The year was 1953.
High on a rock pile in the mountains of Korea, a sniper perched, methodically picking off American soldiers one by one. Day after day more men fell. Blood stained the soil of Heartbreak Ridge, a rugged seven-mile stretch of unforgiving, mountainous terrain that had become a killing field.
Below the ridge, a young foot soldier hunkered down on the ground, ever watchful for the shooter who had killed so many of his comrades. He had been just nine days shy of his twenty-second birthday when his sergeant handed him a sniper rifle. "Kletscher, it’s your turn today," the officer said to the young soldier. That soldier— my dad—grasped the weapon and prepared to follow orders.
For days now he had stayed in the trenches, watching, studying the sniper’s shooting pattern. With gun in hand, my dad had a shot at taking out the enemy. As he peeked over the edge of the trench, a bullet whizzed toward him and landed with a thud in the earthen wall. The angle of the slug gave away the sniper’s position. Raising his arms, my dad carefully aligned his rifle, and then fired. Ka-puck! The bullet hit its intended target.
Two days later, a dozen men were ordered to retrieve the dead sniper. They approached cautiously, concerned that the frozen body could be booby trapped. My dad stood guard nearby, watching for enemies who might sneak in behind them. The soldiers made it back to their posts without incident.
Suddenly they came under heavy attack as mortar rounds lobbed toward them. As my dad lifted his head to see where the shells were landing, he was hit in the face and neck by shrapnel. "I knew blood was running," he said. "But there was nothing I could do. You don’t run." Scared, shaking, and badly bleeding, he settled in for a long night. Just then two more mortars sailed in, landing next to him. They failed to explode. If they had blown on impact, my father would have died, another casualty of war.
"It was that guardian angel again," he said, pointing heavenward. He offered no further explanation.
For months my dad had been shadowed by his guardian angel as he patrolled the no-man’s land of Korea. In a land of bone-chilling bitter cold, this young farmer from Minnesota dug his boots deep into foxholes, sought refuge behind bunkers and in trenches, witnessed aerial dogfights, dodged gunfire and bombs, endured days of nonstop shelling, and engaged in fierce combat along the front line. Always he prayed his life would be spared and he would return safely home.
Home was always on the minds of the soldiers, including my dad. In a letter written to his parents on March 4, 1953, his twenty-second birthday, my dad mentioned nothing about the shrapnel injuries he had suffered a week earlier. In fact, he told his parents, "I’m feeling fine, don’t worry about me." He expressed concern for his younger brother, who might be drafted. He worried how his parents would manage the family farm with one less pair of hands. He also wrote about his faith: "Sure was good to go to church. I had communion. I always try and make every church service they got over here. Once a week the chaplain comes up here on the hill. It’s always good to go. Always makes a guy know he isn’t alone." Photos my dad snapped of church services in Korea show soldiers kneeling in the dirt, receiving the Lord’s Supper before an outdoor makeshift altar.
Even when he was alone, my dad felt God’s presence. He carried with him a small black book, God Our Refuge, a gift from the women’s group in his home church. It included gospel readings, devotions, meditations, prayers, hymns, and more. The edges of the book are grimy and curled inward, softened from months in my dad’s pocket. Inside the slim volume my dad found solace, hope, and comfort in the face of constant death.
