Valleys of Death (7 page)

During a lull, I could hear one of the engineers to our left screaming in pain and calling for his mother. His sobs and screams for help landed harder than the North Korean artillery shells.

Finally, Private Jones, one of my young smart-asses, had heard enough. He started to yell and scream. I covered Walsh as he scrambled out to Jones. He was on the bottom of Hall's hole crying. Walsh tried to get him up, but he wouldn't move. I climbed out and helped Walsh drag Jones's ass out of the foxhole.

“You stay with Hall,” I told Walsh.

Snatching Jones by his shirt collar, I stumbled with him back to my foxhole. He crawled in and huddled against the wall sobbing. He couldn't talk, even when I asked him simple questions. His body heaved with every sob.

The engineer had finally stopped screaming and now in an ever desperate voice pleaded for someone to come get him.

“Stay in your holes,” I barked.

I was sure the North Koreans were lying in wait hoping someone would try to get him. God, I wished he would die. That thought sent a jolt through me. Jesus Christ, I didn't really mean that. The poor son of a bitch. My only thought now was please God bring the daylight soon.

When the sun's rays finally peeked over the horizon, we started getting the wounded off the hill. The rifle platoon to our left had some men who had been caught sleeping and the Koreans had slit their throats. The section watched as the wounded men walked past with their throats covered in blood, assisted by two men. It was a demoralizing sight—my men were scared shitless—because it could have been us. That would keep them alert at night, I hoped. When the wounded had all been evacuated, I got the medic to tag Jones.

I pulled the medic aside.

“Doc, can you write this up and make sure he never gets sent back?”

“Roger, Sergeant,” the medic said, taking Jones by the arm and leading him back to the makeshift casualty collection point on the backside of the hill.

Walsh grabbed me after Jones left. We were getting ready to move forward, and I was making sure Jones hadn't left anything behind.

“Sarge, Black lost it. He's crying and he's hugging a tree and will not respond to me.”

Black, I didn't know him very well. He was one of the company's problem children. He'd gotten drunk after a unit picnic at Fort Devens and the military police had locked him up for bring drunk and disorderly. This incident confirmed what I already thought: Black was going to be a constant problem. I put him in Walsh's squad and we'd both kept on his ass making sure he was doing the right thing.

When I got to Black, he was wrapped around a tree like a vine. Every time a shell landed nearby, he began shaking and crying. No talking was going to help. I just wanted to get him away from the rest of the men. The section had fought well, but after listening to the engineer all night they had their own nerves to contend with.

They didn't need to be exposed to this.

“Move the section up the road a little ways while I get a medic to tag him and get him out of here,” I told Walsh.

I got the same medic who tagged Jones. That made two men within twenty-four hours. If this continued, I would lose the whole section to fear instead of the enemy.

Greenlowe, my other young guy was doing great as my runner. Last night I sent him back to the company headquarters to pick up the grenades. He assured me that he could find the headquarters location in the dark. Over the next few days he proved his worth so much so that the company commander recognized his courage and ability to find his way around the battlefield and made him the company runner to battalion.

CHAPTER SIX

DARK DAYS OF SUMMER

The heat and humidity covered us like a blanket as we moved north through the village of Tabu-Dong.

In minutes, our fatigues were soaking wet from sweat. We marched for five miles, and with every step I hoped that we didn't get attacked. Moving through the skeleton of houses burned out by constant fighting was eerie. We could see debris and torn clothes in the rubble. I scanned each mud hut as we passed and waited for the ambush around every corner, but the village was deserted and we made it without firing a shot.

We all took turns carrying the guns and ammunition. I didn't want to tire out the gunners. Everybody was shuffling along. It reminded me of the march at Camp Stoneman, but this time we weren't hungover.

Just outside of town, the land spread out into untended fields and rice paddies with the high ridges that formed the bowling alley on both sides. We were moving at a good clip when all of a sudden we were receiving fire from the high ground to our right front.

“Get that gun in that ditch. Fire at the base of the hill,” I yelled to Gray. “Walsh, follow me.”

We ran into a field where we could get into position to fire at a better angle. It was amazing: Everybody was moving at top speed and just a second ago they were dragging ass.

Bowling Alley Pusan perimeter, September 1-23, 1950. Timeline “L” CO & 3rd BN 8th CAV.
National Archives, modified by author.

“Walsh, get in behind that dike, put fire a little further up the hill. Can you see where the fire is coming from?”

“Got it, Rich,” Walsh said as his team positioned the gun and started loading.

“I'm going back up the road. Keep your eyes on me,” I said. “I'll let you know when I want you.”

I caught up with McAbee.

September 6, 1950. Men of 8th CAV., Regt., 1st CAV Division, advance to the front below Tabu-Dong.
National Archives

“Richardson, you keep a machine gun and your 57s firing on the hill. I'm going to attack on the left side. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

In seconds I could hear Gray's gun start firing and soon after Walsh started pounding the hill. I grabbed Gray and had him fire some white phosphorous—Willie Peter—on the target. The smoke concealed McAbee and the rest of the company as it got into position. I could see our soldiers open fire and start moving up the hill. I shifted the 57s away from them and continued to pound the North Korean machine gunners. In minutes, McAbee and his men overwhelmed the North Korean defenders.

From my vantage point, it looked like it had been scripted for a movie. It was beautiful to watch the soldiers move so perfectly in concert with our fire. A perfectly executed attack. But it seemed too easy. McAbee seemed to think so too and ordered everybody to hurry up the hill and dig in.

We raced up to a ridge and started to dig. By now, my section had become good at quickly getting the guns up and in position. Then, with our now strong backs, we snapped open our entrenching tools and started digging foxholes.

A foxhole was rectangular shaped and deep enough so that we could stand in it with only our head and shoulders exposed. The hole widened at the bottom so that during artillery fire we could crouch down. If we had time, we also dug sumps so that we could kick enemy grenades into them, possibly saving our lives.

At dark, North Korean shells started to crash down around us. Volley after volley showered us with debris. The ground shook like an earthquake, and the roar of the explosions made it impossible to hear or even think.

As I crouched down in my hole, holding my helmet tight against my head, my leg started to shake. I tried to press down on it, but the leg continued to shake and jump. I never got the shakes in the daylight no matter how tough the situation was. Why? I didn't know. Maybe because I could see what was happening around me, I felt more like I was in control. At night it was the unknown that shook me, but when the fighting started I was under control.

The first time this happened to me was when I was fourteen years old. I was being questioned in regards to a payroll robbery of a local company. I had nothing to do with it, but the police still took me in for questioning. During the questioning, my right leg jumped uncontrollably. I stood up to try to stop it but to no avail. I have no idea why my leg shook so badly, because I really was innocent.

I prayed that none of my men ever noticed my leg shaking. Adrenaline always seemed to flow at the right time for me; it was the same playing football: The more often or the harder I got hit, the better I seemed to play.

The smoke and dust still hung in the air when they attacked again. The first waves came with rifles; behind them more soldiers followed and picked up the weapons left by the dead. On almost every attack, the North Koreans tried to slip behind our lines and cut off our avenue of retreat. Once they did, they would pound our flanks. This time, the North Korean soldiers charged up the hill right into the teeth of our machine guns. After the third attempt, they quit and we settled in for a tense night.

We waited all night, but they didn't attack again. The North Koreans instead went around us and cut off the road back to Tabu-Dong. As the fingers of pink light shot up over the horizon, we were ordered to withdraw through the North Korean line. This was not going to be easy.

Just as we were ready to start our dangerous trek, we were notified that the remainder of the battalion had breached the North Korean line close to Tabu-Dong. Colonel Johnson ordered McAbee to withdraw off the ridge. He was sending trucks through the breach in an audacious attempt to get us out.

We found a field near the road where the trucks could turn around, and we dug in. We were in a bad spot and knew it. If the trucks got stopped, there was little hope that we could fight our way back to our lines. If we stayed put, they would smash us with another artillery barrage. And I was sure we wouldn't escape without losses.

I gathered up the section before the trucks arrived.

“Move quickly when the trucks get here. Be prepared to fire as we go down the road. I want everybody facing out,” I said as calmly as I could. “I want half of you on each side of the truck ready to fire. Fire on my orders. Look for orange panels. Those are friendlies.”

Soon, I could see the trucks coming down the road. Five two-and-a-half-ton trucks. They had machine gun mounts, but since the Army was short, no machine guns. They raced down the road at a breakneck pace. Their engines screamed as the drivers pushed them. They pulled into the field in a semicircle and barely stopped before we started climbing aboard. Things were tight, and in minutes the whole company was crammed into the truck beds. Witt, one of the section's pudgy ammo bearers, tapped me on the shoulder just as the driver started back toward the road.

“Sarge, can I please get on the floor of the truck and pray for us?”

“Okay,” I barked. “But you better make it a goddamn good prayer.”

The trucks quickly got up to speed. I kept talking and repeating orders to scan the road and be ready to shoot. Standing near the cab, I watched the truck in front of me swerve and almost lose control. Shit. If one of these trucks crashed, there wasn't enough room to go around it.

Then I saw the panels in the distance. We were getting close to the North Korean line.

I ordered the section to fire. I wanted to keep the North Koreans' heads down. We kept up a steady stream of fire. I have no idea if we hit anything, but I could hear the North Korean rounds hitting our truck. When I saw the panels getting closer, I started shouting to my men.

“Cease fire. Cease fire.”

I could hear the fire slack off as each truck passed through. I finally exhaled and watched as the men relaxed. I helped Witt up from the bed of the truck and slapped him on the back.

“Good work,” I said. “He listened.”

It didn't take long and we were off the trucks and quickly organized to move against a position to the east of the road. This seemed a little crazy. We'd attacked way out in front of our lines and luckily withdrawn through Tabu-Dong; now we were attacking a hill that seemed to be in the rear of the positions we had just passed through.