Dave Easton

Dick

I first got to know Dick in boot camp in January of 1951. After boot camp we served together in the 6^th Marines thru the rest of 1951 and part of 1952. At that point I was shipped to the Far East, where I was assigned to the 1^st Bn.5^th, “B” Co. Dick followed a month later and ended up in 1^st Bn.5^th, but in “A” Co.

Dick (Richard) was tall, thin, quiet, easy-going, and always willing to help a comrade with anything at all. He loved C&W music, and at the time he was particularly fond of “Peace in the Valley” by, as best I can remember, either Red Foley or Eddy Arnold.  Dick would not stand out in a crowd, but he had a sly side that one would never expect. I also remember that when something struck him as funny, he would cover his mouth with a loose fist and laugh into his hand.

The sly side of Dick became apparent after we had been in C-1-6 for a while. He was a regular at sick call and after each visit he would return to the barracks with an assortment of remedies in boxes, bottles, and envelopes. He stashed all these medications in the tray of his locker box and as a result was given the nickname of “The Corpsman.” For the uninitiated a corpsman is a medical specialist from the Navy, assigned to the Marine Corps, the equivalent of an Army Medic—wait! Make that the equivalent of three or four medics.

However, his slyness went well beyond collecting medicines. The training in Charlie Company was both intensive and repetitious, so Dick found a way to avoid the repetition. Somehow he convinced the medical officer that he was not only allergic to just about every plant that grew in North Carolina, but that he also had a foot condition which could not tolerate the standard issue field shoes (called “Boondockers”). The result was that he was not required to spend time in the boondocks, or participate in any activity or exercise that required the wearing of field shoes—like conditioning hikes!

Like they say, all good things must come to an end. Late one afternoon the company was returning from an all day hike and the C.O. wanted to get back to main side at a specific time. We were behind his schedule so he decided to take a short cut across the post golf course. We crossed several fairways on a diagonal and lo and behold, who should be coming down one of them but allergy riddled PFC Dick. Wearing dress oxfords, of course.

After a few choice words, the Skipper had him join the column for the march back to the barracks. Once we hit main side this caused a few raised eyebrows. Here are guys all sweaty, carrying rifles, machine guns, and mortars, and in the ranks is this guy with a flowered shirt and a set of golf clubs on his shoulder. It was the end of Dick’s light duty and the day he came back into the Marine Corps.

Another humorous story I recall involves Dick’s dad. Our battalion was deployed to the Mediterranean with the 6^th Fleet, from September 1951 to March 1952. When we got back, several of us from the mid-west took leave and all agreed to meet at Dick’s house for a party. There was a good turnout of Marines from Michigan and the northern suburbs of Chicago. Dick’s family home had a completely decorated basement where the party took place, and Dick’s dad unwittingly supplied the highlight of the evening when he sneezed and sent his false teeth skittering between couples on the dance floor.

Dick’s Platoon Leader in C-1-6 was a 2^nd Lt. named Redfield. I didn’t know him well, but he had the reputation in his platoon of being kinda “prissy.” When I arrived in Korea, I was assigned to “B” Co.5^th Marine Regt. As chance would have it, so was Mr. Redfield, who would now be my platoon leader. Dick came over in the next rotation draft and was assigned to the same battalion but to “A” Co. He gave me some flak about my platoon leader, but within a matter of a few days of Dick’s arrival, Lt. Redfield was reassigned to “A” Company, and guess who was in his platoon? This situation was short lived though because Mr. Redfield was hit and evacuated and never came back to the unit. He turned out not to be as prissy as thought and was a pretty good combat officer.

From what I have written so far I would guess that Dick, might appear as a bit of a goldbrick and not such a good Marine. I trust that what follows may change that view.

In February, 1953 our battalion was on line. “A” Co. was on the left flank and tied in with the 1^st Regiment. “B” Co. was in the center and “C” Co. was on the battalion right, tied in with the 3^rd battalion 5^th Marines. In late February or early March, “A” Company, sent out a large combat patrol (a diesel, in radio code) whose objective was to search for and destroy encountered enemy forces. Dick was a member of this patrol. The diesel had proceeded well into no-mans land in their search for gooks to beat up on, but this time Luke the Gook got there first and had an almost perfect ambush set up. The enemy’s, well coordinated initial burst of fire either killed or incapacitated all but two members of the patrol. One was a Marine from Hawaii, whose name I no longer recall, who had been wounded in both legs. The other was Dick. These two took shelter behind a rice patty dike and returned fire.

The initial outburst could be heard from the MLR and raised the alarm that the patrol was engaged. Attempts to make radio contact yielded no result, so as was usual in such cases a relief column was formed and put on standby. These relief formations were referred to as “angels.” Sending out angels was always a risky thing to do, because it was a page in the Chinese playbook to cut off a unit and then ambush the relief, which was sure to come.  This is what happened when the angels were dispatched. They held their own but were unable to break through and reach the ambush site.

The sounds reaching the MLR clearly indicated a very one-sided battle was in progress. The rapid Brrrt-Brrrt, of numerous burp guns, and the heavier and very distinctive to any Marine report of a single BAR answering in short bursts provided a scenario of what was taking place. All of this was punctuated from time to time by the detonation of grenades. After each explosion or series of burp-gun fire, the Marines on the line would hold their breath, waiting for the BAR response. Each time the response came, and we would all hope that whoever the gunner was, he was hitting the mark. This went on for several hours until finally the sky began to lighten and the Chinese, in fear of air support and increased visibility of artillery spotters, abandoned the field. The angels arrived at the scene, where they found Dick—the Marine manning the BAR—and the wounded kid from Hawaii loading magazines and scrounging ammo from the nearest casualties.

For the night’s work, Dick collected numerous small grenade fragment wounds to his hands and face. In addition he had three furrows from burp gun slugs cut into the outside of his upper left arm just below the shoulder of his flak jacket. But the most amazing thing of the evening was his helmet. Front and center about two inches above the rim was a jagged hole where a bullet had exited from inside the helmet. The slug had gone in under the rim, passed completely around his head, burning off the hair in its passage, and exited above his forehead. Dick brought the helmet home and it must stir deep memories for him when he looks at it.

A couple of months after the firefight, I was given an up close and personal example of this guy’s grit. Our battalion was in reserve and it was common practice to organize “smokers” between units. These would be called boxing matches by civilians. Being about the same size, it was determined by the draw that Dick would fight for “A” Co. and I would represent “B” Co. It may sound immodest but I was a much better boxer than Dick. This became apparent at the opening bell, but no matter how much punishment he took, he just kept coming. Having been his friend for so long and holding him in high esteem for his actions under fire, it was very difficult to hit him, but it was also a matter of survival. There was just no quit in him and while I won the bout there was no satisfaction in the victory.

After our discharges in late 1953, we both returned to the Chicago area. I was working at 22^nd Street and Dick had a job in the city. We would see each other occasionally on the commuter train. Eventually I was moved to the night shifts, stopped riding the train, and lost contact with Dick. I regret this now because he was a good Marine, a good person, and had been a good friend over a tough stretch. Wherever he may be, I wish him well.