Voices from the Korean War - Douglas Rice [122]
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Monsoon season had set in, and we had been wet for ten straight days. A few of us guys were standing around talking, when all of a sudden a guy came out of his tent—screaming. He was saying that he was going to the top of the hill and kill all the “gooks,” so he could end the war and go home.
It took three of us to subdue him and load him into a jeep so he could be evacuated out.
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After being confined to our foxholes for several days, we were finally able to come out for a breath of fresh air. I was sitting on my helmet, next to my hole, when another soldier saw me and crawled over to talk. We had been there several minutes when I noticed a flash from a recoilless rifle.
I told all the guys to hang on, because the “gooks” would try to knock-out that recoilless rifle. All of the sudden, you could hear an artillery shell coming in. As I dove for my hole, the guy I was talking to dove between my legs—beating me to my hole.
He got hit in the hip with a piece of shrapnel; I yelled for a medic. After the medic attended to him and got him out of there, I was able to get my foxhole back.
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One night “Tiny” [Everett] Waggoner and I were standing on an overhang, when all the sudden Tiny said, “Dang! A ‘gook’ just hit me in the leg with a grenade.” I told him there was no way. So, he pulled down his pants and sure enough there was a red spot on his leg where he had been hit.
When daylight broke the next morning, we went back to the overhang. As we looked down the hill, there lying about twenty feet away was the grenade. Luckily for us, it was a dud; if not, we could have been seriously wounded, or killed.
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One night our mortars were set up out front, the recoilless rifles were on the flanks, and the machine guns were to our rear. Around 0200 hours, one of the machine guns opened fire. I quickly radioed back and told them to get that guy off that gun—before the enemy zeroed in on us—or we would. The gunner said he thought he heard something; come to find out he was only sixteen.
Needless to say, the following morning he was taken off the front lines.
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We had a soldier down that we couldn’t get to. There were a few tanks in the area and the tank commander asked if he could help; I replied, “Yes.” I pointed out the soldier to the tank commander, who was about two-hundred yards out.
After spotting him, he climbed back into his tank and had his driver drive out and straddle the wounded soldier. Once the tank straddled him, one of the crew members opened the escape hatch—located in the bottom of the tank—and pulled the soldier into the tank returning him to safety.
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I always had men to stand guard for two hour intervals, and I was always the first one to be woken up. We had a fresh recruit, who with his gung-ho attitude was going to end the war. He was placed on the last guard, and after waking me I told him to wake everyone else. Shortly afterwards, I again told him to wake everyone up. He said he had, but I told him there were two soldiers lying underneath the tarp—as I pointed to it. Walking over to it, he jerked back the tarp—exposing the bodies of two dead soldiers waiting to be taken back to headquarters—and vomited up everything he had eaten in the last few days.
If looks could kill, I would have been dead. That was probably the cruelest thing I have ever done in my life, but I believe it saved a young man’s life. The following day he transferred to the supply company.
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One day there was a loud yell coming from the cook’s kitchen. I immediately grabbed my weapon and ran towards the back of the tent. As I rounded the corner, there were a couple of enemy soldiers exiting the back of the tent; I only had one choice—shoot.
The soldiers dropped to the ground, never to get up. These are the scenes that one