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There Are No Atheists in Foxholes

by Bill Ramsey, USAC President

General William T. Sherman said it best as he led his troops in the Civil War: “War is hell.” While much of military life and even combat zones can be described as endless boredom, warfare itself is sheer terror. And thus, the adage, “There are no atheists in foxholes.”

My service in the United States Marine Corps during the Korean War is a time I would never trade for any of my life’s experiences, but it is also a time that I could not possibly face again. Returning to those times in that war-torn country is a recurring dream—less often in recent years.

Rugged training and esprit de corps provide the adrenalin that keeps Marines moving forward, toward an objective. But other elements that reach deep inside every Marine are the knowledge that if you would be wounded or killed in action, you would never be left behind; your best friends in a fire-fight are your M-1 rifle and your fellow Marines; the image of your home and loved ones drives young warriors to survive the horrors of the battlefield, and finally, your faith in God helps settle anxieties and fears as you face the enemy.

Chaplains are critical to the morale and spiritual needs of troops heading into harm’s way. I attended Mass during infantry training at Camp Pendleton, Calif. On board our APA (attack transport—the USS Thomas Jefferson), ecumenical services were held to help prepare the men for the nightmares we were destined to face in the fight against the Communist aggressor in Korea in 1951.

After our ship docked in Pusan, South Korea, we were soon on our way by plane and later by 4x4 trucks to a staging area. Although there were plenty of discussions of the life-and-death struggle that lay ahead, most of the troops grew silent and introspective. A chaplain handed out cloth rosaries and soon the modest, brown beads were around my neck—where they stayed for the next seven-and-a-half months.

The book, “The Marines,” published by the Marine Corps Heritage Foundation, lists the Navy chaplain’s job description: “Brave, dedicated men who took religious solace to where danger was.” (The Naval Service provides medical and spiritual support to the Corps.)

Chaplains were in lock step with the troops, with their own safety a last concern. Although I never attended Mass in my months in the Land of the Morning Calm (the motto of Korea), my rosary and miraculous medal kept me in close touch with the ultimate Commander-in-Chief.

On the line on the Eastern front in Korea, Marines, two to a foxhole, did two-hour watches from darkness to the break of dawn. The lonely, frightening and often shell-filled, bullet-riddled nights were unrelenting for one’s sanity. Thoughts of home, loved ones and the rosary were my salvation and I’m sure that of many of the GIs peering into the tracer-streaked night.

My fire team was sent on a sniper mission on a chill Nov. 17th morning in 1951. The four of us—Bill Cox of New Jersey, Gus Gustine of Kentucky, George Baggott of South Carolina and I—shoved off down the steep slope of a 1,000-meter mountain.

After trudging through the frosty but muddy terrain, an explosion pierced the autumn gloom. A bouncing Betty mine shattered my right arm, which was partially extended as I held the leather sling of my M-1 rifle. I fell, face down, skidding along the slickened trail.

I was in shock and heard cries for Navy corpsman, the Marine’s best friend in times like these. Doc Snowden, our irrepressible sailor, was at my side in a matter of minutes, running from our line at the top of the mountain. He applied a pressure bandage, injected me with morphine and with my fire team, carried me to the reverse slope of our position. (Snowden was wounded later and would lose his arm.)

I was praying aloud and asking God to help me in this time of distress. A helicopter was called in to pick up the wounded. Another Marine, on patrol, had lost his foot to a land mine blast. I thought of the helicopter as a mechanical angel of mercy.

As I lay on the litter, my platoon leader knelt beside me. Captain Sparks gave me a cigarette and told me I was going home. I recall the moment as though it were yesterday. I thanked him and expressed my apology for leaving my unit. I was filled with gratitude mixed with sadness that I would be going home but my buddies would be staying to endure the pain and doubt of their own return.

In short order, a tiny chopper landed on a small clearing down the reverse slope. I was hurried to a waiting basket attached to the side. A final farewell, a lid was closed over my upper body and the Bell helicopter veered away from the mountain toward the haven known so well as a MASH unit.

The nightly television episodes of “M*A*S*H” will give you a snapshot of my arrival and quick dispatch to a field operating room. Hawkeye- and Pierce-type doctors no doubt were on duty that morning. As they cut away my dungarees (Marine battle garb), they told me that I would be okay. I remember asking: “Doc, will I still be able to play baseball?” They answered in the affirmative as I drifted into a deep sleep.

When I awoke, a day later, I thanked God that my right arm was encased in a huge cast but still part of me. The MASH doctors and nurses perhaps acted crazy at times, in Hollywood and on the battlefield, but they saved lives and answered prayers! God bless them all!

After several days of recovery at the field hospital, stops at hospitals in Seoul, South Korea and Japan, I was winging my way homeward to the United States. Oak Knoll Navy Hospital in Oakland, Calif., was the destination. There I underwent two operations for skin grafts and nerve injuries. But I also had the Navy chapel and chaplain to expedite my recovery. Prayer continued to be my most important medicine along with visits from my family and the families of Marine comrades who lived in the Bay area.

While recovering and undergoing rehabilitation at Oak Knoll, I attended Mass at the hospital chapel and when on liberty in Oakland. My combat experience remains the most defining time of my life and my survival the thing I thank God for every day. I was medically discharged from the Marines in June, 1952 and returned to Council Bluffs, Iowa, my hometown. I attended Creighton, a Jesuit University in Omaha, Neb., and went on to a career in journalism.

I always think of the statement by General Charles C. Krulak, 31st commandment of the Marine Corps, who said: “We make Marines; we win battles.” However, there are more than victories on the battlefield, important as they are. In Korea, the United Nations Forces, 17 nations in all, composed of Army, Navy, Air Force and Marine Corps units (my outfit, Able Company, First Battalion, First Marine Division), helped win the struggle to save South Korea from Communist North Korea and Chinese Communist forces.

Memories are among life’s greatest gifts. I cherish my recollections of that devastated country on the brink of annihilation and of the victory achieved by the “freedom fighters,” as the South Koreans called us. On monuments around that vibrant nation of the 21st century are the words: “We never forget the days the Freedom Fighters came and saved our people.” Strange, how history has a way of repeating itself when you think of our commitment to liberating another oppressed nation a half-century later.

Thirty-seven thousand troops remain at the 38th parallel 52 years later to help insure the victory.
My thoughts always wander back to that chaplain who boosted my sagging spirits on the road to the frontlines in Korea 52 years ago when he handed me the simple cloth rosary and gave me his blessing for safety and peace. That chapter in my life concluded on June 4, 1952, when I sat down at the kitchen table in my mother’s home on a sunny afternoon in Council Bluffs, opened a can of beer, and said aloud: “Thank God I’m home at last.”

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