You may remember from last week's column that I was stuck wearing the wrong boots on patrol in Korea.
On day two, we headed north again, gaining altitude until we reached an area that overlooked a west-to-east road below us. As it became darker, more activity erupted — lighted parachutes blasted into the air while a number of bugles were being heard.
It wasn't until later that I learned that the bugles were the Chinese method of communicating among themselves since radio contact was scarce.
That didn't make it any less scary.
After sighting the overwhelming gathering below us, the decision from our headquarters was for us to return to our previous night's location where vehicles would pick us up. Since that meant the equivalent of a full day's march from our recent position, it meant that I was left farther and farther behind until I reached the location, only to find that the transportation had come, gathered everyone into trucks and left, taking them to a safer location.
My painful feet took on a new level of discomfort and all I could do was head south by myself.
I was blessed by the fact that there was a full moon shining in a cloudless sky and for directions I knew where the North Star was located.
As I mentioned, this was happening in the coldest part of the winter and, if someone walked through the snow off the trail, it was nearly up to the level of one's belt.
So, since I had missed the rescue vehicles, I began to imagine that I could still hear them, but on the other side of a rise in the ground about 25 or 30 feet high on my left.
Could I take a chance and try to cross over that long hump?
There used to be an old program on the radio where the mean little kid would say "I dood it" before acting, and that's what I did.
And, as I approached the sounds, several trucks did come into view, but they were all filled with the exception of one, which thankfully stopped for me.
The first thing I tried to do when we reached the new gathering point was to seek out my company, but a MASH unit in a tent caught my eye instead, and I headed toward it because I wanted to know just how badly damaged were my feet.
As I was lying in a cot, a doctor came through the tent, took one quick look at my feet and said only "frostbite."
I was given a shot, which sort of knocked me out. Well, not completely I guess because I seem to remember being carried to a DC3 airplane, but recall nothing else until I woke up in a hospital in Osaka, Japan.
I remained there for about two months before I was raised to the rank of staff sergeant, shipped to Okinawa and then reassigned to a new duty, that of telling draftees what they could expect to see and feel once they were being shot at on the Korean Peninsula.
While I don't need reminders to share that experience, any of you readers who have been in combat will know I was pretty lucky.
But you all might also understand how our comfortable 70- to 80-degree summer weather is appreciated.
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Bill Moeller is a former entertainer, mayor, bookstore owner, city council member, paratrooper and pilot living in Centralia. He can be reached at bookmaven321@comcast.net.
