THE ENEMY FAILED to take this outpost because a handful of guys with dirty faces and clean rifles have plenty of guts.

This is outpost Harry where the enemy is only 500 yards away — in three directions. This is outpost Harry where more than a hundred fighting men have died. Where fear settles on the heart at dusk and exhaustion comes with the dawn.

An outpost is considerably more than the word implies. It is a proving ground for moral strength and courage, a battleground for a man against himself. Where he finds the answers are decisive. Where the men of George, Fox, and Easy companies have proved to their battalion commander that he need no longer question their fighting ability. Just ask Maj. John K. Singlaub who says with pride, "We had been a bit worried about the men holding, but not now."

Up here a 100 per cent alert lasts through the night for, like Indian warfare of old, the battle comes without warning. Inevitably it comes when nerves are tightest after long hours of waiting. And it is the strain of waiting, of trying to knock an edge off the fear that is hard within you that wears so strongly, Of trying to wipe sweating palms unobtrusively ... checking the breach again, setting your rifle aside — carefully — away from loose dirt, to grab another smoke. Ask Sgt. Ken Erving about the waiting. About keeping that machine gun slick and clean.

With the waiting comes the listening. Hearing sounds you heard last night but tonight different than any sounds you ever heard before. No sound the same as it was the night before. Or the night before that. Out there and above you is the enemy. Or he might be just below the wire. Or he may be creeping across the ridge that links Harry with another knob different only in that the Reds hold it. You wonder where he is. You wait for him and listen. A sound reaches your ears. There he is — get on the horn man, and let 'em know. No, wait, it's those damn frogs again. And again, Yeah, frogs alright. Close your eyes a second. Take it easy, everything's under control.

Back and over to the right, down on the MLR, someone lets one go. Instantly that sunburned feeling races along your nerves, scraping and battering its way deep into your brain. Sure, it was over there. Someplace else, not here ... but what does it mean? Are we next?

It's one o'clock ... remember the night out by Coopers Corner when you and Marion decided to "do the handsome thing?" One o'clock then, too. Yeah, but you're not with Marion. Nuts.

How many more days have I got up here? Two, three? No, just tonight. Relief comes up tomorrow. Damn those frogs. Except for them, it's quiet tonight.

Ask 2d Lt. Tom Platts how long he stays on Harry. He's a forward observer up here. "We usually stay on an OP around a month to 40 days. It's right about the strain of waiting at night. Anyplace is bad enough on the line, but Harry's pretty much under the gun."

With dawn, the tension eases somewhat. It's a foolish type of war. Your side has the air power so the enemy stays underground during the day. You can almost relax and try to write a letter. But what can you say? "I'm on an outpost Mom, but it's no sweat ..." You want to tell the truth, that you're scared and maybe tomorrow night you will die. You want to tell about the enemy. How he comes screaming through his own artillery barrage. But there are no words handy to describe the battle. The inferno of noise, the ringing in your head, sudden silences and bedlam again.

How can you write the truth. The blood suddenly smeared across an empty combat ration box or the unexpected, unseen shove that knocks you on your can and the realization you weren't pushed but blown down. And where can you find a pen or pencil that will describe the enemy in your trench, running toward you?

Yes, you can describe what happened and what you saw but how can you write those things you feel. The thoughts of turning and running and why you didn't. That feeling of being alone, and of being crowded until you want to yell and swing at everyone around you.

And the sudden end of battle. The time it takes to settle down again. For your nerves to smooth out and carry your demands without detours. Finally the sudden tiredness and the fact you're hungry but don't want to eat just yet.

So many things you want to write but instead you tell of the wonder of peace and quietness the following morning with little to show the enemy has been there. You write of a flashlight or pistol the enemy left behind. The propaganda leaflet ground into the dirt and maybe a body they didn't take with then Not much when the sun is shining and white clouds frame the enemy hill. And you wonder again what kind of flower is the purple blossom that grows so readily on Korea hillsides. And you sleep.

By now you've slept a little, eaten, followed through on the ammo check, cleaned your weapon and gotten in on a bull session,

"I hear these whistles and grenades and busted out of the bunker." It is Platoon Sgt. Mike Meara talking to an officer. "All my guys were in position. I had a feeling then and there that no one was going to push us off this hill.

"You know something? I think these birds intended to stay for awhile. One of 'em carried his burp gun, six ammo bandoliers, grenades, an anti-tank shaped charge, four sections of bangolore torpedo, a dynamite satchel charge, a shovel, a cleaning rod, and wire cutters."

Sgt. Ed Mullen, a George company squad leader, leans forward. "The first Red I met came along the trench yelling, 'Comrade, comrade' holding a grenade in one hand and firing a burp gun with the other."

Listening to the more battle-experienced men talk, you wish you could tell of your part in the battle. But it's all in pieces and bits with enough missing that you keep quiet. Or is it because you'd rather not remember those missing pieces.

And now it's almost three o'clock and your relief shows up. You packed awhile ago when you rolled your stuff up in your towel. Move out, boy, you've finished your stretch up here for awhile. Scram, man, don't look back. Just head out down the hill and, hey, find out what the hell is the name of this purple flower, will ya?

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