Voices from the Korean War - Douglas Rice [200]
Nothing was visible through the scope or the pistol port. The general told us to turn on the lights and fire two rounds. I got on the radio to the other tanks and gave the command, “Light up.” The lights came on and you couldn’t see anything past the end of the tube. It was a complete whiteout—absolute zero visibility. You can press your ear close to the receiver of an EE-8 and you can hear a tank gun fire even if the butterfly switch isn’t activated. Knowing the general was listening, I said, “Two rounds on the way, sir.” We couldn’t see the bursts, even though the target was less then eight-hundred yards away. The General wanted to know what it looked like out there. So, I told him I couldn’t see a thing due to the snowstorm.
Being stubborn and not about to give up, the General instructed me to turn my searchlight on and have the other two tanks fire two rounds.
The radio network was open and anyone turning into that frequency could hear. What worried me was that if anyone was listening, they were laughing at this farce—at my expense.
At first the Chinese may have been surprised by our lights, and waste of ammo in the snowstorm—but not for long. The last two rounds fired brought out the enemy’s full arsenal—it was just like a “turkey shoot.” Being apprehensive from the beginning, I made sure all the tanks were buttoned up tight when we began this odd mission.
Immediately, rounds from small arms started glancing off the turret while others ricocheted around the track sprockets and volute springs. Luckily we were not hit by any of the mortar or recoilless rifle fire that was striking within fifty yards of us. Their FO’s weren’t able to direct fire in the zero visibility, so they used their artillery sparingly. Sitting inside these tanks, the sound of the rounds striking the turrets were deafening. I intentionally left the butterfly switch on so the General could get an earful. He came over the radio saying, “This is Jade 6. Cease fire. End mission. We’ll try this another time when visibility is better.”
Thank God, I had no casualties to report.
* * * * * *
As the regiment moved into Sandbag Castle, which was opposite of “Joseph Stalin,” we smeared mud on our tank markings, imposed radio silence, and took all precautions not to let the enemy know we had arrived. Under the cover of darkness we moved into our positions. Soon, every company along the front heard the following announcement, “Welcome men of Tank Company, 180th Regiment. We dedicate the following song to you.” The song, “There’s no Tomorrow,” started blaring over loudspeakers. The troops broke out in laughter. Needless to say, there were no secrets on the front lines with all the “line crossers.” It was hard to tell a South Korean from a North Korean. A trooper from Arkansas had the solution; “If he says ‘ya’ll’ you know he’s a South Korean.”
* * * * * *
We were at Sandbag Castle when a North Korean soldier walked across the valley floor, through a heavy snow. Somehow the soldier was able to elude the Chemical Smoke Detachment and the infantry units in their trenches. The infantry had been in action all through the night, and they were tired and sleepy. After he had run eight-hundred yards across the valley and another hundred yards through the infantry, he was stopped by my platoon sergeant who was at the CP bunker. The North Korean had lost his cap, and his hair and scraggly beard, were weighted down with frost. And because he was breathing heavily, his white uniform was covered with the frozen mist from his breath. The sergeant brought him to the small opening of my sandbag CP and said, “Lieutenant, Lieutenant, look what I got!”
I unzipped my sleeping bag and ran outside,