Bill Moeller Commentary: A Personal Memory for Memorial Day

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 I’ve now been writing this weekly column for over 11 years. Through all of that time, I’ve debated with myself as to whether or not I should write this very personal one. It’s about a friendship that was destroyed, and I can only guess the exact cause or reason.

First, a little military background for those who have never served. The Army seems to be divided into groups of four; a division is broken up into four regiments, regiments are divided by battalions, battalions by companies, companies by platoons and platoons by squads, with usually about a dozen soldiers, which is where my friend and I met. 

Friendships can be very close and so can enmities but there’s no need to go into that. In my squad my best friend was from, I believe, a town in the Midwest. I do know he grew up in a rigid religious atmosphere and that military service was his first real experience with life outside of strict boundaries. Separated from that background his youthful rebellion at times may have been the cause for a few indiscretions. Nonetheless, we became very close, sharing a foxhole whenever possible, exchanging bits of family life, and just becoming the best of friends.

Now, here’s my confession; for the last dozen or so years I’ve been unable to remember his name, or his mother’s name, or the town he came from, except that the report of his death given to me in a hospital in Japan will never be forgotten. Nearly everything else has been blotted out.

Six or eight years ago — I don’t remember exactly when — I wrote a three column series about my last night in Korea, how we were retreating from a Chinese force of somewhere around 200,000 soldiers and how my frostbitten feet prevented me from keeping up. I was alone, walking south as best as I could, sometimes through knee-deep snow with a full moon, clear skies and the North Star as my only guide.

The important thing is that when I reached the area where our new line of defense was being set up, instead of trying to find my unit, I spied a M.A.S.H. unit being set up and checked myself in. I seem to remember being loaded into a DC3 but nothing else until I woke up in a hospital.  Some time later another member of our unit was also hospitalized and he told me how my friend had died. It seemed so senseless at first.

The Chinese advance had stopped and, immediately, our troops went back on the offensive and began attacking a hill.  Here’s where I should explain a difference in military tactics. Whenever we were defending a hill, we dug a series of foxholes on the slope facing the enemy. The Chinese army went one step further: they also dug a series of foxholes on the other side of the hill and anyone crossing over the ridge would be a silhouetted target against the sky.



According to what I was told, my friend stood up on top of the ridge, firing his M-1 rifle as fast as he could and screaming something to the effect of “You (expletives deleted), I’ll get you for this, I’ll kill every last one of you,” until he was nearly cut in two by the bullets from a Chinese “Burp Gun.”  Why did he do it?  It was a long time before I could consider a possible answer.

The fact that I had turned myself into a M.A.S.H. unit instead of seeking out Company “E”, to report in, may have been slowly — ever so slowly, being military — passed through the chain of command before it reached my old squad. I now believe that he didn’t know I had survived.  That’s what has haunted me for over 75 years!  I’m sure I’m not alone in feeling that Memorial Day is not just one day a year. These memories remain with us our entire lives.

Parades and picnics will be enjoyed, and those who have served our country will be honored and while details may be fading, those of us marked by combat will always remember.

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Bill Moeller is a former entertainer, mayor, bookstore owner, city council member, paratrooper and pilot living in Centralia. He can be reached at bookmaven321@comcast.net.