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To Able Company, Seventh Marines and all who knew Colonel Eugenous Melker Hovatter died on a hunting trip on the sixth of October, in the morning. He drove a pickup truck from West Virginia to Wyoming in the company of one of his many nephews, climbed a mountain, shot an elk and died at the age of 76. He had looked forward to this trip all spring and summer. He was buried with military honors in his hometown. Shortly before his death, he entrusted to me (for reasons I am not sure I can explain) his personal papers, correspondence and memorabilia connected with the Chosin Reservoir Campaign. Among them were transcriptions of letters to his wife, written from Korea in 1950-1951, while he served with Stable Able. He obviously meant them to be circulated among you, as historical documents. I have taken it upon myself (with the permission of his family) the task of completing this mission on his behalf. I approach it with a great deal of humility, and a grave sense of moral obligation. When I met him I was struck by the distance in his eyes; he seemed to be focused on something far, yet not to far away: the next ridge, perhaps. In the gentle directness of his speech, he seemed the last thing from a hero, yet the quality that would call on men to follow him was immediately apparent: calm, sure confidence in himself and his vocation. The best illustration of this is in a letter he wrote his wife from Yudam-ni. Nothing in the letter is particularly striking (except his way with folklore wit: the recipe for repelling a bear is an old frontier favorite). The fact that he wrote it all, in that place at that time, and had no doubt that it would be mailed and received expresses more greatly than words themselves his faith in himself and in his Marines. Yudam-ni, Korea Dearest, I am OK, but quite busy getting ready to head back South….It is early morning here, so I have a little free time for writing before leaving… Remember when we were sleeping in the tent in Yosemite and the bear paid us a visit? You awakened me and said “Gene, there is a bear out there!” I said “Go back to sleep…there’s no bear out there.” You replied, “Yes there is…What will I do if he comes into the tent?” I said, “Just throw a handful of shit in his face.” You encountered with “Where will I get the shit?” and I said, “Don’t worry…if that bear comes into the tent, just reach behind you…the shit will be there!” Well, the bear came into the tent over here and we threw the shit at it: but instead of hitting the bear, it hit the fan. We have been fighting like hell for survival. Don’t worry; we are all Marines, capable of taking care of ourselves… I am still company commander and am doing OK…. Will write again when we get out of this God forsaken place! His next letter was a short note from Hungnam eleven long days later, describing himself as “a little tired and beat-up but otherwise well… Lucky to be here…” His feet were slightly frostbitten. He had not bathed or changed clothing in 46 days. In his notebook there are the names of 42 men to be recommended for decoration, a note that the weapons inventory included four machine guns and two mortars, and an order that letters home not to give details of casualties. It is not for me, who knew him so briefly, to tell you, who entrusted him with your lives, what kind of man he was: you know better than I ever could, or shall. But as I came to know him through his letters, his conversations and especially through the universal high regard in which his Marines held him, I saw a man of unusual clarity of mind, completely without presence. Both stable and able, he was man at peace with himself, content with his life. He ended well, and as he might have wished it: under open blue sky, his boots on, and a rifle in his hand. His eyes fixed on the next ridge, gauging distance. The old Ridge runner is not gone, but climbs the next ridge, as he did the last and so many before, advancing now in a different direction, until he reaches the sea, and Home. Robert L. Croker
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