After Christmas each section was lectured every other day in the Big House. They listened to long orations by high commanders of varying stature. Sometimes the teachers spoke in Chinese, and this took the longest because an interpreter had to translate it. Sometimes they would rattle along in a high-pitched, singsong English. First, they spoke on “Why Are We Treating You So Well?” Then, “Who Is the Aggressor in Korea?” Then, “Why Is the United States the Aggressor?” Then, “How You Can Fight for Peace.”
After the lectures the section marched back to its house, where it would engage in a roundtable discussion. An English-speaking Chinese officer would sit quietly by, listening and taking notes. Once in a while he would inject a comment, and the Marines would all nod solemn approval.
The weeks stretched into months, and the pattern became routine.
And then dysentery hit. It hit everyone, and the ones it hit the worst died. Sometimes only one would die in a week, sometimes three or five.
Worse than the dysentery was the malnutrition; they had nothing to eat but sorghum seed and millet. Malnutrition hit the legs with a screaming viciousness. When it hit Kaylor he lay flat on his back for 28 days and cried and became delirious, while agonizing pains raced through his legs. When it would stop for a while, he would drift off to sleep, and suddenly wake up screaming when the pains came back. Then, after days of this, exhaustion would claim him, and the pain would lie dormant while he slept. Finally his legs felt better and he was able to move around again.
It was March now, and the days got longer and warmer. And the rumors got thicker that some of the most “promising” friends were soon to be released. The combination kept the prisoners in anxious good spirits. But it was with some reluctance that every man in the camp signed the Stockholm Peace Petition. The Chinese thought it would be a good indication of their sincerity in their desire to fight for peace. The Marines hoped that the names might somehow sift back through the oblivion they had walked into and reach the United States.
And on March 21 the second telegram arrived at the house of Charley Kaylor in Hopkins, Minnesota. The message was from the Army’s Provost Marshal General, and it said that the name of Charles Martin Kaylor had been mentioned on an enemy propaganda broadcast out of Peking on March 16. That’s all it said. But now the constant, desperate hope became a fire.
On Easter Sunday 60 prisoners were herded into the Big House. Inside, great care was taken to seat a certain 30 on one side of the room, and the rest on the other side. Then a high commander delivered a lengthy singsong reiteration of all the lectures of the months before. He climaxed this oration with the news that one of these groups of 30 was to be released. It was felt, he said, that these men were “ready to carry on the fight for peace among their own people.” The other 30 were being cited for “progress,” but were being kept for a while to help instruct incoming newly liberated friends. Then he smiled and toyed with these 60 men.
“Which group is it?” he asked. “Who is going home? Is it the group on my right? Or is it the group on my left?” Bud Kaylor looked around at the faces in his group. Harrison, Estess, Dickerson, Holcomb, Maffioli—all were barracks bull-session artists, and all had given the Reds master snow jobs.
Finally the high commander pointed to the group on his right. It was Kaylor’s group. “This group,” he said, “leaves tonight.” The 30 Marines took the news with stone-faced joy, for they wanted the Reds to feel they would just as soon stay there and be Communists as go home and be Communists. The other 30 also remained stone-faced, but they had trouble fighting back the tears.
The prisoners to be released moved out in trucks at dusk and rode for five nights. On the fifth night Lieutenant Pan, the interpreter in command, got them out of the trucks and told them they were in the Chunchon area.
“There has been an American offensive,” he said. “It is too dangerous to let you go now. You might be killed.”
The Marines said they would take that chance, but Pan told them he was acting under orders. Then the trucks moved away and the Marines were marched to a prison camp.
They stayed in this camp six weeks. Then, on the night of May 15, the Chinese called out 19 of the 30 Marines and marched them to a river. They gave them razors and soap, and let them bathe and shave, then brought them chow. The food was pork and rice, and it was the first time in six months that any of them had seen anything but sorghum seed and millet. A lot of them ate too much too fast and got sick. Bud Kaylor was one of them. After they finished eating, Lieutenant Pan spoke to them.
“Word has come from the high command to release you men,” he said.
Again they were loaded into trucks. On the third night they reached the Imjin River. Retreating Chinese troops were coming back across the river by the thousands. Pan turned his charges over to a field commander. The commander told them that another offensive had been started and they could not be released at this time. Then he left, saying he would be back about midnight and for them to be ready to move back up north.
T/Sgt. Charley Harrison, of Tulsa, Oklahoma, was fighting mad. He announced firmly that he was not going up north again. He was going home, and if anyone wanted to come with him they were welcome.
U.N. artillery was whistling in close, and the guards were in foxholes. So all 19 Marines sneaked off and waded across the shallow Imjin River. On the other side they ran for miles through the woods.
Just before dawn they stopped in a field where the wheat was high, and went to sleep. They awoke to find four Chinese soldiers pointing their guns at them and jabbering to each other. Then Harrison, who spoke Chinese, put on an act. He got up smiling. He explained that they were released prisoners of war and that the high command would be displeased if they were shot or taken back. The Chinese jabbered back at him, and then he talked some more. And then he started talking to the Marines out of the side of his mouth.
“These birds aren’t going to let us go,” he said. “They’re arguing whether they should shoot us now or take us in.” Then he said something in Chinese. Then he spoke English again. “Estess and Dickerson get the one on the left.” More Chinese. “Kaylor and Hilburn the one on the right, Nash and Holcomb the one next to him.” More Chinese. “Hawkins and Hay ton the other one.” Then there was more Chinese, and finally Harrison gave the word: “Let’s get ’em!”
The Marines did their jobs as Harrison assigned them, and completed them quickly when the others pitched in. This was a kill-or-be-killed situation. The Marines overpowered the Reds and strangled them and smashed their heads with the gun butts. Then they ran.
In the next valley they came to a village. A bearded old Korean sent them up to a house on the top of a hill, where the mayor used to live, and promised to send them food and tobacco. They were to wait there until he could send a message to the American troops, who were only a few miles away.
Inside the house they lay and marveled that this was the only house any of them had seen in Korea with wallpaper. And then they heard the sound of an airplane. They looked outside and saw an L-5 artillery observer, an Army plane, flying low. They quickly cut the wallpaper into strips and took it out to the rice paddy behind the house. They spelled out POW 19 RESCUE, and then they went back inside. Only Fred Holcomb stayed out in the rice paddy, waving his undershirt to attract the L-5’s attention. Snipers fired at him from the hills occasionally, but they weren’t coming close, and Holcomb was too excited to care.
Soon Holcomb came running in. The L-5 had dropped a message: “Come out to the letters and be counted. We are sending tanks in to pick you up.”
They went back to the letters and in half an hour they saw the L-5 leading three tanks around a bend in the draw that stretched out beneath the rice paddies. Then Lt. Frank Cold, of Tampa, Florida, the only officer among these 19, lined them up in a column of twos.
“I know how we all feel about being rescued,” he said. “But this is the Army coming in to get us, and we’re still Marines. So let’s be rescued like Marines, in format
ion.”
The tanks stopped about 300 yards from them to identify them, and this was hard to do since they wore Chinese uniforms. But finally they moved up close and the hatch of the lead tank opened. An Army captain came out of it.
The 19 Marines stood there, in columns of twos, in a soggy, worthless no man’s land, somewhere in Korea, and tears as big as raindrops streamed down the face of every one of them. The Army captain stood looking at them, and for a moment it seemed as though all Korea was silent. Then the captain said, “Come on, fellas, let’s get the hell out of here!” So they climbed into the tanks and got the hell out of there, but they were rescued like Marines.
• • •
It was on May 25 that the third telegram arrived at Charley Kaylor’s house. It came from Marine Headquarters, and it said that Pfc. Charles Martin Kaylor would soon be home. The endless months of hoping and praying were over, and the miracle had happened. But the people in Charley Kaylor’s house said one more prayer anyhow.
Then, almost suddenly, it was June 23, and Bud Kaylor was moving down the steps from the airplane, while his eyes searched the faces at the end of the ramp. Then he saw them, right in front, smiling and waving. He limped toward them. Then Dorothy was in his arms, the others clustered around. Bud Kaylor had come the long way home from Korea.
THE VIETNAM WAR
The Courage of Sam Bird
BY B. T. COLLINS
I met Capt. Samuel R. Bird on a dusty road near An Khe, South Vietnam, one hot July day in 1966. I was an artillery forward observer with Bravo Company, 2nd/12th Cavalry, 1st Cavalry Division, and I looked it. I was filthy, sweaty, and jaded by war, and I thought, Oh, brother, get a load of this. Dressed in crisply starched fatigues, Captain Bird was what we called “squared away”—ramrod straight, eyes on the horizon. Hell, you could still see the shine on his boot tips beneath the road dust.
After graduation from Officer Candidate School, I had sought adventure by volunteering for Vietnam. But by that hot and dangerous July, I was overdosed on “adventure,” keenly interested in survival and very fond of large rocks and deep holes. Bird was my fourth company commander, and my expectations were somewhat cynical when he called all his officers and sergeants together.
“I understand this company has been in Vietnam almost a year and has never had a party,” he said. Now, we officers and sergeants had our little clubs to which we repaired. So we stole bewildered looks at one another, cleared our throats and wondered what this wiry newcomer was talking about. “The men are going to have a party,” he announced, “and they’re not going to pay for it. Do I make myself clear?”
A party for the “grunts” was the first order of business! Sam Bird had indeed made himself clear. We all chipped in to get food and beer for about 160 men. The troops were surprised almost to the point of suspicion—who, after all, had ever done anything for them? But that little beer and bull session was exactly what those war-weary men needed. Its effect on morale was profound. I began to watch our new captain more closely.
Bird and I were the same age, 26, but eons apart in everything else. He was from the sunny heartland of Kansas, I from the suburbs of New York City. He prayed every day and was close to his God. My faith had evaporated somewhere this side of altar boy. I was a college dropout who had wandered into the Army with the words “discipline problem” close on my heels. He had graduated from The Citadel, South Carolina’s proud old military school.
If ever a man looked like a leader, it was Sam Bird. He was tall and lean, with penetrating blue eyes. But the tedium and terror of a combat zone take far sterner qualities than mere appearance.
• • •
Our outfit was helicoptered to a mountain outpost one day for the thankless task of preparing a position for others to occupy. We dug trenches, filled sandbags, strung wire under a blistering sun. It was hard work, and Sam was everywhere, pitching in with the men. A colonel who was supposed to oversee the operation remained at a shelter, doing paperwork. Sam looked at what his troops had accomplished, then, red-faced, strode over to the colonel’s sanctuary. We couldn’t hear what he was saying to his superior, but we had the unmistakable sense that Sam was uncoiling a bit. The colonel suddenly found time to inspect the fortifications and thank the men for a job well done.
Another day, this time on the front lines after weeks of awful chow, we were given something called “coffee cake” that had the look and texture of asphalt paving. Furious, Sam got on the radio phone to headquarters. He reached the colonel and said, “Sir, you and the supply officer need to come out here and taste the food, because this rifle company is not taking one step further.” Not a good way to move up in the Army, I thought. But the colonel came out, and the food improved from that moment. Such incidents were not lost on the men of Bravo Company.
During the monsoon season we had to occupy a landing zone. The torrential, wind-driven rains had been falling for weeks. Like everyone else I sat under my poncho in a stupor, wondering how much of the wetness was rainwater and how much was sweat. Nobody cared that the position was becoming flooded. We had all just crawled inside ourselves. Suddenly I saw Sam, Mr. Spit and Polish, with nothing on but his olive-drab undershorts and his boots. He was digging a drainage ditch down the center of the camp. He didn’t say anything, just dug away, mud spattering his chest, steam rising from his back and shoulders. Slowly and sheepishly we emerged from under our ponchos, and shovels in hand, we began helping “the old man” get the ditch dug. We got the camp tolerably dried out and with that one simple act transformed our morale.
Sam deeply loved the U.S. Army, its history and traditions. Few of the men knew it, but he had been in charge of a special honors unit of the Old Guard, which serves at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier in Arlington National Cemetery and participates in the Army’s most solemn ceremonies. He was the kind of guy whose eyes would mist during the singing of the National Anthem.
Sam figured patriotism was just a natural part of being an American. But he knew that morale was a function not so much of inspiration as of good boots, dry socks, extra ammo and hot meals.
• • •
Sam’s philosophy was to put his troops first. On that foundation he built respect a brick at a time. His men ate first; he ate last. Instead of merely learning their names, he made it a point to know the men. A lot of the soldiers were high-school dropouts and would-be tough guys just a few years younger than himself. Some were scared, and a few were still in partial shock at being in a shooting war. Sam patiently worked on their pride and self-confidence. Yet there was never any doubt who was in charge. I had been around enough to know what a delicate accomplishment that was.
Half in wonder, an officer once told me, “Sam can dress a man down till his ears burn, and the next minute that same guy is eager to follow him into hell.” But he never chewed out a man in front of his subordinates.
Sam wouldn’t ask his men to do anything he wasn’t willing to do himself. He dug his own foxholes. He never gave lectures on appearance, but even at Godforsaken outposts in the Central Highlands, he would set aside a few ounces of water from his canteen to shave. His uniform, even if it was jungle fatigues, would be as clean and neat as he could make it. Soon all of Bravo Company had a reputation for looking sharp.
One sultry and miserable day on a dirt road at the base camp, Sam gathered the men together and began talking about how tough the infantryman’s job is, how proud he was of them, how they should always look out for each other. He took out a bunch of Combat Infantryman’s Badges, signifying that a soldier has paid his dues under fire, and he presented one to each of the men. There wasn’t a soldier there who would have traded that moment on the road for some parade ground ceremony.
That was the way Sam Bird taught me leadership. He packed a lot of lessons into the six months we served together: Put the troops first. Know that morale often depends on small things. Respect every persons dignity. Always be ready to fight for your people. Lead by example. Reward performance.
But Sam had another lesson to teach, one that would take long and painful years, a lesson in courage.
• • •
I left Bravo Company in December 1966 to return to the States for a month before joining a Special Forces unit. Being a big, tough paratrooper, I didn’t tell Sam what his example had meant to me. But I made a point of visiting his parents and sister in Wichita, Kansas, just before Christmas to tell them how much he’d affected my life, and how his troops would walk off a cliff for him. His family was relieved when I told them that his tour of combat was almost over and he’d be moving to a safe job in the rear.
Two months later, in a thatched hut in the Mekong Delta, I got a letter from Sam’s sister, saying that he had conned his commanding officer into letting him stay an extra month with his beloved Bravo Company. On his last day, January 27, 1967—his 27th birthday—the men had secretly planned a party, even arranging to have a cake flown in. They were going to “pay back the old man.” But orders came down for Bravo to lead an airborne assault on a North Vietnamese regimental headquarters.
Sam’s helicopter was about to touch down at the attack point when it was ripped by enemy fire. Slugs shattered his left ankle and right leg. Another struck the left side of his head, carrying off almost a quarter of his skull. His executive officer, Lt. Dean Parker, scooped Sam’s brains back into the gaping wound.
Reader's Digest Soldier Stories Page 9