At the end of my last sprint, my legs felt like jelly. My chest burned and I could barely hold the ammunition cans in my hands. I collapsed next to Giroux and Bromser in the trench. They had the grenades stacked up neatly in the foxhole we were using as a command post.
“Sergeant Richardson, let’s keep the grenades here and pass them out only where and when we need them,” Giroux said.
I just shook my head and leaned back in the hole. My fatigue jacket was soaked and my body felt weary, exhausted. I quickly recovered when Giroux patted me on the back. He didn’t need to say anything. The moment was broken when we heard the rumble of the engines. They echoed as the planes approached from the south, dipping into the valley and flying over our position.
They were Australian bombers.
The planes came around low and fast and strafed the riverbed in the east. With their wings dipping low, the planes swung around and came right over our position again as they approached the hill south of the bridge where the machine gun positions were. Their guns sounded like loud zippers as they pounded the hills with long bursts. The machine gun links from the planes were falling right on us as they unloaded on the machine gunners who’d pinned us down. Every link increased morale. Everyone was excitedly waving and cheering them on. Pulling up after hitting the hill, they slipped over the mountains and disappeared. They didn’t hit the west riverbed. Out of ammo, low on gas, who knows? As the saying goes, don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.
Taking advantage of the attack, Bromser wanted to check out the battalion command post before the Chinese soldiers recovered. Operationally there was nothing left in the command post. The only communications we had were in Sergeant Miller’s tank. I didn’t think Bromser should go, but there was no stopping him. He wanted to check for survivors. It would be a treacherous dash fully exposed to the Chinese; however, the air strike must have shook the shit out of the Chinese. They never fired a shot.
Bromser and Giroux went into the command post while I waited outside and talked to Corporal Jones, who was still manning the machine gun. Jones was a medic from Massachusetts, and we mostly talked about home. I could tell he was nervous after manning the gun for so long. He’d kept the wounded in the command post safe and seemed grateful just to have some company. Anything to take his mind off things.
It’s funny the things you find yourself talking about. He told me how he planned to join the State Troopers when he got back. I looked into his eyes and thought, Here’s one hell of a brave guy. But I couldn’t take my mind off our bigger problems.
Inside the command post, I knew what the officers were talking about. It was a forbidden subject. What were we going to do with the wounded in the terrible final moment that everyone knew was coming? The battalion surgeon, Doc Anderson, and the chaplain were doing what they could for about forty wounded men. But we couldn’t hold out for long without a relief column. And if we had to run, the wounded officers were going to have to decide whether or not to leave themselves and the other wounded men behind to the mercies of the enemy.
Bromser and Giroux came out. They didn’t say anything about their decisions and told me to get ready to head back to the perimeter. I knew this might be the last time I’d see Jones. He smiled as I stood up and waved. I didn’t want to leave.
“Lieutenant, how about I come back with some men and help defend this position,” I said. “Jones is beat, and if he doesn’t get some help they will never be able to hold the position.”
If they didn’t let me come back, the Chinese would easily overrun the battalion position. It was a hard decision.
Bromser looked at Giroux. They knew the situation. They knew we were surrounded and trapped. You could see them doing the battlefield calculus in their heads. Could they spare anyone at their own position? Finally Giroux turned to me.
“Rich, you’re coming back with us,” he said.
I could see the pain in his face and I didn’t fight him. I knew he hadn’t made the decision lightly.
We moved back to the perimeter, racing through the open area but still not attracting the gunners. When we got back, I went to the west side to check on our defenses.
Remnants of 3rd Battalion, perimeter defense. November 2-4, 1950. Excerpts from Major General Gay, 1st CAV Div. Commander 1950-1951. National Archives
Wollack, a stocky sergeant, had taken charge. I never got his first name, we really just used last names, but I do remember he was Polish and one of twenty-six children off a farm from somewhere in the north-central part of the country. As we talked, I saw that a group of twenty men were running right at us. They were Americans and were hollering and waving at us. I prayed they were the lead element of a relief column. The others guys were cheering them on as they made the short dash to our trench. They slid inside, their chests heaving.
“What unit are you guys from?” I asked.
“Second of the Eighth,” an officer said between deep breaths.
The stragglers pushed by us and collapsed in the center of the perimeter. Everyone’s morale sank lower than whale shit. The energy and excitement seemed to deflate from the men in the trench, and all at once their heads hung and shoulders dipped. These guys weren’t a relief column. They were just more stragglers from the Second Battalion.
I couldn’t shake the thought that no one was coming for us.
CHAPTER TWELVE
DYING ONE BY ONE
The faint buzz of an L-5 artillery spotter plane shook me from my despair. I looked up, shielding my eyes from the sun, and could just pick it out. The olive green plane circled over us for a few minutes, then the pilot dropped two duffel bags out of the door and flew off. I watched the bags tumble from the plane and land in an open field about one hundred yards north of the perimeter.
I crouched at the edge of the perimeter and looked at the bags. Anyone sent out there would be exposed to the Chinese gunners on the hill. But we needed the supplies. And if we waited until dark, the Chinese would get them.
Without thinking, I dashed out of my hole. “Cover me,” I yelled over my shoulder. I tore across the field toward the bags, hoping to catch the Chinese by surprise.
No such luck.
I was nearly to the bags when shots hit all around me. I dove to the ground and crawled the rest of the way. I prayed that the duffel bags would be filled with ammunition and grenades. Grabbing one of the bag’s olive green straps, I hoisted it onto my shoulder. The bag wasn’t as heavy as I had figured but still weighed enough that I could only carry one at a time.
Taking a deep breath, I stood up and started running as fast as I could back toward the trench. Staying as low as I could, I dodged back and forth. Most of the shots cracked above my head. About halfway to the trench, a round hit the bag and almost knocked me down. I staggered forward and quickly regained my balance. Just as I reached the first trench, I stumbled and fell on some rocks. Two guys jumped out of the trench and dragged the bag and me to safety.
“You okay?” one asked.
“Yeah, I’m all right. What’s in the bag?”
The soldier pulled open the bag, and medical supplies, mostly morphine and bandages, spilled out into the dirt. The other bag must be the ammo. I crawled down the trench, jumped out and ran like hell for the other bag.
This time the Chinese were ready.
Rounds were hitting the ground in front of and beside me. They must be awful marksmen, I thought, just as a round ripped through the sleeve of my fatigue shirt and burned the hell out of my arm. I dove for the bag, snatched it up and started back to the trench. I was hustling with the speed of fright and dove the last few feet. I was spent and I sat on the ground trying to get my breath. My heart was pumping like it was about to jump out of my body.
Some of the other men opened the second bag and, like the first, it was filled with medical supplies. We needed the medical supplies, but we could not throw bandages at the Chinese. Giroux looked at me, smiled and shook his head.
Later that day, Wollack sent for me.
I walked across to the west side of the perimeter and saw him standing near a machine gun position. He looked concerned and started pointing out toward what looked like an open field.
“Look over there,” he said.
I watched where he was pointing. I didn’t see anything. I looked at him and shrugged my shoulders.
“No. Keep looking,” he said, this time staring intently.
Then I saw it. A faint shovelful of dirt flying into the air. The little bastards were digging a trench. There were about a half dozen or so digging a path right for us. Our machine guns had been keeping them at a distance. But when their trench was done, they could move under cover right up to the edge of our trenches.
“Jesus Christ. How many grenades do you have?” I asked.
“A couple,” Wollack said through a scowl.
“Let me get you some,” I said, still watching the dirt scoops fly into the air. “When they get close, frag them.”
We were receiving harassing fire the whole time, but late in the afternoon the Chinese started to bombard us with 120mm mortars and rockets. We spent the rest of the day hunkered down in our holes as the explosions rippled through the ground. The Chinese focused much of the barrage on the tanks. One got hit and burst into flames. The tank crew and some of the other men managed to put the fire out.
Finally, Giroux told the tankers to move outside the perimeter. The mortar and rocket fire followed them. Tanks were made to fight and move, and in the perimeter they weren’t effective. Low on ammunition and fuel, Miller decided to try and get out while the tanks could still fight. He ran back into the perimeter and told Giroux his plan. Giroux agreed, and just as it started to get dark Miller and the tanks moved out toward the road. That’s the last we saw of them. Miller eventually had to abandon the tanks, but he was able to reach friendly lines on foot. He was the only one that got the message to our lines that we were trapped.
Sunset was a bad time. Night always meant another attack. It started with a probe. A few Chinese soldiers would move up to the perimeter, followed by a short and violent firefight. Shortly after the probe, the artillery and mortar fire would start, followed by the demonic bawl of brass bugles and whistles as the Chinese infantry attacked.
As soon as I heard the bugles, I raced to the interior foxholes and got the men up who could fight. I was getting aggravated trying to get the men to move out to the perimeter. We needed all the men and firepower we could get to stop the Chinese from breaching the line, because as sure as they breached it, we were done.
The men looked at me with weary and tired eyes. All of us had scruffy beards and our skin was caked with mud and blood. None of the soldiers could look at me. They knew that they wouldn’t survive unless they got up and fought, but they just sat there. They were not cowards, just frozen by fear. For some, this was their first taste of combat. Boys who overnight were forced to become men. I could only imagine the terror they must have been going through.
“You’ve got two choices,” I yelled. “Get up and get to the line or I’ll shoot you.”
That shocked them into action. I don’t think they thought I would shoot them. I had no sooner finished prodding the men out of the interior holes than one hell of a fight took place at the battalion command post. I knew there were mostly wounded soldiers there and I feared for Jones, the lone man on the machine gun.
But I had my own problems.
The bugles and whistles broke the silence and the Chinese rushed the east side of our perimeter. They came in waves straight into our fire. As quickly as they fell, more appeared. They moved into our fire like they were possessed. I raced from trench to trench, moving men where the Chinese concentrated their attack. When the attack on the east side slowed, they launched an attack on the west side. Although we were dug in, our casualties were mounting. I kept moving men to where the most Chinese were concentrated. The attack slowed down, but it was not long before they began an assault on the west side of the perimeter.
When I got there, Wollack had his men focused on the trench the Chinese had dug the day before. Each time a Chinese soldier popped out, Wollack’s men quickly cut him down. I could hear the men screaming all types of obscenities over the roar of the guns.
Wollack suddenly burst from the perimeter through a hail of fire toward the Chinese. He hurled four or five grenades into the Chinese trench and dove to the ground as they exploded, throwing a plume of dirt into the air. Before the dust settled, Wollack jumped up and ran like hell back to our position. We waited for more Chinese, but they never came.
I grabbed Wollack as he scrambled into the trench. What he’d done was something out of the movies.
“We sure gave it to them little bastards,” he screamed over the noise.
“You sure did,” I said.
He was charged up. His eyes were on fire and he kept yelling at the now dead Chinese.
“You sure did,” I repeated.
When I got back to Bromser and Giroux, I told them about Wollack and how well he was doing on the western side. But that was the only good news. We had very little ammunition left. The mortars didn’t have any illuminating rounds, which lit up the battlefield so that we could see the Chinese coming.
Giroux was staring at the trucks just outside our lines.
“What if we shoot up the trucks?” he asked.
If we set ablaze the twenty trucks, it would provide enough light to see the Chinese making their way toward us.
“We have a few rifle grenades. I am sure along with machine gun tracers we will be able to ignite the trucks,” I said, warming to the idea.
“Get them up here and get them ready,” Giroux said.
I gathered up a half dozen men armed with rifle grenades and a machine gun crew with its tracers ready to fire when the next attack started. As soon as we heard the bugle, Giroux gave the order to fire up the trucks. We hammered the gas tanks and engines until they started to glow. Soon flames shot out of the cabs, engines and tanks.
When the Chinese infantrymen ran past, we could see them silhouetted against the light. It was a shooting gallery. We cut down the first wave only to watch the next one climb over their comrades and keep coming. We mowed down the next wave, but they still kept coming. For the rest of the night, the Chinese came at us like waves to shore. But each time we stopped them. They never reached the perimeter.
The next morning, I took stock of our situation. Water and food were a problem, but ammunition and the wounded were our biggest concerns. We had eighty-five able-bodied men left out of about two hundred. The rest were dead or wounded. We were also out of morphine, and the screams of the wounded were starting to have an impact on the rest of the men. I could see in their eyes a tired, haggard look.
“A relief column is coming for us. They’ll get through today,” I told the men as I walked the line. I said it over and over again, hoping to calm them and, as I realize in hindsight, probably hoping to convince myself.
I hoped to hell I was right.
When Giroux saw me walking the line, he called me over and asked me to go with him and Lieutenant Mayo to try and check the situation at the command post perimeter. I nodded and we quickly moved out.
Again, we made it without firing a shot. When we got there, everything was smashed. The Chinese had overrun the position. Every inch of the dugout was covered with the wounded. Only Doc Anderson was left. Also wounded, he hobbled over the men, trying to help. But he had few supplies and there was little he could do.
Between patients, he told us the Chinese had knocked out Jones and the machine gun position with grenades. I left and started to look for Jones. I didn’t really know the guy. But after our conversation a few days ago, I felt like I did.
The machine gun was gone. The bodies close by had been dead for more than twenty-four hours. Maybe Jones was still alive—somewhere. I went back to Giroux, who was still talking to Anderson. The doc said that when the Chinese got into the dugout, Chaplain Kapaun stopped them from killing all of the wounded
by surrendering himself. The Chinese took him and fifteen of the walking wounded, including my old company commander, Captain McAbee.
“What Kapaun did was heroic, stopping the Chinese,” Anderson said. “When he left, he was carrying Sergent Miller.”
Miller was Gray’s friend from Pusan. Standing in the dugout, we were all astonished by the chaplain’s bravery. But Doc Anderson, I thought, stood in no man’s shadow either when it came to bravery.
We left what food we had and went back to our perimeter. There was nothing we could do, and there was no way we could get the wounded back to our trenches. Plus, we already had more wounded then we could treat.
When I got back, I organized about a dozen guys to follow me out of the perimeter and gather up some of the Chinese weapons and ammunition. We were out of almost everything, but lying in front of us were weapons and ammunition, including much needed grenades. Before we left, I told the men to be careful because some of the Chinese might still be alive.
It was a gruesome business, but the only solution to our most pressing problem. Crawling over piles of dead Chinese, the smell was overpowering. At times, I could hear gas seep out of the decaying corpses. I could hear men behind me gag and throw up.
The bodies closest to our position had weapons and ammo. We quickly gathered up their rifles, including some submachine guns, which we called burp guns because of how they sounded when fired. But the farther we got from our trenches, the fewer weapons we found. I knew when the North Koreans attacked, their soldiers in the rear ranks would be unarmed. They would pick up weapons from the wounded and killed and keep moving forward. I wondered if the Chinese were doing the same thing, or if they just did a good job recovering their weapons and equipment.
For the rest of the morning, we passed out our new trove of ammunition and dug in deeper. As we worked, I heard the faint buzz of an airplane overhead. The spotter plane that had dropped the bags of medical supplies was back. This time instead of dropping supplies it dropped a message. And this time the pilot dropped it on target.
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