Korea

Dear Bard: You ask whether I will be in Washington for the celebration of the Korean War armistice, signed 50 years ago tomorrow: July 27, 1953.

My answer: "I must be there!"

At your invitation, I write what the Korean War was like for me, citizen soldier Richard E. Coate, born 77 years ago in Trenton, Ohio, population 350.

In the winter of 1951, and only recently graduated from Ohio State University where I majored in drama, I arrived on the fighting line in South Korea. Now, the Korean War has been called a police action, a "sour little war" and, most often, the "Forgotten War."

What largely was forgotten was how infantryman fought it-- ordinary guys armed with M-1 rifles, machine guns, mortars, and hand grenades. Author James Brady, who was there, wrote "The Coldest War" (Thomas Dunne Books; 1990). He describes how: "Two armies stood and faced each other in the hills with another damned winter coming out of Siberia."

The two armies were the Chinese, about one million of them along with some North Korean troops, pitted against six American divisions and a small number of allied fighters, sent by the United Nations. On Feb. 13, 1951, my second day with Company E, 15th Infantry Regiment, a unit in the proud 3rd Infantry Division (Rock of the Marne, in WW I), I became point man on a patrol along the Han River, near Seoul.

Me, the pacifist son of a Quaker father, a wannabe actor who had played "Napoleon" on the Ohio State stage, out front of a rifle unit, and under cover of darkness moving into hostile territory. Newcomers were warned: the Chinese are good-and diabolically clever-- at grabbing GI prisoners, whom they sometimes torture for possible intelligence.

Bard, war is insane; war is only about killing. To myself, I said: "Coate, you can get killed over here." Fear became a constant companion.

Did I have close calls? Brushes with death, as the cliché‚ goes? They were unavoidable. My first time in combat two bullets missed my head, by inches. Moreover, we came under round-the-clock barrages. We bedded down at night, never knowing if we'd live to see the morning.

The worst "near-death" came when several of our own planes mistakenly believed we were the enemy. They dropped napalm bombs on us. The second drop missed me by feet. I raced from my shallow foxhole with a jet on my tail. In this bizarre scene, I tripped on my entrenching tool and became a perfect target for a strafing run.

Sure enough: the pilot made a second run, firing and missing me by inches. How did the debacle end? With Top Sergeant Leonard Cusson standing in the open, flashing our identifying panels at the airmen, signaling we were Americans. So stop trying to kill us!

Every man on this hill knew, in his heart, he owed his life to Sgt. Cusson, one tough Connecticut soldier.

In letters home to wife Betty, I wrote of my new life, and the men-men like I had never known. "These guys, my darling, are a fine group. In circumstances of war, men show their colors. I'm glad I'm having these associations with Sgt. Cusson, James (Moon) Mullens, our supply sergeant, and Commanding Officer Lt. Stillman Hazeltine, as brilliant as he is brave. He's so brilliant he's made me Company Clerk."

More than 50 years, half a century, has gone by yet some nights just before sleep arrives, I relive this unforgettable scene: I'm Company Clerk again, sitting on the ground with a typewriter between my legs. Rain pelts the roof of my pup tent, and by candlelight I peck away, preparing reports: Killed In Action, Wounded in Action, Missing In Action.

From my reports, telegrams or letters expressing sorrow will be sent to the soldier's home. Many of these I wrote, choking back tears. Lt. Hazeltine's messages though were memorable.

"Though there were many recipients of awards for heroic acts during the battle for these hills," he wrote in October 1951, "every man involved faced strong enemy resistance and from heavily fortified bunkers, yet proved to be a hero. Your son was one of these heroes."

When I worked up reports, I held each individual GI in my mind. Then, as now, I offered a prayer for my absent comrade. And that is why I shall travel from my Brooklyn, NY home to Washington, to stand before our dramatic Korean War monument. Lastly, I once more need to thank my heroes: the late CO Stillman Hazeltine (Custer, SD), along with Leonard Cusson (Danielson, CT), and James "Moon" Mullens (Huntsville, TX), and the others. Thanks for helping me return home, safely and whole.