Guarding Chinese POWs in Korea

I was on a slow train to Pusan, Korea. We got off the train and were put on a L.S.T. ship, a smaller ship with three doors in the front. The two outer doors swing outward, while the third door swings down, making a ramp. The trip aboard the L.S.T. was supposed to be a dayand- a-half. Thanks to a storm, it turned into a three-day journey. We docked at an island without a “dock,” just a road leading across the land. When they let down the ramp, we hit the water with our full field packs and duffle bags; together they weighed about 20 pounds less than me. The water was about knee deep and only 12-15 feet from the shoreline. We loaded on duce-and-ahalf trucks for the thirty-minute ride to “Tent City.” Living in tents was nothing new to us. About a quarter mile from the tents was a group of soldiers in full gear. My unit was replacing them. They’d moved out of the tents so we could move in. As soon as we unloaded, the other unit loaded its gear on the truck we arrived on and drove back to the ships. We were now part of the U.S. Army 24th Infantry Division, 19th Regiment, Company E on Cheje-do Island, South Korea. And they immediately put us to work. Our first platoon went on guard duty at 4:00 pm, and we rotated — on four hours off eight hours — day after day, month after month. I was in the second platoon, and we went on guard at 8:00 pm. Our platoon sergeant was a Sgt. Ritter from Louisiana. As Texans, we considered him a good neighbor. He was a good leader and fair to all. Most thought he was a grouch, but after we got to know him, we realized he just had that type of personality. We had to walk about 20 minutes to get to the POW camp then another 30 to reach our posts. The daylight hours were not for lying in our cots; after all, the Army expected every soldier to earn that $67.00 monthly paycheck. They made us do most anything — march in drill, pick up cigarette butts, cut weeds — whatever could be found to make sure we didn’t sleep. So, the four-on, eight-off may sound like a good deal, but in reality, it made for about an 18-hour day. You also had to eat and shower (when there was water), so anyone was lucky if they got six hours of sleep a night. The prison compound had four large metal buildings where the POWs lived and supply and headquarters buildings. All were oval-shaped, and two 12-foottall chain link fenced surrounded the compound. Fenced lanes ran between each building and led to a square “bull pen” with a gate on each side. Twentyfoot- high guard towers surrounded the compound, each equipped with a .30 caliber machine gun. On each corner of the compound, machine guns were also under the towers. Each tower was manned by a guard, and at night a second guard walked the perimeter of the fence between towers. One summer evening, our first shift began just between sunset and dark. Sgt. Ritter marched us around the compound, dropping off guards at each tower and another to patrol between towers. At the southwest corner of the compound, he ordered Pvt. Charles A. Clem of Chicota to take the tower and me to walk the fence. A couple of months into our mission, we were stressed from lack of sleep, and a lot of us had short fuses. Clem climbed into the tower, and I was hanging around talking to him as it wasn’t yet dark. The towers were open on three sides with a solid board on the backs and tops. The first thing a guard did when climbing into a tower was to check the machine gun to be sure it was half-cocked. If you needed to use it, all you had to do was pull the bolt back, release it, and pull the trigger. As we talked, suddenly a loud burst of machine gun fire, lasting about three seconds rang out. Private Clem jumped from the tower feet first, hit the ground, and rolled over a time or two. I ran over to check on him, and he said he wasn’t sure if he was okay or not. “What happened?” he asked. “Someone was shooting at you,” I told him. I always did have a tendency to say the wrong thing at the wrong time. Clem decided he wasn’t hurt, but he was mad. He was ready to whip whoever shot at him. About that time, Sgt. Ritter came running around the corner and told Clem to “get back up in that tower, now!” Clem refused saying, “I am not getting back in that tower tonight. See all these boards. They were shot off that tower.” At the time, we still didn’t know what had happened. Sgt. Ritter ran to the southeast corner tower, and the guard had checked his machine gun per procedure. But somehow the bolt slipped out of his hand, slamming shut and firing three or four rounds. The rounds passed through two towers before hitting the back of the tower where Clem stood guard. Sgt. Ritter came back and told us everything was OK. He asked me to take the tower and let Clem walk the fence. He also relieved the soldier who had the mishap and placed another guard in his tower. As noted, everyone was stressed out, but we had to suck it up and go on. In the daytime, Sgt. Ritter would put Calvin Demoss of Ringo, Texas, with me in the bull pen inside the compound. For some reason, we got assigned the bull pen every day. We asked Sgt. Ritter about it, and he told us, “I like to put my best men on the most important post so I don’t have to worry about it.” Ritter knew how to make his unit feel good so we’d quit complaining. In the bull pen, we had no weapons. The prisoners would come down the lane, open the other gate to the compound to get where they wanted to go. Guarding a prison couldn’t have been more different than what we’d been trained to do. We were trained to either kill or be killed, and instead we wound up guarding prisoners we could not touch. The prison held 1,100- 1,200 prisoners, primarily Chinese Nationalists. They believed in a democratic government as opposed to China’s communist system. China sent them to help North Korea in hopes they’d “stop a bullet.” The first chance the Chinese soldiers had, they surrendered. The youngest POW was about 12 years old, with the oldest about 72. I met a prisoner one day who could speak English fairly well, and we became good friends. I told him about Texas and home, and he told me of his own. He said, “Someday me go to Texas and see real cowboys.” He wasn’t talking about football players. I don’t doubt he traveled to Texas after he was released. He taught me how to write my name in Chinese, something I have since forgotten — just as I have forgotten his name. I never bothered to write it down as I never thought I’d forget it! Some days he’d stay in the bull pen with DeMoss and me for three hours. On one occasion my Chinese friend came down the lane holding something under his shirt. I asked him what he had, and he answered it was a present for a friend. “I need to see it,” I said, as we were supposed to inspect everything coming or going. He told me to open the gate and he’d show me. What he asked me to do was against the rules, but he responded, “Nobody will ever know but us.” I told him I could get 40 years for breaking a rule like that. But I trusted him and opened the gate. He pulled out a toy army tank he’d made and handed it to me. He said, “Here, for you, you my friend.” I was lost for words. Finally, I hugged him (definitely against the rules), and thanked him again and again. He told me he’d made the tank from one gallon jelly cans from the mess hall. The top of the tank turned 360 degrees as did the big gun. The tracks even turned. A machine gun sticking out of the front had blackout lights, and the hatch opened and closed just like a real tank. He’d painted it Army green but apologized for not having white paint for a star on the front. I carried that Army tank in my duffel bag for over 10,000 miles. I had it wrapped to keep it safe. None of my kids, grandkids, or great grandkids were ever allowed to play with the toy tank. It must be the only of its kind in the world, and I still have it today. I always felt I did my job well as a prison guard; after all, one of the prisoners liked me enough to spend hours making the toy tank by hand. I am so sorry I forgot his name. Go now and write names on all your pictures and other things you have. Don’t ever forget as I did. James Haney originally wrote this story in 2002 at the age of 73. Two versions were printed, one in the Roxton Progress and another in the Honey Grove Weekly Gazette. Today, Mr. Haney lives in assisted living facility in Longview.