War Stories

Korean Nights

by Fred Miller


by Fred Miller

The night was dark and windy and a cold rain swept the line. It was one of those hellish Korean nights that sends chills up your spine.

We climb up to a bunker on a bleak and rainsoaked hill. And stop to listen at the door, but all inside is still.

Inside a group of cold-eyed men are gathered close around. A man intently studying, an object on the ground.

He looks up from the map and slowly shakes his head. "From the looks of this patrol plan, we're all as good as dead."

Said a sergeant standing near him, "Sir, I know these men quite well. After serving in Korea, they'll try a hitch in Hell."

Although each of the faces were cold and hard as stone. In all their hearts were many thoughts of loved ones way back home.

Despite the thoughts of loved ones that they might see no more, each man still held his head up high, he'd brushed with death before.

After briefing all the men, thorough, clear and slow, the lieutenant glanced down at his watch, saying, "Saddle up men, let's go."

Then each man checked his weapon, with tender loving care. His baby would not fail him, no matter when nor where.

For way out there, in the wet and cold, when Joe Chink turns loose all hell, Baby will recite her lesson, and death is what she'll spell.

Then out they moved into the night, so wet, so cold, so black. Nine young men with loves at home, who may not make it back.

Ignoring the wet, the numbing cold, they creep along the ground. They're moving slow, do damnable slow, they dare not make a sound.

Nerves are tense, senses sharp, gotta hear, can't see. It's darker than the pits of Hell and who knows where Joe Chink will be?

Then suddenly with a jolting shock, the night is torn apart! The chatter of that goddam' burpgun, a sound that chills your heart.

You hear the stuttering carbine and the M-1's spiteful crack. A welcome sound that tells you G.I. Joe is fighting back.

Sizing up the situation, icy fingers claw each man's soul. Of all the goddam' rotten luck, a platoon size Chink patrol.

Outmanned, outgunned, outnumbered, and things are getting hot. "Quick, call in the 60's, they're the only chance we've got!"

With the speed of desperation, "60's, concentration 8. By God get it out here, we can't afford to wait!"

He whispers to the lieutenant, as he unkeys the phone. "They'll show these commie bastards, that we are not alone."

Back in the 60's section, crews leap to gun pits. "We'll show those slant-eyed bitches, we'll blow them all to bits."

Then from the pits come the sounds, that you hear every day. The gunners 'up', the whistling screams, the missions on it's way.

The crews are pouring round after round, to see them is a sight. "Those bastards ambush our patrol, we'll have Chink ass tonight."

Out in the midst of a raging fight are 9 brave young G.I.s. Giving their all to make Chinks pay for every man that dies.

Then suddenly without warning, Chinese scatter pell-mell. They've heard the deadly screaming of those 'little bees from Hell'!

The valley rocks with explosions, orange flashes light the night. Those hell raising little 60's are putting an end to the fight

At the sight so close in front of them, frozen hearts swell with pride. One whispers, "God bless those mortarmen, I'm glad they're on our side."

A little later one could see, coming in to our line, a small patrol of courageous men, whose numbers still were nine.

This writing is but small token, dedicated in memory, of those who daily risk their all, to help keep millions free!