War stories: The 'forgotten war' remembered by those who served

Photo: John Governale

NOT FORGOTTEN — Tarmo Raasumaa, 81, of Paris, remembers the "forgotten war" because he was there.

Photo:

HOME ALIVE — This is Tarmo Raasumaa at age 23, after returning from two years of combat duty in Korea.

PARIS — The Korean War is often called the forgotten war. But Tarmo Raasumaa, of Paris, and thousands of others who fought there have not forgotten it.

Initially, it wasn't even called a war. Because the United States had just struggled through years of fighting World War II, the word "war" was avoided in describing the fighting. It was called the Korean Conflict, or a police action, or stopping the spread of communist aggression.

"It was a war," Raasumaa said. "Call it what you want, I guarantee you, it was a war."

During World War II, Korea was ruled by Japan. Following the surrender of Japan, Korea was divided along the 38th parallel, with United States troops occupying the southern part, and Soviet troops, the northern.

On June 25, 1950, North Korean forces invaded South Korea, hoping to unify the country under communist rule. United States forces came to the aid of the South. The People's Republic of China, with military and material aid from the Soviet Union, came to the aid of the North.

The fighting lasted until July of 1953, ending up with the country still divided at the 38th parallel, but with the addition of a Demilitarized Zone to act as a buffer between North and South.

During the three years of the war, more than 33,000 Americans lost their lives and another 92,000 were wounded. Some 5,000 more were listed as missing in action. Almost half of the 7,245 Americans who were captured, died in enemy hands.

In 1951 – at the age of 21 – Raasumaa [pronounced RAHZ-u-ma] was drafted and trained to repair tanks.

He was sent to Korea and stationed with a U.S. unit north of the 38th Parallel, working in a motor pool. His job was to help keep the unit's vehicles running.

This was challenging because much of the U.S. equipment was left over from WWII and parts were hard to come by. This meant that if a tank, or armored personnel carrier [APC] or other vehicle was disabled in combat, it had to be recovered.

Raasumaa was one of three crew chiefs in the motor pool. Each had an assistant driver and a radio man. Whenever a call came in for vehicle recovery, one of the crew chiefs would take his two-man crew, get in a 40-ton tank recovery vehicle, and go into the combat zone after the disabled vehicle.

The equipment would be attached to the back of the recovery vehicle using a towing bar and towed back to the motor pool.

"We'd haul them in, get them back into shape, and send them back to the front lines. If a vehicle was too badly damaged to repair, it would still be hauled in and stripped for parts to fix other vehicles," Raasumaa said.

The missions were dangerous and nerve-wracking.

"We took turns. When your turn came up, you went. Every time you went out on a recovery mission, you got combat pay, because you were in an area where anything could happen in a hurry.

"They never let the crew chiefs go out together. They didn't want to lose us all at once. We always took turns."

Raasumaa went on so many recovery missions that now, he can't even guess at the number.

As a rule, teams would be sent out during the day, making finding the disabled equipment easier. One time, though, Raasumaa was sent out at night. The target of his efforts was an APC located in an uninviting place called The Valley of Death.

The APC had a track come off its sprocket and was mired in a brook at the bottom of a steep hill. Just getting to the location, behind enemy lines at night, was difficult enough. The location of the APC made it even harder. Combat engineers had to bulldoze an angled approach down the hill because it was so steep.

The recovery vehicle – picture a 40-ton tank without the cannon – had a periscope so they could drive with the hatches closed. It was so dark that night, the crew couldn't see anything through the periscope, so they rode with the hatches open and their heads sticking out.

"We got to the APC, and I put the tank recovery winch onto it," Raasumaa said. "I tried to winch it out, but there was so much resistance, it broke the shear pin on the winch."

So much for quietly pulling the APC out and towing it away.

"We had some chains, I bet the links were a good inch in diameter. We hooked on with it and I backed up and drove forward, jerking on the APC until I jerked it out of the brook."

The APC couldn't be towed with the sprung track, so the track had to be removed. As Raasumaa and his assistant driver prepared to remove the track, all hell broke loose between American and Chinese troops in the area.

"All I could see was the tracers. For every tracer round, there are four others you don't see. Every fifth round was a tracer. The whole air was just full of tracers over our heads.

"The light from the tracers and from flares that were shot up helped us so we could see what we were doing. It was a blessing in disguise."

As his assistant held a pin up to the track, Raasumaa used a sledgehammer, pounding furiously and with all his might, to separate the track so it could be removed and they could tow the APC.

"I give a lot of credit to that assistant driver of mine. He had a lot of faith in me. He held the pin while I swung the sledgehammer. I don't think I ever swung a sledgehammer any harder than I did that night."

As they were finishing their work, things took a potential turn for the worse. In the weird half-light of combat, some men approached. Were they Americans or Chinese?

Raasumaa told them to halt and asked them who the third baseman for the New York Yankees was.

They didn't answer.

Rassumaa pulled back the cocking handle on the recovery vehicle's 50-caliber machine gun.

"The men, who it turns out were Americans, came up with the right answer in a hurry."

Raasumaa no longer remembers who the Yankee's third baseman was back then, but at the time, he knew and the American patrol knew.

The Americans, it turned out, were what was called a suicide patrol. They would sneak around in the dark and capture North Korean soldiers and bring them back for interrogation.

One of the patrol had stepped on a land mine and was badly injured.

"We put him in the tank recovery vehicle and transported him out along with the APC."

Raasumaa stops and shakes his head at the memory.

"I had some close ones over there.

"One time, dirt was kicking up all around me. I looked up and saw I was being strafed by a MIG [an enemy aircraft]. I could see the fire spitting out of all his guns.

"Most of the foxholes were four feet deep. I jumped into a foxhole that was only about a foot-and-a-half deep. Lead was flying all around me. To this day, I don't know why I wasn't killed."

After the War, Raasumaa returned to the Oxford Hills.

"I was awfully glad to be out of there. I didn't think I would make it back. What a feeling when I arrived in Massachusetts. I got off that plane and I felt like kissing the ground."

After he was back, Raasumaa bought some property on Halls Pond Road in  Paris and built himself a home. He got married and had three children, two boys and a girl.

"Those three kids all turned out beautiful," he said, admiring their pictures on the wall.

As for the forgotten war, Raasumaa, for one, hasn't forgotten.

"People today don't seem to know where their freedom comes from. When people see a veteran, no matter from what war, they should shake his hand and say thank you.

"I do that."