The Graybeards - Korean War Veterans Association

Beyond the Call of Duty
By Robert Harper
His picture would never be featured
on a recruiting poster. Lt William
Trinen always looked as though
he had dressed in total darkness and put
on somebody else’s uniform by mistake.
Nothing seemed to fit. During World War
II Bill had served with 66th Tank
Regiment, 2nd ‘Hell-on-Wheels’Armored
Division. The 66th did not hand out any
points for neatness. They did award
Purple Hearts and bestowed medals for
valor. Bill had some of both.
A few days before the attack to break
out of the Pusan Perimeter I saw Bill’s
jeep drive into my platoon area; he had
come to show me some pictures of his
family he had received that morning. He
did not get out of the jeep and walk back
to where my tanks were parked. That was
unusual. I had not yet learned about his
bleeding ulcer, and how weak he had
become from the loss of blood. He and the
other members of his tank crew were trying
to keep that a secret from the company
commander, who would have ordered a
medical evacuation. Later I would learn
that sometimes he was so weak a crew
member helped him climb onto the tank
and into his commander’s position in the
turret. Bill wanted to wait until after the
attack to seek medical help.
Shortly after Bill arrived, a young lieutenant
from one of the regimental tank
companies drove up. He had tracked Bill
to my area to hear his comments about
tank warfare. The lieutenant’s uncle had
served with Bill in the 66th. The lieutenant
was not sure
that he could hold
up under the stress
of battle. He said,
“Sometimes
I do not
feel
After almost an hour the lieutenant asked the question that is
seldom asked by tankers because the answer is too gruesome
to think about. “What if my tank is engulfed in flames?”
very brave.” Lt Trinen told him the troops
would accept some caution and reasonable
fear in a leader. But they instinctively
mistrust a rash commander, filled with
a mindless thirst for glory, because they
know he will eventually get them killed.
Bill suggested to the lieutenant that he act
just a little brave now and then. “If you act
kind of brave often enough it finally ceases
to be an act and becomes a habit.”
After almost an hour the lieutenant
asked the question that is seldom asked by
tankers because the answer is too gruesome
to think about. “What if my tank is
engulfed in flames?” Bill was silent for a
few seconds. He began by reminding the
lieutenant that he would be going into battle
with explosive ammunition stored all
around him; even the deck where he stood
inside the turret was a cover for ammo
storage. The gasoline tanks are only a few
feet away. Bill seemed undecided about
continuing the discussion. After a long
pause he said, “If an anti-tank round hits
the gas tank you will not have time to
think.” There was a change in his tone of
voice; now, he was relating a personal
experience and the lieutenant could search
for the lesson on his own.
Lt Trinen told him that if his tank burst
into flames he would bolt out of the tank
and his instinct for self-preservation
would cause him to run away. Then he
would spend many sleepless nights haunted
by guilt and shame convinced that he,
not the enemy, was responsible for the
deaths of his men. Some of them will be
mortally wounded by the enemy round;
others scream
and beg for
help. “You will
hear those
screams for the rest of
your life.”
During the attack on 16
September, C
Company, 72nd
Tank Battalion, supported 23rd Infantry
Regiment. The plan was for my platoon to
attack down the road and exploit any
breakthrough. Bill’s tanks were to follow
us across the line of departure, then when
the terrain permitted, his platoon would
deploy in line on our flank, and become
the primary base of fire to support the
infantry assault.
Early that morning when we were
approaching the line of departure I saw
Bill’s tanks parked just off the road; he
was not in the turret of his command tank.
I saw him down beside his tank lying on
an army blanket spread on the ground. I
stopped the column and walked over to
check on him. His face was so drawn and
pale I asked if he had been wounded. He
said, “No. My ulcer is acting up.” Then he
began to discuss the coming attack. I
encouraged him to seek medical help and
told him I could work with his platoon
sergeant. He said, “No. I have to go; my
men need me.” That was true. The whole
truth was that all of us needed him. I could
have contacted the company commander
by radio. I did not. I wanted him to be on
my flank directing fire as we advanced
toward that heavily fortified enemy line.
We battled the North Koreans all day.
Just before dark they fled from their positions
and we raced to the Naktong River.
After dark the company commander told
me that Bill had been killed. He was walking
in front of his tank guiding it through
difficult terrain to a position that would
allow his gunner to fire into the enemy’s
flank. A North Korean soldier jumped up
in front of him and fired a burst from his
burp gun. The stream of bullets knocked
Bill off his feet and cut him almost in half.
He died where he fell. The enemy soldier
lived only a few seconds longer.
I was deeply saddened by his death. I
felt I was to blame—just as Bill had predicted
the lieutenant would feel guilty for
the deaths of his men. With time, I real-
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The Graybeards