MORNING CALM TALES Daejeon's nearly forgotten war memorial

DAEJEON — Not long after I returned to Daejeon last year, I found myself wandering through Boramae Park near City Hall. It was a cool autumn morning, the kind of weather I love most in Korea. Life moved easily here, as if this had always been a place for leisure and lightness.

But it hadn’t always been that way.

This quiet park was once a Republic of Korea Air Force training base, active from 1952 to 1988. And long before the modern high-rises and shiny new buildings, the city itself had seen war.

I had heard there was a monument somewhere in the park dedicated to the American soldiers who died during the Battle of Taejon in the summer of 1950.

In those early, chaotic weeks of the Korean War, American troops were rushed in to help slow the North Korean advance. The 24th Infantry Division — just arrived from Japan and unprepared for the scale of the fighting — was sent to defend the city. Outgunned and outnumbered, they tried to hold the line along the Geum River but were eventually pushed back into the city itself.

What followed were several days of brutal, close-quarters combat — street to street, building to building — as American soldiers fought to slow the enemy’s momentum. They were up against overwhelming odds, including tanks and seasoned forces. In a moment that would become part of the battle’s lore, the commanding officer, Gen. William Dean, took up a bazooka and fired at an advancing tank himself. Despite their losses, the American troops managed to buy just enough time for reinforcements to regroup farther south. When the city finally fell, Dean was captured and spent the rest of the war as a prisoner — the highest-ranking American officer taken during the conflict.

I had passed by this park many times before, but I’d never stopped to find the monument. That day, I did.

The main memorial consists of two tall, angular bronze pillars rising side by side, tapering to sharp points. Suspended between them near the top is the circular emblem of the United Nations. The inner edges of the pillars are jagged, almost like torn metal, which could symbolize a divided Korea. The entire structure stands on a square black stone base engraved with Korean script in stark white. Visually, it’s striking.

But it was the two panels behind the monument that stopped me in my tracks. On the left was a brief summary of the battle. On the right, the names — hundreds of them — etched in clean, precise rows. Eight hundred and eighteen American soldiers. Eight hundred and eighteen sons, brothers and husbands. Eight hundred and eighteen stories that ended in Daejeon during that long-ago summer.

Across the city, on Mount Bomun, there are more reminders. In a quiet clearing along the trail, a monument honors the 24th Infantry Division. Farther up, near one of the summit paths, stands a statue of Gen. Dean, depicted mid-stride and aiming a bazooka. It’s a striking bronze figure — weathered, standing alone with a kind of quiet defiance. I’ve passed it before on hikes and paused to take it in.

Sometimes I wonder how many others have stopped to read the inscriptions. Maybe more than I think. Maybe fewer. It’s hard to know. The monuments are there, solid and enduring, but they don’t call much attention to themselves. They wait in silence, like questions we haven’t yet asked.

The other week, my daughter had a school assignment to photograph stars, and since we live close to the park, I suggested it would be the perfect spot. The skies were clear that evening, and after I got off work, we headed over together. Even with the soft glow of city lights pressing in from every side, the constellations began to emerge — quiet and steady, like old friends taking their places in the darkening sky.

After she had taken her shots, I asked if she wanted to see something and took her to the monument.

“What’s this for?” she asked.

“It’s a monument dedicated to the U.S. soldiers who died in a battle here 75 years ago,” I said.

She looked at the stone for a while, then reached out to touch one of the names with her fingertip.

“What happened?” she asked.

I did my best to tell her about that hot, chaotic summer so many years ago. As I spoke, I thought about those scared young men sweating in their uniforms. I imagined the heat, the confusion, the sound of gunfire echoing through streets now surrounded by towering apartment blocks and the sprawl of a modern city.

There’s something about reading names on a monument that lands deeper than any textbook or date. A name isn’t just a name — it’s the echo of a life. Someone who once walked through rice paddies and narrow streets. Someone whose heartbeat once quickened under a Daejeon sky.

I thought about how time smooths everything over. Roads are built. Buildings rise. And then one day, you’re standing in a park with your daughter, watching the stars, and it hits you — you’re standing in the presence of forgotten sorrow.

“I don’t think many people notice this,” I said softly.

My daughter nodded. “It’s kind of hidden.”

That’s what stayed with me — not the violence of the past, but the quiet of the present. How easily we forget what happened in places we now treat as ordinary. I don’t say that with blame. Life moves on. But now and then, we owe it to the past to pause. To remember.

My daughter and I walked home slowly, stars overhead, the monument behind us. It didn’t look like much in the dark — just a piece of metal and stone. But to me, it felt like the heart of something. A place that asks us not to forget.

Jeffrey Miller is the author of several novels including "War Remains," a story about the early days of the Korean War, and "No Way Out," a thriller set in Seoul in 1990.