Voices from the Korean War - Douglas Rice [143]
A few nights later, in the same foxhole with a loaded M-1, it was my two hours on while my buddy got some shut-eye. It was another dark filled night, when I heard a scuffling sound, which seemed to be getting closer. I woke up my buddy and told him to be very quiet, and listen. He did, and we both agreed something was in the gorge below our hole. Not to give away our position, orders were not to shoot at night. So, I grabbed a grenade and tried to pull the pin, which would not come out. After my buddy tried and failed, I grabbed another one—with the same results. I signaled to him that if he couldn’t get the pin loose—orders or no orders—I was going to shoot. Finally, he was able to pull the pin and rolled it down the hill. Needless to say, after the grenade went off, the whole line went on the alert. We didn’t know what was making the noise, but for the rest of the night it was quiet. The next morning, we went down to the gorge to see if we could find out what had made that noise. We found a bloody fur hat, with ear flaps, that belonged to a “gook” about fifteen feet from our hole; so, I guess we did the right thing.
The Army was involved in an operation, which I believe was called Operation Clobber. Tanks and half-tracks were lined up along the entire front line—alongside our foxhole—and for seventy-two straight hours, fired at enemy positions. The noises, and fumes, were unbelievable! After the shelling stopped, we attacked the hills with little opposition. We found that the shelling did very little damage to their well built bunkers, which were located on the back slopes of the hills. The following day, we left giving the enemy back their caves.
My squad was to go on a patrol, but first we had to go through our own minefield. When we asked for a map of the minefield, we were told that it was missing. We protested, but our new “ninety-day wonder” (OCS Lieutenant) ordered us to proceed. Our sergeant led the way, with me—the assistant squad leader—bringing up the rear. About half the way through, the sergeant stepped on a mine, which blew off his foot. I was able to get the rest of the squad out by backtracking over our footsteps; then another soldier and myself went back to get the sergeant. After we successfully retrieved him, and he was on his way to the aid station, I became very angry. I grabbed my M-1 and went looking for the lieutenant. Another sergeant saw me, grabbed me, threw me into a bunker, and calmed me down before I did something stupid. A few nights later the lieutenant accidentally—so he claimed—shot himself in the hand with his .45 pistol.
It was Thanksgiving 1951 and we rotated in small groups to go down the hill for our Thanksgiving Dinner. Our meal consisted of hot turkey, and all the trimmings, which the newspapers back home were reporting. What they forgot to tell was that it was raining by the buckets, and we only had half a mess gear to put our food in. Standing in line, in the pouring rain, we entered the mess tent to receive our meal. First they placed the turkey, then the mashed potatoes followed by cranberries, vegetables, bread, butter, gravy, pie, and finally the ice-cream—all in a pile. Then we went outside into the pouring rain; our nice meal turned into one big pile of mush. When I saw what was happening, I noticed a lid for one of the big pots that I took and washed off in the rain. As it came my turn in line, I had the cooks place each item in a different spot—on the clean lid—not in a big pile. I then went outside and found a small overhang, under which I ate my Thanksgiving Dinner in relative comfort.
We were on patrol one night, with the intention of surprising a “gook” patrol, and taking a prisoner. Just as we were to leave, the powers to be had a brilliant idea; to put fluorescent sticks on our backs so we could keep track of each other in the dark. As soon as we cleared our lines, we ripped these