Cherry Blossoms in Winter: A Riveting Soldier's Story of the Korean War, Friendship, and Love in Post-War Japan by Summers Michael J

Author:Summers, Michael J.
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Black Rose Writing
Published: 2024-09-12T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER SEVEN

The “Rat”

Even in the evening, the mountain was dreadfully humid; it smelled of squalor and death, and the only relief from the heat and stink was to crawl beneath it. All along the line, the men peered into the darkness, pitch-black on a moonless Korean evening, and the company’s assault would begin in four hours. This would be the third attack of the week, and already a third of the company was wounded, sick, KIA, or missing in action. The men didn’t believe they’d get killed, but they knew some of them would.

Jack gave Perkins four twelve-round magazines, thirty-caliber ammunition, which he stuffed into his bandoleers, and two extra hand grenades. Perkins took some ammo and carefully laid it next to the Browning Automatic Rifle, which rested atop a small foot-high berm built to protect the foxhole. Jack watched Perkins adjust the BAR, securing its steel, twenty-four-inch barrel upon the ledge.

“The damned gooks better think twice about assaultin’ our position,” Perkins said savagely to Jack. His bloodshot eyes were the only feature Jack could see on his face, which was tattooed orange by sweat, blood, and mud from two weeks of killing on the Rat. Filth covered both men, even more obscenely than during their descent from Mount Fuji, and their hair revolted in protest. Some men grew beards, and those that couldn’t didn’t.

“They ain’t goin’ to hit us tonight, not tonight they won’t,” Perkins said.

“Don’t be so damned sure. Gooks overran Russell Simmons’s foxhole on a night just like this and stabbed him in the stomach,” Jack reminded Perkins.

“He’s a lucky bastard! He’s probably shacked up with a pretty, stateside nurse ‘bout now,” Perkins said disgustedly.

The two-person foxhole measured six feet wide and four feet deep. They spent the entire day digging it using nine-inch entrenching shovels. Deep inside, they found it cooler than standing up. In early September, the Korean Peninsula’s humidity smothered the men, and sickly brown mold grew on everything with frequent rain and the threat of typhoons. The pungent smell of mildew added to the stink of white phosphorous, sweating male bodies, excrement, and dead men rotting on the mountain, which created a giant magnet that drew millions of lazy black flies, maggots, and rats to feast on the stink. Koreans called the mountain Ganghan-san, Strong Mountain. Army brass called it Hill 257. The generals called it essential because of its vantage point over the North Korean’s main line of attack along the Pusan Perimeter. The soldiers of the 15th called it Rat Mountain, and the bloody campaign became known as the Battle for Rat Mountain.

Jack drew himself deep into the foxhole. Even inside, his body sweated profusely and ached for proper food, untainted water, and a woman’s soft body. Moreover, a sharp-bladed, uncomfortable irritation hung over him from the constant killing and lack of sleep. He tried to lie on his side with his back pressed firmly against the damp earth, attempting to escape the humidity, but the sweat still clung to his face, even in the eerie darkness of the hole.

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