Battlefield Pacific

The Frozen Chosen

The wind howled fiercely outside, rocking the amphibious assault vehicles, or “amtracks,” with each gust as the 5th Marines raced down the Pyongyang-Kaesong Highway. They were battling against the clock in a desperate attempt to reinforce the US Army’s 7th Infantry Division at Taechon, 128 kilometers north of Pyongyang. If they didn’t arrive soon, many lives would be lost.

A blizzard had swept down from northern China, devastating the Allies’ ability to stop the Chinese Liberation Army’s massive counterattack at the Yalu River. The whirling snow had hidden the movement of tens of thousands of Chinese soldiers and prevented the Allies from using the one asset that neutralized the overwhelming infantry numbers — their air power. Without close air support, the units defending the Yalu line were simply overrun by the sheer volume of enemy soldiers being thrown at them. It was now a race against time to prevent an all-out massacre from unfolding.

Five hours into their race north from Busan, South Korea, the twenty-one Marines riding in the amtrack with Master Sergeant Tim Long were getting a bit antsy. Aside from a pit stop to refuel, they had stayed on the road, which meant no one had been able to fully stretch out or even take a proper bio break.

Master Sergeant Long had just rejoined the company three days ago, after recovering from a few broken ribs and a punctured lung suffered six weeks before. He had been eager to get back to his unit and knew some of the hardest fighting was still ahead of them. However, he hadn’t anticipated this particular fight.

“I guess we’re paying for sending so many of our troops to Europe,” he thought.

Eventually, they turned off the main highway and moved up a winding road to get to the top of a ridgeline. The higher-ups had decided that this crest would be the Marines’ “line in the sand.” As they continued traveling along the twisting road, the constant cutbacks and turns caused a couple of the Marines to get car sick. Then, one of the pee bottles’ caps came undone, and urine spilled across the floor of the track, further adding to the stench.

“Are you kidding me? I told you guys to take a leak when we refueled!” Master Sergeant Long yelled, irritated.

“Oh, for crying out loud! How much longer is it going to take us to get there already?” one of the young privates moaned. “My butt is killing me and this track stinks like a port-a-potty at Oktoberfest.”

Just as Long was about to respond to the young Marine’s grumbling, the vehicle commander yelled back to them. “Heads up, guys! I just received word we should be approaching the Army’s positions.”

“The track finally seems like it’s on level ground,” Long realized. “We must be at the top of the ridge.”

Master Sergeant Long’s radio crackled to life in his ear, and he immediately recognized the voice of Captain Chet Culley. “Falcon Three, Falcon Six. When we approach the Army’s lines, I’m going to need you to get your platoon filtered into their prepared positions. Remember, these guys have been fighting nearly nonstop with the Chinese for two days. They’re going to be exhausted. Take charge of the situation, and I’ll check in on you later. How copy?”

“Copy that. Out,” Long responded.

When their vehicle got closer to the Army’s positions, bullets started to hit the hull of their armored vehicle. The vehicle gunner in the front of the track returned fire at an unseen enemy.

“Get ready to dismount! Enemy troops to our front, 500 meters!” the vehicle commander shouted over the roar of their chattering gun. Shell casings fell to the floor of the vehicle. They came to a halt and the back hatch dropped, allowing the twenty-one Marines to exit the vehicle and rush out into the cold air.

The chattering of machine-gun fire from the heavy and light machine guns on the amtracks continued as the Marines fanned out to take up positions in front of their armored chariots.

“Shift fire to that gun position on the right!” one of the sergeants yelled.

Snap, zip, snap, snap!

Master Sergeant Long heard the distinctive chattering of the nearby gun and immediately agreed with the other sergeant’s assessment. It looked like a small cluster of Chinese soldiers were setting up a heavy-caliber weapon a few hundred meters below them.

“Jeez, where did all of these enemy soldiers come from?” he thought in bewilderment.

As his Marines set up their lines, small clusters of Army soldiers fell back to his position, gladly accepting the reinforcements.

An Army lieutenant walked up to Long. “Man, am I glad to see you guys,” he said. “I’m Lieutenant Nick Davis. Where’s the rest of your company, Master Sergeant?”

Looking around as his platoon started to secure some defensive positions, Long realized his men were heavily outnumbered, even with the Army soldiers falling back into his lines. “This is it for now, Sir. The rest of the company is scattered along the line,” he explained as he waved to the rest of the ridge.

Lieutenant Davis sighed. He was exhausted but determined to hold this position. “OK, Master Sergeant. We’ll make do, then…. Here’s what I need from your Marines. I’ve got maybe 42 soldiers left from my company, and they’re steadily falling back into the lines here. I need you to get your heavy weapons set up facing this section of the line. The PLA pushed us off that ridge over there, and now this ridgeline we’re on is our last line. We have to hold them here no matter what. I’ll get my remaining soldiers organized into the line here, but I need to know that your Marines can help us hold this spot.”

Long nodded as he took in the information. Their amtracks had followed a trail up to the top of this ridge, so they could still provide fire support, but they were also bullet magnets. “Copy that, Sir. I’ll get our tracks moved back to that location over there, so they can still provide us fire support while hopefully not attracting artillery fire. We’ve got plenty of ammunition in the tracks, and the rest of the 1st Marine Division is coming up behind us. We’ve got this, Sir!” he said with enthusiasm, trying to reassure the young Army lieutenant.

Turning to his men, Master Sergeant Long shouted, “NCOs, get your positions ready!”

Several of his machine gunners were exchanging shots with PLA soldiers a few hundred meters away. The sergeants in Long’s platoon yelled at their men. “Get digging!”

Every third soldier or Marine kept his rifle and continued to engage the Chinese soldiers when an opportunity presented itself, while the other two soldiers or Marines pulled their e-tool entrenching shovels out and started to reinforce their positions. The light and heavy machine gunners set up their guns, and extra ammunition was brought over from the tracks.

Pulling a small set of binoculars out of one of his pouches on his vest, Master Sergeant Long surveyed the ridge across from them and the valley that separated them. The swirling snow had stopped, and the sun was starting to break through the cloud cover in beautiful shafts of glowing light.

“As long as the snowfall doesn’t pick back up in intensity, we’ll be able to get some air support soon,” Long realized.

Lieutenant Davis interrupted his contemplation. “What are your thoughts, Master Sergeant?” he asked.

Long lowered his binos. “Well, if they try to bum-rush our positions, they’re going to take some horrible losses. The intense snow has finally stopped, and if it truly is done snowing, then we’ll have air and artillery support, which will decimate them. I’d place our chances of stopping them at better than 50 %, Sir,” he responded.

Davis nodded in approval. “I think you’re right, Master Sergeant. When we fell back yesterday, they let us take up residence on that ridge, and that gave us a bit of time to organize ourselves. Then they hit us relentlessly. It’s like they stacked all their units up and then threw them at us one after the other. At first, we were slaughtering them. Though the first two assaults were brutal, we decimated them. But then the third, fourth and fifth waves came, and they just kept coming. We started running out of ammunition, the barrels on our rifles and machine guns were overheating, and eventually we had to fall back again. We nearly didn’t make it out of the valley below, but then you guys showed up, and they turned their attention to you. That allowed us to get away,” he said.

Master Sergeant Long placed his hand on the young officer’s shoulder. “It sounds like you guys did your best, Sir. That’s all any of us can do. You held them long enough to let us Marines come rescue you guys. Now we’re here, and we’ll save the Army,” he said with a slight laugh, trying to add a bit of humor to an otherwise horrible circumstance.

Lieutenant Davis snorted. “Yeah, I’m never going to hear the end of this from my West Point classmates — the Marines coming to rescue me,” he said with a smirk.

The next hour was spent trading pop shots with the PLA soldiers and getting their positions set up. The Army soldiers took the opportunity to reload their empty rifle magazines, grab additional hand grenades and chow down on some MREs. Once those essential tasks had been completed, many of them simply fell asleep, desperately trying to catch up on some rest while the Marines remained on watch.

The radio crackled. “Falcon Three, this is Falcon Six,” Captain Culley said.

Master Sergeant Long depressed the talk button, responding, “Falcon Six, this is Falcon Three. Send.”

“Falcon Three, we just received word that we have an artillery battalion assigned for use by all Falcon units. The unit’s call sign is Thunder Five. How copy?”

Long smiled and suddenly felt a lot more confident in their ability to hold their position. “That’s a good copy. We are in intermittent contact with the enemy to our front. We’ll make use of the artillery support. What is the likelihood of getting some air support? Over,” asked Long.

There was a short pause in the dialogue before Captain Culley responded, “Air support is focused in other areas right now. Will be limited, if available at all. Try to make do with the artillery. How copy?”

“That’s a good copy. How about additional reinforcements to my position?” he asked, hoping there might be additional Marines headed his way.

“The rest of Falcon elements should be consolidating on your position within the next couple of hours. Please ensure additional fighting positions are ready. Out.”

Long nodded in approval and saw that Lieutenant Davis had moved next to him, apparently trying to listen in on the conversation. “We have an artillery battalion assigned to support us. Our CO said the rest of the company should be arriving at our position within the next couple of hours,” he explained.

“That’s good news, Master Sergeant, because it looks like the PLA is gearing up for another attack,” Davis said, pointing across the ridge.

As his eyes followed the direction of the lieutenant’s finger, Sergeant Long’s skin began to crawl. The top of the ridge was packed with enemy soldiers who were now filtering into the densely forested area that lined the ridges and valleys below them. They were moving down the valley to get in position to attack them.

Master Sergeant Long signaled for his radioman, or RTO, to head over to him. The radioman had a rucksack that contained their SINCGAR radio, which would allow them to make contact with the artillery unit and their battalion and brigade, if they needed to call in for air support.

As the RTO made his way over, Lieutenant Davis yelled to his soldiers, “Wake up and get ready for another attack!”

Lance Corporal Teddy Tipson finished trotting over. “You need me, Sir?”

“I sure do, Lance Corporal. Get on the horn to Thunder Five. Tell them I have a fire mission for them,” he directed as he kneeled down and pulled out his map. One of the other sergeants came over to him and pulled out his compass. The two of them identified where they wanted the artillery to land and wrote down the different coordinates according to the map. The RTO then handed the handset to Sergeant Long.

Long quickly picked it up. “Thunder Five, Falcon Three. Fire mission, fire mission, we have an imminent attack. How copy?”

The radio crackled with a bit of static, but a soft voice broke through. “Falcon Three, this is Thunder Five. Good copy, send fire mission.”

“I could barely hear them,” Lance Corporal Tipson said after he listened in on the conversation.

Master Sergeant Long nodded. “The PLA is trying to jam the spectrum right now. You got those coordinates?” he asked, holding his hand out to the sergeant who had been helping him identify the target grids. The sergeant quickly handed over the sheet of paper. “Thunder Five. Fire mission. Tango One, NK 7423 8724. One round HE. How copy?”

“Falcon Three, this is Thunder Five. That’s a good copy. One round HE… shot out!”

“Shot out,” replied Long as they waited for the round to impact.

“Splash,” the artilleryman said over the radio.

“Splash out.”

A few seconds later, they heard the scream of the round flying over their heads and watched as it impacted just shy of where they wanted it to hit.

Depressing the talk button on the mic, Long directed, “Thunder Five, adjust fire. Three hundred meters left, drop one hundred meters. Fire for effect, five rounds HE. Second fire mission, Tango Two, NK 7214 8435. One round HE. How copy?” The second set of coordinates would send additional rounds to the enemy soldiers who were gathered on the ridge across from them.

“Falcon Three. Good copy on Tango Two. Standby for a fire mission,” the artillery battalion responded as they prepared to fire the first mission. A minute later, they called back, “Shot out on Tango One. Shot out on Tango Two.”

As the Marines and Army soldiers on the ridge prepared for the coming onslaught, the outgoing artillery fire assaulted their ears with high-pitched screams overhead. As the rounds hit their targets below, they felt the reverberations in the ground. Twenty rounds bracketed the valley below, destroying trees and decimating the enemy soldiers moving underneath the pine trees. Then a lone round landed squarely on top of the ridge. A handful of enemy soldiers were thrown into the air from the blast, their bodies ripped to shreds.

“Thunder Five, good BDA on Tango One. Tango Two, right on the mark. Fire for effect, three rounds HE. How copy?” he called over the radio.

While Master Sergeant Long was relaying the next fire mission, they heard the sound of rockets flying over their heads, heading in the direction of the artillery battalion that was supporting them. Thunderous explosions roared from the rear area, where presumably their artillery support had been operating.

After not receiving a response from the Thunder unit for a few minutes and not hearing or seeing the second fire mission hitting the target they had just called in, Tim tried to raise them again. “Thunder Five. This is Falcon Three. What’s the status of that second fire mission? Over.”

The only thing they heard was hissing, popping, and static over the radio. “They may have just been taken out,” Lance Corporal Tipson offered. The others slowly nodded.

“Ugh — I was really hoping we’d be able to get a few more fire missions,” Sergeant Long thought.

Lieutenant Davis chimed in. “It was good while we had it. Looks like we’re back on our own,” he said, stating the obvious.

A few minutes later, they heard the distinctive sound of artillery rounds heading toward their own positions. The soldiers and Marines on the ridge ducked down in their hastily built fighting positions as the first artillery rounds arrived. The ground shook. Dirt, snow, and parts of the pine trees that surrounded their positions landed all around them.

The smell of smoke, cordite, burnt flesh and split-open bowels filled the air. Screams from the wounded rang out. “Medic! Corpsman!” they yelled.

The barrage lasted for maybe two or three minutes, but the damage had been done. All around them, their fighting positions had been torn asunder. Several of the amtracks had also been hit and were adding their own thick, oily black smoke to the surreal scene.

Master Sergeant Long poked his head above the foxhole he had jumped into. As he did, he heard the loud shrilling sound of a whistle being blown in the distance. Then the roar of hundreds, maybe even thousands of voices shouting sent a shiver of fear down his spine. The first wave of enemy soldiers that had survived the Americans’ first artillery barrage was charging their position.

“Here they come! Everyone up and ready!” Master Sergeant Long yelled to his Marines. His sergeants echoed his orders, as did Lieutenant Davis and some of his own sergeants as they, too, prepared themselves for the onslaught that was charging toward them.

Long moved out of the foxhole and ran toward a shallow slit trench that a couple of his men had dug. They were manning one of the platoon’s heavy machine guns, an M240 Golf mounted on a tripod with the spare barrel sitting next to it, ready to go.

“How many extra belts of ammo do you guys have here?” Master Sergeant Long asked the assistant gunner, a private who had been newly assigned to the platoon.

“Five, Sir,” he replied. The young private’s eyes were filled with fear and there was a tremble in his voice as the crescendo of the charging enemy grew louder as they continued to claw their way up the side of the ridge.

“Private, run back to the track and grab another five belts. We’re going to need a lot more ammo than that. You should have grabbed at least ten belts when you guys set up this gun position,” Master Sergeant Long said, directing his comments more to the corporal who was looking down the barrel at the charging enemy.

“The corporal should have known better,” he thought. “Once the shooting starts, they won’t have a lot of time to keep running back and forth for more ammo.”

The young Marine grabbed his M4 and ran back to the track to grab more ammo. Looking down the ridge, Sergeant Long could see the enemy soldiers were probably 500 meters away now. The corporal looked at him for permission to start firing. Master Sergeant Long nodded, and the corporal immediately looked down his barrel and squeezed off several controlled three- and five-round bursts. While the M240 could chew through hundreds of rounds a minute, the corporal knew not to burn through ammo too quickly, especially since doing so could overheat the barrel in the first couple minutes of the fight.

With the enemy now less than 300 meters away, the rest of the Marines and Army soldiers opened fire with their M4s and their newly issued M27 infantry automatic rifles. The barrage of hot lead being thrown at the enemy tore into their ranks, decimating the advancing hordes. Thousands of bullets crisscrossed back and forth between the American and Chinese lines, intermixed with red and green tracers. The thunderous noise of war was deafening as the two sides tried their best to kill each other.

“Incoming!” yelled one of the Americans. Suddenly, the whistling noise of mortars screamed out from the enemy lines, moments before half a dozen explosions rocked their positions. More American soldiers cried out for help as the Chinese soldiers continued to mortar their positions. Meanwhile, their ground troops continued to close the gap between their two forces.

Long brought his rifle to his shoulder, placing his cheek firmly against the stock of his M4 with the tip of his nose centimeters away from the charging handle as he gently squeezed off one round after another at the advancing enemy soldiers. He saw, two, three, then four enemy soldiers drop to the ground after each trigger squeeze.

“Stay calm, just keep pulling the trigger,” he thought. “Focus on one target at a time. Kill the guy in front of you and then move to the next one,” he told himself.

As the Army soldiers and Marines continued to decimate the advancing Chinese, they heard another set of whistles, softer and further away.

‘‘Dear God — that must be the next wave of enemy soldiers. If we don’t get more help soon, they’re going to overrun us,” Master Sergeant Long realized in horror.

He turned and looked for his RTO. “Tipson! See if you can raise Falcon Six! We need fire support now!” he yelled to his radioman. Tipson stopped shooting and tried to get their CO back on the radio.

Long took aim and fired another four more rounds before he heard some static and pops in his ear and the response he was hoping for. “This is Falcon Six. Go ahead, Falcon Three,” replied Captain Culley.

“Sir, we’re under heavy attack. We’ve beaten back the first wave, but the second wave is hitting us now. How soon until we get additional reinforcements to our position?” He yelled to be heard over the continuous gunfire happening all around him.

“We’re halfway up the ridge behind you. We should be to your location within the next thirty minutes. Continue to hold the line. Reinforcements are nearly to you guys,” Culley said reassuringly.

Master Sergeant Long handed the handset back to Lance Corporal Tipson and picked his rifle back up, ready to resume fire on the oncoming horde. “Keep trying to reach the artillery group, OK? Maybe we get lucky and their signal was just jammed.”

Tipson grabbed the handset and depressed the talk button. “Thunder Five, this is Falcon Three. Fire mission. How copy?”

The fire direction officer on the other end replied, “Good copy, Falcon Three. We’re back online now. Send fire mission.”

“I need one round HE. NK 7413 8774. Danger close!” he yelled, trying to be heard over the constant machine-gun fire.

A minute went by with silence on the radio. Then they heard, “Shot out, advise on adjustments.”

Long took aim at the enemy soldiers now constituting the second wave as they continued to close the gap. They were less than 200 meters away when he heard the whistling sound of the incoming artillery round. The high-explosive round landed roughly a hundred meters behind the enemy soldiers, throwing shrapnel in all directions, killing many of them.

“Spot-on. Now we need to lay it on thick,” Master Sergeant Long thought.

“Good BDA. Adjust fire, down one hundred meters. Fifty-foot airburst, fire for effect, three rounds HE. Danger close!” he yelled into the handset. He had readjusted the target to give his own troops more of a safe radius. The airburst rounds would also throw significantly more shrapnel at the enemy and cause a lot of the pine trees to splinter, throwing wood chunks at the Chinese soldiers.

While Master Sergeant Long was waiting for the fire support to decimate the advancing enemy, a series of thunderous explosions rocked their position. Long felt himself being lifted into the air. He floated briefly above his soldiers’ position, weightless, before gravity took over and he was thrown violently to the ground, knocking the wind out of him.

Long regained consciousness a few seconds later, desperately trying to breathe. As his lungs filled with air, his body ached everywhere. His brain was still trying to register what had just happened to him. For a moment, he wasn’t even sure where he was. Then his hearing began to return, and the roar of explosions and machine-gun fire brought him back to the reality of where he was and what was happening.

“How long was I out?” he asked himself. He patted down his chest and legs, checking to make sure everything was still there and working properly. Sitting up, he saw the fighting position he had previously occupied with the heavy machine gun was gone. In its place was a smoldering crater, surrounded by the torn body parts of the two Marines who had been operating the heavy weapon.

Long turned to his left and saw his RTO, Lance Corporal Tipson, crying out toward the amtrack, where several of the corpsmen and medics had set up a triage point. Both of Tipson’s legs were gone, and his left arm was shredded. Tipson desperately tried to use his right arm to pull his body toward help. A few seconds later, he stopped and went limp.

Turning to look back toward the advancing Chinese, Master Sergeant Long saw that the enemy soldiers were now less than thirty meters from him. He looked around him, desperately trying to find his rifle. Bullets kicked up dirt all around him. He frantically continued searching, but he still couldn’t find his rifle. His mind was still a haze. Now desperate for a weapon, his eyes settled on an entrenching shovel less than a few feet from him.

Long reached down, grabbing the entrenching tool. At that moment, he knew he was most likely going to die, and an inner rage welled up within him. His grip on the shovel tightened. He brought it up like a bayonet and yelled a primordial scream, charging fiercely into the rushing enemy soldiers.

In his peripheral vision, he saw both Marines and Army soldiers firing point-blank into the Chinese, and he swung the shovel for all his worth at the enemy soldier nearest to him. The blade of the digging tool sliced cleanly through the man’s throat, ripping it open. A stream of arterial spray reached Sergeant Long, hitting him in the chest. The Chinese soldier dropped his weapon, both of his hands reaching for his throat in a desperate attempt to stop the rushing flow of blood.

Long turned to face the next enemy soldier, still filled with an instinctual rage. Like a demonically possessed crazy person, he ran into a throng of enemy soldiers and screamed wildly. He slashed at the enemy soldiers with the entrenching tool, oblivious to his own pain and everything going on around him.

A Chinese soldier, not more than a few feet away from Master Sergeant Long, leveled his rifle at him. Knowing he was seconds away from being killed, Long instinctively grabbed the man whose throat he had just sliced open, and with every ounce of strength he could muster, Long threw him at the man who was about to shoot him.

In that instant, his right hand fell to his side, and his mind registered that he still had a sidearm on him. He grabbed the SIG Sauer and leveled it at the enemy soldiers who were overrunning their position. He fired multiple rounds at them, killing several of the advancing soldiers with headshots and hitting several more in the center mass before his pistol locked to the rear, empty.

Master Sergeant Long reached down to grab another magazine. Just then, he heard the familiar sound of American machine guns firing. Suddenly, the enemy soldiers near him clutched at their chests, hit by multiple rounds. Half a dozen Marines ran past him, killing the remaining Chinese soldiers as they pushed them back down the ridge.

Long spotted an M4 on the ground next to a dead Marine and quickly reached down to grab it. Checking the chamber, he joined the fray, picking off the remaining enemy soldiers, now in full retreat.

Master Sergeant Long looked back behind him and saw dozens of tracked and wheeled vehicles bringing additional reinforcements to their position.

“‘Bout time the cavalry arrived,” he thought. Suddenly, he involuntarily dropped to his knees and fell forward on the ground. His body ached everywhere, and he felt incredibly tired and thirsty.

“Hang in there, Master Sergeant. I do not give you permission to die yet,” Captain Culley said as he knelt down next to him. “This is the second time I’ve come to your rescue and seen you surrounded by dead enemy soldiers. We’re going to have to award you another valor medal, aren’t we?” he joked with a smile.

Tim snorted. “Cutting it a little close there, Captain. They nearly had us this time.”

“You just hang in there, Tim. You guys did a heck of a job. Now if I could just get you to stop collecting Purple Hearts and actually stick around long enough to do your job…”

A corpsman ran up to them and began to treat Tim’s multiple shrapnel wounds.

The battle for Hill 597 at Taechon lasted for nearly 24 hours before the Americans managed to stop the Chinese advance. As the weather cleared, the Allies were able to resume tactical air support. Between that and the multiple Arc Light missions by the heavy bombers, they eventually decimated the Chinese assault into North Korea. With the aid of 60,000 Marines, the Army and ROK Forces were able to recapture nearly all the territory lost and pushed the Chinese back across the Yalu River, saving the Allies from a repeat of the disastrous retreat that defined the previous Korean War.

Sergeant First Class Ian Slater stumbled briefly as the older Chinese soldier shoved him with the butt of his rifle and yelled at him, “Move faster!”

Only one of their captors, the crotchety old soldier who kept shoving him, spoke English. He kept insisting that they walk more rapidly and telling them that hot food and shelter would be given to them once they made it to their end destination.

“I’d like to take that rifle and club him with it,” thought Slater angrily as he continued to march further north with the two dozen or so American prisoners. While the blizzard-like conditions had largely dissipated over the last few hours, the heavy cloud cover and steady snowfall still meant visibility was shoddy.

“At least the wind has died down,” Sergeant Slater thought, trying to be positive for a moment. “Now if I could just keep my hands from freezing, I’d be in better shape.” When he had been captured, the Chinese soldiers had stripped him of his body armor, but at least they had let him keep his jacket once they had made sure he had no weapons in it.

Slater’s mind kept flashing back to that horrific walk out of the shattered bunker when he had been captured. He felt sick to his stomach as he pictured the ground, littered with bodies. He heard the crunch again as he unwittingly stepped on a hand that had been separated from one of the members of his unit — there had hardly been a place to step without walking on body parts that had been torn apart and mangled by high explosives, grenades or heavy machine-gun bullets. A wave of grief washed over him. Many of the dead had been part of his unit, and some of them had been friends.

“I miss Joe,” Sergeant Slater thought as he remembered his friend who had died dramatically in his arms. He wished Joe hadn’t been lost in the bunker, but as he trudged along, he wondered if maybe his friend had gotten it easy compared to what was about to happen to him and the rest of the prisoners.

Slater wasn’t sure what time it was since his watch had been taken from him, but as his column of prisoners neared the city of Chijiabao, they heard a soft whistling noise high above them. That noise steadily grew in intensity as it got closer. Sergeant Slater knew immediately what it was, and he suspected the other American soldiers recognized the sound, but the Chinese soldiers didn’t seem to care.

The first explosions rocked the ground, and then thunderous booms followed as bombers delivered a high-altitude bombing run across their old positions to wipe out the Chinese advance. The noises drew hastily closer. Sergeant Slater quickly ran to the ditch next to the side of the road, trying to seek even a semblance of shelter. The other Americans quickly followed suit.

The Chinese soldiers suddenly realized the imminent danger approaching them and scattered in all directions, looking for a place to hide from the incoming bombs. Some of them ran into each other as they scrambled away in a disorganized horde.

Sergeant Slater saw this as his golden opportunity to try and make a break for it. All of the Americans had instinctively followed their training, dropping to the ground; however, they were all still somewhat clustered together. The Chinese had run off to every corner of the field, leaving them alone and unguarded. As the bombs got closer and the explosions louder and more violent, Slater yelled to the others, “Follow my lead!”

Slater ran toward a small cluster of their captors who had taken shelter in a ditch not far from them, several of his American comrades right behind him. Together, they pounced on their terrified captors like lions on their prey. The PLA soldiers were so surprised by their captives’ attack, they hardly had time to react. They had been so terrified of the falling bombs heading toward them that they had forgotten about the danger of leaving a group of American prisoners alone.

While dozens of 500-pound bombs landed nearby, the American soldiers attacked their captors in hand-to-hand combat, using their fists, rocks and anything else they could grab to overpower them. As shrapnel flew everywhere, Sergeant Slater and his fellow prisoners grabbed their captors’ weapons and ammunition and summarily killed the remaining cadre of PLA soldiers the bombs had missed. Once the dirt, snow, and chaos from the bombing subsided, the newly freed soldiers looked to Sergeant Slater and asked, “What do we do now?”

Slater hadn’t thought about that just yet. He’d figured they might just die right there from the bombing run, and if they were going to die, they might as well as try and kill their captors in the process. Now that they had survived, they were suddenly free, but very far behind enemy lines. He took a deep breath and calculated all the options.

“OK, guys, here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to try and get back to our own fighting line…”