Talk:Operation Ripper

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this operation semms awesome —Preceding unsigned comment added by Roc2120 (talk • contribs) 13:28, 20 December 2007 (UTC)

Seoul, South Korea and its final liberation

The Han River Crossing & the final liberation of Seoul, March 7 1951. Usually we would be returned directly to the front from reserve. This time, we were taken by truck convoy to a staging area where we were put through three days of amphibious boat training. Of course rumors were a dime a dozen throughout the regiment, but on the third day our curiosity was put to rest once and for all. We were officially informed that our objective was the Han River. Vaguely, I recalled the monstrous looking mountain and the then partially frozen over Han River we had observed while on a reconnaissance patrol of the area not long ago. I remembered feeling then that we were destined to see the mountain again. Only this time we'd have to fight our way to its peak. And that would be after crossing the river. The night before we pulled out for the front, we were told our objective would be under bombardment twenty-four hours prior to our landing and that 10,000 rounds of armor-piercing artillery rounds would be exploded it would also be under a continuous pounding by our jets’ aircraft rockets and by night bombing. Then the heavy mortars. But we had attacked after such devastating conditioning before, only to find the Chinese forces had just pulled back to wait out the bombardment in their reserved deep tunnels and bunkers and come out fighting when the barrage was lifted for us, the attackers. I always thanked God that the enemy didn't have the air power we had. March 7, 1951 (twenty days before my 18th birthday), my battalion (the 2nd) boarded two-and-a-half-ton trucks to be transported to within a quarter of a mile of the Han River and our objective. There were thirty of us in the canvas-covered truck I rode in. Of course, that had to be multiplied time the number of trucks it would take to convey a regiment of soldiers. An individual soldier has a very limited view usually, but I imagine the truck convoy was spread out for miles. In the truck in which I rode, there was very little talking. Some of the men tried to get a little shuteye, which was hard to do with the truck hitting potholes every now and then, plus the many starts and stops. Then there would be times we'd travel for miles without stopping. There were wooded areas where branches from trees lining the narrow road would now and then strike the canvas side of the truck, sounding like sniper shots. No matter how many times this happened, each time sounded like the real one, and we instinctively ducked our heads. Sometimes it happened in such rapid succession that we'd think it was machine-gun fire and be tempted to jump from the moving truck. Every hour the trucks would pull over to the side of the road to give all a ten-minute break, during which time we could take care of our body needs or just have a smoke. I think there were two breaks before we reached our destination. At 1600 hours we left the trucks for the last time, fell into formations, and were marched off to a rallying area behind the very hill I, along with other members of my platoon, had scouted weeks before. There, we were organized for hot chow before being issued additional ammunition. Hundreds of commands are necessary to prepare a regiment of combat infantrymen for a major offensive such as the one we were to take part in on the following day. And as always, there were the distant sounds of exploding bombs and long-range heavy artillery that exploded on the distant mountains. The smell of gasoline mixed with exhaust fuel and gunpowder were the prevailing smells lingering in the air, but sometimes a sweet smell of garlic could be distinguished. Later in the evening we would write letters, some of the guys would read their Bibles. After I had written a short letter home I again cleaned my rifle and checked it out. Then, with it cuddled in my arms and ready for instant use, I laid down on the hard cold ground after covering myself with a blanket and poncho. I slept. The following morning I woke at 0430 hours. Looking out from the shallow hole I had slept in, I noticed the shadows of other foxholes to my left and right and knew that each one was occupied by at least two men. After identifying the sentry and sensing that all was well, I quietly drew on my boots, tied the laces, and with my rifle and shovel in hand, I proceeded down the back side of the hill a ways to and a place to make a bowel movement. There were other soldiers about, fulfilling the same body function. "All right, men, rise and shine. We got a war to fight. Let's go, let's go, we'll be moving out in one hour!" Every NCO seemed to scream the same orders at the same time. There was no washing or showers. Some of us might brush our teeth, depending on how we valued the water in our canteen. In two-squad groups on command, we would proceed down the back side of the hill with our mess kits for hot chow, and then return to our position to eat it. Always our weapons were with us. At 0530 we assembled on the road in company formation. My battalion (the 2nd) would lead. Companies E and F would do the spearheading. I recalled my favorite prayer from Psalm 27: “The Lord is my light and salvation; whom shall I fear?” Such were my thoughts as we advanced toward the thunderous noise of thousands of rounds of artillery exploding on a hunk of mountainous rock that we must all die, if necessary, to seize control of. We were in long columns flanking each side of the narrow road barely wide enough for a tank (or in this case) columns of tanks and half-tracks, with 50 caliber machine guns. Some had 105 mm recoilless rifle mounted on them. There were all kinds of weapons paralleling the river bank. They were pounding the monstrous-looking mountains on the other side of the river with all their fire power. The morning air was heavy with gun smoke... Soon we were ordered to leave the road and to take up positions on the Han River bank. There, through the morning mists, we could barely make out the hulking mountain separated from us only by the deadly river that for many of us would be the last body of water we would ever see. Although the top half of the mountain was covered by morning mists, I could see many flashs that appeared a split second before the exploding sounds reached our ears. I refocused my attention on three chaplains who were making their way to each platoon. They were offering us the chance to pray with them, or they with us. I remember thinking that there was nothing they could do for me now. Only God could help me, and I didn't need their help to talk to Him. I again refocused my attention on the river and the mountain we were to fight our way up. Momentarily the morning mist lifted, enabling three F-86 Saber Jets to come in and make a few strafing runs with rockets and napalm bombs, then raking the mountain with machine-gun fire. I wondered how anyone could survive such bombardment, but I know, in spite of the intense annihilation taking place before my very eyes, that many of the Chinese soldiers would be there waiting for us. Then new sounds joined the many others, the sounds of small-arms fire, including 30 calibers machine-guns, bazookas, and light mortars. But above all could be distinguished the sounds of screaming warriors as they charged forward from the amphibious landing crafts they had used to cross the Han River. Then I heard the command I had dreaded. "OK, 1st Platoon, let's move out." We moved forward to the bank of the river where amphibious landing craft sat waiting for us. "Fuck it,” I said to myself. “Yeah, let's go! Let’s go!” I yelled, more so to relieve the tension in my stomach. I, like the others advancing soldiers, repeated the yell loudly and ran forward to get aboard the craft. The river was about a hundred yards across. Halfway across bullets began striking the side of the landing craft. I heard a scream of pain from somewhere inside our craft. But we were so packed in that I couldn't see who or how many were hit, or how bad. Enemy mortars exploded so close to the craft that water splashed over the side and on us. Finally we reached the other side of the river and, like others before us, charged of the low front end of the craft like mad men, screaming from the pits of our stomachs. We were met by a hail of enemy small-arms fire, mixed with exploding mortars that fell among us. We had to cover at least a hundred yards to reach the base of the mountain that was our objective to seize at all cost. I began to notice dead bodies as we continued our charge forward, bodies of our men. As I ran forward I fired shot after shot at everything or place in front of me that might conceal an enemy soldier. Bullets were whizzing by me, sometimes even glancing off my steel helmet. There was no place to duck. Every so often, the enemy fire power would be so intense that until someone knocked the particular machine-gun out, we would have to take cover behind or under something, even if it was the body of a fallen comrade or enemy soldier. "Let's go! You men over there, Come on, let's go!" And up we would get and charge forward again, right into the hail of bullets, firing our weapons and yelling like mad men. Glimpsing to my right or left I saw dead or wounded soldiers everywhere, lying where they had fallen and others like myself still charging toward the base of the mountain. I knew I had to reach there. Then, I noticed a viaduct in front of me and at the same instant noticed movement in it. Dust began kicking up around my feet. I hit the ground pumping shot after shot into the entrance of the viaduct until my rifle was empty. From the prone position I quickly reloaded. while someone left of me continued shooting. From the corner of my eye, I saw it was “Red” (Pvt. Leonard Warden). I removed a hand grenade from my cartridge belt and threw it. It exploded in the mouth of the viaduct. We jumped up and charged into the mouth of the viaduct, firing our weapons all the while, even before the smoke from the hand grenade had cleared. Two of the enemy was dead and one dying. The last thing he did before we killed him was try to spit at us. The incident began and ended in less than five minutes, but I'll remember the expression on his face for the rest of my life. It was a look of defiance. Red and I were amazed at the way he died. When I die, I'd like nothing better than to die as bravely as he had. So I thought. "All right, keep moving you guys. Move! Move!" Again we charged toward the base of the mountain. There we assembled and began advancing up the treacherous mountain side. We could tell by the intensity of their firepower that they were throwing everything they had at us, and it was having the desired eject. Our guys were dropping all around me. I figured any moment would be my last. But when the orders were given to move out, I moved with the others up the slippery mountain side, sometimes advancing six or so paces before being forced by the intensity of the enemy's firepower to take cover and pump round after round at suspected places of concealment. Spread out on the left and right flanks were members of my company; to our front were the enemy. Two-thirds of the way up the mountain the Chinese fire power became so intense that we had to pull back to the base of the mountain. There we took cover while our planes and artillery again pounded the top and forward side of the mountain. From time to time short rounds fell among us, killing and maiming. As soon as the barrages were lifted we again charged forward. This time we reached the top. I saw some of the Chinese soldiers taking off down the forward side of the mountain. They then became the targets. From the prone position in which I lay on the mountaintop, I could see our Corsair single-engine planes dive into the valley in pursuit of the fleeing enemy. I also saw tracers from concealed machine-guns reaching up for the low-flying planes and felt sure that one of the three circling planes had taken a hit before they flew away. Then our forward observers (FO) took over and began to call in artillery, which raked the valley before us. I collapsed momentarily from exhaustion, drained of energy. "Just ten minutes of rest,” I would think and pray to God for it. "First and Second squads over her,” yelled our platoon sergeant. "Now what!” I grumbled to myself and scurried backwards on my stomach from the ridge line of the mountain where I had lain resting as I watched and waited for further orders. The above excerpt is from the below mention memoir.

Author at age 17
WHAT INSPIRED ME MOST TO SHARE MY WAR TIME EXPERIENCES WAS MY FAMILY & FRIENDS AND THE REALITY, THAT IF WE DON’T RECORD OUR HISTORY, IT WILL BE LOST... Forever.

Author of: WHAT'S A COMMIE EVER DONE TO BLACK PEOPLE?