Veteran's Day
~E~
Thanks, popster. The following is written by my dad, who was in the Korean War.
The Essence of War
I watched as the giant Globemaster transport plane touched down on the runway, as gently as a leaf drifting to earth on a brisk fall day………..
It was early July. Truce talks aimed at ending the Korean War were finally being taken seriously. To improve their positions prior to a settlement, Chinese and North Korean forces had conducted a major offensive against “Old Baldy” and “Pork Chop Hill.”
…….
The bloody battle surged back and forth across the slopes of the two hills. After five days of violent, often hand-to-hand combat, friendly troops recovered the lost ground. As in most battles, the only accomplishment was the death and maiming of thousands of young men.
The sheer number of wounded mandated that only those who could not be safely transported would be treated at MASH or divisional facilities. The rest were treated on the battlefield, rushed to the nearest airstrip and loaded onto planes bound for one of the large evacuation hospitals scattered around the country. Though normally dedicated to longer term care, the volume of wounded modified the hospitals’ mission to resemble those on the front line. Among these was the 25th Evacuation Hospital at Taegu, near the K2 airbase where I was stationed. We received two planeloads of injured soldiers for transport to the hospital.
First down the loading ramp came the litter bearers carrying the most seriously wounded and the non-ambulatory. First handfuls, then dozens and ultimately, scores of casualties were carried down the ramps. Blood-soaked, dirt-stained bandages predominated, but there were frequent glimpses of faces and limbs charred with the evil scarlet of burns that demonstrated the atrocities men visited upon each other in the name of God and country. A few stretchers carried the fully covered corpses of those who did not survive the flight. Finally, the ambulatory casualties shuffled off the plane in what seemed a never-ending stream. They came-uniforms charred, shredded, sometimes missing altogether. They came, young men with faces suddenly aged by pain and anguish. Most remarkable was the sight of those with upper body wounds assisting, in some cases carrying, those with foot and leg injuries. The blinded soldier might well be led by one with unimpaired sight, but suffering burns or other afflictions. Regardless of their injuries, they took care of one another without complaint.
After watching two C-124s unload over 200 casualties, I could no longer cope with this terrible parade of pain. I left the flight line and returned to my quarters. As a member of a combat unit, I had experienced death and injury. But unlike what unfolded before me, we had a more abstract experience. A friend-a hero-a human being would take off on a mission and never be seen again.
I was back in my quarters only a short time before I realized that I had to do something, regardless of how little it might be. Grabbing my hat and my last two packs of Chesterfields, I headed out and caught a ride on a weapons carrier into town and the army evac hospital.
The hospital was so overburdened, that no one bothered to control who came or went. I walked in the door and down a hall into the treatment area. Before me was a long corridor with doors opening into rooms on either side. Each room was filled with bunk-ridden wounded and scurrying hospital staff. The overflow of wounded men was packed between the doorways. Shoulder to shoulder, they sat quietly with only an occasional moan or gasp of pain. It was a sea of olive drab mixed with currents of blood red and the black of burned cordite. Faces were uniformly gray from pain or blood loss, or both. Suddenly, I know why I was here. Maybe, just maybe, I could make some of these guys, for just a moment, forget what they were going through.
Slowly I worked my way down the hall, passing out cigarettes, trying to bring a touch of normalcy to those whose world had become one of fear and pain.
Hey, you want a smoke?
Where you from?
Liberal, Kansas? I had a buddy from there-Ben Steele. Know him?
Looks like you got a ticket home, pal.
They’ll have you dancing in no time.
Hey, lotsa girls think scars are sexy.
Some didn’t respond, staring vacantly into their private vision of hell. Most seemed happy for human contact. The cigarettes were welcome. Even the occasional joke was worth it, in spite of the flush of pain it might generate.
Coming to the end of the hall, I turned into the one that intersected it. The view was the same, only the strained faces were different. I continued for the next half hour or so-corridor to corridor, man to man. Finally, physically and emotionally exhausted and, more important, out of cigarettes, I left the hospital.
Back on the street, the vile stink of open sewers, the reek of kimchi cooking on every hearth and the oppressive odor of charcoal-burning trucks seemed sweet compared to the evil smells of blood, burned flesh, and body excretions that had been my constant companion for the past half hour or so. I returned to the relatively sane world of my quarters.
Less than a week later, I left Korea for home.
Less than two weeks later, the armistice was signed.
Those of us who served in Korea are shrinking in number. We went to war to the snap and crackle of fluttering flags and the exhilaration of patriotic fervor, only to return to a nation that had already forgotten us. Each time we hear a reference to “The Forgotten War” our hurt is renewed. But this is nothing compared to the physical hurt of our comrades who came back to an uncaring country with missing limbs, sightless eyes and other indignities that war inflicts on young bodies.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Thanks to my brother as well, who was in the first Gulf War.
Thanks, popster. The following is written by my dad, who was in the Korean War.
The Essence of War
I watched as the giant Globemaster transport plane touched down on the runway, as gently as a leaf drifting to earth on a brisk fall day………..
It was early July. Truce talks aimed at ending the Korean War were finally being taken seriously. To improve their positions prior to a settlement, Chinese and North Korean forces had conducted a major offensive against “Old Baldy” and “Pork Chop Hill.”
…….
The bloody battle surged back and forth across the slopes of the two hills. After five days of violent, often hand-to-hand combat, friendly troops recovered the lost ground. As in most battles, the only accomplishment was the death and maiming of thousands of young men.
The sheer number of wounded mandated that only those who could not be safely transported would be treated at MASH or divisional facilities. The rest were treated on the battlefield, rushed to the nearest airstrip and loaded onto planes bound for one of the large evacuation hospitals scattered around the country. Though normally dedicated to longer term care, the volume of wounded modified the hospitals’ mission to resemble those on the front line. Among these was the 25th Evacuation Hospital at Taegu, near the K2 airbase where I was stationed. We received two planeloads of injured soldiers for transport to the hospital.
First down the loading ramp came the litter bearers carrying the most seriously wounded and the non-ambulatory. First handfuls, then dozens and ultimately, scores of casualties were carried down the ramps. Blood-soaked, dirt-stained bandages predominated, but there were frequent glimpses of faces and limbs charred with the evil scarlet of burns that demonstrated the atrocities men visited upon each other in the name of God and country. A few stretchers carried the fully covered corpses of those who did not survive the flight. Finally, the ambulatory casualties shuffled off the plane in what seemed a never-ending stream. They came-uniforms charred, shredded, sometimes missing altogether. They came, young men with faces suddenly aged by pain and anguish. Most remarkable was the sight of those with upper body wounds assisting, in some cases carrying, those with foot and leg injuries. The blinded soldier might well be led by one with unimpaired sight, but suffering burns or other afflictions. Regardless of their injuries, they took care of one another without complaint.
After watching two C-124s unload over 200 casualties, I could no longer cope with this terrible parade of pain. I left the flight line and returned to my quarters. As a member of a combat unit, I had experienced death and injury. But unlike what unfolded before me, we had a more abstract experience. A friend-a hero-a human being would take off on a mission and never be seen again.
I was back in my quarters only a short time before I realized that I had to do something, regardless of how little it might be. Grabbing my hat and my last two packs of Chesterfields, I headed out and caught a ride on a weapons carrier into town and the army evac hospital.
The hospital was so overburdened, that no one bothered to control who came or went. I walked in the door and down a hall into the treatment area. Before me was a long corridor with doors opening into rooms on either side. Each room was filled with bunk-ridden wounded and scurrying hospital staff. The overflow of wounded men was packed between the doorways. Shoulder to shoulder, they sat quietly with only an occasional moan or gasp of pain. It was a sea of olive drab mixed with currents of blood red and the black of burned cordite. Faces were uniformly gray from pain or blood loss, or both. Suddenly, I know why I was here. Maybe, just maybe, I could make some of these guys, for just a moment, forget what they were going through.
Slowly I worked my way down the hall, passing out cigarettes, trying to bring a touch of normalcy to those whose world had become one of fear and pain.
Hey, you want a smoke?
Where you from?
Liberal, Kansas? I had a buddy from there-Ben Steele. Know him?
Looks like you got a ticket home, pal.
They’ll have you dancing in no time.
Hey, lotsa girls think scars are sexy.
Some didn’t respond, staring vacantly into their private vision of hell. Most seemed happy for human contact. The cigarettes were welcome. Even the occasional joke was worth it, in spite of the flush of pain it might generate.
Coming to the end of the hall, I turned into the one that intersected it. The view was the same, only the strained faces were different. I continued for the next half hour or so-corridor to corridor, man to man. Finally, physically and emotionally exhausted and, more important, out of cigarettes, I left the hospital.
Back on the street, the vile stink of open sewers, the reek of kimchi cooking on every hearth and the oppressive odor of charcoal-burning trucks seemed sweet compared to the evil smells of blood, burned flesh, and body excretions that had been my constant companion for the past half hour or so. I returned to the relatively sane world of my quarters.
Less than a week later, I left Korea for home.
Less than two weeks later, the armistice was signed.
Those of us who served in Korea are shrinking in number. We went to war to the snap and crackle of fluttering flags and the exhilaration of patriotic fervor, only to return to a nation that had already forgotten us. Each time we hear a reference to “The Forgotten War” our hurt is renewed. But this is nothing compared to the physical hurt of our comrades who came back to an uncaring country with missing limbs, sightless eyes and other indignities that war inflicts on young bodies.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Thanks to my brother as well, who was in the first Gulf War.
Comments
He was quite thrilled when the Korean government finally handed out medals for those who fought in the war - I think that was 8-10 years ago, so he finally got some recognition.