On Christmas night 1950, T. R. Fehrenbach explains (in This Kind of War), some of the American POWs marching over the longest highest mountains in Korea started to break down:
Worn out, miserable, hopeless now, several of the American POW’s started to cry. One young boy gave up completely. He told Schlichter, “Sergeant, I can’t go on.”
Schlichter tried to argue him into continuing. But the boy refused to move. The guards came — and they were very considerate. They did not shoot or bayonet the boy, but brought a sled.
All night long, up the mountain and down its far side, other men took turns dragging the man who refused to march.
In the dawn, when the stooped, limping party halted under the harsh command of their guards, the face of the man who had been pulled on the sled was white with frost. He had frozen to death during the night.
[...]
As the long, bedraggled, stubble-faced column weaved its way into the mining valley, men falling out at each hut a lean collie dog ran up and down the column, barking happily. As the dog came up to sniff the strange Americans, Charles Schlichter held out a hand to the friendly animal, soothing it.
That night, Schlichter and the men in his hut ate roast dog. The other men let Schlichter, who did the honors, have the largest piece.