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From The Skies Over Germany

To The Mud In Korea

Don Sutherland was born July 6, 1928 in Glendale, California. Don came from a military family; his father was a career Navy man and served in WW I. In 1937, his father was transferred to Hawaii. In June of 1941, Don's seventeen-year-old brother had just gotten out of the eleventh grade. Unlike so many other kids who were trying to get summer jobs, he wanted to be patriotic; so, he enlisted into the U.S. Army. His father was unhappy, because he had hoped that one of the boys would go to Annapolis. After his brother completed his basic training at Schofield Barracks, he was sent to the Philippines under General McArthur's command.

Don and his parents were living in Aiea, Hawaii, which had a panoramic view of Pearl Harbor. On that eventful day of December 7, 1941, he saw the whole thing. Every time something exploded, his dad kept repeating over and over, my God, my God! "I'll never forget when the second wave of planes flew over and one Jap plane roared over our house; he had his canopy opened and smiled down as he went past me. Like a dumb thirteen year old and even though I could see the read meatball on his wing, I waved at him."

In 1942, Don's brother was captured and went on the Bataan Death March. "To this day, our family doesn't know if he was bayoneted while marching on the road or was decapitated after reaching the prison camp. Ironically, his birthday was April 15, 1942, so our family never knew if he celebrated his 18"' birthday. It was a very traumatic experience for my mom and dad. My father was then transferred to Los Angeles, California and became a 'desk jockey'."

After D-Day in 1944, Don could see that the war was turning in our favor, and because of his anger and hatred of the Japs, he wanted to see action himself. "It was a God's gift to me that I was good with my hands and with tools. I applied to the Army Air Force to become a mechanic. I quit school at sixteen and being underage needed a lot of help and luck to be accepted. I was sent off to basic training in Arizona. The second day I was there, an officer came out with a clipboard full of papers, and called my name. He came over to me and looked at me from head to foot. He looked back at his clipboard, looked at me again, and said, `Mechanic be dammed, any fat man can be a mechanic; you're the perfect size to fit in that,’ as he pointed at a ball turret on a B-17. So, I was off to Kingman, Arizona to gunnery school for seven weeks." Kingman was a gunnery school for B-17's only.

When he arrived in England, Don was assigned to the 305th Bomber Group, 364th Squadron. Since the War was nearing an end, there weren't many casualties. He was given an opportunity to fly with the last three missions of the War for his squadron. In fact, the last mission of the Eighth Air Force was flown on April 25, 1945, over Pilson Skoda, Czechoslovakia. There was some flak and of 589 bombers, 6 were lost.

When the War ended in Germany, Don was sent back to Kingman, Arizona to await possible orders to the Pacific Theater. However, the War ended and he was given an honorable discharge in November 1945. He went back and got his high school diploma. "Being 18 years old, I was required to register for the Selective Service. No reserves for me. I was just a plain old civilian. Little did I realize that in a few short years, the Korean Conflict would break out and I would be called back to serve my country again. I begged to go into the Air Force, but `no go'." He was sent back for a little basic training as an infantry rifleman and sent to Japan. While in Japan, Don was transferred to Combat Military Police School. Combat MPs direct traffic (tanks, trucks, jeeps, etc...) in combat areas among other things and carry a .45 sidearm and .30 caliber carbine.

The following is Don's description of his combat experience in Korea:

"In September 1950, I arrived in Korea as a combat M.P. We, the 8th Army, slowly worked our way up to the Yalu River. The Chinese had already entered the War. The retreats from Chosen Reservoir and other battles were horrendous.

As an MP, I saw the Inchon invasion in September 1950, and Seoul recaptured on September 29, 1950. Around the middle of December, 1951, our unit of combat MPs was assigned a place on the line near Kumwha. Our job just to hold the line. We were stretched thin. Just two men to a position, which made for one hour on and one hour off all night.

Someone up the chain of command decided to send out a company-sized patrol to capture prisoners, in enemy territory. So at midnight, January 12, 1952, this ill-fated patrol was launched through our minefield. Our engineers had marked a path earlier in the day. The problems were many. First, it was very dark and very cold. Also, there was a lot of snow and a long way over hilly, completely unfamiliar terrain.

At first hint of daylight, our company, which was strung out over a large area, was greeted with rifle fire. I was entrenched in a five-foot snow bank with four of my nine-man squad. Where the other five had gone, I didn't know. Over the next few hours, after suffering numerous losses, we began to crawl up a steep hill. The only targets we could see were puffs of smoke, but we were nice dark spots on white snow for the enemy to shoot at.

Sometime around midday, a small group had ascended to the top of the hill. We had come upon their rear. The enemy had fallen back to their bunker on the next hill. Everyone was really beat. I didn't know until later that another group had split off and were going after a second bunkered hill a short distance away.

The captain was on the radio, but he got off long enough to tell me to form a squad to assault the bunker in front of us. I crawled up the hill and peeked over the ridge to see the lay of the land. The ridge was covered with snow and there were some scrawny shrubs scattered here and there. Most of the route was completely exposed to the enemy's circular trench and bunker. I came back down the hill and formed a small group consisting of my assistant squad leader and four riflemen. I told them we would run over the top of the ridge and then drop to the ground. When everyone was over, we would, one at a time, dash short distances until we got to the enemy trench.

I ran over first and dropped down behind a leafless bush that did not hide me. The second guy came over and dropped to my right. A burp gun let go ahead of us and bullets flicked snow just in front of my face. Over came the third man and then the fourth man. I don't know what happened to the other two men. With a machine gun chattering just to our rear and burp guns spewing to our front, the four of us jumped up and ran back over the top of the ridge to the other side, a distance of only about 50 feet.

The squad members and I just waited for what we knew was coming, the enemy. As we ran back toward shelter, one guy (I don't know his name) was hit in the shoulder. He stopped and sat down in the snow. The second guy got hit right between the eyes. He never knew what hit him. I was never so scared in my life.

The third man and I moved on. The two of us got to within 50 or 60 feet of the circular trench. You could see the air full of potato mashers (hand grenades). I paused in mid-stride, as an artillery round passed by my head. I felt the breeze from it. I moved on up and jumped into a trench right on top of a dead Chinese man. The noise from exploding grenades was constant. The other guy didn't make it to the trench. A grenade got him directly in the head. I was in the trench alone and plenty scared. I got panicky and threw all of my hand grenades, which was a waste of time, since they were so ineffective.

I had just turned to my right and taken a couple of steps, when a grenade exploded at my feet. I grabbed the top of the trench walls for an instant. Then the second grenade exploded. I fell into the trench and screamed. I could barely hear my own scream. My entire body was in agony. With both legs broken and a helluva lot of holes leaking blood, I was lying in the snow. My body was already in shock and I was very cold. At that moment, a Chinese soldier came at me with a dagger. Fortunately, a 45-caliber bullet could travel faster than he could run. After I killed him, I took his dagger and scabbard. I still have them today in my curio cabinet.

I pulled my M1 rifle up and nestled it against my body, with the trigger housing near my crotch and the barrel end beneath my chin. I didn't think much of my chances if I had been abandoned and fell into enemy hands. Not much time passed as I was engaged in this morbid end game. Before I was able to pull the trigger, I passed out from the pain.

The next thing I saw was the Captain. He looked down at me, crawled out of the trench and headed back and away, I never saw him again. I could still hear grenades going off. My head was bare now, as my helmet had fallen off. One grenade landed real close. Cold snow and dirt stung my eyes, and landed in my ears and hair.

Then I saw Howard Marter and a soldier from another squad looking down at me. Howard said, "Just hang on." He and Hollis were going to pull me out of the trench and drag me back with them. Marter grabbed my jacket collar. Hollis got hold of me by my pistol belt, and they hauled me out of the trench. I was still holding on to the dagger.

They were running as fast as they could. They took off toward the hill where we had just been. The agony of being dragged across rough ground with two broken legs that seemed to snag on everything was nearly unbearable. Dragging a dead weight like me was no picnic for Marter and Hollis, either. I was face down, so I didn't see much except the ground. I did happen to see, much to my surprise, the guy with the shoulder wound was still sitting up in the same place cold, wet and dead. Shock I guess.

Marter and Hollis were completely winded. They stopped to catch their breath. I was about to be choked by my armored vest, which had ridden up and was cutting off my air. I was on my elbows pulling the vest down, when a burp gun let go. Marter, who was standing up and bent over to catch his breath, caught two slugs. One went though his thigh, just inches from my face. Marter screamed, fell and rolled down the side of the ridge a few feet into some small pine trees. Almost immediately a 1st Lt. came running over the hill to drag Marter with him, leaving Hollis and me alone. Hollis told me he could not possibly drag me by himself, but he would go for help. I pleaded for him not to leave me alone, but he took off over the hill anyway.

I thought to myself, "Now what?" Before I got too far into thought, two guys rushed up and plopped down in the snow. One of them said, "Hang on, we're going to grab you and run like hell." Man, did they! They snatched my clothes, ran a short distance, and dropped me in a shell crater on the far side of the hill. I don't know how long I was in that hole, but the entire situation was "something".

The next thing I remember is six choggi (Korean) bearers rolling me onto a litter. They lifted the litter and took off running down this steep hill. They had gone only a few steps, when I slid off the litter feet first. Hearing my screams, they stopped. They slid me back up onto the litter and we started down the hill again, as fast as they could stumble. These six Koreans who carried my litter had amazing endurance. It was a very long trip back carrying a heavy load, me.

Below is a letter I wrote to our local newspaper. Dear Editor, (The Beacon) November 25, 1998    In your September 1997 issue there was something that sent up the "red flag," and I was disturbed by it You listed the names of World War II and Vietnam veterans who gave their lives for their country. What about Korea?    Korea is called "the forgotten war," but one cannot understand why. It was very much a war. I was there. I know that one Francis Eugene Holland was the first Eagle Rock casualty and there may be others. l believe you should honor the Korean War as a war and a tablet should be mounted on the wall of the auditorium with the others.    Here are some facts. 8,177 men are still missing in action. 389 men are still listed as prisoners of war. 54,262 of the military force did not make it back. Also, it should be noted, that in the 3 years, 1 month and 2 days of the Korean conflict almost as many men were lost as compared with the 58,202 who died in the Vietnam war which lasted 11 years and 9 months. Military historians now agree that Korea was one of the bloodiest wars in the history of this country.    Thank you forgiving this letter your attention. Sincerely,             Don Sutherland

Just as we neared the valley floor, American tanks showed up for cover fire. The tanks shot cannons directly over our heads, at the top of the hill where we had just been. My litter bearers had to stop and rest every so often. At each stop, the little guy by the right rear would rub my hands, which had turned white and numb from the cold. I'm very sure he saved them from frostbite. The long litter trip to our lines took the better part of two hours. My six guys set me down in an outdoor temporary aid station. I gave them my last pack of cigarettes, the only thing of value I had except the dagger stuck under my belt. I wish I'd had more. I owed them a lot.

The field where they left me was covered with litters. A medic or doctor finally got to me. He cut off my boots and part of my three layers of pants, then wrapped some splints around both legs. I was loaded onto a litter jeep with three others and driven over a rough surface to the Battalion Aid Station. I was taken to a tent and laid on the floor with a bunch of other guys. No one did anything at this aid station except to move my feet closer to the stove when I told them they were frozen.

In a short while, they put me into a crackerbox and we took a long ride to what must have been a division M.A.S.H. At least they had nurses there. One of them cut off my remaining clothes, gave me a shot, and said something about an x-ray. I was put in a second crackerbox on my way to a Seoul hospital. I just spent one night in Seoul, then yet another crackerbox ride and then onto a C-47 to Tokyo General Hospital.

I spent two or three weeks in Tokyo. I was then transferred to Camp Sakai 279th General Hospital in Osaka, where I spent the next seven months with good, caring nurses and doctors. I was sent back to Korea, much to my disappointment, in August 1952. There, I worked as a typist - PMI - CID. Then on to Taegu at USAK, where I wore fancy clothes, patrolled Taegu, and worked in CID.

Finally, on April 30, 1953, the Army let me loose on society. The odds of my being alive today, which were damn near zero while I lay at the bottom of an enemy trench, rose to 100%.

Don Southerland. From the Skies Over Germany - To the Mud in Korea. Bomber Legends. Volume 2 Number 2, 2005.

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