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| George Buster Singleton |
Sunday, Dec. 24, 1950, was a day to be remember. The steep hills of Korea to the north were covered with snow, and the temperature was well below zero. The fading light cast huge shadows across the valleys as the coming darkness gradually pushed its way up the sides of the steep hills, and began to cover the foxholes and the men who waited there like a great gray massive blanket.
The smell of death rode the winds, as hundreds of bodies, both American and North Korean, stained the new-fallen snow with their life’s blood. The attack that had come from the high hills in front had been beaten back. The waves of charging human flesh had faltered, as the stench of burnt gunpowder, mixed with cries of the wounded, penetrated the very souls of those who waited.
All knew that before too long, the North Koreans and their Chinese allies would muster once more in the hills beyond and try once again for victory over their hated American opposition.
Eat, rest and nap
Word was passed from foxhole to foxhole that now was the time to check all weapons and maybe try and eat the cold C rations – if by a miracle, anyone there was hungry. Also, a time to rest and catch a nap. The night promised to be long and full of surprises.
Some tried to wrap themselves in their ponchos to protect them from the freezing mud and rest for a few precious minutes. All dreamed of home and what it would be like if by some miracle the distance that separated them could be pushed aside.
The air was uneasy with quietness. Nothing seemed to move; only the cold freezing wind seemed active. It would sweep down across the foxholes and blow downward into the muddy crevices as though searching one out to grasp with its icy fingers. Sleep was slow in coming.
A bugle call to death
As the icy winds swept down from the north and across the hiding places of the enemy, the dreaded high-pitched notes of a small tin bugle touched every year that could hear its call of death. All knew that this was the prelude to the release of the legions from hell that would soon flow down the sides of the hills up front, to their date with eternity.
Within seconds, thousands of bugles had joined the nerve-shattering call. The sounds seemed to pierce the very souls of those who waited. Many who would never see the dawn of Christmas morning.
Then, as though some giant signal had been given, the bugles stopped. The quietness rushed forth with the force of a great tidal wave. The silence was deafening.
As the masses of the thousands of humans began to charge down the hills toward the waiting Americans, the approaching noise seemed as though a thousand locomotives had broken loose and were running out of control, all in the same direction.
Pitchforks and explosives
Wave after wave of screaming human demons charged across the open spaces that lay to the front. Many armed only with pitchforks, others with explosives tied to their bodies, facing certain death as they struggled to reach the hated Americans.
The deafening noise of weapons firing caused one to scream into the darkness to regain his sanity. Rifle barrels became too hot to touch as the charging masses tried to force their way over the piles of their own dead comrades in a battle to the death with the enemy they had been taught to hate. Each, in one last, desperate effort, to close in hand to hand combat with the enemy that waited in the darkness.
The gray dawn crept ever so carefully across the open spaces to the front, as though trying not to disturb the sleep of the dead who littered the frozen ground, all stained with blood. Quietness had again gained control of the fields of death. A stanching fog of smoke settled across the fields.
Looking into two worlds
Above the smoke, the coming dawn could be seen. Below, only death and agony. Looking at the smoke, it seemed that one was looking into two worlds – the beauty of the coming morning on one hand, and the aftermath of hell let loose on the other.
This was Christmas morning. Somewhere down the line of foxholes to the left, someone began to sing. “O Holy night! The stars are brightly shining. It is the night of the dear Savior’s birth.”
From the other foxholes along the edge of the hill, other voices joined in unison. A strange feeling of peace settled across the fields of death. Christmas had arrived; one could feel it in the air.
(Singleton, the author of the 1991 book “Of Foxfire and Phantom Soldiers,” passed away at the age of 79 on July 19, 2007. A longtime resident of Monroeville, he was born to Vincent William Singleton and Frances Cornelia Faile Singleton, during a late-night thunderstorm, on Dec. 14, 1927 in Marengo County, graduated from Sweet Water High School in 1946, served as a U.S. Marine paratrooper in the Korean War, worked as a riverboat deckhand, lived for a time among Apache Indians, was bitten at least twice by venomous snakes, moved to Monroe County on June 28, 1964 and served as the administrator of the Monroeville National Guard unit from June 28, 1964 to Dec. 14, 1987. He was promoted from the enlisted ranks to warrant officer in May 1972. For years, Singleton’s columns, titled “Monroe County history – Did you know?” and “Somewhere in Time” appeared in The Monroe Journal, and he wrote a lengthy series of articles about Monroe County that appeared in Alabama Life magazine. It’s believed that his first column appeared in the March 25, 1971 edition of The Monroe Journal. He also helped organize the Monroe County Museum and Historical Society and was also a past president of that organization. He is buried in Pineville Cemetery in Monroeville. The column above and all of Singleton’s other columns are available to the public through the microfilm records at the Monroe County Public Library in Monroeville. Singleton’s columns are presented here each week for research and scholarship purposes and as part of an effort to keep his work and memory alive.)
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