60th anniversary of 6/25
By Dan Pak
Waking up in the morning, the digital clock by the bed flashes 6:25. The numbers sting my memory like a needle pierces an old wound that never fully healed. They represent the day of infamy to all Koreans, particularly to our generation. The sinking of the Cheonan is a stark reminder that the wretched war had not really ended. But the calendar will soon mark that no less than 60 years have passed since that fateful day. Looking back, I decided to record my wartime experience in its early days.
Soldiers with frost bitten feet arrived by the dozen. The ambulance from our medical detachment was busy picking them up from the forward positions north of the Han River and brought them to the aid station. The combat elements from the 25th U.S. Infantry Division had crossed the Han River before dawn. It was the middle of winter 1950. Nicknamed ``Tropical Lightening," the 25th Division was chasing disorganized North Korean Forces retreating from advancing allied forces. Our side gained momentum after the historic Incheon Landing of General McArthur.
The 65th Combat Engineer Battalion of the 25th occupied my hometown in the south in September 1950. Its mission was to build a pontoon bridge across the Geum River. As always, the U.S. military was looking for an interpreter. I was recruited from the street as soon as I uttered a few words of welcome to the passing GIs. When the soldiers learned I was a medical student, they took me to the medical detachment of the battalion.
The unit was constantly on the move. One day we were moving to a bivouac area for the night. I was riding in an ambulance with the medics. A two-and-a-half ton GMC truck coming up behind us loaded with medical supplies was about to turn the corner when a tremendous explosion nearly blew it into the air. We scrambled out of the ambulance with a stretcher and saw the truck engine was blown off and the driver had been thrown out of his seat. The truck had run over a land mine. The tire mark revealed that our ambulance had barely missed the mine.
Another incident is in my memory. One day, a prisoner from the Chinese Communist Forces (CCF) was brought to our aid station. He was bleeding from a bullet wound in his thigh. Captain Goodrich, M.D., detachment commander, had the wound bound up and stopped the bleeding. The man kept saying, ``Suwei, Suwei." The doctor asked me what he was saying. I don't speak Chinese although I understand Chinese characters. It dawned on me that Suwei sounded a lot like Soo, the Korean word for water. I told Dr. Goodrich that he might be asking for water. He picked up a water canteen, shook it at the wounded Chinese boy and asked, ``Do you want water?" The lad nodded vigorously in agreement. ``No! You will bleed yourself to death if you drink water now," said the doctor. The Chinese prisoner was given a morphine shot to help ease the pain and was evacuated to the field hospital for further treatment.
A few days later, an American soldier was brought in. When the doctor took a quick glance at him, he dropped his head and motioned a medic nearby to take him to the back of the farmhouse where we set up an aid station. Everyone present realized that the soldier's injury was fatal. In the back of the house, I saw something perhaps I should not have seen. His skull was broken and a part of his brain had spilled out. When he was brought in, he was breathing. Soon afterwards he was no more.
Later on, I volunteered for the ROK Army service. I always remember the death of that young American soldier when they talk about the sacrifice for freedom.
The writer is a Korean War veteran who now lives in the U.S. state of Georgia. He can be reached at dc.p@mindspring.com.