Written by me about forty years ago (1979 - 1980?), published here, as best I can remember, for the first time. It tells the story of the men sent to take Pork Chop Hill, many of whom perished from friendly artillery fire. The numbers of assailants and survivors are those reported from the battle.
No one would have survived had not Private Robert F. McKinley thrown his body over a line of razor wire, allowing the men behind him to cross it and escape machine gun fire. Private McKinley's battle was over, but he was one of the 14 that survived. It was his heroism that inspired me to write:
I leap off of McKinley's back,
Dodging Red Chinese grenade flack.
The concertina tears his face,
But I'm too scared to slow my pace.
Rushing blindly up Pork Chop Hill,
My guts churn as I feel the chill...
One hundred thirty seven men;
But fourteen standing at the end!
I saw it last night in a dream
And counted every dying scream.
The horror pierces to my bones -
The last scream that I dreamed 's my own!
So fear becomes a burning prod
to kill. O'er bloody bodies trod
I, seeking only to escape
What I've envisioned as my fate.
I shoot, and stab, and wade through gore.
I fight like no man's fought before.
Perhaps, if I can kill them all,
Then, for my life, death will not call!
But artilleries' constant rain
Still shatters me with foreseen pain.
My lifesblood spills out on the grass
As I, into my nightmare, pass.
The mists of time then shroud my eyes.
In deep deathshock, I realize
The scream I hear that never ends
Is mine, and Hell's what that portends!
I fall through the gates of Hell
To burning torture in every cell!
I scream, and wail, and gnash my teeth,
There nevermore to feel relief.
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Ah! The glorious death in battle. All you seeking Valhalla, this is my ode to you.
