Valleys of Death by Bill Richardson Page B

this time we weren’t hungover.
    Just outside of town, the land spread out into untended fields and rice paddies with the high ridges that formed the bowling alley on both sides. We were moving at a good clip when all of a sudden we were receiving fire from the high ground to our right front.
    â€œGet that gun in that ditch. Fire at the base of the hill,” I yelled to Gray. “Walsh, follow me.”
    We ran into a field where we could get into position to fire at a better angle. It was amazing: Everybody was moving at top speed and just a second ago they were dragging ass.

    Bowling Alley Pusan perimeter, September 1-23, 1950. Timeline “L” CO & 3rd BN 8th CAV. National Archives, modified by author.
    â€œWalsh, get in behind that dike, put fire a little further up the hill. Can you see where the fire is coming from?”
    â€œGot it, Rich,” Walsh said as his team positioned the gun and started loading.
    â€œI’m going back up the road. Keep your eyes on me,” I said. “I’ll let you know when I want you.”
    I caught up with McAbee.

    September 6, 1950. Men of 8th CAV., Regt., 1st CAV Division, advance to the front below Tabu-Dong. National Archives
    â€œRichardson, you keep a machine gun and your 57s firing on the hill. I’m going to attack on the left side. Got it?”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    In seconds I could hear Gray’s gun start firing and soon after Walsh started pounding the hill. I grabbed Gray and had him fire some white phosphorous—Willie Peter—on the target. The smoke concealed McAbee and the rest of the company as it got into position. I could see our soldiers open fire and start moving up the hill. I shifted the 57s away from them and continued to pound the North Korean machine gunners. In minutes, McAbee and his men overwhelmed the North Korean defenders.
    From my vantage point, it looked like it had been scripted for a movie. It was beautiful to watch the soldiers move so perfectly in concert with our fire. A perfectly executed attack. But it seemed too easy. McAbee seemed to think so too and ordered everybody to hurry up the hill and dig in.
    We raced up to a ridge and started to dig. By now, my section had become good at quickly getting the guns up and in position. Then, with our now strong backs, we snapped open our entrenching tools and started digging foxholes.
    A foxhole was rectangular shaped and deep enough so that we could stand in it with only our head and shoulders exposed. The hole widened at the bottom so that during artillery fire we could crouch down. If we had time, we also dug sumps so that we could kick enemy grenades into them, possibly saving our lives.
    At dark, North Korean shells started to crash down around us. Volley after volley showered us with debris. The ground shook like an earthquake, and the roar of the explosions made it impossible to hear or even think.
    As I crouched down in my hole, holding my helmet tight against my head, my leg started to shake. I tried to press down on it, but the leg continued to shake and jump. I never got the shakes in the daylight no matter how tough the situation was. Why? I didn’t know. Maybe because I could see what was happening around me, I felt more like I was in control. At night it was the unknown that shook me, but when the fighting started I was under control.
    The first time this happened to me was when I was fourteen years old. I was being questioned in regards to a payroll robbery of a local company. I had nothing to do with it, but the police still took me in for questioning. During the questioning, my right leg jumped uncontrollably. I stood up to try to stop it but to no avail. I have no idea why my leg shook so badly, because I really was innocent.
    I prayed that none of my men ever noticed my leg shaking. Adrenaline always seemed to flow at the right time for me; it was the same playing football: The more often or the harder I got hit, the better I