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Wally's Story - continued from page one Christmas in the Lines Christmas
Eve, 1952. The 1st
Bn. (battalion) PPCLI (Princess Patricia’s Canadian Light Infantry)
had the misfortune to have drawn the six-week rotation into the front
line that included Christmas and New Years. If they had been lucky
enough to be deployed as the reserve Bn. tomorrow they would be
observing the traditional Regimental Christmas dinner. Lance thought of all the lucky guys in the reserve Bn. Except for guys doing perimeter guard duty, or manning the phones and radios, most of them were probably at least half crocked and still sitting around in the wet canteen right about now. They would be telling each other about how lucky they were to be back in reserve for Christmas, and some of them would probably say something like, “Feel sorry for those poor buggers in the line, sure hope everything stays quiet.” Not because they really felt sorry for them, but mostly because if there were a big attack they would probably have to move up as reinforcements right away. They would all be looking forward to Christmas Day dinner and scoffing down free Canadian beer, or a good quality wine, courtesy of the Labbatts brewery back in Canada and one of the new Okanagan valley wineries that were just getting established. (A pleasant change from the Japanese Asahi beer, and the cheap local Korean “porch climber” wine that they were accustomed to getting.) He could see them in his mind’s eye, sitting there, toasting each other and the good fortune that had them back behind the lines, close to “B” Echelon—and where was he?—here he was, one of two lucky guys pulling the twelve to four duty shift, sitting in a cold, wet foxhole. Said foxhole was situated at the far end of a slit trench, stuck four hundred metres in front of the Bn. position, just beyond the minefield and concertina wire, with only a sound powered phone to keep them company! Lance and a fellow soldier had been assigned duty in the forward observation and listening post. Their duty consisted of remaining very quiet under the mottled dark brown and off-white colour cammo net that covered the foxhole, observing and reporting any suspicious sound or movement out in “no-mans-land.” Whenever parachute flares lit the valley up and down the front line they would illuminate the snow covered scene before them as bright as day. It was almost beautiful, and with the occasional red or green Very pistol flare fired by a Canadian or Aussie patrol, you could almost believe it had been a fireworks display laid on for Christmas. Then you remembered that any movement down there was a probable sign there was either an imminent attack coming, or a Chinese patrol was on the hunt. Either way, it was sobering to know that this was a strong indication someone down there wanted very badly to get close enough to kill you! Thoughts like that tended to keep you wide-awake, on your toes and fully alert. While on duty in the OP, they could not talk out loud, smoke, or in any way reveal their position for their four-hour period of duty. They would hunker down in the bottom of the cold, wet foxhole and quietly blow into the sound-powered phone every 15 minutes to report the status of their position. HQ automatically assumed that any break in the communication pattern indicated that the OP sentries had been overcome. The Bn. would immediately stand to and go to full alert. In the event of an enemy attack the OP sentries were expected to stand fast and report on the situation as long as possible. They knew that there was probably a sixty to seventy percent chance the Chinese had a fix on the OP position and most likely had a battery of mortars zeroed on them. In the event of an attack the only thing that they could hope for would be that the first salvo would fall short, or overshoot the OP and give them a chance to make it back up the slit trench to the Bn. before the enemy infantry attack. Lance and his buddy sincerely hoped everything would be nice and quiet this Christmas Eve night. They knew that in the event of a major attack they only stood about a fifty percent chance of getting back to the main unit in one piece. About two hours after coming on duty they were informed to keep a watch out for a five-man Aussie patrol that had got lost out in “no-mans-land.” They were expected to be coming up through the Patricias position any time in the next few hours. If they came through during their shift, Lance and his buddy would have to be very careful and count them as they filed past them. It was not unknown to have the Chinese try to infiltrate one of their men by attaching him to the tail end of an incoming patrol. They had about fifteen minutes to go until their relief would show up, when they heard the sound of walking and the slight creak and clink of military gear from the valley below them. They quietly called out the “Halt, who goes there?” challenge and asked for the password. The response came back in a distinctive Aussie twang. The patrol leader gave the password and then said, “Bloody good on you, mate, reckoned for a bit that we might have to lie-up for the day out there. With no tucker or blankets, it would have been a dicey way to spend Christmas day.” Lance counted heads as they filed by and offered up a silent thanks that there were no extras with them. The Aussie patrol had just moved up through the connecting slit trench and Lance’s buddy had notified HQ that the Aussies were coming in, when the two relief guys came down to take over the OP duty. Lance and his buddy headed back, thankful that they had not run into any major problems. They knew there would be no turkey with all the trimmings, and no officers to wait on them when they got back in, but they hoped that their buddies in their respective bunkers would have a hot tin of tea on the bunker stove and maybe there would even be some warm “C” rations there too. They would be able to get warmed through, have a cigarette and a beer while they cleaned and oiled their weapons. They would pull off their cold, wet boots and hook them over the sticks driven into the bunker floor by the stove, hopefully to dry out before they had to put them on again. They knew that within twenty-four hours it would be their turn to be out in “no-mans-land.” Lance knew that he would be back humping that clumsy, heavy, #300 radio transceiver up and down the Korean hills. He hated the thought of being the primary target for the Chinese while on the patrol, they just loved to try and take out the patrol communications. He hoped that when they did go out, it would be as a recce patrol, not a fighting patrol. At least if it were a reconnaissance patrol they might get out and back without getting into a firefight with any of the enemy. A fighting patrol, on the other hand, went out with the prime directive to, “encounter the enemy, and take prisoners if possible.” Left unsaid was, “try not to get yourselves killed while doing it.” So much for Christmas Eve! At least he was still alive to experience Christmas Day! New Year’s Day might be another matter entirely, but it didn’t pay to dwell on such morbid thoughts too much, they tended to take your mind off matters that helped keep you alive! A shudder passed through Gran’pa Wally’s body as his mind returned from yesteryear to reality, and the sound of his grandson’s voice. “That was a good story, Gran’pa, have you got any more stories about Lance and his friends when they were in the army? Will you tell me some more, please?” Gran’pa Wally replied, “Yes, I suppose I have, I’ll just have to try and remember them. All in good time, Keenan, later on we’ll have a look at some more of those old pictures just to refresh my memory and maybe I can tell you another story about Lance tomorrow.” Wally
Austman joined the Canadian Army in 1950, a month after his 18th
birthday. He was posted to
the 1st Battalion, Princess Patricia’s Canadian Light
Infantry at Currie Barracks, |