Ian Slater: WW III

Even the beverages were different, the North Koreans’ stony expressions during the long, strained silence broken only when they sipped steaming glasses of hot green tea, the UN delegation taking ice-cold water from a silver decanter carefully placed the same distance away from the ribbon as the North Koreans’ tea. Directly opposite the North’s red-starred flag stood the gold-fringed blue of the UN standard, again both equidistant from the ribbon. The strained silence continued, and Major Tae could see a number of visiting U.S. officers outside the viewing windows of the hut growing restless, pacing on the white cement strip, cameras dangling forlornly.

It was then that General Kim, breaking the silence, leaned forward, crisp white uniform creasing against the edge of the green baize, his malevolent smile, Tae noted, a rare departure from his usual carefully practiced stare.

“All Americans are taught to lie!” Coming from outside the hut there was the sound of armed soldiers, North and South, heels clacking on the concrete as the guard changed. The NKA officer to Kim’s left was tacking up black-and-white photographs on a map stand, purportedly showing the “violated area” on their side of the DMZ as the North Korean general continued his accusation. “On the southern side,” said Kim, “you have allowed all vegetation to grow wild to camouflage your flagrant acts of aggression against the Democratic People’s—”

“I unequivocally reject these charges,” cut in Cahill, “as do my fellow members of the United Nations Commission.” He indicated them with a wave of his pipe.

“We are not charging the United Nations with violation of the territory of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea,” Kim spat back. “We are charging the United States of America for its imperialistic warmongering…”

“The United States,” Cahill replied, his tone controlled, un-flustered, “has no intention of—”

Now it happened. Kim leaned forward again, smiling. “Be careful,” he cautioned Cahill, stabbing the air with his cigarette, his eyes like dark glass, “or all you Americans will end up like the Kennedys — shot down like dogs in the street.”

This was a favorite phrase of Kim’s. To Tae’s relief, Cahill, who had only been on the job for two months, refused to take the bait, calmly asking instead what evidence the NKA had for their accusation about the kite.

“I will show you,” replied Kim confidently. With this he rose. Immediately there was a loud scraping of chairs as he was followed by the entire North Korean delegation. A second later the three Chinese PLA — People’s Liberation Army — officers who had been sitting in the rear as observers also rose, the yellow shoulder boards of their new “ranked” uniforms catching the light. Wearily Cahill and his colleagues followed suit; it was part of the ritual, both sides heading outside to the enclosure of hard, mustard-colored earth within the joint security area, where they were to examine the “evidence.” In the background a voice, one of the visiting U.S. officers, was asking, “Why do we have to take that shit? That rotten insult about President Kennedy and…”

For Tae it was the most frequently asked question by Americans who had bothered to come to Panmunjom, and he didn’t even mention it in his report. Before the video jerkily followed the two delegations out of the room, Kim’s parting shot was, “You Americans do not realize the effect of your defeat in Vietnam. Now everyone in the world knows you can be beaten.”

Privately, Tae conceded that Kim had a point. The danger, as Tae saw it, was that the United States had tried so diligently to forget the war, it was apt to forget its lessons as well. What had Santayana said? — those who ignore history are doomed to repeat it. Most of the Vietnam vets were now dead or too old to pass on, to anyone who even bothered to listen in America, the know-how of fighting a war in Asia.

For the next two minutes Tae advanced the video, as there was not much to see, the North Korean and UN delegations standing for over half an hour in the broiling sun. The North Koreans apparently didn’t mind, or if they did, weren’t showing it, taking what General Cahill later described as a “typically petty satisfaction” in keeping the UN team sweating and waiting in the stifling, fly-infested heat. Kim was the only man Cahill had ever seen who could tolerate swarms of flies crawling all over his face, across his lips, in and out of his nostrils and eyes, without once allowing himself to blink.

“Have you got something to show me or not?” said Cahill. “If not, my colleagues and I propose an adjournment until…”

Some signal that Tae didn’t see must have been given by Kim, because the evidence, or rather a battered-looking, carp-shaped kite, a dirty orange color, about four feet in length, four to five inches across, was carried solemnly into the cordoned-off compound by two NKA soldiers, two lines of North and South Korean guards grimly facing each other.

“Where’s this camera?” Cahill demanded sharply.

“It is being analyzed,” said Kim. “It is made in Japan.”

“May we see it?”

“I said it is being analyzed. The film, which we have now developed, shows it was a blatant act of imperialist aggression upon the sovereign territory of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea by U.S. aggressors and…”

Cahill turned to his aide, a Captain Jordan from the joint U.S.-ROK command. Jordan rolled his eyes skyward. Ignoring Kim, Cahill took a handkerchief from his pocket and proceeded to wipe beads of sweat from his forehead, asking Jordan, “Haven’t I heard this somewhere before?”

“Word for word, General. On Pyongyang radio. All this week.” When Kim had finished his diatribe, Cahill poked the carp’s ugly, gaping face with the toe of his boot. “This…”

Kim stepped forward menacingly, as did his entire delegation. “Do not touch the evidence!” he shouted.

Suddenly the entire compound was electric, both lines of border guards stiffening at the ready. Hands on holsters. Each man fixing his opposite number. Cahill smiled, having forced Kim to react.

“Evidence?” snorted Cahill. “It’s a child’s kite.”

“Yes!” shouted Kim’s aide, shifting his gaze from Cahill to the ROK officer, General Lee. “And made in the U.S. lackey state of South Korea.”

“A child’s kite,” repeated Cahill contemptuously. “Blown over to your side by the wind. Why, it’s not big enough to hold a camera, and besides…”

“We have the spy machine!” Kim shouted, pointing his finger. “You cannot deny…”

“Spy machine? You’ve got nothing,” said Cahill, turning on his heel, leading the UN delegation out of the compound.

“We have the evidence!” Kim shouted after him. “We have the film showing that…”

“Showing,” said Cahill, still walking away, “the photos you’re busy taking today so you can fabricate a case.”

“You be careful!” Kim shouted after him. “Be careful, you Americans. You will end up like the Kennedys. You—”

“ You be careful,” said Cahill, but in a voice he knew neither Kim nor the North Korean delegation could hear. “Go back to Pyongyang, you running dog turd!” Cahill turned to his aide. “Christ! I’m getting too old for this nonsense, Jordan. I’d like to shoot that son of a bitch.”

“Me, too,” put in the South Korean general.

The video over, Tae dragged the day’s SIGINT — Signal Intelligence — and IR — Interrogation Reports — toward him. There were several Blackbird American infrared SR-71 reconnaissance photos taken from eighty-five thousand feet. No change in the NKA’s unit dispositions except for another surface-to-air missile site being built in the Taebaek Mountains that ran like a spine down Korea’s east coast.