Louis Ulrich's Unending Tour of Duty

April 23, 1951.  South Korea.  Corporal Louis Ulrich was due to go home.  He had enough rotation points after 10 months of almost non-stop combat.  As part of the first wave of American troops sent to Korea, Ulrich one of the few to survive the North Koreans’ relentless push southward to the Pusan Perimeter during the summer of 1950. Ulrich would be momentarily listed as missing-in-action in September. When the Americans’ fortunes reversed after the September 15 Inchon invasion, Ulrich participated in the headlong rush across the 38th parallel into North Korea. There, in late November, the Americans were accosted not only by massive numbers of Red Chinese troops, but also by the onset of a bitter Siberian cold front. Ulrich was wounded during the ensuing battles in March 1951. Promoted from private to corporal, Ulrich recuperated in time to resume his place on the front line when the Chinese launched their spring offensive on April 21, 1951. The U.S. Army could spare no one. Ulrich’s departure was put on hold.

Louis Ulrich and Pvt. Philip Hughes were among the 1,981 men of the U.S. Army’s 34th Infantry Regiment as they landed at the South Korean port of Pusan on July 2, 1950. After two months of ferocious combat losses, the 34th was given a 10-day hiatus in a rest camp along with the rest of the battle-weary 24th Division. By this point, only 184 members of the 34th Regiment’s original commitment were still standing. Among these were Ulrich and Hughes.

The 34th was so depleted that U.S. Eighth Army Headquarters disbanded it on September 1, 1950. The survivors were dispersed to other regiments.  Ulrich and Hughes found themselves assigned to K (King) Company of the 19th Infantry Regiment. 

Louis Ulrich was one of five brothers raised in Philadelphia.  Their home was in a rough industrial neighborhood, the kind in which the streets had embedded rail lines for freight trains. Like Philip Hughes, Louis Ulrich dropped out of high school in the late 1940s to join the Army, which added him to the peacetime occupation garrison in Japan.   

Both Ulrich and Hughes were killed in Korea.  In a sense, Hughes was the luckier of the two because he died on September 12, 1950, which spared him from months of exposure during the subsequent winter.  Plus, Philip’s remains were returned home for interment. Louis Ulrich would suffer through a full enlistment, only to be declared missing in action on April 23.  On January 4, 1954, six months after the Korean War cease-fire, the U.S. Army declared that Cpl. Ulrich was dead. This was merely a legal formality that allowed his mother to collect survivor’s benefits.  Louis Ulrich’s remains were never recovered.

Task Force Smith: "An Arrogant Display of Strength"

Elements of Task Force Smith arrive at the Taejon Train station after an overnight journey from Pusan.
SOURCE:  U.S. Army Military History Institute

Morning, July 2, 1950.  Taejon, South Korea. Spearheading the U.S. Army's initial ground force committment to Korea was “Task Force Smith,” so named for its commander, 34-year-old Lieutenant Colonel Charles “Brad” Smith, a West Pointer and a veteran of World War II’s Pacific theater. The task force predated Pvt. Philip Hughes's arrival with the 34th Infantry Regiment by only a day. Under Smith's command was a reinforced company of about 540 men detailed from the 21st Infantry Regiment with a partial complement of artillery. 

The composition of this force reflected the need to move quickly – by air – which in turn was restricted by Korea’s rough airfields, which quickly deteriorated under the weight of heavily-loaded aircraft. For practical purposes, then, Task Force Smith was lightly equipped. Over half the troops were under the age of 20 – soldiers, yes, but generally undertrained and unprepared.

As long as their opponents lacked superior troop numbers and armament, Task Force Smith was expected to provide an effective roadblock to the North Korean incursion. A formation under an American flag would, in MacArthur’s words, pose “an arrogant display of strength” from which North Korean troops would supposedly recoil in fear. MacArthur’s tacit hope was that the enemy would perceive the few Americans initially deployed in Korea as the vanguard of the vast military juggernaut that had won World War II. 

The North Koreans were neither fooled nor intimidated by the meager force of Americans they  encountered. 

Having already taken Seoul, the capital of South Korea, the North Korean People’s Army advanced southward toward Osan on July 5. Just north of there, Task Force Smith, the front line of American resistance, was dug-in on a couple of rain-soaked hilltops. Almost 5,000 NKPA troops advanced on this position behind a spearhead of over 30 top-notch Russian-built T-34 tanks. The few American weapons that could effectively stop tanks were quickly neutralized. The experienced and battle hardened NKPA forces poured around and through the Americans, killing some, capturing others, and causing a panicked rout of the remainder. The dazed survivors fled south, leaving behind equipment and wounded men that they could not carry. 

Some 40 percent of the task force was lost – either killed, captured, or wounded. In return for their efforts, Task Force Smith delayed the NKPA advance for approximately seven hours. Their roadblock gave Philip Hughes and the 34th Regiment time to set up a line of defense to the south at P’yongt’aek. 

The Ghost of Akeji "Norman" Morinaga

On Tuesday, September 12, 1950, U.S. Army Private Philip Hughes queued up with a squad of men to conduct a reconnaissance patrol in the South Korean wilderness west of Hill 300, near Kyongju.  Among his colleagues was Corporal Akeji "Norman" Morinaga, of Hawaii. The men of this patrol were ambushed by North Korean forces.  None of the Americans came back alive. 

Since recounting Philip Hughes's story in The Battle of Turkey Thicket, I keep finding shreds of documentation describing the people and events related to that dramatic time.  Only recently did I find this photo of Cpl. Morinaga.  His story is reconstituted mostly from digital newspaper clippings.  I had the good fortune of locating and corresponding with Cpl. Morinaga's niece, Gwen.  She graciously gave me some additional info. It is from all these sources that we encounter the "ghost" of Cpl. Morinaga.

Akeji was Nisei, that is, a first-generation American born of Japanese immigrants.  Eager to serve his country, the Hawaii native enlisted in the U.S. Army in March 1945 at the age of 19, and received basic training at Schofield Barracks. Shortly after, Akeji signed up for linguistics duties, which necessitated his travel to the continental U.S., arriving at Ft. Snelling in St. Paul, Minnesota. With the end of World War II, however, the need for Japanese language interpretation all but disappeared.  No matter - Akeji apparently liked the Army and decided to re-enlist.  He learned the quartermaster trade, and in 1946, found himself managing supply logistics in Kobe, Japan, on behalf of the Army's occupation forces.  It was there that Akeji found a bride who eventually bore him a son.

While Akeji enjoyed this idyllic billet, the Korean War began in June 1950.  The U.S. Army found itself woefully unprepared to conduct war in many ways, not least of which was adequate manpower.  "Operation Flushout" was the Army's effort to gather rear-eschelon men who, regardless of occupational specialty, would become infantrymen bound for Korea with the stroke of a pen.  This explains Cpl. Morinaga's arrival at the base of South Korea's Hill 300 during the rainy night of September 8-9.  Here, he was assigned to Pvt. Philip Hughes's K Company, 19th Infantry Regiment. Only days later, both met their fate on patrol.

Cpl. Morinaga's remains were recovered and buried in Hawaii's National Memorial Cemetery of the Pacific. Many years ago, his grown son came to Hawaii to visit for the first time with his father's American family. Today, a great nephew bears the name "Akeji Morinaga," serving today in the Hawaii Army National Guard. Incidentally, Hawaii sacrificed more men in the Korean War (on a per capita basis) than any other U.S. state or territory.

The Determination of Marguerite Higgins

1950.  Korea.  Marguerite Higgins (1920-1966) did not fit the mold of a "war correspondent," that is, a non-combatant who covers war from the front line, armed with little more than a notebook and a pen.  But this is what Maggie did as she witnessed the first weeks of Korean War action on behalf of the New York Herald Tribune.  Hardly a novice, Maggie had already gained journalistic experience in Europe during World War II.  Still, she was petite, or dare I say it, "cute" - an attribute that almost precluded her access to the battlefield. Through sheer grit and determination, she was able to accompany the leading elements of the U.S. Army's 24th Infantry Division's initial foray into Korea.  She was in the vicinity of Pvt. Philip Hughes and the other wide-eyed American teenagers who encountered North Korean T-34 tanks for the first time near P'yongt'aek on July 6. Maggie suffered not only poor accommodations (fleas, lice and abysmal sanitation), but on a couple of occasions found herself under enemy fire.  Maggie Higgins recounted her Korean War experience in a book entitled "War in Korea: The Report of a Woman Combat Correspondent."

Private First Class Orvin Morris

July 29, 1950.  On the ground in Korea since July 10, LTC John Michaelis's 27th Infantry Regiment (the "Wolfhounds) joined forces with Pvt. Philip Hughes's 24th Infantry Division to at least slow down the encroachment of the North Korean People's Army toward the port of Pusan.  Among the 27th's troops was PFC Orvin Morris, age 23, from Virginia. He was exhausted as much by his unit's constant redeployment  along the front lines as by the combat itself.  PFC Morris was photographed while riding a train back to an Eighth Army medical facility in Pusan to receive treatment for wounds caused by mortar fragments. Morris survived the war, but life was not easy for him.  He died in 1976 at the age of 49.  He's buried in Albemarle County's Free Union Church of the Brethern's cemetery.

"Cease Fire!"

June 1953, near the 38th Parallel. The Korean War has just completed its third year. These men are both U.S. Army soldiers and actors.  They are the cast of the film "Cease Fire!" conceived by Owen Crump and produced by Hal Wallis (whose catalogue would eventually include Elvis films, of all things).

The premise of "Cease Fire" was as startling as it was unique:  to make a feature-length film about a war currently underway, filmed at the actual battle front of that war, using the real-life soldiers as actors.  On top of that, the film would employ the then-emerging concept of 3-D projection.

The plot was simple: It was during the waning days of the war when an armistice was anticipated by all parties.  A squad of men were assigned a patrol to secure a strategic portion of the front line from enemy encroachment.  Everyone anticipated returning home. Men from the U.S. 7th Infantry Division were tapped for the project.  Almost all portrayed characters using their real names.  While the acting is a bit wooden, and the voices over-dubbed in post-production, you still have to admire these men for the fact that battle scenes were filmed using live ammunition.

A couple of the men had flashes of acting talent.  One was Private Ricardo Carrasco of El Paso, Texas. His character was scripted to succumb to a mortal wound in one scene.  When the rushes (raw, unedited film) made their way back to Hollywood for review, the producers took notice of Carrasco, then age 19.  There was talk that this boy had "it." They spoke of a future film contract for him.

Fate intervened.  Filming wrapped up in late June, and many of the actors returned to combat before the end.  One of them was subsequently killed in combat on July 6, 1953. That was Ricardo Carrasco.

The cease fire became effective on July 27, 1953.

A fine backstory about the film's origin, production, and impact is found online.

The Chiggie and the "A" Frame

Photo from the Doug Price Collection



C. 1951. Vicinity of Pusan, South Korea. Do not underestimate this man. He is South Korean, ostensibly a civilian, and probably "friendly" to the American forces seeking to defend his country at the time from the invading North Korean Peoples Army.  Having said that, there's some chance that this man is an irregular insurgent, local by birth but clandestinely sympathetic to the NKPA. We have only conjecture to guide us.

He is too old to serve in the ROK (Republic of Korea) army.  But he is not too old to work. He wears an A-frame, an ingenious device that allows him to carry enormous loads on his back.  Given the economic disruption caused by the Korean War, his best opportunity to make a living is to offer his labor to American forces in exchange for food rations or, occasionally, a modest cash stipend.

American troops at the time, like Private Philip Hughes, affectionately referred to such laborers as "chiggies." If you measure work by units of effort per unit of caloric intake, this old man was by far more metabolically efficient than his American benefactors. This was most evident when he scaled - by foot - one of Korea's many hills, which the Americans were so often bound to do if they wished to hold ground.