Last week I began relating an experience in the Korean War, and ended with our outfit marching north through a narrow valley with my feet becoming more painful as we progressed.
We reached a road which ran east and west and were told to dig in. Our position was on the side of a hill, facing north and overlooking the road. We dug foxholes and spent the night there, wrapping our sleeping bags around us for warmth, but not being able to sleep. The next day we marched further north along a path for about an hour before digging in again.
Those of us in the lower ranks seldom had any idea where we were. I can’t remember ever being told what our location was except when we jumped earlier in the war at Sunchan. From David Halberstam’s book, “The Coldest Winter” I learned that we were now near a place called Chipyongni, which turned out to be one of the decisive battles in the war.
That night we were told to prepare for a Chinese attack. Our battalion was on the point of our lines, with Republic of Korea, or ROK, forces on both our left and right flanks. Then we could see the attack taking shape.
The Chinese had a practice of sending up a series of white parachute flares all along their front line when they attacked. They might not have needed them on this night, because a full moon shining on the white snow gave plenty of visibility. The flares, though, along with their practice of giving battle orders by blowing trumpets, had a psychological effect on their opponents, particularly the ROK forces.
There is no nice way to say it, but the ROK soldiers were terrified of the Chinese. They would stand and fight North Korean soldiers, but generally ran whenever they were confronted by Chinese. Our indication that this had already happened was when we were being fired upon from our right flank. We were ordered to withdraw down the path we had just used, and regroup further south.
I was at a disadvantage because it was becoming more and more painful to walk. Soon I was at the tail end of the column and getting farther behind. Ahead of us, as we approached the area where we had stayed the previous night, we could hear a series of explosions, which turned out to be our deliberate destroying of all ammunition in the area to keep it from falling into enemy hands.
When the last of us reached the road we had faced the night before, we were told that the last truck had left, and that we would have to wait there until transportation could return to us. I saw a lieutenant and told him about those foxholes we had dug the previous day, and that if we wanted to protect ourselves until help arrived, I would show him where they were.
The lieutenant said, “Go ahead,” and I started climbing the hill and did not look back until I had reached the area. I turned around and discovered I was alone! I had two choices: I could go back down to the road where I might learn that help had already come sooner than expected and that everyone had left, or I could go south in the narrow valley we had traveled two days before. I chose the latter.
I found the oxcart road we had used and painfully headed south. The moon still gave enough light to follow it. Then I got another scare.
Next Week: A frightened 22-year-old trudges on.
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.
