Free Valleys of Death by Bill Richardson

We dragged the rest of the bodies away from our position and piled them to one side. I didn’t look at their faces. I didn’t care.
    As daylight peeked its head over the hills, a tall, scrubby-looking infantryman carrying a carbine approached me from out of the mist. As he got closer, I saw the small white cross painted on his helmet. He stuck out his hand as he approached.
    â€œChaplain Kapaun,” he said, giving me a firm handshake. “Where are you from?”
    Chaplain Emil Kapaun, from Pilsen, Kansas, was a Catholic father who joined the Army toward the end of World War II. He served in Burma and India until May 1946. He returned home and was assigned a parish in Kansas. But he felt his calling was with the troops, so rejoined the Army in 1948. He joined us in Korea after spending a few months in Japan.
    His uniform was dirty and he, like the rest of us, needed a shave. It was clear he’d spent the night close to the fighting and not safely in the rear. There was a peacefulness about him, though, that put me at ease. A quiet confidence. He seemed to care where I was from, and I watched him as he spoke to the rest of the section. Each time, he asked where the soldier was from and gave him a firm handshake. It was not long before he had us all smiling.
    When Kapaun finished making his rounds, he sat down near my foxhole and took out his pipe. It was missing most of its stem.
    â€œWhat happened to your pipe?” I asked, as he filled it.
    â€œA sniper,” he said. “Shot it out of my mouth a few days ago.”
    We both had a laugh. I noticed the carbine lying across his lap.
    â€œI thought chaplains couldn’t carry weapons.” 77
    He smiled and nodded. “If they are going to shoot at me I’m going to be ready to shoot back.”
    With that, he stood up and, cradling his wounded pipe, disappeared over the ridge to visit Miller’s men.
    For the next five days we found ourselves fighting south and east of the road junction at Tabu-Dong. We attacked during the day and defended against their attacks at night. Due to casualties in the battalion, the three rifle companies were beginning to look like three rifle platoons. My section was down to eight men.
    We received two replacements. They showed up with their gear and clean uniforms. One was named Jackson, but I didn’t catch the other’s name. Jackson had a lot of questions about the North Koreans and where we were on the line. I tried to answer what I could but was content to let Hall and Walsh deal with him. I just gave both of the new men a little advice.
    â€œStay close to your foxhole partner and listen to him,” I said. “We have a very fluid situation, so act quickly and do what you are told.”
    I didn’t see them until the next morning. We’d been attacked again, but this time we were able to keep the North Koreans from our lines. But not without cost. Three men were gone; one missing and two wounded, including both replacements. The missing one, Jackson, had just gotten up and left. Walsh said Jackson’s brother had been missing in action since July and he volunteered to come to Korea so he could find him. After the attack, he climbed out of his foxhole and walked into the darkness. We never saw him again.
    We were taking casualties every night and soon could no longer hold our position south of Tabu-Dong. The constant North Korean attacks drove us south to the lower slopes of Hill 570. It had been raining constantly for two days as we dug into yet another new position on the slope; later that night we got orders to withdraw. Withdrawing in the daylight was bad enough. Now we were going to attempt it at night. I led Hall’s squad out first since they’d lost two men in an attack that afternoon. When I got back for Walsh, everybody was ready to go. I ordered everybody to move out. Walsh took the lead while I waited for the last men to go. Everyone got up with the exception of