Voices from the Korean War - Douglas Rice [22]
After landing, with no resistance, we loaded onto trucks and headed inland until darkness fell. The 1st BN was deployed on hilltops that completely surrounded a small valley. Sometime after dark, a shot was heard and the entire battalion fired into the valley—at unknown targets. The following morning, a cow and local farmer lay dead in the valley. I had ordered my squad not to fire unless they saw movement. Our battalion commander asked if my gun had been fired during the night. I told him it had not; he congratulated me.
The following day we moved up in support of some ROK troops, who were located on the south side of a mountain that had North Korean troops on the north side. The ROK soldiers were firing their weapons up in the air; I guess they hoped their bullets would fall on the North Koreans. We found this to be typical military tactics of the untrained ROK Army.
We were able to push the NKPA troops back a few miles as we approached the city of Taejon. Along the way, there were many ditches that were lined with bodies of South Korean men who—with their hands tied behind their backs—had been executed. Women were wailing as they walked amongst the bodies in search of their loved ones—a sight and sound, I have never forgotten.
On the twenty-seventh, a truck arrived in our area and the company commander told me to get on it. I asked him where was it going and he said he didn’t know, but he had orders to put me and another guy on the truck. We traveled about ninety miles to the Eighth Army Headquarters, which was located at Waegwan. Everyone there had their uniforms pressed, brass polished, and their shoes shined. For more than a week, we had not bathed, shaved, or even changed clothes—we were pretty scruffy looking.
Neither one of us knew why we were summoned there. As we walked around the base we passed a one-star general who we did not salute; this was something you didn’t do in combat. He began to chew us out when he realized where we had come from. Then he proceeded to tell us the only reason soldiers were taken off the front was to take the West Point examinations. After three days—eight hours a day—of testing, we were to return to our unit; the War Department would let us know the results, in September. When it was time to leave, they provided us with no transportation; so, we walked and bummed rides and meals when possible. Finally, three days later we rejoined our unit.
In the first two weeks, a good friend—who had transferred to battalion headquarters—was killed by mortar fire after a Korean woman carrying a baby on her back had entered our area asking our interpreter for directions. Within minutes after she left, mortar shells began to rain down with pinpoint accuracy. Thirty minutes later, another trooper and myself found the woman; the baby was a radio, so we knew right away she was an enemy agent. We took her back, and our Korean interpreter pulled out his pistol and shot her in the head; he never asked her one question.
Two days later we set up our machine gun on a slight rise, which overlooked a railroad track some three-hundred yards away. For the refugees heading south, this was the only authorized evacuation route. About every fifty yards were signs telling the refugees to stay on the tracks, and under no circumstances were they to get off the tracks. Suddenly, about five or six women, four or five children, and three or four elderly men—who were wearing their traditional stovepipe hats—began walking toward our gun emplacement.
I was instructed, by a major, to fire my gun in front of them, which I did. Without changing their expressions, or their gait, they kept coming. Again, I fired in front of them with the same results. He then informed me that I was not to allow them to proceed any further, and to open fire on them. Needless to say, with the target being women, children, and old men, I protested.
The first major battle that we were involved in took place in a cemetery. While being pinned down for a few hours