Welcome to My Worlds: A Bipolar Christian Tells All

This is probably one of the few serious works of mine you’ll get to read. In honor of all Veterans. Better late than never….

November 27, 1950

Lord, help me—or I’m gonna die.

Corporal Salvatore Frank Gottuso stared at the Chinese soldier bearing down on him. Snow crunched under the booted feet of the enemy. Dawn broke the horizon, highlighting the soldier’s silhouette as the odor of spent mortars clung to the icy air. There wasn’t time to react. The Chinese combatant unfurled his pike, ready to thrust.

Looked like the freezing foxhole in the Chosin Reservoir could be—probably would be—Sal’s grave. He’d never leave Korea. He held his breath, reciting another silent prayer as time seemed suspended.

Kettledrums beat in the distance, releasing their eerie tones amidst the screaming men and discharging weapons. Sal stayed in a crouch, frozen into position. The sharpened point of the pike had a clean shot at his exposed chest. No time to fire his M-1 rifle. This was it. Dead at nineteen. He’d never know what married life might be like, never have children, never feel the welcoming hugs of his parents or nine siblings again.

It’s all over.

The Chinese soldier lunged at Sal, but miraculously, slipped on the bank. Sal instinctively raised his weapon, his bayonet sinking into his enemy’s heart, killing him instantly.

Thank you, God, for your protection. For answering my prayer.

Mixed emotions flowed through him: relief he’d be alive to fight another day, and sorrow at taking another man’s life. His first kill in hand-to-hand combat.

But victory wasn’t sweet.

***

…I’ll be forever grateful God kept Sal Gottuso from harm. I’m his youngest child, Kelly. My siblings, Carl and Gina, and I, wouldn’t be here today if God hadn’t been faithful to my dad.

This was a tough story to write. I cringed as my dad related the harrowing details to me: stories of escape from certain death on several occasions as he served his tour of duty in Korea. I’ll start at the beginning, and pray I do his words justice.

***

Albany, New York - September 8, 1948

Sal strode to the officer. ”Sir, I’d like to enlist.”

The man handed him a clipboard and pen, then smiled. “Son, you don’t look old enough, or strong enough for what you may face.”

“I’m seventeen. Be eighteen on January 7^th. I’m old enough. As for strong, you try figthin’ seven brothers, with a few sisters thrown in on occasion.”

The officer read the form. “Salvatore Frank Gottuso. Five-feet seven; 135 pounds.” He glanced up. “So, we’ve got a scrappy Italian in the United States Marine Corps?”

“Yes, sir. You do.”

“Why the Marines, son?”

Sal spoke without pause. “I wanted to be in the toughest branch of the military, sir. I may not be the biggest Marine, but no one has more heart, and I trust God to take care of me.”

“Very good, then. We’re proud to have you.”

***

July, 1950

Sal emerged from boot camp in Honor Platoon 217, one stripe already on his shoulder.

After intense training in amphibious assault conducted on Guam and at Camp Pendleton, he headed for Korea with the 1^st Provisional Marine Brigade, 5^th Marines. My unit.

The sky shown bright orange and dark gray when the Landing Ship Dock (LSD) pulled into Pusan Harbor as evening stole over southeast Korea. Sal glanced at the land, then at his friends Neal and Jimmy.

His excitement mingled with apprehension, heart pumping erratically. “Boy, guys, we’re gonna be in there tonight.”

The North Koreans made a statement, crossing over the 38^th Parallel into South Korea, pushing the U.S. Army occupation troops back. Sal’s Brigade ran some forty miles to assume defensive positions near the southwest corner of the Pusan Perimeter. Air support came from the U.S.S. Sicily that night, as Corsairs bombed the North Koreans, clearing the way.

His muscles ached as he moved, hefting his full field transport pack and M-1 Rifle with bayonet. Every breath harder to take than the last, but with adrenaline coursing through his veins, he made no complaints.

I’m a United States Marine.

General MacArthur formed a special group named “X Corps.” Sal’s 5^th division made the cut. They boarded a ship to the Naktong Bulge, about halfway up the Pusan Perimeter, where the North Korean People’s Army (NKPA) infested the area.

Ten Corps went on the offensive, but the North Koreans wouldn’t go down without a fight. They launched a counterattack with Russian-built T-34 tanks.

“Don’t worry guys,” Sal shouted over the noise. “We’ll get ’em.”

Using rocket launchers, rifles, and 90-mm tank fire, plus the aide of the Corsairs, they completed their first goal mid-morning.

The North Koreans retreated, badly battered. Obongni or “No Name Ridge” belonged to the victorious Americans. Still, their main objective loomed before them: an assault on Inchon, then the retaking of Seoul.

Sal had a long way to go.

***

September 15, 1950

Time for the assault on Inchon. The general picked a controversial spot to land: near the seawall with as much as 32’ tides, limiting landing times to a few hours a day. The beaches seemed poor places to dock. Thick mud abounded, and the Marines had a long approach through shallow channels. Enemy mines were a worry as well. And if the Marines made it intact, the troops would have to scale metal ladders to reach their destination.

Sal sat back, waiting for the Amtrac to reach the seawall. Two men sat between him and his friend Bob. Just before disembarking, a cracking sound made him jump. “Bob, what the heck was that?” But Bob’s head bent back, a bullet hole embedded in his forehead.

Lord, give me strength.

Trepidation skittered through Sal, but stiff resolve followed. He couldn’t stop to mourn Bob. This was real.

This was war.

He held his breath, his gaze locked on Inchon, the city in the distance. It seemed like a blaze shot to the clouds and all the way to heaven. Orange-yellow flames rose like enemy arms in surrender.

The whole city must be burning.

He snapped out of his musings as small-arms fire continued to haunt the Marines on Green Beach. Sal and the men landed and fought hard, killing over 200 of the enemy, and capturing 136 prisoners.

Mission accomplished, but back to work. They set out to retake Seoul, South Korea’s capital city. Their wave of Amtracs moved at less than three knots while crossing the Han River. Splashes sounded up ahead.

They’re shootin’ at us!

Every few feet, the spraying water came closer. And closer. It seemed impossible for the Marines to escape the river bombs. The next mortar attack would blast their Amtrac apart and sink them. Sal’s heart nearly stopped.

Help us, Lord.

A welcoming sound reached his ears: a buzzing in the sky. He smiled. Corsairs soared over the cove and took out the North Korean threat. Saved once again.

Thank you, God.

Waiting on shore, their enemies hid in the hills surrounding Seoul, and the 5^th faced a heavy battle. The NKPA weren’t willing to surrender, but by late afternoon, the Marines proved too much for them, and the American flag whipped proudly in the breeze. The firefight left fields of stinking, NKPA corpses, but the Marines held their ground.

The noise of popping buttons sounded as the overtaxed uniforms of the dead succumbed when the bodies swelled. Skin inflated out of their ears and mouths, flapping in the breeze like gruesome balloons.He’d never forget the stench of the dead. Never.

The 5^th transported to a fenced rest camp. Even as one of the Commanders of the Guard, Sal couldn’t stand the confinement. One night when no moon loomed to give their position away, Sal and his buddy Neal snuck out and along with a Korean boy they’d befriended earlier. Their destination was an establishment called the Black Cat Inn, located in Inchon.

They traveled up a winding mountain road, and were halfway to the top when Sal heard a distinct noise: the clinking of rifles against canteens.

North Korean soldiers.

Some called them farmers by day, snipers by night. Whichever, they were on the other side of the hill, so close, the trio wouldn’t have a shot to double-time it back to safety. Sweat beaded on his forehead, even with the chill breeze. He ground his teeth.

Lord, what should I do?

Sal looked left, then right. A cave! It was their only chance. He led the way to the farthest reaches of the shallow overhang, as quickly and quietly as he could. They settled back, and Sal put his hand over the boy’s mouth in case the kid might be in league with the NKPA. In Korea, you never knew who your friends were.

Sal’s body tensed. He reached for his rifle, but only grasped air. His hair stood on end. Marines didn’t take their weapons outside the rest area fence unless they sought punishment. Stiff penalties. Neither he nor Neal would risk that. Sal had nothing to defend them with, and if found, the enemy would shoot them on sight.

The shuffling sound of many feet echoed off the rock walls of their tenuous hiding place. His breath quickened, then a gnawing ache clenched his gut.

His hard gaze flew from his friend to the front of the cave. The silhouette of several men, rifles in hand, caused his eyes to widen and his chest to constrict. Then came the whispers of North Korean soldiers.

A man crept toward them, cautiously moving forward about three feet. Another two and no question about it: discovery, torture, death.

[Part II on Friday!]

This entry was posted on Friday, November 13th, 2009 at 07:20 and is filed under Kelly Wrote Somethin' Serious!. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.