Driving In Korea
During the Korean War, whenever I picked up a group of Marine replacements and transported them to the front lines, my shot-gun rider left his seat next to me and took his position manning the 50 Caliber machine gun above my head. As he left the front seat a Marine replacement that was headed for the front lines always sat in his spot, which was in the front seat next to me. It was usually an officer. During those many hours of driving in the directions of the front lines they never stopped talking. Most of them would reveal much of their life history. My response to their constant chatter was usually a yes, no sir, or perhaps I would say, correct. My response to their constant talking was generally minimal.
Hauling Marine replacements to the lines was always a very stressful haul. In winter, it was very cold and equally very hot and dusty in summer. If in a convoy the dust made roads almost invisible. The roads that were used during many battles were almost none existing.
The North Koreans had captured almost all of South Korea when the first marine Division landed at Inchon and trapped the North Korean troops. At that time, some serious battles were fought on just about every road in Korea. To that I can add that the lives of eighteenth combat Marines, seated in my truck, were always on my mind.
It was my responsibility to get them to the front lines in the same healthy condition that they were in when boarding my truck. Some of those drops from those narrow severely damaged roads went to the valleys below, had to be several hundred feet. I could never forget that nine combat Marines were seated on each side bench in the bed of my truck. Also in the bed of that truck was everything they needed for their combat mission. Their gear was stacked in the middle of the truck bed between both seats.
At times while transporting them to the front one may encounter snipers and it was possible to perhaps receive some incoming motor rounds. To say that troop movement to a nineteen year old boy was just about the most stressful encounter one could withstand, would certainly be an understatement.
Those frontline combat Marines knew where they were going and they were always very apprehensive. When we arrived to the front line, in every case we had been communicating for many hours and I knew much of their life's history. By the time we arrived to the front lines they had become pre occupied with their own problems. Without a word, they stepped out of my truck and we just parted. We had bonded and among Marines they were my lifelong friends and brothers. To this day, even though I never could remember their names, I think of them and I am still living the hardest part of those Hard Hauls and I want you to know
