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Incoming This article was originally published in The Chosin Few Magazine, Volume 5, 1985. The author reprints it here. Like so many other nights, this was cold and crisp. The company was strung out across the valley of Yudam-ni. The move had come about quickly after intelligence sources predicted that this was to be the night the enemy would come down the valley to divide the Marine troops. As the stillness of the night surrounded us, we of Able, 7th Marines huddled down in our makeshift foxholes in anticipation of the attack. As the NCOs and officers moved among the troops, the crunch of their footsteps seemed to echo off the surrounding hills. The sound of bugles and the flash of fire could be heard from time to time as the enemy probed the hills tour right rear. The sound served to galvanize our minds as the adrenalin surged to meet the expected challenge. As the night wore on, however there was no direct action, and the needs of the body for food and warmth edged their way into my thoughts. The one warming tent set up just to our rear of the line became increasingly inviting. It was close to dawn when I succumbed to desire and entered the tent. A can of drys, one of fruit and a wet, now partially frozen, would, when thawed make for breakfast. The rations dug out of deep parka pockets were set to warm. A hole in the wet would serve to let out the steam while advertising its warmth. As I consumed the fruit, followed by the familiar pork and beans, we speculated about what had happened—why had S-2 been so sure that tonight was the night. Had the daily company sized patrols caused the enemy to reconsider, or had S-2 just been wrong again! “The night is not over yet” someone reminded us, causing a momentary pause in the talk. Suddenly—BAM!!. The lieutenant grabbed the side of his head as a trickle of blood oozed through his fingers. The tent emptied as we scrambled t our positions. S-2 was right, the fist of the incoming prove that. As we huddled waiting for the rest of the registration fire we checked our weapons and those on our left and right. As the quietness returned we were left with only the pounding of our hearts coupled with the rush of adrenalin, and the quietness of the night. We waited as the knot in our stomachs tightened. Not a sound to our front. Why one round and nothing more? As the streaks of dawn tentatively crawled over the horizon, the pangs of hunger returned. I had reached for my drys-gone! What had happened to them? I had eaten the fruit and was in the middle of my beans when the solitary round hit. I knew I had taken my drys out of my parka. Suddenly it dawned on me. The incoming—my drys?? As I reviewed my preparations for the meal, it became apparent that my drys had been the incoming and the womb on the lieutenant’s head. (You just do not put drys on the stove). I was not sure if any one else that day figured out what that single round of “incoming” was. As for myself, stayed clear of the tent and particularly the lieutenant. A secret these so many years. To the lieutenant and all those who so hastily abandoned the warming tent that night, my apologies. - Mac
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