Valleys of Death by Bill Richardson Page A

stay with Hall,” I told Walsh.
    Snatching Jones by his shirt collar, I stumbled with him back to my foxhole. He crawled in and huddled against the wall sobbing. He couldn’t talk, even when I asked him simple questions. His body heaved with every sob.
    The engineer had finally stopped screaming and now in an ever desperate voice pleaded for someone to come get him.
    â€œStay in your holes,” I barked.
    I was sure the North Koreans were lying in wait hoping someone would try to get him. God, I wished he would die. That thought sent a jolt through me. Jesus Christ, I didn’t really mean that. The poor son of a bitch. My only thought now was please God bring the daylight soon.
    When the sun’s rays finally peeked over the horizon, we started getting the wounded off the hill. The rifle platoon to our left had some men who had been caught sleeping and the Koreans had slit their throats. The section watched as the wounded men walked past with their throats covered in blood, assisted by two men. It was a demoralizing sight—my men were scared shitless—because it could have been us. That would keep them alert at night, I hoped. When the wounded had all been evacuated, I got the medic to tag Jones.
    I pulled the medic aside.
    â€œDoc, can you write this up and make sure he never gets sent back?”
    â€œRoger, Sergeant,” the medic said, taking Jones by the arm and leading him back to the makeshift casualty collection point on the backside of the hill.
    Walsh grabbed me after Jones left. We were getting ready to move forward, and I was making sure Jones hadn’t left anything behind.
    â€œSarge, Black lost it. He’s crying and he’s hugging a tree and will not respond to me.”
    Black, I didn’t know him very well. He was one of the company’s problem children. He’d gotten drunk after a unit picnic at Fort Devens and the military police had locked him up for bring drunk and disorderly. This incident confirmed what I already thought: Black was going to be a constant problem. I put him in Walsh’s squad and we’d both kept on his ass making sure he was doing the right thing.
    When I got to Black, he was wrapped around a tree like a vine. Every time a shell landed nearby, he began shaking and crying. No talking was going to help. I just wanted to get him away from the rest of the men. The section had fought well, but after listening to the engineer all night they had their own nerves to contend with.
    They didn’t need to be exposed to this.
    â€œMove the section up the road a little ways while I get a medic to tag him and get him out of here,” I told Walsh.
    I got the same medic who tagged Jones. That made two men within twenty-four hours. If this continued, I would lose the whole section to fear instead of the enemy.
    Greenlowe, my other young guy was doing great as my runner. Last night I sent him back to the company headquarters to pick up the grenades. He assured me that he could find the headquarters location in the dark. Over the next few days he proved his worth so much so that the company commander recognized his courage and ability to find his way around the battlefield and made him the company runner to battalion.

CHAPTER SIX
    DARK DAYS OF SUMMER
    The heat and humidity covered us like a blanket as we moved north through the village of Tabu-Dong.
    In minutes, our fatigues were soaking wet from sweat. We marched for five miles, and with every step I hoped that we didn’t get attacked. Moving through the skeleton of houses burned out by constant fighting was eerie. We could see debris and torn clothes in the rubble. I scanned each mud hut as we passed and waited for the ambush around every corner, but the village was deserted and we made it without firing a shot.
    We all took turns carrying the guns and ammunition. I didn’t want to tire out the gunners. Everybody was shuffling along. It reminded me of the march at Camp Stoneman, but