The summer monsoon had given way to the dry, hard winds of early autumn, and the hills—scarred by months of shelling—offered little concealment or comfort. Razor-backed ridgelines and treeless slopes formed the backbone of the Iron Triangle, where nights brought the sounds of distant shellfire and most days were spent either patrolling forward slopes or preparing for the next night’s operation. With few exceptions, the terrain offered little natural shelter, and positions were dug into rocky soil and fortified with sandbag and log bunkers.

By early October 1951, Private Robert L. Hainke was a few weeks into his assignment with M Company, 27th Infantry Regiment in the central sector of the Korean Peninsula under the 25th Infantry Division. The regiment was in a phase of stabilization following its September offensive near Kumhwa and the seizure of Hill 538.  When word of the recruitment for the 27th Infantry's Raider Platoon traveled through the ranks, it was a tantalizing opportunity for adventure and Hainke reported to Lieutenant Hackworth and Sergeant Crispino to interview for a spot in the exclusive Wolfhound Raiders platoon.

The Raiders were a provisional force modeled after the recently disbanded Ranger companies and by October reached peak effectiveness. Formed in August under the leadership of Lieutenant David Hackworth, the Wolfhound Raiders had been forged through aggressive selection, live rehearsals, and relentless drilling. Their reputation grew quickly, both for battlefield success, disregard of convention, and general misbehavior. Organized around four squads and a small command group, they operated with speed, silence, and an understanding that their missions would be executed deep into no-man's land, often without direct support.  Objectives varied from prisoner snatches, bunker demolitions, and ambushes along known enemy trails. They outfitted themselves with a range of weapons, which Hackworth ensured were all automatic to include M3 Grease Guns, Thompsons and captured burp guns for close quarters.  Much of their equipment was limited and given the breadth and quantities of items they required, they resorted to trading and stealing from other units and rear echelon depots.

When original members of the platoon became casualties or began to rotate out, Hainke was vetted into the platoon along with few other volunteers seeking a chance to serve with the Raiders. They had just suffered their first hard battle in September and a few spots were available for replacements.  Bob joined at that time while instruction focused on integrating replacements and running rehearsals for live operations.

The final days of October saw the Raiders engaged in a string of aggressive night actions that took them deeper into enemy-held terrain — a cumulative education in Chinese defensive patterns, terrain familiarity, and the brutal efficiencies required for survival. Patrol routes were often seeded with mines, and approaches to enemy positions were narrowed by ridgeline terrain and interlocking arcs of machine-gun fire. Each mission was preceded by extensive rehearsals and route reconnaissance, often conducted by small scout elements.

It was under these circumstances that they were tasked with what would be their most costly operation against Hill 400. According to Intelligence, there were no more than fifty Chinese holding the hill, but the enemy had burrowed deep into the hill's rocky slopes.  Interlocking trenches and reverse-slope bunkers made frontal assaults suicidal, while indirect fire failed to dislodge the defenders. From a tactical standpoint, Hill 400 had become a symbol of the static but vicious nature of the war—a high ground that refused to be taken by attrition alone.  To ultimately break the enemy and take the high ground, Colonel Sloan assigned the objective to the Wolfhound Raiders and to return with a prisoner for interrogation.

The last light faded quickly on the night of November 4th, and by nightfall the landscape was cloaked in complete darkness, aided by a dense fog that rolled over the ridgelines and concealed movement below. There was no moon to betray them—ideal conditions for what would be a silent, uphill approach. The lead scout section moved out first, slipping through the perimeter wire undetected. Squad after squad followed in practiced sequence, each man stepping in rhythm, barely speaking, guided by the shapes ahead and the trust of rehearsal.  The battalion line behind them held its breath as the Raiders disappeared into the gloom of no-man's-land.

The approach was long and exposed, requiring passage through American wire and minefields before crossing open ground overlooked by enemy positions. Beneath the darkness and drifting fog, the Raiders advanced in a tight column, communicating by touch and whispers. Equipment had been taped down to eliminate sound, and each man carried only what was essential. Scout teams had previously identified three forward enemy outposts which had to be neutralized in silence to avoid compromising the main assault.

These forward positions were eliminated quickly and without alarm. A few sleeping sentries pulled from their holes in complete surprise had no time to react before their throats were slit and they were dragged into shell holes at the bottom of the hill.  Once inside the Chinese trench line, Raiders fanned out and began preparing satchel charges to breach bunkers. But before the attack could be synchronized, the silence broke into chaos when one alert sentry opened fire on the Raiders. Grenades arced through the dark, bursting with a flash that blinded the observer. The 'potato masher' types were nearly harmless, but that night the Chinese were also hurling frags down the hill.  Most of them rolled to the bottom and exploded harmlessly, but a few peppered unfortunate Raiders.  

Clambering toward the crest, Raiders surged forward toward the trench maze, firing from the hip, slamming charges into bunker entrances, and engaging in close-quarters fighting. The terrain offered little margin for retreat. Communications became unreliable as the SCR-300 radio sets were cumbersome in the trenches and vulnerable to shrapnel. Green tracers from a Chinese machine gun tore into Jack Speed's squad. The position, dug into a rocky outcrop near the summit, had a clear field of fire directly onto the Raider advance.  Two men— Bill Smith and James Salazar—volunteered to take it out. Using a fold in the slope for partial cover, they crawled up under Raider suppressive fire. Salazar opened up first and Smith hurled two captured antitank grenades into the nest. The position erupted. Both men began to pull back when a surviving gunner fired a long burst that cut them down. Smith tumbled into the trench, mortally wounded.

The assault surged again, this time under the cover of 60mm mortar fire from I Company. The barrage landed just ahead of the Raider line as they closed in on the final Chinese bunkers. The summit dissolved into a rolling, close-range battle fought with knives, rifle butts, and grenades.  The wounded, hastily patched up by Doc Brakeman in a shell hole on the slope, stubbornly returned to the fight uphill.  At that point they were so low or out of ammunition that the platoon was depending almost entirely on captured weapons scavenged from the trenches.

Chinese resistance was fierce and sustained as reinforcements arrived through a communication trench that linked Hill 400 to the higher Hill 419 on the reverse slope. From there, enemy grenades and firepower rained down. One Raider was paralyzed but managed to shield a wounded comrade with his body while he continued to fire until killed. Raiders pulled Chinese dead from the trenches and rolled them down the hill looking for a prisoner.

Finally they found one. He revealed the enemy strength was nearly three hundred men (very underestimated by intelligence), and Chinese forces had been reinforcing the hill through a concealed tunnel-trench network that snaked through to Hill 419. More importantly, the prisoner confirmed that American artillery had devastated the reinforcements. Those who had not been killed were demoralized, scattered, or retreating. With that, the Raiders made their final push.

Twenty bloodied men crested the summit under the continuing barrage of American mortars. The ground was littered with Chinese dead. Some defenders had tried to flee back down the reverse slope and been caught in the shelling. But one Bren gun team remained in place and inflicted more casualties before being neutralized in a final close-range assault led by Jimmie Mayamura and Robert Evans. Evans was killed by a burst to the chest; Jimmie was shot through the face and lay barely conscious beside the ruined position.

As dawn crept over the slope, the battered platoon still held a portion of the hill’s crown. Reinforcements from the regiment moved in to relieve the survivors. Hill 400 was theirs—but at a steep price. Of the thirty-three men who began the raid, twenty-four were wounded, three were killed outright. Bob Hainke was one of the few unscathed – or if he was, it was not enough for him to report to the aid station.  The platoon was battered and diminished, thoroughly bloodied in one night of fighting. Though the objective was technically achieved, the cost marked a turning point for the Wolfhound Raiders and it was the beginning of their dissolution.

In December 1951, the 27th Infantry Regiment was withdrawn from front-line operations and ordered to Koje-do Island, off the southern coast of Korea.  Instead of probing enemy trench systems in the icy Iron Triangle, the regiment was tasked with providing security over thousands of prisoners of war and civilian internees confined to the island. For the Raiders, this marked the end of their operational role as a combat formation.  The platoon which was never formally recognized on paper was quietly dissolved. Combat-wounded veterans were reassigned or evacuated while others rotated out. Those who remained were folded back into the regiment. Hainke and the few who stayed with the 27th, were reabsorbed into their original companies for routine duties and detailed to maintain order in the camp.

The Raiders left no colors, no official streamers, and no formal disbandment orders.  For Hainke and others, it was a season of high stakes and steel nerves that, as a unit policy under Hackworth, warranted no decorations.  When he formed the unit, he established there would be no such reward for actions as he did not want the platoon to ‘become a watering hole for glory hunters.’  Despite this, after some pressure from the awards section to draft recommendations, several men were decorated for Hill 400.  Still, their tabs and scrolls bearing their ‘Raider’ title was more coveted and worn proudly above their 25th Division patches from Koje-do back to whichever posts the Raiders ended up in.  Hackworth would later recount that the final act of the Raiders came not on a hilltop, but in the Non-Commissioned Officers' Club on Koje-do.  When a sergeant from another unit recognized him and challenged his presence in the club, a brawl broke out that left the building wrecked, chairs splintered, and Raiders bloodied but standing. It was a fitting end for a group that had ignored the rules, lived fast, and fought hard.