Notes from a Forgotten War, So-called

Yes, it’s about Korea and that war, brief as it was, was briefer still for the 57,000 casualties. In passing, in fourteen-plus years in Vietnam, the casualties number anywhere from 57,000 to 58,000. The Korean War continues to be referred to—when it is referred to at all—as The Forgotten War. Forgotten? Oh, yes, but not by those who survived, nor for widows, parents, children, and all manner of relatives and acquaintances who lost a continuation of future bloodlines. How can they forget?

But it’s forgotten by fellow-citizens who are now older and enjoying, one would hope, their golden years in retirement. As for the young, well, what experiences can they remember since the war ended in a truce more than a half-century ago? But, again, for those of us who haven’t forgotten, the following notes, with some commentary somewhat abated by the passing years, may serve as a bit of history. History, by the way, which was culled from notes made beginning with a brief stay in an old Japanese artillery base in southern Honshu and followed with the invasion by the North Korean Peoples’ Army who, on the day after Thanksgiving, were joined by Chinese volunteers. (We’d be home by Christmas, see? That was a given and since General Douglas MacArthur said we were, that settled it for the innocents).

The Chinese. Down they came on that freezing November day across the river and into the Korean hills and plains, bugles blaring (and no, it wasn’t 300,000) although to us it seemed and looked like a million.

Our Executive Officer, Anthony John, had fought in the European War and he steadied us, as best he could, given the troops he was leading. But I’m writing from memory here, and I’ll go into the notes for now:

It was the waste of it all. Phil Brodkey up and shot himself two days ago; orderly as always, the patrol found his helmet, the binocs, the paper, the pencil, two packs of Raleighs and a Japanese lighter, neatly placed, all in a row. The patrol found him face down, half in half out of his forward observer’s hole.

Brodkey used to say he was a Philadelphia Jew doing time; Lt. John said that, for once, Brodkey was wrong. He was a friend; he was resourceful and kind, calm, precise, and something that most of us here are not: He was very good at his job. And yet, he cracked, as I imagine many of us will, in time.

As for the Brodkey family, their reward will consist of a telegram, (most likely stating he was wounded in action) followed by a letter from our commanding officer repeating what all commanding officers say, ‘A good soldier who gave his all . . .’ The Purple Heart will follow, when those in charge of the mail get around to it.

We learned later that the winter of ’50–’51 was the coldest, most severe, and blinding winter of the 20^th century. But you had to be there to appreciate it. Beaten fair and square, although some of our men helped by running away. One outfit—and no, not forgotten by those of us who were there, abandoned their cannon, the ammo, the breech blocks and sights, and what shame they must have had at one time—as Johnny Tirpak said, ‘Running and screaming for mommy and home.’

The Battle Police brought them back, of course. Where could they go? They had no idea where they were. The language? Korean? Chinese? Forget it. But they were fed, and back they came:

The word is out. Quite early this morning, under guard, the 88th Field was marched back to retrieve its guns. For the battalion’s own good and discipline, it is said. Yesterday, they cut and ran; worse, they abandoned their guns and shells, their blocks and sights, and every bit of equipment to them issued and entrusted.

And where does one go in a retreat? Well, the answers are clear: not far and not for...