Boatner wrote a formal report. He refused to hang anyone and he made his refusal strong—so strong the matter ended there.
To Bull Boatner, it was a shining example of people in the rear being damned cowards. On line, there was no such thing as a 'limited' war—when the shooting started on line, no man a thousand miles away could tell the man in combat what or what not to do.
And anyone who believed that American officers were callous underneath their hard exterior poses about the men who died in action under their command had simply never commanded a platoon or higher unit in action, or ever had to write a tragic letter home. But there is no such thing as war—even limited war—without losses.
As the months passed, and 1952 deepened, and there was no peace at Panmunjom, the war that was not a war went on endlessly. Every night the guns on each side cannonaded; every night the patrols went out, for no army may sit entirely still, except at its peril.
Every night, men died.
Frustration grew, in government, in generals, and in the men on the line, while the guns sounded and the talks about the peace table droned on.
And, caught in a Communist trap, the moral courage of some leaders grew less. The pressure on Tokyo to hold down the loss never ceased. In Korea, on tile ground, it intensified. It was no longer possible to permit juniors any latitude, or any possibility for error.
What Boatner foresaw happened. Soon battalion commanders led platoons, and general officers directed company actions, for the loss of one patrol could ruin the career of a colonel. In one way, it was an efficient system. It worked, for the lines were stable, and no senior officer had enough to do.
But the damage done to the Army command structure would be long in healing. If a new war came someday, there would be colonels and generals—who had been lieutenants and captains in Korea—who had their basic lessons still to learn.
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35
Koje-do
— From the Spanish of Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra, DON QUIXOTE.
ON THE MORNING of 7 May 1952, on the Island of Koje, word arrived at the headquarters of Brigadier General Francis T. Dodd through the normal and proper channels that the spokesmen of Korean Officer Compound Number 76 immediately and earnestly desired his presence for a powwow.
To Frank Dodd, completely unaware of Communist complexities or the recent orders given to NKPA Private Pak Sang Hyong, the shortest distance between two points seemed to be a straight line.
He put on his cap, with its single silver star, and went to see what was wrong with Senior Colonel Lee Hak Ku and the boys in 76.
At the gate to the flimsy wire compound, he got down from his jeep and met the clustered Communist delegation at the wire. The gate was opened, while U.N. guards stood by, idly watching, manifestly bored by the island and their duty.
At a sudden signal, the POW's, who had carefully rehearsed the maneuver, formed a press around Frank Dodd; he was seized and dragged within the compound; a flying wedge pushed the startled guards back, and the gates were closed.
Their shouting did no good. Dodd was pulled deep inside Number 76, inside a hut, and the men around him suddenly had sufficient homemade workshop items, made from spare metal and the slivers within GI shoes, effectively to release him from his earthly existence long before a guard detachment could knock down the wire and fight its way through to him.
This, as the officer now in charge of the island, Colonel Bill Craig, realized, was one hell of a mess. He passed the buck, quite properly; though he did not realize that the buck would move idly across Koje Island, bounce about in Pusan, wing its way to Tokyo, then shriek its way across the ocean, only to come sizzling back, within a period of three days.
Americans, snorting their disbelief, forgot that few of them had believed the rumors about Belsen and Dachau, either, until they were proved. Russians, who had in 1941 considered Germany among the most civilized of nations, whatever their Fascist politics, undoubtedly believed, as did devout Communist everywhere. But the real loss of face was before the neutrals, who did not know what to believe.
And some of the United States' staunchest allies rather politely queried, 'Just what the hell is going on over at Koje-do?'
The truth was that Ridgway, Clark, Frank Pace, and his boss, Harry Truman, were all wondering the same thing.
These things General Colson did not know, although for three days the wires everywhere were burning. He did know that Frank Dodd, ill and scared inside Number 76, had talked to him with a shaken voice, and he wanted to rescue his brother general as soon as possible.
During this period Charles Colson got very little help from Pusan, or higher up. It was his ball game. Ridgway and Clark were up at Panmunjom, where Major General William K. Harrison, Jr., was replacing Admiral Turner Joy as chief American whipping boy.
Colson talked to 2nd Logistical Command in Pusan, thought he had its concurrence, got the POW's to tone down their demands a little—though he agreed, in essence, that 'the U.N. Command would stop beating its wife'— which confession he discounted, since he felt everyone knew such allegations were silly—and signed on the dotted line, to get Dodd out.
It was a tremendous Communist propaganda victory.
On 10 May 1952, Frank Dodd walked out of Compound 76, and was whisked away to Tokyo. Here he would learn that Army Secretary Pace, hot with anger and embarrassment, had decreed that he 'should have brought the spokesmen to his office under guard.'
There could be little argument with Frank Pace's view on that.
Dodd was reduced to the grade of colonel, and retired. That left Colson.
When a man has done nothing conspicuously or flagrantly wrong, and yet has embarrassed his chiefs, whether he is an Army officer or an executive of Travelers Insurance, the current American phrase is 'exhibited lack of judgment.' It is a wonderfully enveloping phrase, like the 96th Article of War's '… and all other acts prejudicial to good order,' and can be fitted to almost any situation.
Whether in the Department of Agriculture or Department of the Army, anyone who causes acute embarrassment must go, or the lack of judgment is considered to be even higher up.
Charles Colson's neck was being stretched for the block, too, unknown to him.
Meanwhile, a sort of anarchy had come to Koje-do. POW's shouted and chanted and waved banners and placards inside the wire, while the guards stood helplessly by outside. There were riots, and it was questionable who controlled the camp.
In Compound 76, where the North Korean brass plotted, detailed plans were being drawn.
Craig held the buck until Brigadier General Charles E Colson arrived to take charge. Charlie Colson was a quiet, reserved, mannerly gentleman, who came over to Koje-do quite unaware that half the world was laughing at the fiasco of who was guarding whom, that General Matt Ridgway was deeply annoyed, that General Mark W. Clark, who was taking over from Ridgway in Tokyo—to James Van Fleet's annoyance—was worried about the stink, and that in Washington Army Secretary Frank Pace, Jr., was tearing out his hair.
A field telephone was fed into Compound 76, over which Colson and the Communist leaders engaged in collective bargaining. Colson had troops, guns, and tanks—in small quantity, but present—but Compound 76 had Frank Dodd. The POW's made it quite clear that any attempt to relieve him by force would result in one brigadier with slit throat.
They presented Colson, who had walked into Koje-do cold, knowing nothing of the pow and propaganda
