The not forgotten war

Two Australians carry an ROK soldier to safety. Tolkien wrote: “I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness … nor the warrior for his glory. I love only that which they defend.” Photo from The Australian War Memorial Collection

• Published May 4, 2019 11:31 AM KST
• Updated May 4, 2019 7:11 PM KST

By Amanda Price

On April 25 every year, silence surrounds almost every Australian city and town. It is profound silence that articulates a collective grief words cannot express. In the silence, we remember and are thankful for the men and women who defended us and those who defend us today.

In some strange way, the wars that tear us apart evolve into recollections that unite us. This is not an Australian phenomenon. Around the world, nations scorched by the fierce injustices of war find solace in collective grief and gratitude.

Despite these moments of solidarity, the ugliness, cruelty and depravity of war remain unchanged.

There is no glory in war. There are no moments that outshine the carnage, the brutality and the deaths of innocents; no redemptive events that make the killing less horrific, or the destruction less devastating.

Those who have lived through wars, who fought in wars, or lost loved ones during wars, are consoled only by fleeting moments of humanity; occasions in which individuals were not conquered by the evil that surrounded them.

When the North Korean Army poured over the 38th Parallel into South Korea, no one was prepared for the sheer scope and force of the evil that would engulf the Korean Peninsula. No one anticipated that cities and villages on both sides would be razed, or that millions would lose everything they had, including their lives.

The war demonstrated that ideologies can be excuses for wanton bloodshed, that political agendas could justify all manner of horrors, and that innocent men, women and children could be executed on nothing more than a suspicion.

More than a territorial struggle, the Korean War grew to resemble an utterly chaotic genocide where no one knew who to kill or who to save.

To find even a faint silhouette of goodness during the Korean War was, understandably, beyond the grasp of many. Yet, amid the sulfurous clouds and charcoal smoke, such moments did exist.

None of these moments, even collectively, have the power to expunge atrocities and erase fears, but that does not mean they should be forgotten.

Remembrance, after all, is not our attempt to justify or make sense of war, but our attempt to uphold the value of life, and remember those who did the same.

A British war correspondent in Incheon wrote about Chung Ha-joon, a young man he had shared a shelter with during a storm. Chung was an elementary school teacher who resisted the Japanese occupation. As Kim Il-sung's troops sought to occupy South Korea, Chung decided to resist by gathering children and continuing classes, albeit in bombed-out buildings. As enemy forces pressed southward, Chung abandoned his classes but not his pupils. Chung saved over 60 children from ransacked villages, before being caught himself.

Song Ji-won volunteered to become a nurse when she was 12 years old. At the time, she was an orphan living in a church-run orphanage. When children her age were outside, she was shadowing Korean doctors watching how they treated the sick and wounded. She had an aunt somewhere, and sent letters with soldiers in the unlikely case they found her. She wrote with wisdom beyond her years: “Many of the younger children have forgotten how to smile, they don't remember anything before the war. I help feed them, clean them, play with them but to make them smile again, that is what brings the greatest joy.”

Near the end of the war, Ji-won was informally adopted by a German medical unit in Seoul, where she trained as a nurse. According to the clinic's records, Ji-won later became a pediatric nurse and continued to work in orphanages.

George Drake, a U.S. Army intelligence officer, arrived at Incheon and, within weeks, had volunteered with a dozen other U.S. soldiers to work in the few orphanages that could be found. Many were run by courageous Korean doctors, nurses and ministers, many of whom had lost family themselves.

When Drake and others saw the desperate situation of the children and their carers, they realized they had to do more than give up their time and rations. Almost immediately, Drake and other soldiers began writing home to their families, to churches and Rotary clubs, asking them to send clothes, food, books and as many supplies as possible.

As donations for the children began to pour in from individuals and organizations, the U.S. Army was compelled to hire a freighter to ship all the supplies to Incheon. In just over s year, 12 tons of supplies had been shipped in and handed out to Korean orphans.

Assisting with the work of war orphans and protecting children became a secondary role for many Korean, U.S. and Allied soldiers. Nationality was irrelevant and soldiers took on a new sense of duty to those whose lives were inextricably changed because soldiers were there.

At a battle in Chongju, Ian Robertson, an Australian sniper, recalled that he and a mate spotted five terrified children. “I called to them in Japanese, 'Come here!' and they ran over to where our mortarmen were. The mortarmen got them to hop into our gun pits and gave them their own helmets to protect them. There wasn't enough room for all of them so two of the mortarmen jumped out and took their chance in the open without protection.”

William Chrysler, from the Canadian light infantry, tearfully explained: “We'd get our rations but nearly everybody would go over and give it to the kids. You wouldn't eat and watch those little wee kids there without any food … they had nothing, we had to do something.”

Sergeant Suleyman, a 25-year-old Turkish soldier, was in a fire battle when he found a five-year-old girl huddled in the bushes. Her family had been killed and her whole village destroyed. Unable to get her to an orphanage, Suleyman became her surrogate father and cared for her for a year and a half. Though he was forced to leave her with a Turkish-sponsored orphanage when the war was over, they found each other years later.

Chaplain Terence Finnigan reported that many soldiers, seeing orphans near starvation point, simply picked them up wherever they were found and brought them to barracks, orphanages, churches or army chaplains.

It became quickly apparent that the need for more orphanages was critical, so military headquarters in Korea issued a request for funds. “The response was extraordinary,” Finnigan wrote. Korean and Allied soldiers from almost every unit and force sent in donations. Because of the soldier's actions, literally thousands of orphaned children were saved from death.

William Asbury, director of field operations during the war for the Christian Children's Fund, described the soldiers as “an army of compassion” and calculated that of the 400 orphanages in Korea, over 90 percent operated with the financial and practical support of soldiers and military officials.?

In an interview with British media, light infantryman Reginald Bentley explained: “The faces of those Korean kiddies were like a healing balm after we'd returned from a bloody battle. Spending time with them, giving them what we could was the least we could when homes were bombed by our side … it didn't soothe our conscience, but it helped our souls.”

Though caring for children is a basic human responsibility, never in previous history have thousands of soldiers united with such resolve and open-handedness to save and protect the lives of thousands of children. Never have soldiers worked so cohesively alongside Korean doctors and nurses to build, support and sustain orphanages and medical clinics specifically for children.

With the support of Korean nationals, many military units bought rice paddies and established small businesses that would help fund orphanages after soldiers withdrew.

William Asbury explained: “The soldiers involved in this support were not exceptions, they were examples.”

Compassion, however, could be found even among the enemy lines.

A war documentary tells of an American POW who was captured and tortured by Chinese soldiers. Eventually, a Chinese officer with some medical training stitched up his mangled leg. The procedure was poorly executed and the stitches burst open. While stretched out in agony expecting to die, the U.S. soldier explained that a Chinese soldier approached him and gently lifted his head onto his lap. The Chinese soldier then began to sing the only English song he knew “Swing low, sweet chariot, coming forth to carry me home.” “I am Christian,” the Chinese soldier said, and left.

But compassion was not always gentle.

Alan Dower, an Australian journalist in Korea, had served as a commando captain during the Second World War. He often went out on operations with the troops. On one occasion, Dower witnessed hundreds of South Korean civilian women and children being led to a jail near Seoul. Many of the women had babies. He stopped the policemen leading the prisoners and found out they were suspected of having enemy affiliations. The punishment for these “suspected affiliations” was execution by machine gun.

Dower followed the policemen to the execution area and made a stand between the women and the machine guns. He then told the governor that he would be shot if he executed a single woman or child. The South Korean women and children were saved.

When Dower arrived back at base, he and other journalists confronted a senior U.N. delegate and told him if the United Nations didn't intervene, he would write an article “that would shake the world.”

While not all journalists were so forceful in their approach, many still put their lives on the line to help others.

Douglas (Doug) Bushby, a U.N. accredited war correspondent, is well known for his compelling images of the Korean War. He is less well known for the hundreds of hours he dedicated to helping orphans, the wounded and POWs. At the end of the war, Admiral Park Ok-gyu, Chief of ROK Naval Operations, formally presented Bushby with a certificate that read:

“You have largely contributed to the newly organized Republic of Korea Navy … You have distributed a large quantity of information in the most unfavorable conditions, in order to inspire the morale and encourage the faith of officers and men of our Navy and Marine Corps. Especially, you served in the fierce battle line under showers of enemy shells … and committed much of your time to the relief of Korean refugees, orphans and POWs.”

Of course, these few examples do not undo the horror of the Korean War. Compassion did not erase reality, and for those who received a kindness, many more did not.

Innocents were killed by those who were meant to defend them; villages were destroyed in fear of what might be. Good men did bad things, and bad men did good things.

The Korean War in many ways defies description, it most certainly defies understanding.

It is not, however, a “forgotten war,” as some have claimed. It has left an indelible mark on Korean history and, though it has been written over many times, it is an important mark that should be remembered.

The Korean War deserves its own silence, a silence in which to remember the fallen, the slain and the orphans, but a silence that also remembers those who came to their aid.

Amanda Price is the former Director of Hillcrest College's International Student Department. She has a background in science, history and literature and has been consulting on Asian affairs for more than 10 years. Her special interest is world history and she is the founder of Griffith University's History Readers. She writes full time and can be reached at amanda-price@bigpond.com