It was during the dark days of the December retreat when I first saw them.They were hanging from the cold muzzle of an old, battered, Springfield rifle - apair of tiny blue baby bootees. Their pale silk ribbons ended in a neat bowbehind the front sight, and each little boot hung down separately, one slightlyabove the other, swinging silently in the wind. They reminded me of tiny bells,and even though one had a smudge ofdirt on its soft surface, and part of theribbon that touched the barrel had lost colour from scorching heat, they seemedto me to be the freshest, cleanest objects in all of drab Korea.

At first the bootees had fixed my attention, but after the surprise of seeingthese symbols of home in such an incongruous place had worn off, I let my eyesdrift, unobserved, to their owner.

He was a lieutenant, young, I could see, and tired; not so much from theexertion of the trudging march, but with the wear of long days and nights incombat. He was talking to men from his platoon, all of them together watchingthe core of a little blaze in their centre, and I could tell that he was answeringsome of their disturbing questions about the war. There was a tone ofhopelessness in the men's voices, but the lieutenant sounded cheerful; there was aglint in his eye, and a squint that melted into an easy smile when he spoke.

As my companions moved on, I glanced back briefly to the blue booteesstill fresh, still swinging. Often in the next few weeks I saw the lieutenant and hisbootees while we moved southward before the Chinese armies. Around the ever-present warming fires I heard the simple story of the officer and his boots.

The lieutenant was named Shank, and he, twenty-two years old, led arifle platoon. He had come over from Okinawa while the Army was clamped inthe vise of the Pusan perimeter, short on manpower. Shank had his baptism offire on the hills outside Taegu. His youth and fire helped keep his decimatedplatoon intact, while the North Koreans frantically tried to crack the Americanlines. Then came the breakthrough, and Shank's company, rode on the record-breaking tank and truck dash northward. He picked up the Springfield rifle then,and kept it because of its renowned accuracy and apparent immunity to the coldweather. A violent day south of Pyongyang won Shank a Silver Star for gallantry,as he led his flesh-and-blood infantrymen against T-34 tanks and destroyed threeof them. The Chinese intervention and beginning of the American retreat broughthim up to where I met him, south of Kunari.

The bootees? That was simple. He was an expectant father, and the littleboots sent by his young wife in the States reflected his whole optimistic attitudewhile the battle was the darkest. I also learned that when the baby came it wouldbe announced by a new piece of ribbon on the boots - blue for a boy, pink for agirl.

Then I forgot about him as we prepared to defend Seoul from above the frozenHan River. We were hit hard by the Chinese. They streamed down from the hillsand charged the barbed wire. They charged again and again, piling upbefore oursmoking guns. The days were but frantic preparation for the nights. Companiesdwindled, and my platoon was halved as cold, sickness, and the enemy took theirtoll. I neared the end of my mental reserves. Names of casualties were rumoured,and I heard Shank's among them. I wondered where Shank's bootees were now.

Then the endless night of the retreat from Seoul came. When we got theword my few men were too dulled to show any emotion at the announcement.Most were too miserable to want to retreat again for twenty-five miles, Chineseor no. But we did, and the temperature dropped to 30 degrees below zero as oursilent column stumbled along the hard ground. It was the most depressing night Ihad ever endured - pushed by the uncompromising cold, the pursuing enemy andthe chaotic memory of the bloody nights before. I, as a leader, was close to thatmental chasm. Only the numbness prevented thinking myself into mutedepression.

We plodded across the cracking ice of the Han River at four-thirty in themorning, and marched on south at an ever-slowing pace. Finally the last five milestretch was ahead. We rested briefly, and as the men dropped to the roadsidethey fell asleep immediately. I wondered if could get them going again. Worseyet, I didn't think I could go myself- so tired, numb, and raw was my body.Then in the black despair of uselessness in a second-page war I lookedup as a passing figure brushed against my inert shoe pacs.

There walked young Lieutenant Shank up the Korean road, whistlingsoftly, while every waking eye followed him to see the muzzle of his batteredSpringfield rifle. Swinging gaily in the first rays of the morning sun were Shank'sbootees, and fluttering below them was the brightest, bluest, piece of ribbon I have ever seen.

This was originally subbed as "Author unknown" by a dinkum Aussie (Brian W. Foster, pwittig@ion.com.au ). Quite accidentally, a friend of your Yank Webmaster cleared up the mystery as we discovered he had written it 50 years ago this week (12/00).

" The piece is pretty self explanatory about what was going on, whenthe incident happened, and I wrote it down by hand when we got to somedefensive positions. Sent it home to my mother in a letter. She showed itto a published author, who sent it in and it was published in the LadiesHome Journal while the war was still on. Gave Shank's kid 15 minutes offame. He would be 50 years old now.

Dave Hughes
dave@oldcolo.com "