Special forces, tourists and N. Korea

By Andrew Salmon

Military elites were once high-profile, socially fashionable and gorgeously attired regiments: Life Guards, Household Cavalry and the like. In World War II, these were replaced by a new type of elite that existed in the shadows: The special operations soldier.

The godfathers of this movement were Britain's Special Forces Brigades, or "commandos." They represented a new breed of combatant.

Their weapons ― explosives, submachine guns, daggers, silenced firearms ― were borrowed from bank robbers, gangsters and assassins. Their attire, techniques and mindset ― camouflage, stalking, stealth, surprise ― were borrowed from hunters.

Unlike conventional troops, they were trained to exercise initiative rather than await orders. Operating in small units, they were self-sufficient, rather than dependent upon headquarters.

Today's special forces ― SEALs, SAS, Spetsnaz et al ― are best known for carrying out raids and hostage rescues, but their missions encompass intelligence gathering, sabotage, kidnap and assassination.

However, their most strategic role is liaising with and organizing partisans on enemy turf.

This is where Hollywood gets it wrong. Men suited to such work are not oafish bodybuilders or loudmouth patriots, but low-key professionals adept at blending in with and motivating natives in alien lands. This requires cross-cultural sensitivity and linguistic skills ― skills deployed on battlegrounds as varied as Borneo jungles, Libyan deserts and Balkan backstreets.

Because of their skills and role, commandos tread a murky legal border between soldiering, spying, subversion and terrorism. Some missions ― "black ops" ― are deniable by their governments.

Given that they play by "Big Boys' Rules," the principle of "No Man Left Behind" is often unenforceable, placing them on dangerous ground when captured. Hitler himself overturned prisoner of war conventions to order the execution of captured commandos, and in the messy politics of the post-war world, penalties have been equally brutal.

The heads of two SAS soldiers were hoisted in Yemeni markets during the Aden conflict in 1964; a number of U.S. special forces troops deployed for secret operations inside Cambodia and Laos during the Vietnam war remain listed as missing; a British undercover operative captured in Northern Ireland was tortured and killed by the IRA in 1977. And so on.

The world's largest commando force is fielded by North Korea. It is a key component in Pyongyang's asymmetric threat profile, and is notorious for spectacularly bloody operations undertaken in 1968 and 1983. Indeed, state founder Kim Il-sung was himself a guerilla, which may explain Pyongyang's intense sensitivity to internal subversion.

Predictably, it takes a hard-line stance towards enemy special forces.

Leo Adams-Acton, a Briton captured alongside South Korean guerillas, was shot in mysterious circumstances weeks before being repatriated after the 1953 armistice. (Incidentally, Baengnyeong Island, about which North Korea today is so sensitive, was a wartime launch pad for partisan missions.) And the crew of the USS Pueblo, seized in 1968, witnessed the results of the hideous torture captured South Korean operatives suffered.

Recently, Pyongyang recently took captive a U.S. special operator.

Granted, his war finished in 1953, he is 85, and was visiting as a tourist with the best of motivations: the human desire to connect with former foes. According to reports, Merrill Newman admitted, during discussions on his last night in North Korea, to operating with South Korean guerilla units during the war ― units that Pyongyang maintains a deep interest in, even today.

Commandos are customarily discrete. This writer knows of serving American and British Special forces men who, in recent years, have visited Pyongyang; neither revealed his identity. Assuming Pyongyang's statements are accurate ― why did Newman?

Perhaps, he expected age and retirement to be protection enough. Perhaps he expected old enemies to get along like new friends.

And as tourists to North Korea know, your last night in town is the night to be naughty: Once you are scheduled to depart, you can't be deported. (This writer has fond 2005 memories of wandering the midnight streets of Pyongyang alone, his minders safely a-bed.)

Regardless: Newman seems professionally remiss and personally naïve to have revealed his background in an ultra- militarized state where the Korean War never ended. Conversely, he has been tight lipped since his weekend release.

Washington was quiet during Newman's ordeal, apparently as it leveraged back channels to extract him. Judging by his appearance post-release, it seems that Pyongyang did not (thankfully) indulge its paranoia and harshly interrogate the old man.

But it has done its tourism sector no favors: Newman was the second American on a legitimate visa to be detained for ill-defined "crimes." While there are calls in some quarters to show gratitude to Pyongyang for Newman's humanitarian release, questions over the legality of his arrest are as yet unanswered.

As for the adventurous old soldier himself, he certainly had the "trip of a lifetime" and will have some tales to tell at his next veterans' reunion.

Andrew Salmon is a Seoul-based reporter and author. Reach him at andrewcsalmon@yahoo.co.uk.