"A Life or Death 'Ping' on the Han River Front: A 95-Year-Old Veteran's Memories of the Korean War"

[Financial News, New York = Reporter Lee Byung-chul] 

"Ping."
A short metallic sound, like pieces of steel striking each other.
On the northern front of the Han River in 1951, that single sound could mean the difference between life and death. The M1 Garand rifle used by U.S. troops made a distinctive metallic ping when its last round was fired and the empty clip popped out.
'Ping.'
Chinese troops waited for that sound. Once they heard it, they knew the ammunition was gone. They would rush forward in a mass assault during the few seconds it took to reload.
"We used that sound against them."
Now 95, Korean War veteran Alberto Gonzalez clapped his hands together to recreate the moment. "We deliberately struck metal to make a 'ping' sound. When the Chinese troops thought we had run out of ammunition and came charging out, we fired at them."
He paused for a moment. Seventy-five years have passed, but that brief metallic sound still lingers in his ears.

In August 1951, a 19-year-old who had just graduated from high school stepped off a ship at the Port of Busan. Until then, the farthest he had ever traveled was from New Jersey to Connecticut. In those days, even crossing into another state felt special. He had crossed the Pacific to reach Korea, a country that barely appeared on the map.
In the United States, he was subject to the draft as soon as he finished high school. Gonzalez did not wait. He enlisted voluntarily. The Marine Corps was made up entirely of volunteers and had the toughest training. His thinking was simple: if he had to serve anyway, he might as well choose the branch he wanted. The Marines traveled around the world, and he had dreamed of traveling since childhood.
"The farthest I had ever been before that was from New Jersey to Connecticut," he said. That is only a little over two hours by car today.
That was his whole world. Before it was a war, the Korean War was his first doorway to the wider world. He did not even know exactly where Korea was at the time. "At school, we were taught that Korea was part of Japan," he recalled. Korea was an unfamiliar name to many Americans.
He said he was not afraid. Since he had chosen the path himself, he believed the danger was part of the bargain.

A few weeks later, the ship entered the Port of Busan. The first thing he saw was not war or guns.
It was dock workers. Korean laborers caught his eye as they hauled cargo up and down massive ships, relying on nothing but ropes.
"We used equipment, but Koreans did everything by hand."
He said that image remains vivid even now.
Outside the city, there were endless thatched roofs and rice paddies. Dirt roads.
Village elders in black hats. "When the village chief in a black hat passed by, everyone would step aside. The weight of that respect was unfamiliar, but striking."
And children running toward U.S. military trucks. They held out their hands for candy.
"I later learned that many of those children had been sent out by their parents, and that they sold what they received at the market to help support their families." It was poverty that existed even before the war, but became even more visible because of it.

His unit was deployed to Gimpo and Ganghwa Island, on the front line at the mouth of the Han River. The North Korean positions were less than a mile away.
By August 1951, when Gonzalez arrived in Korea, the war had already begun to change dramatically. The mobile fighting over Seoul was essentially over, and armistice talks had begun in Kaesong in July of that year, freezing the front near the 38th parallel. But the start of negotiations did not mean the gunfire stopped. In fact, because both sides believed the eventual armistice line could be determined by the territory they held at the time, the fighting became even fiercer as each side tried to seize hills and rivers. Military historians often call this period a "war for the armistice."
Gimpo and Ganghwa Island were strategic strongpoints at the mouth of the Han River, guarding Seoul and Incheon. UNC and Korean People's Army soldiers faced each other across the river, with the closest positions only 1 to 2 kilometers apart. During the day, shelling and sniper fire continued. At night, infiltration teams from the North Korean and Chinese forces crossed the river in small boats and rubber rafts. U.S. Marines and Republic of Korea troops blocked them from outposts along the riverbank, while soldiers searched the woods and shoreline every night to stop the infiltrators.
"The enemy was just across the river. We fought almost every day."
Gonzalez's memories capture the front line as it was.
At the time, Chinese troops preferred night attacks over direct assaults. They often used a tactic in which North Korean troops attacked first to drain U.S. ammunition, and then Chinese forces waiting behind them launched a larger assault. Among U.S. soldiers, there was a widely repeated story that Chinese troops used the 'ping' sound made by the M1 Garand rifle when its empty clip ejected after the last round as a signal to charge.
Gonzalez also recalled that memory.
"We used that sound against them."
He said they would deliberately strike metal to make a 'ping' sound, and then fire when the Chinese troops rushed forward.
"They kept coming forward even though they knew they would die."
He said he still finds that scene hard to understand.



Another difficult task was telling friend from foe. South Korean and North Korean soldiers looked and sounded alike.
In the end, the soldiers looked at their shoes. Republic of Korea troops wore relatively new sneakers, while North Korean soldiers often wore old shoes or uniforms taken from the dead.
"We identified the enemy by their shoes."
It was extremely difficult to distinguish South Korean and North Korean soldiers by face or clothing alone, because many North Korean troops wore the uniforms of the dead. So the U.S. soldiers looked at their shoes. Republic of Korea troops wore relatively new sneakers, while North Korean soldiers wore worn-out shoes. The line between life and death came down to a single shoe sole.
"Whether a person dies is decided not by the enemy, but by God." At first, he was afraid. But war soon made death part of everyday life. It was common to hear that a close comrade had been killed the following week.

He was a tank soldier. During the day, he provided fire support from inside thick steel armor, but at night the situation changed.
To stop Chinese infiltration, he had to leave the tank and search the woods and riverbank with the infantry. Many U.S. casualties at the time came during nighttime infiltration and ambushes. Chinese troops moved under cover of darkness, and what soldiers feared most was not daytime shelling but the silence of night.
When asked how he endured the fear, he looked up at the sky for a moment.
"I believed that it was not the enemy who decided when a person died, but God."
That one belief kept him going.
"If it is not my turn, I survive. If my turn has come, I accept it."
If it was not his turn, he would live. If a comrade had fallen, then it was simply that person's time. That belief kept fear from completely consuming him.

What he found hardest was not bullets.
It was the cold. He suffered frostbite, and the aftereffects remain even now.
In summer, he contracted malaria. Mosquitoes rose endlessly from the rice fields in Gimpo.
Even so, he said he never wondered, "Why should I fight for this country?" He explained that he was not fighting for Korea so much as carrying out his duty as a Marine under orders from the U.S. government. It was a plain but firm statement.
There was life beyond the front lines, too. When Korean women by the river washed U.S. uniforms with stones, the soldiers would give them food, chocolate, and cigarettes in return. In a time when dollars could not be freely used, food was the most reliable currency.
He was glad when he heard the armistice news. Still, he says even now that the Korean War did not end; the gunfire simply stopped. What has continued for more than 70 years is an armistice, not a peace treaty.
A single white line at Panmunjom. Cross that line, and it immediately becomes a political issue. But he says the people living on that land matter more than the line itself. Borders are drawn by people, but it is people who continue life within them.
After his discharge, he returned straight to the photo engraving company where he had worked before enlisting. It was an America that respected veterans, a place where the company had kept his job open while he served. Later, during the Cuban Missile Crisis, he faced the possibility of being called back up, but fortunately he never returned to the battlefield.

After serving in the Korean War, he returned to Korea seven times. Holding his wife's hand, he walked through the country where he had once fought.
And he witnessed something almost unbelievable.
A country that once had only thatched roofs. A country that once had only rice paddies and dirt roads.
It had become a nation that makes the world's best semiconductors, exports cars, and moves the world with K-pop.
"It was truly unimaginable."
He continued slowly. "Korea is no longer a country that needs help from the United States."
As the interview drew to a close, he took the longest pause before offering his final words.
"I hope history is not forgotten."
He said today's Republic of Korea is a miracle. But that miracle was not created overnight.A generation that endured war.A generation that endured hunger.It exists because there was a generation that rebuilt the country with a lifetime of sweat.
"I hope younger generations will respect them."
Then he fell silent for a moment.
In the memory of the 95-year-old veteran, Korea still remains a place of thatched roofs, rice paddies, dock workers at the Port of Busan, and a front line divided by the Han River.
And one more thing: he asked that the veterans from all the countries that fought in the Korean War also be remembered. "That alone is deeply rewarding for us, and it is the greatest gift, because it reminds us once again why we fought."
The 19-year-old boy who once risked his life over a 'ping' sound across the Han River is now a 95-year-old man, and he still remembers that sound clearly.


pride@fnnews.com Reporter Lee Byung-chul Reporter