A Christmas Story

I gazed out the window watching large snow flakes slowly fluttering to the ground, as  my thoughts turned to another time and place. In my mind’s eye it was again Christmas 1951. I was a 19 year old infantryman, on a ridge line that over looked the Kumhwa Valley, Korea. A few hundred yards across the valley on the opposite ridge was the Chinese main-line-of-resistance. The events of that time had so etched themselves in my memory, that I still can see the sights, hear the sounds, smell the odors, feel the bone chilling cold, know the fear, and relive the countless other emotions that were then present. Along with four other soldiers from the heavy weapons Platoon we manned a 50 caliber machine gun in support of Company K.
My journey to Korea began in 1949, upon turning 17, as a junior in high school, I joined the Minnesota National Guard and began my training as a soldier in Battery C 175th Field Artillery. A year and a half later North Korea invaded South Korea. In November of 1950, China entered the war and my unit was federalized and sent to Fort Rucker, Alabama. After basic training, being young and wanting to see the world, and I suppose a little gung-ho, I volunteered for the Far Eastern Command, which meant Korea. Almost as a bonus, because of my training and time in the guard I was promoted to corporal. I had expected to be assigned to an artillery battery for which I was trained, but on arriving in Korea I was assigned to Company M, 9th Infantry Regiment, 2nd Division, a heavy weapons company. The Second Division at that time was engaged in the battle for Heart Break Ridge and taking heavy casualties. The division’s need was not for artillery men but to replace their heavy infantry losses. So contrary to my earlier belief and training, I became an infantry soldier. Along with three other replacements, all privates, we were told to move up to the line and report to the Platoon Leader. As a corporal I was put in charge of the three privates and assigned a 50 caliber machine gun. I knew nothing about infantry weapons or tactics and was looking at the 50 for the first time, nor had I ever been in charge of other men. Never in my life have I felt more inadequate. I was about to begin a period of on the job training. The ridge line had just recently been taken and we were told to dig-in and prepare for the counter attack, which was sure to come. So I took the only infantry weapon I was familiar with, a trenching tool and begin digging fast and furiously. At that time I was only on line about 10 days before the 2nd Division was relieved and sent back in reserve, but those 10 days I never again would want to relive.
In earlier years I had watched WW II movies where reserve was a time of rest and relaxatIon. I found this not to be the case. Most of reserve time was spent training in basic infantry tactics and becoming familiar with our platoon’s weapons: the three 75 MM Recoilless Rifles and the 50 Cal machine gun. I welcome this as I never again wanted to go back on line as ill-prepared as I had been earlier that fall. However, reserve wasn’t all training and war games, we ate three hot meals a day, slept in squad tents on canvas cots, and most nights watched old movies on 16 MM film.  
As the time to go back on line approached, our old veterans, who had come over with the division a year earlier began rotating back to the states and their ranks were filled by replacements. Those of us who a couple of months earlier had been the new kids on the block, were now the veterans. I don’t think I ever felt that I would not make it out of Korea alive, yet I had seen enough men carried off the hill to know that possibility existed. Anyway I begin feeling anxious; I am not sure if this was fear or just that I didn’t feel good about going back to the kind of combat I had known last fall, except this time it would be in the cold and snow of the Korean winter. A few days before Christmas the division went back on line. I had expected to be assigned to one of the 75’s, but much to my dismay, since my prior combat experience had been on the 50, I was again assigned that weapon along with two other men who had been with me since last fall and two new replacements. We were assigned two well constructed bunkers. The gun bunker had a log roof, covered by sand bags, with living quarters dug back into the side of the hill.   It was well constructed and appeared as if it could withstand anything other than a direct artillery or mortar hit. The other bunker was well built, but not as good as the gun bunker. All the bunkers along the line were connected to each other by a communication trench about three feet deep and in front of each bunker was an apron of concertina razor wire. The line was well fortified.   Despite my earlier fear, life on the line that winter proved to be a cake walk. The North Korean/Chinese and UN forces were negotiating a cease fire at Panmunjom and both sides seemed content to hold their own lines and not try to take any new ground. This suited me just fine. As a result our casualties were light, mostly by sniper fire or on night patrols when the two opposing patrols occasionally met each other in the no-man’s land lying between the two lines.
The early days on line were relaxed and somewhat carefree, but after the sun set, the inky darkness was filled by the terror of the unseen. In front of us artillery and mortar shells exploded (ours) at regular intervals intended to curtain any enemy intrusion regularly flares suspended by parachute lines, to provide some light swung back and fourth as the parachutes slowly fell to earth, causing shadows to dance across the valley floor and when seen by green replacements and in some cases veterans, appeared as hoards of blood thirsty Chinamen all with fixed bayonets, charging at them with blood in their eyes. First one G I then another would begin shooting and tossing grenades at those shadows, then soon that whole section of the line would begin firing and lobbing grenades at that phantom army. Platoon leaders and non-coms moved from bunker to bunker, shouting, “What the hell are you shooting at? You are doing nothing but killing shadows; If we are hit you are going to be out of ammo and grenades.” After the first couple of nights this hysteria ended and calm returned to the line. Then the nights like the days became long, sleepless and boring. After the first few days even our bodies adjusted to the cold.
The frigid temperatures of the last few days had moderated and the day time temperature on December 24 was probably in the mid-teens. Earlier that afternoon a K Company platoon leader, inspected our position and said: “We have no indication that the Chinese will try anything major tonight, but they know it is Christmas and they might probe us just to let us know they are still out there; be alert and make sure that at least one man is awake and at his post in each bunker.” As evening approached I performed the routine duty of inspecting the machine-gun, making sure it was working properly, anchored in place and fired a short burst, watching tracers go straight to the aiming point and ricochet in a lazy arc into the darkening sky I locked the gun on that aiming point. If we were hit during the darkness of the night this aiming point would be a part of an interlocking field of fire with other automatic weapons.
As darkness settled in, the three us in our bunker, huddled together, in the gun port, making small talk, while eating a Christmas Eve meal of “C” rations. With the warming weather, large fluffy snow flakes begun slowly floating down to the awaiting earth, light at first and then becoming heavier, creating a shroud of white making visibility almost an impossibility. Unexpectedly, from out of the snowy darkness, a lone voice was heard, singing, ”Silent Night” and soon was joined by other voices, then much of the line seemed to join in a chorus of Christmas Carols. It seemed almost as if this was being choreographed by some mystical director. Never before or since have I heard such beautiful music, that seemed to fill my very soul with contentment. After maybe an hour or so the singing ended as it had begun one voice at a time. and then the landscape was bathed in an eerie quietness and a restful peace.
As was our custom, we split the watches of the night into three equal parts of four hours each. I had first watch from 8:00 until Midnight. My fellow bunker mates crawled back into the bunker, attempting to catch a bit of shut-eye before standing their individual watches. Alone in the gun port, I sat in the solitude of the night, peering into the darkness through the falling snow. Visibility was limited, only at times was I able to catch glimpses of the concertina wire in front of the bunker. As usual parachute flares were fired in front of our line, attempting to illuminate the valley below. The usual fire-orange color now appeared only as a greenish blur captured by the falling snow. Even the sound of exploding artillery and mortar rounds, near our line, seemed to be muffled by the falling snow. I sat there mesmerized, feeling there was something special about this night! Even though I knew better I felt at peace with the world around me. After all, it was Christmas Eve! In that strange solitude my mind wondered from one thought to another. I wondered about that first Christmas, those many years ago: Did those shepherds tending sheep, feel amazement and perhaps fear over the strange happenings taking place around them? As my watch dragged on boredom set in and my thoughts meandered from one subject to another. I visualized my family, back in South Dakota, attending midnight mass; and after mass returning home sitting around the Christmas tree opening presents. Would my mother fix the traditional big early morning breakfast, before everyone scurried off to bed? I wondered about my friends back home, about the Christmas parties and all that I was missing. I asked myself: “What the hell am I doing in this God forsaken country so far from every thing I held dear?” Finally it was midnight and my watch ended. I went back into the bunker awakening the next watch, checked on the two replacements in the bunker next to ours and chatted for a couple of minutes with the one who was on watch and then went back to my bunker and crawled into my sleeping bag and was soon fast asleep.
I awakened a little before dawn and went out to the gun port and sat with the man on third watch. The falling snow had ceased. The early morning light burst through the milky ski chasing away the darkness of the night and objects in the valley below started taking shape. What was that object lying in the snow just out side the wire? As the darkness continued to retreat, it appeared to be a Pasteboard box just a little larger than a shoe box, snow filled tracks from the box led back towards the Chinese line. Amazed, we asked  each other: “was that thing there yesterday?” We agreed it wasn’t! All that day up and down the line there was all sorts of silly speculation as to what the box might contain; some thought it was a booby trap meant to kill or maim anyone foolish enough to pick it up, maybe it was a box full of some type of germ warfare, it might contain the dog tags of fallen G I’s, maybe it was sniper bait intended to kill any G I silly enough to go out and investigate. Because of those threats, during the day, no one ventured to go down and check it out.
God Bless our cooks! About noon they climbed the hill bringing us a hot Christmas dinner of turkey, dressing, potatoes, cranberries, pie, and all the trimmings. Two of us from our unit remained on line while the other three went to the reverse side of the hill and partook of that wonderful dinner. When they returned, our turn came, although the food was in insulated containers it had gotten cold and the gravy was pretty stiff and almost had to be sliced with a knife by the time we got to it, but we still enjoyed the feast. It was truly a taste of home.
Later as darkness set in and the danger of sniper fire subsided, one of the riflemen, either through his own curiosity, as a dare, or ordered to do so, slipped through the wire to check out that strange box. He lay down behind it, poked it a couple of times with his rifle and when he determined it wasn’t going to explode, opened it, and brought it back up to the line. It was found to be full of Christmas cards from the Chinese, wishing us a Merry Christmas. I took one of the Christmas cards as a souvenir, and still have it. Were the Chinese really wishing us a Merry Christmas? I don’t think so, it was only a part of the propaganda war waged by both sides.
As we looked at the cards, we joked about some poor Chinese private given the honor of being hero, sneaking up to the American line and distributing cards along the length of the wire, but when he came to the wire, he dropped the entire box and scurried back to his own line, receiving a glorious welcome, and maybe having a badge of courage pinned to his dirty quilted uniform. Then he went to some isolated place and cleaned the brown stains from his underwear. For some reason that satire, didn’t seem funny to me and I didn’t take part in it. Whether that Chinese soldier was ordered or volunteered, it had to have taken a great deal of courage and skill or maybe just plain dumb luck to come that close to our line and not been detected and killed.
I thought back to last fall’s campaign on Heart Break, remembering the two POW”s our unit had taken and seeing them squatting on the ground guarded by a rifleman, waiting to be taken down the hill for interrogation. I noticed the dazed hopeless look in their eyes. They had surrendered to a strange people whose language they didn’t understand, who communicated with them by the gestures of a rifle, and were headed for they knew not where or what. I had much in common with them: they were fighting in land not their own, for reasons they didn’t fully understand, enduring summer’s heat, wet and caked with mud, suffered in winter’s cold, and lived like a badger, in a hole in the ground. Maybe because it was Christmas; I realized how much I had in common with them. I wondered how I might react if the situation were reversed. Although they were my enemy, who knows under different circumstances we might have even been friends, but there was one small difference that separated us - He was trying to kill me and I was trying to kill him.
That was Christmas 1951. Was I really separated from my family or maybe my family at that time was the five of us sharing our lives and thoughts, living in a hole in the ground on that remote Korean ridge line. And that is the way it was, those 74  years ago.