Standing in one spot in the frigid darkness for hours and hours challenged both my courage and sanity. I strained my eyes and ears but heard nothing but my stomach growl and saw only nerve-chewing blackness. Then around two in the morning, a series of what sounded like dozens of ‘whooshes’ broke the silence.
“Mortars!” I screamed and hit the dirt trying to crawl inside my helmet, awaiting the rain of death.
The explosions boomed up and down the line interspersed with screams and the buzz of molten metal. The mortar attack seemed to last for hours. All I could do was hunker in my hole and pray the arched projectiles missed our four-foot wide trench; a game of numbers. Now I understood what Dad had meant by his reference to ‘being lucky’.
When the shelling stopped, flares exploded overhead. A Marine yelled, “Here they come. Send’em to Hell, men!”
I jumped to my feet, and saw a field of men with guns blazing, running across the snow at our line. The horrific screams of hundreds of men interspersed with gunfire, getting louder and louder. These noises of approaching death added to my inability to swallow, but didn’t limit my verbal rants.
“Fucking déjà vu!”
I sighted and fired, short bursts as accurate and killing as possible. Magazine after magazine after magazine.
I don’t know why or how, but the enemy kept coming. Were they insane or just really pissed because we’d invaded their country?
The North Koreans had gotten so close I was sure I could smell the fish heads and kimchi.
My small world was fronted by dozens of Marine–tossed grenades exploding, a hand toss away, too close. Dirt and parts of bodies hurled through the night. Bullets and shrapnel singeing the air around my head. Magazine after magazine.
Engulfed in panic, I stuck my KA-BAR knife in the dirt close by and then selectively fired individual rounds from my last magazine. Praying for more Corsairs like last night, the ground in front of me began erupting. Our artillery had come to life. I dove for cover.
“Fuck. Frankie, take cover. Where are you?” I scrabbled around in the dark.
The shelling continued until there could be no living thing left in that field fronting us.
My fingers found icy wet cloth. An explosion lit up our hole.
And then silence; except for me, crying, holding what was left of Frankie.
Kojo, North Korea
Dear Dad
The bastards came again last night, and I lost a buddy, a friend I’d met in basic.
You were so right when you told me not to enlist.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Reinforcements were brought in and our daylight air-to-ground strikes were stepped up in the sector.
The night attacks stopped.
The North Koreans had retreated into the mountains.
Ground and air scouting patrols found nothing within ten miles of Kojo. Scuttlebutt was we’d been hit by three battalions of North Korea’s finest, and there were still over seven thousand troops in the area.
Two weeks crawled by, long nights and tired days, constantly reliving the horror of those two nights in the hole. It was hard to think of anything else. My life before coming here was like some kind of dream. The memories of hot, humid days, sweet laughter and silken negligees were no match for the bone-jarring cold, wet and frosted blood, screaming mortars, and fear so thick it coated my tongue. Even staring at Sara’s picture that she had given me when we first moved in together didn’t help. She had on a white summer dress and was standing by a tree. She was beautiful, but I was here, and she was there and married.
The good news was UN forces relieved us at Kojo. The bad news was the temperature dropped below zero.
We returned to Wonsan for some R and R. As Gunny put it, “Most of us have been bloodied, many for the first time, and we need a break.” The so-called break was all of one day of drinking as much soju, a Korean rice whiskey, as we could find and eating firey kimchi and bulgogi. The next day we were back in covered half-tracks, many of us sick, heading north.
I think there were sixteen of us inside the bouncing truck. None of the few Marines I knew were on the truck, or at least I didn’t think they were. I wasn’t sure. Even though we were traveling in the daylight, inside the cavern of the canvas-covered truck, the bed was dark. It was too damn cold not to cover the rear opening with a tarp.
My head hurt, probably from all the soju, and my hands trembled constantly. I wasn’t sure if the shaking was a carry-over from the fighting or the frigid temperatures. I hadn’t fought in two weeks, and yet shaking hadn’t left me since then.
My memories of the battles had become a jumbled mess of horror. The leftover adrenaline hangover had made me damn-near catatonic; there was no room or energy for self-reflection.
However, sitting in the back of this bouncing truck, in the dark, specific details of the fighting returned. How easily I’d lined up those enemy men in my sights and dropped them, so many, without any thought save one, it was them or me.
Sara’s words haunted me.
I hadn’t looked in a mirror since the fighting at Kojo, not even to shave. I didn’t want to see that look she had warned me about; the look of a man who’d killed; a man with part of his soul missing. But I knew I was different. And I knew with certainty I’d never be the same.
Someone lit a can of Sterno and placed it in the middle of the floor. We had some light and a little heat.
I checked the helmet-shadowed faces. The only familiar face was that of Gunny Sergeant Earl Mattson, sitting across from me.
“Gunny, where’re we going?” I asked, in an attempt to gain relief from my thoughts.
Several heads turned to face the Sergeant.
“Yeah, Sarge, where’re they sendin’ us now?” the small grunt next to me asked.
“I heard Hawaii for the duration,” said a man who looked as if he could play linebacker for the Browns. “Say it isn’t so, Gunny. I’ve got such sensitive skin.”
Several men chuckled; a rarity.
“You’re in a real war now, boys,” Gunny said, glancing from man to man. “Rumor has it that the Chinese Army crossed the border and attacked the South Korean ROK troops at a place called Funchilin Pass. Fucked up ol’ ‘Dugout Doug’ MacArthur’s plans to end this war by Christmas. We’re goin’ to Funchilin Pass. It’s in the mountains, where it’s colder than here. So’s if ya got more warm clothing stowed, I’d get it out before we get there. You people just have all the luck.”
Several grumbled expletives followed. And guys started to rummage in their packs.
“Gunny, I’ve got three buddies over here in the Marines, 1st Division, but I don’t know their battalion. They enlisted in July and were sent here shortly after boot camp. Any idea how I can find them?”
“Where we’re going? No. You need to wait until either we get to a base with a Division Headquarters, or better yet a place where the whole division is assembled. HQ will have records.”
I wondered what the chances of either of those things happening were, or if I’d last that long?
None of that mattered now. I was here. I’d try to find my buddies if the opportunity presented itself. Otherwise, my purpose now was to stay alive.
In the flickering Sterno light, I saw the gray tint in the Gunny’s beard.
“Gunny, how long have you been in the Marines?” I asked.
“Ten years.”
“Always the First Division?” I leaned closer across the equipment-strewn aisle between us.
“Always.”
“Guadalcanal, Cape Gloucester,—”
“From the first bell to the last. Why? You writin’ a book?”
“My dad was in the First during World War Two. Corporal John Mackenzie, did you know him?”
He shook his head. “Nah. If you was smart, you didn’t get to know anyone. And I’d advise you to do the same thing.”
“Why’s that, Sarge?” a young blond-haired guy asked.
“When the shit starts, helps ya keep your wits
about ya. Now enough with the questions.”
I’d learned that lesson the hard way; had I ever.
The big linebacker guy leaned across the aisle, his face inches from mine. His blank eyes reflected the flame at our feet. “I’d like to get to know you, Marine.” His whispered breath reeked of garlic from the Korean food. “What’s your name?”
My parents had always told me to beware of men who were ‘too friendly’. But I had never met one, at least not until this truck ride.
But the man was in my face. What choice did I have?
“Mackenzie, Mick Mackenzie,” I said. “What’s yours?”
“My name don’t matter. What matters is I want those extra socks and long johns you got in your backpack.”
“What?” My mind had trouble processing this craziness. “Can’t you tell that I’m much smaller than you? Ain’t no way you could wear my stuff.”
“Your shit ain’t for me, boy. Now hand it over.”
I shoved him away, and he lunged across the aisle at me, slamming me into a tarp brace.
“Knock it off!” Gunny blared. And several Marines pulled him off me.
“Your ass is mine when we get off this truck, Mackenzie!” The big man strained to break free from the two Marines restraining him.
“Richards, calm down or the only thing that’s gonna be yours when you get off this truck is a brig cell,” Gunny said. “You’re so anxious to fight; you’ll soon have plenty of opportunities, but not with fellow Marines.”
Four plus hours later, the trucks stopped at a place Gunny said was Chinhung-ni, about a mile from Funchilin Pass. Close enough to hear sporadic gun fire.
As I climbed out of the truck, the lower sun silhouetted the surrounding mountain peaks. In any other situation, I would have considered this place beautiful.
The bitter cold air was thin and painful to breathe. I had never been so cold in my life. How was anyone expected to live outside in these conditions let alone fight a war?
Maybe at least now I wouldn’t be the only one with shaking hands.
Richards brushed by me.
Gunny walked over.
“Stay away from him, Mick. He’s bad news.”
I stared at Richards as he walked into the distance. “He’s big. But I’m not afraid of him, Sarge. What’s his problem?”
“He’s always scheming to make money to feed his unquenchable appetite for booze and women. I knew Ken Richards in the big war. He’s been busted so many times it’s amazin’ he’s still in the service.”
“What’s he doing here?”
“I guess someone thought we needed men like him in this war. He’s mean, real mean. He hurts anyone who gets in his way. If he comes at you again, I suggest you give him what he wants.”
“But, Gunny, he wants—”
“Listen to me, Mick. Just give it to him.” He walked away.
I had known bullies like Richards. Giving them what they wanted meant they’d just keep taking.
Fuck, weren’t the North Koreans and Chinese enough enemies?
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chinhung-ni
North Korea
The next morning, hunkered against the frigid wind, I trudged through boot-covering snow toward the mess tent at Chinhung-ni.
“Hey, Mackenzie,” Gunny Sergeant Mattson said.
I turned, and Gunny approached crunching the snow with another shorter, thin, Marine.
“This scrawny sack of bones rattlin’ around in a Marine uniform is Sculini. He’s your new ammo packer. After chow, both of you get your shit together; we’re movin’ out. Marchin’ up to a place called Koto-ri.” He wiped his nose. “Oh, and Mick, put that BAR’s trigger guard assembly in your underwear if you don’t want it to freeze up.” He shook his head and mumbled as he walked away, “You’d think they’d picked someone big enough to carry all that ammo.”
“Call me Tony,” said the pair of dark eyes under the scarf and hood covered helmet. He glanced in Gunny’s direction. “I’m stronger than I look.” A shiver racked his small frame. “Fuck, it’s cold.”
“Name’s Mick,” I said. “Were you at Kojo?”
“No. I got here last week.”
“Well, if where we’re goin’ is anything like Kojo, it’ll heat up pretty quick. How many BAR magazines you carrying?” I asked, as I fumbled with putting the trigger guard assembly inside the crotch of my long-john underwear.
“Twenty-four,” Tony said. “Twelve in my belt and another twelve in my pack. I’d bitch because of lack of room for clothing, but I’m wearing everything I packed.”
“I wonder how many miles I’ll have to walk with that hunk of cold steel in my skivvies?” I tried to maneuver the assembly through my clothing. “Your ammo along with the twenty-four I’m carryin’ should last us an hour or two,” I said.
“That’s real funny,” Tony said facetiously.
“No. That’s war. Stay close to me. We’ll be hoofin’ it in from here. If we come under fire, I’m gonna need some time to get my gun together. So you’ll have to cover me. Got it?”
“I, uh . . . sure. Gunny told me you’re a good BAR man. Said I needed to watch your back from more than just Koreans. Said you had a run-in with Richards.”
“You know Richards?”
He nodded. “Sort of. A buddy pointed him out last night.”
“So what’d you know?”
“I’m told he’s probably responsible for more KIA’s by ‘friendly fire’ than the artillery guys and the flyboys put together.”
Koto-ri, North Korea
Dear Mom,
I vividly remember all those Bluffton August nights when I used to complain about lying awake on sweat-soaked sheets all night long.
Man would I love that heat and humidity now. We’re in the mountains and it’s -35 degrees F here and dropping.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Koto-ri
North Korea
I was sure Koto-ri was once a quiet little village high up on the eastern slope of the Taebaek Mountains of North Korea. But this Thanksgiving, the Koto-rians had guests, several thousand uninvited U.S. Marines.
Why anyone would want to live in Koto-ri I didn’t know. There was nothing but cold here; so cold that it took a Herculean effort to dig a foxhole with a trenching tool.
“Hey, did I hear someone say they had a mattock?” I hollered emitting a steam cloud. The cloud drifted and intermingled with what seemed to be an endless quantity of vapor puffs from Marines digging in the frozen ground along the MSR. The military and their acronyms; MSR stood for the main supply route.
Gunny had told us the winding, sometimes almost vertical seventy-six-mile road connected the northern-most Marines at Yudam-ni, in the Chosin Resevoir, to the Sea of Japan. Koto-ri was close to the mid-way point in the Marine lifeline.
“Yo, we’ve got one,” a young voice yelled. “Will send it up when we’re done with it.”
“How can the sun be out, and it be too cold to sweat?” Tony asked.
“A corpsman told me it got to minus fifty here last night,” said a bundle of tall a few men down from us.
“I wish he hadn’t said that,” Tony said. “Now I feel colder.”
A Marine walked up. “Someone here call for a mattock?”
“Yeah, thanks,” I said and took the offered tool. “Here Tony, take the business end of this,” I said handing the heavy pick-axe to him. “That’ll warm you up.”
“God, will I ever sleep indoors in a bed again?” Tony said, his eyes rolled toward the heavens.
“Quit your belly-aching and dig,” said another grunt near-by.
“And dig deep, Gunny says we may get company tonight,” I said.
“Fuck. Ain’t anyone got anything good to say around here?” Tony said, as he buried the spiked end of the tool into the frozen earth.
“I do,” said a gruff voice I recognized. Richards stood above us on the pile of shoveled clumped dirt, his rifle cradled in his arm. “You both can go on about
your business; diggin’ holes, fightin’ gooks, and be happy doin’ it. All I want is your winter gear. Now. Empty your packs.”
Richards, in addition to being big and muscular, looked mean. I doubted Tony and I could take him together in a fair fight. Though Richards probably didn’t know what a fair fight was. And he had his rifle.
Gunny’s advice echoed in my head as fear and anger jostled and tumbled in my adrenaline-sickened stomach.
Tony yanked the mattock out of the dirt, climbed out of the hole, and held the tool, pick outward, chest high. “I ain’t got any spare clothes in my pack, asshole. I’m wearing them.”
“Well I guess you need to either start shedding clothes, or I’ll take them off you.” Richards sounded like a dominating father talking to an undisciplined child.
“If you think you can make me take my clothes off in this temperature, you’re wrong; stupid wrong. Ya know,” Tony scratched his chin, “I think you must be the biological proof that the Pilgrims fucked buffalo.” Tony spoke loud enough to cause many of the Marines near us to stop work and look our way.
Richards eyed Tony up and down. “You got some big balls for a little man. But if you want to keep your testicles, you’ll drop that mattock and take off your clothes. Now!”
I didn’t like to fight, and only fought when there was no other choice. And though I barely knew Tony, he had given me no choice.
I climbed out of the hole and glanced at my BAR ten feet away on top of my pack. All I had was my trenching tool. I pointed it at Richards. “You aren’t getting any clothes from us today or any day.”
Richards smiled. “This is gonna be fun.” Rifle raised butt first, he stepped toward Tony.
“Hey, what’s going on?” a voice came from the crowd of Marines now gathering around us.
“Nobody’s taking anybody’s clothes, not in this fucking cold,” another voice said.
Mickey's Wars Page 8
