Voices from the Korean War - Douglas Rice [92]
As our plane flew high over the Korean hills, I looked down and saw the fresh sprinkling of a light snow on the ground. This reminded me of mother as she sprinkled confection sugar on her baked cookies at Christmas.
We soon landed, and quickly brought the wounded aboard. During the flight, several of the men told me of their recent ordeals; I gladly listened as they graphically spelled out the horror of war. Sgt. Waters and I passed out comic books to those well enough to read; I felt like Santa Claus with his bag of toys.
That Christmas Day, in 1950, was like none I have ever experienced.
* * * * * *
Today, when I think of the bitter sub-zero air that swooped in after we landed at Hagaru-ri, I shiver. As we sat there, the plane grew steadily colder as we loaded the wounded. There were so many of them that they were being flown out as fast as the planes could land, load, and take-off.
The short, makeshift runways were too dangerous for the larger C-54’s, so the men were being evacuated in C-46’s. As soon as Waters had checked to see that all the litters were secure, and I had made myself familiar with the conditions of the men, we were ready for take-off.
As we taxied down the bumpy runway, I announced there was no smoking until we reached level altitude. And that the heaters would warm them up in a few minutes. I then asked if there were any questions. A Marine asked if I knew the score of the Notre Dame – Army football game. Not having kept up with football scores, and not wanting to look like a dummy; I told him I didn’t know about that game, but Navy beat Army.
All the Marines laughed, and cheered. Being a former Army nurse, I said “I don’t think it’s good that Army got whipped.” It was instances like these that made me glad that I was a flight nurse. I had the best job in the world.
* * * * * *
On our flight from Taegu, Korea, to Itami, Japan, the air was smooth and we had nice weather. Aboard was a mixed load of patients; three Frenchmen, one Turk, one U.S. Marine, along with thirteen other U.N. servicemen—sixteen being litter patients.
The U.S. Marine had a crushed chest and was receiving oxygen, and plasma. I monitored the flow of plasma in his ankle vein to be sure it wasn’t flowing too quickly, and to be sure it wasn’t spreading into surrounding tissue.
I had to administer a shot of morphine for an Army PFC, who had an abdominal laceration that was causing him severe pain. One of the Frenchmen was given a dose of sodium amytal, after which he rested comfortably. We partially inflated the Mae West life vests to use as pillows for those lying on the stretchers, so they could be more comfortable.
Finally, we landed at Itami, and as the Frenchman was being taken off the plane, he reached over and touched my ankle—to get my attention. As I looked down at his smiling face, he patted his chest in a way that made me know he appreciated the care he had received.
After all the men had been unloaded, and taken to Osaka General Hospital, the crew returned to Ashyia—our home base.
* * * * * *
After an airdrop, north of Pyongyang, I was on a return flight that was carrying a group of men that had escaped from behind enemy lines. Their heavily bearded faces made them look shaggy and distraught; however, they were happy to be alive. As I listened to their stories, and watched their expressions, I saw the spirit of the American fighting man come alive. This is the story one of the young men told me.
I don’t know how many days and nights the ten of us tried to break through enemy lines.
Swallowing to choke back emotion, he paused for a moment; then slowly continued.
After a while, there were only five of us left. Being tired, hungry, cold, and frostbitten, we reached a farmer’s shed; frightened and exhausted we crawled in.
The following morning, I woke up and there stood a Korean farmer staring down at us. I thought to myself that we had had it, but he was friendly to us and brought us food. Being able to speak some