptly turned, ran through the tent flap and scrambled back up the hill to his observation post. It would be impossible for me to relate the emotions that went through my mind in the next few seconds: abject terror, to anger, to indignation, to a feeling of complete idiocy for having allowed myself to be caught in such an incredible position in the first place. Then blessedly, a wave of compassion flooded my mind for this maimed and desecrated group of men before me. Blessedly, again, I began to reflect on the incredibly rich experience I had accumulated, as a doctor, working with the body and spirit of men under maximum stress and hardship. I felt privileged to have witnessed the marvelous retaliatory faculties, both spiritual and physical, nature holds in reserve for the mortally wounded. It is axiomatic that he who cries most is by far the least hurt; but extending this to the extreme, I had not expected to find an almost majestic dignity in the young who, through wholly conscious, are fully aware that death is but moments away. The large cardboard on which Capt. Melvin had scribbled his note to me had now been passed from hand to hand to each of the walking wounded around the tent. There numbers were about a hundred. There was moment’s pause, then, spontaneously, the entire complement arose and without a word loosened the remaining hand grenades carried on their ammo belts. Deliberately, they filed out, traversed the 50-yard path to the end of the hill, entered a few yards into a thick smoke screen and pitched the grenades at the unmistakable garlic smell made by advancing Chinese troops. For more than an hour, there was a continuous procession of men jettisoning explosives down the far end of the path. The dead were stripped of all remaining grenades and loaded onto returning marines who then returned to the edge of the smoke screen, and in a last act of defiance, hurled some 500 more grenades into the area. That was it. There was no more; and we waited for the end to come. But the end never came. Miraculously, the screaming pitch of the artillery barrage dropped just perceptively, then dropped gain, and again. The smoke screen began to drift apart, then disappeared completely. The garlic odor of the Chinese infantryman was no longer present. As if by a sign from the angels, a beautiful, melodious trill from a Korean meadowlark pierced the air, and abruptly a hush enveloped the entire land. Simultaneously, every man dropped to his knees and wept unashamedly. The Chinese had been stopped. It was 2:30 and it was all over.