In November of 1963 I arrived at the 508th ASA Group Headquarters in Korea to begin my army career as a traffic analyst. The Group was located in Yong Dong Po on the western outskirts of Seoul. I was nineteen years old and ready to change the world.
My first full day in operations Sargent Putler, called everyone together for a special announcement. Two people were needed immediately to serve as forward-area site reporters on a small island just off the coast of Korea called Kanghwa-Do. The mission was to isolate and report on a military buildup on the adjacent Hae Ju peninsula.
Contrary to the advice of just about everyone, and even though I had never heard of the place, I jumped at the opportunity. Early the next morning I found myself in a jeep heading west into the mountains, wondering if I had made a wise decision. Although I didn't know it at the time, this was a decision that would bind me to SIGINT for a lifetime.
The collection site was at the summit of the most dominant mountain on the island. Ancient legend held that the first Korean emerged from the mountain in the form of a bear and many Koreans considered the mountain to be sacred. To us it represented a treacherous half-hour drive from our supply base halfway down the mountain. During periods of heavy snow, rain, or fog someone had to walk in front of the right headlight to keep the driver from running over the edge. There is no demilitarized buffer zone in this part of Korea, the Han river estuary and a few Korean marine watch posts where all that separated us from the North Korean Army. The nearest U.S. combat personnel were forty miles to the east.
Despite the isolation, I considered the mountain top to be one of the most beautiful places on earth. The sunrises and the sunsets were distinctively unique and equally spectacular. Sunrises slowly painted the entire island with a golden glow, waking each of the small villages that dotted the island in its turn, as the sun rose in the morning sky. Sunsets gently bathed the Yellow Sea for as far as the eye could see, silhouetting the hundreds of tiny boats transversing to their nightly fishing grounds. On a clear night the stars appeared so close that it seemed that you could reach out and touch them. Conversely, overcast nights were so dark that you could not see your hand in front of your face.
It did not seem possible that there could be anything but peace in such a place. However, the ancient stone watchtower on the mountaintop in front of us dated back to the time of the Mongol invasions and was testament that people had been fighting over this land for a thousand years.
The main reason I volunteered for an assignment on the island was to gain experience in as many different facets of SIGINT production as possible. Of course, I had envisioned that I would be joining an elite team of professionals that would teach me the ropes. It immediately became clear however that my partner John and I were expected to run the entire operation. I had no field experience and John, who that recently been transferred from Japan under mysterious circumstances, had only briefly worked in operations there. We were assigned eight "volunteer" Korean linguists from units all over the country. We were, quite literally, a group of new guys and misfits. The support unit in the valley kept us clothed and fed but, from an operational perspective, we were on our own.
The "site" was actually a plywood shack mounted in the bed of a duce and a half. The shack housed three collection positions. A plywood shelf doubled as a communications station and the site reporter's desk. It was so crammed with equipment that the on-duty crew had to vacate their positions before the on-coming crew could relieve them. The linguist worked three rotating shifts while John and I worked twelve and twelve.
With no formal leadership and very little in the way of guidance from headquarters, we all pulled together to establish an operational collection and reporting site. Within a week we were fully operational and reporting daily. I will always believe our success had more to do with good fortune and common sense than with knowledge or experience because most of the time we had no idea what we were doing.
Initially, power was to be provided by a bank of batteries in the truck. We were told that the truck was capable of running the equipment as long as we kept the batteries charged by running the truck several hours a day. We never tested this theory because no one was quite sure how to run the truck and no one wanted to accidentally drive the collection site off the mountain. We also had a generator, so we used it instead of the truck batteries and it worked fine.
Our antenna was a simple long-wire strung from the top of the shack to a pole on the peak of the mountain. Several months into operations, someone sent us a real antenna. As was often the case with our "upgrades", it just arrived one day via the courier. It was in the original cardboard box with no note or instructions. Fortunately, there was a drawing on the box of the assembled antenna and we used it to piece the parts together. Although our version did not look exactly like the one on the box, to our amazement, it actually worked.
Communications consisted of a field telephone wired down to the support base and a 75-baud teletype circuit patched through the support base to Group.
The collection environment was very rich. In addition to the raw intelligence gleamed from the daily take, there was plenty of technical reporting based on our after hours collection. Proximity to the target was a real reporting bonus. With regular field glasses we could easily observe the building and manning of fortifications, communications tunnels and command bunkers. We never had to guess whether a firing mission was live or practice. If there was a large "boom" after the "fire" command it was a live fire mission. We actually watched the North Koreans build communications facilities and reported on them as they came on-line.
Using my Army training, some specialized training I had received at the home office, and an old traffic analysis handbook, I was able to actively exploit the communications using the methodologies outlined in the handbook. This allowed me to provide timely direct support to our collectors. By spring we had identified, located, and were reporting daily on the activities of the newly formed organization. That spring our operations were also reclassified from survey to permanent status and integrated with the ongoing operations on the mountain.
The highlight of my professional service on the island was my on-site briefing of the 8th Army G2 that included the presentation of our evidence that we had isolated a major new component of the North Korean Army. Within several weeks, the 8th Army issued a formal change to the official Order of Battle accepting our findings.
Frankly, I was most amazed at the amount of operational responsibility we had been given and even more amazed how well we had all responded to the challenge. I have seldom worked with a group of individuals before or since who were as deeply committed to the mission. It was a total team effort and it had paid off handsomely.
These were the times when SIGINT really was fun.
At the time in arrived in Korea new personnel were paired with a sponsored with overseas experience to show them the ropes. My sponsor's nickname was "Father." Naturally, I assumed this was because of his fatherly presentation to his charges in the ways of this new world. Later, I discovered it was because he had been the chaplain's assistant on his first tour, had fallen from grace at his farewell party, and had returned for a second tour - vowing to make up for lost time.
As it happened the operation's NCOIC was completing his tour the same week that I arrived and Father had invited me and the new NCOIC to a farewell party at Judy's to celebrate the change of command. It was my first night in country and, although I didn't know anything about Judy's, I agreed to go only if he would promise to have me back by midnight lockup. Korea was still under marshal law at that time and if you were outside after midnight you could be shot on sight - no questions asked.
Judy's was a five minute walk up the street from the main gate. It was a large complex, consisting of several homes, surrounded by an imposing eight-foot wall. The only gate opened into a small blind courtyard. A single path funneled guests into a larger open courtyard surrounded on three sides by smaller apartment-like units. The larger room on the left was the common sitting room were patrons come to socialize and schedule their appointments. The room is traditional with sliding doors, wooden floors, and no windows. It is heated from beneath by charcoal. The décor is Spartan with a few charcoal landscapes on the walls. The floor is covered with a quilt-like blanket and there are large lounging pillows for visitors and guest. Judy is seated in the far corner surrounded by her entourage. In the opposite corner are a TV and a copy of every parlor game known to man. The remainder of the room is open. Ours is a party of six and we occupy the entire room. Of course, each person has been provided a companion.
You realize immediately that absolutely nothing happens here without Judy's advice and consent - she is in charge. No one calls Judy by name, she is always addressed - with a reverent tone and a slight bow - as Mamasan. Although you must speak to her directly, she rarely answers, replies are made through her translator and advisor. Nevertheless, anything that you want or need is available with a nod or gesture from Judy. Food and drink service, more pillows, more or different companions, a bath, laundry service, sew a button, darn a sock, room for the night - no sweatyda. Judy know how to entertain, Judy knows how to make a buck. Judy's is the local whorehouse.
The companions are young, pretty, intelligent, and very pleasant to be with. They are experts at every card and parlor game and they are smart enough to know when to win and when to allow you to win. They know how to make almost anyone feel relaxed and comfortable. One can only assume that they are even better at what they are paid to do.
Father brought whiskey to pay for the food and use of the room. Following after dinner speeches and presentations of mementos to the departing, we settled down to a friendly game of poker and rounds of storytelling. This went on until almost eleven o'clock. It was inevitable that Judy would ask who was staying for the night and I hoped that Father would keep his promise. Father disappointed me.
I declined the invitation but asked Judy if I could have a tour of the establishment. I could tell she was both puzzled and amused by my request but she asked Kim, my assigned companion, to show me around the compound nevertheless.
Kim was more than anxious to show me and tell me everything about the place. Although she spoke little formal English she knew all the slang and we managed to communicate quite effectively. First she showed me her "yobo" room, reserved for overnight guest. She made me try out the bed, feel the warmth of the floor, the weight of the comforter. She explained in great detail what she could do for me. She showed me the kitchen, the private dining area, the "short-term" rooms, community well, and the central bathroom. She explained that they all shared the household chores. She told me that the Mamasan was good to her and looked after her. Finally, and I'm fairly certain the Mamasan would not have approved, she showed me where she actually lived. She even showed me pictures of her family. She was much more open and honest than I had anticipated.
It was clear that entertaining was a very profitable business and that it supported this small city-state as well as a great many people behind the scenes. Kim told me that for the most part the girls were indentured servants, working off the debt that their families had acquired by borrowing money from Judy. She also told me that the girls were credited for about a one fourth of what Judy charged for services. Another quarter went to direct overhead including; room and board, clothes, cosmetics, schooling, and required medical checkups. She had been told that the remainder was divided between maintenance of the property, protection, payoffs to various officials, and long-term investments (loans).
On the way back to the party room she confided that her real name was Sung, that she was actually seventeen - not twenty, and that she hoped to go to University next year when her family's debt had been paid off. I can only guess that she told me all this because she just couldn't understand why I was not staying the night and she wanted an honest explanation. I told her that this was my first night in Korea and that I didn't want to do anything I would later regret. She understood the words but I could tell that it didn't make any sense to her.
There was no one left when we returned to the party room except Judy. I thanked her for the tour. To my amazement she said "your welcome" in almost perfect English. She also said that I was welcome to stay the night, on the house, but that if I was not staying that I should go quickly because of the curfew. Sung walked me to the gate. I left for the island two days later and never returned to Judy's. Although I am not certain why I never went back, I think it was because it was a little too comfortable there.
One of the most bizarre incidents during my stay on the island involved the mysterious death of Private Kim, one of our guard force. Mostly for political reasons, our compound guard force was composed of Korean nationals under contract from the Korean government. The were an all volunteer force, very professional, and we considered them friends.
Late one very cold night in March, Kim collapsed at his post. The next morning our commanding officer drove him to the doctor in town. The Doctor gave him a shot of penicillin and sent him back to the compound. Penicillin was very expensive and hard to get on the local economy in those days so the CO paid dearly. Local doctors were also known to inject other substance in their patients; particularly unwary GI’s, and charged for the real thing. Early that evening Pvt. Kim went into convulsions. The CO called the doctor but he said he wouldn’t come out that night. A few hours later Kim was dead.
The next morning, the CO convinced the Doctor to come out to the compound to check on Kim by offering him money – he didn’t mention that Pvt. Kim was already dead. When the doctor arrived he found Kim laid out on his bed, with a poncho pulled over his head, on the side of the road just outside the main gate. He confirmed that Kim was dead and offered to dispose of the body – for a hefty price plus transportation costs.
This was more than the CO could take – especially since he was convinced that the Doctor had a hand in Kim’s death. The CO refused to pay anything unless the Doctor took the body. By this time a cab driver, who had been promised an extra fare by the Doctor for bringing him out, began to sense that he might not get what was promised and began yelling at the Doctor.
The doctor was yelling at both the cab driver and the CO in Korean and broken English respectively. In the meantime, trucks were rolling through the gate, pausing to salute their comrade in arms, lying along the side of the road. But they were soon backed up by the cab in the middle of the road and began yelling at the cab driver to get out of the way. Where upon the cab driver began backing down the road with the Doctor in hot pursuit. It was a scene that would have made MASH proud. We never did find out if the doctor got a ride or had to walk back to town. We do know he never came out to the compound again.
Poor Kim lay beside the road for two more days until some relatives arrived to claim the body and bury him on the other side of the hill. We later found out that the CO had paid some townspeople to say that they were relatives, claim the body, and bury it.
The most amazing thing about this incident was that it was not considered to be a particularly unusual event on Kanghwa Do.
In February we had the worst snowstorm of the year. The locals said it was the worst storm that they could remember. It snowed continuously for two days and left about four feet on the ground. It was very unusual to have this much accumulation on the mountain and it caught us by surprise. The wind, which usually swept the mountain clear, seemed to be in reverse and was causing drifts of six feet or more.
Obviously, there was no way to get the trucks up to the site and it was too dangerous to walk the road under such conditions. It was decided to leave the current shift on-duty until the road could be cleared. The power line to the site was down and the on-site generators now had to be used for heating and lighting as well as running the equipment. The on-site crew had emergency blankets and enough C-rations to last a month.
The weather was not clearing as quickly as we had hoped and we decided to send for a bulldozer. We found one that was willing to help, but it would be two days before they could get to us. By now the on-duty shift had been stranded for three full days, and although they were holding up well otherwise, they were running low on fuel.
We decided to attempt a replenishment of the fuel supply while we awaited the bulldozer. By taking the gas cans off of all the available vehicles ,we came up with the 12, five-gallon gas cans, which we figured was enough to support three or four days of operations.
We sent word to the local village that we would pay 100 won to haul five gallons of fuel up the mountain. We hoped a few young men would take up the offer. To our surprise, about 30 older men showed up for the work the next morning. Most of the men wanted to haul two cans at once. We narrowly averted a riot by drawing lots for the privilege of hauling up to ninety pounds of diesel fuel, three miles up a mountain, through chest deep snow, for about a dollar. We let them work out the details; some bartered, some sold their share, others carried for someone else, and everyone seemed satisfied. We were not convinced that the eldest men were the best choice for the task at hand.
Six laborers, each hauling two five-gallon cans, and two guards started up the mountain. The guards were to provide safety and security. The lead guard carried the field radio needed to maintain contact with both the base camp and the site and the rear guard carried a shotgun. Since 120 gallons of diesel fuel was worth a small fortune on the black market, there was some concern about the laborers running off with the fuel, or someone hijacking the load. This turned out to be the least of our concerns.
By the time we reached the site some six hours later, those old men were carrying the fuel, the radio, and the shotgun. We got a real lesson in humility that day. I finally understood why these men in the horsehair hats were so revered throughout their country. They were also wise enough to pause just before the summit to allow the "guards" a moment to regain their composure and recover their equipment. We gave each of them 200 won, a case of C-rations, and a warm meal before sending them back down the mountain. Two days later the bulldozer opened the road.
It was not difficult to befriend villagers on the island. They were friendly by nature and had not yet been exposed to the arrogance that made the US soldier unwelcome in many other places in Korea. This was particularly true of the small detachments of South Korean (ROK) marines scattered around the island. Despite their well deserved reputation for aggressiveness, they welcomed our visits to their units and were always anxious to show us that they were combat-ready. They seemed to have a special regard for members of our unit either because many of us spoke the language or because we were courageous (dumb enough) to wander around unarmed. The ROK marines made patrol-size scouting incursions, or recon’s as the marines liked to call them, into North Korea frequently, and they made no secret about it. At dusk they could often be seen driving around with a large rubber raft waiting for nightfall.
"Tex", a very Texan member of our team, had befriended several of the ROK marines and was a regular guest at one of their coastal outposts. We knew that Tex could charm a snake, but we had no idea that he could actually talk his marine friends into taking him along on an incursion into North Korea. Naturally, when Tex told us that he was planning to infiltrate North Korea with his buddies from over the hill, no one believed him. How could an American non-combatant be allowed to participate in such a risky undertaking? Especially, when the penalty of discovery was to be shot as a spy?
You can imagine our surprise and shock when a ROK marine truck, hauling a rubber boat, stopped by the gate asking for Tex. Tex never lost faith. He knew that they would come for him and he was ready and waiting. While we all stood there with our mouths agape, Tex jumped into the truck and was off before we could react to what was happening. Someone finally got up the nerve to go to the First Sargent and explain what had happened. The First Sargent woke the CO. They both jumped into a jeep and took off after the truck. Fortunately, we observed the truck take the road that went directly to the coast. It seemed like my entire life passed before me before we saw the headlights of the returning jeep. The jeep slowed to a crawl as it entered the base camp, and a very stern looking CO suddenly raised both arms and let out a cheer. There in the back seat was Tex, huddled in a ball, his face still blackened, and his pride bruised.
We probably would have never heard the real end to the story except that the CO asked the First Sargent to document the incident immediately. Naturally, the company clerk who typed up the report made a copy to pass around. It seems that when the CO arrived at the jump-off point, the boat was already in the water, about twenty yards offshore. The CO yelled for them to return Tex to shore immediately. At first they ignored him. When his yelling persisted, they began gesturing that they could not understand what he was saying. Finally, in desperation, the CO began blinking the lights and blowing the horn. Realizing that they had probably lost the element of surprise, the ROK’s aborted the mission and returned to shore. Tex came very close to entering North Korea that night, but as with many things that happened on our island, nothing more was ever said about it. I think we originated the "don’t ask, don’t tell"policy.
Towards the end of my tenure on the island we got a new Commanding Officer. The Major was on a diversity assignment; he was a career Armor officer. Two of our Group’s forward units had already failed the real Army’s Command Maintenance Inspection and the Group commander sent the Major to make sure we were not going to be the third .His mission was to "shape us up."
His first order was for a full field inspection. Most of us didn’t know exactly what a full field inspection was, but we knew enough to know this wasn’t good. Fortunately, the houseboys knew what had to be done and they saw to it that no one was missing anything , even if it meant borrowing it temporarily from someone next door who had already been inspected.
What the CO did discover during his inspection was that we didn’t have enough rifles to go around. Since most of the company were on TDY orders, and hadn’t brought any weapons with them, we had about thirty rifles for seventy-some people. To make up the shortage, everyone was asked to bring a rifle back with them when they next visited their home unit.
The new CO made some classic new guy mistakes. On one of his first afternoons at the helm, he decided to tour the housing area ,small Quonset huts scattered about the compound. Each hut, as we called them, accommodated five or six persons. As he entered the first hut he encountered a young Korean. Thinking that he was trying to steal something, he chased him out the back door and down the path, but couldn’t catch him .He turned out to be the houseboy. When the first Sargeant informed him that the "thief" was actually an employee, he couldn’t believe it. It was just beyond his comprehension that common every-day soldiers could hire houseboys to look after their affairs.
In the next hut everyone was asleep and, suspecting them to be malingerers, he woke everyone up.They had just come off a mid, and were they ever ticked. The next day he did apologize for the misunderstanding ,admitting that he had never been associated with a unit that was fully staffed around the clock. At that point he didn’t yet have his clearance, so he didn’t really know what we were doing in any detail. All this stuff could have been readily overlooked had he not come up with the idea that almost cost him his command.
The CO decided that to improve unit morale we ought to have reveille each weekday , like they do in the real Army. So he put out a notice that anyone not actually working was required to assemble on the tennis court , the only sizable piece of real estate that was level.,at 0600 hours. We gave the idea serious consideration and decided it was not in our best interest to participate.
That Monday morning the CO and the First Sargent assembled on the tennis court for reveille; the Company Clerk was at the flagpole ready to raise the flag. 0600, comes and goes, and no one shows up.The CO is ticked. 0615, still no troops.. the CO is hot. 0630, the First Sargent plays reveille and the Company Clerk raises the flag. The CO, his voice crackling over the loudspeaker, threatens to courts-martial anyone that doesn’t show up the next day .The gauntlet has been thrown
Tuesday morning, again no one shows for the ceremony. The CO is livid. He threatens to lockdown the compound and dispatches the First Sargeant to meet with the troops.
The First Sargent is a career ASA’er; he is well liked and respected. He knows what the mission means to us. He also knows that no commander has ever survived an operational work action. He offers a compromise. Reveille will be played over the loudspeakers each morning at 0600 while he and the Company Clerk hoist the flag .No formation. In turn, we will pitch-in and help the CO pass the upcoming facilities inspection. We agree.
He had a heart to heart with the CO. We don’t know what the First Sargent told the CO, but that was the last time the "R" word was ever mentioned. Our productivity remained the best of all the forward sites, and we were the only ASA unit,including Headquarters Company,to pass the Command Maintenance Inspection. Naturally, the Major became an instant hero and a renowned leader of men.
Once he got his clearance, he became very interested in what we were doing and dropped by operations often to get a briefing on the current situation. He mellowed considerably over the next several months and slowly adopted an island attitude. He turned out to be a very decent commanding officer once he got with the program. He learned to respect the mission, which is all we ever asked of him, and we learned to respect him.
Almost everyone in the unit had a nickname. Some arrived with one; some earned one on-site. The "Reverend "got his in language school. Apparently, he spent three plus years in seminary before calling it quits and joining the Army.
The Reverend was a quiet person who looked more like a reverend than a soldier. He was tall and lanky. He was shy. He wore small wire rimmed eye glasses well before they were fashionable. Frankly, it was hard to look at him without thinking of Sleepy Hollow. In the six months that I had known him, he never joined in our discussions or ever offered an opinion. He read a lot, and liked to walk about alone.
You can imagine our surprise when late one night, out of the clear blue, the Reverend says, "Guess what?" We were so surprised by his outburst that we didn’t even respond. As shocked as we were by his question, we were absolutely stunned when he announced:
"I’m going to be a Father!"
The shock on our faces had to be obvious. I was too numb to say or do anything. He seemed so happy about the prospects of becoming a father that I didn’t want to say anything negative. I must admit that I was really thinking; why does this always happen to the innocent ones?
It was obvious that he wanted to talk, so we encouraged him to tell us about it. He met this girl in Seoul a couple of months ago while on a long break. He stopped her on the sidewalk just down the street from Group Headquarters to ask directions to some place in the area he was planning to visit. She was impressed with his Korean, and he with her English. They ended up spending the day together touring the city. She invited him back to her place for a real, home-cooked, Korean meal. After dinner, they shared a bottle of rice wine. The next thing he said he remembered was waking up in her room the next morning. Since then, he had spent all his long breaks in Seoul.
He said she was a student. She lived with several other girls in the villa on the corner, just down from Group Headquarters. Unfortunately, I knew which compound he was talking about and it was actually a Bothell. In fact, the girl he described to us had worked on the island for a while as a prostitute. I think he really knew this but it did not matter to him. They were in love, she was carrying his baby, and he was going to marry her. He had written his parents that very morning to tell them the good news. Somehow, I had difficulty imagining that his parents would consider the news "good."
It was obvious that the Reverend had been smitten by love. We tried to dissuade him from doing anything rash (without disparaging his partner) but he could not be swayed.
I think he talked with the chaplain as we suggested. I really don’t know what happened, but he never talked about marriage again and within a few weeks he was his old introspective self. He continued to take all his long breaks in Seoul and we started a contest to come up with a new nickname.
It was not often that we got a three-day break.We should have planned to do something special. It was already late in the afternoon when I suggested that we go to Seoul for the weekend. My two reluctant companions, JB and OB, pointed out that it was too late to catch a ride with the daily courier. I said, "Let’s make it an adventure .a road trip.... "How much trouble can we get into with you two guys speaking the language?"
Someone gave us a ride to the ferry landing. The trip almost ended there as the military ferry had already shutdown for the day on the other side , and the civilian ferry was making its last trip. The ferries were actually converted landing craft (LSP’s) rigged to carry vehicles rather than passengers. Although it was clear that the civilian captain did not want to take us on board, we made a run for it, and had to jump onto the landing gate as he was simultaneously raising the gate and departing the shore. There was a lot of yelling and waving of fists, but we made the other shore without further incident.
As we departed the ferry, an armored personnel carrier (APC) was taking up position for the night watch. We had always been told that the ROK marines stationed the APC there every night to guard the ferry landing against infiltrators and saboteurs. Since this was our only egress from the island, it was comforting to know someone was watching out for us. I had always imagined that it was cramped full of rock-hard, battle ready, young ROK marines, itching to be sprung on an unsuspecting adversary. I had never seen the inside of an APC, so I decided to ask if we could look inside. Those things are a lot bigger when you’re standing next to them, and it is not obvious how you get inside. I knocked on the side of the APC. About a minute later the hatch opened, and a young ROK marine stuck his head out. I pantomimed that I would like to come inside. He motioned me around to the other side where there were foot holes. I climbed up the side and went down through the hatch. There, sitting on a blanket in their underwear, were four ROK marines playing cards. So much for my "ready to spring" image. They insisted that I sit in the driver's seat while they showed me the levers and pedals that made it go. They insisted that I sit in the gunner’s seat, look through the gun sight, and turn the turret around a couple times – the Koreans were always eager and proud to show you what they knew. I thanked the marines for the tour and their hospitality.
There was a bus stop just up the road, and we decided that we would ride the bus for awhile. As we approached the bus stop a ROK Marine Sargeant flanked by six Marines comes walking towards us. As they got close, I said to my two linguist companions, "These guys look like they are looking for trouble. Say something nice to them in Korean." Just then the Sargent holds out his hand and in perfect English says, "Hi, I’m Sargeant Kim; have you ever been to San Francisco?’" so much for diplomacy.
The Sargeant insisted on helping us. He informed us that the bus that we were waiting for was the last bus of the day. He also told us it was going to Pusan, not Seoul. He suggested that we ride it until it turned south, about ten miles, and we would still be on the right road and ten miles closer to Seoul. A few minutes later the bus arrived. It was very crowded, but he ushered us on board. The sights, sounds, and smells of a Korean bus are enough to last a lifetime. There were kids clinging to pigs and goats.There were women trying to hold on to their chickens, while, at the same time, nursing their babies. There was dried squid hanging everywhere, and men holding strings of fresh and dried fish. We tried to pay, but Kim insisted that the military didn’t pay to ride the bus. He then started pulling people out of their seats so we (and his men) could sit down. It was very embarrassing, but he insisted that soldiers sat before civilians. This was tough for us, but our rule was not to mess with the local customs .Your intentions, however noble, are usually misinterpreted by all concerned. In this case, the Sargeant would have lost considerable face among his men and the other passengers if we hadn’t accepted his offer. The Marines got off the bus several stops later, and once they were out of sight, we gave our seats to the women standing in the aisle. We got off when the bus turned south.
It was getting dark and becoming difficult to see the road. We walked for several miles. Although we were on the main road to Seoul, there was far less vehicular traffic than we had expected. In fact, only one truck had passed us by since we left the bus. We could see the gas lanterns of a small village just ahead, and the lights of the ROK Hawk missile battery on the horizon. We knew that the missile battery was about halfway to Seoul from the island. We decided to stop at the Hawk battery and spend the night if we couldn’t get transportation to Seoul. We were halfway through the village when we heard the only Korean phrase that every GI is taught upon arrival ,"STOP, or I’ll Kill You." It was so dark by now that we had no idea where the challenge was coming from. We decided to laugh and talk loudly on the theory that a guard would not shoot a non-Korean, on purpose. When we heard the bolt slam shut, on what sounded like an M1, we had to reevaluate our theory quickly. JB yelled, "We Are Americans," in Korean. There was no response, so we kept walking, and talking loudly, until we were safely out of the village.
We walked a few more miles. It was getting cold and the missile battery didn’t seem to be getting any closer. We were tired and cold, our enthusiasm was waning, and we were in trouble. Suddenly, behind us, appeared the lights of a truck. It was still several miles off, but it was closing fast. We decided that we would spread out across the road so the driver had to stop if he saw us. When he started beeping like he was coming through, we turned and waved our arms for him to stop, and stayed in the road to make sure he did. He screeched to a stop a few feet from us. We sent JB to ask for a ride while we scrambled into the back of the truck. He was not happy about our tactics, and JB had to run to get in the back as he pulled off. He must have adjustedf his attitude, because twenty minutes later he pulled off the road in Yong Dong Po and let us out as JB had asked. We thanked him profusely. He even waved good-bye - with his whole hand.
I had a bunk at Group, and I got JB and OB a bunk for the night. We went to the club for a few drinks and the end of the floorshow. We slept very soundly that night. We had breakfast the next morning and waited for the courier truck to take us back. We vowed to plan ahead next time. However, none of us seemed very anxious to leave the island for a long time after that. I guess you can take the boys out of the island, but you can’t necessarily take the island out of the boys.
Private Willis was from Appalachia and proud of it. He was a hunter and a damn good one by all accounts. No one remembers Willis arriving on the island, and he was still there when I left. It was like he had always been there. Everything about Willis, his appearance, his speech, his demeanor, told you that he was someone you shouldn’t mess with. I’m not sure anyone knew his whole name, everyone just called him "Willis" and it just seemed to fit.
I’m not even sure why Willis had been assigned to our unit. Some said he was the company driver,but he really didn’t seem to have a job. What Willis did, and did well, was hunt. It was also said that he was good at "working the dawgs." I’m not quite sure what that meant, but I do know that he spent the bulk of his time either hunting, or arranging a hunt , and no one bugged him about it.
Normally such talents would be of little value in an intelligence unit, but in this specific case Willis had a very important client, an 8TH Army General, who needed his particular skills. Once or twice a month the General would drop in by helicopter. Willis would be waiting for him, usually in the CO’s jeep. The General often brought his dogs, a few close friends, and sometimes a Congressman or Korean General, along to hunt pheasants.
The way that Willis told it, the pheasants never had a chance. It was, as he would say, "like shooting fish in a barrel." The local populace was not allowed to own personal weapons, therefore, the game was always plentiful and usually unafraid. Pheasants were not the only game that interested his clients. There was also "PT duck" , as Willis liked to call it. PT duck could only be hunted using the turbo-jet Korean Navy Patrol boat ,which is supposed to be patrolling the coast. "You just run up under them and keep firing ‘til you bring them down," as Willis put it. Willis’ clients made sure that he had ready access to whatever resources he needed. This really meant that he could do pretty much as he pleased , as long as he stayed within bounds. Unfortunately, Willis drank heavily and staying "within bounds" wasn’t in the cards.
The jet boat ride was a local favorite, and Willis would frequently arrange parties aboard the boat for his friends. It was one of these joy rides that made Willis infamous. As the story goes, everyone was eating, drinking, and carousing with the female "entertainers" they brought aboard, when Willis decided to liven things up a bit with a .50-cal. machine gun demonstration. Before anyone could really react to what he was doing, Willis had fired several bursts at a North Korean guard post on the shore. Fortunately the captain, who was watching what was going on, kicked the boat into overdrive before the North Koreans had a chance to return fire.
Like other such things that happened from time to time on the island, no one officially spoke about this incident. However, Private Willis made PFC at least three times while I was on the island, and every so often, he would announce that there was no truth to the story that he shot at a North Korean. Just the way he denied it, everyone was convinced that the rumors were probably true.
For reasons unclear to me, the only authority for news on our island was TIME magazine. It TIME said it, it was true! Everyone anxiously awaited the weekly delivery because the cover story would be the topic of discussion for the ensuing week.
JB, one of the operators I used to hang with, another operator named Jim, and I were working together one morning when Jim asks; rhetorically, "Either of you guys ever dated a Presbyterian?" JB and I started laughing. I'm sure Jim thought we were laughing at his question, but it wasn't the question that was funny. Not that anyone else could have ever known, but both of us were Presbyterian and were in long-term relationships with girls from our churches - figure the odds. Of course we didn't admit that because we wanted to hear what he had to say about Presbyterian girls and, it was clear that he was about to tell us.
To fully understand the irony of the situation, you had to know that Jim was a Lutheran. Not just you r normal run-of-the-mill Lutheran but, forgive the oxymoron, an evangelistic Lutheran. He was quick to tell everyone he met that he was a Lutheran and that they ought to be one, too. He was very opinionated. To him, if it wasn't written in a thesis and tacked on a door, it didn't count.
Jim went on to say that he had dated two Presbyterian girls in college, each one time, and based upon this personal observation, he had concluded that Presbyterian women were "completely ignorant of their religion." Having said that, he replaced his headsets and went back to work.
JB glanced at me. I could tell he was on a slow burn. Not that we would necessarily argue the proposition that most Presbyterians are not into doctrine, but that Jim would make such an assessment based on two girls that dated him - once - really ticked us off.
I gave JB a sign to cool it. Then I said to JB, "Did you get to look at our TIME yet?" When he replied, "Not yet; anything interesting this week?" I knew we had connected. By this time Jim had raised his ear piece just enough to catch the drift. I went on to tell JB that he was not going to believe the cover story; that it was truly amazing. Jim was now fully engaged.
It seems that some anthropologist had discovered a link between handwriting styles and sexual preferences. Jim was now all ears. But the interesting part was that TIME had examined handwriting samples of famous people throughout history and, using his technique, had discovered that many of them were probably homosexuals (not that there is anything wrong with that). JB said, "who did they name?" I said that I couldn't remember them all but there was; Plato, Hannibal, Julius Caesar (figures Jim says), and Martin Luther.
Realizing that he had been had, Jim threw his headset on the floor and stomped out of the van. He refused to return for the rest of the shift and didn't talk to either of us for a week. On the bright side he never discussed religion with us again
There were only three Officers and three NCOs assigned to the 226th ASA Company. Of the remaining seventy some personnel, all were E3 or E4. Only about half of them were actually assigned to the unit, the rest were on TDY orders. This cause some problems because the real Army prescribes that only an E5 or above can be held responsible for certain basic necessities.
While anyone in the unit could pickup and transport classified material for instance, if you needed supplies, rations, medicine, movies, or mail from the real Army you had to have an E5 or above sign for it. The solution was to make the people responsible for these things temporary sergeants or "acting jacks" as they called them. We had three such temporary jacks, the courier, the cook, and one of the maintenance people. Everyone understood the situation and had no problem with these privates acting like sergeants, or anything else they wanted to, outside the base camp. The problems started when the CO decided he could also give his real NCOs and Officers a longer duty cycle by adding the acting jacks to the Officer of the Day (OD) roster. Actually, two or the three jacks handled the responsibilities and authority well. However, the third jackass went overboard in trying to assert his authority and, in doing so, almost got the CO relieved in one magic moment. Several hundred yards out the front gate was a small village that served as our unofficial off base housing area - where some of the troop's local girlfriends were, quite literally, kept. It certainly was not a secret and, although it was common practice to spend the night there, it was one of those things that just were not discussed in official circles. After all, there was a midnight curfew in effect throughout the country and anyone outside after midnight could be shot so if you were in the village at midnight you just had to stay until daylight. One historic night, "Sergeant" Perry, on duty as the OD, decided to take a jeep to the village, roust the troops he found there, and order them back to camp. In itself this would not had been a magic moment except that, for some inexplicable reason, "Sergeant" Perry decided to awaken the CO to make an instantaneous report on his "capture." This put the CO in a real bind. He not only knew full well what went on in the village, he also knew that it was common knowledge that some members of his staff also entertained overnight guests from time to time. He, therefore, did not welcome an investigation into the matter. Since it was officially reported however he had no real choice. He, reluctantly, restricted those involved, about twelve as I recall, to the base for a week On his way to open the mess hall at 0 dark thirty the following morning Sergeant Perry had a horrible accident. Apparently, he stumbled going down a very long flight of cement stairs that led to the mess hall and was badly injured. In addition to the normal cuts and bruises, he sustained two black eyes and his left arm was sprained to the point that he had to wear a sling for a week. He claimed he was pushed and beaten while wrapped in a blanket but; since no one saw or heard anything unusual that morning, and he could not provide any details, this was dismissed as a delusion brought on by his concussion. I don't believe that Sergeant Perry ever went to the village again. I am certain he never went there with a clipboard again. He healed quickly and he was noticeably kinder to his local hired help following his recovery. Apparently, he also recalled hearing "voices" during his accident that suggested that this would be a good idea. With his new attitude he made several new friends, even among his former prisoners, and everyone lived happily ever after.The 8th Army considered the 226th ASA Company a red-line unit. If hostilities erupted on the peninsula we were not expected to survive the first twenty-four hours. Everyone there understood that if something major happened, there was no chance we were getting off the island.
Our location and our mission were secret. However, I never met a person on the island that didn't know precisely where our operational site was located and, if they didn't already know, they soon found out because it was rebroadcast over loud speakers every week or so by the North Korean PsyOps unit across the river. We were referred to as, "the American imperialistic dogs that occupied our sacred mountain in order to spy upon the peace living Korean peoples."
The PsyOps unit spent most of their broadcast time talking about how wonderful things were on their side of the river and inviting the islanders to come over and join them. They had a complete village setup across the river to display the superior life-style of the North. With normal field glasses, you could clearly see props holding up the building facades, and that the tractor running up and down the field continuously had no implements attached to it. To our knowledge they never actually got anyone to defect but that didn't stop them propagandizing the island population daily.
They treated us to Christmas carols the week before and after Christmas. You could barely make them out in the base camp, but you could hear them well on the mountain top. They even read the names and hometowns of some of the guys in the unit and wished them the season's best. In return, just for the holiday season, we added a cross bar to the main antenna and lined it with 100 watt bulbs so that it formed a gigantic 30' x 15' cross. On an otherwise dark mountain - it was spectacular.
That spring, they acquired a powerful searchlight. This searchlight could reach the top of the mountain when the weather conditions allowed them to bounce the beam off the cloud cover. They became good enough at this reflection technique to follow our trick truck up the mountain as long as the cloud cover allowed. Other times they would just randomly pan the mountaintop. They alternated every so often just to show-off. It was a good show and we appreciated it.
That summer we received an observation post report that a mobile ground search radar tower had been spotted just to our east. They believed it was pinpointing potential artillery targets. We found it with field glasses; it was pointed directly at our operations site on the mountaintop. It was not a good feeling, but it brought us back to the reality of the cold war.
The previous fall, the local authorities arrested an individual in the mountains near our base camp. He was making sketches of the layout of buildings and roads within the camp. It was clear to us that the North Koreans knew precisely where we were located and, in general terms, what we were doing there.