On March 30, 1972, the aging revolutionaries in Hanoi’s Politburo abandoned the strategy of protracted struggle and launched an all-out conventional invasion of the Republic of Vietnam (RVN). By mid-April, the North Vietnamese Army (NVA) had committed its entire combat capability—14 divisions, 26 separate infantry regiments, and 1,200 tanks, plus all its artillery regiments and engineer battalions.

The NVA also introduced weapons heretofore not seen in Vietnam: large formations of T-54 tanks; AT-3 Sagger anti-tank missiles; and SA-7 shoulder-fired, heat-seeking anti-aircraft missiles. Fighting raged in Quang Tri province near the DMZ, in An Loc 60 miles from Saigon, and in the Central Highlands, threatening Kontum City. The U.S. press named it the Easter Offensive since it began on Holy Thursday, the first day of Easter celebrations for South Vietnam’s Catholic population.   

My Mentor in Vietnam

As in the early 1960s, the only Americans fighting on the ground were a handful of U.S. advisers with the Army of the Republic of Vietnam (ARVN). One of them was Lt. Col. Charles L. “Chuck” Butler, an adviser with the 31st ARVN Regiment, 21st ARVN Division, who I met the first week of May ’72.  

I was a major, just assigned as the adviser with the 6th Airborne Battalion, Vietnamese Airborne Division. The battalion was co-located with the 31st Regiment and was reconstituting after being decimated near An Loc, Binh Long’s provincial capital, 15 miles north. Although I had served a previous tour in Vietnam with the 101st Airborne Division, I had no advisory training. When I received my orders in January 1972 to return to Vietnam in late April, I requested attendance at an abbreviated Vietnamese language course and adviser training school at Fort Bragg. My assignment officer in Washington, D.C., denied both requests, stating I would be assigned to the MACV staff in Saigon. Little did he know!  

Chuck Butler was a seasoned combat veteran. He had been an adviser in Vietnam from 1963-64 and an infantry platoon leader during the Korean War. He was a true font of knowledge and had a great perspective on the war. His counsel proved to be invaluable to me as I was getting my feet on the ground. Because Chuck was a modest man, I didn’t learn of his heroism in Korea until years later.  

Chuck in Korea

Charles Lewis Butler was a member of the U.S. Military Academy’s class of 1950—670 men who graduated on June 6 that year. He and 197 of his classmates were commissioned in the infantry. Nineteen days later, North Korea invaded South Korea, drawing the United States into a war for which it was ill-prepared. The American defense establishment was gutted in the aftermath of World War II. Rapid demobilization, draconian budget cuts, and an inept management produced a hollow force. To stop the North Korean onslaught and fill the ranks, many members of the USMA class of 1950 were immediately sent to Korea, including Chuck Butler.  

Chuck said goodbye to his new bride, Joan, and on Aug. 20, 1950, was aboard a troop transport sailing under the Golden Gate Bridge. He was assigned to F Company, 7th Infantry Regiment, 3rd Infantry Division. The division was needed in Korea but was woefully understrength. Due to the severe shortage of infantry lieutenants, recent West Point graduates were sent into battle without any training other than what they received at the Military Academy.  

Chinese communist forces swarmed into North Korea in November 1950. Gen. Douglas MacArthur had discounted the possibility of Chinese intervention, but their appearance in large numbers prompted him to order the withdrawal of United Nations troops north of the 38th parallel. The 3rd Infantry Division was tasked to cover the evacuation of 1st Marine Division and the 7th Infantry Division as they left the Chosin Reservoir and moved to the port of Hungnam on North Korea’s east coast.  

On Dec. 15, Chuck’s platoon was given five tanks and the mission to assist a beleaguered U.S. unit. Then-Lt. Butler described what happened as he led his small force. “We suddenly came around an S-curve in the road and on both sides of us the hills crawled with Chinese. I was hit in the arm…then I was hit in the groin.”  

Unable to walk, he ordered his wounded men placed on the tanks, while he was lifted onto the lead tank. Although gravely injured, Chuck manned a turret-mounted machine gun and provided covering fire, allowing his task force to disengage from hundreds of Chinese and return to friendly lines. Butler was evacuated to Japan and hospitalized for three months. Upon returning to duty in Korea, he was awarded the Distinguished Service Cross—the Army’s second highest decoration for valor.  

To Vietnam

Twelve years later, in the fall of 1963, Maj. Chuck Butler was in Vietnam, assigned as an advisor with the 9th ARVN Division, operating in the Mekong Delta. The delta region was the agricultural heartland of the RVN; its provinces contained two-thirds of the nation’s population and produced the bulk of its rice crop.  

1963 was a period of great turmoil. President Ngo Dinh Diem failed to stem the growing communist insurgency or increase popular support for his government. Restrictions on religious freedoms ignited a crisis, resulting in Buddhist riots and self-immolations by monks. Diem’s refusal to initiate any liberal reforms in the face of mounting opposition caused President John F. Kennedy to lose all faith in him. It was the last straw for the Kennedy Administration and word was quietly relayed to Saigon that JFK was amenable to a regime change.  

The ARVN generals spent more time plotting coups and jockeying for positions than opposing the communists. The ARVN stayed in their cantonment areas while VC cadres took advantage of their apparent paralysis. Frustration mounted among advisers like Maj. Chuck Butler, who wanted to challenge the enemy. However, no amount of prodding could energize the ARVN. Meanwhile Diem’s government continued to accept U.S. economic and military aid at the rate of $1.5 million dollars per day ($14 million per day in today’s dollars).  

On Nov. 1, 1963, ARVN troops commanded by Gen. Duong Van Minh attacked the presidential residence in Saigon. Diem and his brother, Nhu, escaped and hid in the Chinese quarter of the city. The brothers surrendered the following day, assuming they would be sent into a comfortable exile. Gen. Minh had other ideas and ordered their execution.  

Diem’s death was followed three weeks later by President Kennedy’s assassination on Nov. 22. It created uncertainty in Vietnam over what the new U.S. policy might be. Immediately, Kennedy’s successor, Lyndon B. Johnson, issued a directive emphatically stating that he would stay the course in Southeast Asia. LBJ saw the political fallout in 1949 when Mao gained power in China and was determined not to be the president who “lost Vietnam.” ARVN military leaders breathed a sigh of relief.  

Aftermath of Assassinations

In the coup’s aftermath, Minh and his Military Revolutionary Council enjoyed widespread acclaim. The euphoria dissipated when the new rulers showed little aptitude for governing, squabbling over every issue. No progress was made against recent VC inroads or instituting needed reforms. Political instability was perpetuated when a bloodless coup on Jan. 30, 1964, ousted the Military Revolutionary Council.  

Chuck Butler noticed the turbulence created by the revolving door in Saigon. Political loyalties and family ties trumped military professionalism, so generals who were closely allied with the new leadership received choice assignments. They, in turn, brought their loyal subordinates with them to fill jobs throughout the ranks. Butler observed two rounds of leader changes, both of which degraded military effectiveness. When his tour concluded in September 1964, the downward spiral continued, resulting in the commitment of U.S. combat troops in the spring and summer of 1965.  

Opting for a second Vietnam tour rather than retirement, Lt. Col. Butler returned in September 1971. Again he was assigned as an adviser in the Mekong Delta, but this time with the 21st ARVN Division. The unit was responsible for the southernmost portion of the Delta, which contained the famous VC sanctuary, the U Minh Forest. The ARVN had been relatively successful subduing the insurgency throughout the region and pacifying the countryside. Butler was pleased to see the improvement.  

Helping Junior Officers in Vietnam

The senior adviser to the 21st ARVN Division was Col. J. Ross Franklin, a legendary warrior-scholar with multiple Vietnam tours and a doctorate in international relations from American University. He also spoke fluent French. Franklin and Butler were West Point classmates and held each other in high esteem. Both had been awarded the Distinguished Service Cross during the Korean War and served together at Fort Benning’s Infantry School after the conflict. Franklin assigned Chuck as his deputy with a primary focus advising the division’s two principal staff officers, the G2 (Intelligence) and the G3 (Operations).  

Within the 21st ARVN Division combat assistance team, Butler gained a reputation for mentoring junior officers. Capt. Ed DeVos, on his first assignment in Vietnam as an assistant adviser with the 33rd ARVN Regiment, was a beneficiary of Butler’s insights. Arriving in December 1971, the captain sought out Chuck Butler and asked him many questions about the role of a junior officer “advising” men who had been fighting their entire adult lives. A recipient of two Silver Stars during the Easter Offensive, DeVos cited his admiration for Butler in his 2020 book, The Last 100 Yards.  

The 21st ARVN Division’s mission abruptly changed on April 7, 1972. President Nguyen Van Thieu convened a meeting of key officials to assess the military situation. The border town of Loc Ninh had just fallen to the communist juggernaut and Binh Long’s provincial seat, An Loc, was the NVA’s next objective. If An Loc fell, there were no forces to stop an enemy advance on Saigon, 60 miles away. Thieu made the unprecedented decision to move the 21st ARVN Division from the Delta to reinforce the defenders of Binh Long Province.  

Even in the face of the largest North Vietnamese offensive of the war, U.S. withdrawals mandated by the Vietnamization program continued. Personnel shortages in division and regimental assistance teams were the norm. Regimental teams were authorized a lieutenant colonel, three captains, and two sergeants but it was not unusual for only one or two Americans to be with an ARVN regiment; the U.S. Army replacement system simply could not keep pace with battle casualties, medical evacuations for sickness, and end-of-tour rotations.  

Rather than allow a key vacancy to remain unfilled, Butler volunteered to be the senior adviser with the 31st ARVN Regiment. Chuck Butler always went to “the sound of the guns.” Still, he remained Franklin’s “go-to” guy for most problems and was in charge of the division assistance team in the senior adviser’s absence.  

By April 12, the division was assembled in Lai Khe, the former base of the U.S. 1st Infantry Division, and told to open QL (National Route) 13 to An Loc. The 7th NVA Division had cut the road, further isolating An Loc, now surrounded by two NVA divisions, the 5th and 9th. The 21st ARVN had never operated in the field as a combat division. In its former area, commanders only supervised regimental and battalion operations. Battle-tested SOPs were nonexistent and staff work was shoddy, often lacking clarity. Attacks often failed due to a lack of proper coordination. Commanders at all levels became overly reliant on U.S. airpower, especially B-52 strikes, and were hesitant to move without them.  

Facing Hardcore NVA Forces

Nor had the 21st ARVN previously encountered large formations of hardcore NVA forces that stood their ground and employed heavy artillery in quantities not previously seen. Indirect fire from 130mm and 152mm guns became the major killer of friendly troops. Consequently, ARVN soldiers developed a bunker mentality and literally “went to ground.” Such behavior was particularly prevalent among the leaders.

In a letter to his family, Butler said his ARVN counterpart, Lt. Col. Xuan, only left the regimental command bunker to answer the call of nature. By contrast, Butler regularly checked the troops, usually under fire. Butler’s bravery resulted in the award of the Silver Star, but his example had little effect. No amount of cajoling altered Xuan’s behavior. The commander’s abrogation of leadership responsibilities lowered morale and contributed to inaction.    

While the 21st Division struggled along highway QL 13, I was experiencing a problem establishing a modicum of rapport with the 6th Airborne Battalion commander, Lt. Col. Dinh. He viewed me as useful when we were in a fight because I was the link to U.S. airpower, yet at other times, I was just excess baggage. He was vocal about not needing any tactical input from Americans. Butler attributed this attitude to the impact of Vietnamization. Many Vietnamese, including Dinh, believed they would ultimately be left high and dry by the United States. They were more perceptive than most Americans then serving in Vietnam.  

The Division Fights On

Butler said the specter of our imminent departure and the reduction of our robust logistical system fostered anti-American attitudes. However, he was not overly critical of men who harbored those beliefs. If the intellectual elite in our country and students at Ivy League universities were unable to differentiate between U.S. policymakers and those responsible for implementation of those policies, we shouldn’t be surprised such viewpoints existed here. His observation gave me a new empathy for my Vietnamese counterpart.  

During a moment of levity, Chuck shared his opinion on advisers’ “can-do” attitude. He said it was part of our makeup—but was a blessing and a curse. We tried hard to make improvements, and then felt guilty when our efforts fell short. He left me with the following thought: “Regardless of how hard you try, sometimes you simply can’t make chicken salad out of chicken shit!”  

The 6th Airborne Battalion completed rebuilding and retraining at the end of May and was committed back into the Binh Long battle. It fought through the 7th NVA Division’s defenses and linked up with defenders manning the southern portion of An Loc’s perimeter on June 8, 1972. The 6th was the first unit to break the siege and was cited in the U.S. Joint Chiefs of Staff history of the Vietnam conflict. My relationship with Dinh had vastly improved, thanks to Butler’s sage counsel and my ability to put U.S. bombs on target.  

On June 18, government officials declared the siege of An Loc broken and released the 1st Airborne Brigade (three ARVN airborne battalions, including the 6th) so the unit could join the fighting near the DMZ. Although the siege was officially lifted, the battle was not over. It took from June 18 to June 21 for the paratroopers to fight their way to Tan Khai, six miles south of An Loc. Tan Khai firebase was defended by the 31st ARVN Regiment and provided artillery support for An Loc. It was the furthest advance of the 21st Division and a thorn in the side of the NVA.  

U.S. helicopters were ordered to lift the 1st Airborne Brigade from Tan Khai to Lai Khe so preparations could begin for its air movement north. QL 13 was the designated pickup zone, although airmobile landings near the firebase would attract more NVA incoming artillery fire.  

The Last Time I Saw Chuck

During the lull preceding the arrival of helicopters, I made my way to the regimental command post to see Chuck Butler. Our short reunion was dampened by the news that Lt. Col. Burr Willey, adviser with the 32nd Regiment, had been killed by NVA fire on June 19. Chuck believed helicopters would energize NVA gunners who had forward observers seeded throughout the area.  

Ever concerned about others, Chuck told me to be careful and jokingly said: “The good Lord will look out for you but you have to help Him by not wandering around in artillery fire!” Our meeting was cut short when a radio call informed me the choppers were inbound. We shook hands. I wished him luck and said I hoped to see him again.  

It was a 15-minute flight from Tan Khai to Lai Khe, the 21st ARVN Division command post. When I arrived, Col. Ross Franklin met our flight. He was visibly shaken, with tears in his eyes. He told me that Chuck Butler had been killed when the bunker he was occupying took a direct hit, probably from a 130mm artillery round. I was in a state of disbelief. I told him I had just been with Lt. Col. Butler less than 30 minutes earlier. Ross Franklin said that I was the last American to see him.  

Charles Lewis Butler was 44 years old when he died. He had recently completed 22 years of Army service. He left behind his wife, Joan, and three children, a son and two daughters. He was laid to rest at West Point on July 5, 1972, where his commitment to the profession of arms began years before. Chuck Butler joined the legion of USMA graduates who made the ultimate sacrifice for our country. He was one of 333 West Pointers who lost their lives in the Vietnam War. Their service personified the academy’s motto: “Duty, Honor, Country.”  

Although five decades have passed since Lt. Col. Butler was killed on June 21, 1972, it seems like yesterday to me. Memories of him and those times are never far from my thoughts. He was very helpful during my initial days as an adviser and I meant to tell him so when we were together, but I missed the chance. It is a lifelong regret. I continue to mourn the passing of an outstanding soldier, a genuine war hero, and a friend.  

During the 1972 Easter Offensive, John Howard was an adviser with the Vietnamese Airborne Division, serving with the 6th Airborne Battalion and the 11th Airborne Battalion. He serves on the advisory board of Vietnam magazine.

This story appeared in the 2024 Winter issue of Vietnam magazine.

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When Military History sought an interview with Buzz Aldrin, he initially demurred. The second human being ever to walk on the surface of the Moon—on July 21, 1969, as a crew member of Apollo 11—he finds that journalists seldom want to discuss anything else. But Aldrin’s career spans much further. A graduate of the U.S. Military Academy, he was commissioned into the Air Force at the outset of the Korean War. Flying the North American F-86 Sabre for the 16th Fighter-Interceptor Squadron, Aldrin completed 66 combat missions and downed two MiG-15 jets. After the war he earned a doctorate in astronautics from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Aldrin walked in space as a Gemini astronaut before flying to the Moon with Apollo. Today, the 93-year-old Air Force brigadier general remains a strong advocate of the space program, particularly of planned missions to Mars.    

What made you select the Air Force after graduation from West Point?  

I wanted to fly and had always wanted to fly. I took my first flight at age 2 with my father and never looked back. Flying was exhilarating. We [graduates] knew the nation would need pilots, so we signed up.  

What was it like flying the cutting-edge F-86 Sabre?  

Fast in a dogfight—and I was in a couple of those—and gratifying, because the plane handled well, although my gun got jammed in one encounter, and on another occasion I had a frozen fuel line. But the plane was a jet, and we liked the idea of flying jets. They got you higher and faster, and we all liked that.  

How did the MiG-15 match up in your two recorded Korean War shootdowns?  

The MiG-15 was a fast plane, and they had good pilots. The pilot ejected in the first one, which was filmed by the nose camera [of my Sabre].  

Your second kill entailed a difficult dogfight. Tell us about that.  

Not a lot to tell, but you can see photos of it. My gun jammed on my first lock, so I had to be steady, stay with him, get the lock again and then fire. He, too, ejected, which was good for him. Dogfights are all-consuming—they happen fast. Nothing about a shootdown is easy, but when you return alive you feel glad you returned, glad you could do what you were supposed to.  

What was it like flying the F-100 Super Sabre equipped with nuclear weapons?  

I will just say, those times—perhaps a bit like these times—were about being prepared. There was tension, but we were always well trained, ready for what might come. We signed up to protect the United States, and so we did. It was as simple as that. We all thought freedom mattered, and we flew to protect it.  

A fighter jock with a doctoral degree?  

Yes, before selection to NASA’s third group of astronauts, I earned my doctorate from MIT. I wrote a thesis called “Line-of-Sight Guidance Techniques for Manned Orbital Rendezvous.” An understanding of that topic and orbital mechanics proved fortuitous when Jim Lovell and I flew Gemini 12, the last Gemini mission, which required proving the efficacy of orbital rendezvous. As fate would have it, we actually needed to manage part of that process manually, due to computer problems, so the thesis came in handy after all.  

How excited were you to join the space program?  

Very. And looking back, I was just fortunate to be selected for Gemini 12 and Apollo 11. I was also blessed to have great crewmates—Lovell in Gemini 12, and Neil Armstrong and Mike Collins in Apollo 11. What can you say? We were all blessed.  

Describe the sensation of your free-flight space walk for Gemini.  

My longest EVA [extravehicular activity], or space walk, of Gemini 12 was surprising for the beauty and sense of accomplishment that came with it—and because my heart rate apparently stayed low. Someone asked me why, and I really could not say, except that I was honestly having fun.  

We must ask, what was it like to walk on the Moon?  

In many other venues I have discussed the answer to that question, but suffice to say we had a job to do, and we worked very hard to do it. We did not want to let others down, since so many had worked to make Apollo 11, mankind’s first Moon landing, a success.   I called it “magnificent desolation” at the time, and that remains a good description. It was also an honor, and while we trained hard for it, the actual event was exhilarating in small and unexpected ways. We saw our shadow landing, which never happened in simulation. We had to test one-sixth gravity, since that could not be simulated. We had to get experiments out, and one required waiting for a small BB to settle in a cone, which took a while with one-sixth gravity. Neil and I worked together to get the American flag in, which was harder than you might think with only about an inch of Moon dust to plant it in.  

On May 5, 2023, you were promoted to brigadier general. What did that mean to you?  

Well, it was humbling, gratifying, and I was really honored. I stepped out of the normal advancement sequence flying for NASA. Afterward, I continued to serve, fly and believe in the U.S. Air Force. To be recognized for that—for what I did during and after that special time—was gratifying. I thank all those involved. It meant a lot, and I am happy still when I think about that day.  

You continue to advocate for a manned mission to Mars. Why?  

Simple, really: The United States is the leader in human space exploration, and we need to keep reaching outward, expanding and enriching the human experience. That means not resting on our laurels, but going out to Mars, exploring and swiftly creating permanence there—not a touch-and-go, but staying on Mars.  

How do you reflect on your achievements in the military and as an astronaut?  

We all have our stories and our journey, and mine has been exciting. It was an honor to serve in Korea, with NASA and thereafter with the Air Force. This nation is one of a kind—both a great and good country. Those opportunities came from tens of thousands of other dedicated Americans, and I feel forever grateful for what they did to make my journey possible. So, how do you reflect on all that? You just remind yourself each dawn is precious, and you stay grateful. You keep trying to do whatever you can to keep the greatness and goodness going.

This interview appeared in the Spring 2024 issue of Military History magazine.

In 1964, the Republic of Korea (ROK) dispatched soldiers to assist the Republic of Vietnam (RVN) in its fight against communism. Recovering from its own terrifying and bloody brush with communist aggression just a decade prior, ROK President Park Chung-Hee offered to help his ally, the United States, prevent another Asian country from turning “Red.” That first brigade of engineers, doctors, and military police grew to two Army infantry divisions and a Marine brigade within two years, fighting in some of the nastiest campaigns of the war.  

By the time ROK forces withdrew from Vietnam in 1973, over 320,000 Korean troops had rotated through the war zone—the second largest foreign contingent in the war after the U.S. Korean troops in Vietnam left behind over 5,000 dead, 11,000 wounded, and a hard-earned reputation as ferocious and stubborn fighters that continues to characterize the ROK armed forces today. Although born in the crucible of the Korean War, the ROK Army and Marine Corps were forged by their experiences in Vietnam into a modern and effective fighting force.  

South Korean Support For America

It is always the case that a long trail of logistics and support personnel makes it possible for brave men at the front to do brave things. This was no less true in Vietnam and proved just as necessary for the ROK during its first-ever combat deployment overseas. Without a global base structure of its own, the ROK relied on allies and partners to assist with the logistical support necessary to keep two infantry divisions and a Marine brigade in the fight. Clark Field in the Philippines and Ching Chuan Kang Air Base in Taiwan provided such assistance to South Korea and were integral to the 1972-73 Vietnam experiences of now retired ROK Air Force Col. Han Jin-Hwan.  

Col. Han joined the ROK Air Force in 1959 after graduating from Chung-ang University in Seoul. Trained as a weapons controller, his stellar service record and exceptional proficiency with the English language led to his selection to attend the Defense Language Institute at Lackland Air Force Base in Texas from 1964-65. Then he went to Weapons Controller School at Tyndall Air Force Base and the Air-Ground Operations School at Hurlburt Field—both in Florida—through 1966. Col. Han retired from the military in 1983 after a distinguished career and remains a civic leader in his community today.  

In autumn 2023, he agreed to sit down for an interview with Vietnam magazine—the first interview of its kind this magazine has featured—to share his experiences with readers in the United States.    

Col. Han, where are you from in Korea?

I was born and raised in Seoul, the capital of the Republic of Korea.  

What did your parents do and what was it like growing up?

My father [Han Sang-Jik] was a high-ranking official in the Ministry of Public Affairs. In 1950, when North Korea invaded, we couldn’t evacuate to the south and so were forced into hiding. A friend of my father’s talked him into coming out into the open where he was then captured by the North Koreans. That “friend” turned out to be a communist sympathizer.  

My father was taken North with many other public officials and we never saw him again. I was 12 years old at the time.  

I always remembered three things my father taught me: “If you start something, never give up until the very end,” “Always be diligent,” and, “Always be a good person.”  

Were you drafted or did you volunteer to go to Vietnam?

I volunteered, though not in the way you Americans did. I’d joined the ROK Air Force in 1959, and so in 1972 I was a major working directly for the Chief of Staff of the ROK Air Force. He asked me at the time where I wanted to serve next and I told him Vietnam.  

It was hard for Air Force officers to go there at the time as there were few of our personnel in Vietnam, so competition for the few slots was high. Since I asked the Chief of Staff directly, he agreed and made the arrangements.  

What inspired you to volunteer?

I felt strongly ever since 1950, when the United States came to our aid and helped our country beat back the communist North, that Korea owed a debt to the U.S. We were poor then with few modern weapons and little ammunition.  

A lot of equipment was shared with us and many U.S. soldiers died on our behalf. President Park decided the ROK would dispatch troops to Vietnam and I wanted to do my part to help repay that national debt.  

Did you receive any special training before deploying to Vietnam?

Due to the nature of my mission the only training I received took place at the Ministry of National Defense in Seoul.  

What unit did you serve in?

I served in the Air Force Support Group, with its headquarters located at Tan Son Nhut Air Base near Saigon. As it turned out, I only stayed there for three months before being dispatched to Clark Field in the Philippines as ROK Liaison Officer.  

When did you first arrive in country and what was it like?

Late May 1972, on a ROKAF C-54.Saigon wasn’t exactly the frontier. We stayed at a small hotel. The soldiers and airmen stationed at Tan Son Nhut didn’t really feel the war like the men did out in the jungle. Our infantry were at the front and fighting, but would come back to Saigon for rest and recovery. My wartime duty station was a recovery site for others!  

What was your mission there?

I handled all coordination for ROK personnel—military and civilian—moving between Korea and Vietnam. I managed a small village full of trailers for our people to overnight in when necessary. My NCO and I also provided escort duty to the medevac flights taking our wounded and dead from Vietnam back to Korea.

These missions were all-day flights for us, on ROKAF C-54 and C-9 aircraft specially adapted to transport litter and ambulatory patients. The medevac flights routed from Vietnam to Taiwan and then on to Daegu, Gimpo, or Gwangju Air Bases in Korea.  

During the layover in Taiwan I arranged for meals—regular or soft food—and handled all financial transactions required as well as making whatever arrangements were necessary with the nursing staff. After landing in Korea and unloading both our wounded and deceased members, we had four hours before the return flight to Clark. Those missions took all day starting with a 3 a.m. briefing at Clark and not returning till late at night.  

My duties required me to have dealings with the U.S. military hospital at Clark. That facility was very large and a lot of wounded and deceased U.S. soldiers came through there. I remember seeing so many coffins.  

Did anything surprise you about Vietnam?

You couldn’t tell friend from foe. You couldn’t look at someone and see whether or not they were communists. Because of this, the Support Group commander, Lt. Gen. Lee, instituted a curfew and so we weren’t allowed into the city at night.  

Did you interact with local Vietnamese and, if so, what did you think about them?

We used to visit “Chollum” [sic] market. At the time I bought a set of 10 ceramic plates decorated in a French style for my wife. I still have three or four. People in the market smiled at us and treated us nicely but we always wondered if they weren’t really communist at heart. That said, unit regulations prevented us from any significant interaction with the locals.  

How hard was it to do your mission, and how long did it last?

At times it was very difficult—especially the medevac flights—but I felt then that it was a job worth doing and I was honored to do it. I was very patriotic at that age and since I couldn’t go to the forward areas and fight, I really wanted to help those who’d been wounded doing so. There was a lot of job satisfaction for me there. Still, it was very hard for me to see our soldiers that way.  

It was a one-year tour for me, 1972 to 1973. Three months at Tan Son Nhut and then nine more at Clark.  

Do you recall any particularly memorable experiences while performing that mission?

So many. Some of our wounded had been blinded or lost limbs. It was pitiful to see them so badly injured. They were all so young, so full of life, but dedicated to the mission there and ready to sacrifice. I felt…it was just very pitiful to see them that way.  

Did you work with American troops in Vietnam? If so, what was your experience with them?

I didn’t really work with Americans in Vietnam, but of course I worked with so many stationed at Clark Field. I thought they were generally very good soldiers and very patriotic.  

How many trips did you make to Vietnam?

The medevac flights took place roughly once every three weeks or so. My NCO and I took turns escorting the medevac flights and so I made three or four trips back into Vietnam. He was a medical Technical Sergeant.  

Besides soldiers, what kind of people passed through Clark from Korea?

Lots of entertainers, assemblymen, even Miss Korea, but not many so late in the war.  

Was your family concerned for your welfare?

They were concerned, but I received combat pay while deployed to Vietnam and so that was good news. It was a lot of money for us back then and my wife saved up the excess pay to buy an apartment in Seoul. I remember my daughter was born halfway through my tour of duty, in 1973. Because I had access to the U.S. Air Force Base Exchange on Clark, I bought a bunch of baby clothes and sent them home to my wife. These things helped them and took their minds off the fact that I might be in a dangerous situation.

How did you feel when the U.S. withdrew from Vietnam?

It all kind of felt like a waste of time, and I hated the thought that the communists had won after all. It made me think that no matter how much help might be given, we could never change peoples’ ideology. It was the same with North Korea. The experience left me, if anything, even more anti-
communist, more dedicated to protecting our freedoms than before.  

When you returned to Korea from your deployment, did you face any negativity because of your experience in Vietnam?

No, none at all. The government thanked us for our service in Vietnam and gifted us our first color television and a new refrigerator. You laugh, but there weren’t many color TVs in Korea in 1973, so we felt special. The military handed us coupons upon our return and we just went into a store and walked away with the new appliances. Our going to the war really wasn’t a political or social issue back then, though you must remember we had a military government at the time so protests were difficult.  

Still, our participation in the Vietnam War didn’t become an issue at all until later, when left-leaning politicians used it for political gain. At the time, we were welcomed back home and those who returned with me just felt lucky to be alive.  

Have you been back to Vietnam since the war ended?

No…and don’t really have any desire to do so. That was a long time ago.  

Is there anything you would like to say to Vietnam veterans in the U.S. reading this story?

The U.S. veterans of that war were heroes for standing up to the spread of communism overseas. I think it was a very difficult experience for them and I appreciate it so much.  

What would you like young people to know about the Vietnam War?

War is a very cruel and difficult thing. My generation knew war and poverty, precisely because of communist aggression from North Korea and later North Vietnam. Our young must be thankful to their elders for all our sacrifices, but they know nothing of war or difficulty.   They can’t understand enduring poverty, death, and destruction because of the communists up north. It’s all ancient history to them—almost like a fairy tale. This is why they lean toward leftist ideas. They just don’t understand what happened the last time those ideas marched south.  

Is there anything you would like to add?

It seems rich countries always feel the need to help poorer countries.  

And yet the ROK was quite a poor country when it decided to help South Vietnam.

Yes, and in a strange way, it ended up being our nation’s pathway to material success and the prosperity you see in Korea today. Our sacrifice served our nation well.

This interview appeared in the 2024 Winter issue of Vietnam magazine.

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From a ridge in the Samichon Valley known as the “Hook” Lance Cpl. Mike Mogridge watched as British artillery rained shells on an onslaught of Chinese infantry. Such was his introduction to the Korean War. The next morning, after the shelling had stopped and he and his mates had had breakfast, Mogridge and fellow soldiers clambered atop the Hook to gaze on the spectacle of pockmarked ground littered with the corpses and body parts of thousands of enemy troops. The British had held the line of resistance.  

Tasked with collecting the British dead from no-man’s-land, Mogridge ventured out with his patrol under the cover of darkness with empty body bags. Sporadic gunfire from Chinese positions kept them alert. Manhandling the shell- and bullet-mangled bodies into the bags was difficult enough, and rigor mortis made it harder. Worse still, if the bodies had lingered in the valley too long, they were putrid with maggots. Seventy years after war’s end Mogridge still recalls the odor.  

Back at camp, after having carefully stacked the corpses, Mogridge and mates would settle into their ridgeline hutchie, a crude dugout ringed with sandbags. (The word “hutchie” derives from uchi, the Japanese word for house.) In their respective hutchies British soldiers ate, joked with mates, slept and otherwise pretended it was a peaceful retreat. Doing so helped them ignore the bodies stacked 8 feet high and consequent giant rats that infested the garrison.

“We got immune to it,” Mogridge recalls. “We just didn’t bother about it.”  

Like so many other servicemen sent to Korea, Mogridge was drafted into the British army at age 18. British draftees typically traveled across the empire for a year, docking in Ceylon (Sri Lanka), Singapore, Malaysia and Hong Kong before deploying to Korea. Finally, on reaching their 19th birthdays, they were deemed eligible for combat. “You weren’t allowed to be shot before you were 19,” one veteran joked.  

Of course, turning 19 did not magically transform such boys into battle-hardened soldiers. Some, like Private Roy Painter, looked forever young—“about 12 years old,” by Painter’s own estimate. His commanding officer often remarked the private should have been back home with mother. But Painter notes his service, though he loathed it at the time, left a deep and strangely positive impression. “I contributed something,” he says. “My national service had some meaning behind it.”  

Painter vaguely understood the war in Korea was proxy to a global Cold War between communism and democracy. Even so, he said, “Nobody seemed to know where Korea was.” Private Edgar Green of the Middlesex Regiment arrived in August 1950 with the first British land troops. They knew nothing of the country or its people. Major John Lane of the Royal Artillery reasoned such considerations were beyond his “periphery of interest.” He only worried about those things he could see. “You don’t get involved in…thinking if it’s right or wrong,” he recalls. “It’s just a small area around you that holds your interest, especially if somebody’s firing bullets at you.”  

Like countless soldiers before them, Lane and Green expected to be home for Christmas. Within a month of their arrival United Nations forces launched a triumphant counteroffensive against the North Koreans. Led by iconic American General Douglas MacArthur, they defended a small perimeter around the southern port city of Pusan before breaking out and invading North Korea. The first British troops traveled the length of the peninsula. Green’s Middlesex Regiment protected Pusan in the south, took the port city of Inchon at the 38th parallel, then pushed past Pyongyang en route to the Chinese border. They walked when they could not hitch a ride on an American transport. It seemed they never stopped moving.  

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In October the People’s Volunteer Army of China joined the war, pouring south across the Yalu River to push U.N. forces south. Joining the retreat, the British withdrew beyond Seoul and the 38th parallel. Green marched south and then north again to retake Seoul. “We was here one day and then going forward the next,” he recalls. “Then, after we’d got right up as far as we could in North Korea, we started to come back, and that was the same.”  

After a year of offensives and counteroffensives, the war settled into a status quo stalemate along the 38th parallel. There, the British struggled to maintain control of the south bank of the Imjin River, a natural border between the combatant armies. In April 1951 the Chinese attempted to cross the river to retake Seoul and Inchon. The defenders incurred heavy casualties, in particular the vastly outnumbered 1st Battalion of the British Gloucestershire Regiment, which made a strategic retreat to high ground to hold back the Chinese. The “Glorious Glosters” resisted wave after wave of attacks for four days, at one point ordering friendly artillery to fire on the hill they occupied to stave off a Chinese assault. When their ammunition ran low, the Glosters attempted a daring escape to reunite with the U.N. forces. The survivors of only one company made it. More than a third of the regiment perished, while nearly 1,200 were injured or taken prisoner.  

As tragic as their stand was, it gave the British troops a reputation for unparalleled courage and dedication to the U.N. cause. But the Battle of the Imjin River was only the first heroic sacrifice the British would make on the front lines. The subsequent Battles of the Hook would propel the British army in Korea into the annals of military history.  

The First Battle of the Hook began in early October 1952. Over the course of two weeks the Chinese army captured a dozen American and South Korean outposts along the front line. It left the 1st U.S. Marine Division to defend the Hook without much support along the 38th parallel. By month’s end the Chinese had gathered their forces for a direct attack on the Marines. Intense bombardment destroyed the defensive walls the Americans had built and even threatened to destroy the very ridge of earth around the Hook. The Chinese had gained the upper hand, and in a final push they sent a three-pronged infantry attack to surround the Marines, briefly overrunning and capturing the position. American air superiority reduced the effectiveness of the Chinese charge, and the Marines fought back, crawling from crater to crater around the ridge until the Chinese abandoned the Hook. As morning broke on October 28 the Americans counted nearly 80 dead Marines and more than 400 wounded. But the field was theirs.

In dire need of rest, the Marines turned over the defense of the Hook to their allies in the British Commonwealth forces. The Scottish Black Watch and the Duke of Wellington’s Regiment took over. Three weeks later the Chinese attacked again. Fortunately for the British, they had readied reinforcements on the ridge. Their defense withstood the preliminary Chinese mortar and howitzer shelling. “We responded with what we called defensive fire,” one artillery gunner remembers, “prearranged and prerecorded to go on lines of approach to the Hook that the Chinese were liable to take.” Then the communists sent thousands of soldiers on a seemingly suicidal charge through no-man’s land.  

Armed with PPSh-41 “burp guns,” submachine guns that made a brrrrip sound with each volley fired, the Chinese stormed across the battlefield on the night of November 18/19. The burp guns were effective weapons, but they were no match for artillery and rifle fire. The first wave of Chinese infantry was cut down long before it reached the barbed wire around the British trenches. The second line of Chinese infantry had rifles, and a third line carried grenades. When the first line of Chinese fell, the second and third lines picked up the burp guns and used them. They, too, had little chance against the well-fortified British, but the sheer volume of Chinese made the Hook a treacherous place. The fighting went on all night. The Chinese shot out searchlights, making it difficult for the British to spot targets, but artillery continued to rain indiscriminate death on the attackers. A rumor spread, Mogridge recalls, “that there had been more poundage [of bombs] dropped on the Hook that night than there had been during the [World War II] Battle of El Alamein.”  

Dawn revealed the extent of the carnage. “We must have killed thousands,” recalls Major Lane, who wondered if the Chinese had given their soldiers drugs or whether they were simply that brave.  

Skirmishes at the Hook became commonplace, but the Chinese did not stage another large-scale invasion to retake the position until late May 1953, weeks before the armistice would suspend hostilities. The Third Battle of the Hook was a Chinese attempt to strengthen their bargaining position in the peace talks by taking strategic locations on the front line. If they could capture the Hook, they might gain leverage in the forthcoming negotiations. Every inch of ground became important. The British had withstood all previous attacks on the Hook, and by the outset of the third battle they had dug in so completely that the Chinese had little chance.

The Duke of Wellington’s Regiment and the Royal Fusiliers were tasked with defending the ridge, allowing the Black Watch to move to the rear for some hard-earned rest. The 20th Field Regiment of the Royal Artillery would supply heavy firepower. When the main attack began on May 28, British gunners fired shells with proximity fuzes that exploded at variable intervals in midair, raining shrapnel on the Chinese soldiers and prompting them to dig sheltering caves and trenches into the reverse slopes of the Samichon Valley.  

With the enemy scattered in dugouts around the Hook, the British could not repel them with artillery alone. A ground attack became necessary, and 2nd Lt. Brian Parritt, a gunnery officer, joined the British infantry and sappers on a night raid to destroy the caves. As darkness descended, the British mission ventured across the craggy valley. Almost as soon as his group reached open ground, it suffered casualties. A soldier walking beside Parritt stepped on a bounding landmine. When triggered, the explosive sprang into the air waist-high, killing Parritt’s companion, severing the leg of another soldier and knocking Parritt to the ground with minor shrapnel wounds.  

Amid the bewildering din of gunfire and shelling, Parritt and the others converged on a large cave. Placing charges on long poles, the British sappers pushed the poles into the ground around the Chinese position. To cover their activities, Parritt called in artillery support. He had to be both quiet to avoid discovery and precise with the enemy location to avoid friendly fire. Wrapping up their work, the sappers pulled back with the others and detonated the charges. The blast threw up great mounds of dirt, and it quickly became apparent the assignment had succeeded. The cave had been destroyed.  

When Parritt returned to the British trenches, he discovered the shrapnel from the bounding landmine had caught him in the leg, and he was sent to a Mobile Army Surgical Hospital (M.A.S.H.). His time away from the front was made all the easier knowing the British had survived the Third Battle of Hook. Indeed, the British had proven they were a formidable adversary.  

Only when the British soldiers took leave and returned home did they begin to realize the part they had played in world history. Mogridge believes the war “stopped the march of communism” and speculates that had the U.N. not “confronted the North Koreans and the Chinese, virtually half the Far East would have been under communist Chinese rule.” Watching refugees flee the North Korean regime convinced Painter communism was incompatible with the rights and liberties for which he and his mates had fought. “When the North Koreans got to a village, they shot everybody,” Painter recalls in horror. “We’re talking about babies and toddlers. Can you imagine a couple of roads near where you live, and they kill everybody? It’s beyond our comprehension, isn’t it?”  

Private Anthony White of the Royal Ulster Rifles notes that he and other veterans of the Korean War are “not appreciated” by the British public. Few citizens realize that nearly 100,000 British Commonwealth servicemen fought in the war, more than 1,000 of whom were killed. Americans call it the “Forgotten War,” sandwiched between World War II and the Vietnam War. The U.S. government finally commemorated its Korean War veterans with a memorial in Washington, D.C., dedicated in 1995, but the British government has yet to do the same. In 2014 a memorial was unveiled in London outside the Ministry of Defense, but the British government did not fund it. South Korean multinational corporations, the South Korean Embassy in London and South Korean expats paid for the sculpture. If Korea is the “Forgotten War,” the British veterans are its forgotten warriors.  

One group has never forgotten the British sacrifice: South Koreans. The peninsula remains divided, as no treaty was ever signed, which means the war continues despite the armistice. And Koreans on either side of the 38th parallel still mourn the traumatic loss of upward of 2 million civilians. But today South Korea is a thriving republic, one that surviving British veterans, now in their late 80s or early 90s, justly celebrate. Private William Shutt, a signalman with the Royal Artillery who died in 2021, considered his wartime service among his greatest accomplishments (along with his three children and a happy marriage). The prosperity of South Korea since the 1950s left him in awe. To think he played some small part in helping the country on this path made him immensely proud. “They’ve made fantastic progress,” Shutt said. “When we first got to Korea, when the war first started, it was mainly rural. Rice paddies, that sort of thing.” Shutt returned to Korea in 2016 on a trip paid for by the South Korean government in honor of surviving veterans. What he found was a country transformed. “The great long stretch of the coastline is all factories.” Shutt noted that Koreans who have since immigrated to the United Kingdom often thank him when they learn he fought in the war. “If I went to a Korean restaurant, and I got a Korean meal, nine times out of 10 it’s a free meal. I couldn’t get that in a British restaurant. It’s one of these unexplainable things. We’ve got great respect for them; they’ve got respect for me.”  

Today the Hook is smack in the midst of the demilitarized zone—the most heavily fortified border in the world. While so much has changed over the past 70 years, the Hook remains on the front line of the war.  

Award-winning author Michael Patrick Cullinane is professor of history and the Lowman Walton Chair at North Dakota’s Dickinson State University. For further reading he recommends The Korean War: A History, by Bruce Cumings, and A Forgotten British War: The Accounts of Korean War Veterans, co-edited by Cullinane and Iain Johnston-White.

This story appeared in the Winter 2024 issue of Military History magazine.

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No, technically, it’s not over, though overt hostilities stopped 70 years ago.  

On June 25, 1950, the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea (DPRK, or North Korea) invaded the Republic of Korea (ROK, or South Korea), sparking the first hot conflict of the Cold War—a proxy war between China and the Soviet Union in support of the north, and the United States and its United Nations allies in the south. Crossing the 38th parallel, the DPRK’s Korean People’s Army (KPA) pushed ROK and U.S. forces south, trapping them behind the 140-mile Pusan Perimeter. In response, the U.N. sent troops, 21 nations ultimately contributing to the effort.  

Assuming command of U.N. forces, General Douglas MacArthur turned the tide with Operation Chromite, the amphibious landing of troops at Inchon, southwest of Seoul. Reinforced U.N. forces also broke out of the Pusan Perimeter, pushing the KPA back across the 38th parallel. Coalition forces then invaded North Korea, aiming to reunify the Korean Peninsula, with leading elements reaching the Yalu River border with China.  

At that imminent threat, Chinese troops poured into North Korea and launched a series of offensives against ROK and U.N. forces. The fighting was fierce as combatant forces seesawed back and forth. Notable battles included those on the Chosin Reservoir and the Chongchon River. Eventually, the front lines stabilized along the 38th parallel and a long stalemate ensued, though where fighting broke out, such as the three Battles of the Hook, it proved especially bitter.  

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Peace talks began in July 1951, but disagreement over the repatriation of POWs led to protracted negotiations. The conflict dragged on, claiming the lives of as many as 5 million civilians and military personnel, until the signing of the Korean Armistice Agreement at Panmunjom on July 27, 1953. Tensions remain.  

In the mid to late 1960s a series of incidents threatened the armistice, including armed clashes along the DMZ separating north and south, the attempted assassination of South Korean President Park Chung Hee (amid the January 1968 Blue House Raid), the capture of the U.S. spy ship Pueblo that same month and North Korea’s 1969 shootdown of a U.S. Lockheed EC-121M Warning Star spy plane over the Sea of Japan, killing 31 crewmen.  

North Korea has become increasingly isolated on the world stage, particularly in the wake of the Cold War. In 1994 President Bill Clinton, on receiving intel that North Korea was developing nuclear weapons, weighed bombing its nuclear reactor at Nyongbyon. In 2002, in the wake of the Sept. 11, 2001, terrorist attacks, President George W. Bush included North Korea in his “axis of evil” list of states sponsoring terrorism. In June 2019 Donald Trump tried a different tack, becoming the first sitting U.S. president to set foot in North Korea when he stepped into the DMZ to shake hands with North Korean Supreme Leader Kim Jong Un. Despite such overtures, Kim has recently stepped up the rhetoric and since resumed the missile tests.    

Lessons

Beware short-term commitments: The United States occupied South Korea at war’s end in 1945 and withdrew three years later, leaving South Korea weak and ill prepared to resist a North Korean invasion, once again necessitating military intervention.

Ignore intelligence at your own peril: In October 1950 MacArthur dismissed information regarding Chinese troop movements and assured Washington that Beijing would not intervene.
Chinese troops crossed the Yalu on the 19th and attacked on the 25th.

Sometimes divorce is inevitable: Today South Korea is a thriving, modern republic, while North Korea remains a communist backwater. Reconciliation seems unlikely.

This story appeared in the Winter 2024 issue of Military History magazine.

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Monica Mohindra On July 27, 1953, the Korean War ended with an armistice but no official treaty, technically meaning a state of war still exists between the combatant nations. Among the multinational participants in that significant flare-up in the Cold War were nearly 7 million U.S. military service personnel, of whom more than 1 million are still living. The 70th anniversary of the armistice spurred the Library of Congress’ Veterans History Project to redouble its efforts to record for posterity the memories of those participants while it still can. Military History recently interviewed Veterans History Project director Monica Mohindra about its collection, the pressure of time and ongoing initiatives to honor veterans of that “Forgotten War” and all other American conflicts.

What is the central mission of the Veterans History Project?

Our mission is to collect, preserve and make accessible the first-person remembrances of U.S. veterans who served from World War I through the more recent conflicts. We want all stories, not just those from the foxhole or the battlefronts, but from all veterans who served the United States in uniform. The idea, developed by Congress in October 2000, was to ensure we would all be able to hear directly from veterans about their lived experience, their service, their sacrifice and what they felt on a human scale about their participation in service and/or conflict.  

Is your recent emphasis on the ‘forgotten’ Korean War mainly due to the anniversary?

Correct. But there is so much to share from the history of the Korean War that is relevant. We’re also marking the 75th anniversary of the desegregation of the U.S. military, and researchers have been using our collections to understand, for instance, nurses’ perspectives on what it was like to serve in a desegregated military. Our collection speaks to what it was like prior to and after desegregation.  

To what extent do memories tied to both anniversaries overlap?

One of the real strengths of the Veterans History Project, and of oral history projects in general, is that one can pull generalized opinions from a multiplicity of voices. For example, there’s a story about a veteran named James Allen who “escaped” racially charged Florida to join the military. Serving in Korea in various administrative tasks, he experienced a taste of what life could be like under desegregation. When he returned to the United States, he moved back to Florida, the very place he’d escaped, to help veterans and advance such notions.  

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You’re the spouse of a Navy veteran. Does that shape your perspective on history overall and the project you’ve taken up?

It absolutely adds another layer to the Veterans History Project and what it means on a human scale. This is personal. My husband’s experience, just like each veteran’s, is unique. He’s not ready to share his story—maybe not with me ever. His father, who also served, is not ready to share his story—maybe not with me, maybe not ever. Both of his grandfathers served. My grandfather served, too. So, I feel a personal imperative to help those veterans who are ready to share their stories.

It’s that seriousness of purpose, to create a private resource for future use, the Veterans History Project offers individuals around the country. We already have more than 115,000 such individual perspectives, and that gives us the opportunity to share the wealth of these collections.  

How does the project handle contributions?

Individuals may want to start by conversing with the veterans in their lives or by finding the collection of a veteran.  

To what use does the project put such memories?

People use the Veterans History Project—often online and sometimes in person here at the Folklife Center Reading Room—for a variety of reasons. More than 70 percent of our materials (letters, photographs, audio and video interviews, etc.) are digitized, and more than 3 million annual visitors come to the website. They’re using our materials for everything from school projects to enlivening curricula. Recently researchers have conducted postdoctoral research on desegregation during the Korean War. The project is also useful for beginning deeper conversations among friends and family members.

In this time of AI [artificial intelligence], the collection is a primary resource from those who had the lived experience. What did they hear? What did they see? How did they keep in touch with loved ones? These are the kind of questions we pose.  

What was unique about the Korean War experience?

Perhaps the extraordinary scope of injuries service members suffered because of the cold. Consider the Borinqueneers [65th U.S. Infantry Regiment], out of Puerto Rico, many of whom had never seen snow. On crossing the seas, they arrived in these extreme conditions, and it’s all so foreign. They received the Congressional Gold Medal in 2014, and we are fortunate to have memories from 20 Borinqueneers in our collection.  

Recently, the last American fighter ace of the Korean War died. Are you concerned about the time constraints you face?

Yes. The weight of that actuarial reality was quite heavy on World War I veterans. We had the pleasure to work with Frank Buckles [see “Frank Buckles, 110, Last of the Doughboys,” by David Lauterborn, on HistoryNet.com] several times, and he became sort of an emblem of his cohort, if you will. That was a heavy weight on him, one that he did not shy from.

The burden now is on people like me, you, your readers, to make sure we do sit down with the veterans in our lives. We want people 15 and up to think about doing that.  

What about the memories of U.N. personnel from other nations who served in Korea?

The legislation for the Veterans History Project is very clear. It limits our mission to those who served the U.S. military in uniform. That does include commissioned officers of the U.S. Public Health Service, an often forgotten uniformed service. We cannot accept the collections of Allies who served alongside U.S. troops. However, we do collaborate with other organizations within our sphere. For instance, in cooperation with the Korean Library Association we held an adjunct activity at the Library of Congress, a two-day symposium.  

Do you accept contributions from Gold Star families?

We do. The legislation for the Veterans History Project was amended in 2016 with a new piece of legislation called the Gold Star Families Voices Act. Before that we accepted collections of certain deceased members, including photographs or a journal, diary or unpublished memoir that could capture the first-person perspective.

However, the 2016 legislation put a fine point on a definition for Gold Star families to contribute. Under the Gold Star Family Voices Act, those participating as either interviewers or interviewees must be 18 or older, as one is speaking about a situation that involves trauma. Our definition calls for collections of 10 or more photographs or 20 or more pages of letters or a journal or unpublished memoir. The other way to start a collection is to submit 30 or more minutes of audio or video interviews. This enables us to gain a full perspective of a veterans’ experience, whether they are living or deceased.  

Where can an interested veteran or family member get more information?

There is all sorts of information on our website [loc.gov/vets]. They should also feel free to come to our information center at the Library of Congress [101 Independence Ave. SW, Washington, D.C.], with extended hours on Thursdays until 8 p.m.

This interview appeared in the Winter 2024 issue of Military History magazine.

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Monogram released their 1/48-scale Grumman F9F-5 Panther in 1990. While newcomer Trumpeter has released two other versions of the jet, both are earlier editions of the fighter. To build the later F9F-5, the classic Monogram kit is still the way to go. The subject of this model is the F9F-5 Panther that Lieutenant Royce Williams flew on November 18, 1952, when he downed four Soviet MiG-15s, as covered “The Secret Dogfight” from the Winter 2023 issue of Aviation History

Start with the cockpit, painting the one piece “tub” an interior chromate green (FS 34151). Do the same with the interior cockpit walls inside the fuselage halves. The ejection seat is a nicely detailed four-piece affair. Paint the seat a medium sea gray and drybrush the details with an aluminum color to show some typical wear. Add a harness and seatbelts for some extra interest. Use a dark wash to highlight the raised detail on the control panels and pick out dials and switches with white paint on the tip of a toothpick.

Next, assemble the nose gear and its wheel well. At this point, leave the tire and oleo linkage for later. Cement the tailpipe and the arresting hook to the left fuselage half. Don’t forget to add weight to the nose to make sure the jet isn’t a “tail sitter.” Small lead fishing sinkers embedded in a piece of putty will work just fine. Attach the finished cockpit and nose gear assembly and bring the two halves of the fuselage together, and then then set this aside.

The instructions call for adding the four machine guns in the nose before completing the fuselage. Save those parts for later; it will make painting the fuselage easier if you don’t have to mask those tiny pieces.

After the fuselage is dry, attach the bottom half of the wing. Open up the holes that will indicate where weapons pylons will be attached. The Panther can carry a variety of bombs and rockets that are included in the kit. Follow the instructions and check your research to decide how you want to display the finished model. Add the top half of each wing and use a little putty on the seams.

Attach the horizontal stabilizers and sand the overall jet, smoothing out the seams and getting it ready for some paint.

By the end of World War II the Navy had adopted an overall glossy sea blue (FS 15042) for their aircraft, a color scheme that lasted well into the 1950s. Mask off the nose gear and the cockpit, then lay down the dark blue color. After the model has dried thoroughly, paint the wheel wells interior chromate green (FS 34151). Paint the area that will be covered by the jet’s speed brakes insignia red (FS 31136). Give the finished assembly a coat of clear gloss and set the model aside.

Next, paint and assemble the landing gear. The struts should be chromate green and the oleo a chrome silver. Paint the tires a black/brown “rubber” color with aluminum hubs. Assemble the bombs and rockets. The 500-lb. bombs should be an olive drab color with a yellow band indicating that the weapon is “live.” Aftermarket decals of typical bomb stencils are a nice touch. Each rocket should have aluminum-colored fins, a light gray body and an olive drab warhead. A dab of silver on the tip of the rocket looks like the weapon’s fuse. Give the landing gear and the weapons a quick coat of flat varnish.

In 2022 the International Plastic Modelers Society (IPMS) released an excellent decal sheet with markings for six different MiG killers from the Korean War. One of the aircraft included is the our model’s subject Royce Williams’s Panther.

Carefully and methodically add the markings to the jet. These decals look great and need only a little bit of a setting solution help them snuggle into the surface detail. Don’t rush the process. It’s tempting to do that as the model approaches the finish line, but be sure to walk away from time to time and let those decals set.

With the markings on and another coat of clear varnish, it’s time to attach the landing gear and the two speed brakes underneath the airplane. Cement the sway braces to the two inboard weapons pylons and attach the 500-lb. bombs, and then add the rockets to their pylons. Don’t forget the tiny bits—the pitot tube under the left wing, the four .50-caliber machine guns slipped into their place in the nose and, of course, the gunsight.

A little moderate weathering gives the jet the look it might have had aboard the USS Oriskany in November 1952. Accent a few panel lines, particularly the joint where the wings fold. A bit of soot and a dark wash, and some light paint chipping helps bring the model to life.

Carefully mask the clear canopy pieces and paint them the same dark blue as the rest of the airplane. Cement the forward part of the canopy using glue especially made for clear plastic or white school glue. Add the rear canopy, positioning it slid back to show off the hard work in the cockpit. Your Grumman F9F-5 Panther is now ready to head to the catapult for its next sortie. It will make a great addition to a collection of early Navy jet aircraft.

From 1794, when French balloonists dropped messages from the basket of l’Entreprenant to report on Austrian troop movements to the first use of Morse code conveyed by electrical cables by Union aeronauts in 1861, armies developed means of coordinating intelligence gathered from the air to their forces on the ground quickly enough for it to be useful. The airplane entered the picture in 1911 during the Italian invasion of Ottoman-held Libya, when the first scouting flight was followed within days by the first hand-dropped explosives. In 1912 British experiments with wireless signaling enabled the airplane to provide troops and artillerists what they needed to know in real time, and throughout World War I improvements in the aircraft led to more means of harnessing their potential to provide well-coordinated close air support. By 1918 that included airdrops of ammunition and supplies, as well as specialized ground attack planes, taking the fight down on the enemy.

Introduced to military use during World War II and made practical during the Korean War, the helicopter became an indispensable supplement to the airplane, with the added advantage of being able to land and depart from terrain where an airplane could not—a critical asset to which many a medevaced soldier owed his life.

Retired Brig. Gen. Theodore Shigeru Kanamine, the first active-duty Japanese-American general in the U.S. Army, died at his home last Thursday after a brief battle with cancer. He was 93.

Born in North Hollywood, California, Kanamine often reflected on growing up in an entertainment-rich area, where he and other neighborhood kids would frequently receive invites from Walt Disney Studios to view unfinished cartoons right down the hill from his family’s home. His pleasant childhood, however, would be interrupted in December 1941 following the Japanese bombing of Pearl Harbor.

With President Franklin D. Roosevelt’s signing of Executive Order 9066 in 1942, the Kanamine family — his two parents, younger sister and himself — were relocated to an internment camp in Jerome, Arkansas, where they would remain for two years until a lawyer from Nebraska took the family into his home.

Kanamine would go on to major in criminal psychology and attend law school at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. Upon finishing his studies in 1954, Kanamine married Mary Stuben. The two were wed right across the Nebraska border in Council Bluffs, Iowa, due to Nebraska laws that banned interracial marriage.

One year later, Kanamine answered the call to serve and commissioned as a second lieutenant in the Military Police Corps.

Kanamine deployed in both the Korean War and Vietnam War, where he was an aide to 4-star Gen. Creighton Abrams. He later took command of the 716th Military Police Battalion, which provided security to the capital city of Saigon.

Once he returned stateside, Kanamine took charge of the Army Criminal Investigation Division’s look into the Mỹ Lai massacre. He concluded his 28 years in the military as chief of staff of the First Army at Fort Meade, Maryland.

Discussing his career in a 2012 interview with Discover Nikkei, Kanamine credited his success to “personal discipline to know what is right and develop the skills necessary to do whatever the task is in the best way you know how.

“This reflects my development in the military and the way I live my life today,” he said during the interview. “I believe in the philosophy of ‘Duty – Honor – Country.’ I think my family and friends know this.”

Kanamine’s eldest son and namesake, retired Col. Theodore Kanamine, told Military Times he hopes people will remember his father for the way he listened and responded to people, even while disagreeing.

“He was a very kind and civilized person,” the younger Kamanine said. “I don’t think he ever responded very angrily, aggressively. Even if he felt those [inclinations], he was always very measured in what he did, and I think one of the things he taught us is things aren’t always as they initially present themselves. Withhold your judgement until you get the whole side of the story.”

Kanamine’s many awards include the Distinguished Service Medal, the Legion of Merit with Oak Leaf Cluster, the Bronze Star, and a Meritorious Service Medal with Oak Leaf Cluster.

He is survived by his wife, their five children, 12 grandchildren and 12 great-grandchildren.

Originally published by Military Times, our sister publication.

“You are about to embark on a crusade, a crusade as important to the world as was the great crusade years ago when it became necessary to eliminate certain people, the Barbarians, who stood in the way of Christianity. So today we have something standing in the way of the peace of this world and the enjoyment of freedom. The Nazis. When you come face to face with him, don’t think of him as a person or a human being, but as something in the way of this peace and freedom and eliminate him at once.”

No, that was not Gen. George S. Patton Jr. speaking. However it is a reminder to us that “Old Blood and Guts” had his share of disciples and kindred spirits. In this case, it was Col. John W. O’Daniel, who would become famously known as “Iron Mike” to his men, addressing Task Force 168 before unleashing that unit on Vichy French costal defenses west of Algiers in November 1942.

On the 22nd he was promoted to brigadier general. On June 25, 1943 he went from Invasion Training for the upcoming landings on Sicily to deputy commander of the unit with which his name is most associated, the 3rd Infantry Division.

Through much of Sharpen Your Bayonets!, author Timothy R. Stoy apologetically confesses the limits of his source material and how it leaves much of his biography of this hitherto overlooked commander to speculation. 

Still, he presents enough—including plenty from the general himself—to present a classic career of a top-notch administrator, a strict disciplinarian, an equally strict believer in Russian general Aleksandr Suvorov’s philosophy of “train hard, fight easy,” and an aggressive combat commander, all elements in a lifetime of successful leadership. 

Overcoming his fears on his first day of battle at the start of the St. Mihiel offensive on Sept. 12, 1918, he went on to distinction in World War II and as I Corps commander in Korea. 

The author does note, however, that his transfer of hatred from Nazism to communism gave him a “one-size-fits-all” approach that fell short when advising the French army and training the Army of the Republic of Vietnam. In sum, however, O’Daniel’s life and times were consistently Pattonesque.

Sharpen Your Bayonets

A biography of Lieutenant General John Wilson “Iron Mike” O’Daniel, Commander, 3rd Infantry Division in World War II
by Lt. Col. (Ret.) Timothy R. Stoy and Maj. Gen. Anthony A. Cucolo III

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On the night of Jan. 17, 1968, 31 commandos from the North Korean Peoples’ Army (KPA) cut holes in the chain-link fence running along the southern edge of the demilitarized zone (DMZ) and crawled past sleeping U.S. soldiers. Their mission was to infiltrate Seoul, the capital of the Republic of Korea (ROK), and kill President Park Chung-hee. 

It was the most audacious act the Democratic Peoples’ Republic of Korea (DPRK) had initiated since the 1950 invasion of the ROK. The death of Park was intended to spark a popular uprising and allow communist sympathizers to take control of the government. This endeavor was the defining event of the little-known Second Korean Conflict from November 1966 to December 1969. 

Except for the Americans who served in it and the families of 75 military personnel killed in action, details of the assassination attempt and the three-year struggle against North Korean aggression were lost in the turbulence of the 1960s. The Vietnam War relegated U.S. military operations in Korea to a holding action, underfunded by the Department of Defense, downplayed by Washington bureaucrats and out of the sight of the American people.

The Blue House Raid

For South Koreans, the Second Korean Conflict was a war of national survival. It cost the lives of 270 soldiers and 75 civilians. Memories of the fallen, particularly of those who died thwarting the attempt on President Park’s life, are still revered. 

Known as the Blue House Raid, this blow came close to fracturing the ROK-U.S. alliance and was a grave embarrassment for the United States. 

The Korean Armistice Agreement, signed July 27, 1953, ended three years of fighting that killed thousands of soldiers and civilians. The agreement established a Military Demarcation Line (MDL) with a two-kilometer buffer area, a demilitarized zone (DMZ), on either side. The 151-mile MDL became the de facto border between North and South Korea. 

Armistice rules limited the number of troops and types of weapons allowed in the DMZ. The intent was for small constabulary formations to be there. From the outset, the KPA flouted those provisions and built fortified outposts manned by heavily armed troops who regularly fired across the MDL.

In the decade following the armistice, seven G.I.s, 13 ROK soldiers and eight KPA fighters were killed in DMZ-related skirmishes. Authorities in Washington were not overly concerned and attributed the casualties to lingering animosity from the Korean War.

North Korea’s Assassination Plot

North Korean dictator Kim Il-sung was obsessed with uniting the two Koreas under communist rule. By the mid-1960s he faced a formidable opponent. The ROK Army rivaled the KPA in quality and numbers. South Korea’s economy had grown to double the size of its northern adversary. ROK defenses were augmented by 50,000 U.S. troops, including the 2nd and 7th Infantry divisions, whose units were responsible for 18.5 miles of the DMZ. Against such strength, Kim turned to unconventional warfare to destabilize South Korea, initially setting 1968 as the campaign start date. 

Kim Il-sung knew hit-and-run engagements would not overwhelm the ROK government. His opponent was an autocratic strongman, President Park Chung-hee, a former general who led a military coup in 1961, had a firm grip on power and used draconian measures to curb opposition. However, during his presidency, quality of life for average citizens vastly improved due to the growing economy. Hence, conditions for a viable insurgency did not exist.

Kim concluded that only Park Chung-hee’s violent death would create a political vacuum and lead to an uprising to ultimately allow him to rule the Korean peninsula. But planning and training for such a dangerous act would take time.World events accelerated Kim’s plans. By late 1966, the United States was immersed in Vietnam where its military commitment exceeded 300,000 and was increasing. For the first time, South Korea diverted forces from homeland defense and sent 50,000 men to assist the U.S. in Southeast Asia. 

North Korea’s dictator believed the time was right to strike. The opening salvo of the Second Korean Conflict was fired on Nov. 2, 1966, during President Lyndon B. Johnson’s visit to Seoul. A U.S. Army patrol from the 2nd Infantry Division was ambushed by the KPA. Seven men were killed while one played dead and escaped with multiple wounds. Further east, an ROK squad was surprised by North Koreans and suffered two killed. This was front-page news for a day. Yet once Johnson returned to Washington, Vietnam again dominated U.S. headlines. 

Rookies and Mistakes

Gen. Charles H. Bonesteel III, the commander of all United Nations forces in Korea, believed this aggression was part of a new strategy aimed at undermining the ROK government and eroding U.S. will. A Rhodes scholar from West Point’s class of 1931, Bonesteel was a brilliant officer who analyzed Kim’s oratory plus intelligence reports. His options to counter the new threat were limited because most resources, including experienced leaders, new equipment, spare parts and dollars, were earmarked for Vietnam. When he took command on Sept. 1, 1966, his charter from the Secretary of Defense contained explicit instructions not to adversely affect the Vietnam effort. 

The theater was in a poor state of readiness. Most helicopters had been sent to Vietnam and modernization plans were on hold. American troops still carried the 7.62mm M14 rifle instead of the lighter M16. Facilities, especially the Quonset huts erected after the Korean War, suffered due to lack of maintenance money for basic repairs or upgrades. Shortages of spare parts left many vehicles non-operational.

U.S. Army personnel issues exacerbated the logistical problems. To expand the nation’s manpower pool, enlistment and induction standards were lowered, forcing the Selective Service to draft men who should never have been in the armed forces. Lack of experienced leaders had the biggest impact on combat effectiveness. On the DMZ, a single lieutenant colonel and lieutenants manned infantry battalions.

As captains completed their tours in Korea in 1966, they were replaced by second lieutenants. The personnel pipeline had barely enough infantry captains to fill the requisitions for Vietnam and Korea took the shortfall. As a result, young officers on their first assignments were commanding companies—positions normally held by captains. Rookie leaders made mistakes inevitable. 

The Infiltrator problem

Clashes with unidentified infiltrators, called UIs, had not abated since President Johnson’s visit. Bonesteel proposed building a barrier and obstacles to impede enemy infiltration, and to enhance surveillance. He emphasized “impede” since no obstacle would stop determined infiltrators. The concept centered on a series of platoon guard posts inside the DMZ and a 10-foot-high chain link fence along the southern trace of the zone. Watchtowers were to be constructed along the fence. Patrols would be increased. Improved bunkers and firing positions would be emplaced so the entire fence was under observation. Sensors, mines and mechanized quick reaction units were part of the mix.

The general ordered two more U.S. infantry battalions to the DMZ, bringing the total to five. But money was required and there was nothing in the budget to cover the $30 million ($274 million today) needed to start the project. The proposal was derided inside the Department of Defense and in the press as “Bonesteel’s Folly.” Yet snide comments did not dissuade the general.

Knowing how to work the bureaucracy, Bonesteel obtained research and development funds for a “DMZ Barrier Test.” He knew if the enterprise started in the U.S. sector, “getting a foot under the tent flap” he called it, the concept could ultimately expand to encompass the entire DMZ.

Construction began in summer 1967. Immediately GIs named it “The Barrier.” While work was in progress, 11 more U.S. soldiers were killed. Exasperated by the shortage of seasoned infantry company commanders, Bonesteel went directly to the Chief of Staff of the Army, Gen. Harold K. Johnson, and asked for 40 infantry captains with Vietnam combat service to fill the void. Johnson was convinced and told the personnel people to make it happen. Captains returning from Vietnam in the summer and fall of 1966 began arriving in Korea in November 1967 as the first stage of the Barrier was completed. 

These company commanders were sorely needed. The year 1967 saw a sevenfold increase in firefights, with 150 occurring in the U.S. sector alone. Sixteen GIs were killed and 51 seriously wounded. The ROK Army suffered more grievously with 115 KIA and 243 wounded. Unlike Vietnam, where body counts were liberally estimated, the corpses of 228 North Korean soldiers killed were dragged to central locations for verification. 

The Commandos Strike

On Jan. 17, 1968, 31 communist commandos crossed over the border, dramatically changing the tenor of operations. They were headed for the Blue House, South Korea’s presidential residence distinguished by its bright roof tiles. The North Korean general who oversaw their six months of training gave the final briefing, exhorting them to “cut off the head of Park Chung-hee.” Notwithstanding fiery rhetoric, the team’s primary weapon for the assassination was the obsolete Soviet submachine gun, the PPSh-43, instead of the more modern AK-47.

North Korean scouts reconnoitered the route through the DMZ and chose rugged terrain in the eastern portion of the 2nd Infantry Division’s area of responsibility. Their approach to the barrier fence was along brush-covered ground where U.S. soldiers were lackadaisical and rarely checked by leaders.

The GIs from B Company, 2nd Battalion, 38th Infantry were more concerned with staying warm during the sub-zero winter nights than being observant. 

Weeks of careful planning paid off. The team was undetected as it moved up to the fence and cut several holes in it, allowing all 31 men to slip through. There was no report the following morning citing the breach. Failure to raise an alarm allowed the infiltrators to cross the partially frozen Imjin River and follow isolated mountain trails to Seoul, located 35 miles away. 

Foiled by Woodcutters

The plan unraveled on the afternoon of Jan. 19 when four South Korean woodcutters stumbled on the raiders’ mountain “hide” position. The bewildered woodsmen were held at gunpoint and lectured on the virtues of Kim Il-sung’s communist “utopia,” and then were released with the admonishment to tell no one what they had seen. This was a fatal error. It was also astonishing behavior for ruthless fighters trained to kill without provocation.

The woodcutters immediately went to the police and apprised them there were “many” North Koreans in the mountains. A nationwide alarm was sounded. No one knew President Park was the target. Throughout South Korea, all police and military forces were placed on high alert.

The North Korean team assumed the woodcutters did as they were told and pressed onward, thinking their presence was still secret. In the early evening of Jan. 20, two and three-man cells slipped into Seoul and rendezvoused at a safe house. They were alarmed by the amount of security around government facilities and the number of soldiers and policemen patrolling the streets.

Even though the odds were against them, they decided to continue the mission, posing as a returning patrol and moving to the Blue House. 

An inquisitive police contingent stopped them at a checkpoint 800 meters from their goal. Their faltering answers to questions were suspicious. The police captain drew his pistol and was killed instantly as a major firefight erupted. The raiders scattered, trying to escape, leaving behind two dead.

Shooting continued throughout the night as the police and soldiers pursed groups of fleeing commandos. Two-dozen innocent civilians caught in crossfire while riding on a municipal bus were among the casualties.

A Diplomatic Crisis

At first light, South Korean and U.S. soldiers began scouring the mountains surrounding the capital. Clerks, cooks and mechanics were formed into provisional platoons on the DMZ to beef up surveillance and stop any escapees.

Within days, 29 raiders were killed, one escaped to North Korea and one was captured. Yet it was a costly victory—68 South Koreans (military, police and civilians) and three Americans were killed. Scores more were wounded.

The captive’s debriefing created a crisis in confidence between the Republic of Korea and the United States. The KPA lieutenant, Kim Shin-jo, was brought to the DMZ where he identified the exact location they cut the Barrier fence.

Not only had the guards been sleeping, but the chain-link fence was crudely repaired, indicating that the holes had been discovered and someone had tried to cover them up. If leaders had checked their men and the fence in accord with the division’s standard operating procedure, this would not have happened.

South Korean officials were infuriated by this dereliction of duty and threatened to withdraw Korean forces from Vietnam, claiming U.S. soldiers were incapable of defending Korea.

News of the fiasco spread through the 2nd Infantry Division. Retired Col. William A. “Bud” Henry, then a captain and a company commander in an adjacent infantry battalion, recalled: “It was a terrible screw-up…bad enough troops were sleeping on duty but far worse when they found the holes in the fence, fixed them and did not report it. The troops pretended nothing happened and probably hoped the whole thing would go away…We assumed somebody was going to jail over it.”

The Tet Offensive

One bad thing followed another. On Jan. 23, as details about the Blue House Raid were being sorted, North Korea’snavy seized the USS Pueblo, an intelligence ship sailing in the Sea of Japan. One U.S. sailor was killed and 82 crewmen were taken hostage. No one in South Korea knew of the ship’s presence,negating the possibility of mounting a rescue. Again the United States appeared impotent and incompetent. 

A week later, the Tet Offensive engulfed Vietnam. On Jan. 30-31, nationwide attacks struck 42 cities and the U.S. Embassy in Saigon. The allies quickly gained the upper hand, but fighting in the ancient capital of Hue dragged on for a month. American TV audiences were saturated with combat footage. Tet was a watershed event because the military success blunting the war’s largest offensive failed to dampen negative political fallout. Previous supporters of the war now viewed it as unwinnable.

To Park Chung-hee and his generals, the Tet Offensive was a sideshow. They deemed the Blue House Raid and the Pueblo hijacking as acts of war and the lack of American retaliation as inexcusable. Their inflammatory statements denigrating the United States brought the relationship between the countries to a new low. 

Johnson had his hands full in Vietnam and was in no position to start another war with North Korea. He sent his personal emissary, Cyrus Vance, to placate Park with a $100M military aid package ($850M in today’s dollars). Showing his disdain, Park initially refused to see Vance but ultimately relented. After several days of contentious discussions, relations between the two countries were patched up. Yet the alliance remained badly frayed.

Tet and the Pueblo diverted the attention of journalists who might have dug into rumors of a DMZ cover-up and published the story in New York Times headlines. Yet the current big story was in Vietnam. Talk of the DMZ breach died a natural death and U.S. authorities were glad to see potential scrutiny go away.

There were no reliefs or courts-martial in the 2nd Infantry Division. Bonesteel used transfers and tour curtailments to hasten the departure of weak officers in the 2nd Battalion. He believed the acrimony between the United States and the Republic of Korea did not need further incitement by airing more dirty laundry with public punishments. Soon there were new leaders in the battalion and the cover-up was not mentioned in official postmortems.

Shows of Force

Kim Il-sung suffered no consequences for his actions. Emboldened, he stepped up pressure on South Korea. On April 21, an outnumbered U.S. patrol fought 50 North Koreans. Five KPA soldiers were killed while the U.S. sustained one KIA and three wounded. It was one of 236 DMZ firefights in 1968 that resulted in 17 more Americans and 145 South Korean soldiers killed. Yet momentum had shifted in favor of the allies; 321 KPA fighters were killed and all enemy forays across the MDL were repelled.

Despite failures, North Korea’s dictator would not give up. Now he faced a new U.S. president, Richard M. Nixon, who ordered fighter aircraft and a large contingent from the 82nd Airborne Division to South Korea for a March 1969 joint training exercise. This show of the alliance’s strength unsettled Kim, who believed it was a precursor to an all-out invasion of North Korea. 

He rolled the dice one more time with a premeditated attack on the United States. On April 15, Kim Il-sung’s birthday, two MiG-21 fighters shot down a U.S. Navy intelligence aircraft 95 miles off the coast of the DPRK. Thirty-one U.S. servicemen died.

President Nixon was irate but opted for a show of force versus bombing North Korea. He immediately resumed intelligence flights but they were escorted by heavily armed jet fighters. Nixon ordered a naval task force of two carrier battle groups into the Sea of Japan. Kim declined to test his enemy further.

In fall 1969, the communist dictator ordered a decrease in offensive activity and purged KPA leadership. Failure had dire consequences in Kim’s hermit kingdom. Many high-ranking military officers were executed or condemned to life in prison. 

The general who planned the Blue House Raid was the first to face torture and the firing squad. At the time, no one realized United Nations troops had defeated the DPRK’s unconventional warfare campaign…except Kim Il-sung.

The Blue House Raid and that period of violence are described in Maj. Daniel Bolger’s 1991 study, “Scenes from an Unfinished War: Low Intensity Conflict in Korea, 1966-1969.” Even in his account, there is no mention of deception on the DMZ. Misguided efforts of a few U.S. soldiers were swept away, overshadowed by the Pueblo and 3600 Americans killed during the Tet Offensive. In his summary, Bolger stated, “the Second Korean Conflict has drifted into obscurity, a curious episode, a footnote to the Vietnam era.”

this article first appeared in military history quarterly

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Throughout the history of human warfare the backbone of any army has been the common soldier, who has had to endure terrifying inventions—from the chariot to the mounted cavalryman to the motorized armored fighting vehicle—an enemy develops to gain an edge over him. Against every such juggernaut, however, the infantryman hasn’t been entirely helpless—not as long as his own mad scientists have applied their ingenuity to develop countermeasures and increase his odds of survival.

On Sept. 15, 1916, Britain introduced its Mark I tank at the Battle of Flers-Courcelette, amid the Somme campaign, with modest success. It wasn’t long before the Germans tried to counter it with the steel-cored K (Kern, or “core”) bullet, a 7.92×57 mm round able to pierce tank armor when fired from a standard Mauser Gewehr 98 rifle. In 1918, as the Allies rolled out tanks with thicker armor, Mauser introduced the specialized T-Gewehr rifle, firing a 13.2×92 mm TuF (Tank und Flieger, or “tank and plane”) round. Thereafter, the arms race was on, as opponents rushed to counter newer, deadlier armored vehicles with more sophisticated “equalizers” intended to give the infantryman a chance of holding his ground. Tanks have since acquired their share of enhanced protection. But aided by such pivotal creations as rocket propulsion, the shaped charge and computerized guidance systems, the current species of “ground pounder” carries his own means to pound back.

this article first appeared in Military History magazine

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Richard Edward Cavazos, born Jan. 31, 1929, was a sixth-generation Texan of Mexican American descent related to Francita Alvarez, known as the “Angel of Goliad” for persuading a Mexican officer not to kill Texas prisoners of war in the Goliad Massacre of 1836 during the Texas Revolution. Cavazos was born in Kingsville and grew up on the King Ranch, where his father, a World War I veteran, was employed.

Cavazos entered Texas Technological College (now Texas Tech University) and graduated in 1951, two years behind older brother Lauro, who became secretary of education under President Ronald Reagan and was the first person of Hispanic descent to serve in a president’s Cabinet.

Richard Cavazos went to college on a football scholarship, but his hopes for a football career ended when he broke a leg during his sophomore year. He enrolled in the Army ROTC and was commissioned as a distinguished graduate. After basic officer training at Fort Benning, Georgia, and jump school, he deployed to Korea in 1952 as a first lieutenant in Company E of the largely Puerto Rican 65th Infantry Regiment, 3rd Infantry Division.

On Feb. 25, 1953, Cavazos saw a wounded enemy soldier near his position and ran alone through a blanket of hostile fire to return with a valuable prisoner. For his actions he was awarded a Silver Star. Four months later, on June 14, 1953, Cavazos led his company through a heavy barrage in three different assaults on an enemy position, each time destroying vital personnel and equipment. When the company withdrew, he remained behind alone to locate and evacuate five wounded comrades. These heroics resulted in a Distinguished Service Cross.

Cavazos returned to combat 14 years later as a lieutenant colonel commanding the 1st Battalion, 18th Infantry Regiment, 3rd Brigade, 1st Infantry Division, in Vietnam. On Oct. 30, 1967, near Loc Ninh, north of Saigon about 12 miles from Cambodia, one of his companies came under fire on a hillside during a reconnaissance mission.

The colonel led his other elements forward to aid the company under assault. While continuously exposed to enemy fire and shrapnel from exploding grenades, Cavazos directed his troops in a counterattack. As enemy soldiers left their fortified positions, he called in airstrikes and artillery fire to cut off their line of retreat before personally leading an assault on the enemy positions.

Cavazos was awarded a second Distinguished Service Cross. The citation states: “When the fighting reached such close quarters that supporting fire could no longer be used, he completely disregarded his own safety and personally led a determined assault on the enemy positions. The assault was carried out with such force and aggressiveness that the Viet Cong were overrun and fled their trenches. Colonel Cavazos then directed artillery fire on the hilltop, and the insurgents were destroyed as they ran.”

Before his tour in Vietnam ended, Cavazos received another Silver Star. In addition to getting two Distinguished Service Crosses and two Silver Stars in two wars, Cavazos collected a Distinguished Flying Cross, five Bronze Stars, including at least one for valor, and the Purple Heart. He was also authorized a Combat Infantryman’s Badge with one star, which denoted service as an Army infantryman in two wars.

In 1976 Cavazos was appointed a brigadier general, becoming the first Hispanic American general in the U.S. Army. Six years later he received his fourth star, again making history.

After more than 30 years of service, he retired in 1984. Throughout his military career, Cavazos claimed San Antonio as his home, the place where his wife lived and his four children grew up. He died on Oct. 29, 2017, and was buried at San Antonio’s Fort Sam Houston National Cemetery.

In 2021, Congress created a commission to recommend new names for Army bases that honor Confederate leaders, including Fort Hood, a Texas base memorializing Gen. John Bell Hood. The recommendations, announced in May 2022, would rename that base to honor Cavazos.

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On the evening of Oct. 1, 1950, the submarine USS Perch surfaced 4 miles off the east coast of North Korea. A veteran of World War II combat against Japan, the warship had been converted into a troop transport and in place of torpedo tubes carried troops—67 members of Britain’s 41 (Independent) Commando, Royal Marines. Led by Lt. Col. Douglas B. Drysdale, the men were among the first members of their service to go into action behind enemy lines in the Korean War. Their target that night was a rail line used by the North Koreans to transport supplies and personnel south.

The commandos busied themselves retrieving a 24-foot motorboat, dubbed the “skimmer,” and inflatable rafts from an airtight 36-foot-long cylindrical cargo hangar welded to the submarine’s aft deck—a feature that led the marines to dub the vessel the “Pregnant Perch.” With the boats in the water, the skimmer towed the rafts toward the beach while Perch waited on the surface. Once ashore the raiders planted explosives along the tracks in tunnels and an adjoining culvert, though the latter presented an unexpected challenge. “The plan was to crawl to the center [of the culvert], then pack in as much explosives as possible,” commando Fred Hayhurst recalled. “The culvert, however, housed years and years of rotting, smelly rubbish. The first task was to clear some of the obstacles, then crawl through the slimy mess with packs of explosives.”

Detonated as planned, the explosives destroyed a long section of railway, and the raiders made it back to Perch in the predawn darkness. They returned with the body of Peter R. Jones, the first Royal Marine casualty of the war, who’d been killed during a firefight with North Korean troops. Despite that loss—and others to come—the successful raid marked the beginning of a highly effective covert war carried out by Britain’s famed “green berets.” 

Assembling the Team

The Royal Marines’ participation in the Korean War officially began just two months before the rail line attack with the Aug. 16, 1950, formation of 41 (Independent) Commando at Bickleigh Barracks, on the outskirts of Plymouth in southwest England. The unit’s hasty creation stemmed from a request by Vice Adm. C. Turner Joy, commander of U.S. Naval Forces, Far East, for a raiding force to disrupt enemy supply lines on North Korea’s east coast. Amphibious raiding was exactly the type of operation at which the British commandos excelled, and Royal Navy Vice Adm. Sir Patrick Brind offered such a force to the United Nations Command.

The only problem was that 3 Commando Brigade—the Royal Marines’ primary field formation—was already battling communist guerrillas in Malaya. The marines were thus forced to recruit volunteers (though few former members of 41 Commando recall “volunteering”) from three different groups. The first were marines under Drysdale from the commando school at Bickleigh Barracks. The second comprised sailors and marines of the British Pacific Fleet, who became known as the “Fleet Volunteers.” The final volunteers were marines en route to Malaya aboard the troopship Devonshire who were diverted to Japan.

Assembling the Fleet Volunteers and Devonshire men in Japan was easy enough. Deploying those at Bickleigh Barracks was more complicated. The British-based marines ultimately flew to Japan via a chartered civilian flight. So as not to attract attention during fueling stops in neutral countries, they traveled in civilian clothes. Their weak disguise likely fooled few onlookers, however, given that most of the men wore their combat boots.

All three marine groups eventually gathered in Japan at Camp McGill, a U.S. Army training facility near the sprawling American naval base at Yokosuka. As 41 Commando would be under U.S. naval operational command, the British troops were issued American uniforms, weapons and equipment, though they retained their boots and distinctive green berets. Accents aside, there was little to distinguish them from their American counterparts. After familiarizing themselves with the weapons, the marines underwent rigorous training on raiding techniques. By late September elements of 41 Commando were ready for operations. 

The Train Wreckers

The first members of 41 Commando to see action belonged to Poundforce, a 14-man team under the command of Lt. Edgar Pounds. Attached to a U.S. Army Ranger battalion, Poundforce supported the Inchon landings by conducting a diversionary raid along the Korean west coast on the night of September 12/13. Following the raid, Poundforce was attached to the U.S. 1st Marine Division (1st MARDIV), which by month’s end helped liberate Seoul.

Following the October 1/2 raid from Perch, Drysdale’s second-in-command, Maj. Dennis Aldridge, led two separate raids on October 5 and 6 by 125 men of the commandos’ C and D Troops. Put ashore by landing craft from the U.S. high-speed transports Bass and Wantuck, the raiders detonated 4 tons of explosives beneath bridges and culverts and in tunnels along the same key rail line. Another commando was killed, but that operation was also successful. It and further raids on the North Korean rail system led 41 Commando to be widely referred to as the “Train Wreckers.”

As U.N. forces rapidly advanced northward up the Korean Peninsula, opportunities for coastal raiding tapered off, and 41 Commando was put under the command of 1st MARDIV, the latter having transferred east following the liberation of Seoul. Numbering just 235 men, 41 Commando was to serve as a reconnaissance company on the division’s left flank as it advanced north from Yudam-ni.

After enjoying Thanksgiving with their American brothers-in-arms at Hungnam, the men of 41 Commando boarded twenty-two 2½-ton trucks and, accompanied by a weapons carrier and Drysdale’s jeep, traveled north through Funchilin Pass to Koto-ri. On their arrival famed World War II U.S. Marine combat leader Col. Lewis Burwell “Chesty” Puller, commander of the 1st Marine Regiment, informed Drysdale that upward of 120,000 Chinese troops had attacked the U.S. X Corps along a broad front west and south of the Chosin Reservoir, blocking the road to the north. 

As part of a plan for the 1st MARDIV to fight its way through to Hagaru-ri, at the southern tip of the reservoir, the Royal Marines formed the nucleus of Task Force Drysdale, which included Company G, 3rd Battalion, 1st Marines; Company B, 3rd Battalion, 31st U.S. Infantry; and 1st MARDIV support elements. The task force—922 men and 141 vehicles under Drysdale’s command—began its advance at 9:30 a.m. November 29, with 41 Commando and Company G leading the way.

Task Force Drysdale had advanced not 2 miles before its lead elements contacted the Chinese. Enemy resistance was heavy, but 17 tanks pushed up the line drove back the Chinese. The task force resumed its advance at 1:50 p.m. and continued until Drysdale called a halt at 4:15 to confer with 1st MARDIV headquarters. Increasingly concerned the Chinese might capture Hagaru-ri, division commander Maj. Gen. Oliver P. Smith ordered Drysdale to press on. As soon as the tanks had refueled, the task force resumed its advance. When Drysdale asked the commander of the armored element to disperse his vehicles throughout the convoy, the latter refused, fearing individual tanks would be easier for the Chinese to pick off. His decision proved disastrous. Halfway to Hagaru-ri the convoy entered a defile and came under ambush by the Chinese, who hit a truck with a mortar round, splitting the column.

“The trucks jerked to a halt,” Royal Marine Dave Brady recalled, “and as they did so, there was some fairly intensive firing from the hills alongside.” Tumbling over the side of his truck, Brady heard someone shout, “Get off the road and up the hill!” He did as told and sought cover. “I rolled onto my side and drew my bayonet and, with trembling fingers, after many attempts attached it to my stupidly small carbine. Alongside me was [an American] soldier. His face was cradled in his hands.…I pushed him, and he rolled onto his side, face toward mine, or rather, what was left of his face.”

The latter half of the split column comprised one of 41 Commando’s heavy weapons sections, the assault engineers, most of Company B and elements of Drysdale’s command group. Strung out along the road in several defensive positions, they managed to hold off Chinese assaults throughout the night. Most of the heavy weapons section, led by Cpl. Ernest Cruse, managed to reach Hagaru-ri the next day, albeit reporting many cases of frostbite. Those from the command group, led by Capt. Patrick Ovens, narrowly avoided capture by withdrawing to Koto-ri. Meanwhile, the lead half of the column pressed on under intense Chinese fire until halted by mortar fire less than a mile from Hagaru-ri. Three Royal Marines were killed and several others, including Drysdale, wounded during that stage of the advance. Rallying, the men fought through into town. 

The advance had cost Task Force Drysdale 321 casualties and 75 vehicles. Scarcely 100 members of 41 Commando made it to Hagaru-ri, while 60 fell as casualties. Those in the column managing to reach town were given food and welcome shelter from temperatures that plunged to -24°F. Placed under the command of the U.S. 5th Marines’ Regimental Combat Team (RCT), the surviving Royal Marines were designated as “garrison reserve.” Yet before long they were in action again, launching a counterattack to retake Company G’s left flank on East Hill, a crucial feature in Hagaru-ri’s defenses. 

A Freezing Ordeal

Unknown to the defenders of Hagaru-ri, the Chinese had suffered some 5,000 casualties. Such horrific losses didn’t prevent the enemy from pressing their offensive and rolling back U.N. forces. Farther west Eighth Army had been compelled to withdraw, and three U.S. Army battalions east of the Chosin Reservoir had suffered up to 75 percent casualties. The situation for U.N. forces looked bleak.

During a high-level briefing at Hagaru-ri the commander of X Corps authorized 1st MARDIV commander Smith to destroy his heavy equipment before retiring to Hungnam. But Smith said the division would fight its way out and take its equipment with it. The general also made it clear “withdrawal” was not a word in the Marine Corps vocabulary. The coming move would represent an “advance” to the south.

The U.S. 5th and 7th Marine RCTs at Yudam-ni were first withdrawn south to Hagaru-ri, arriving on December 4 in subzero temperatures to a warm welcome by members of 41 Commando. The next day the Royal Marines tried to recover nine 155 mm howitzers that had earlier been abandoned. The attempt failed, though they later destroyed the guns. On the positive side, U.N. aircraft managed to fly in 537 reinforcements to Hagaru-ri and evacuate a number of casualties—including 25 Royal Marines. 

Smith’s plan to “advance” south called for the besieged garrison at Hagaru-ri to break through to Koto-ri. The 7th Marine RCT was to lead the way with the 5th RCT and 41 Commando acting as a rear guard. The move would be dangerous, though U.S. and British troops would receive air support from carrier-based U.S. Navy and Marine Corps aircraft. The withdrawal began on December 6, with 10,000 men and 1,000 vehicles setting out under constant threat of Chinese attack. “The whole column moved at a very slow pace,” one Royal Marine recalled. “All except the drivers were walking. This was to prevent the enemy getting close enough to toss grenades at the vehicles. It was also to prevent people freezing to death in the backs of trucks.”

The move toward Hungnam ran into a delay, as the Chinese had destroyed a section of bridge at a hydroelectric plant spillway in Funchilin Pass. U.S. engineers rushed to span the gap using steel trackway parachuted into the pass. With repairs completed, 41 Commando moved out of Koto-ri amid a snowstorm on the evening of December 8, tasked with holding high ground along the road ahead to guard against Chinese attack. The next morning the marines turned back to Koto-ri to relieve 3rd Battalion, 1st Marines, in defense of the perimeter. Finally, 41 Commando left Koto-ri with the 5th RCT, marching the 23 miles to Hungnam in awful weather conditions. On arrival Drysdale’s men were loaded onto trucks and taken to a tented assembly area. Their ordeal of the Battle of Chosin Reservoir was over. 

On December 11 the remaining elements of 1st MARDIV arrived at Koto-ri. As promised, Smith and his Marines had fought their way out and managed to bring most of their equipment with them. After greeting the battered but unbowed Americans, the men of 41 Commando embarked on transports waiting off the coast at Hungnam, bound first for Pusan and then Masan. All told during the Chosin Reservoir campaign 41 Commando suffered 93 casualties, including most of the assault engineers, signalmen and NCOs of the heavy weapons sections. Thus the unit was withdrawn to Japan. After a period of R&R at Ebisu Camp in suburban Tokyo 41 Commando were sent to HMAS Commonwealth, the Australian naval base at Kure, where they received replacement personnel and equipment. The commando also undertook additional training, for their combat role in Korea was only just beginning.

More Raiding

On April 2, 1951, the reconstituted 41 Commando embarked on the dock landing ship USS Fort Marion and high-speed transport USS Begor to mount another demolition raid. Their target was the coastal rail line near Sorye-dong, North Korea, which the enemy was using to transport men and materiel from Manchuria to Hungnam. The U.S. Navy provided both air and naval gunfire support.

Delayed by thick fog, the raid began just after dawn on April 7. After a two-hour naval bombardment D Troop landed at 8:05 a.m., followed an hour later by the engineers. After blasting out 16 boreholes along a load-bearing railway embankment, the raiders packed each cavity with 80-pound TNT charges. After detonating the initial charges, the team repeated the process, the subsequent explosions opening a gap in the embankment some 100 feet wide and 16 feet deep. Finally, the commandos salted the craters with dozens of anti-personnel mines to hinder North Korean repair efforts. Eight hours after landing the Royal Marines boarded landing craft and returned to the waiting ships. The raid had been a smashing success, and no casualties were incurred, despite a brief firefight between members of C Troop and the enemy. 

The next target for 41 Commando was Yo-do, an island in Wonsan Harbor, some 60 miles behind enemy lines. Secured in early July and established as a forward base from which to mount further raids, the island was initially garrisoned by South Korean marines. Through that autumn the commandos established forward bases on the neighboring islands of Mo-do, Tae-do and Hwangto-do, from which several raids were mounted. During one August 30 raid against enemy artillery batteries on Ho-do Pan-do island B Troop lost two marines in a clash with enemy soldiers, and five other members of the commando were captured when their landing craft ran aground on nearby Kalma-gak.

On September 27 Drysdale and B Troop embarked on the high-speed transport Wantuck for a raid on Songjin (present-day Kimchaek), a port city on North Korea’s northeast coast. The intention was to ambush enemy reinforcements in the area. Two parties landed, one tasked with creating a diversion while the second carried out the ambush. Though one of their own was wounded during the raid, the marines managed to place mines on the main road and heard several detonate as they withdrew.

On October 3/4 the commando targeted the railway south of Chongjin, though they withdrew on finding it heavily guarded. Two days later the marines attempted another landing near Sorye-dong, but their canoes came under fire as they reached shore, forcing another withdrawal. 

On October 15 Drysdale was appointed the Royal Marine representative at the U.S. Marine Corps Schools in Quantico, Va. Succeeding him as commander of 41 Commando was Lt. Col. Ferris N. Grant. Meanwhile, the raids against North Korean targets continued, with B Troop landing midway between Songjin and Hungnam on December 2. The commandos returned the following evening, landing a half mile farther north, but again were compelled to withdraw.

The Royal Marines intended to keep raiding that winter, hoping to tie down enemy troops that otherwise would be deployed against U.N. forces elsewhere. But by year’s end 41 Commando received an order to withdraw. Before leaving they mounted a final raid, dubbed Operation Swansong, during which D Troop destroyed enemy vessels at Changguok-hang, on the west coast of Ho-do Pan-do. Finally, on December 22/23 they returned by ship to Sasebo, Japan. Those who’d served a year in Korea returned home to England, while those with time remaining in service joined 3 Commando Brigade in Malaya. 

In its 18 months of existence 41 Commando had conducted 18 amphibious landings, most targeting enemy rail and road supply routes. Their actions forced the North Koreans and Chinese to divert considerable resources to the coast to guard against attack. During its raiding operations and participation in the Chosin campaign, 41 Commando lost 21 killed and 28 captured, 10 of whom died in captivity, bringing the total number of fatalities to 31. Several unit members received medals from both the British and U.S. governments, and the commando itself received a U.S. Presidential Unit Citation. Perhaps more important are the lasting bonds formed between the Royal Marines and U.S. Marine Corps. 

On Feb. 2, 1952, 41 (Independent) Commando, Royal Marines, formally disbanded. Re-formed in 1960, the unit saw action in East Africa, Northern Ireland and other trouble spots until again disbanded in 1981.

British military historian Mark Simner is a regular contributor to several international history magazines. For further reading he recommends Scorched Earth, Black Snow: Britain and Australia in the Korean War, 1950, by Andrew Salmon; Green Berets in Korea: The Story of 41 Independent Commando, Royal Marines, by Fred Hayhurst; and One of the Chosin Few: A Royal Marine Commando’s Fight for Survival Behind Enemy Lines in Korea, by Dave Brady.

this article first appeared in Military History magazine

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You’d be forgiven for being surprised after seeing “Devotion” and realizing it is not, in fact, a military action movie.

The film, based on a true Korean War story written by Adam Makos, has all the makings of a war epic, including a few tense dogfight scenes sure to leave audience members sweating bullets.

Its story, however, centers not on the war itself, but on the unlikely friendship that develops between a swaggering Lt. Tom Hudner (played by Glen Powell), and the Navy’s first Black aviator, Ensign Jesse Brown (Jonathan Majors).

The pacing of the movie is, at times, slow, dramatic, and a little dark. In 1950, racial tension is set against a backdrop of a post-World-War-II America that is reforming its identity. It is also home to a majority who have no interest in another global conflict.

Alas, the pair become eventual heroes in the nation’s “Forgotten War,” serving as a stunning example of what anti-prejudice might have looked like well before the Civil Rights movement.

Much of the exclusion felt by Brown in the film is overt. Racism is an ever-present character in this story, shown mostly through a lens of Brown’s poor treatment at the hands of civilians. This, despite his status as a college-educated pilot in the U.S. Navy.

In one scene, for example, Brown is nearly barred from a casino on the French Riviera, where he must prove he speaks the language and had received a formal invitation by actress Elizabeth Taylor.

And while some of these scenes may seem like unnecessary diversions from the larger story, they allow more time to explore the ways Brown surprised Hudner, further earning his respect both as a pilot and person.

Ultimately, Brown’s relationship with Hudner and the squadron at-large proved what many familiar with the military know — there is profound equality among the troops, especially amid dire circumstances. The implicit message is that those you fight or fly beside are the same as you, no matter how they look or where they come from.

Unfortunately, the slow spark of mutual respect that kindled the relationship between Brown and Hudner is snuffed out before it ever truly gets the chance to burn.

Brown’s Corsair goes down after the squadron’s Dec. 4 mission to the Chosin Reservoir. Hudner, proving the aptness of the movie’s title, decides he can’t leave his wingman behind and crashes his own aircraft in a reckless but valiant rescue effort. Brown, trapped, doesn’t make it out but tells Hudner to relay a message of love to his wife.

Powell and Majors are powerhouses throughout this at-times crawling story, painting the picture of two very different people with polar opposite backgrounds who form an unlikely bond that extends well beyond death.

In the aftermath, Hudner remained devoted to two things: Brown’s beloved Daisy and their daughter Pamela, and the recovery of his remains, which he fought to bring back from Korea until his death in 2017.

“Devotion” lands in theaters Nov. 23.

Originally published by Military Times, our sister publication.

Entering service in December 1950 as the first carrier-based jet night fighter for the Navy and Marine Corps, the Douglas F3D Skyknight began operations in Korea with Marine night fighter squadron VMF(N)-513, whose nickname, “Nightmares,” could well be applied to the protracted training and delays that held up its use in combat until August 1952.

In the months that followed, however, the crews of the improved F3D-2s mastered their radar and learned how to deal with enemy threats as varied as MiG-15 jet fighters, low, slow and elusive Polikarpov Po-2 biplanes and Yakovlev Yak-18 trainers used by the North Koreans to harass United Nations positions at night.

By the end of the war, VMF(N)-513’s “Whales” were credited with downing six Soviet, Chinese and North Korean aircraft without a loss of their own. Those shoot downs had a big benefit: From February through July 1953 the Air Force did not lose a single Boeing B-29 night bomber to enemy aircraft.

With its straight wings, the F3D was obsolete by the end of the Korean War. Yet, upgraded with more sophisticated electronics, the Skyknight saw use during the Cuban Missile Crisis of October 1962. That was just the beginning, as Marine air expert Joe Copalman describes in intimate detail in his first contribution to Osprey’s “Combat Aircraft” series, F3D/EF-10 Skyknight Units of the Korean and Vietnam Wars.

Redesignated EF-10Bs, Skyknights of composite reconnaissance squadron VMCJ-1 accompanied bombing raids over North Vietnam and greatly reduced American aircraft losses by jamming the enemy’s radar.

That technology was applied to a variety of situations, including deadly cat-and-mouse games with the radar that directed North Vietnamese anti-aircraft artillery and surface-to-air missiles before the U.S. Air Force developed its specialized “Wild Weasels,” a code name for aircraft that could home in on SAM sites and destroy them with missiles.

After the first six of the vastly more up-to-date Grumman EA-6A Electric Intruders arrived at Da Nang on Oct. 28, 1966, those planes initially suffered maintenance and readiness problems. Therefore, during 1967-68 the obsolete but reliable Whales conducted operations alongside their intended successors.

Finally retired by the Marines in 1970, the Skyknight is, in the author’s opinion, the most unsung hero of its two major wars. A look through the many firsthand experiences that accompany the wealth of photographs and profiles should convince anyone interested in the air war that it was the most valuable warplane in proportion to the few that flew in both Korea and Vietnam.

This book review appeared in the Winter 2023 issue of Vietnam magazine.

F3D/EF-10 Skyknight Units of the Korean and Vietnam Wars

By Joe Copalman

Osprey Publishing

Bloomsbury USA, 2022

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If asked, “When did America lose the Vietnam War?” most respondents with some knowledge of the war would likely answer, “April 30, 1975.” That day, North Vietnamese Army tanks crashed through the gates of the Republic of Vietnam’s Presidential Palace in Saigon and celebrated a communist victory in the Second Indochina War (1955-1975). Certainly, that day was the end of the shooting war.

But when exactly did the U.S. and its allies lose their ability to win the war? When did defeat become inevitable in America’s efforts to preserve a democratic South Vietnam in the face of North Vietnam’s relentless, ruthless aggression? The answer to that question is key—determining when America lost reveals how and why the decades-long effort failed.

The “Usual Suspects”

If asked to pinpoint the date when the U.S. irretrievably lost the war, some historians would suggest the following “usual suspects”:

Nov. 2, 1963 – Those recognizing the importance of political leaders’ influence might single out the day when South Vietnamese President Ngo Dinh Diem was killed in a coup. President John F. Kennedy knew of preparations for the coup and his administration supported the overthrow of Diem, who was assassinated in the process. Diem’s murder removed the struggling democracy’s “last, best hope,” as some have called Diem, the only leader whose charisma, popularity, willpower and effectiveness rivaled that of North Vietnamese communist leader Ho Chi Minh.

Nov. 22, 1963 – Some tout Kennedy’s assassination as the date the war was irretrievably lost because they believe he would have kept the U.S. out of Vietnam’s “quagmire” or have beaten the Viet Cong insurgency with U.S. Army Special Forces troops, the “Green Berets,” eschewing a massive buildup of conventional forces. However, those are conjectures rather than certainties.

Democrat Kennedy politically could not afford to “lose Vietnam,” especially after another Democratic president, Harry S. Truman, was castigated as the one who “lost China” to Mao Zedong’s communists in 1949. Speculation that Kennedy would not have backed up South Vietnam with whatever U.S. military support was necessary to match Hanoi’s escalation ignores the reality of Cold War politics.

Aug. 1, 1964 – Many are convinced the U.S. lost due to a misguided military strategy that focused too much on overwhelming firepower in a futile conventional war to destroy the communist insurgency through attrition. They believe it would have been more effective to emphasize less brutal methods to win the “hearts and minds” of the South Vietnamese and weaken the Viet Cong’s influence in towns and villages. For people with that view, the fateful date might be the day that Gen. William C. Westmoreland, the leader most closely associated with the attrition strategy, assumed leadership of Military Assistance Command, Vietnam, commanding all U.S. combat forces inside South Vietnam.

Aug. 2 and 4, 1964 – In the Gulf of Tonkin incident, North Vietnamese gunboats attacked a U.S. destroyer that suffered just one bullet hole. Two days later, two destroyers fired in the direction of signals that appeared to be emanating from approaching North Vietnamese vessels, but were not. These alleged “attacks” prompted an Aug. 7 joint congressional resolution authorizing President Lyndon B. Johnson “to take all necessary measures to repel any armed attack against the forces of the United States and to prevent further aggression.” This gave Johnson permission to escalate the smoldering insurgency into a full-blown and—many historians have claimed—ultimately unwinnable war.

March 8, 1965 – Those believing that the introduction of U.S. “boots on the ground” was the fatal mistake might champion the date when the 9th Marine Regiment, 9th Expeditionary Brigade, 3rd Marine Division, came ashore at Da Nang as America’s first combat troops in Vietnam. From that point, the U.S. was “all in” and the quagmire became inevitable, some would argue.

The Long View

Historians placing Vietnam within the context of the global Cold War might take a longer view that pushes a presumed foreordained U.S. failure further back in history. They might suggest these key historical mileposts:

June 1924 – Nguyen Sinh Cung (Ho Chi Minh’s birth name) was rebuffed in 1919 when he pleaded Vietnam’s case for independence from colonial ruler France at the Versailles peace conference after World War I. Shunned by Western powers, he became a committed communist. That month he attended the Fifth Congress of the Soviet-led Comintern (Communist International) in Moscow. Thereafter radicalized into much more than a “Vietnamese nationalist,” Ho Chi Minh cleverly manipulated Vietnamese popular support for independence to propel his single-minded effort to establish a communist Vietnam.

Sept. 22, 1940 – Imperial Japanese forces occupied Indochina, ruled then by the Nazi-backed Vichy France government. The Japanese invasion united competing Vietnamese factions of the resistance to French colonial rule into a solidified “nationalist” crusade. Japanese imperialism gave Ho Chi Minh the unifying spark he needed to build support for a prolonged resistance to defeat all foreign intervention.

Feb. 22, 1946 – The U.S. deputy chief of mission in Moscow, George F. Kennan, sent his “Long Telegram” to Washington explaining the roots and basis of Soviet expansionism, eventually prompting the April 7, 1950, National Security Council policy paper 68, establishing “containment of communism” as U.S. Cold War policy. This policy ensured that the U.S. would become involved in opposing the communist takeover of Vietnam.

May 7, 1954 – The humiliating defeat of French forces at Dien Bien Phu by Ho Chi Minh’s Viet Minh independence fighters led to an agreement, signed July 21 in Geneva, partitioning the former French colony into a communist-controlled North and a democratic South. Inevitably, the United States—committed to NSC 68’s global containment policy, recently demonstrated in the Korean War at the cost of over 36,000 American dead—stepped forward to replace French imperialists and to create and defend a Southeast Asian democracy.

All of the dates listed above are important Vietnam War milestones, but they are not the most significant. To understand why, it’s necessary to first address the enduring but egregiously wrong “popular wisdom” about the war.

What Popular Wisdom Gets Wrong

Historians who claim the U.S. lost the Vietnam War due to a failed warfighting strategy are correct. However, they are wrong if they claim Vietnam was lost because Westmoreland adopted a conventional war strategy rather than a revolutionary war/insurgency strategy.

The communists did not win through a classic revolutionary guerrilla war of national liberation in which South Vietnam’s government was toppled by a widespread popular insurgency of disaffected citizens overthrowing a hated regime. Instead, the Vietnam War was a brutal war of conquest mounted by communist North Vietnam to overthrow South Vietnam’s democratic (and admittedly imperfect) government, initially by guerrilla warfare tactics, but ultimately by a conventional warfare invasion strategy.

From 1954 through 1968, North Vietnam pursued a military strategy incorporating guerrilla war tactics. That effort failed miserably. As early as 1966, Hanoi was forced to replenish its South Vietnamese Viet Cong cadres with northerners brought down via the Ho Chi Minh Trail running through Laos and Cambodia. The communists’ early-1968 Tet Offensive, which relied heavily on Viet Cong forces, was a military failure with catastrophic VC losses. In many places the offensive’s losses virtually eradicated the VC “infrastructure,” eliminating local political and administrative “shadow government” personnel.

Committed to winning a decades-long war, Hanoi’s leaders simply changed their overall strategy and turned to outright invasions using overpowering NVA conventional forces (infantry, armor, artillery) to conquer the South. With U.S. combat forces still fighting in support of the Army of the Republic of Vietnam, this new strategy also initially failed. During Easter weekend in 1972, the communists launched a widespread infantry-armor-artillery offensive that achieved early successes, but beleaguered ARVN forces, bolstered by overwhelming U.S. firepower, rallied to totally crush the invasion, inflicting 100,000 NVA casualties.

However, in 1975—after all American combat forces were withdrawn and the U.S. had dramatically reduced financial support for South Vietnam’s military—a similar-sized NVA conventional force executed essentially the same invasion strategy, but this time conquered South Vietnam that April.

For purely propaganda reasons, Hanoi cynically argued that its conquest was led by South Vietnamese VC insurgents—claiming its 1975 victory was the triumph of a “revolutionary war of national liberation,” even though depleted VC ranks between 1968 and 1975 were increasingly filled by North Vietnamese troops filtering south and operating from sanctuaries in officially “neutral” Laos and Cambodia. Additionally, the January 1973 Peace Accords allowed thousands of communist troops to remain inside South Vietnam’s borders, pre-positioned to participate in the final assault.

Facing overwhelming U.S./ARVN firepower throughout the war, North Vietnamese forces necessarily employed guerrilla tactics (including ambushes, hit-and-run attacks, sabotage, assassinations). To actually win the war, Hanoi abandoned its guerrilla strategy of fomenting insurgency and instead was compelled to turn to an invasion by conventional forces to overthrow the South Vietnamese government.

The North Vietnamese communist dictatorship was willing to pay any price in blood and treasure to ultimately conquer the Republic of South Vietnam. Significantly, Westmoreland, on the other hand, was never given the mission of winning the war, only of preventing the South Vietnamese from losing it—two profoundly different missions.

Contrary to popular wisdom, the war was lost due to a combination of failures in strategy, geographic ignorance and a lack of national will. Each of those three factors is associated with a date that marks a defining event inevitably leading to America’s defeat.

Strategy for Failure

Oct. 25, 1950 – America’s defeat in Vietnam was due to a fundamental error in judgment that has bedeviled military campaigns throughout history: refighting the last war. Political and military warriors leading American efforts in Vietnam based U.S. strategy on their last conflict: the 1950-53 Korea War.

America’s Vietnam War leaders were misled because of coincidental, superficial similarities. The Korean War was also fought in a divided Asian nation with a communist North, supported by China and the Soviet Union, attacking a democratic South backed by the U.S. Thus, American leaders assumed Vietnam was merely a rematch.

The date when the result of one president’s decision later compelled the U.S. to commit to a strategy doomed to fail in Vietnam was Oct. 25, 1950. On that day, in response to Truman’s fateful order a few weeks earlier to his theater commander in Korea, General of the Army Douglas MacArthur, to cross the 38th parallel dividing the two Koreas and invade North Korea, the first counterattacks against United Nations forces were launched by 300,000 Chinese troops.

 Suddenly, due to Truman’s misjudgment, Americans were in a major war with Mao Zedong’s communist China. For the remainder of the three-year-long Korean War, U.S./U.N. forces fought bloody, costly battles before the fighting finally ended in a stalemate with a July 1953 armistice

A decade later U.S. leaders, profoundly influenced by their woeful experience in Korea, were determined not to repeat that mistake in a new anti-communist Asian war. Fear of another Chinese intervention set the parameters governing U.S. ground combat operations in Vietnam. Primarily intended to give China no possible excuse to replicate its Korean War incursion, American ground combat was restricted to actions solely within South Vietnam. North Vietnam would be off-limits for ground forces—or even the threat of them—throughout the war.

Those restrictions did not apply to U.S. air operations. North Vietnam and the Ho Chi Minh Trail in Laos and Cambodia were bombed extensively, although the Hanoi area and the key port at Haiphong were not targeted until late in the war when it was too late to be decisive.

Restricting the ground war to South Vietnamese territory meant U.S. military commanders could never win the war outright. They could only keep South Vietnam from losing it, if possible. This was the defining strategic element in the U.S. defeat: American forces were confined to the strategic defensive. Although U.S. and ARVN forces did conduct offensive operations within South Vietnam, the U.S. permanently surrendered the strategic initiative to North Vietnam, which could totally control the tempo of combat by sending troops and war materiel southward whenever it wanted.

The result was a brutal, localized war of attrition that dragged on as long as both sides possessed the will to continue. Hanoi had the “weapons” it needed to continuing fight as long as it took to win: a ruthless disregard of heavy casualties and a tightly controlled population without the freedom to protest.

The Geography of Defeat

July 23, 1962 – Some critics of America’s strategy in Vietnam compare the failure there to successful campaigns against communist-led insurgencies elsewhere in Asia, most notably the British counterinsurgency victory in Malaysia (1948-60) and the defeat of the Hukbalahap Rebellion in the Philippines (1945-54). But victory over those insurgencies owed as much to the countries’ unique geographies as to innovative counterinsurgency tactics and strategy.

Malaya (today’s Malaysia) is nearly surrounded by water—the South China Sea and the Strait of Malacca. Only a narrow 65-mile-wide neck of land connects Malaya with Southeast Asia. The Philippines, an island nation, is surrounded by water—the Pacific Ocean and South China Sea. Government control over the sea and narrow land approaches helped those countries strangle their insurgencies. Their much-vaunted counterinsurgency strategies were essentially irrelevant as the insurrections died on the vine.

The South Vietnamese government, however, had only the South China Sea on its eastern/southern border as a buffer. It shared a long, highly vulnerable land border with Laos and Cambodia all along its western side—the Achilles’ heel of U.S.-South Vietnamese efforts to defeat the North Vietnamese invaders. The Viet Minh fighting the French and later NVA-Viet Cong forces attacking South Vietnam occupied remote jungles in eastern Laos and Cambodia. They used them as marshalling bases and access routes for funneling troops, ammunition and equipment from North Vietnam into all regions of the South.

This intricate network of footpaths and dirt roads, called the Ho Chi Minh Trail system, was literally the communists’ “highway to victory.” If the Americans and South Vietnamese could stop the movement of troops and materiel down the trail, communist military operations in South Vietnam would be doomed. With the trail open, however, Hanoi could prolong the war as long as it wished, control its tempo and eventually win.

On July 23, 1962, that geographical “win” for North Vietnam was assured when Kennedy administration negotiators signed the International Treaty on the Neutrality of Laos with 13 other nations pledging “to respect” the “sovereignty, independence, neutrality, unity and territorial integrity” of Laos, which was in the midst of a communist insurrection. The other signatories included China, the Soviet Union, North Vietnam and South Vietnam.

Years before the treaty was signed, the NVA had occupied areas of eastern Laos and Cambodia. After the document was signed, the North Vietnamese expanded their control and further developed the Ho Chi Minh Trail.

More than any other event, the Laos treaty all but guaranteed that the U.S. would eventually lose the Vietnam War. Efforts to overcome the treaty mistake through major U.S./ARVN incursions into Cambodia in 1970 and Laos in 1971 were too little and years too late.

The Death of U.S. Will

July 1, 1973 – Despite strategic and geographic failures, there remained as late as 1973 a slim chance that America’s national will—the inherent spirit to overcome adversity and eventually triumph —might win out and prevent a communist takeover of democratic South Vietnam. Failures in war-fighting strategy and missteps in redressing geographic disadvantages might have been overcome if Americans had retained faith in the mission to save South Vietnam from communist aggression.

The deterioration of the American public’s willingness to persevere and win in Vietnam, as reflected in the resolve of its elected leaders, was not precipitated by a single, specific event. It eroded over time.

Even so, one event, in particular, was a serious blow to public support for the war: The communists’ Tet Offensive, which began Jan. 30, 1968, struck military bases and cities throughout South Vietnam. Although the attackers suffered a military defeat with heavy losses, the extensiveness of the assaults and high U.S. casualties came as a shock to many Americans.

There were also “doom and gloom” press reports and commentary that had demoralizing effects on the public. Support for the war, already declining in Gallup opinion polls, dropped to 40 percent in the months after Tet, compared to 50 percent a year earlier, and never recovered.

The real dagger in the heart of the country’s national will was congressional passage of the Case-Church Amendment, signed into law on July 1, 1973. Named for principal sponsors Republican Sen. Clifford P. Chase of New Jersey and Democratic Sen. Frank Church of Idaho, the amendment (attached to a bill funding the State Department) prohibited further U.S. military involvement in Vietnam, Laos and Cambodia without specific prior approval by Congress. This was, in effect, a death sentence for the Republic of Vietnam.

The Nixon Question

Although defeated in 1972 when first proposed, the Case-Church Amendment was reintroduced in January 1973 and passed in June. President Richard Nixon, politically hamstrung by the ongoing Watergate fiasco—springing from the June 17, 1972, break-in and burglary at the Democratic National Committee headquarters in the Watergate office building—was unable to prevent its passage. The Case-Church Amendment was followed by the crippling November 1973 War Powers Resolution severely limiting the president’s ability commit military forces to combat.

Support for the war, already declining, dropped to 40 percent in the months after Tet, compared to 50 percent a year earlier, and never recovered.

Arguably, Nixon still had the power to overcome such congressional obstacles and possibly “snatch victory from the jaws of defeat” if he had still been president in 1975 when North Vietnam invaded South Vietnam. Nixon, technically, could have been legally and fully justified in employing overwhelming U.S. air and naval firepower to protect South Vietnam and enforce provisions of the January 1973 Paris Peace Accords, egregiously violated by North Vietnam’s unprovoked invasion.

Nixon knew that the Paris Peace Accords were meaningless unless backed by American military power if necessary, according to his national security adviser and later secretary of state, Henry Kissinger. In his 1994 book Diplomacy, Kissinger explained: “We [he and Nixon] took it for granted that we had the right—indeed, the responsibility—to defend an agreement in the pursuit of which 50,000 Americans had died…Terms that will not be defended amount to surrender…Nixon and his key advisers announced their intention to defend the agreement on innumerable occasions [emphasis added].”

Without U.S. military power backing up the treaty, the Paris Peace Accords amounted to mere words on paper. Congress, controlled by politicians committed to ending the war, focused its attention on Nixon’s presidency rather than on the struggling Republic of Vietnam facing obliteration by communist North Vietnam.

Weakened by the Watergate scandal and facing inevitable impeachment and Senate conviction, Nixon was forced to resign. After he left the White House on Aug. 9, 1974, his successor, Gerald R. Ford, politically crippled by being an appointed vice president after elected Vice President Spiro Agnew was forced to resign in a corruption scandal, was neither inclined to nor had the political standing to order the U.S. military back to South Vietnam.

Three Factors

The final vestige of America’s national will to save the South—an effort that killed 58,000 Americans and millions of Vietnamese—died on Aug. 9, 1974, when Nixon boarded the presidential helicopter for the final time.

Incompetent strategy, ignorance of geography and a lack of national willpower combined to hand the communists running North Vietnam a victory in a war that was, at its beginning, America’s to lose.

The next time you hear someone blathering about why or, in particular, when the U.S. “lost” the Vietnam War, ask them about Oct. 25, 1950; July 23, 1962; and July 1, 1973. After noting their blank stares, explain it to them.

Jerry Morelock is senior editor of Vietnam magazine.

This article appeared in the Winter 2023 issue of Vietnam magazine.

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Driving winds blew blinding snow across the deck of the U.S. Navy aircraft carrier Oriskany on November 18, 1952. Inside the cockpit of his Grumman F9F-5 Panther, Lt. Royce Williams watched the blizzard while waiting for the signal to take off from the Essex-class carrier as it plowed through the Sea of Japan. Snow was not uncommon at that time of year along the upper coast of North Korea, not far from the Soviet Union’s easternmost seaport of Vladivostok.

Williams was preparing to fly a combat air patrol to cover the naval task force to which the carrier belonged. This mission turned out to be different than he expected, though. Instead of flying a routine patrol, Williams made history by tangling with seven Soviet Mikoyan-Gurevich MiG-15s and, according to his account, downing four of them. However, because of military secrecy and U.S. concerns over broadening the Korean conflict, the details of Williams’ combat success remained secret for four decades and the veteran Navy pilot was not allowed to talk about what he had done. “When I finally told my wife, Camilla said, ‘Oh, Royce!’” Williams, 97 and a veteran of three wars, recalled recently. “She was very surprised.” 

Williams earned the Silver Star for his bravery that day, but some believed that wasn’t enough. A bipartisan effort in Congress tried to upgrade the award to the Medal of Honor. “If I get a say in the matter, I would recommend an upgrade,” said Samuel Cox, a retired admiral and current director of Naval History and Heritage Command for the Navy. “I’m convinced that his account is accurate. But that’s the problem: it’s his account and you can’t be your own witness at an upgrade review.” Finally, in December 2022, Williams was approved for an upgrade to the Navy Cross. He received it in a ceremony at the San Diego Air & Space Museum on January 20, 2023.

Royce Williams’ road to naval aviation started out rather inauspiciously. Born in South Dakota in 1925, he was a corporal in the Minnesota National Guard when Japan bombed Pearl Harbor in 1941. Hoping for a chance to become a combat pilot, Williams enlisted in the Navy. During the war he flew Grumman F6F Hellcats and Vought F4U Corsairs, primarily on sub-hunting sorties, though he never saw combat. Williams was still in the Navy when the conflict in Korea broke out, and he received jet training and learned how to fly the F9F-5 Panther. 

The Panther was the Navy’s first successful carrier-based jet fighter. The prototype, powered by 5,700 pounds of thrust from a Rolls-Royce Nene engine (licensed in the United States as the Pratt & Whitney J42 P-8), first flew on November 24, 1947. The production version, the F9F-2, entered Navy service in 1949. Williams was flying the most-produced version of the Panther, the F9F-5. Powered by a more powerful water-injected Pratt & Whitney J48 (another Rolls Royce-derived engine) and armed with four 20mm cannons, it could also carry rockets and bombs for ground support and attacks on fortified positions. While the Panther’s role in the Korean conflict has been overshadowed by the Air Force’s North American F-86 Sabre, the single-engine, straight-winged aircraft performed admirably for the Navy in more than 78,000 combat missions over Korea.

The Panther had one major drawback, however: its speed. Maxing out at around 600 miles per hour, the F9F-5 was noticeably slower than one of its main opponents, the MiG-15. The Soviet-made jet was about 100 miles per hour faster and could easily outclimb the Panther. The swept-wing Soviet aircraft also came armed with three cannons: two 23mm and a single 37mm. The North Korean air force was outfitted with thousands of MiG-15s for the war (and the aircraft reportedly remains in service there today as a trainer). North Korean pilots flew most of them, although a number of aviators were Chinese—and some were Soviets. “It was a completely unique event in the Cold War,” Cox said. “There was nothing else like it. During the Korean War, there were Russian pilots flying Russian aircraft with North Korean markings from bases in Chinese Manchuria. It was all a big secret, but everyone knew because the pilots would speak Russian.” The Oriskany’s presence close to Soviet territory meant that Soviet pilots in Soviet MiGs were also in the vicinity that day.

Snow was still blowing across the Oriskany’s deck when Williams launched with three other Navy pilots into the blizzard, with a ceiling of about 400 feet. Lt. Claire Elwood was division leader but he and his wingman, Lt. (jg) John Middleton, were forced to return to the carrier when Elwood’s jet developed a mechanical problem. That left Williams, the section leader, and his wingman, Lt. (jg) Dave Rowlands, alone to fly the patrol.

They struggled through the scud to about 12,000 feet, then broke through into blue skies. The controllers on the carrier alerted them to “bogies” in the area and Williams noticed the contrails of seven aircraft at about 26,000 feet. The two pilots continued their ascent, and then they saw the suspect aircraft split into two groups and start a steep descent. 

Williams was expecting trouble, but not from these airplanes. His patrol was providing cover for the task force, which was anticipating reprisals for an earlier attack by U.S. Navy aircraft in North Korea near the Soviet border. But these jets weren’t North Korean—they belonged to the Soviet Union. After Russian radar had picked up the American Panthers, the MiG-15s had scrambled from their air base at Vladivostok. “They came diving at us and were coming in hot,” Williams remembered recently. “They fired first, so we knew we were in a fight.”

Williams flipped on his gunsight and fired a test burst; he was ready for combat. The next 35 minutes would find him twisting and turning in a deadly dance with the seven Soviet jets, using all his senses and experience to gain the upper hand on the enemy while trying to stay out of their gunsights.

The Navy pilot realized he was at a disadvantage. His Panther could easily fall prey to the swifter MiG-15s if he weren’t careful. Williams would have to rely on his skills as a pilot and take advantage of any errors by his adversaries. “They made mistakes,” he said, “and when they did, I capitalized on them.”

He got his first chance at the start of the fray. Four of the MiGs zoomed at him, with one firing at but missing the Panther. Williams pulled into a hard climbing turn and came down behind the formation. “As they went on by, that put me in position to shoot at their number four guy,” he recalled. “I was within range and tracking. I fired a short burst and he started smoking and going down.”

Wingman Rowlands followed the damaged jet to the sea. That left Williams alone with the six remaining MiGs. He began making a series of high-G turns to avoid his pursuers and get behind one of them. The remaining jets quickly climbed to about 2,000 feet above the Panther, turned and dove for a head-on attack. Williams zeroed in on the lead plane and made his move. “I was able to adjust and track on him,” he said. “He was firing on me. When he got in range, I had my gunsight aiming point on him and pulled the trigger with a short burst. He turned away. I think I hit him in the fuel tank. I learned he later crashed and died in the ocean, probably having run out of fuel.”

At that moment, Williams didn’t have the luxury of wondering what happened to that target. He now had to focus on the enemy’s wingman, who was flying directly at him. The Navy pilot locked on and fired away. “He kept coming at me, but I’m pretty sure he was dead,” Williams said. “He stopped firing and he didn’t maneuver at all. His plane went right under mine and I’m certain that one went right in the water.”

The perilous battle continued as the combatants soared and swerved above the clouds. The other three Soviet jets joined the fight and Williams had to stay sharp as they tried to knock him out of the air. “One of the jets made a run at me,” he stated. “He didn’t pull up while he was still behind me. He passed in front of me and that set me up for a close-in shot. I hit him good and pieces of his airplane came off. I had to maneuver to avoid hitting them.”

By that point Rowlands had rejoined the fight, but he soon ran out of ammunition. Williams then fired a burst at another jet, which started smoking. But Williams had also exhausted his ammunition and couldn’t finish off the MiG. In addition, he had another MiG on his tail. The Soviet fighter fired and a single 37mm round struck the Panther’s left wing and then passed into the engine area, where it exploded and knocked out the hydraulics. The Panther began shaking violently. Williams had lost control of his rudder and flaps and only had partial use of his ailerons, which he had to operate manually. With Rowlands following, Williams dived toward the clouds at 12,000 feet, porpoising all the way to avoid getting hit again by his pursuer.

“We lost sight of each other in the clouds,” he said. Rowlands lost track of the other airplanes, too, and headed through the clouds back to the carrier. “Normally, I would have ejected but with the cold-water conditions I wouldn’t have lasted long,” said Williams. “It would have been sure death. So I stuck with it and headed back to the task force.” Williams couldn’t have known it at the time, but his encounter with the MiGs was the first and last time U.S. fighters and Russian jets from a base in the Soviet Union would engage in air-to-air combat.

Flying at full throttle, Williams radioed in that his plane was severely damaged and he was trying to make it back to the carrier, which was now at general quarters. Unfortunately for him, the gun crews on an escorting destroyer did not receive word, and they opened up on the approaching aircraft until another Navy pilot reported that the incoming airplane was a friendly.

“I told the carrier I’m going to be landing at about 200 miles per hour, about 95 miles an hour faster than normal,” Williams said. “I’m also having control problems and can’t line up with the ship. I’m off by about 15 degrees. We also had heavy winds and a pitching deck. It was going to be interesting!”

The Oriskany’s captain, Courtney Shands, was aware of the situation and ordered the ship to alter its course to line up with William’s landing vector. The crippled craft caught the number-three wire on the landing deck and lurched to an abrupt stop.

After examining the damage to his Panther, Williams was surprised that he made it back at all. The flight crew counted 263 holes—most of them caused by shrapnel created when the 37mm round exploded in the accessory section of the engine compartment. It appeared that the airplane was a total loss. In fact, Williams heard the jet was going to be dumped into the sea because it was beyond repair. He believed that for decades until he learned that his old airplane had been fixed up and eventually saw service in Vietnam.

“I am the luckiest guy,” Williams chuckled. “We always have raffles and I win about 50 percent of the time. One Christmas, I went to three different parties and won all of the door prizes. It’s amazing!”

Despite Williams’ combat success, Vice Admiral Robert P. Briscoe ordered him to keep silent about the air battle. Since the enemy jets were Soviet, there was concern that announcing the news might draw Russia into the war, in which the U.S. and United Nations forces were already battling those of North Korea and China. In addition, Briscoe told Williams that a National Security Agency intelligence team on one of the ships in the task force had been intercepting Soviet radio messages. If word got out, the Russians might start wondering if the task force had been eavesdropping, imperiling other projects. “I was instructed by Admiral Briscoe to never, ever talk about it,” Williams recalled. “We had people who were tracking and listening to the Russians and we didn’t want them to know we had this ability.”

One person who did hear about Williams’ encounter with Soviet MiGs was Dwight D. Eisenhower, the former Supreme Commander of the Allied Expeditionary Force in Europe during World War II and now president-elect of the United States. During the 1952 campaign, Eisenhower promised he would go to Korea if elected. He made good on that pledge on December 2, 1952, when he landed in Seoul. Williams and two other Navy pilots from that day—Middleton and Rowlands—received a summons for a high-level session with the president-elect. The three men had been told that Eisenhower wanted to learn more about the MiG-15 and how it stacked up against American aircraft, but Williams doubted that. “I think he just wanted to meet me,” he said. “That was just an excuse.”

this article first appeared in AVIATION HISTORY magazine

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Williams remembers being ushered into a room where he saw more admirals and five-star generals than he had ever seen in his life. In addition to Eisenhower, generals Omar Bradley and Mark Clark were in attendance. The president-elect’s son, Maj. John Eisenhower, served as bartender. After some initial discussion, Eisenhower asked Williams if he wanted a drink. “We have the world’s greatest scotch here,” the Navy pilot remembers the general saying. Williams said he preferred bourbon. Eisenhower wouldn’t take no for an answer and kept offering him scotch. “I didn’t want it,” Williams laughed. “That got the attention of the generals and admirals. They looked at me like, ‘What is this snot-nosed kid up to?’”

For his heroics that cold day in November, Williams received credit for one kill and one probable. Middleton, who had turned back to help Williams, was also recognized with a kill while Rowlands earned a probable. Some historians question those numbers and think a review is necessary. The secrecy of that mission and confusing after-battle reports likely led to a less-than-thorough examination of what happened that day.

From the beginning, Williams believed he got four kills, though he never talked about what happened or protested the Navy’s count. In fact, there was a great deal of uncertainty as to how many Soviet planes went down that day. It wasn’t until the dissolution of the Soviet Union in 1991 that the truth came out. Secret files released by the Russians showed that four MiG-15s had been downed during the action. All four pilots were killed. The Navy never changed the record, though, despite growing evidence that it might be incorrect. With the Russian admission of four Soviet planes being shot down, Williams was finally free to talk about his role in the air battle that day.

One of those who believes the record should be updated is Cox, who has extensively studied the air battle. “As Director of Naval History, I look at everything I can find,” Admiral Cox said. “I would give him credit for four. I think Royce’s account is pretty doggone accurate. There are discrepancies between all of the reports, but I’m confident that what he said is what happened.”

Not only should the record be changed, but some came to believe that Williams’ Silver Star should be upgraded to the Medal of Honor. U.S. Representative Darrell Issa has sponsored a bill authorizing the president to bestow the nation’s highest military award to Williams, who lives in the same congressional district in Southern California as the congressman. Issa wanted to see the medal presented to Williams as soon as possible. Though still tough and sharp as ever, the former flyer is 97 years old, making time an issue. The House passed the measure in July 2022 and it advanced to the Senate.

“I’m flabbergasted,” Williams said about the effort to upgrade his Silver Star. “They’re comparing what I did to Maj. George Davis of the U.S. Air Force, who was credited with shooting down two MiGs on his final flight when he got shot down and killed in Korea in 1952. In short order, they had the Medal of Honor for him.”

It appears that Williams will have to be satisfied with the Navy Cross. In December 2022, Secretary of the Navy Carlos Del Toro approved the upgrade from the Silver Star. “Having reviewed the findings of now numerous investigations related to the case of Capt. Royce Williams, I have determined this case to be special and extraordinary,” Del Toro announced. “Lt. Williams took the lead of an incredibly critical mission during the Korean War which led to the protection of Task Force 77 from enemy attack. I authorize the Navy Cross be awarded for his valorous actions committed from personal bravery and self-sacrifice to country. His actions clearly distinguished himself during a high-risk mission and deserves proper recognition.”

“This is the kind of thing I’ve seen in the movies,” Williams told the San Diego Union-Tribune after the ceremony on January 20. “Never thought I’d be part of it. I’m thrilled.”

Another person pleased with the upgrade is CJ Machado, a filmmaker who chronicled Williams’ story in the 2017 short film Forgotten Hero. Machado believes the secrecy about what happened that day over the Sea of Japan has prevented Williams from getting the credit he deserves. For Machado, the effort to get him tan upgrade is deeply personal. Over the years, she has become close to the retired Navy officer and looks upon him as a father figure. “Captain Royce Williams is a wonderful and dear soul,” she said. “I’m biased because I know him so well, but I believe Royce deserves to be acknowledged for that amazing feat.”

Williams ended up flying 70 combat missions in Korea. In Vietnam, he flew 110 missions in the Vought F-8E Crusader and McDonnell Douglas F-4B Phantom II. By the time he retired in 1980 as a captain and flag officer he had spent 37 years in the Navy. In all that time he had no mission more remarkable than the one he flew on November 18, 1952.  

Massachusetts-based author Dave Kindy is a frequent contributor to Aviation History and other HistoryNet publications, as well as Air & Space Quarterly, the Washington Post and Smithsonian. For further reading, he recommends Holding the Line: The Naval Air Campaign in Korea by Thomas McKelvey Cleaver, Korean Air War: Sabres, MiGs and Meteors, 1950-1953 by Michael Napier and “The story of the Top-Secret Dogfight where legendary US Korean War F9F Naval Aviator E. Royce Williams, Jr., shot down 4 Soviet MiG-15s,” an article written by Dario Leone for theaviationgeekclub.com.

This article originally appeared in the Winter 2023 issue of Aviation History.

In September, production for director Steve Barnett’s “Valiant One” began in Vancouver, Canada.

The movie, backed by Monarch Media, is set amid rising tensions between North and South Korea. When a U.S. helicopter crashes on the northern side, survivors of the wreck must make their way back to friendly territory without the help of the U.S. military.

“With tensions between the North and South already on the verge of war, the surviving U.S. Army non-combat tech soldiers must work together to protect a civilian tech-specialist and find their way across the DMZ,” Deadline wrote on the film’s synopsis.

Filmed between Sept. 1 and Oct. 31, the movie features a cast that includes Lana Condor (”To All the Boys” trilogy), Desmin Borges (”The Time Traveler’s Wife”), Callan Mulvey (”Captain America: The Winter Soldier”) and Chase Stokes (”Outer Banks”).

Condor will play a character named Selby, an immigrant-turned-service member who enlists as a medic. Other roles have been loosely defined, Deadline noted.

Details so far do not specify the exact time frame in which the movie is meant to take place, although given Deadline’s description of one character as “an adrenaline junkie who grew up on video games,” it appears to be set in a more modern era.

As of this writing, the studio has not yet confirmed a release date.

Originally published by Military Times, our sister publication.

Today, sadly, a vast number of Americans seemingly have heard of only one valor award—the Medal of Honor. This narrow-minded focus unfairly diminishes the honors of Vietnam veterans and others awarded different valor medals. Ask the “person on the street” to name another medal awarded for heroism besides the Medal of Honor. Perhaps some people will think of “the Purple Heart,” awarded for wounds or death in combat. Only a few would be able to cite the armed services’ second-highest valor award, the Army’s Distinguished Service Cross, the Navy/Marine Corps’ Navy Cross, the Coast Guard Cross, or the Air Force/Space Force Cross.

The Silver Star might vaguely “ring a bell” with some, but many would likely be hard-pressed to describe its significance and probably wouldn’t know it is the third-highest valor award for all military services. The military’s Bronze Star Medal and Commendation Medal with “V” (for valor) devices are arguably beyond the ken of most Americans.

Yet the heroism those awards represent is no less deserving of recognition than the valor of the celebrated few who have received the Medal of Honor. Although the Medal of Honor is appropriately placed atop the “Pyramid of Valor” all valor awards reflect the bravery, blood and sacrifice of America’s finest, often earned at the price of their lives in desperate combat with communist forces in Vietnam and other foes elsewhere.

As a result of the general public’s unfamiliarity with the military and a focus on the Medal of Honor, the carefully crafted Pyramid of Valor is collapsing into a single “all or nothing” award.

Some people believe that a service member’s heroism must be rewarded with the Medal of Honor to be properly recognized, and therefore the family or other advocates will call for a medal upgrade by claiming that the courage and sacrifice of someone previously recognized with the Distinguished Service Cross, Navy Cross or Silver Star is being unfairly denied the Medal of Honor.

Those whose knowledge of military awards is limited to the Medal of Honor think even the nation’s second-highest valor awards, the service crosses, are somehow insufficient recognition. Anything less than the Medal of Honor is considered an insult to the service member’s valor, an “injustice” or not equal to the heroic actions that took place. This attitude diminishes the true heroism of tens of thousands of Vietnam veterans whose valor was justly recognized by medals less prestigious than the Medal of Honor.

The Medal of Honor, created in 1861 during the Civil War, was first presented in March 1863 to six members of Andrews’ Raiders, who captured a Confederate train in Georgia in 1862, an action re-created in the 1956 film The Great Locomotive Chase. (Some acts of valor that took place prior to the Andrews’ raid were recognized with the Medal of Honor after the war.)

The Medal of Honor was the only valor award a heroic service member could receive and wear on his chest from the Civil War until the Distinguished Service Cross was established in January 1918 in the midst of World War I. The other valor recognitions during that period were limited to a “mention in dispatches” and a written “certificate.” Thus, if a medal was to be awarded, it had to be the Medal of Honor, regardless of circumstances and the degree of valor exhibited.

Of the 3,530 Medals of Honor awarded up to 2021, more than 2,000 of them were presented before World War I for a variety of acts such as capturing enemy flags, rescuing comrades under fire, standing steadfast in the face of an enemy attack and delivering dispatches through hostile territory. That wide range of heroics, ranging from true blood sacrifices “above and beyond the call of duty” to relatively mundane but nonetheless valorous acts, convinced U.S. military authorities that a hierarchy of valor recognition was necessary to ensure that a fair and equitable system of medals was created. 

The Pyramid of Valor began to take shape just as the U.S. entered World War I when the military and Congress added not only the Distinguished Service Cross but also other awards for heroism that didn’t quite meet the Medal of Honor’s exceptionally high bar.

Second tier: The Distinguished Service Cross, created in 1918; Navy Cross, 1919; Air Force Cross, 1960.

Third tier: Silver Star, established in 1918 as the Army’s Citation Star, became the Silver Star in 1932 (available for the Air Force after it became a separate service); authorized for the Navy and Marine Corps, 1942.   

Fourth tier: Distinguished Flying Cross, all services, for aerial achievement or valor, created in 1926, retroactive to 1918; Bronze Star, 1944, for meritorious achievements or valor.

Fifth tier: Purple Heart, created by George Washington in 1782 as the Badge of Military Merit for “meritorious action” but little used and converted in 1932 to a medal honoring the wounded and killed.

Sixth tier: Air Medal, established in 1942 for aerial achievement or valor.

Seventh tier: Commendation Medal, for meritorious achievement, service or valor, introduced in the Navy (and Marines) in 1944, in the Army in 1945 and the Air Force in 1958.

Medals that may be awarded for either achievement or valor (the Bronze Star, Commendation Medal, etc.) include a “V for valor” device when presented for heroism.

Medal of Honor Awards

3,530—Total Medals
3,511—Individuals
1,523—U.S. Civil War
110—Spanish-American War
126—World War I
472—World War II
146—Korean War
262—Vietnam War
20—Afghanistan War
8—Iraq War
Current as of June 30, 2022.

All of our Vietnam War heroes who earned any of those medals should be remembered for their courage and sacrifice—not simply the one in 10,000 whose actions resulted in an award of the Medal of Honor. The attitude that somehow the Medal of Honor is the only worthwhile valor medal is a regression to 1861 when it was just that: “one or none” and egregiously unfair to history and our soldiers, sailors, airmen and Marines.

Don’t let a tunnel-like focus on the Medal of Honor lead us to unfairly ignore the valor of heroes whose bravery was recognized “only” with awards of the Distinguished Service Cross (or Navy, Air Force variants), Silver Star, Bronze Star/Commendation Medal with “V” device or Purple Heart. All those heroes must be celebrated and honored.

—Jerry Morelock is senior editor of Vietnam magazine.

Do you have reflections on the war you would like to share?
Email your idea or article to Vietnam@historynet.com, subject line: Reflections

This article appeared in the Autumn 2022 issue of Vietnam magazine.

this article first appeared in vietnam magazine

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