Valleys of Death (29 page)

The voyage back to California on the
Brewster
was great. They served three meals a day. The small things mattered more now than before. We were subjected to daily debriefings, which were more like interrogations, by intelligence officers. Some of the men couldn't believe they were being put through interrogations like they had done something wrong. Personally, it didn't bother me. I was free, being fed well and sleeping like a baby. I was a survivor and had nothing to hide.

My first session was with a young lieutenant whose name just happened to be Robert Richardson. We weren't kin, but we both had a good laugh about our shared last name.

“We're interested more about the actions of other prisoners than you,” he said. “Other prisoners will tell us about you.”

“Okay,” I said. It sounded like the same old bullshit from an interrogator, only this one was wearing a U.S. uniform.

“We've been waiting for your group. You guys were there for a long time and should give us a real clear picture of life in the camps,” he said.

“Fire away,” I said. For once, in thirty-four months, I had nothing to hide. I don't remember everything we talked about. I was careful about what I said about the others, but otherwise I told Richardson everything he wanted to know.

At one point, he asked me if I'd seen anything unusual on my way south. I told him that I'd seen three pilots at a train station. We were stopped and I slowly made my way toward them. I don't know why, but the whole scene seemed strange. They acknowledged me with their heads and eyes. The naval officer actually waved at me. He pointed north like the Chinese were taking them that way. They were guarded by two armed Chinese officers. One of them waved me off. I didn't advance any farther, I just stood still until one of the Chinese hollered at me and waved me away. The naval officer smiled at me as I turned and walked back to the train.

“We think they are still holding a number of our airmen,” Richardson said.

I found out later that they were trying to get the pilots to confess that the U.N. used chemical weapons. At the end of the session, I watched the lieutenant write a comment on my file: “He was very open and cooperative.”

For the rest of the voyage, I stayed on the deck. I sucked in the fresh sea air and basked in the warm breeze. Everything I could hear, smell and see was so full of life. As I looked over the rail of the ship, I remembered three years ago looking down at the sea and praying that I would have the strength to lead my men in combat. Now I was returning by myself. I had been born again, a chance to live for tomorrow, to make the most of every day and never look back. I had survived the greatest laboratory of human behavior, one that no education could ever equal.

 

 

 

Weeks later the Golden Gate Bridge jutted out of the fog as the ship pulled into port. A small band played for a crowd as we docked. They bused us from the ship to a USO building where plane tickets were waiting. We were asked not to leave the building, but I didn't want to be cooped up.

We had a few hours before our flight, so I left and walked around the post. My path took me to the post cemetery. It was very quiet and my thoughts were on all of the men and friends that were no longer with me.

Walsh.

Giroux.

Smoak.

I could feel them standing above me. I hoped they were smiling and happy for me because it was my men, my section, that had kept me motivated and alive. I owed my freedom and survival to them. Shortly after my return to the USO building, we were bused to the San Francisco Airfield. A group of us had a few beers and made final toasts to our freedom.

A number of us flew to Chicago, where we changed planes. When the plane left Chicago, I was the only returning prisoner of war aboard. Although there was a plane full of people, I felt very lonely. I was free and on my way home with mixed emotions. I realized that I had just left men that I had lived with twenty-four hours a day for thirty-four months. It was sad that with all the freedom surrounding me there was an empty feeling. There were also the thoughts of the ones who would never return, the ones whose lives had been lost almost before they began.

 

 

 

When we landed in Philadelphia, the stewardess asked us if we would remain seated for just a minute while a special passenger exited the plane. To my surprise that special passenger was me. I walked down the stairs and onto the tarmac. Waiting there were my mother and father. They hugged and kissed me. This time, unlike on the street before the war, I realized that the act of affection between father and son was a wonderful thing. I will never forget the emotion on my father's face as tears welled up in his eyes.

As I stepped away from my father and mother, a beautiful blonde walked up to me.

“You don't remember me, do you?” she asked. I looked her up and down. It was Claire, the girl on the other half of the photograph.

“Yes, I do, but there have been some changes made.”

We both laughed as we hugged. She was now my stepsister.

Cathy, Claire's mother, my sisters, brothers and stepbrothers crowded around me; we kissed, hugged and laughed, just like one big happy family.

We went to my mother's house, where some of my old boyhood friends were waiting, as well as some of the neighbors who came by to wish me well. To my great surprise, Bill Heaggley walked into the house. He'd survived the stomach wound and gotten out of the Army.

We looked at each other and hugged, and I realized that the emotions I had been hiding were about to erupt. I quickly took him upstairs. I didn't want anyone to see me crying. I was sure it surprised Heaggley; he only knew me as a very stoic individual. We talked about Walsh and all the men lost at Unsan. For so long, I thought I was the only one left from our group at Fort Devens. Seeing him filled a void that I hadn't even known was there.

We got together a few times after that. I remember trying to talk him into coming back into the Army. He just looked at me and smiled in his quiet way.

Philadelphia Inquirer,
September 22, 1953. My arrival at Philadelphia Airport.
Author's collection

It dawned on me that the public reaction had drastically changed. When we were going to war in 1950, people cheered us at each railroad station. I remember the way it made us feel to be soldiers, proud to be part of a force going off to defend freedom against Communist aggression. Now on our return there were no crowds cheering, only family and close friends.

Photo that appeared in the
Philadelphia Inquirer
on news that I had been freed from Korea.
Author's collection

Because I was so happy to be given a second chance at life, it took me a while to realize the change. The only thing that bothered me was that all but their loved ones and very close friends forgot the men and women who'd made the ultimate sacrifice.

A few weeks after I got home, I went to visit Graves's mother. I'd gotten letters from families looking for information about their loved ones. I'd tried to nurse Graves, the nineteen-year-old from Philadelphia who'd died of pneumonia that first winter.

Claire and I met Graves's family at his brother's house in the city. He met me at the door and shook my hand.

“Thank you for coming,” he said, leading us into the living room.

He introduced us to Mrs. Graves, a small, thin woman who looked older than her years. I could see a deep sadness in her eyes. Over coffee, she asked me about her son. The atmosphere was tense and the questions were probing.

“When did you meet my son?” she asked, her tone skeptical.

“I met him at the first camp,” I told her. “It was in a valley near the Yalu. A frigid place.”

We talked about the camp and the terrible conditions for a while longer before she asked how he died.

“He wasn't in pain,” I told her, trying to ease her sorrow. “He slipped away in his sleep. He had pneumonia and there was no medicine.”

The visit was difficult and I was happy to finally leave. But no matter how hard it was for me, I hoped that it brought some closure to the family. A week later, Graves's mother called screaming at me that I didn't deserve to be alive.

“You should be dead,” she said. “Not my son.”

I was shocked, and my hand shook as I hung up the phone. I am sorry to say that the majority of the cases where I visited the family or answered a letter wound up this way. No one who hadn't been there was ever going to understand the horror I'd witnessed.

While I was absorbing the sounds and sights of freedom, I was beginning to think about my future. I had been given a second chance and I was determined that I was not going to blow it. Claire and I became inseparable and I was falling in love with her. My only fear was that the feeling might not be mutual.

We had a wonderful Christmas holiday and both realized that we were definitely meant to be together. During a New Year's party, I gave Claire an engagement ring. She said yes. We announced to everyone that we were getting married. There were happy people, sad people and mad people. To tell the story behind this statement would take another book. But five children and fifty-six years later, we're still happily married.

Shortly after all of the prisoners returned home, there was a rush to condemn and try men who allegedly collaborated with the enemy.

Murphy, an engineer sergeant, called me. He was being ordered to appear before a board of inquiry to defend himself against statements that he had collaborated with the Chinese. Murphy was a good guy, but to some he was a loudmouth from New York. There were a number of guys who were not used to this big city type and it aggravated the hell out of them. Yes, he had been called to the Chinese headquarters a number of times, but no more than the average guy. He wasn't a collaborator.

“Will you testify on my behalf?” he said, his voice hollow, as if having to defend himself after years of survival was too much.

Without a second thought, I said yes.

“Who in the hell made these statements?” I asked.

But Murphy didn't know. The Army wouldn't release the names of his accusers. It was hard to defend yourself against statements made by unknown individuals. At that time I was a first sergeant of G Company, 364th Infantry Regiment, Fort Dix, New Jersey. I got orders to report to Governors Island, New York, for the hearing.

I was taken to the barracks and met up with four or five other men there to testify on Murphy's behalf. We didn't say much and kept to ourselves. I think we all felt uncomfortable about why we'd been called to the base.

That afternoon a captain from the staff judge advocate's office came to talk to us. He was going to represent Murphy. We all sat down on a couple of footlockers and the captain went over what was going to happen at the hearing.