Let Slip the Dogs of War: A Memoir of the 1st Raider Company, Korea, 1950–51

By John W. Connor

Merriam Press Korean War Series. A few weeks after North Korea invaded the South, a Provisional Raider Co. was created to blow up bridges and railway tunnels behind enemy lines. Of 800 volunteers, 115 made the cut, enduring weeks of grueling training. Raiders went ashore at Inchon with the Marines, and X Corps at Wonsan. They conducted long-range intelligence-gathering patrols in which they also inserted and removed Korean agents. During the Chosin Reservoir campaign they took and held open the mountain passes for the withdrawal of the Marines and the 7th Division. The Raiders were evacuated from North Korea on 14 Dec 1950, and assigned anti-guerrilla activities in South Korea. At Chang-to they were cut off and surrounded by two North Korean regiments. On 1 Apr 1951, all Ranger and Special Operations units were disbanded because the army high command believed they were not being utilized properly. This is their story, as told by a member of the unit. 32 photos, 7 documents.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Merriam Press
• Release date: May 16, 2017
• ISBN: 9781576386347

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Let Slip the Dogs of War: A Memoir of the 1st Raider Company, Korea, 1950–51

Let Slip the Dogs of War: A Memoir of the 1st Raider Company, Korea, 1950–51

John W. Connor

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Hoosick Falls, New York

2017

First eBook Edition

Copyright © 2008 by John W. Connor

Additional material copyright of named contributors.

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

The views expressed are solely those of the author.

ISBN 9781576386347

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Let Slip the Dogs of War: A Memoir of the GHQ, 1st Raider Company (8245th Army Unit) a.k.a. Special Operations Company, Korea, 1950–51

Cry Havoc, and let slip the dogs of war. —William Shakespeare, Julius Caesar, 3.1.270

Dedication

To the men of the GHQ First Raider Company.

Gentlemen:

It was an honor, a privilege, and an education.

You will never know how much you taught me.

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Preface

Ever hear of a young man who decided to abandon the dream assignment of a lifetime to jump into a thorn bush and then found that he also had to fight his way out? No? Well, I and 114 other young men did just that some fifty-seven years ago. Later, we would be asked, Why in the hell could we have done such a stupid damn thing? We could only answer that if you had known us at the time; it seemed like a perfectly natural thing to do.

There were just 115 of us who volunteered, and not many more than that have ever heard of us. But in about seven months of almost continual fighting up and down the Korean peninsula in 1950–1951, we managed to accumulate four battle stars, a bronze arrowhead for a combat assault landing, Presidential Unit citations from both the U.S. Navy and the Republic of Korea, along with a special commendation from the commanding general of X Corps for imposing losses on the enemy far in excess of our own numbers.

And so, how and why did we do it? Why would we abandon such a comfortable life to place ourselves in the middle of God knows what and where? Was it merely duty? It was that, and much more than that. We were also the product of our time. It was a time when Americans grew up feeling patriotic, proud, and extremely grateful to be living in a country that cherished freedom and such things as honor and love of country. All of us who fought in the Korean War were a product of that time and its values. They too have become the casualties of that forgotten war.

In the early spring of 1995, I was awarded my third senior Fulbright scholarship; this time to return to Korea for a year. My Korean students at the University had long implored me to return and see for myself the great changes a free and democratic Korea had been able to achieve since the end of the Korean War in 1953.

The summer of 1995 saw also the dedication of the Korean War Memorial in Washington, D.C. I had indicated on the Fulbright forms that I was a combat veteran of the Korean War. I and another veteran from Korea, were sent to Washington to participate in the ceremonies. There were several full days of activities. And on one of them I noticed one of the units was flying the Regimental colors of the 187th Airborne Regimental Combat Team. Since we had been attached to the 3rd Battalion of the 187th on the Kimpo peninsula in September, 1950, I asked some of the men if they remembered the X Corps Special Operations Company. Some of them did. And when the order came for the parade to start, one of them called out, Hey, buddy, why don’t you march with us? So I did. And as we marched down the street, I quickly picked up the step, even though I hadn’t marched in a parade for over forty years. As we fell back into an easy cadence, arthritic joints softened, shoulders went back, chins up, and a half-century dropped away. We saw and heard applause from those watching the parade. I heard one voice call out, Hey, you guys march better than the Regular Army!

That autumn, I met my classes and briefly mentioned that I would be absent in the Spring and Fall semesters because I would be in Korea. I then remarked that I and a Korean veteran had been in Washington for the dedication of the Korean War Memorial. I then disclosed that I was in a Special Operations unit and how proud I was in the part our unit played in the Korean War.

The next morning I saw a letter taped to my office door, unsigned of course. The letter said in part that it was crazy bastards like me who start wars. I then knew why Korea became the forgotten war. I also knew why it was forgotten and what we as a country seem to have forgotten along with it.

So come along with me and discover how a group of men, reared in poverty, fattened by luxury during the occupation of Japan, and woefully ill-equipped, went on to fight and win one of the most brutal wars in U.S. military history.

Acknowledgements

First of all, I would like to thank my wife, Joan. This book was her idea, and if it were not for her invaluable assistance, and continual encouragement, in a very real sense this memoir would not have been written. I would also like to thank the following individuals who read the first draft of this memoir and gave suggestions or made comments: Professor George DeVos of U. C. Berkeley, Professor George Rich of California State University, Sacramento, Kris Wiegman of Boston, Aaron Braun of Brooklyn, Paul and Dawn Akuna of Sacramento, and my brother Pete of Butler, Pennsylvania. I would also like to thank Penny Pearson of Sacramento for her technical assistance. I would especially like to thank J. E. Buck Ballow, our unit historian, for his incredible ability in finding the former top secret documents of our unit, and for his dogged determination in tracking down lost Raiders. Last, but not least, has been his insistence that we all write down our memories for inclusion in his invaluable Soft Cap Chronicles.

Combat Operations of the GHQ 1st Raider Company in North and South Korea, September 12, 1950 to April 1, 1951

Introduction

They were farm boys, city boys, kids fresh out of high school and high school drop-outs, college football players, and professional soldiers. Sprinkled among them were a few World War II veterans. Most had enlisted. At least one had been drafted during World War II. In Japan, in 1950, they were clerks, life guards, billeting managers, members of General Douglas MacArthur’s honor guard, radio operators, and medics. Prior to 25 June, combat seemed improbable, but at the moment the North Koreans crossed the 38th Parallel, the lives of the men of General Headquarters Far East Command (GHQ FEC) changed forever. From the ranks of clerks and guards and managers rose a company of men whose story is known only to themselves, perhaps their families, and a few fortunate outsiders whom they have welcomed into their midst.

Over the radio came the news that hordes of North Koreans had unleashed a storm of artillery and a flood of infantrymen against the South. Soon the legendary but ill-trained and ill-equipped soldiers from the 24th Infantry Division deployed to Korea. Within hours those men of Task Force Smith would be overwhelmed by the advancing hordes, but their legacy would be emblazoned in the histories of that war.

Those who fought in Korea and those who study the conflict will recognize the names and bitterness of The Punchbowl, Pork Chop Hill, Old Baldy, Heartbreak Ridge, Inchon, and the Chosin Reservoir. Military historians are well-aware of the heroics of the United States Army cavalry and infantry divisions who fought there; the Marine units that so gallantly delayed the Chinese masses that swarmed across the Yalu River; the Navy vessels that sent tons of shells roaring into the enemy ranks; and those Air Force pilots who so often came to the aid of the embattled foot soldiers. The written accounts of the Korean War are replete with the tales of those valiant warriors who were forced back to the Pusan Perimeter, who regrouped and then sped all the way to the Chinese border before again being thrown back by overwhelming odds. While truce talks inched along, infantrymen on hills known only by their height in meters, dug foxholes as shelter from enemy bullets and biting cold. Many would die in those foxholes in attacks and in counter-attacks to improve their defensive positions and to gain a negotiating edge against the Communist aggressors. These are the stories of the histories.

Not told, or mentioned only in passing, are the stories of those clerks and guards and managers from GHQ FEC. Shortly after the North Korean invasion, word spread that GHQ wanted volunteers for a special unit to be created and deployed to Korea. Among those who volunteered was John W. Connor. On 12 September he and the other volunteers of the newly-formed Provisional Raider Company silently paddled ashore near Kunsan, approximately 100 miles south of Inchon. Within minutes, three of their number would be dead or mortally wounded. A few days later they landed at Inchon, patrolled northwest of Seoul, came ashore at Wonsan, slogged almost to the Yalu River, withdrew to the South, and fought bands of North Korean and Chinese soldiers either cut off from their units or attempting to infiltrate United Nations’ forces lines. On 31 March 1951 the unit was disbanded. There was no flag to furl. There were few records to ship. There were no awards to be written.

Within days of deactivation, some of the Raiders were assigned to infantry divisions in Korea. John Connor and many of his compatriots found themselves back in Tokyo as clerks and guards and managers. The names on the uniforms of those battle-hardened men were the same as on the uniforms of those young, eager, adventurous, idealistic youths who left Tokyo only a few months earlier. The wearers of those uniforms, though, were not the same. They had experienced combat. They had experienced war, as had many of their fathers in World War II or even World War I. Many of those in the company photograph taken prior to leaving Japan would not return to Japan. Some would find a final resting place in Korea or in a burial at sea, or be among those whose bodies were never recovered. And the existence of the Raider Company would be largely forgotten.

After the war, most of the Raiders returned to civilian life. They became mayors, judges, professors, engineers, husbands, and fathers. In February 2000, a few of the former Raiders gathered in El Paso, Texas. Every year since then they have reunited to remember those months in Korea, to mourn those who fell, and to recall the increasing numbers of those for whom Taps has sounded since the previous reunion. As more and more Raiders pass from the scene, it becomes more and more vital that the exploits of these few valorous and honorable men be recorded. In this memoir, John Connor has done that.

Through the eyes of one soldier, he recalls the history of the company from scuttlebutt about the creation of a special unit through deactivation. In so doing, he tells of the comrades with whom he shared foxholes, C-rations, jokes, fun, and fear, and with whom he endured the bitter cold of a Korean winter. He recounts the training conducted from submarines and destroyers and the difficulty of handling a rubber boat in pounding surf. He conveys the sights, the sounds, the smells of combat, and the sorrow of losing friends to enemy bullets. And how a shy, innocent boy was changed.

There is nothing self-serving about John Connor’s accounts. Although a memoir, the story is as much about the men with whom he served as it is about himself. Ken Hamburger in Leadership in the Crucible observed that the longer a unit is together under stress, the stronger the cohesion grows. He talks of pride that comes from sharing the danger of combat, the bone-tired feeling from intense cold and little sleep, the hard training and the harder-still missions, and the feeling that they are not really the same as other units. What he wrote in that book could be said equally for John Connor and the men of the 1st Raider Company.

Today’s Army Special Operations Forces (SOF) embodies in doctrine what the Raiders and similar units from World War II learned in the crucible of combat. Resourcefulness, initiative, flexibility, proficiency in skills that exceed basic military training, teamwork, and exceptional leadership are hallmarks of the soldiers of Army SOF. Those, too, were the hallmarks of the men of the 1st Raider Company.

I have had the privilege of attending four Raider reunions. What I experienced was what Hamburger described. To a man, the Raiders talked of those months in Korea that became for all, in Connor’s words, a defining experience. These warriors remember, and talk, and laugh, and shed a tear or two. And they share a pride that comes from being part of an extraordinary unit that did extraordinary things. Thankfully, John Connor is telling not only his story, but theirs as well.

—Richard L. Kiper, Ph.D., Lieutenant Colonel (Ret.), U.S. Army Special Forces, Leavenworth, Kansas, Fall, 2007

Chapter 1: Prologue

War is cruelty, and you cannot refine it. —General William T. Sherman, Memoirs (1875)

We had been surrounded and cut off for several days, and the snow-covered field in front of us was littered with their dead. But still the bastards kept coming. Was this the eighth or tenth banzai attack? I had lost count. Yet again the bugles started, then the yelling and the screaming. We could see their weapons winking and flashing at us. Their tracers were green; ours red. I hadn’t slept for almost forty-eight hours and I was getting punchy. I kept thinking that their green tracers were rattling out, Go! Go! While ours were barking back, Stop! Stop! And since we had a great many more automatic weapons than they had, there were always a lot more Stops! than Gos!

Once again their attack slowed, and they fell back. We could hear their wounded and dying screaming in pain. It never lasted very long. That night it was 20 degrees below zero. And within a few minutes the screaming subsided into soft moans as they drifted into unconsciousness and quickly froze to death.

I guess I was so tired I was hallucinating. Our magnesium flares floated down on small parachutes like large dandelion spores. For a brief moment or so I thought that they were bright angels descending from heaven. I even imagined or hallucinated that my alter ego was standing there hands on hips saying, Well, this is another fine mess you got me into! Then I started laughing. McNett wanted to know what the hell was so funny: I told him and pretty soon we were laughing so hard tears were rolling down our cheeks.

I would also guess that my alter ego, subconscious, or whatever, was trying to tell me something. What was a nice guy like me doing in a place like this? Later, I kept turning it over in my mind. But no matter which way I ran the data, the answer always came up the same. In retrospect, my being in Korea seemed to have emerged from my childhood and youthful experiences as naturally and as inevitably as the growth of an acorn into a tree. And I sometimes wonder if we had any idea of what we volunteers were really getting ourselves into? Given the invincibility of youth, questions such as that are seldom asked.

How is it that something that happened so long ago still remains so much a part of us, barely hidden in the dark recesses and shadows of our minds?

Sometimes at night, when I am feeling very apprehensive or stressed-out, they emerge out of the darkness. And once again I see the flares, and hear the bugles and the screaming. But at least the explosions in my head have long since disappeared. For years I would be sound asleep and then suddenly, Clang!! I would sit bolt upright! It sounded as though a shell had exploded in my head. In the 1960’s, I went to my family doctor. This was long before CAT or PET scans, and although he took my blood pressure and shone a light in my eyes, he saw and found nothing.

However, these episodes gradually subsided on their own.

A sentimental song we often heard as children growing up in the aftermath of World War I was There’s a long, long trail a’winding. We didn’t know then, that for so many of us, our long, long trail would also lead us inexorably to war.

Chapter 2: Childhood

Nearly all of us who fought in the Korean War were children of the Great Depression. We were born into a world where the good times had come and gone: industry was grinding to a halt; jobs vanished overnight, and men rode the rails in search of work. We saw our parents humbled, driven to despair, and in some cases, eventually destroyed by hard times. The Great Depression became the defining experience of our generation. Our characters were formed by it, and its lessons were seared into our souls.

I was born in 1930 on a dairy farm in western Pennsylvania. My earliest memory is of our father taking my older brother, Jim, and me for a ride around the farm in his beautiful red tractor. We loved that tractor, and thought of it as our personal toy. I cried when two men drove up in a truck, laid down a couple of sturdy planks, drove the tractor up on the back of the truck, and then drove off with it. It was the summer of 1933. My father had lost his farm.

The early 1930s were the very depths of the