29 November 1950.
The word came down we are moving again. This time to
an airstrip someplace north of here.
The word was passed that we are moving to Yonpo, near Hungnam. A crew
went ahead to service our aircraft when they begin landing there. As the
detail got off the plane Air Force personnel got on. The Air Force men
threw away everything they weren't wearing. Weapons, mostly model M2
carbines (full automatic), sleeping bags, everything. Our guys gathered
up all the discarded goods and happy to have it.
30 November 1950.
Reports are the Chinese are destroying the US 2nd.
Division. NATO forces are being smashed all over North Korea.
With Chinese and NKPA troops watching from the hills we prepared to
leave Wonsan. Some of our aircraft have landed at Yonpo to stay. It is
hoped the enemy around us won't figure out we're leaving. Today the last
of the aircraft landed at Yonpo. Our night crew and people from the
other outfits made up the last detail to leave. We kept lots of fire
pots burning and destroyed most of what we couldn't take with us while
our people went aboard ships.
When we finished our work we gathered in a room in the building we have
been living in. Other people drifted in and we sat around swapping
scuttlebutt and feeling sorry for ourselves. Someone made coffee, others
heated rations. I was beginning to get warm for the first time in hours
sipping my coffee and thinking how warm it will be aboard ship. My good
friend TSgt. Bill Diemert kept asking me to go with him to the head. He
wanted me to go out to the tent and cover him while he has his pants
down. I told him I wouldn't go out in that weather if he paid me. He
said he would pay me. Technical Sergeant William A. Diemert, USMC, was a
member of the 4th Marines in China and the Philippines and was taken
prisoner by the Japanese. His place of internment was near Mukden,
Manchuria. Bill has no qualms about being in Korea but he swears six
times a day they will never get him across the Yalu River again. He has
a special fear of getting caught with his pants down figuring that would
be about the worse thing that could happen to him. Finally Bill had to
go to the head. I promised I would keep an eye on him from the window. I
told him to make it snappy and he wouldn't have to worry, I would watch
out for him. Off he went to the head.
A Marine lieutenant came with several Marines and called a briefing in a
larger room down the hall from where we had been waiting. We all
gathered around listening to what the lieutenant had to say. Suddenly we
heard a scream, "STOCKS! STOCKS!" Then doors slammed, one after another,
as Diemert made his way down the hall looking into each room screaming,
"STOCKS! STOCKS!. When the door to the briefing room burst open Diemert
stood with face white as the snow outside. There was real fear in his
eyes. When he saw us he sort of wilted and a smile crossed his face. "I
thought you left me," he said. I never was so ashamed of myself as I
was at that moment. Bill had depended on me and I let him down.
The lieutenant led us to our departure point on the beach. We made it in
good shape and went aboard a destroyer. Things were a lot different from
the night we came here. Destroyers kept the beach lit up with parachute
flares and star shells. Tonight they were firing into the town and up on
the hills. As we arrived on the beach they began shelling the airstrip
back where we had just left. It was a great fireworks show. I breathed a
sigh of relief as we cleared the harbor and steamed for Hamhung.
At Yonpo things didn't get better, things got worse. The base isn't much
more than a paved landing strip. The only shelter is a few wrecked
buildings and tents. It's bitter cold and overcast much of the time.
Regardless of weather conditions the night crew continues doing its job
as we did at Wonsan.
It is so cold minor maintenance requires hours of tedious work. Naked
skin sticks and quick-freezes to metal at these temps. For example,
changing a set of spark plugs, normally a few minutes job, is a major
project. It isn't too bad removing the plugs, that can be done wearing
gloves. Installing them is a different story. You can't start a plug
wearing gloves, not enough clearance around the plug port. It's not
smart to attempt to start a plug with a wrench. Engine cylinders are
made of aluminum. Spark plug ports have threaded steel inserts that hold
the plugs in place. The insert is fairly fragile making it easy to cross
thread the plug going in. Once it's cross threaded it's a major project
to remove the ruined insert and install a new one. To change a spark
plug you have the old plug out and the new plug warm before you start.
Wrap a new warm plug in a rag and hurry to the man standing by at the
engine. That man pulls off his glove and gets the plug started. Once
started he puts on his glove and completes the installation using a plug
wrench.
EMERGENCY MAINTENANCE
If the cooler wasn't changed the plane would be destroyed when we leave here. We need every plane, and besides,
a Corsair is a Marine. You don't leave a Marine behind.
One evening the night crew reported on duty the Line Chief's Status
Board showed one aircraft out of commission for a leaking oil cooler.
Changing an oil cooler on a Corsair is a difficult job under the best
conditions, in that temperature it would be very difficult. Most people
wont try to change an oil cooler. They don't have the patience and
usually end up doing more damage than good. No one wanted this job. John
Scanlan and I decided we would change the cooler and save the plane. If
the cooler wasn't changed the plane would be destroyed when we leave
here. We need every plane, and besides, a Corsair is a Marine. You don't
leave a Marine behind.
When I told MSgt Herb Sartor that John and I would do our best to change
the cooler he told us we were crazy but it was ok with him.
The Corsair has an oil cooler inside each wing butt air scoop. The only
way to get to the cooler is to remove a panel under the wing. John and I
rigged a sheet of plywood in front of the left wing to shield us. We
removed the skin and parts that enclose the cooler and disconnected the
plumbing. With this done it takes a contortionist and a lot of cussing
to get the cooler out.
I ran the engine until it was hot. Everything else was done for removal.
The hose clamps were loose, the cooler was rotated so it could be
wiggled out. John was doing that while I was running the engine. With
the plywood windbreak and him wearing a sleeping bag over his cold
weather clothing he managed.
The heat from the oil cooler warmed John's hands. When everything was
ready John signaled me to shut down. I went down and removed the hoses
from the cooler fittings while he went inside the tent to warm himself.
Only a small amount of oil spilled when I pulled the hoses off the
fittings. It was hot but it cooled so fast it didn't burn my hands. I
stuffed a plug into the "in" hose and clamped it. John came to relieve
me as I wiped my hands and put on my gloves and mittens.
John pulled the cooler free from its location. I was standing by with
the new cooler and put it in and secured the hoses. About that time
somebody started yelling, "FIRE! FIRE! FIRE!" I looked up and there was
a roaring fire exploding at us not twenty feet away. The line tent was
in flames and everybody was running in all directions.
Our fuel supply comes in 55 gallon drums. Refueling is done using a hand
cranked pump. A hand pump never gets all the fuel out of a drum. Empty
drums are put in an area behind the flight line tent (A place for the
Line Chief and plane captains to warm and work out of). As much as a
gallon of gasoline could be left in one discarded drum. Fuel from those
drums had been spilling and spreading along the frozen ground under the
snow. That day a highly volatile pocket of vapors was ready to explode.
We were working in a puddle of 100 octane gasoline and didn't know it.
One of of the guys inside the flight line tent flicked a cigarette butt
outside and the fumes ignited with a bang.
Everybody took off running. Some thought we were being shelled. I
grabbed a fire bottle as John climbed into the cockpit of the plane we
were working on. The warm engine started right off and he pushed the
throttle forward, swung the tail around and blew out the fire. Empty
barrels went flying and before you could spit twice the fire was out.
SSgt. John Scanlan and I frequently stayed at the flight line tent after
being relieved to talk with the guys and catch up on the latest
scuttlebutt. It's a real kick, no matter what's happening the talk
always gets around to rumors about going home. Someone piped up saying
he would bet five bucks we don't make it home for Christmas. Everybody
laughed. John and I headed for the mess hall.
It was such a bright sunny morning you couldn't help feeling good. As we
walked we talked about how good it would be to get home. I told John I
would settle for the next best thing, be some place where I wasn't
freezing all the time. We were taking a shortcut across a gully when we
saw three figures hurrying away down the gully. John and I each had an M
2 carbine, thanks to the Air Force guys who threw them away. We hurried
after the three calling for them to stop. Frozen feet, weak from hunger,
I don't know, but we had no trouble stopping them. They looked pretty
well shot, their bloody bare feet looked like dirty worn leather.
Quilted trousers and jackets in tatters. When we searched them for
weapons we found they had scraps of cloth and paper wrapped around their
body from hips to armpits. It took time to search through all that but
we did. We had to be sure they had no weapons. After the search we
herded our prisoners to the Provost Marshal and turned them over to the
MPs. "They're infiltrators making their way south," someone allowed.
Some of the MPs recognized one of the men. They had caught him a few
days ago, figured he was harmless and sent him on his way. Among all the
scrap paper they were wearing ROK MPs found items of identification and
notes they had made recording what they had seen along the way. When the
ROK MPs finished interviewing the three men they told the PMO Sergeant
they would take them to the Hungnam stockade. They were loaded onto a
truck with 4 ROK MP guards and away they went. The truck was soon out of
our sight down the road. John and I were about to be on our way when we
heard a volley of small arms fire. The truck soon returned and John
asked, "What happened?" The reply was, "They tried to escape."
4 December 1950.
Scuttlebutt is General O.P. Smith, CG 1stMarDiv, plans
to withdraw from the Chosin Reservoir area. It won't be easy with the
Chinese Army swarming all over the place. Division Marines have carved
out a couple of small landing strips and are receiving some supplies and
sending out wounded from there, weather permitting. Some transports have
being "talked in" by people on the ground and dropped supplies through
the weather. That's not very effective and only happened a few times a
TBM shuttle pilot told us.
Bill Diemert, John Scanlan, and I were helping out at the operations
area on the airstrip this morning when the squadron runner came around
with mail. Mail call is always good for morale but today is exceptional.
Bill got a letter from his home state, Washington. In the letter was a
check for $1,203.00 made out to William A. Diemert. Washington is giving
its POW's a bonus of $1.00 a day for every day spent in captivity. Bill
was captured on Corregidor. After Bill settled down a bit he declared
that the first $100.00 off the top would go on the bar to treat us if we
got him home safe. We accepted his challenge.
It's not a pleasant thing helping unload the TBM's. Not only are the
people seriously wounded, they are frozen too. This morning I helped
with a Marine who never moved as we handled his stretcher. His head,
framed by his parka, looked frozen and discolored. His breath, fogging
as it escaped his purple lips, was the only sign of life. Between
fingers on his right hand was a cold cigarette that had burned down
between the fingers before going out. The flesh burned but he had not
noticed. His fingers were swollen and at places had ruptured now looking
like a wiener that splits from heat. I thought, if this bothers me what
would I do if I was back where he came from?
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