The walls of War Memorial Hall in Seoul are etched with the names of every soldier, sailor, airman and Marine from every country who died fighting for the Republic of Korea.


By R. R. Keene

Bam! Bam! Bam! There was a steady roll of naval gunfire over Flying Fish Channel. It shook the hulls of the warships whose gun crews adjusted and fired another thunderous volley. The ships—trim, dual-stacked destroyers with 5-inch guns—hung on in a precarious formation against what appeared to be a fast-moving mud slide rather than powerful currents of the world's highest tides.

In the distance, the target was a promontory, an island named Wolmi. It was linked by a causeway to the port city of Inchon, which one could barely make out against the backdrop of the Korean Peninsula. Erupting upward were wink-of-an-eye flashes of explosions, followed by growing geysers of earth which resembled ugly mushrooms captured in time-lapse photography—sprouting and collapsing at terrific speeds.

Krump! Krump! Krump! The waves of sound reported back to destroyer captains such as Commander Robert A. Schelling of USS Lyman K. Swenson (DD-729) and gunnery officers such as Lieutenant Junior Grade Peter W. Wood of USS DeHaven (DD-727), along with sailors of USS Collett (DD-730), Gurke (DD-738) and Henderson (DD-785) steaming in trace of USS Mansfield (DD-728). The squadron of destroyers would later be known as the "Sitting Ducks."

Those posted at battle stations on the weather decks, and not assigned as lookouts for mines which infested the channel, squinted hard through the residual overcast of Typhoon Kezia and the black smoke of destruction, looking for the muzzle flashes from North Korean shore batteries. As their 5-inch guns taunted communist gunners with a continuous barrage, the destroyers boldly ventured into Wolmi-do Harbor hoping to make themselves too tempting a target for nervous communist gunners only 800 yards distant.

Incoming salvos from enemy batteries sent up geysers of brown water, and the sound of steel being punctured by rounds from 75 mm communist guns was far from comforting. Collett and Gurke absorbed hits. Collett took four 75 mm rounds into her hull, wounding five crewmen. Gurke had three holes punched into her. Swenson had a near miss—so close that it killed an officer.

It was a dangerous tactic executed bravely by the crews of the destroyers. By becoming sitting ducks and drawing communist fire, U.S. Navy lookouts spotted the enemy positions. Had they remained too long in the harbor or tarried in the channel, they would have beached on the mud flats and might have had to rely on grenades, Thompson submachine guns and pressure hoses to repel borders.

Behind the destroyers, American and British battle cruisers with 8- and 6-inch guns struck the North Korean batteries with devastating accuracy. Overhead, Navy and Marine planes from escort aircraft carriers peeled off and struck with rockets, bombs and napalm. The Navy took an incredible risk and no doubt saved the lives of many Marines who did not know or understand the meaning of the "Sitting Duck" squadron.

Two days later, on 15 Sept. 1950, Marines bobbing uncomfortably and queasy in their landing craft witnessed a similar naval bombardment. It was a sight the leathernecks would never forget. It was a terrible time, and they whispered a silent prayer that unlike so many other landings Marines had made during World War II, this one in this war would be a cakewalk.

Leathernecks of First Marine Division such as John Stevens, James Rose and John Lyons with 2d Battalion, Fifth Marine Regiment; John Bastian, Cornelius Fineran and Ben Collie with 1/5; and a few thousand other guys such as Warren Sell and Bob Rhodes with 1st Bn, 1st Marines; Bill Alli, Daniel Savino, Leon Kreida, George Coyle and Arthur Debetaz with 2/1; or Frank Pollotta with lst Combat Service Group will tell you today that it was far from a cakewalk, but they got through it and lived to return 50 years later.

Kimpo International Airport sits on the southwest end of Seoul, the capital of the Republic of South Korea, which is officially known as Taehan Min'guk. The airport is ringed and squeezed by high-rise apartments and industrial complexes providing homes and livings to more than 10.2 million people. Viewed from a Korean Airlines' Boeing 747, on the Military Historical Tours organized reunion it all appeared very tight, and nothing resembled the field where the First Marine Aircraft Wing in the autumn of 1950 once parked and launched F4U Corsairs.

The veterans were returning to Korea after 18,262 days, or 50 years. They were greeted by rain, sheets of it, from "Sowmai"—a September typhoon which skirted the Korean Peninsula. The unceasing downpour did not dampen the spirits of those who made the 13-hour flight from New York and were welcomed by a guard of Korean military personnel lining the red carpet rolled out in their honor.

Things in Korea had definitely changed, but so too had the veterans.

Andrew Watson of Locust Valley, N.Y., who in 1950, had easily hefted the 91/2-pound M1 rifle, 200 rounds of .30-caliber ball ammunition, a field marching pack, steel pot with camouflage cover and worn faded-to-yellow leggings over his boondockers, now moved a little slower lugging less equipment. Watson flashed a young man's smile and stood tall, for in his heart he's still a Marine. By chance he linked up with Warren Sell, now residing in Jacksonville, Fla., but who had been a corpsman with 1st Marines. Sell also moved more slowly than those days when strapped with a corpsman's bag. He was still the "Doc," and his demeanor and soul proved that corpsmen have hearts bigger than most.

The two made a point of showing whoever might have been looking that they could still hold their own by carrying their own luggage. They ambled past the honor guard to buses with others of their generation, some with their families. They all looked with curiosity through the evening rain toward a skyline brightly lit with neon and headlights. The veterans looked for something, anything even remotely familiar.

"Ahn yong ha-sayo," said a studious-looking fellow wearing a conservative brown suit. "I am Kim, Son-Jin, your tour guide, but you can call me Sam."

http://www.mca-marines.org/Leatherne...gottenarch.htm

Sempers,

Roger