by Norman Weibel

Created on: March 27, 2010

The Bomb Run

Earlier that morning I had pulled on my long johns, my green issue wool trousers, my dungarees over that, then pulled on my “Mickey Mouse” boots; thermal boots that were great at keeping the feet of the infantry warm, but were useless for mostly immobile truck drivers. We had to wear them, anyway.

Though my MOS was small arms repairman, upon arrival at Seventh Motor Transport Battalion, I’d been assigned a six-by, # 905 (actually the last three numerals in a 14 digit serial number stenciled  across each side of her hood, its yellow contrasting nicely with her Marine Green paint.) I was driving her today. Carefully, I guided her through the gate of the Rear Ammo Dump and backed into a vacant slot at the loading dock.

It wasn’t long before a gook (Korean laborer) began loading her. I took my book out of the glove compartment and began reading. Thoroughly engrossed, I was startled by the gook thrusting my manifest through my open window. I placed it on my clipboard and hung the board on its hook on my dash.

My load was destined for the forward ammo dump, as usual. Placing # 905 in compound, I moved slowly away from the loading dock, noting that she was bucking; the sign of a heavy load. I had thirty-two miles of pitted dirt road ahead of me.

As I pulled through the gates onto the main road, I removed a half dozen Hershey bars from my pocket and tossed them to the begging Korean kids who swarmed to the gate every time a truck pulled out. Though the temperature hovered at around 10 degrees Fahrenheit, about half of them were dressed only in short sleeved shirts and all were bare foot. The conditions under which they managed to live were deplorable.

The trip went fairly rapidly. I was kept busy up-shifting and down-shifting as I traversed the many hills and gullies along the way. When I reached the Spoonbill Pontoon Bridge over the Imjin River there was the usual short line since only one vehicle at a time could pass over it in both directions at a time. After negotiating the bridge, it was only a short distance to the forward ammo dump.

I pulled through its gate and pulled up in front of the dispatcher’s office. When the Sergeant-in-charge approached the truck, I handed him my manifest.

When he read it, his face blanched, “Did you read this?”

“No,” I replied, “it makes no difference. Whatever it is, I haul it.”

“Please step down from your truck as gently as you can and go over by the shack. I’ll talk with you further later.”

Being careful to take my rifle and its loaded clip with me, I did as I had been directed.

The sergeant, along with two ammo handlers proceeded to carefully unload my truck When they were through, the handlers moved away from the truck and the sergeant came back to stand next to me.

“Corporal, you’re lucky to be alive. That truck was a bomb set to go off at any time. It was probably meant to explode before you cleared the main dump. Had it exploded no one would have found any part of you, not even your dog tags,” he assured me.

I smiled and asked, “Am I ready to go now, Sarge?”

“Yeah, get your lucky ass out of here!” he responded with a chuckle.

I did so, remembering as I started my empty run to thank my Guardian Angel for riding shotgun for me.

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