by Richard Seifried
Signal Hill Musings
February, 2008
Occasionally thoughts enter my mind and I just can’t let go of them. Many have nothing to do with the time of year or my location when I find myself dwelling on them.
One such experience happened in Korea during the month of April, 1951. Why I continue to dwell on the incident is a puzzle to me. Contrary to the seeming danger of the moment, it was one of my most enjoyable adventures. So, since you are at my mercy, I’ll go ahead and write about it, thus deriving therapy from the recollection.
Our 2nd Infantry Division had just crossed the 38th Parallel and passed the no longer existing city of Inje. We were chasing the North Koreans and Chinese back north for the third time.
On the day of my adventure, except for two hot dog sandwiches, mashed potatoes, canned peaches, and powdered milk, we hadn’t eaten for two days. A heavy rain had fallen for nearly a day.
What put me in a good mood was a friend, a poor little guy from Cleveland. He sat with his feet in a huge shell hole filled with cold water, obviously trying to get sick. He kept saying, “I want my mother. I want my mother.” I thought it was funny because we were so disgustingly healthy we couldn’t catch cold no matter how hard we tried.
The first sergeant was calling us in, one at a time, “asking” for volunteers. We had the entire Eastern Chinese Army surrounded, but somehow we had been unable to close the ring up on a high range of mountains. Our task was to try to make contact with our advancing western troops. Of course, I was “volunteered.”
Obviously, this patrol was going to be important, and also quite dangerous. Our little group carried a 30 cal. machine gun, two Browning automatic rifles, and a large radio set. There were no more than a dozen of us. Chief, our Native American squad leader, assigned me to the point position, a forward scout who went slightly ahead of the rest. And I know why I was selected – he didn’t like me.
We waded a creek, walking along the right side, and headed up a valley that rapidly became narrower and narrower. Most of the time, solid walls towered twenty feet or more, rising straight up from the path.
This is why I loved that afternoon – and still do. I was ahead, alone, doing what I had trained myself to do all of my young life. I was Daniel Boone, Simon Kenton, Jedediah Smith, Lewis and Clark.
How romantic.
Moving rapidly, we climbed upward. The forest was lovely, pines, ferns, water dripping from foliage and naked rocks. The air was soft, sweet, and moist, an atmosphere that I have always loved, much like the Great Smoky Mountains in Tennessee.
I could hear, rather sense, the men behind me, breathing hard, loaded down with ammunition, weapons, grenades, canteens of water. Once, at a particularly dangerous location, someone behind me lost his helmet. The darned thing went banging and clattering way down the mountainside. We all stood silent and listened. I didn’t want to know who had dropped it so I didn’t look back. I, like the rest, was grateful it belonged to some other poor guy, not me.
Way up the mountain, the valley had become just a narrow slit. I hugged the rock walls, listening for the sound of someone coming toward me from above, from on top of the cliffs. I constantly weaved and bobbed, never making myself a still target, my eyes searching for trip wires or mines or grenades, seeking out any human movement from above.
There have been few times in my life that I was so alive, my senses so acute. My self-confidence was soaring. I wasn’t hunting some poor animal. My adversaries were young men, armed, just like me.
Eventually, we reached the crest of the mountain range. Foxholes were everywhere. Grenades by the dozens, equipment, Chinese equipment, lay all over the ground, dropped when the enemy lightened its load before it bugged out.
I realize that all of this seems foolhardy, but you weren’t there. You didn’t hear the dripping foliage, the little rivulets trickling over the rocky path, the muffled sounds of my companions. There is no way that I can describe the earthy, sweet smells emitting from the rain soaked earth. The joy of experiencing, of being alive, of surviving the danger are so embedded in my memory. I shall never forget that afternoon for the rest of my life.
