Hill 755 — 15 Days to the End of the Korean War

Hill 755 — 15 Days to the End by Rod Frazer It was 10 July 1953. A light helicopter flew into Dodge Range, where I had for a short time commanded a small tank training facility north of Chunchon. I saw it coming, ran up to it, and reported to the new battalion commander, Lieutenant Colonel Francis X. O’Leary. We had never met. He was a large man, and asked right away, “Are you Nimrod?” “Yes Sir, I am Nimrod.” I replied. He said, “You are the man I am looking for. Are you ready to go?” I had 34 points. Maybe he was talking about rotating home. I had been in Korea 9 months, which seemed forever. However, he was referring to another tour of combat. “Be at my command post tomorrow morning. You are going back to the hill,” he ordered. as Luke’s Castle. Soon, I would face them again on Hill 755 as a platoon tank commander assigned to the 140th Tank Battalion, 40th U.S. Infantry Division, 10th Corps. The fall of Luke’s Castle caused a major change in the lines. The main line of resistance (MLR) had shifted south by three-quarters of a mile. These changes had an emotional impact on The 45th North Korean Infantry Division, an extremely experienced and dangerous unit, was once again on the offensive against the Republic of Korea — this time against Hill 755. They were the best of the reorganized North Korean Army. Just two months earlier, I helped defend Hill 812 against the 45th North Korean Infantry Division for more than 40 grueling days. The 45th North Korean Infantry Division overran the hill known of the Korean War me. Young and arrogant, I kept thinking that the fall of Luke’s Castle should never have been allowed to happen. The battalion adjutant sent me to the C Company command post (CP) by Jeep. While staying overnight with the commanding officer, Captain Harney, he told me that Hill 755 had become a focal point of the new North Korean advance. This now-critical hill was on the west side of the Soyang Gang, where the MLR crossed the river. If the enemy took 755, about five miles of the plain to the south would be open to them. In that event, they would be at the rear of the Republic of Korea (ROK) 52d Regiment, the 140th Tank companies, and the ROK Artillery Battalion — a potentially disastrous situation for United Nation’s forces. Recon Company of the 52d ROK Infantry Regiment was the unit responsible for Hill 755. The 52d had about 120 men on 12 July. Lieutenant Lee, the company commander was young and experienced. Our job was to support him and his people. Private Robert J. Vreeke took me to Hill 755 the next morning, 12 July. He drove the Jeep fast for the “under observation” part of the trip. Vreeke was to be our steady lifeline to the hill by delivering a hot meal and mail most nights. Vreeke would also evacuate casualties. I put a bottle of Ballantine’s Scotch whiskey in his glove compartment for an emergency. Another lifeline to Hill 755 was the driver of the open armored personnel carrier (M39) that brought gas and ammo. This driver was the same devil-may-care guy called “California,” who delivered supplies to my platoon on Luke’s Castle during the winter and spring. While on Hill 755, I visited each tank and met the tank commanders (TC) and crews of our five M46s. I was the TC on one tank, as well as the platoon leader, and had responsibility for everyone. Between the crews, the medic, and myself, we numbered 26 Americans on the hill; we did not have a mechanic. I wrote everyone’s name down in a small notebook carried in my breast pocket. Little did I know that during the next 10 days things would happen so fast that I would not get to know some of my men. This lack of familiarity was made worse by the constant personnel turnover. My first tank on 755 had a good crew; they knew the hill, and we followed exact standard operating procedures for the first night, which was quiet. Everyone realized the situation was serious; there was no malingering or dissembling. Corporal John Henry Shelly was the gunner and ranking enlisted man on the tank. Corporal Charlie E. Hux was the bow gunner; Kowalcheck (called “Pollock” by the men) was the driver; and I fail to remember the loader’s name. Communications were a constant source of frustration; our radios never worked. Incoming fire made it dangerous to lay wire for telephone communications and impossible to keep wire in place. There were no interpreters; communications between the Americans and the South Koreans were awkward. Our tanks and men could fight well in the mountains because they had experience. Tanks supporting infantry worked, even in rough terrain, and we put them to good use in keeping the enemy infantry at bay. The key was laying down heavy fire and doing it often, but here the situation was different. We were closely joined with the enemy. We were forced to react to their attempts to penetrate the hill’s defenses almost every night. At various times during the 2 weeks preceding 27 July, we believed enemy forces from two squads, a platoon, and a company hit us. There was no communication with our company or battalion CPs, other than my notes asking for supplies. The supplies always came through, but we had no sense of how the war was going or of what was happening to units to our right and left. Our only U.S. source of information was Major Sowa, an expert American infantry officer, and he rarely said much. Sowa was the Korean Military Advisory Group (KMAG) advisor to the ROK Regiment. Other that what we saw at night, daily visits to Lieutenant Lee’s bunker was the best way to keep up with the action. Shortly after I arrived on 755, he got a frag wound in his left side. It would have been serious enough for an American to be evacuated, but he was not and I had our medic visit him regularly. We sure didn’t want to lose Lieutenant Lee. Recon Company was getting casualties nearly every night and sometimes during the day, but received no replacements. Dead ROK soldiers were stripped of weapons and web equipment before being hand-and-foot tied to poles and carried by Korean Service Corps (KSC) civilian workers to the immediate rear, where they were burned on biers of logs. Slightly wounded soldiers were not evacuated and the badly wounded walked to the rear. Our own casualties were always promptly replaced but never with experienced tankers. Hill 755 was getting weaker every day and the North Koreans were stepping up the pace of their offensive. We could feel it. The soldiers held up well, but I was worried. Nothing happened during the first night; however, a series of bad all-nighters followed. The attacks grew bigger, and on the night of 15 July, a company-sized force may have hit us. There was some welcomed news the next morning; Major Sowa came up to tell us we were going to get a South Korean counterattack. The North Koreans continued their attempts to penetrate our lines. They hit us on the night of 16 July and continued through the nights on 17 and 18 July. On the 19th, the ROK counterattack was to kick off from the northwest side of 755, west of Lieutenant Lee’s CP. Until then, all attacks against us had been up the draw from the north, but it was obvious that we could be hit from the west as well. The drop off toward the enemy from our ridgeline was relatively flat. It was a natural avenue of approach for North Korean forces from the west, from 812, and from the North Korean strong points between 812 and 755. It was also the natural avenue for our proposed counterattack, which was to jump off between two tanks in place on the west ridge: the command tank that was in defilade on the south end of the jump-off point and the firing tank I commanded on the north. There was a distance of about 150 yards between them. Tension mounted. The morning before the counterattack was extremely hot; Major Sowa came up to look around. He told me that his Jeep was back down the hill around the bend, “There is a thermos of ice water on it if you want a drink.” We were getting incoming, but I jogged down the narrow trail. The major’s new Jeep was sitting in a bend out of my command tank’s sight. The Jeep was pulled tightly into the hillside that rose straight “Our tanks and men could fight well in the mountains because they had experience. Tanks supporting infantry worked, even in rough terrain, and we put them to good use in keeping the enemy infantry at bay. The key was laying down heavy fire and doing it often, but here the situation was different. We were closely joined with the enemy.” 32 — November-December 2003 up on one side of the road and dropped off steeply on the other. It seemed to be a safe enough place. The Jeep’s canvas-covered windshield was clamped down over the hood. I sat on the pas-senger’s side by the driver with my Cochran jump boots propped up over the windshield, which seemed more like having my feet propped on a desk. The ice water was fine, and the American driver and I had a nice chat. I relaxed, thanked him, and headed back to my tank. In a few minutes, a soldier came running up to report that Major Sowa’s driver was dead. A heavy mortar round had landed squarely on the Jeep where I had rested a few minutes earlier. It was smashed flat. Later that afternoon, elements of ROK infantry started coming up the hill to counterattack. They were good-looking soldiers; fresh, clean, and covered with vegetation stuck in helmet netting and web equipment as camouflage. I watched them from the turret of the command tank where I sat with the hatch nearly closed for protection. It was captivating to see these infantrymen approach an assault knowing that some were certain to die. Feelings of pride, anticipation, and fear swelled in me as they came up that hill. One soldier in the file was hit by mortar fire a few yards from my tank. He died instantly and settled back on his heels in the road. The butt of his shoulder-slung rifle jammed into the ground. The dead soldier kneeled upright as the file stepped around him and trudged on. The body stayed in that position until the next day. The ROKs continued to stream up all afternoon and into the early night until the rifle company was in place along the trail between our two tanks. There was sporadic incoming fire. The infantrymen were strung out in a dry ditch alongside the road beneath the jump-off ridge. I walked past them the 150 yards to my tank’s firing position. The North Koreans continued shooting into the early evening, then quiet. The stillness was eerie. The North Koreans had seen the ROKs moving up all day and, of course, they saw our tanks. My stomach was burning with anxiety. The crew and I rotated duty all night in the turret of our tank, two hours on and four off. None of us slept much between shifts, so during the night, I visited the other tanks on foot. The heat was oppressive and damp at first light. As our counterattacking troops moved out, I felt a shortness of breath. At first, there was little incoming mortar and artillery fire. Ground fog made visibility poor, so I used the glasses to look for targets. After the jump-off, the air cleared quickly as the sun came up. There was small arms fire from both sides. I was afraid of shooting our own infantry, so the first rounds fired from our 90mm were at targets on Hill 812, probably more than 2,000 yards away. We saw small bunches of enemy troops, as well as individual soldiers, and shot at everything that moved. Mostly we used high-explosive ammunition. We switched to armor-piercing rounds and fired at two U.S. M-46s that were abandoned in June, just in case some enemy soldier was foolish enough to use them for protection. It was eerie to see a group of enemy soldiers on the trail by our old CP bunker. They ran out toward the firing position we had often used. They were on my ground and seeing them there made me feel exploited. When I rotated off 812 in April, I left my Coleman lantern with the soldiers that were using that bunker. I seethed, as I had many times before, that the hill had been lost. North Korean soldiers ran and ducked around a small bunker. We shot several rounds of high-explosive ammunition into the area. Then we shot some white phosphorous. It sprayed and burned, it was the closest thing we tankers had to napalm. We probably hit some North Koreans. Terrain around the bunker offered little protection to the running enemy, but we could not be sure about kills because smoke obscured parts of the hill. The battle was picking up, but my tank did not encounter incoming enemy just then. The North Koreans were using their mortars and artillery against the attacking ROK infantry. I left my tank and ran to the other tank that was shooting into the draw to the north on the other side of Lieutenant Lee’s CP. Then I ran south for a look from the observation post. The counterattack seemed to be going well, and our tanks were okay. Returning to my tank, I shot the .50-caliber machine gun at 812 and at avenues of approach that were located closer to us. Visibility got better. As the fight developed, we shifted the 90mm fire in closer. A North Korean squad running in our direction headed toward a depression. Before it could get there, I gave the fire command, “gunner, troops in open, Willie Peter, range 200,” and called “While on Hill 755, I visited each tank and met the tank commanders (TC) and crews of our five M46s. I was the TC on one tank, as well as the platoon leader with responsibility for everyone. Between the crews, the medic, and myself, we numbered 26 Americans on the hill; we did not have a mechanic. I wrote everyone’s name down in a small notebook carried in my breast pocket. Little did I know that during the next 10 days things would happen so fast that I would not get to know some of my men.” November-December 2003 — 33 steady-on as the gunner traversed the turret. The troops dropped out of sight as I watched them from my hatch that was cracked open. Leaning over the gunner, I used his pistol grip aiming device to place the 90mm tube where the troops had hit the ground. Then I gave the last element of the fire command, “FIRE!” The round went long. Both the gunner and I sensed the round; we saw it hit. The gunner took over the aiming, shortened the range, and shot from left to right and right to left until we had expended about 10 rounds of white phosphorous. After that, we laced the area with high-explosive rounds. From then on, there was absolutely no more movement from that sector. Despite the partially opened tank commander’s and loader’s hatches, it was hot and acrid in the smoke-filled fighting compartment. There was also little fresh air coming from the open pistol port. The ventilation system did not work, which made breathing difficult. Occasionally, I opened the hatch for fresh air but did not leave it open because mortar rounds were hitting all around us. I feared a round would drop through the open hatch or hit the turret while the hatch was open. Our tank was visible to enemy everywhere — we were fully exposed. An explosion blew off the radio antenna, but the radio had already been inoperable for some time. The day wore on. Later, we backed into defilade long enough to reload our 90mm ammunition, then reoc-cupied our position on the crest of the hill and resumed firing. The loader fainted from the heat and fell out on the floor of the fighting compartment. The bow gunner took his place as the pace slowed, then stopped. There was no more incoming artillery. The fight was over by mid-afternoon. None of the ROK assault infantry came back to our ridge. We could not see them and did not know how far they had advanced. We had no information from anyone, but could see that there had been no change on Hill 812, the secondary objective. The soldiers were happy that the counterattack had pushed back the North Koreans. As I sat in the quiet night, I knew that the ROKs and our tankers were successful, but it was anybody’s guess as to the next move. I continued to worry. I knew those North Koreans were not finished. To me, it was a replay of the first assault they made on 812: the unsuccessful one during the winter. I believed the North Koreans would continue to hammer until they took 755 and we were not going to let that happen. It was not possible to establish any kind of routine. Something bad and unexpected was always coming up. The next crisis came when Lieutenant Arthur Dillmuth’s tank was pulling into firing position at the slot east of Lieutenant Lee’s CP and threw a track. The crew was unable to repair it because their location was awkward and dangerously exposed. We sent for help and battalion maintenance sent us an officer. I was at the command tank when he arrived by Jeep. He was cheerful and I thanked him for coming up. He drove north on the trail to the disabled tank’s position, about 150 yards away. Immediately, I heard explosions, then the roar of the Jeep coming toward me. The maintenance guy was covered with blood and shredded by shell fragments from head to toe. His flak vest was ripped. The driver stopped the Jeep long enough for the wounded officer to tell me that lots of mortar fire had come in right on top of them. The disabled tank blocked the narrow trail. I ran to it, worrying because it cut off another tank further to the east. Hearing noise underneath the vehicle, I crawled there to find the body of the gunner, Corporal Shelly, and the badly wounded driver, Kowalcheck. He had lost one foot and part of the other, and was in a state of panic. Still under the tank, I took off Kowalcheck’s belt and made a tourniquet for his leg that was bleeding the most, the right one. He was crying, but my attention calmed him. Except for his crying, everything was completely quiet. The loader showed up but the medic was nowhere to be seen. Thank God! Vreeke got there with his Jeep and a stretcher. Fearing another mortar attack, we pulled Kowalcheck out from under the tank, loaded him onto the stretcher, and placed it in the Jeep on the passenger’s side. There was no way to tie it down. Vreeke left there driving with his left hand while holding the stretcher and badly wounded soldier with his right arm. The missing medic turned up, he had taken off when the rounds came in. Darkness fell and the medic could not find his aid kit, but he did help search for the missing Corporal Hux, whose body had rolled down the hill. We were to get it out the next morning. The moon had not yet come up. The reliable Vreeke returned with the blacked-out Jeep and picked up Shelly’s body. I was up all night worrying that the North Koreans knew we were knocked out and would try to make a run at us up the draw in front. They almost reached the tank slot a few nights earlier. It would have been easy for them to walk straight to us this time. That night was spent going back and forth from the vacant tank slot on the north, the one east of the ROK CP, to my tank on the ridge at the west slot. I had a pistol in my hand throughout much of it. I was physically and emotionally exhausted. There was silence everywhere, which made me more anxious. I did not see a ROK infantryman all night. “My first tank on 755 had a good crew; they knew the hill, and we followed exact standard operating procedures for the first night, which was quiet. Everyone realized the situation was serious; there was no malingering or dissembling.” 34 — November-December 2003

Cursing the moon, I was depressed. Only a few nights before, Shelly had discussed personal problems with me as we sat on watch in a tank turret. Hux had told me that he was put on tanks because he had worked at an arsenal in Galveston, Texas. Together, we knew fear and exhaustion. I knew Shelly and Hux better than any of the soldiers on 755. I felt personally responsible for their deaths. The night of 24 July 1953 was exceptionally long. Early the next morning, our replacements arrived. Battalion maintenance fixed the disabled tank and it moved back into position at the head of the draw. We were back in business as usual, almost as if the counterattack had not happened at all. I was filled with anxiety, worn out, and waiting for the North Koreans to attack once more. That was not going to happen and we would never be able to retake Hill 812. The war was ending. We were stunned when a messenger Jeep drove me to the rear to hear the cease-fire order read aloud. I returned to 755 and passed on the details to everyone. The war ended the next day, 27 July. The order called for firing to stop at 2000 hours (8:00 in the evening). It was another scorching, humid day. Nothing happened that morning. Around noon, I had every man get in position inside his tank. By mid-afternoon there was intermittent firing up and down the line. At first, it was just small arms but the big guns and mortars started shooting as the afternoon wore on. It was a crescendo. We knew those hills and had a good idea where the North Koreans were. I picked targets all over the place and enjoyed giving the fire commands. We even shot up the approaches. The North Koreans were shooting too. We got a lot of incoming mortar fire, some of it from heavy mortars. I did not want to be the last man to die in Korea, but I hung out the turret and fired the .50-caliber machine gun a number of times. We were but a small part of a huge wave of noise and explosions, rolling as far as you could see and hear to the east and to the west. Things started to get quiet as 2000 hours approached. There was total silence for the last few minutes or so before 2000. Then everyone got off the tanks. The ROK infantrymen came out of their positions. All were in a state of disbelief — the ROKs and soldiers. We watched the enemy positions and saw movement. There was still daylight. By then, Vreeke had come up with the Jeep. I told him to get out the bottle of emergency scotch. I broke the seal and opened the whiskey and passed it around. Then we went up to Lee’s CP, a small, low-earth and log bunker covered with shot-up sandbags. There was joy everywhere. A couple of ROK lieutenants came in after many days and nights on outposts. We were all filthy and hot, wearing wet and sweaty clothes. It was more than two weeks since my last bath in the Soyang River back at Dodge Range. There was a lot of laughing, handshaking, and embracing. I offered the bottle all around but got few takers; the Koreans were not much on drinking. The wounded Lee, his officers, and I went to the bunker’s aperture. It opened to the north and was about 10 inches high and five feet wide. Visibility was excellent. The full moon was high in the sky. The hills were bathed in lights that flashed off and on as low clouds scudded past in front of the moon. Soldiers up and down the line were shouting obscenities across to the North Koreans, who had formed into a large square of troops. Our Army would call it a battalion mass, a perfect box on the forward slope of the facing hill at a range of 400 yards. There were hundreds of enemy soldiers in the formation, maybe nearly a thousand. They were chanting in unison and singing martial songs. I wish that Frederick Remington could have painted that fabulous night scene. It was the most history I was ever to see with my own eyes. Then there was an explosion. Dulled by exhaustion, whiskey, and excitement, I looked at my watch. It was exactly midnight. My first thought was that the whole cease-fire discussion was a ruse and we were being attacked again. However, an unlucky ROK trooper had stepped on a mine. The next morning, we wrecked and burned the log bunkers on

755. Recon Company and our tanks withdrew that afternoon. A demarcation line two miles wide was established between the UN forces and the North Koreans. The overrun Hill 812 was on the North Korean side of the new main line of resistance. Hill 755 was on the South Korean side. My men did their duty and our unit, the 140th Tank Battalion, was awarded the Presidential Unit Citation for its part in defending against the war’s last North Korean offensive. The United States, along with a coalition of 21 other nations, were an important part of what the next 50 years would bring to a democratic nation. With continued protection from the United States, South Korea has become an economic success. Now South Korea is in a new era, free from the Cold War and dominated by economic interests and trade. North Korea is still suffering from abject poverty and is led by a dangerous ruler. New generations in South Korea have forgotten, or would rather not know, that the United States gave their country freedom and capitalism. Many do not grasp that we saved them from certain enslavement. Their politicians now say they do not want to be so closely identified with the United States. Yet they need us to defend them now just as they did when North Korea invaded the country 50 years ago. Of course, we will give them that defense, even in the face of anti-American demonstrations from some of their young people. Our troops will remain there and will continue to be in harm’s way. We shoulder that burden for the sake of Japan, as well as Korea. Our U.S. markets will remain open to their trade. We will continue to be a huge part of Korea’s economic successes and will continue to deal diplomatically with their foolish brothers to the north. Unification will come and will have staggering results. Millions of poverty-stricken North Koreans will flood south in search of jobs, democracy, human rights, and western-style opportunity. Their stability and liberty must be guaranteed. A resulting larger and more complicated nation with huge unemployment statistics will need our help and they will get it. Perhaps young Koreans will come to grasp the special friendship that the people of the United States have for them, a friendship created by shared hardships and co-mingled blood. Rod Frazer entered the Army in 1950 with the Alabama National Guard and was commissioned as a second lieutenant of Armor at Fort Knox, KY. Volunteering for Korea, he served two important tours as a tank platoon leader: 40 days at Hill 812 (Luke’s Castle), which fell after he rotated; and the last 15 days of the war on Hill 755. He was awarded the Silver Star for gallantry in action and his unit, the 140th Tank Battalion, was awarded the Presidential Unit Citation for its role in defending against the last North Korean offensive of the war. November-December 2003 — 35