By Beverly Roberts Bale
The suitcases have been sorted, packed, repacked and placed by the door as silent reminders that the time grows short until we leave.
I find myself experiencing a myriad of emotions--excitement, fear, and nostalgia (to name a few) all tempered with an overwhelming sense of sadness.
The past few weeks have brought to mind many long-forgotten memories. The day we traveled the short distance from Tacoma to Seattle--a carefree young couple enjoying our favorite music on the radio--the music stopped and the announcer came on with a bulletin alerting all service men from the 2nd Army Division to return to their base immediately. My husband, John T Bale, known to his friends as J.T., quick response was that "we need not worry." His assertion that it was probably a practice alert helped to calm my fears and we continued on with our plan to celebrate his 21st birthday. In spite of his attempts to allay my uneasiness, it was apparent he was preoccupied. Almost as though he was thinking aloud, he whispered we had better start back to Ft. Lewis. He could no longer conceal his concern--the alert was real. As was the case for so many young people, we had no money to buy a radio so I was unaware of the seriousness of the situation in Korea; consequently, the news came as a shock.
The next week was one of organized chaos. The division was seriously undermanned and ill supplied. Unlike most of the men, J.T. could not return home each evening (he was the supply Sgt in charge of equipping his company); consequently, the Company Commander gave me permission to spend time at the base. This not only gave me time to be with my husband, it also gave me the opportunity to observe the preparations taking place the week prior to their sailing.
Rumors were flying from every direction--some reassuring--that the division was going to Japan for training in the event they were needed to reinforce the troops already fighting in Korea and other rumors that proved to be true--that they were heading directly to Pusan, Korea. We tried to reassure each other and ourselves that this was, after all, only a police action; and they would "march in, mop up, and be home very soon."
During the next seven days, I was to realize what a remarkable young man I had married. Although just turning twenty-one himself, he went calmly about the task of issuing, not only supplies, but also words of encouragement to young recruits who had been transferred in to fill the under-staffed ranks. Only once during what was a very tense situation did I see him lose his "cool." He had issued a young soldier his equipment only to have the frightened young man return to say he had misplaced his hat, could he have another? Supplies were so limited it was not an easy task to find another one. However, a hat was found in one of those mysterious ways a Supply Sgt uses to acquire whatever equipment is needed to prepare his comrades for the task ahead.
I look back on that week and still remember those eager young men arriving from all over the country, carrying cherished items they considered necessary for living a full life. As I continued my weeklong vigil, I watched as, one by one, they placed their "unnecessary possessions" on the enormous bon fire that burned behind the barracks. There was no time to send them home for safekeeping. One young man stood by the fire cradling his guitar in his arms, much as he would a child. As he reached out to lay the instrument on the ashes, he glanced up and saw me sitting close by. Without a word, he walked toward me and very gently placed it in my lap, turned and walked back to prepare for a war where only food, water, and guns were important.
The day came so quickly when the buses arrived and the men began to board. Both the very young and the seasoned veterans said their good-byes. Some instinctively knew this was the last time they would hold their wives and children. Others were vaguely excited at the prospect of going to war.
My eyes wandered over the crowd gathered to say their farewells and came to rest on the face of the handsome young soldier I had married just a year before. His blonde hair was blowing slightly in the wind as he leaned toward the window. He searched the upturned faces for one last glimpse and to whisper words of love and encouragement I so badly needed. Our brave smiles were holding back the floods of tears that would overflow as the buses began their short journey up the road we had traveled just one short week ago.
I watched the long lines of buses until they were mere specks in the distance. Only then did tears, held in check for the past week, begin to flow. It was as though my heart shattered into a million small pieces, and was falling with the tears, never to be whole again. As I stood there not knowing where to turn for consolation, I felt the soft touch of a hand on my shoulder. A friend who was fortunate enough to be getting his discharge had come to see if I needed anything and to see me safely back to my apartment.
As he left me at the door of that empty room, he turned, waved and started toward the base. I felt so completely alone. I envied him the opportunity to return home to his loved ones, little realizing that the war had taken a turn for the worse, and that due to a serious shortage of manpower, he would be forced to remain in the service and would be on the next ship to Korea, never to return.
I have only sketchy memories of the weeks to follow. There was the task of packing and making plans for my Mother to travel to Washington to accompany me on the drive home. Our car was packed and ready to go when my brother-in-law called from Seattle to ask if he, his wife, and two small daughters could return to Oklahoma with us. The war news was so threatening he feared for their safety. My small puppy, Puggeta, a recent gift from my husband, managed to find a small spot under the front seat and we all started the long journey home.
I was to spend the next year waiting as many before me had waited, hoping for good news, all the while searching the papers for any news from the front. The United States continued to alert and ship out new units, sending them into battle after battle against overwhelming hordes of enemy troops--more young men with too little training and old, out--dated weapons.
Our allied forces, now with the enemy on three sides and their backs to the ocean, heard MacArthur promise they would be home for Christmas. The letters we received told of mass confusion, too many refugees, too little sleep, food, and water. He wrote of the intense heat that soon changed to bone-chilling cold with very little hope of relief as wave after wave of North Koreans hit from all sides, taking an enormous toll in human suffering and death.
The U.S. commanders stationed in Japan insisted the Allied Forces were pushing forward and had the enemy on the run. However, the news reaching us from the front, told of many Chinese troops slipping around our advancing army and hiding among the streams of refugees trying to reach safety. These same "non-existing" Chinese troops were setting the stage for the massive attack that followed the good news of the Naktong River Breakout.
While all these thoughts ran rampant through my mind, I often looked into my husband’s eyes for some indication of his reaction to the upcoming return to the place that holds the secrets to a year lost in the past.
As has usually been the case when the war is being discussed, he retreats into some distant place where, thus far, no one has been granted entrance. Now, as he makes plans to revisit Korea for the 50th Anniversary of the Naktong River Breakout and as he visits with other 2nd Division veterans, those stories that have never been told have given me just a glimpse into the deep recesses of his mind where he has buried the memories too painful to recall. Perhaps in the weeks to come, I will be privileged to record more of his experiences and to share the experiences of other veterans as they remember.
It’s September 10, 2000, and we have checked in at the airport and are ready to board--complete with numerous suitcases, one briefcase, two water bottle carriers with water, fannie packs, one very large stuffed purse, and most important, our camera bag. It is no wonder the ticket attendant insisted on double checking our passports.
We are actually on our way to Korea and only twenty hours from our destination. Every minute brings us closer to connecting with memories begun fifty years ago. As the plane began its ascent, I closed my eyes and thought of another time when the destination was Korea. It was the day after the buses left and I was fortunate to be able to go with friends to see the port where the ships were docked. Surely, I thought, I would feel better if I could just see his ship. Never in my wildest dreams did I expect to spend time with him. It was only a few minutes after we arrived when I looked up and saw him running down the gangplank. I can still feel the strength of his arms as he held me close, shutting out the whole world for a few extra minutes we had together. The plane jerked as it leveled off and I came quickly back to the present.
Its now 6:00 a.m. and I cannot begin to describe the mixed emotions I feel as we slowly make our descent into Seoul, Korea. I am reminded of the pictures of all those young men as they quietly walked from a ship fifty years ago, to face dangers they could not even have imagined. As I looked at this great metropolitan city standing as a reminder of the sacrifices made by these same G.I’s, it is almost impossible to recall the image of hundreds of American boys fighting desperately to hold back thousands of North Koreans intent on destroying the few freedoms these people had.
We have landed and our trip into the past has begun with a twenty-man honor guard. The cameras began to snap as one by one the Veterans filed slowly through the honor-guard lines formed on either side. I watched as the sailors snapped to attention and saluted. My husband, walking tall and straight, returned the salute and continued his walk as he remembered the first time he had come to this country.
Every Veteran was given a commemorative medal, one of many they were to receive from a very grateful nation, and we boarded our plane for Taegu. The excitement mounted as each of the men began to search the rugged terrain for a glimpse of a mountain or a small valley that held special meaning for them--mountains that were more forbidding than I could ever have imagined. These areas they had fought for and conquered over and over again and rice paddies where they had waded, hid from the enemy, and even used for drinking water, all laid out in perfect little squares. How, they asked themselves, did we escape a "hellhole" such as this.
Each man silently remembered those times as one man quietly related his story of escape. He had been running along the line at Hang-ye to make sure everyone was firing and had ammunition when an incoming mortar shell hit him. As he was tending to his injury, the North Koreans surrounded him. They tied his hands behind his back and marched him to an area where other Americans were being held. As darkness fell, an artillery barrage hit them. The Chinese began to scatter so he dove down a hill and into a ditch hoping they would not miss him. He was hardly breathing, as he lay deathly still, praying they would think he was dead. However, one of the Chinese took one more shot. The bullet just missed and hit in the mud beside his chest. He flinched, and the soldier walked away. After hours of walking, he was able to find his way back to friendly lines. There were many times in the years to follow when he thought about the men who had fought with him, never dreaming he would meet one of the very few who survived on a revisit to Korea. The days following their reunion were filled with a mixture of tears and laughter as they recalled their first meeting and filled in information on the years that had passed.
It was the bumper to bumper traffic noise that brought me back to the present again. We had landed and immediately climbed into our buses and were looking forward too much needed rest in our hotel. No so. Mile after mile of cars greeted us as we slowly crept toward our destination, wondering all the while if cars had become our new enemy. We had arrived during the Korean Thanksgiving holiday, when people returned to the town where they were born. Finally, at 12:15 a.m. we fell into bed hoping to catch a few hours sleep before the phone rang to start us on our first full day in Korea.
Our wake up call came at 5:30 a.m., reminding us we had places to go and things to see. Looking out the window, I expected to catch a glimpse of the new Korea with its thousands of high rise buildings, but the picture that greeted me was a dark blanket of clouds and pouring rain. Not to worry, we were to have our meals at Camp Walker and tour the country in nice warm, dry buses. Again, we were in for a bit of a surprise. Heated buses were unheard of in the summer in Korea.
As for dry, we soon discovered that only for the small amount of time we spent sleeping would we be afforded this luxury. However, any time we might have been tempted to complain, we were reminded by one or many of the veterans that this was nothing when compared to the last time they had been in Korea and called home a muddy foxhole.
Again we ran the gauntlet of vehicles as we toured the 2nd Division section of the Pusan perimeter along the Naktong River. Each man struggled to remember exactly where he was when the enemy hit. It was all so different, and yet so familiar, as we passed hill after hill. I had never imagined the countryside to be so remote--so rugged. The rain continued and we were lost for the first time. Trying to back two large buses up a country lane is no easy task. The local farmers and their families surveyed the difficulties we were having with a mixture of humor and anxiety as we moved closer to their small houses. Mud holes lined both sides of the path so there was a distinct possibility we would land in their yard before all was said and done.
Meanwhile the surrounding mountains and rice paddies were of special interest to my husband as he picked out scenes that appeared to be familiar. This was the general area where he and his patrol had dug in to observe and call in mortar fire, hoping to impede the advance of the Korean soldiers who at 10 p.m. began blowing bugles as they made their way across the Naktong River in vast numbers. The night was dark--one where even the slightest movement appeared to be the approaching enemy. However, when the enemy did slip over the mountain, it was without a sound. He saw three figures silhouetted against the dark sky. His reaction was a calm, calculated re-enactment of the training he had received--start left, shoot once, and move right to the next target. The enemy disappeared with only wounded groans. Suddenly in the ominous silence that followed, the enemy swarmed over the mountain by the hundreds. The order was given to retreat, an order my husband was carrying out when somewhere in the darkness he lost his helmet. Even though he was surrounded by the enemy, he thought it was imperative that he find the missing article since a previous order given by the general himself was, "if you are found without a helmet, you will be fined fifty dollars." Foolish as it might seem, he retrieved the lost helmet in record time and continued his retreat, joining his comrades to regroup and counterattack in what was to become a to-and-fro struggle in the months to follow.
We finally twisted and turned our way out of the mud holes and back onto the highway. It was only to be a short drive back to our home away from home; but, as usual during the week, it was 10:15 p.m. when we finally arrived.
Our wake-up call our third morning came at 5:15 a.m. and we pulled ourselves out of bed, dressed and boarded the buses bound for Camp Walker where we enjoyed a bountiful breakfast. The rain continued to hit us in torrents, filling the rivers to capacity and turning the fields into rivers.
Today was to have been filled with outdoor ceremonies including an honor parade, parachute jumps and an air show. However, after sitting for some time in the pouring rain waiting for the Breakout Commemoration, we were given an amended schedule for the day. Our dress for the day was changed from "Sunday go-to-meetin" to the ponchos and umbrellas that had been distributed at the Dabudong War Monument. I’m sure the ceremony that followed was very impressive, but as we looked out over the sea of umbrella tops our only hint of the program that was taking place was a glimpse of an occasional dignitary as he placed a wreath on the grave of the Unknown Soldier or a poor little half-drowned ROK Veteran as he shuffled down the steps and back to his car. About half way through the program, we decided that, since we could neither see nor hear, our best plan was to return to the bus. This turned out to be a popular choice as one by one our comrades joined us. We soon forgot how miserable we were as we started on our way to the next event. The streets were lined for several blocks with young Korean soldiers who seemed unaware of the blinding rain as they stood in salute to the men who had given so much for their country. The intersections that had, for the first few days been blocked with cars, opened magically as the young men stood to hold back the traffic so their heroes could pass.
This was the night for the Republic of Korea banquet and what was to have been a very dressy event turned out to be a wear anything that is dry affair. It was still raining! But now we were told why. The typhoon that was stalled off the coast was drenching Korea with as much as 4" to 6" of rain each day with no sign of relief.
But, regardless of the fact it was still raining, we did enjoy a memorable evening. After all, this was a special night and our first sample of the different varieties of Korean food. Included in the menu was Bulgogi (barbecue). After we finally distinguished the "barbecue" from the many selections offered, we decided it was aptly named "bulgogi"
The evening’s entertainment included two of Seoul’s most famous show hosts. The introductions for each of the acts were made in the Korean language; nevertheless, we found that there is a universal language when you are having fun. Most of the performances were more suited to the young people in the audience.
However, I was fascinated by the Korean audience--both the young soldiers and the older Korean Veterans who were also being honored. We were all aware, as we looked into the faces of those young soldiers, that they probably would not even have been born had it not been for the intervention of our young men fifty years ago. As for the older Korean Vets, we had been told not to expect them to smile. These older veterans laid that myth to rests very quickly as they flirted with the American women who had made the trip--each man trying to outdo his comrades as the click and flash of the cameras took first place over the stage show.
One of the memories I will always take with me was the restroom scene. The evening had been a long one, so we naturally headed to that necessary room. After asking for directions, I led the way--following a very accommodating Korean soldier. He took us to the door and stationed himself outside just in case we needed a guide back to our seats. Well, I needed a guide but not to that seat. I walked into the restroom and observed a row of men facing one wall. It took only one step to get me back out the door and into the long line of waiting ladies. Nothing I said to my young guide seemed to register that he had made a mistake. Its very difficult to make proper gestures to indicate this was in fact the men’s restroom. After much conversation, an interpreter appeared and explained it was a unisex restroom. Well, it may have been unisex for the Koreans but it only took the American women a few minutes to make it clear that the MEN could go out into the rain to another building. This one became off limits to the male population. We ran the women through in record time before those in charge returned the facility to its former status.
Thursday morning arrived in the usual fashion--rain and too little sleep--as off to the buses we went. However, there was one new twist to the day. We had finally found a hotel with electric transformers. Now ordinarily, a small square box would not be reason for celebration; but these small boxes transferred our heretofore-useless curling irons into miracles of modern invention. Thus far, the rain had us in its power, but now we could wrap those rain-soaked locks around this small cylinder and feel human again. It appeared to me that the men were in somewhat better moods also--could it have been the much-needed shave or just happier women folk. The change came just in time to prepare us for all the cameras and the continuing rainfall. By now, we were used to both but felt much more secure when asked to take our heads out of their plastic covering.
Seoul was close to the typhoon, so we held on as the buses drove over bridges reaching across rain-swollen rivers and through areas where the rice paddies had turned into rivers. And the rain continued! We drove past the fields and were amazed to see what appeared to be numerous people standing guard over rivers of mud and water. Actually, we were told, they were only well dressed scarecrows placed there by the Korean farmers to protect their crops from the birds.
We continued our journey into the past, searching for locations where the men of the Second Division had fought, been injured and/or captured. The two of us scanned the landscape for what J.T. described as a small hut behind a larger house similar to the ones he remembered. It was on a cold, snowy night. He and his buddies had found one of the empty houses and decided to try their luck with a "Korean fireplace." The small hut was for building a fire, which in turn directed heat underneath the larger house. All went well and they settled in for a warm night’s sleep. No one told the guys to build a small fire; so, when his head felt a little warm J.T. moved over just enough to give air to a smoldering fire. Needless to say, he spent the rest of the night cooling his singed head and warming his hands over the fire from the burning house.
We passed the huge "tank blockers" used to trap and blow up North Korean tanks, stopped at the bridge where the North Korean and United Nations prisoners had been exchanged, and drove on to Camp Casey where we were to visit with other American soldiers and have our lunch.
Camp Casey was close enough to the DMZ to make us realize how fragile the "peace" was. The border was heavily guarded from both sides. Our young soldiers live with the knowledge that a very short distance lies between them and the Chinese guards who watch and monitor their every move. It is a very volatile situation, a powder keg ready to explode at any minute. The tense situation was made even more real when we were told about the huge infiltration tunnels the North Koreans had secretly (they thought) dug under the DMZ. Each tunnel is big enough to allow 30,000 men, with equipment, to pass through in an hour.
Shortly after lunch, we left for Camp Red Cloud where we were to spend time and have our dinner. The Camp is only fifteen miles from the border (well within range of artillery fire). The young soldiers, aware that we were somewhat apprehensive, assured us they were well trained and on constant alert for any danger that might arise.
Our next stop took us to the Second Division War Museum. We walked past rows of mementos and pictures as first one and then another commented on a familiar scene. I was looking at a photograph of the ship, the USS WM Patrick, when one of the wives moved up beside me and made the comment "I wish I could find a picture of this ship for my husband." It was the ship that had taken the first group of G.I.’S to Korea--the one my husband had been on. She went on to say all of her husband’s pictures had been destroyed, and he had nothing left as a reminder of that year of his life. I was so pleased to be able to tell her that we had a very good picture of the ship and several pictures of events that took place shortly after they arrived in Korea. We shared addresses and I promised to send her copies as soon as we arrived home.
In one of the lighter moments, the guys had explained the Korean method for manufacturing fertilizer, the "honey pot." Human waste was collected, put in a large pot with ashes added and then stirred by stomping the entire mess with their feet. I, for one, thought they were just teasing but the museum guide affirmed their story.
After leaving the museum, we ladies were treated to another interesting restroom experience. We stopped at one of the numerous, large rest stops and eagerly made our way to the women’s room. However, we were quite unprepared for what appeared to be pig troughs in the floor in each of the tiny cubicles. They turned out to be quite a challenge for women who were accustomed to sitting arrangements.
It’s the 16th day of September and almost time to leave Korea. We will visit one more battleground, Chipyong ni, after breakfast in the Navy Club. The men were relaxing and sharing their stories, some in detail and others in only brief sketches. Stories were told of intense fighting, of heat, cold, fear, and sorrow as comrades were wounded and killed and of what must have been miracles that took place all along the battle lines. For each one, the greatest miracle was the one that allowed each of them to return home to their loved ones.
Just after we left Chipyong-ni, my absent-minded partner realized he had lost his issued fanny pack--his constant companion since leaving home. It contained not only our traveler’s checks but also his passport. Word of our problem spread quickly through the buses, and just as quickly the stories were passed back that we would be forced to stay in Korea until a new passport could be obtained. Just the thought was enough to make me shudder. However, just before I reached the panic stage, we remembered the pack might have been left in our hotel room. This little bit of information did very little to pick up my spirits, but I was greatly relieved after we called the hotel for a search of our room and found that indeed it was there.
By the time we headed back to the hotel for our farewell banquet, it was getting late and the Han River’s many spillways were being opened to relieve the danger of one of the dams collapsing. We were lost again and it was still raining. We did reach our hotel with time to spare and hurried to get ready for our special evening.
After a wonderful meal of prime rib and baked potatoes (they must have realized how tired we were of Korean rice) each of the veterans was invited to the front to receive his last medal. The cameras flashed and we said our last good-byes, knowing there would not be time in the morning. We expressed our hope that we could keep in touch in the years to come.
It’s Saturday, September 17, 2000. The sun is shining and we are preparing for our flight home. There have been so many experiences shared that we feel we have known these people for years. I guess in some ways we have--men who have fought together and the women who saw them off to war. Although we had put some of our thoughts into words, we were all aware that each one had faced difficulties during this period of our lives that would always remain within each of us. However, we were left with the knowledge that, no matter how hard the trials are that we face in life, there is always someone who faces those same hardships and who understands. These sacrifices were not made in vain. A country, that would have become destitute had it been swallowed up by communism, stands as a monument to freedom and to what life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness really means.
End
Copyrighted by 2id kwva