Valleys of Death (14 page)

“Heavenly Father, thank you for protecting these men as they did your work,” he said.

I was not a religious person, but I felt like one that day. I gave thanks with Walsh for our gift of life. After services that evening we turned in our basic load of ammunition.

Another sure sign that it was over.

CHAPTER TEN

WE CAN'T HOLD THE BRIDGE

That night, we got orders to move. But not home. We were headed north to the town of Unsan.

Early the next morning we drew our basic load of ammunition and loaded our jeeps and two-and-a-half-ton trucks. Soon we were bouncing up the road toward a city we'd never heard of and didn't care to see. Unsan sat in a wide valley north of Pyongyang. The valley narrowed in the south where my battalion was positioned. We stayed in reserve south of the city. The other two battalions were in forward positions slightly north and west of the city.

When we got to our company's reserve position, Vaillancourt took me aside and told me that I was going to be promoted to master sergeant. The company was shuffling some of its noncommissioned officers, and I was going to take the whole weapons platoon. Walsh, my best squad leader, was going to take the recoilless rifle section. He was a good leader and he never faltered no matter how bad the situation got.

I was a corporal when we arrived in Korea; now, less than sixty-seven days later I was going to be a master sergeant, the army's highest noncommissioned officer's rank. The promotions couldn't have come at a better time. With the war winding down, I was sure this would be the last of the fast promotions. Together Walsh and I had come a long way since Pusan.

Timeline to Unsan. 8
^th
Regt. Positions at Unsan. November 1-2, 1950.

The section was given the mission of securing the bridge at Camel's Head, and by midday we had moved to the bridgehead. High hills overlooked the south side of the bridge. The trees and bushes on the hills were more brown than green. That combined with a smoky haze that hung in the valley made everything looked gray and cold. It reminded me of the winter days in Philly.

When we got to the bridge, Walsh had the troops set up the guns while I looked around. The bridge was approximately ninety feet long and constructed of concrete. At its center it was about thirty feet above an almost dry riverbed. Two small rivers converged just east of the bridge, but at this time of the year both were almost dry. I noticed that troops could cross on foot almost anywhere and there were numerous places where vehicles could ford the river.

The battalion headquarters was four hundred yards north of our position on the left side of the road. It was in a dugout that appeared to be an old abandoned North Korean position. An artillery battery was about 250 yards to our right flank. We spent most of the morning digging in and positioning the guns. Since the company was close, we were going to be eating hot chow, good old shit on shingle and plenty of coffee, which helped since the weather was turning cold. Most mornings we woke up with frost on our ponchos and equipment.

Later in the day the supply sergeant, Sergeant Costello, drove up to the bridge with some field jackets and a couple of sweaters. He only had enough for half the men, so I told the squad leaders to make sure their men got taken care of first.

“Hey, is there any chance we can get a few more field jackets or sweaters?” I asked as Costello climbed behind the wheel of the jeep.

“I'll try,” he said.

Costello started the jeep, and just before he pulled off, he stopped.

“Rich, listen to this dream I had last night.”

In the dream Costello and his wife were old and he was dying. His wife and grown children were standing around the bed.

“You know what that means,” he asked, ready to quickly answer the question. “Well, Rich, that means that I'm going to live to a ripe old age.”

I smiled and put my arm around his shoulder. “That's great. Now go dig up some more field jackets.”

Colonel Johnson, the new 5th regimental commander, had visited our battalion headquarters. On his way back to his regimental location he stopped at the bridge. I saluted and reported to him and he shook my hand.

“The Fifth Cavalry encountered a number of small North Korean roadblocks sixteen to nineteen miles to the south of your position,” he warned me. “Be careful. I think they are isolated units and may try to withdraw up the riverbed.”

Confident in my men and myself, I thanked the colonel for the warning and then said something I never forgot: “Sir, if they come up this riverbed, they've had it.”

Johnson smiled.

“Be careful,” he said.

As he drove away, I saluted and thought, Me be careful? You are the one who is riding back down that road. Despite my cockiness, Colonel Johnson's visit did put a new light on the situation. We now had to secure the bridge and be prepared to deal with the possibility of the North Koreans trying to move up the riverbed. We spent the next few hours shoring up our defenses. I had the men dig foxholes and positioned the two gun jeeps so they could fire north and quickly shift to the south if necessary.

Later that evening, I was sitting in my jeep, when, unbelievably, I heard the play-by-play broadcast of a Philadelphia Phillies World Series game. The 1950 World Series matched the Phillies against the defending champion New York Yankees. The Phillies—nicknamed the Whiz Kids—were a young team that had won the National League pennant in dramatic fashion on the final day of the season.

“Walsh,” I yelled, not believing my ears. “Walsh, come here quick, listen to this.”

“Damn, Rich, this is crazy,” Walsh said as we both started laughing.

We listened together, straining to hear the broadcast. The signal faded in and out, forcing me to move the radio up and down in hopes of picking up a clear voice through the static. The radios, for the most part, were pieces of shit. Most didn't work at all, and when they did they only had a range of about a mile. But that night I could hear the game just like I was home. For those brief moments, I
was
home, pulling for the Phillies, and not in Korea fighting for my life. Finally the signal was gone. I found out later it wasn't much of a series—Yankees in four.

“Can you believe that?” Walsh said, the smile still present.

“No, but I'm sure glad you heard it, because nobody will believe us when we tell them,” I said, suddenly back at the bridge staring at the dark North Korean mountains.

The next day, I heard noises coming from the high hills across the river. It sounded like talking to me. I grabbed Walsh, and we walked to the south end of the bridge and listened. It was dark and quiet, but we could hear the murmur of several conversations.

“I hear it too,” Walsh said.

I posted two men on the south end of the bridge, with orders to let me know if they heard anything. I only had a few men to secure the bridge, and I couldn't risk making contact with the enemy and getting split up in the dark. Returning to the north side of the bridge, I got on the landline back to the company and reported what I had heard. I asked the company for some help several times and after a while it became a plea.

Three calls later, a sergeant from battalion came down and reported to me. I told him what I thought was going on. He went back to battalion, then returned with three men and headed up the hill. They made the worst goddamn racket you ever heard. Loud talking, rocks and dirt falling all over and their equipment banging around. It was enough to wake the dead. If the Koreans were up there, the sergeant was not going to surprise them. Finally, they came back down the hill, making the same damn noise.

“Well, did you find anything?” I asked.

“No, there wasn't shit up there,” the smug sergeant said.

“Goddamn it, something was moving around up there,” I said. “I'm not losing my mind.”

Walsh was standing next to me.

“You heard it right?” I asked Walsh.

“You're damn right I heard it,” Walsh said.

One of the sergeant's men was holding something, but it was hard to make out what it was in the dark.

“What the hell is that?” I asked him.

“It's just an old glove and a shovel. It's all wet, and it's probably been there for weeks,” he said in a defiant voice.

It didn't look like any glove I had seen before. It was large and padded.

“What else did you find?” I shot back.

“Just some old positions, nothing to worry about.”

I was a little concerned now, and I continued to quiz him on how many holes there were up there.

“We found five or six,” the sergeant said.

“Was the dirt dry or wet?” I pressed him.

“Goddamn it, I don't know. It was pitch-black. I'm telling you there's nothing on the fucking hill,” the smug sergeant snapped at me. “If you don't believe it, you take your ass up there.”

About that time I felt like taking the shovel and wrapping it around his head. I could see Walsh looking at me wondering what was going to happen next. It was all I could do to keep myself in check.

“Okay, just make sure you tell everything to battalion,” I said, still absolutely sure I had heard voices.

When the sergeant was out of earshot, I pulled Walsh aside and asked him what he thought.

“The guy was too cocky,” Walsh said.

I was worried and decided to keep two men on the south side of the bridge for early warning. I told Walsh we would stay in position with the rest of the men on the north side so we could protect the bridge and at the same time be prepared to fire on anyone coming up the riverbed. I went back to my jeep and contacted the company on the landline. I tried again to make the company understand my situation and my feelings about the patrol from battalion. This was bullshit and I wanted to make sure they knew it. At 2300 hours, the company told me to send a patrol to battalion. What the hell was going on? But orders are orders. I decided to send Walsh and his squad in one of the gun jeeps.

“Boy, Rich, that doesn't leave you with a helluva lot,” Walsh said.

“Well I'll just have to think about pulling the two guys from the south side of the bridge,” I said with a shrug. ”Good luck and be careful.”

“Same to you, Rich,” he said, driving away.

At the same time Walsh was moving out, the artillery battery on my right flank cranked up and moved out toward Unsan. Now there was no one on my left or right flank. I was still not feeling very good.

Around 1 A.M., the hill erupted.

Four machine guns from the high hills on the south end of the bridge opened up, two guns cross firing on each end of the bridge. The tracers from the machine guns were skipping off the concrete like firecrackers. My guys quickly manned the 57 recoilless rifle and got off a few rounds. It did little.

Immediately, we started getting hit with mortar fire. My radio was shot up and I tried to get the company on the landline, but it was out too. My mind was on my men. I'd lost two in the opening barrage, and I had lost track of the two men on the south side of the bridge. This attack didn't make sense. Too much firepower for a few stragglers.

Lieutenant Keis, one of the platoon leaders, came running through the barrage. Unbeknownst to me, his platoon—the First Platoon of L Company—had been approximately fifteen hundred yards southeast of my position. Keis was out of breath and he wanted to use my landline. I told him it was out and I had no communications with anyone. He shouted to me that he was moving his platoon down the road to battalion.

As Keis headed off, I shouted to him that I was not sure how much longer I could hold my position on the bridge. He didn't hear me. The last man in Keis's platoon to pass through my position was Sergeant Miller.

“Good luck,” Miller hollered as he ran by.

I had no idea of the tactical situation, so I called for Mac. I told him to work his way down the riverbank and try to make contact with the company flank. I needed to see what happened to the two men on the other side of the bridge. I told two men to cover me while I went under the bridge. I slid down the bank quickly, then ran through waist-deep water to the south abutment and started hollering. No one answered. I scrambled up the abutment and looked around. No one was there. I quickly made my way back, staying under the bridge. The machine guns were still raking the bridge with fire.

I was right at the base of the north abutment when we started receiving fire from the east side of the bridge. As I clawed my way up the bank, rounds were hitting the dirt all around me. The North Koreans were only thirty yards away. Luckily, Tony and another man were firing back. I made it to their position and joined them in trying to stop the assault. The North Koreans got within twenty feet, but we cut them down.