Voices from the Korean War - Douglas Rice [90]
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As we took-off at 5:00 AM from Itami, the cabin of the C-46 was full of fifty-five gallon drums of fuel headed for K-28—the airfield at Wonson. After our arrival we unloaded the cargo and we headed south to Kimpo. Here we picked up ammunition and flew it to Pyongyang. Once the ammo was unloaded we took on wounded. Most of which were on stretchers; three were in serious condition.
One had shrapnel near his lung, and was thought to be bleeding internally. Another had a severe head injury with a great loss of blood, and the other had a fractured pelvis.
The ambulance crew lifted each stretcher to two men that were standing on the hood of a truck; they in turn lifted the stretcher into the plane. This is how we loaded the plane when there was no ramp. The patients were grimy with dirt from combat, and had a look of bewilderment.
Air evac planes had first priority for take-off, but on a busy airfield this didn’t mean much. However, if a high-ranking official had an urgent mission, he was allowed first departure. Thank goodness our pilot received immediate clearance for take-off, because darkness was approaching and there were no runway lights.
To accommodate the patient with the head injury and the one with shrapnel near his lung, the pilot flew below three-thousand feet. As we ascended the cabin cooled and the patients slept as we flew over the Sea of Japan. Three hours later we landed in Itami, where ambulances were waiting. The wounded men were taken to Osaka General Hospital.
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Darkness was falling as ground flares marked the runway at Wonson when we landed with medical supplies, and drums of fuel. As the plane doors opened, the ground crew yelled up to us that there was a hot birthday dinner waiting for us in the mess hall; it was the Marine Corps birthday—November 10th.
We hopped into a jeep and headed for the mess hall as the ground crew unloaded our cargo. Upon entering I couldn’t help but notice the paintings that hung on the walls. They were strange, and I soon learned they were Russian characters. The Soviets had occupied the building not too long before U.N. forces took over the airfield. We were served steak—cooked to our liking—crunchy French fries, peas, and bread and butter. For desert we had warm apple pie with plenty of milk and coffee.
As I ate my steak, and peas, visions of my brother Jack’s enjoyment of the Marines annual birthday events danced in my head. Jack was a Marine through and through; having fought in the Second World War, and now Korea—years later he would serve in Vietnam. He passed away in 1969, at the young age of forty-six.
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On the 27th of November, our cargo to Pyongyang was unusual—socks. As the soldiers marched over frozen ground, in the bitter cold, their feet would perspire causing their socks to become wet and freeze to their feet. So, to help protect their feet, a new policy was instated for the men to change their socks twice a day.
The dirty socks were flown back to Japan, where they were washed and returned to Korea—to be worn again.
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It was now the 28th of November, and while we were waiting on the airstrip in Pyongyang, I wrote my mother.
There were only twenty-one days left before Christmas, and it wasn’t looking good for our boys to be home for the Holidays. It was just weeks earlier that MacArthur had rashly made this promise to the troops. One of the patients told me that MacArthur hadn’t said which Christmas.
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We were supposed to have landed in Pyongyang; however, the pilot had been told that by the time we arrived the airfield could be in the hands of the Communist forces. So, the pilot received instructions to circle the area several times, looking for signs of fighting, and to use his best judgment about landing.
All crew members wore a patch on their jacket,