Combat Calisthenics

Photo by John T. Ward and James N. Cannon of the Baltimore Sun

If you fought in Korea, you fought on hills.  It was an inescapable aspect of military strategy:  if you occupy the high ground, you have control of the territory below.  But occupying hill tops was easier said than done.  Scaling a slope under fire was itself nightmarish.  Yet holding the summit was also taxing.  Food, ammunition, and other supplies had to be hand-carried to heights not served by roads.  Helicopter technology was in its infancy at the time, especially during the Korean War's initial stages in 1950. The little Bell 47s (think of the M*A*S*H* television series) were few in number and simply lacked the payload capacity to perform any significant cargo transport duties. You shouldered your own burden.  You could gripe if you wanted to, but little sympathy came from your equally belabored brothers-in-arms.

"Bug Out Boogie"

Summer 1950. Korea. Trucks like this GMC deuce-and-a-half were an indispensible component of U.S. Army logistics throughout the Korean War.  In 1950, these and other vehicles were left-overs from World War II.  Some worked better than others. Drivers not only worked long hours, they occasionally confronted enemy guerrilla forces seeking to disrupt the Army's rear-eschelon activities.

Here on the truck, we see Charles Gilmore (left) and Louis Diggs (right), the latter of Catonsville, a suburb of Baltimore. Diggs became an author in his later years.  The young Korean boy with them is unidentified.  

This post is as good a time as any to share the U.S. foot soldier's iconic Korean War song, co-opted from a then-popular tune by the Canadian singer Hank Snow. “I’m Movin’ On” was ostensibly a truck driver’s lament rendered with a country swing. The song in its entirety was as innocent as its first verse:

That big eight-wheeler rollin’ down the track

Means your true-lovin’ daddy ain’t comin’ back

‘Cause I’m movin’ on, I’ll soon be gone

You were flyin’ too high, for my little old sky

So I’m movin’ on

“I’m Movin’ On” made its way onto Armed Forces Radio Network broadcasts. It was probably assimilated by drivers of the Eighth Army’s transport companies, who in turn shared it with men all through the combat supply chain, from the port in Pusan to the front lines. Soldiers took the liberty of modifying the lyrics to suit their circumstances. Ruminating on the dreaded strategy of delay and retreat, “Bug-Out Boogie” emerged as the unofficial anthem of fighting men in Korea. The lyrics morphed over time as the Americans fought through the summer and fall of 1950. Immediately cynical and ribald, the modified lyrics unequivocally captured the American soldier’s Korean War experience. One rendition of the song began as follows:

Hear the patter of running feet

It’s the old First Cav in full retreat

They’re moving on; they’ll soon be gone

They’re haulin’ ass, not savin’ gas

They’ll soon be gone.

That opening verse was typically modified to implicate the singer’s neighboring organization. By the end of 1950, the lyrics reflected China’s commitment to the fray:

Over on that hill there’s a Russian tank

A million Chinks are on my flank

I’m movin’ on, I’ll soon be gone

With my M1 broke, it ain’t no joke

I’ll soon be gone.

Million Chinks comin’ through the pass

Playin’ burp-gun boogie all over my ass

I’m movin’ on, I’ll soon be gone

With my M1 broke, it ain’t no joke

I’ll soon be gone.

Twenty thousand Chinks comin’ through the pass

I’m tellin’ you, baby, I’m haulin’ ass

I’m moving on; I’ll soon be gone

I’m haulin’ ass, not savin’ gas

I’ll soon be gone.

Standin’ in a rice paddy up to my belly

From then on, they called me “Smelly”

I’m moving on; I’ll soon be gone

I’m haulin’ ass, not savin’ gas

I’ll soon be gone.

Here’s papasan comin’ down the track

Old A-frame strapped to his back

He’s moving on; he’ll soon be gone

He’s haulin’ ass, not savin’ gas

He’ll soon be gone.

Here’s mamasan comin’ down the track

Titty hangin’ out, baby on her back

She’s moving on; she’ll soon be gone

From her tits to her toes, she’s damn near froze

She’ll soon be gone.

I sung this song for the very last time

Gonna get Korea off my mind

I’m moving on; I’ll soon be gone

I done my time in the shit and slime

I’m movin’ on.

Taejon Roadblock

U.S. Army photo

July 20, 1950. Taejon, Korea.  Elements of the U.S. Army 34th Infantry Regiment are seen hunkered down in the streets of Taejon.  Their convoy is made up of what would normally be considered "rear echelon" troops - medics, mechanics, clerics, cooks, and the like.  But as Korean War veteran Lacy Barnett said, "we were all front-line troops that day." 

When this photo was taken, Taejon had already been infiltrated by large numbers of North Koreans, many of whom were disguised as civilians.  The enemy set up a number of roadblocks through the city, exploiting the Americans' total dependence on mechanized transport.  The men seen here have encountered sniper fire, and most are taking cover accordingly.  Well over a hundred of vehicles queued up to escape Taejon, but not all of them made it out.  Chance played a large part in determining the fate of the U.S. troops attempting to slip past enemy fortifications. The Army would take 3,600 casualties on this day, counting killed, captured, wounded and missing in action.  The 34th Infantry Regiment would be shattered on this day, and never fully recovered before it was finally disbanded on September 1, 1950.  The photographer was very lucky that he and his camera survived the ordeal. 

The Lovless Principle

Col. Jay Lovless.  Photo courtesy of Lacy Barnett

Private Philip Hughes, age 17, arrived in Japan in May 1950.  He was assigned to the 34th Infantry Regiment on Kyushu.  Philip found a unit in sorry condition with respect to military preparedness. It was so bad, in fact, that shortly before Philip’s arrival, U.S. Eighth Army commander Gen. Walton Walker sacked the 34th’s commander and replaced him with Col. Jay B. Lovless, an experienced logistician who had also commanded an infantry regiment in Europe during World War II.  The Texan left mixed impressions during the big war.  He was awarded a Distinguished Service Cross for his actions during April 1945. Yet one staff officer described Lovless as a “nervous, high-strung, impatient, dictatorial type of officer. This was of no matter in 1950, when Lovless’ skills and temperament were well-suited to the needs and challenges of a peacetime army unit.

Lovless had a formidable task.  Due to densely populated Japanese landscape, the 34th Regiment was fragmented.  Headquarters were in Sasebo, while its two battalions were located some five miles away.  The training area available to the regiment  – a rough-hewn mountaintop - could host one battalion (900 men), both not two simultaneously. Battalions took turns performing field exercises.  The limitations of the terrain meant that many maneuvers were excluded from the combat training syllabus.  

Then, of course, came the North Korean invasion of South Korea on June 25, 1950.  Jay Lovless, Philip Hughes, and the rest of the 34th Infantry were among the vanguard of U.S. Army forces rushed from Japan to South Korea’s defense.  Jay Lovless was age 49 – four years above the age for regiment commanders as recommended by Gen. George C. Marshall during World War II.  Nevertheless, Lovless would lead the 34th during its initial Korean combat deployment of July 5-7. Lovless’ commander, Gen. William Dean, had his doubts about Lovless.  Accordingly, Dean made arrangements to add the combat-experienced Col. Bob Martin to his staff, anticipating a possible change in personnel.

The change in leadership was not long in coming.  The premise was this:  the 34th’s first encounter with North Korean Army resulted in an embarrassing rout of American forces at P’yongt’aek on July 6.  In fairness, factors other than Lovless’ leadership were to blame.  These included undertrained troops, dysfunctional and underpowered weapons, and poor field communications. But this was the Army. If the exigencies of combat generated career-limiting consequences, so be it.  While he monitored the shattered 34th Infantry’s activity from his command post in Songhwan, Lovless received notice that he was relieved of his command. His replacement by Bob Martin would become effective immediately.

Jay Lovless died December 10 1964, and was buried in Fort Sam Houston National Cemetery in Texas.

Next Stop: Korean War

U.S. Army photo

Early July 1950.  The U.S. Army's 34th Infantry Regiment's Headquarters Company is seen here arriving at the Taejon rail station. This rail infrastructure was built well before 1940 during the Japanese occupation.  Ironically, the U.S. Army would employ the same infrastructure to move its assets and personnel for a "police action" against the North Korean invasion. The quarter-ton jeep trailer in the foreground holds a couple cases of trip flares, entrenching tools, and jerry cans for gasoline. A curious mix of civilians are gathered for the arrival.

This One's for You, Bud

Marine PFC Sterling G. Patterson of Eagle Rock, California guards a shipment of beer rations forwarded to the front lines.

September 15, 1950.  It was a good idea - at least on paper. Milwaukee's Blatz  and Jos. Schlitz Brewing Companies each offered to donate 600,000 cans or bottles of beer to American fighting men in Korea. Not only would it boost recipients' morale, the exposure would be a marketing coup for the suppliers.

The U.S. Army's initial contribution to the Korean War included a preponderance of teenage boys. About half these troops, like PVT Philip Hughes, were age 20 or younger. Quartermasters were accustomed to providing beer rations, but word of this treat filtered back to the U.S. in letters that the boys sent home. A domestic cry of indignation arose from the Women's Christian Temperance Union, among others, who lobbied Congress to cease and desist in the provision of beer, lest the American youngsters fall prey to alcoholism. It was also true that cigarettes were integral to Army rations, but that's another story.

The Army initially reacted to pressure by instituting a beer ban. General Douglas MacArthur, supreme commander of the U.N. forces in Korea, had other ideas. Nominally a Milwaukee native, MacArthur ordered that fighting men would continue to receive one free can of beer per day. Complicating the issue was the fact that taxpayers footed the bill for battlefield brew. Back in Washington, D.C., Secretary of the Army Frank Pace Jr. prevaricated for days over the brewers' offer. A compromise was reached on September 27.  The Army would accept the beer, as long as its alcohol content by volume was 3.2% or less.

It took a while for the beer to transship to Korea. The first rations were served to the intended recipients along with chow on Christmas Day. Many of the boy soldiers wrote letters of thanks to the brewers. At the end of the Korean War, Army troops found that empty beer cans were perfectly dimensioned to store unused hand grenades. This became standard operating procedure which, according to the United Press, saved the Army $20,000.

James Williams' Not So Easy Ride

1950. Korea. An intrepid jeep driver and crew race their cargo under fire. Photo by PFC Hancock, U.S. Army.

Ward and Mary Williams of East Alton, Illinois may have struggled through the Great Depression, but they provided as best they could for their two sons.  In 1940, Ward drove a taxi, while Mary worked in a munitions plant.  They had enough resources to seek medical remedy for the younger of their two sons, James, who was born with a cleft lip.  Surgery improved the condition, but did not totally erase evidence of the ailment. James joined the Army as a teenager, and was counted among the first boatload of American soldiers sent from Japan to Korea upon the outbreak of hostilities there.  He arrived on July 4, 1950.

"You could tell he was self conscious about it," as Lacy Barnett, age 91, recalled James' cleft lip in a recent email.

Lacy and James Williams served together in the 34th Infantry Regiment's medical company. Curiously, there were then three young men named "Williams" in that company during July 1950. Lacy knew them all.

The Army assigned the occupational specialty of "light truck driver" to Ward and Mary's boy. James was performing this vocation on July 20, 1950.  On that day, the 34th Infantry was trying to hold on to the city of Taejon just one more day as North Korean tanks and infantry bore down from the north. The 34th's third battalion held a tenuous line around the airfield just north of the city.  Outnumbered and surrounded, the battalion was preparing to withdraw, hoping to make it back to Taejon and eventual escape southward by rail.  But first, they had to break through the enemy encirclement. They had wounded to evacuate.

It was James C. Williams' job to drive a litter jeep - a vehicle that bore 2-3 stretchers each with a wounded soldier. The North Korean encirclement of the airfield was not complete, but it was effective enough. James and the wounded comrades he carried were killed at some point on the gauntlet to Taejon. James was not yet 20 years old.

All three of the medical company's Williams boys died that day during the North Koreans' advance on Taejon. Several survivors would later provide written statements that they returned the remains of James C. Williams to a collection point. However, July 20 was not a good day for the U.S. Army. The Americans' withdrawal turned into a panicked rout.  To put it mildly, the remains of James and many other soldiers were hastily abandoned. Nevertheless, James was officially listed as "missing in action." His name was added to one of the granite slabs in the Courts of the Missing at the National Memorial Cemetery of the Pacific in Honolulu.

That was pretty much the end of James' story until January 3, 2019, when the Defense POW/MIA Accounting Agency news release announced the positive identification of PFC James C. Williams. The boy with the cleft lip will be repatriated for burial at home. A rosette will be inscribed on the slab next to James' name in the Courts of the Missing - to indicate that he has been accounted for.