Last week, I related how the Chinese army was attacking, and I was alone, taking one painful step after another on an oxcart path leading south. I spied a collection of huge boulders near the path, and behind it a typical one-room Korean hut.
I was in need of a nicotine fix. We were almost all addicted to the drug in those days. I entered the hut, pulled my parka over my head to hide any light from the match and lit up. That’s when I discovered that there was a male Korean stretched out on the floor beside me.
I exited the hut in a hurry. Then I heard the sound of footsteps and saw a troop of Asian soldiers walking along the path I had just vacated. In the moonlight I couldn’t tell if they were Chinese or Korean. I froze in place beside the pile of boulders, determined to die fighting if I were spotted and shot at.
The last of the column passed without noticing me. I returned to the path, and looked back over my shoulder to see another line of white flares a mile or so behind me, indicating another Chinese surge forward.
The hill behind the lights appeared to be moving, like a slow avalanche, and I realized that what I was seeing was the entire side of the hill covered in moving men dressed in white parkas.
Recently in David Halberstam’s book “The Coldest Winter,” I learned there were 200,000 Chinese troops moving against our lines in that operation!
Then I heard the distinctive rumbling of a tank, which seemed to be coming from the other side of a ridge of low hills to the east. I reasoned that they must be friendly forces because I had heard that the Chinese didn’t have tanks at the front lines. (I was wrong about this, but for once I lucked out.)
Flipping a mental coin, I decided to try to try to cross the ridge and head for the sound of vehicles rather than take a chance on following the path I was on.
The snow was knee deep and crusty away from the traveled portion of the path, and each step was a stressful and painful effort, but I was now committed. I crossed the ridge line of the hill — it was probably not more than 200 or 300 feet above the level of the valley — and saw movement on a road which was, indeed, just on the other side.
I reached the road, and faced another problem. All the vehicles were more than full, and nobody wanted to stop to pick up one more straggling soldier. Finally, I was apparently able to work on the sympathy of the men in the back of an overcrowded “six by” or 2½ ton truck, and was pulled aboard.
The rest of the trip to our new defensive line was uneventful. We stopped, and I began searching for my outfit. On the way I encountered a M.A.S.H. unit in the process of setting up, and went in to have my feet checked before reporting to my unit.
I was placed on a cot. Someone removed my shoe pacs and I heard a doctor — or somebody — say “frostbite.” They took away my rifle and backpack, and I was either given a painkiller, or I’ve simply mentally blocked portions of my memory, because I have no recollection of being flown to Japan and taken to a hospital.
I recovered fully, was given a couple more stripes, and sent to Okinawa to instruct draftees in advanced infantry tactics.
“My War” was over.
Bill Moeller is a former entertainer, mayor, bookstore owner, city council member, paratrooper and pilot living in Centralia. He can be reached at bookmaven123@comcast.net.
